Southern Legacy: Completed Version

by Jerri Hines

  The whole of the house was in an uproar the moment he carried her up the stairs. Poor Percival. Cullen would never forget the look on his son’s face when he saw his unconscious mother.

  The hardest part, though, was telling his father about Elizabeth. In the midst of the bedlam at Kathleen’s house, Elizabeth had been found alive. No one thought she would survive long enough to be transported to a hospital, but she had.

  Moreover, she had become conscious, if ever so briefly. Father had said she confessed to all her misdeeds as though she were talking of going out for the evening. Without question, Elizabeth had lost grip with reality, insisting that Madeline was hers.

  Elizabeth had ranted on to Father that Kathleen had plotted with Harry Lee before the war in a scheme to get Josephine’s money. When she overheard that Harry Lee was in a Union prison camp, she made subtle inquires at dinner parties and discovered Colonel Holly would be of use to them. From there, Kathleen used her wiles to entrap the good colonel in their plan.

  Harry Lee had been smuggled out and the devil was unleashed. Cullen was certain that Colonel Holly greatly regretted his actions. For Cullen held no doubt that when Harry Lee arrived on the scene, the madman devised his own scheme, which included Colonel Holly and Kathleen’s deaths. The first of many Harry Lee planned, if not for Heyward.

  Unfathomable that Elizabeth had been that devious to contemplate taking another’s life. Now, she, too, clung to life. God forgive him, but he couldn’t care less whether his stepsister lived or died.

  Josephine moaned. Lord, she must be in pain. One of her eyes was swollen shut; the side of her face had been cut where Harry Lee had run his knife down her cheek. Her neck was bruised from having a hand around it, but she would survive. She had to survive.

  “Father,” a small voice called from behind him. “Can I come in?”

  Looking over at the door, he watched Percival ease into the room. Cullen wondered how long his son had waited outside. He opened his arms wide for his son to climb into them. He hugged Percival tightly.

  “Miss Hazel, you can enter also,” Cullen said, knowing she, too, had been waiting in the hall. “She would want you here.”

  The old black woman made her way in and shut the door behind her. She pulled up her own chair to the other side of Josephine. She said nothing, but words weren’t necessary. They never were between Jo and her mammy.

  Percival’s small hand reached out and touched his mother’s face. “Is she gonna wake up?”

  “Yes, son.”

  Percival turned to his father and stared into his eyes. “Did you get him, Father? He won’t hurt Momma again?”

  “He won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  Percival nodded, content with his father’s answer. He sat on the edge of the bed with his father, refusing to leave when Mrs. Finnegan tentatively tried to coax him out without disturbing Josephine.

  Percival had a need to be by his mother. Cullen understood the need and, strangely, he needed his son by him. Time grew late. Percival fell asleep in his father’s arms. Cullen laid him at the foot of her bed. He stood to gather a throw to wrap around Percival.

  “Cullen?” A weak voice whispered in the still of the room.

  Rushing to Jo’s side, he kissed her forehead and took her hand in his. “Rest, my love. Rest. Everything has been taken care of. You have nothing to fear.”

  With great effort, Jo tried to nod. She grimaced as a sleepy Percival climbed toward her. Cullen reached over to grab him. She shook her head. “No, he’s fine.”

  Her arm rounded his small frame into her shoulder and he laid his head against her. She glanced over and saw Miss Hazel. She smiled. Looking back at Cullen, she asked, “Madeline?”

  “She is waiting impatiently for her mother, my darling.”

  Wincing, she nodded, but seemed satisfied with the answer. “I’m so tired.”

  “Sleep. I will be here. We all will be here when you wake.” Cullen choked back tears. He stroked her hair as her eyes closed once more.

  * * * *

  Threatening clouds darkened the skies. Over the ocean’s horizon, a storm brewed. Blustery winds whipped about Josephine, hindering her stroll along the beach. She gave the impending rain no heed nor did she give thought to the force of the waves that crashed on the rocks.

  Two weeks ago, Cullen had brought her and the children to Newport, a beautiful seaport town in Rhode Island. The house was a beautiful manor that overlooked the cliffs. At first, he had taken her to Rosemount to heal, but in the end, he decided the whole family needed to escape Philadelphia for a time.

  She halted and faced the ocean. Back and forth, the tide rolled in and out, closer and closer to her. She didn’t move as the water covered her feet and waves sprayed around her.

  Though her wounds had healed physically, a gloom enveloped Josephine she couldn’t dismiss. So many deaths haunted her.

  Elizabeth was gone. Poor, disturbed Elizabeth had succumbed to the gunshot wound less than a week after being rescued. Her mother had been devastated, blaming herself for not knowing how sick her daughter had been, but in truth, no one had suspected Elizabeth capable of such evil deeds.

  That knowledge had not stopped Monica Smythe from unleashing her hurt and anguish at Jo the day of Elizabeth’s funeral. “Elizabeth would be alive today if not for you. Why…why did you have to come into our lives?”

  Cullen dismissed the rantings of his stepmother. “She doesn’t mean anything she said. She was only lashing out her pain. Unfortunately, you bore the brunt of it.”

  In time, Monica Smythe had apologized for her outburst, but the doubt lingered in Jo that perhaps Elizabeth would have been alive if not for her. The thought gnawed within her that, not only Elizabeth, but others suffered because they were associated with her. Faces…so many faces haunted her…Wade…Gillie.

  Almost six months had passed since that horrifying night. So much had happened. The war had ended. In April, the South had surrendered, unconditionally, with Lee at Appomattox Courthouse; followed closely after by the assassination of President Lincoln. The days before the nation were uncertain.

  Her beloved South had lost. She remembered how confident and enthusiastic Charleston had been at the beginning of the conflict. Now, the life they had known was no more. The brave souls had fought the damning war thinking they were fighting for a purpose—honor. Lives, so many lives had been given for the cause without reason. Wade…her heart crushed within her. She had failed him so terribly.

  Guilt weighed upon her. Why was she here in comfort instead of paying for her sins…sins that God had deemed everyone should pay—both North and South—and pay greatly for their transgression in acceptance of that horrendous practice. None had been spared his wrath: those who benefited, those who accepted, and even the ones who turned a blind eye. The sole source of brightness throughout these tragic years had yielded only one thing—the abolition of slavery.

  Magnolia Bluff survived. The family survived, but that, too, had come with a price. Jo doubted she would ever be able to return. The hatred spawned toward the Yankees extended to her, though not to Cullen. She had been painted a minx by Charleston society. Cullen was a loyal soldier, respected by his peers, even if it was on the side of the enemy.

  For so long, Jo had thought the letters she had sent to Mother Montgomery, Jenna, and Charlotte had gotten lost due to the war and aftermath. It wasn’t until she read a letter Andrew had sent Cullen that she fully understood that she had truly been shunned.

  It is unfortunate. I have tried to reason with Mother, but she refuses to listen. The atmosphere here in Charleston lends to their discontent with Josephine. The rumors and whispers have done their damage that I can’t undo without confessing the whole truth. Guilt is heavy on my conscience knowing I’m responsible, but I can’t explain Jo’s silence while she was in prison. To be honest, I did not realize how important it would be to maintain our secret indefinitely. Regrettable that Jo suffers from our actions.

  A
couple of months after the war, Cullen felt it his duty to travel down to Charleston. Although not welcome with open arms, no one turned their backs on him. He stayed with his family and secured Magnolia Bluff from the taxes that were draining most of the other plantations.

  The South had been inundated with carpetbaggers who showed little sympathy toward Southerners. Cullen insulated his family from the backlash, even offered help to a few of their neighbors. More importantly, the secret shared between Andrew and Cullen had been kept. Wade’s legacy to his son had been saved.

  Jo kept reminding herself it was not her, but Percival’s legacy that was of the utmost importance. Her disgrace meant little. A small sacrifice to maintain what Wade had fought to keep for his son. Reprimanding herself greatly for indulging in her own sorrows, she fought the surge of grief that swelled in her. The long denied acknowledgment—she greatly missed her home and the family she left behind.

  But she had Miss Hazel, only now her mammy had a life different than Jo’s. As she had in the past, Miss Hazel had stayed by Jo’s side until she recovered. Afterwards, Miss Hazel went home to care for Tome. She had a life outside of Jo.

  At the time of her abduction, Jo had not realized that it had been Heyward who had killed Harry Lee. Cullen hadn’t told her until much later. He had wisely chosen to keep the information a secret.

  There had been no doubt she owed her life to Heyward, but there was also no doubt that they could never reveal the truth. Cullen took credit for killing the assailant. No matter that the death had been justified: even in Philadelphia, it would not do to admit that a black man killed a white.

  Heyward could live the rest of his life with the knowledge he avenged his wife’s death, but Jo suspected it only gave him a semblance of peace. What he truly wanted, he couldn’t have. Gillie was never coming back.

  Moreover, Harry Lee’s true identity was never acknowledged. The authorities determined that he must have been one of the Confederate soldiers held as a prisoner of war at Fort Delaware who held a grudge against Colonel Holly. In his quest for revenge, he followed Colonel Holly to Philadelphia and massacred not only Holly but everyone in his path.

  There had been no mention of any devious plot to kill Jo or that Elizabeth was also a culprit instead of a victim. There had been no scandal, only an outpouring of sympathy for poor Monica Smythe.

  The question that burned inside Jo was not whether God would forgive her, but could she forgive herself? Her conscience gnawed at her. She had tried so hard to do what was right, but in the midst of everything that happened, everything had gotten so confusing. With every move, her actions had consequences.

  A wave crashed upon her, drenching her soundly. Startled for a moment, she gasped for air. Another broke over her. She didn’t move.

  Suddenly, a hand jerked her backward with such force she would have fallen to the ground had not strong arms grasped hold of her. “My God! Josephine! Could you not hear me?”

  The rain-driven wind gusted. She tried to turn away from him, but Cullen would have none of it. He reached over and cupped her face in his hands.

  “Josephine! Josephine!” he cried against the wind. “What are you doing? Father sent for me because he was worried about you. Josephine, look at me.” Staring into her eyes, his voice softened. “What are you doing?”

  Her gaze lowered, but he lifted her chin up so her eyes met his desperately pleading eyes. Pushing back against him, anger rose within her. She shouted, “I wanted only to feel again! I want to feel.”

  “I want you to feel again…for me,” he cried. “Come back to me, Josephine. I need you. The children need you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. He declared, “I love you. I will never stop loving you, Josephine. I need you so desperately…”

  “I don’t know if I can. I want to...”

  He leaned down and pushed back her rain-soaked hair from her face. His lips claimed hers with a kiss that left no doubt of his desire for her. Breaking from her, his lips lingered. “I know you love me, Josephine. I know it. I’m not going to let you go.”

  “How can you love me? What right have I to be happy?”

  “The right that we should have never been parted. I’m not going to let you go down this path any longer for some nonsense feeling of guilt. We were supposed to be together before this cursed war. It was right then…it is right now. You aren’t responsible for the actions of others. It is not your fault we survived.”

  Her trembling lips whispered, “I want it to be as it was…I just don’t know how to fix this. How can I, Cullen, when every time I close my eyes I see their faces?”

  “Let me be your strength. Lean on me and don’t push me away. I’m not going anywhere.” Through the wind and rain, he refused to let her go. “You need to fight, Josephine, for the life in front of us. The past…leave it. It can’t be undone. We have everything we need as long as we are together.”

  Searching her eyes, he went on. “Remember when I pulled you out of an ocean storm once before? You asked how can it be? It can be because fate has destined us to be together. We have been through too much to lose it all now. I love you, Josephine. Tell me you love me too. Tell me and we will survive whatever is before us…together.”

  She reached out and touched his face, his handsome face. Everything in her being cried out to him. It had always and would forever. She tilted her face to him. “I do love you, Cullen.”

  He needed nothing else. He swept her off her feet, out of the ocean, out of the storm and into his arms.

  Epilogue

  Rosemount

  October, 1884

  Driving sheets of rain slashed against the windowpane. Josephine watched until the precipitation dwindled to where the autumn leaves illuminated within the swirl of gray mist.

  For over nineteen years, her life had been happy and content with Cullen by her side. For most of the year, Rosemount was her home and escape from the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia. Moreover, it had been a wonderful place to raise their family.

  But to survive, she found she had to block out the memories of her past. Now, with the mere mention that her eldest child had accepted his inheritance, the past flooded back. A vivid reminder that hidden deep within her soul there was a semblance of the person she once was.

  At times, Josephine had almost vanquished thoughts of Charleston and Magnolia Bluff. Then this visitor arrived and a sudden remembrance surfaced of her youth. Her chest tightened. She didn’t want to be pressed so. She turned from the window and sighed.

  Across the elegant drawing room sat her anxious guest. For a moment, Jo did not speak, but studied the young lady.

  Annalee Williams was a pretty, young thing. Her brown curly locks were piled loosely on top of her head, with bangs curling above her large green eyes. She wore a dress meant to impress of emerald brocade fashioned with two narrow pleats on the underskirt and trimmed with white embroidered ruffles.

  Jo thought she favored her mother, except when she smiled. Her face radiated a confidence Charlotte never had. The exuberant look upon her face betrayed the innocence that only the young hold.

  “How is your mother?” Jo settled herself on the floral upholstered sofa.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Annalee answered, “Momma is well. She said I couldn’t come all this way and not call on you. I have heard about you all my life, Miss Josephine. You don’t mind me calling you Miss Josephine, do you? Forgive me, but it’s how Momma talks of you but she calls you…”

  “Jo,” she said politely. “No one calls me Jo much anymore. Another time and place.”

  “Momma told me stories about the two of you when I was growing up, Miss Josephine.” Annalee pressed her lips together in a manner as if pondering her next words. “I was wondering. Do you think of us at all? I mean, you live so far away. How do you do so?”

  Josephine looked strangely at the girl. Her words had cut sharply. Yes, the feelings were still within her. No matter how hard she had fought to suppress them, never to
let anyone know or suspect they still existed.

  “To live up North after the war or away from everything I had once held so dear?”

  The poor girl seemed frazzled at her answer. Were there tears welling in her young eyes? Oh my! She hadn’t meant to distress the young woman. Then, comprehension dawned upon her. Percival! Josephine reached into her skirt pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to the poor thing.

  “Oh, what you must think of me! Momma says that I’m too bold by half! She says it will be my downfall for certain. Pray, forgive me, Miss Josephine,” she rambled on. “But I love Percival so. Momma says it won’t last and I will be miserable forever! It would be best to break it off now.”

  She sniffled ever so softly. “But in truth, Miss Josephine, I will be miserable forever if I never see him again. Daddy has threatened me if I marry Percival. He told me he would cut me off as if I never existed. I told him I didn’t care, but I don’t know if I can do as you…to walk away from the only home I know…” She paused and wiped back her tears. “But…” She swallowed. “I love my home, Miss Josephine. My family. Percival says it is up to me. He can’t make me leave everything behind, even though I know he thinks I should without a thought. I don’t know what I should do.”

  Josephine’s expression softened on the girl. She reached over and patted the girl’s hand ever so gently. “I don’t know what to tell you, my child. It isn’t for me to say. I have only my story. I don’t think it pertains to you. We each have to make decisions and only then can we live with ourselves.”

  “No, please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded. “You don’t know what I have done to come here. I have pulled old Miss Creighton along upon this trip to see you and only you. I know you can help me. I feel it within me.”

  The girl withdrew from her chair and eased down by Josephine’s side. Taking Jo’s hand in hers, she laid her head upon Josephine’s knees. “Please. I want to know how you feel. There is no other who can come close to what I ask or understand. For are we not Southern women? No one else can understand the pull upon us. To make choices between what we hold upon our hearts. Loyalty to a home in which we love so dear and a life we so desire. Please, Miss Josephine, talk to me of how you feel now after all this time. Would you now make the choices you made in your youth?”