by Gen LaGreca
A DREAM
of DARING
GEN LAGRECA
Winged Victory Press, Chicago
www.wingedvictorypress.com
Copyright © 2013 by Genevieve LaGreca
Available in ebook and print formats from Amazon and other booksellers.
A Dream of Daring
ISBN paperback: 978-0-97445796-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012952967
Published by Winged Victory Press
www.wingedvictorypress.com
Cover by Elizabeth Watson, graphic designer
[email protected]
Clothing on the cover courtesy of the Gentleman’s Emporium
www.gentlemansemporium.com
Edited by Katharine O’Moore-Klopf of KOK Edit
www.kokedit.com
Printed in the United States of America. First edition 2013.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental.
Quality discounts are available for bulk purchases of this book. For information, please contact Winged Victory Press.
Email: [email protected]
Also available in hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions, NOBLE VISION, a novel by Gen LaGreca
PRAISE FOR A DREAM OF DARING
“ . . . thought-provoking . . . [the tale] intrigues and should attract readers interested in historical fiction set in the antebellum South.”
–Booklist
“Throughout the narrative, LaGreca masterfully creates metaphors to explore her key themes. . . . A Dream of Daring is suspenseful. The crime at the center of the narrative will keep the reader guessing until the final revelation. . . . LaGreca’s exploration of how people respond to, and sometimes reject, change and progress is relevant for all generations.”
—ForeWord Reviews
"Old ways do not fade into the night quietly. A Dream of Daring is a novel set on the dawn of the industrial revolution. Tom Edmunton builds a proto-tractor, and tries to bring a world of change about Louisiana with his invention. But the whiplash is hard, as a loved one is killed, and his invention is stolen. [As Tom is] faced with a crossroads and the charms of multiple women, A Dream of Daring is an enticing blend of mystery and romance, much recommended reading."
—Midwest Book Review
“I thoroughly enjoyed the plot twists and turns, the passionate inter-racial romance, the delicious rebellion against convention, and the challenge to subjugation of all kinds.”
—Marsha Familaro Enright, President, Reason, Individualism and Freedom Institute
“Grab your seat for a tumbling ride back to the high-stakes, hoop-flying, tumultuous time when cotton was king. Gen LaGreca takes you for a jaunt in her carriage through fields of fragrant words, luscious descriptions, and panoramic views. Hang on as the road gets bumpy, with zesty characters stirring up the dirt and sudden plot twists swerving you onto uncharted paths. Wait, the hooves have left the ground and you’re airborne till the end. You’ll come back excited, enchanted, and enlightened.”
—Barry Farber, host of The Barry Farber Show and author of Cocktails with Molotov
“This is a heroic and inspiring novel that’s also packed with rich insights, lessons—and warnings—for today. It is a highly potent cocktail of psychology, philosophy, and politics with a generous pour of economic history, not to mention romance, violence, and money shaken into the mix.”
—John Blundell, author of Margaret Thatcher: A Portrait of the Iron Lady and Ladies for Liberty: Women Who Made a Difference in American History
AWARDS FOR A DREAM OF DARING
Finalist in Regional Fiction
2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
Finalist in Multicultural Fiction
2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR'S FIRST NOVEL,
NOBLE VISION
“The novel deals with some of the most serious issues of the day, lending the story an immediacy and vibrancy. The author’s prose is polished and professional.”
—Writer’s Digest magazine
“. . . A well-researched . . . sensitively written . . . inherently captivating novel of suspense, Noble Vision is very highly recommended reading.”
—Midwest Book Review
“This is a beautifully written book! . . . For a first novel, this is a marvelous achievement.”
—Midwest Book Awards
“The mounting conflicts of this lovingly sculpted first novel will keep you turning pages late into the night.”
—Laissez Faire Books
AWARDS FOR NOBLE VISION
ForeWord Magazine
Book of the Year Finalist in General Fiction
Writer’s Digest 13th Annual International Book Awards
Honorable Mention in Mainstream Fiction
Midwest Book Awards
Finalist in General Fiction
Illinois Women’s Press Association Fiction Contest
Second Place
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The research for this novel began as a daunting task but became one of the most exciting intellectual adventures I’ve ever had. The books, websites, and institutions that made every aspect of the antebellum period and the early industrial age come alive for me are too numerous to list. I’ll settle for mentioning just a few noteworthy moments in my study.
In Dearborn, Michigan, the kind people at the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village were most helpful. At Louisiana State University’s Hill Memorial Library, I will always remember holding in my white-gloved hands the crisp pages of the actual plantation journals of a cotton planter in the 1850s. I was also aided by the rich array of artifacts and documents, as well as the friendly, knowledgeable staffs at the Cabildo, the Historic New Orleans Collection, the Rural Life Museum, and the various Louisiana plantations that are preserving history—the Cottage, Rosedown, Butler Greenwood, Oakley, Frogmore, Laura, and others. I’m especially grateful to Helen Williams, the director of the West Feliciana Historical Society Museum, for patiently answering my questions and directing me to many useful resources.
The following people read the manuscript and offered valuable suggestions: Steve Radow, James Peron, Bailey Norwood, Marsha Enright, and Sara Pentz. My superb editor, Katharine O’Moore-Klopf of KOK Edit, was indispensable in giving the manuscript its final polish.
My enduring gratitude goes to Edith Packer for being the first person to suggest to me that I could—and should—write fiction. It has since become the passion of my life.
The Meddler
But do you dream of daring—
Cyrano
I do dream of daring . . .
From Act 1
Cyrano de Bergerac
Edmond Rostand
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
<
br /> Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Thomas Edmunton was out of step with the world around him.
He sat in an open carriage, observing the fields just off the road. In his mind he was upturning the dormant winter soil and cultivating the land in ways never before imagined. His body tensed with a nervous energy, as if he were ready to jump out of the carriage and prepare the earth for a spring unlike any other. There were new methods to explore, discoveries to make, changes to transform this countryside . . . and the world. The vision of what could be—and one day would be—didn’t give him a moment’s peace.
But his tailcoat and top hat told of a different purpose that would occupy him that early February afternoon. Instead of farming the dual fertile fields of the land and his imagination, he was in a caravan of coaches climbing up a hill on a plantation to a funeral for its mistress, Polly Barnwell.
Tom saw the big house of the Crossroads Plantation shrinking in the distance as the horses trotted past an iron gate and into a clearing. When the carriage stopped, he jumped out to assist the two women traveling with him. He extended his hand to help Charlotte Barnwell descend. Then he turned to her daughter, Rachel. Before the young beauty could step down of her own accord, Tom placed his hands around her tiny waist, swung her through the air, and planted her on the ground with the lighthearted air of lifting a ballerina in a dance. The gesture seemed incongruous with the women’s voluminous black dresses and long veils, the funeral attire of Louisiana’s gentry in 1859.
“Why, Tom, you have the wildest eyes,” said Rachel.
He had reason to have wild eyes, he thought, but he mustn’t think about that now.
“It’s downright indecent to look so happy at a funeral!” she whispered.
He realized he was smiling, almost laughing, and quickly subdued his expression. He kissed her hand and explained simply, if not completely. “I couldn’t help but notice how lovely you look.”
“Be mindful of the occasion, Mr. Edmunton.”
Rachel lowered her head and peered up at him in the gently reproachful way that he knew well. Despite her protest, the red-haired belle he was courting smiled at his attentions. As his hand lingered on hers, their eyes locked. But her smile faded to disappointment when he suddenly dropped her hand and his attention moved to an older man approaching them. The man raised his arms to embrace Rachel.
“Hello, darlin’,” said Senator Wiley Barnwell to his daughter.
Rachel kissed her father’s cheek.
The senator then bowed to his wife in greeting. “Charlotte, my dear.”
“Hello, Wiley.” Mrs. Barnwell smiled at her husband. She was a woman whose age was difficult to guess. Her face made her look younger, while her clothing added to her forty-five years. She possessed the same smooth skin and vibrant red hair as her twenty-one-year-old daughter. But her dress, cut high to her chin, and her braid, coiled at the back of her neck like a snake ready to bite anyone who might dare unravel it, weren’t only for mourning. They were typical of her normal style. “Did you take care of the things you came here to do for the sale, Wiley?” she asked her husband.
“Yes, dear. In fact, I took care of more than I’d hoped to.”
Tom knew the senator had inherited the Crossroads and was here reviewing the plantation records with an eye to selling the place, but the pointed way in which Barnwell looked at his wife seemed to imply something more.
“My boy,” the senator said, turning to Tom, “I want to thank you for accompanying the women, so I could come earlier and tend to a few matters.”
“My pleasure, Senator.” Tom bowed his head to Greenbriar’s most distinguished citizen.
The senator’s pale complexion and thinning white hair suggested a mellowness of age beyond his fifty-five years. But his eyebrows remained dark, bushy, and arching, as if warning the world that he was still strong-willed—even intimidating—when the moment called for it. His tall, solid build enhanced his air of authority. He looked like the town elder that he was.
“Senator, please forgive me for asking at a time like this, but did you—”
“Now, don’t worry, Tom,” Barnwell said kindly. “I got it here just fine. I took right good care of it.”
“Golly, Tom, I thought you might be thinking about something else at Aunt Polly’s funeral.” Rachel pouted.
Tom was undeterred. “If I may ask, sir, where is it?”
The senator pointed through the trees to the big house and its dependencies down the hill. “It’s in the old carriage house. Safe as anything could ever be.”
Wiley Barnwell gave Tom a reassuring look, then extended his curved arm to his wife. Charlotte hooked her black-gloved hand through it, and the couple walked to the ceremony. In like fashion, Tom escorted Rachel across the grassy field drilled with headstones that was the Barnwell family cemetery.
Tom walked handsome and soldier-tall in his formal clothes, with a poise and self-confidence beyond his twenty-six years. Only his face revealed his youth in the open, innocent way he looked at people, as if he expected the world to be as forthright with him as he was with it. His blond hair and blue eyes reflected the Irish-English lineage of his ancestors, who had arrived in Louisiana sixty years ago to obtain a land grant from the Spanish colonial government and, in time, to amass three thousand acres of wilderness on the east bank of the great Mississippi River north of Baton Rouge, transforming it into one of the richest cotton plantations in the country. A fire in Tom’s eyes and a tenseness in his body gave a vitality to his figure even when he was at rest.
He glanced at Rachel on his arm as she greeted some of the guests. Her ivory skin and red hair provided a bright contrast to the black mourning bonnet framing her face. Her comely features—the pursed lips, the small pointed nose, and the crystal blue eyes—reminded Tom of the serene beauties he had seen in paintings. He liked the contrast between the pristine, classical beauty to be gazed at from afar and the sensuous creature she could be in his arms.
Another eligible planter in the group was intrigued with Rachel Barnwell. Nash Nottingham, twenty-eight, walked toward the couple. His lackluster brown hair and eyes were like a sedative offered after a bracing dose of Tom’s brilliant gold hair and flaming blue eyes. Nash gave a brief nod to Tom, then planted a protracted kiss on Rachel’s hand.
“My, what a beautiful ring!” Rachel gaped at a large sapphire on Nash’s finger.
“Oh, that? Just a trinket from André Benoir in Paris.”
“How lovely to shop at such an exclusive place.”
While the two chatted, Tom noted the showy gold carvings on Nash’s walking cane and the large diamonds on his watch fob, also likely purchased on one of the wearer’s frequent trips to Paris. These objects possessed a brilliance that the owner’s face lacked. The fashion statement that was Nash Nottingham left Tom with a vivid memory of what the man wore, rather than of what he said or did. The hopeful planter followed Rachel as she walked with Tom. When the couple stopped at the black crescent of guests gathered before a closed casket, Nash positioned himself on Rachel’s other side.
The preacher placed his notes on a podium. His simple black suit and string tie were humble compared with the finery of Greenbriar’s most affluent citizens.
Carriages tended by black coachmen formed a caravan against the stone walls of the cemetery. On the sidelines the slaves from the Crossroads Plantation clustered in a large group; they had been given time off from their tasks to say farewell to their mistress. Tom noticed a white face among them, a stocky man with suspicious eyes, a short tangle of hair, and a frown that seemed to be his natural expression. His frontiersman’s coat of buckskin with long fringes set him apart from both the aristocrats and the bondsmen. He appeared to belong to neither camp, thought Tom, figuring he must be Bret Markham, the overseer, whom he had heard the senator praise for his work at the Crossroads. But something about the man made Tom uneasy as his eyes stopped on
the bulges under Markham’s coat made by the whip and gun that he had brought to the funeral.
In the custom of the gentry, Polly Barnwell’s body lay in a body-shaped cast-iron casket, adorned with a wreath of wrought iron to symbolize permanence. A hole had been dug for the coffin in front of a white marble tombstone. The statue carved for Polly’s grave site was of a little girl holding a flower basket, commemorating the deceased’s well-known love for children. This love, the townspeople had often said, was intensified by the untimely death of her husband, Henry Barnwell, twenty-four years earlier, too soon in the marriage for Polly to have borne her own offspring.
Tom restlessly turned to Senator Barnwell, standing behind him. “Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me where the old carriage house is?”
“Tom! How could you?” whispered Rachel. “The pastor’s about to begin!”
Nash looked pleased at her reproach.
But the senator smiled patiently. “I forgot, my boy. You’ve never been here before, have you? It’s the red building with the white door. That’s where I put it.” He pointed down the hill. “See?”
Through the tangle of oak branches on the hillside, Tom saw the sprawling big house and a cluster of smaller structures around it. His eyes stopped on the building Barnwell described.
“I see it, yes. Thank you, sir, for taking good care of it,” Tom whispered.
Rachel poked him as the pastor began the service.
“My dear brethren, let us live a life of honor and fear not our final day of reckoning,” said the clergyman. “And let us honor Polly Barnwell, who lived such a blessed life and to whom we must now bid farewell.”
As the pastor recited a local version of an ancient prayer, Tom seemed unaware of the lowered heads around him. His head was raised, his face filled with hope.
Lord, make me an instrument to sow good.
