Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  The windows at Rebel's Retreat were thrown open, embracing the warm breeze and the fragrance of the late summer blooms. The leaves were just beginning to turn, a few trees had patches of vivid orange and scarlet tucked into the lush green foliage.

  Margaret was exhausted, her hand still clutching a filthy rag, her hair covered with dust and paint flakes. The house had been nailed shut for over five years, and the accumulation of dirt and grime seemed to be embedded in every nook and cranny. Even with Mrs. Thaw's invaluable help, the task of reopening Rebel's Retreat had been daunting.

  She stretched luxuriously before returning her attention to the mirror frame, removing as much thick dust as possible from the bawdy figures. The mirror still made her smile, and she leaned closer, rubbing the leg of one of the bar scene characters with the cloth dipped in beeswax.

  "Nice job," commented Ashton from behind her left ear, his voice full of relaxed humor.

  Margaret jumped, her hand immediately flying to her throat. "Don't do that again!" she cried, unable to keep from laughing. "You frightened me out of my wits."

  "As if that would take much," he whispered, bending down to plant a soft kiss on her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, ignoring the hard metal of his gold watch fob, barely visible from under his jacket.

  Even in a simple brown suit and vest, Ashton carried the energetic dash of a cavalry officer. She reached up behind her and touched his face, the beginnings of a raspy beard defying his morning shave. At her request he had shaved his mustache, and she had been stunned by how handsome he was without whiskers. He lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed it, and she sighed.

  Suddenly she pulled away. "Ash, how did it go? I mean, how many students do you have?"

  Their eyes met in the mirror, and she saw the brilliant sparkle in his gaze, an excitement she had seen frequently since their return to Magnolia University.

  "We have ninety-seven so far." He grinned. "And all but a few have paid in full."

  "Why, that's wonderful!"

  "The ninety-eighth will matriculate this afternoon —Osborn Biddle Thaw."

  She spun around, her own eyes matching his in brilliance. "Mrs. Thaw's son Osborn! Oh, Ash, he'll be a wonderful student, I just know it."

  Ashton nodded. "It may take him a while to catch up with the others, and he's older than the rest of the boys, but he deserves a chance. I thought I could help him out with his studies if he needs it. He was going to work in the kitchen, but I have a feeling there's a real scholar lurking under that apron."

  "Mrs. Thaw is going to be so proud," Margaret said softly. She didn't need to add that she knew all about feeling flushed with pride. Ashton saw it in her eyes.

  "Where are the children?" His voice was unusually rough as he gently brushed some dust out of her hair.

  "Ash is over tormenting Eddie and Mary B., and Lisa is upstairs taking a nap." She raised her eyebrows mischievously. "By the way, how is Professor Edward Johnson reacting to the academic life?"

  "I'm not sure." Ashton glanced just over her head in thought. "I will say one thing, engineering will never be quite the same. He wants to teach the first-year students how to blow up a Yankee bridge."

  "Isn't that more the realm of the physics department?"

  "I've been trying to explain that to him, but he's convinced he's right."

  "He's always convinced he's right," Margaret added under her breath, and Ashton threw his head back and laughed, lifting her slightly into the air.

  A sound from upstairs quieted them both, the stirrings of their eighteen-month-old daughter. "Now look what you've done," Margaret scolded, her hand reaching up to his face.

  In an instant his mouth descended upon hers, sweetly and hungrily. But the upstairs murmurs soon became a genuine wail, and Margaret reluctantly pulled away.

  "I'd better go up." She sighed, her eyes lingering over his familiar form. It seemed impossible, but he was even more dashing than before, a new confidence radiating from him, a relaxed joy that didn't depend on a battle's success or military accomplishment. His rare appeal emanated from within, an inner glow that caused men to like him immediately and women to swoon. She straightened his tie. "I'm just glad Magnolia doesn't admit females yet."

  "Females? Here?" Ashton said in mock indignation. "Never, Madame!"

  "Ha!" She smiled, holding her skirts as she skipped up the stairs. "Just you wait."

  Ashton remained at the foot of the steps, watching his wife until she turned into the children's room. How lucky he had been.

  The smile faded from his face as he recalled how close he had come to losing her, first by his own stubbornness, then by the birth of their son. After that he realized how stark his life would be without her, how aimless and dim.

  Without Margaret, he would not be alive. He would have died on Lick Skillet Road; he was convinced of that now. She had ceased talking about coming from the future, just as Dr. McCoy said she would, especially after the children began to consume so much of her time in London,

  The popularity of his writing was still a source of astonishment to him, and he had been able to support his family well, if not lavishly, even during the disastrous first year after the war; and he had repaid— with interest—those who had supported them in London.

  He walked into the parlor, or, as Margaret always called it, the living room. There were stacks of newspapers there, some documenting his return to the United States, being greeted at the dock by General Lee and President Davis, as well as General Sherman and Margaret's brother Tom. She had not recognized him at first, and after the first half hour, Tom—his old friend—had pulled him aside.

  Now, and read the top paper.

  It was written in a neat, thin-lined hand, rounded and without so much as a single swirl.

  Dr. Margaret Garnett English Survey 101 September 3, 1993

  With disbelieving eyes, he read the first essay, a badly spelled paper on the importance of Beowulf. They were all on Beowulf, all fairly intelligent, some mentioning something called television and PBS.

  He could hear Margaret upstairs, singing softly, and more than a little off-key, to their child. She had told him she was from the future, a professor. He swallowed, holding the papers, wondering what to do. She had been right, they barely contained excitement again.

  "No," she sighed, unable to keep up with his mercurial moods.

  "We have to make this the best university in the nation. We need the best professors, the best students, the best—"

  "Well, we already have the best president in you," she stated complacently, snuggling closer.

  "Margaret." His voice seemed faraway. "How would you like to teach here, perhaps an English Survey 101 course? Perhaps your students could write an essay on—"

  "Beowulf." She froze, then her eyes snapped to the fireplace just as the last paper withered and crumpled, licked by thin orange flames. For a moment she stared ahead, and Ashton watched the wonderment on her face. "Ash," she said suddenly. "How were they? The essays, I mean. Did you read them?"

  "They were fair," he answered as he brushed a bit of dust from her cheekbone with his gentle knuckles. "The spelling was atrocious, but some of the ideas expressed were quite interesting."

  "But with help, they could have been much better?"

  He nodded. "Absolutely. All they needed was a good professor,"

  Their eyes met, and slowly they both smiled.

  "My dear," he whispered. "I do believe we have our work cut out for us."

  EPILOGUE

  Johnson University September 1993

  There was a general commotion among the faculty members of prestigious Johnson University as the president of the school, Dr. Osborn Biddle Thaw VII, tried to regain the podium.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he pleaded into the microphone, which responded with a painful ring of feedback, "please take your seats, and I will try to explain further."

  The buzz of conversation began to ebb as the sounds of metal chairs scraping the
floor signaled a return to order. Dr. Thaw, whose great-grandfather was in the first postwar graduating class of Johnson University—then called by the ridiculous name of Magnolia—stood a little straighter. One professor puffed eagerly on a pipe, another sat with folded hands, simply glaring at Dr. Thaw. Behind him was a large square object, clearly a painting, covered with a white cloth.

  "I ask you once again, sir," said an older man in the back of the room. "How on earth did you come across a previously unknown portrait of General Johnson and his wife?"

  "If you all will be quiet, as I have said a half dozen times, I will tell you." The sound of clicks permeated the hall, bouncing off the marble floor and high ceiling of Johnson Hall. "Will the media and press please refrain from taking photographs for a few moments? I assure you all, there will be ample opportunity for you to complete your jobs later. And if you can all behave, I believe cookies and milk will be provided later." There were a few scattered chuckles, and the hushed murmurings gradually died away.

  "Thank you," said Dr. Thaw with satisfaction. His slight British intonation struck some as a blatant affectation, others saw it as a byproduct of his years studying at Oxford as a Rhodes scholar. "As I am sure most of you know, I am here at this podium because of Ashton Johnson... ."

  "Oh, come on," spat the professor with a pipe. "We are all here because of him and his wife. They made this into the great institution it is today."

  There was a round of enthusiastic applause and a few scattered cries of "Here here." Dr. Thaw nodded. "I agree with you, of course. But my great-great grandmother was actually the general's housekeeper. He and his wife allowed my great-grandfather to be educated here—they used him as an educational guinea pig, so to speak."

  "Enough about you, Thaw," shouted a reporter from the rear of the hall. "Let's see the portrait!"

  The voices of assent were thundering; those who weren't clapping their hands were shouting to see the picture.

  Dr. Thaw shook his head, still slightly surprised at the attention his find had created. He reached into his briefcase and plucked a notecard containing a few carefully typed paragraphs. A cellophane bag rattled as he closed the case, and he hoped no one had seen the remains of his midmorning snack.

  "I found this portrait in the attic of Rebel's Retreat. It was covered with soot, and I almost threw it out as trash, when it caught the light and I saw the tracings of two figures under the grime. Realizing that this might be an important find, I called upon a friend of mine who is an art expert in New York. By careful research, and a lot of luck, we have learned that the portrait was commissioned by Mrs. Johnson in 1870 and was painted by one of the general's former scouts, who by then was a well-known portrait painter." Dr. Thaw glanced up from the card, and grinned. He now had their full attention.

  "The most unusual aspect of the work is the subjects themselves. The experts in New York all agreed that the rendering of both the general and his wife is most extraordinary, their eyes are especially expressive. And their pose, given the usual staid positioning of Victorian-era portraits, is, eh, well, unique."

  "Let's see it!"

  "Come on, Dr. Thaw!"

  This was the moment he had been waiting for. He nodded once, the room grew quiet, save for one woman with a cough, who was hushed by several others. With a dramatic flair, Dr. Thaw stepped over to the covered object, grasped a corner of the white tarp, and, with one bold whoosh, yanked off the fabric.

  There was a universal gasp, a collective silence. And then, one by one, the people in the room, professors and reporters and photographers and the plain curious, began to applaud, as the fresh portrait of the general and his wife seemed to come alive.

  The portrait was stunning.

  It was Ashton Johnson, looking as vibrant and magnetic as a Hollywood leading man. Unlike the other portraits that lined the hall, including several of the general himself, this showed Ashton Johnson smiling, revealing strong white teeth and a face that seemed to light up the room. In his arms, an intimate moment frozen in time, was his wife. She was seen in profile, laughing, her head tipped toward him, her hair loose and flowing down her back. Their eyes were locked, an intensity that seemed both awed and carnal at the same time. They were the most radiant, beautiful couple anyone had ever seen.

  "My God," sputtered the professor with the pipe. "Is this quite decent? I mean, this is the man who helped reunite the Union . . ."

  "He never did take the oath of allegiance to the United States, you know," added another. "Lee did, Longstreet did, but Johnson said he never felt comfortable with the oath."

  "My God," repeated the professor with the pipe. "It's like seeing a picture of George Washington in bed with Martha! Look at their expressions! Is it decent?"

  Several workmen, clad in clean gray jumpsuits, emerged from the back of the room and lifted the portrait high into the air. At first there was a wave of disappointment as the people thought the picture was to be removed from their sight. But the workmen walked carefully over to a large, vacant wall and raised the picture high, securing it on the wall. Immediately, track lights that no one had noticed before flicked on, and the photographers pushed their way to the front, eagerly snapping away.

  Osborn Biddle Thaw smiled with satisfaction and grabbed his briefcase. Leave it to the general and his wife, he mused, to still cause a commotion.

  One of the photographers, concentrating on the amazing picture, almost slipped on a crumpled cellophane bag that had fallen out of Dr. Thaw's briefcase.

  "What the heck?" he murmured, as he picked up the empty bag of Uncle Bo's Bar-be-que Flavor Pork Rinds.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The real Ashton Powell Johnson, C.S.A., was killed by a single bullet to his head on July 28, 1864, on a country path called Lick Skillet Road just outside of Atlanta.

  Unlike his fictitious counterpart, Ashton never had a chance to reach adulthood. Only eighteen when he was killed, his commander, General Quarles, had already pushed through the paperwork to promote him from lieutenant to captain.

  The Ashton I created, however, is true to the character of the real Ashton. His brief adventure in the Confederate Army is chronicled in the scores of letters he wrote, as well as their responses, which were found in his saddlebags still attached to his horse, Waffles, after his death. The letters were saved from certain destruction by my aunt, Grace Johnson Stew-art, his niece. To her he remained alive, just as he remains alive today to anyone who reads his wonderfully rich and warm letters.

  The names of most of the characters in this book are true. Their letters, along with Ashton's often humorous responses, rest in musty volumes not three yards from where I sit now. Eddie, only sixteen at the time of his brother's death, longed to follow his "Bro. Ash" in Quarles's brigade as soon as he completed his engineering degree at Lexington College. He fought during the siege of Richmond, which caused his mother, Eliza Branch Johnson, and his slightly hysterical aunt, Eppes Branch Giles—both at The Oaks— no small amount of grief. They worried about Ashton, of course, but somehow he seemed beyond harm. He had seen his mother and aunt through so much death, the loss of so many other children, that the thought of Ashton not surviving was quite simply inconceivable.

  General Quarles himself, in his letters to Ashton's mother, vowed to protect her son, admitting that although he first grew fond of Ashton "because of another," he soon became attached to the young aide "on his own account." Ashton was most attractive to women as well, for the general mentioned that "lately I have worked him so hard he hasn't had time to break many hearts." Ultimately, Quarles grew to love Ashton almost as a son, and hoped that "before the war is over he will be, I trust, one of our most intelligent and efficient officers." The day Ashton was killed, Quarles, sensing the skirmish on Lick Skillet Road would soon become bloody, tried to send his young aide a mile or two behind the lines to hasten ammunition. Ashton insisted that a courier be sent, for he felt it his duty to fight and would not have the other men, veterans he now outranked, cast aspersions
on his honor and courage.

  Lizzie Giles, Ashton's adored cousin, broke her engagement to General Quarles, but they remained cordial for Ashton's sake. She did, indeed, smuggle her Paris-bought trousseau from St. Louis to The Oaks. Lizzie is mentioned in Mary Chesnut's diary and was part of a small circle of friends that included Mrs. Chesnut and Varina Davis. Ashton teasingly called her "the belle of Petersburg," and from all accounts, she was.

  Mary B. Cox is alive and well and never nursed a soldier in her life. She was my roommate at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee, one of the most beautiful places on earth.

  And the real Ashton Powell Johnson, in spite of his flirtations with women from Mobile to Atlanta, was in love with his cousin Mag Garnett from Seven Pines. Only one of her letters survives, written on the back of one of Eliza's letters when Mag was visiting The Oaks. She rushed to say that the rumor of her engagement to another was not true, and she was terribly upset that he had been told such a falsehood.