Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Read online

  Marianne considered her son thoughtfully. Austin will marry one day, and he’ll bring his bride to Hartsworth. And someday he’ll be buried along with his people. Marianne felt a sudden flush of joy, for she was a woman who loved stability and loathed change. This was one reason she never sought to change her husband or their situation. Though she had long known that her husband was weaker than she, rather than try to change anything, she simply became adept at working behind the scenes, taking care of business, making up for Claude’s lacks without drawing attention to herself. She was a proud woman, this Marianne Bristol, and would accept pity from neither man nor woman—especially over her husband’s weaknesses, which were legion.

  But even Claude she could understand—and forgive. He had been unfaithful to her more than once, and little remained of the fervent love she’d had for him in her youth. He drank too much and cared little for the things that made a plantation profitable. Yet underneath the shallow veneer of manners and charm, Marianne still believed that something of the man she’d fallen in love with remained.

  If only he were as fine as he looks! The thought had come often to her, for Claude Bristol was indeed handsome, even at the age of fifty-six. Not tall, but erect, with a pair of sharp brown eyes and evidence of the classic lines of his French blood in his smooth, unlined face. His was not a strong face, but it certainly was an attractive one.

  Marie, their only daughter, was a fine combination of the best of her parents. She carried Claude’s fine looks, with curly brown hair and large, almost luminous brown eyes, and her mother’s common sense and delight in living. Marianne let her gaze rest on Marie, suddenly grateful that her daughter had more substance than Luci DeSpain—indeed, more than any girl she’d ever known.

  But Paul! What and who was he, this eldest son of hers? He had been gone for almost three years, but even before he had returned, bringing with him a slightly foreign air, Marianne had found no key to understanding him. He was turned now to face Clarence DeSpain, and slowly she analyzed her son’s face. She felt pleasure at his good looks but was perplexed by what lay behind the smooth expression Paul always seemed to wear. She studied his wedge-shaped face, which tapered from a broad forehead and over smooth olive-tinted cheeks to a strong, almost defiant chin. A small scar—the result of a fall during a horse race—marked his chin. A thin black mustache traced the upper lip, and the lower lip was almost too full for a man. She studied the deep-set blue eyes, covered by a shelf of bone capped by black brows. Eyes that could grow tender—at least, that had been so when he was a young boy—or that could blaze with a fierce anger that made one want to step back.

  I don’t know him at all, Marianne thought. He’s like a stranger. And an unhappy stranger, at that! Even when he smiles, there’s some sort of sadness in his eyes. She tried to think back, to remember when she’d last seen Paul completely happy—but she could not recall such a time.

  Marianne’s gaze shifted to Luci, and the sight of the girl both pleased and troubled her. She’d be a fine wife—beautiful and from a good family. And yet… Though she couldn’t explain how she knew it, Marianne was certain this wasn’t enough for Paul. She frowned. I wish Luci was interested in Austin. The thought jumped into her brain, and she shook it away, feeling somehow that there was something disloyal about it. At the same time, she became aware that Mrs. DeSpain was speaking to Paul with a thinly veiled annoyance in her voice:

  “But, Paul, surely you see that we must fight?” Lillian DeSpain was somewhat overweight and given to wearing dresses that were too young for her, and she was also outspoken at times. She had a round face with light blue eyes and spoke in pronounced tones, accenting her words with short motions of her hands. “What else can we do? The Yankees have put that dreadful embargo on agricultural products, so planters must do something or we’ll all go to the poorhouse! And besides, after we gave the Yankees such a thrashing at Bull Run, why, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about our brave boys!”

  “Exactly right, Mrs. DeSpain!” Austin nodded, his face beaming with excitement.

  Marianne could not help herself. “Well then, you won’t have to enlist, will you, Austin? If the war is really over, there’s no need of it, is there?”

  Paul grinned at his mother, allowing one eye to droop in a slight wink. She was a knowing woman, quick-witted and capable of a biting satire when she was so inclined. Austin flushed, then stammered, “Well…I mean, after all—there’ll be some more fighting, Mother! And I want to get in on it before the Yankees turn tail and head back to Washington!” He saw the smile on Paul’s lips, and it angered him. He had been cautioned by his mother not to meddle in his brother’s business, but he was a man who could keep nothing back. “Are you going to join up, Paul?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Paul’s quick reply struck all of them forcefully. Ever since Fort Sumter had been fired on and the war had become a certainty, a fever had swept the South. Though it was strong everywhere, it was especially virulent in Virginia. Young men—and some not so young—were now stirred by the sound of bugles. Every town began to raise a company. It was exciting, this going off to war! Much more thrilling than clerking in a store or following a mule! And it would soon be over, in maybe six months at the most. It’d be a shame to miss it, to have to stand back while the other young fellows took all the good-looking girls!

  Bull Run had proved the war was going to be a short affair, at least to the South. An article in the Richmond Examiner had spoken ecstatically of “the sprightly running of the Yankees.” Indeed, there was some truth in this, for the North had gone to war in a picnic spirit. The Union soldiers had marched toward Bull Run with flowers inserted in the barrels of their muskets, and the congressmen and their wives and families had packed picnic lunches and gone to see their men put the Rebels to flight.

  Somehow, though, it hadn’t gone that way. The Rebels had been fierce; the battle bloody and ugly—and the Union troops had panicked, fleeing back to Washington. The same newspapers that had been screaming “On to Richmond!” began calling for peace at any cost.

  Abraham Lincoln had been one of the few to see the thing clearly and had said to his wife, “The fat’s in the fire now—and we’ll just have to tough it out!” He had put General McClellan to work, and the small general turned to the task with a will. The North would not be so easily routed again.

  A few Southern military men, such as Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee, had tried to sound the alarm, but the South was euphoric. It held victory balls and wrote songs about the brave soldiers, while McClellan forged the Army of the Potomac into a formidable fighting force. Watching all of this, General Stonewall Jackson said bitterly, “It would have been better if we’d lost at Bull Run, for the South is overconfident.”

  Now as Paul looked around those gathered at his family’s table, he drew a deep breath. He had long ago, even while in England, decided that he would not fight for “the Cause.” It was becoming quite evident that such a decision was going to make life painful indeed. Still, he knew no way to explain—even to his parents and family—why he could not join in the rush to the colors.

  He noted that both of the older DeSpains were staring at him, and he knew they typified what the world might become: outspoken, certain of the rightness of their cause, and shocked by and intolerant of any who did not have the good sense to agree with them. Luci, he noted, was less shocked, but still there was disappointment in her face.

  She’ll do a little more shopping around for a husband now, Paul thought wryly. And he’d better be wearing a uniform and be dedicated to killing Yankees!

  It was Marie who took over the conversation, changing the subject at once. “Mother, that was a delightful meal,” she said with a dimpled smile. “But I do believe it is time we moved into the parlor. I know Paul has some wonderful tintypes to show us, and I’ve barely been able to contain my excitement during the meal! I can’t wait to see what the women in Europe are wearing!” She rose, giving the others no choi
ce but to follow her out of the dining room into the parlor, where they spent the rest of the evening looking at the tintypes Paul had brought from France. The tension lessened, and even Austin seemed to forget that Paul was not going to wear Confederate gray.

  Later, when their guests were gone, Paul found himself alone with Marie. He went to her, hugged her with affection, and said, “You’re a smart girl, sister mine.” The edges of his lips pulled upward in a slight smile. “I think they’d have had me shot for cowardice if you hadn’t led them off to look at pictures.”

  Marie reached up and brushed a lock of his hair back from where it had fallen over his brow. She was a merry girl, but her face was serious as she said, “Paul, are you sure—”

  “About not grabbing up a gun and killing off the Yankees?”

  “It’s not like that,” Marie said quietly. “You can’t make fun of what’s going on. Look at how many of our men are already in the army. Even cousin Clay…and he doesn’t even believe in the Cause!”

  A gloomy light darkened Paul’s eyes, and he nodded. “I know, Marie. And I’m not making fun of Clay—or of anybody else. They feel it’s what they’ve got to do. But I just don’t see any sense in it.”

  Marie took his hand and held it. She and Paul had been very close once. She studied his hand, admiring the long, tapering fingers, which were so strong and flexible. Thinking of how it had been years ago, she looked up at him, saying, “You know, Paul, when I was a little girl, I thought you were the greatest person in the whole world. You—you weren’t like my friends’ brothers. Most of them didn’t have any time for kid sisters. But you always did, didn’t you?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, I did. You were such a curious little thing—always underfoot. No matter if you got stepped on or hurt, you never cried. I thought that was fine! And you’re just the same now.” A sudden bitterness swept over him, and he lowered his eyes. “Those were good days, but we can’t go back to them.”

  “No, but we can have something else,” Marie urged at once. She had said little to Paul since his return, but now she burst out, “Oh, Paul! What’s wrong with you? You used to have such joy—but now you seem so—so jaded! Can’t you tell me what it is?”

  Paul Bristol stood there looking down into his sister’s face. He wanted to tell her how the years had passed so quickly and about the changes that had taken place inside of him. He tried, saying almost hoarsely, “Marie, I remember when we were kids, we always looked forward to something. Maybe nothing much…like a coon hunt—remember how we loved that?”

  “I remember!”

  “And when we grew up…or when I did, anyway, I looked forward to great things. But there was one thing in particular that I always knew: I was going to be an artist! Not just any artist, either. A great one! Even when people doubted me…even when Father made it clear painting just wasn’t a manly thing to do…even then, I knew I was going to be a great artist.” A bitter laugh broke from his lips, and he shook his head almost fiercely. “Well, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to be a great artist, Marie.”

  “Maybe you will—”

  “No, I found that much out, at least, while I was in Europe. Artists are pretty rare around here, but they’re thick as fleas over in France and Italy and England.” Paul’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I…I gave it all I had—” He broke off, and his face contorted. “All I had! And it’s not enough!”

  Marie ached for him. She longed to put her arms around him, to comfort him and to tell him it would be all right. She did say quietly, “We all have our disappointments, Paul. Look at Mother. She wants a strong husband, but she’ll probably never have one.”

  Paul stared at his sister, surprised. This was the first time she’d ever put into words what both of them knew. The silence ran on, and finally Paul said, “I know, but she’s got this place. She’s got you and Austin. It may not be all she hoped for—but it’s something!”

  They stood there, shocked at what had exploded from a seemingly simple conversation. Marie yearned for some sort of wisdom but could find no comfort to offer her brother. Finally she asked, “What will you do?”

  “Do?” Paul summoned a smile, and there was a mocking light in his eyes as he said, “Why, I guess I’ll make the best of things. Do something about the war. Don’t know what, but a man can’t live in the South unless he proves he’s a real patriot. I’ve sponged off Father and Mother for thirty-one years. Seems only fair that a rich man like Clarence DeSpain should have to take over for the next thirty.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Paul!”

  But Paul Bristol’s jaw was set in a hard line. “I’ll throw all of my paints and brushes away—get that nonsense out of my head. Marry Luci, of course. Have to give her father something for his money, don’t I?”

  Finally he stopped, and his eyes narrowed. “You know, sister, I might just enlist after all. It’d be a lot easier to take a bullet in the brain than to put up with such an empty life for the next thirty years!”

  He wheeled, and as he left the room, Marie shook her head, saying, “Oh, Paul—!” But he was gone, leaving her with a dark sense of foreboding. She saw nothing hopeful in the future for her older brother, and grief for him had a sharp tooth that cut like a razor as he left the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  COLD STEEL OR HOT LEAD?

  The artistic side of Paul Bristol always responded to Gracefield, the home of the Rocklins. He pulled Queenie up sharply, holding the fiery mare in a firm grip, admiring the long sweeping drive lined with massive oaks that led to the house. In the spring, those oaks formed a leafy canopy. Now, however, they were bare—a ruined choir loft where few birds sang. But even the black, naked limbs lifted to the bleak sky had an austere beauty, looking symmetrical and somehow mournful.

  “Come on, Queenie! Stop your fussing!”

  The sleek black mare snorted and pawed the earth, then tried to unseat her rider with a lurching sideways motion. Bristol was taken unaware and, for one moment, was in danger of losing his seat—but he recovered quickly, a grin breaking across his face, and brought the mare up short. “You contrary female! Why don’t you settle down and behave yourself?” But as he spurred the mare down the driveway, a thought flickered through his mind: What about you, Mr. Bristol? You’re the one who needs settling down, not Queenie!

  Shaking his shoulders as if to clear his mind of the unwelcome thought, Bristol pulled the mare down to a walk, turning his attention to the house that Noah Rocklin had built for his bride many years ago. A simple two-story house, Gracefield was given an impressive air by the white Corinthian columns across the front and on both sides. A balcony, set off by an ornate iron grill that was painted gleaming white, enclosed the house; tall, wide windows with blue shutters broke the gleaming white clapboard. The steeply pitched roof, which ran up to a center point, got a glance of approval from Bristol. He admired the three gables on each side, recalling how effective they were at giving light and air to the attic rooms. The high-rising chimneys, which were capped with curving covers of brick, released columns of white smoke that rose like incense on the morning air.

  Bristol pulled Queenie up, came to the ground with an easy motion, and tossed the reins to a grinning black servant. “Highboy, you rascal! How are you?”

  Highboy, a tall, strongly built man of thirty-eight, grinned and nodded. “Mist’ Paul, you sho’ been gone a long time!”

  Bristol fished in his pocket, came out with a fistful of change. Handing it to Highboy, he said, “Happy birthday, Highboy.”

  “Why, thank you, suh!” Pocketing the money adroitly, Highboy lowered his voice and said, “Marse Paul…?”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Well, suh, when you marries up wif Miss Luci, me and Lutie would make some mighty nice house servants. “Highboy’s warm brown eyes smiled, and he said, “Iffen you could buy us and our chilluns, we sho’ would do a good job, Marse Paul.”

  Bristol was flattered and amused. “Miss Luci and I aren’t engage
d, Highboy.”

  “Oh no, suh!” Highboy said instantly. “But when you is married up wif her, I wants you to think ’bout Lutie and me.” Feeling the impact of Bristol’s gaze, the black man hesitated, then said quietly, “We thinks a heap of our folks here, Marse Paul, but things ain’t so easy these days.”

  Instantly Paul thought of what he had heard about Clay Rocklin’s difficulty with his wife, Ellen, and asked, “Is Miss Ellen giving you problems, Highboy?”

  But the servant was too well versed in the tenuous and fragile ties that bound slave and owner together to answer that question directly. He looked steadily at Bristol, saying only, “We be mighty happy if you buy us, Marse Paul. You knows how much we bof thinks of you.”

  “I’ll think about it, Highboy,” Bristol said with a nod. He was very fond of Highboy, for it was he who had taught Paul much of what he knew about horses. In fact, some of Bristol’s best memories were tied in with the times he had spent at the stables with Highboy. “If I don’t see Lutie, be sure to tell her I’ve missed her.”

  As Highboy led Queenie away, Bristol was troubled about what he had heard, for he admired his cousin Clay Rocklin. As he went up the broad steps, he thought of Clay’s tragic life, remembering how he’d lost out in his courtship of the woman he loved, Melanie Benton, who married Clay’s cousin Gideon. On the rebound, Clay had married Melanie’s cousin, Ellen, but their marriage had been stormy from the beginning.

  It must have been a pretty bad marriage, Bristol reflected as he reached the top of the stairs. Bad enough for Clay to abandon her and the children for years.

  The enormous white door opened, and Zander, the tall butler and manservant of Thomas Rocklin, greeted him. “Come in, Marse Paul. Lemme take yo’ coat and gloves.”