Also by Frances Patton Statham
Bright Sun, Dark Moon
Flame of New Orleans
Jasmine Moon
Daughters of the Summer Storm
Phoenix Rising
From Love's Ashes
On Wings of Fire
To Face the Sun
The Roswell Legacy
Mary Musgrove, Queen of Savannah
(former title: Call the River Home)
Trail of Tears
The Silk Train
Mountain Legacy
Murder, al fresco
Copyright © 1987 by Frances Patton Statham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form whatsoever, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in critical articles and reviews as provided under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Library of Congress Card Number: 99-091149
ISBN: 0-9675233-0-3
13 digit ISBN: 978-0-9675-2330-9
(Previously ISBN: 0-449-90182-3)
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63002-660-8
First Edition: July 1987 by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House
Second Edition: October 1999 by Bocage Books Ninth printing: 2013
Cover Design by: Steve McAfee
16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9
Bocage Books
www.bocagebooks.com
[email protected]
To Charlsey
The Roswell Women
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Author's Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
The magnificent white columns of Rose Mallow appeared beyond the rise of early morning fog. Coin Forsyth loved this part of the day best—before the river mist burned away and the soft cool breeze vanished under the searing heat of the summer sun.
As he viewed the house, his lips formed the name of the woman he loved: Allison. She was the reason he'd built the mansion on the bluffs of the gently flowing north Georgia creek. From the moment he'd first met her in Savannah, he had coveted her as his wife.
Half hidden by the fog, Coin watched as the front door opened. Then Allison slowly walked onto the wisteria-sheltered porch and gazed down the long graveled vista in the direction of the Roswell road. Seeing her, he was replete with happiness. She was his and nothing would ever part them.
With a sudden urge to close the distance between them, Coin Forsyth mounted his horse Roan and moved from the hidden copse of willow trees. He smiled, raised his hand in greeting, and then galloped toward the woman standing on the porch.
"Cap'n Forsyth?"
"Allison?"
"Beg pardon, sir, for wakin' you, but General Gordon wants to see you."
All at once the weary Confederate captain opened his eyes and sat up. The early morning fog still lay heavily upon the damp earth. But Rose Mallow had vanished. The wisteria scent had given way to the odor of rotting vegetation, and the lofty trees were now charred stumps that silently cursed the spoilers of the Virginia wilderness.
"What is it, Corporal?"
"The general, sir. He's sent for you."
"Where is he?" Coin asked.
"Over on Plank Road. There's a man waitin' with the picket to lead you to him. Lee's in trouble."
"Then more than likely we'll be moving out soon."
"Yes, sir. Seems a shame, though, after we spent half the night throwin' up these earthworks for the guns."
Coin ignored the corporal's comment. "Get Sergeant Gibbs for me," he said.
"Yes, sir."
The name was taken up and whispered down the line. Within a few minutes, the sergeant, crawling on his belly in the brackish watered trench, reached the earthworks, hoisted his body, and tumbled over the pile of dirt. "You sent for me, Cap'n?"
"Gibbs?"
"It's me, all right, even if I do look more like a mummichog flappin' around in all this mud."
"Well, scrape the mud off your beard, Sergeant, so the men will recognize you. I want you to take over the company, or what's left of it, until I get back.
"And don't waste any shot," Coin added, "before you see the blue."
The sergeant nodded. "We killed enough of our own, I reckon, to last us awhile."
A sadness clouded Coin Forsyth's eyes; for the armies were hopelessly entangled in the dense undergrowth of laurel bushes and prickly briars, interspersed with stagnant streams and marshes.
The previous evening, darkness had crept along the ridge like a ghost probing for its prey—spread out, hollow— with no substance except terror in the air. Then the muskets started flashing, with a response from the larger guns. Battle lines disappeared, while the soldiers, two hundred thousand of them, exchanged bullets, killing almost as many of their own comrades as they did the enemy. But then the woods caught fire, and the eerie cries of the trapped soldiers rose on the hot breath of the wind. Suddenly, the color of uniforms no longer mattered—only the wounded, damned in the raging inferno.
Coin glanced down at his blistered hands. He had rescued only a few men before being driven back by the solid sheet of fire.
"Allison," he whispered as he picked up his Enfield musket and left the earthworks. But her face eluded him. The nightmare of living was too powerful to recapture the dreams of his sleep.
Chapter 2
For two weeks, the June rain had not ceased.
Even now, the torrential downpour splashed against the tall, beveled glass windows of Rose Mallow, hit the ground, and rushed past the boxwood hedge to follow the easiest route toward the Chattahoochee River.
Etched in red, ditches along each side of the drive threatened to overflow, taking with them the gravel that made the road halfway passable in such weather.
Inside the house, Allison Forsyth sat alone in the parlor. She was oblivious to the storm that snapped the black ribbons of the wreath back and forth against the heavy oak front door. In her hands, she held a wedding picture, the only reminder of her tall, handsome husband.
"Would you like a cup of blackberry leaf tea, Miss Allison, before the carriage comes?"
Allison turned her head in the direction of the voice. Her servant, Rebecca Smiley, stood in the doorway and waited for a reply.
Finally, Allison spoke. "No, thank you, Rebecca." She grasped the photograph even tighter. "I think I'll just sit here for a while longer."
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the front door open. Rebecca rushed into the hallway to shut it before the rain came in. "I see the carriage comin' down the drive now," she called out. "I'll go and get the baby ready."
Coin was dead. Nothing would ever bring him home again. Even the solace of his tombstone in the church cemetery was denied her; for her husband was buried along with his men in one common grave in the Virginia wilderness.
Allison turned from the mirror and put on the bombazine cape. On her head, she placed a matching black bonnet and tied the ribbons under her chin.
When the carriage pulled up to the steps of Rose Mallow and the driver held the horses steady, Allison climbed inside. Rebecca followed, carrying Morrow, her mistress's three-month-old daughter, dressed in her christening gown, which was now bordered in black.
Once she was seated, Allison held out her arms. "I'll take her now," she said, with a sudden need to be reminded of Coin's love.
The carriage began its slippery way down the tree-lined drive, but Allison did not protest the swaying of the carriage. She was too intent on examining the baby's face. "She looks a little like her father, don't you think, Rebecca?"
The black woman hesitated. The baby was a replica of her mistress, with the same, soft, moonbeam hair, the identical fair complexion, but it would not do to tell her so today. "She's got Cap'n Forsyth's smile, I think."
"But not his eyes," Allison said. "I couldn't bear that, having her look at me with his eyes."
Even in the rain, the land surrounding Rose Mallow was incredibly beautiful. Flame-colored azaleas dotted the nearby woods, with dogwood trees and sweet shrubs perfuming the air of the hillsides. Not far below, the roar of water rushing over the dam filled the air as the waterwheel turned to give power for the spindles and looms of the three mills built along the banks of Vickery Creek.
A sad, bittersweet smile came to Allison's lips as she noticed the people standing respectfully on each side of the road while they waited for the carriage to pass.
Ordinarily, the people who had once owned horses and carriages would have joined the slow procession on its way to the church, but the war had lasted too long. Most of the barns were empty, including her own. And so there was only one carriage, one matched pair of horses on the road—those belonging to the Reverend Nathaniel Pratt, who had been kind enough to send for Allison.
The roar of the waterfall was soon replaced by the doleful toll of the church bell. As if on cue, the citizens of Roswell took their places behind the carriage and began to follow it toward the church for the memorial service.
"Rebecca, they should have gone to the church and waited," Allison lamented. "All this mud…"
"They can wipe the mud off their shoes better than they can live with shame on their souls, Miss Allison. I know how the folks in this town loved Cap'n Forsyth, even when he was a little boy. They wouldn't feel it was fittin' for his widow and baby to travel alone to the church today."
Accepting Rebecca's explanation, Allison became introspective until her memories forced her to speak again. "I remember how my brother Jonathan loved him, too. And how pleased he was when Coin came to visit him that first time at Cypress Manor."
Rebecca made a noise in her throat. "Now the war's taken both of them."
"Yes."
Allison bit her lip and fought back the tears; for they had come within sight of Great Oaks, the property belonging to Dr. Pratt.
It was not the sight of the plantation house that caused her such anguish. Rather, it was the small cottage on the grounds in which the minister had tutored young men from all over the state for their entrance exams to Princeton and Harvard. It was here that her brother Jonathan had stayed while a student. And it was here that he had made friends with another student, Coin Forsyth, who had later become her husband.
The carriage slowly passed the Pratt property and turned on the opposite side of the street into the driveway of the Presbyterian church. For Allison, it was strange how grief gave a different perspective to familiar surroundings. Now, she saw the sanctuary as if it were that first Sunday, when Coin had brought her there as his bride and they had walked down the aisle together to the enclosed family pew.
She remembered thinking how alien the church looked on the outside that day: a Connecticut meeting house transplanted to the South, with its short bell tower taking the place of the more traditional spire and its walls made of white clapboard rather than red Savannah brick. It looked just as unfamiliar today, and she felt the same trepidation. She didn't want to go inside. And yet she knew she must.
The carriage came to a stop before the white-columned portico. Allison returned the sleeping baby to Rebecca as the carriage door was flung open and a hand reached out to draw her up the steps.
When she was inside, Allison stopped and waited for Rebecca. Her lips trembled. With a sense of urgency, she whispered to the woman, "Rebecca, I want you to sit with me."
"But my place is in the balcony…"
"Your place is with me. You're the only family I have left."
The black woman glanced toward the filled pews. "Then I’d better keep on carryin' the baby," she said, and followed her mistress down the aisle.
As the Reverend Pratt began his opening prayer in memory of the town's fallen hero, the steady din of guns in the distance interrupted him. Members of the congregation lifted their heads to listen for a brief moment.
Chattanooga and Dalton had fallen, and the war was coming even closer to Roswell. Several miles to the north, General Sherman's troops were carrying on a thrust-and-parry campaign around Kennesaw Mountain. But so far, they had been unable to breach the ten-mile defense line set up by Joe Johnston and his Confederate troops. But everyone knew that Sherman had received an ultimatum from Lincoln. He desperately needed a Union victory, especially after the devastating Wilderness campaign, and he was looking to Sherman to give him that victory.
As if sensing the uneasiness of the congregation, Morrow awoke and began to cry. Rebecca rocked her in her arms, but the baby refused to be comforted until Allison reached over and took her.
Concentrating on the tall, imposing figure of Dr. Pratt standing in the center pulpit, Allison asked only that the service be over as quickly as possible. She wanted no public display of tears to mar the service, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could remain composed. The sound of the guns had brought renewed pain to her heart.
"Oh, Coin," she whispered, and hid her face close to that of her child. Once again, the baby began to cry, and she kept up her plaintive wail for the remainder of the service.
"…And give Thy peace and courage to each widow, each orphan, in the dark days ahead. Amen."
The communion silver rattled as the guns in the distance renewed their onslaught against the mountain. Then the doleful rumbling of the bass notes on the organ drowned out the guns.
Like someone caught in a bad dream not of her design, Allison touched hands, acknowledged condolences with a nod, and then, mercifully, was once again inside the carriage. The memorial service was over.
Morrow finally drifted off to sleep again to the lulling roll of the wheels. No words were spoken aloud between Allison and Rebecca, for fear of waking the baby. Yet Allison's mind was busy. The church service had given a finality to her life as the wife of Captain Coin Forsyth. She was now a widow—with no money. A widow—with a small child to support. The only food in the house had been brought by kind neighbors, sharing the little they had out of respect for the dead. The only money left was the gold eagle given to her by Jonathan on the day of her marriage. She would never part with that.
For the rest of the day, the rain came down, beating its steady rhythm against the wisteria-vined porch of Rose Mallow, trickling through the roof to the tin tub in the hallway, and making a pond of the graveled courtyard,
At last, Allison rose from her desk and walked to the parlor window. The solid lay
of the land had vanished with the rain, and in its place the silent, illusive fog had begun its evening journey from the lowlands to the bluff above. Steadily, the mist moved, devouring with its silent steps portions of the land until it finally reached the porch of Rose Mallow.
Allison turned from the window and went to find Rebecca. Her steps were resolute. She had made up her mind.
The summer kitchen was attached to the main house by a covered walkway. From the door, which was opened to catch the breeze once the rain had stopped, Allison could see the faint flicker of the fire in the kitchen. Negotiating the passageway with quick steps, she stopped and watched Rebecca taking the hot stew from the kettle and placing in the soup tureen.
"Rebecca, I want to talk with you."
"I'll be in the dinin' room in a minute, Miss Allison."
"There's no need for that. Just put the tureen on the table on the back porch."
At the sight of Rebecca's raised eyebrows, Allison added, "I don’t have time to waste on empty ceremony. We need to make plans about our future."
"You'll be served in the dinin' room," Rebecca said in a firm tone, "the way you always have. Cap'n Forsyth might be dead, Miss Allison, but you're still the mistress of Rose Mallow. And tonight's no time to forget it."
For a moment, the two women stood and stared at each other. Allison, realizing the battle to come later, allowed Rebecca her small victory.
"All right, Rebecca. In the dining room."
Allison turned and retraced her steps through the breezeway, down the hall, and into the formal dining room, where she raised a window to allow the slight breeze to penetrate the room that still smelled of funeral flowers and beeswax.
On the wall on the far side, facing the windows, the French scenic wallpaper was faded by the strong Southern sun. The wide-planked boards of pine, pegged together to make up the flooring, rippled slightly from the leak in the roof that she had been unable to stop. In trying to run the small working plantation, Allison had done the best she could do without adequate help or money. So much of the furniture was now gone—as well as most of the silver and the fine Persian rugs.
Yet, she was glad that she had not complained about such trivial matters in her letters to Coin. It had been far more important for him to hold in his memory the way Rose Mallow had looked on his last visit. A full year ago.
The Roswell Women Page 1
