Now he lived through their child, who had been conceived in love during those too brief days.
Rebecca walked into the room and placed the tureen on the table. "You want me to light the pine knot on the hearth, Miss Allison?"
"No, Rebecca. We'll save it."
The woman nodded. "I'll be back with the bread."
A pensive Allison sat in the shadows and slowly ladled the soup into her bowl, the English Spode that had once belonged to her grandmother and had become part of her own bridal chest. Allison remembered how carefully she had packed each piece for the long trip to this upcountry colony. Founded by wealthy coastal planters of Savannah and Darien as a summer escape from the pestilence of the lowland marshes, Roswell was already a permanent town long before Allison undertook the journey north as Coin Forsyth's bride.
"Your soup's gettin' cold."
With a start, Allison looked up at Rebecca, who had come into the room again. "It doesn't matter. I'm not hungry, anyway. I have too much on my mind." She didn't give the woman time to protest. "I wrote a letter to Araminta this afternoon. There's nothing left for me in Roswell now that Coin is dead. So as soon as I hear from her, I suppose I'll take Morrow and go back to Cypress Manor."
"Livin' in the same house with Mr. Jonathan's widow won't be no life for you, Miss Allison. She never liked you, even before your brother was killed. And it'll be worse now."
"But I don't plan to go to her as a charity case. I've decided to ask Théophile Roche for a job in the woolen mill. That way, I'll have some money of my own.
"Don't look at me like that, Rebecca. I'm destitute, with no money at all. If the other women of the town can take the place of the men in the mills, then so can I."
"But you're not like the other women. You're Cap'n Forsyth's wife. It'll be a disgrace."
"No one in Savannah need ever know. And have you forgotten so soon? I'm not a wife—only an impoverished widow who hasn't been able to pay her one servant for the past six months."
"Have you heard me complainin'?"
"Well, you should. And if you're smart, you'll let me ask Mr. Roche for a job for you, too."
"Who'll take care of the baby?"
"I'll put her in a basket and take her to the mill with me. That is, if Mr. Roche will give me a job."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then the baby and I will probably starve."
"Looks like you might starve, as it is. You haven't touched the little bit of food before you."
Allison picked up her spoon and began to eat the soup. Rebecca was right, of course. A nursing mother had to keep up her strength—if not for herself, then for her baby.
For a long time, Allison sat in the shadows, where memories of the past lurked and called to each other. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she rose, fled from the room and, unmindful of the dense fog, left Rose Mallow to wander along the bluffs of Vickery Creek.
Chapter 3
High on the bluffs overlooking the waterfall that supplied power for the Roswell mills, Théophile Roche, the French manager of the Ivy Woolen Mill, awoke.
He could already hear the warning bell that heralded the opening of the millrace gate for the great rush of water to the mill wheel. He loved the whirr and hum of the machinery that signaled the full production of cloth—the Roswell gray material used for Confederate uniforms.
He remembered how uneasy he'd been when the workers had gone off to war and he had been forced to hire their wives and daughters to take over their jobs. Yet he need not have worried. The Roswell women had proved more than adequate for the task. And they didn't complain like the men, either, when they had to work longer hours to make up for those days when there was no power for the spindles and looms.
Roche smiled. He was probably the only one in the town who welcomed the gullywashers that poured down from the mountains and into the creeks and rivers. For without the steady stream of water to turn the mill wheel, his mill had to close down. The last two weeks of rain now assured him of enough power for quite a while to come. He could rest easily on that count.
The smile left his face as the heavy guns in the distance began their daily bombardment. They sounded even closer this morning, like a knocking at the door of the town itself. Lately, he'd begun thinking about what he would do if Sherman's troops slipped past the Kennesaw defense line; for burning the mills would be their first priority. But Roche was a French citizen, not a Confederate. And he was now part owner of the mill. If he raised the French flag above the mill… Yes, that's what he would do. Hurriedly, Roche got dressed and then went up to the attic of his house to search for the flag he'd brought with him from France.
At Rose Mallow, Allison Forsyth finished nursing her baby and then dressed for her appointment with Théophile Roche. At the last moment, she put on the old boots belonging to Coin and took down a parasol to protect her head from the sun.
"I still think you're makin' a mistake, Miss Allison," Rebecca said. "Can't be nothin' but trouble comin' from it."
"My actions are not open for discussion, Rebecca. Just take care of Morrow until I get back. That's all I ask."
Allison didn't look at the woman standing in the breezeway. With a stubborn tilt to her head, she walked down the garden steps and, holding up her skirts to avoid the wet places, she hurried through the side yard toward the orchard, and on to the creek bluffs beyond.
For some time Allison walked, edging her way past the vines that spread out in a tangled network of lush greenery. Threatening the most careful of travelers, the woods provided a formidable barrier for a woman in long skirts. Finally, in frustration, Allison began to use her parasol to brush past the thorny vines hanging from the tree limbs above.
The ground beneath her suddenly shook in a convulsive quake, and Allison reached out for support, only to feel excruciating pain as she pulled one of the vines loose from the nearest tree and the thorns punctured her shabby black glove.
Unmindful of the damp earth, Allison sat down and hurriedly removed the glove from her hand, to stare at the ugly, jagged pattern in her palm. Like a child, she lifted her hand to her mouth and, with a sucking motion, drew blood and the thorn from the wound.
The Union guns. They had caused her pain. Now she had another reason for hating them. With her hand still hurting, Allison put on her glove again, stood up, and wiped the debris from her skirts. She did not want to be late for her appointment with Théophile Roche. That would make a bad impression on the mill manager, and he might not give her a job because of it.
Finally, the mill village came into view, with tall, slanted little cottages following the meandering trails that passed for roads. And at a slightly higher elevation sat The Bricks, the two apartment buildings that had also been erected to house the employees of the mills.
Then, the two-story brick house that served as both residence and office for the manager of the woolen mill appeared. Allison stopped, took a deep breath, and shored up her courage to face the Frenchman. A few minutes later, a composed Allison stood before Roche in his office.
"You wished to see me, Madame Forsyth?" he inquired in his pleasantly accented voice.
Allison cleared her throat and stared at the window that was slightly above the manager's head. "I have come with two requests, Mr. Roche. As you may have heard, my husband is dead. I can no longer afford to pay my servant, Rebecca Smiley. She's an excellent worker and knowledgeable about wool, so I was hoping that you might hire her as a weaver in your mill."
The small, dark-haired manager looked at Allison for a moment without speaking. He sat back in his comfortable chair and slowly rubbed his hands together in a pensive pose.
"It's very commendable of you, madame, to concern yourself with a servant's welfare. I trust you can vouch for her honesty and integrity?"
"Oh, yes. Otherwise, I would not have come to you with such a request."
The man nodded and sat forward. "She is a free black woman?"
"Yes. Not every family in the South
owns slaves, Mr. Roche. Rebecca was born free and is at liberty to work for anyone who can pay her."
Roche hesitated. "It's true, we desperately need good workers in the mill. But I cannot provide housing for her…"
"That's not necessary. She has her lodgings at Rose Mallow."
"Then tell her to report to me at dawn tomorrow in front of the mill."
"Thank you, Mr. Roche."
Allison made no attempt to leave. She twisted the worn white lace handkerchief and cleared her throat again. "I mentioned, Mr. Roche, that I had two requests."
"And the other?"
Allison's voice became so low that Roche had trouble understanding her. "I had hoped that you might hire me also."
"I beg your pardon, madame?"
"I have the same qualifications as Rebecca. I also know how to spin and weave. And anyone in the town will vouch for my honesty and integrity, if you ask."
The full import of her words shocked him. "Do you realize what you're asking, madame? To agree to hire your servant is one thing. But for me to hire the lady of Rose Mallow as a worker in the mill…That is impossible."
"In wartime, Mr. Roche, there are no ladies. We're all women, fighting to survive. Using our hands to scrounge for food, to work the land left in our care. And to spin cloth to clothe the poor soldiers on the battlefield."
"Does this mean you need the money, madame?"
"Yes."
"But you must have relatives that you could go to. That would solve the problem, would it not?"
"Working in the woolen mill, Mr. Roche, would solve my problem, too. I only ask that you hire me for one month. No longer."
Still Roche was hesitant. "But I understand that you are the mother of a small child."
"Some of your other workers also have babies. One more in a basket nearby won't disrupt the production of the mill."
Théophile Roche could not bear the intensity of the violet eyes staring at him. He lowered his head and tapped his finger on the edge of the mahogany desk. "If I grant this shameful request, it will be on one condition."
"Yes?"
"That you will promise to contact your relatives to ask for shelter. If you do that, Madame Forsyth, I will hire you until you can make plans to leave."
Allison smiled. "I promise. And thank you, Mr. Roche." She stood and held out her hand.
"Enchanté," he said, taking it and holding to his lips.
"Tomorrow? At dawn?" she asked, as if she were merely inquiring the time of the next church social.
"Yes. Tomorrow. And may le bon Dieu forgive me for what I have promised today."
"May the good Lord bless you, instead, Mr. Roche. For you have just saved my life."
"I hope you will feel that way, madame, a month from now. As for myself, I'm not so sure."
That evening, as Allison and Rebecca prepared for bed, Madrigal O'Laney was returning from the mill commissary to her apartment at The Bricks. Her usual exuberance was missing. At seventeen years old, with a shapely body and a saucy face, Madrigal felt that fate had dealt her a mortal blow.
Her high, young breasts strained at the calico material of her bodice as she attempted to control her anger. Nearly all of the men in the mill town were gone. It wasn't fair just when she had bloomed into womanhood. Not that she wanted a husband. Heavens, no. Husbands never gave their wives anything more than brats. What she wanted was fun. And the war had seen to it that she had missed out in that category. But the ultimate humiliation had just happened. She had been waylaid by Puckka Knox, a smelly, twelve-year-old twit of a boy.
"What's the matter, Madrigal? Your face is as red as your hair. You mad about somethin'?"
"Furious is more like it, Ellie," she replied to the friend who'd rushed to catch up with her and was now trying to keep pace alongside her.
Gazing at the half-filled satchel, Ellie said, "I told you last week that you were gonna get into trouble with old Mr. Rowdybush, chargin' as much as you did at the commissary. I see that he didn't let you have half the amount this time."
"Oh, pish, Ellie. It's not Mr. Rowdybush. He'd give me anything I want, just for the askin'."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Everything. The war, lastin' as long as it has. The soldiers just over the mountain and not even allowed to come around here. I could make a list as long as Fannie Morton's wash line. But the worst thing of all just happened."
"You gonna tell me or not?"
"Promise you won’t breathe it to a single, livin' soul, hope to die and spit on your mother's grave if you do?"
Ellie made the appropriate sign.
Madrigal stopped beyond the posts that braced the shed roof of the store buildings and gazed toward the empty town square. Finally, she spoke. "You know that Puckka Knox?"
"Sure. Everybody in the mill village knows the little bully."
"Well, he's not so little anymore. He just asked me to meet him in the blacksmith's barn as soon as it got good and dark."
Ellie's whoop swept over the square until Madrigal admonished her. "Hush, Ellie. You want everybody, includin' Reverend Pratt, to hear you?"
"Sorry, Madrigal. But it's so funny. No wonder you looked ready to spit nails. But tell me. What did you say back to him?"
Madrigal's eyes lost their angry look. A smile began, getting broader and broader until she, too, broke into a laugh. "It's too terrible to repeat. But I'll bet one thing, Ellie. Puckka won’t ever bother me again."
"It was that bad, huh?"
"Yeah. But promise me you won’t mention his name again. I want to forget him. Let's talk about somethin' else. Somethin' pleasant."
"I got a letter today. From my brother Bedford. Miss Tilly brought it in her mail hack all the way from the train station in Marietta."
"What did he say?"
"Nothin' much. Just that he was all right and that he was sure sorry about Cap'n Forsyth and his men. Said when his platoon went back to look for them in the wilderness, there wasn't a trace. They got blown up in the trench."
"Ellie, I'm tired of hearin' about the war. I told you to talk about somethin' pleasant."
"You wanna go pick blackberries tomorrow as soon as we get off from work? I know a good spot near the bridge."
Madrigal nodded. "If I can still move after workin' ten hours."
"I know. Sometimes my back hurts so bad I wish the creek would dry up. Then I think about Bedford. And imagine I might be weavin' the very cloth that'll go on his—"
"Ellie, you're talkin' about the war again."
"Well, what else is there to talk about? You said you wanted to forget Puckka Knox."
Madrigal quickened her pace and her teeth chewed at her lower lip—a sure sign that her brain was busy. She shifted the weight of her shopping bag and smiled. "A celebration. That's what we need in this town. Everybody's had the mubblefubbles for so long, they've forgotten how to have a little fun."
"What kind of celebration?" a wary Ellie asked.
"I don’t know yet. But I'll think of somethin' before tomorrow. Has to have some dancin' and singin' to it. And somethin' good to eat."
The two young women stopped at the division in the road. The summer twilight had lasted a long time. Now the fireflies lit up the air as the sun sank below the trees and the river mist began to settle in the low places.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Madrigal called out as the two started in opposite directions.
"Don't forget the basket for the blackberries," Ellie reminded her.
"I won't." Madrigal suddenly felt better. She always perked up when Ellie was around. She was the only one who could help the time pass when they worked such long hours together at the mill. That is, if Ellie didn't launch into a boring discussion of the war, as she was sometimes prone to do,
Madrigal opened the gate that led into the small courtyard of The Bricks. She raced up the steps to the front door of her apartment and pushed it open. For a moment she stood there, getting acclimated to the dark. Slowly, her yellow cat's eyes adjusted to
the dimness, and the surroundings took on familiar shapes.
A sense of elation took over as she mentally caressed each piece of furniture in the combination living room-kitchen. The day she had moved into the apartment had been the most exciting day of her life; for the two-story abode, with its two fireplaces and polished pine flooring, represented quite a change from the shack at the edge of town where Madrigal had spent most of her life.
It took her a number of weeks to get used to an upstairs bedroom. And with a fireplace, too. Cooking, eating, and sleeping in one room, with a blanket hanging from a rope to hide the bed shared by her mother Maisie, and her steppa, Ben, had been a way of life, even if the blanket never masked the sounds coming from the other side.
That used to scare her until her mother explained the nature of men. So on the nights Ben came home drunk, Madrigal stuffed cotton in her ears, pulled her quilt over her head, and went to sleep. Now, Madrigal had a place to herself—an unexpected luxury.
She put down her satchel and groped for the Confederate candle on the kitchen table. The tallow-dipped wick was coarsely woven and wrapped in a coil around the bottle, to make it last longer.
Just as Madrigal lit it, there was a tap on the door. "Madrigal, are you home?"
She recognized the voice of the woman. "Come on in, Flood. The door's open."
The candle flared, throwing the shadow of the large, heavyset woman onto the opposite wall as she walked across the flooring toward the kitchen.
Flood Tompkins was the best worker at the Ivy Woolen Mill. She did the same work as any man and that's why Mr. Roche had made her a foreman. Sometimes, when she wore her husband's trousers and stuffed her hair into a cap, Madrigal thought Flood resembled a man more than she did her own sex.
"Come and sit a spell, Flood," Madrigal invited. "I was just goin' to put up my food supplies in the cupboard."
"Can't stay but a minute, Madrigal. I came to warn you about tomorrow at the mill."
"What's wrong? Has Mr. Roche complained about me again?"
The Roswell Women Page 2
