Somerset (29 page)

F
rom her high seat in the gazebo, Jessica gazed beyond the rear wrought-iron fence across the service road to the pasture where the inhabitants of Houston Avenue grazed their horses. The lone horse in the field this late January afternoon in 1861 was Flight O' Fancy, a sight Jessica never beheld without a swell of bereavement over the death of Nanette DuMont. Like clockwork at this hour of dusk, Robert Warwick appeared to collect the filly-turned-mare, halter in hand, his affectionate greeting carrying to Jessica on her swing in the gazebo. The mare perked her ears at the sound of Robert's voice and sauntered toward him to nuzzle his neck in her usual fashion. Her caretaker slipped the halter over her head, and the mare followed him docilely to the DuMont stable.

Jessica swallowed at a prick of tears. She was so weepy these days. The “mid-life plague” was upon her, and moisture could spring to her eyes over just about anything, but Robert's dogged faithfulness to Flight O' Fancy these five years after Nanette's death was enough to set most anybody's tear ducts flowing. Robert had asked to become the Thoroughbred's keeper upon his childhood playmate's loss, and now, even though he had turned twenty, Robert looked after the horse as his connection to the girl he'd vowed to marry when they were grown.

Jessica wiped her eyes with the edge of her shawl. She should not be ashamed of her emotion. There was much to be emotional about these days, and there was nothing on the horizon to relieve the steady stream of heartbreaking news begun just before Christmas when South Carolina seceded from the Union. Ten days later, its troops seized the United States arsenal at Charleston, and in early January, that incendiary action was followed by Governor Francis Pickens, a frequent visitor to Willowshire, giving the order to fire on an unarmed federal supply ship dispatched to reinforce the Union garrison at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor.

“It has begun,” Silas had said, his voice hoarse with disappointment as he read aloud to Jessica and Thomas his brother's telegraphed message of the assault. The same day the ship was fired upon, the state of Mississippi seceded. A day later, Florida dropped out of the Union and changed “the United States” to “Confederate States” in its constitution. Alabama promptly followed suit. Louisiana was expected to join the pack in a matter of days, and in Texas the political process was under way to take the issue of separation from the United States to the polls. The wind was blowing overwhelmingly in favor of a vote for secession.

“Who is going to defend Texas if all our able-bodied men leave to fight for the South?” Thomas worried aloud to family and friends. “Who will protect their wives and children and property from the Comanche and Kiowa and the Mexicans who are only waiting for Texas to be unprotected before they invade our borders? You know good and well the Federals will try to blockade our rivers and the coast to prevent us from getting food supplies. They'll try to starve us out. I'm for forming a brigade to stay and fight right here in the homeland.”

His parents listened in agreement with his rational concerns but could only shrug their shoulders helplessly. Thomas's push to form a home force to guard the rivers and coast and protect the community from Indian attacks struck many of their slave-owner friends, whose sons were already spoiling to take the fight into the Southland, as cowardly. It was just another example of the differences that set the Tolivers apart from the rest of their kind, they said. First, Silas Toliver marries an abolitionist, then he sets a precedent insulting to their culture by coddling his slaves like no other planter would dare run a plantation and expect a profit. Silas's was the lone planter's voice in the county opposed to secession, and he had even carried it to the state legislature in support of Governor Houston's pleas for Texas to remain in the Union. Was it any wonder, then, that his son would prefer to stay home than to join his Texas brothers to protect the folks and property of the lower South against the Northern invaders?

Jessica sighed. The feeling of being an outcast was nothing new to her, but it added to her sadness, making her inclined to cry at the fall of a leaf. Tippy had left Howbutker. One morning last October, on Jessica's birthday, a man dressed like the prime minister of England had wandered into the DuMont Department Store and presented his calling card to Henri. He had come to see Tippy. He was owner of a ladies' clothing design and manufacturing firm in New York and had seen examples of Henri's assistant's amazing artistry in gowns worn by his customers visiting the city.

“I knew it was coming,” Henri told their weekly supper group, composed of the Tolivers, the Warwicks, and the DuMonts. “In good conscience I had to encourage Tippy to go. The opportunity the man offered her, the salary…” He shrugged in his Gallic way, but there was tear shine in his eyes. “How could I not?”

“I will escort her to New York City,” Jeremy offered. “I have business to attend there.”

And so they had parted, Jessica and her lifelong friend, now addressed by her proper name, Isabel, so her new employer insisted. Tippy had balked strenuously and tearfully at going, but Jessica saw something at the back of her eyes—the imagined chance of a dream come true—that would not permit her to listen to her friend's arguments against the opportunity to come into her own.

“You must go, Tippy.”

“How can I leave you, Jessica?”

“By the front door, my dearest friend. That's what this opportunity will mean for you.”

“I have ruined your birthday.”

“There will be others.”

Tippy stuck up her thumb in the old way, and Jessica hooked hers around it. “What are we promising to?” she asked.

“The promise to reunite on our fiftieth birthdays,” Tippy answered.

Jessica studied the first yellow crocuses and hyacinths showing their heads in the iron planters arranged around the gazebo. The bulbs never broke ground but that Jessica was not reminded of Tippy and the vases of crocuses and hyacinths intertwined with streamers of white satin ribbons she had arranged in honor of an event many Januaries ago. This morning, as Silas had kissed her good-bye, she'd not called his attention to the memory. His face was gray with worry and the effect of many sleepless nights.

“Don't look for Thomas and me this evening until you see us coming,” he'd said. “We're needed to help our manager and overseers settle unrest among the slaves and keep them at their tasks.”

Jessica had understood. Rumors of the political situation were beginning to reach slave compounds and cotton fields, and planters were on the alert for the slightest sign of rebellion. She'd seen her husband off without reminding him that today was their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

“Miss Jessica,” Petunia called, appearing waving a letter Jeremiah had collected from the post office. “Somethin' for you that looks important. I wouldn'a bothered you otherwise.”

Jessica pulled her shawl closer and took the folded sheet of heavy cream-colored paper fastened with an authoritative wax seal. The return address listed the sender as a law firm in Boston. “Thank you, Petunia.”

“Will you be in shortly, Miss Jessica?” Petunia asked worriedly. “It gettin' cold out here.”

“I'm enjoying the temperature. It's such a welcome break from the heat of last summer,” Jessica said absently, studying the face of the letter.

“It supper time,” Petunia reminded her. “Don't you want to come in for a bite? Mister Silas and Master Thomas won't be in for only the Lord knows how long. They is used to cold suppers, but don't you want somethin' while it hot?”

“No, just a pot of tea will do,” Jessica said. “Bring it out, if you please, while I see what this letter is all about.”

“It ought to be champagne and cake, Miss Jessica. You be forgettin' today is your weddin' anniversary.”

Jessica regarded her young housekeeper in surprise. “How in the world do you know that?”

“How could I ever in this world forget? In January 1856, I fell sick with pneumonia and you insisted I be brought to your house in town so a doctor be close to look after me. I remember you leavin' your party downstairs and comin' into my room in your pretty party gown to feel my head for fever. When I asked you why you so dressed up, you say it be your weddin' anniversary. That was January fifteenth. I remember 'cause you say the date.”

“That's right, January fifteenth,” Jessica said, remembering the party. A milestone, Silas had called their twentieth anniversary.
We must host one every five years to celebrate our married bliss.

“But let's keep it our secret, Petunia,” Jessica said. “Mister Silas will feel bad that he forgot. He's had so much on his mind lately. Tell little Amy when you go in that I'll read to her before her bedtime.”

“I sure will, Miss Jessica. She'll love that. I'll get that tea now.”

Jessica broke the seal of the letter. Its message shattered her resolve to keep her tears at bay. Aunt Elfie had died. Her tender-hearted widowed aunt she'd not seen since her disgrace on the eve of Christmas in her native state had passed away on the day of South Carolina's secession. The letter from her lawyer expressed condolences, details of her aunt's death, and the startling notification that Elfie Summerfield had left her entire estate to her niece, Jessica Wyndham Toliver. The lawyer implored Jessica to travel to Boston to sign papers and deal with the residence “of substantial standing” bequeathed to her in her aunt's will.

Jessica remembered the stately mansion well. During her years in boarding school, she had spent many happy times visiting her aunt in its Victorian parlor, taking meals with her in her sunny morning room, sleeping weekends in a bedroom wallpapered in flowers and designated “Jessica's room.” The house and its opulent furnishings now belonged to her.

What was she to do with them? How could she travel north by herself—enemy territory now—to deal with the terms of the will?

S
ilas did not arrive home until Jessica had gone to bed, for once to sleep like the dead, and was gone the next morning when she awoke. Lying on his pillow beside hers was a bedraggled red rose with a note.
Forgive me, my love. I am sorry that I did not remember our anniversary, but somehow I will make it up to you, the one who has become my heart. Ever yours, Silas.

Jessica touched the blossom to her nose to inhale its fragrance. Silas must have brought it from the plantation where several of the original transplants of Lancasters carted from South Carolina still managed to bloom season after season. Jasper's wife saw to their care, the reason there were still a few remaining in Jessica's old rose garden this time of year.

Jessica felt a touch of chagrin. Now she would not be able to tell Silas of Aunt Elfie's death or show him the letter from her lawyer until late in the evening. They must decide quickly if she, a Southerner, a planter's wife, should risk a trip to Boston, that boiling cauldron of abolitionist activity and war fever.

Jeremy offered a possible solution to her quandary when he stopped by the house to deliver the Warwicks' copy of the
Atlantic Monthly
in accord with the agreement among the three families to share subscribed publications to defray the exorbitant cost of postage. Founded in Boston in 1857, the magazine featured articles written almost exclusively from a Northern abolitionist point of view and gave their neighbors further reason to question the families' loyalty to the Southern cause. Jeremy waved aside their criticisms as ridiculous. His opinion was that to know the enemy, read its publications.

He found Jessica pruning her rose bushes as Amy, the housekeeper's five-year-old daughter, played alongside her, happily making mud pies.

“Mornin', Jess. How do your roses grow?” he called.

“Not so good, Jeremy. There's been a loss in the family. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

“Always.”

“I'll tell Petunia. Let's sit in the gazebo so I can keep an eye on the little one.”

Over coffee, Jessica related the news of her aunt's death. “I remember her well,” Jeremy said. “A sweet little bird of a woman, and you could tell she loved you dearly.”

“She must have. In her will, Aunt Elfie left me all her worldly goods.” Jessica told him of the contents of the lawyer's letter and explained her dilemma. “Her lawyer makes it clear that he prefers I dispose of her house and belongings in person rather than make them the responsibility of his firm, but I'm sure Silas would strongly disapprove of my venturing into enemy territory with war so near, and frankly, I'm not sure I have the courage to brave it. If war were declared while I was there, I might not be able to get home.”

“I'm going to New York in a few days on business with hope to get in and out before the cannons are lit. Would you trust me to settle your aunt's affairs for you? It would be no problem to pop over to Boston. I'm sure a letter to her attorney giving me authority to act on your behalf would suffice.”

Jessica felt her spirits lift. “Oh, Jeremy, would you? Of course I trust you to act for me, but I'm afraid the process of selling the house, disposing of its goods, the paperwork, all the sundry things involved, will delay you from getting home. You could be stuck up North and no telling what could befall you—”

Jeremy flashed her the charm of his boyish grin. He had aged little since he'd stood with Silas at their wedding, whereas Silas's raven-black hair was now almost entirely silver gray.

“Don't worry about me,” Jeremy said. “I'll make it back. My northern business associates and friends will see to that.” He finished his coffee and rose to go. “Talk it over with Silas and let me know. I'm leaving day after tomorrow. And Jess—” He hesitated, the space between his eyebrows creasing doubtfully.

“Yes, Jeremy?”

“Remember that in Texas, inherited property that a woman acquires during her marriage is hers, not her husband's.”

Perplexed, Jessica said, “And you're reminding me of that for…what reason?”

“I would advise you to leave the money from your aunt's estate in a Boston bank. I believe we're all in agreement that if war comes, the South will get the shorter end of it. Our banks will be hard hit, our currency worthless. Only those who've had the foresight to take their money out of Texas and place it where it will be safe will be able to ride out the aftermath.”

“And you have followed your own advice?” Jessica asked. Though the Warwicks would never dream of alluding to the success of Jeremy's financial ventures, it was no secret they had become the wealthiest family in the county, among the richest in Texas. Jeremy was of that rare breed of investor: a visionary with an astute head for business.

“It's the reason I'm going to New York at this time,” he said, replacing his hat for departure. “Just a thought. Forget I said anything if the suggestion goes against your grain.”

The suggestion did not go against her grain, Jessica reflected after Jeremy had left. She'd needed reminding of the property rights women had enjoyed in Texas since 1840, when a state statute was enacted giving women sole rights to property they possessed at the time of their marriage as well as any acquired during it. Not that Silas would have, but after 1840 Tippy was no longer his to sell.

Thinking hard, Jessica slipped the letter into her pocket and got up from the swing to go into the garden to collect Amy. It was time for the child's midmorning treat, and, partner in crime that Jessica was in encouraging the mud pies, she picked up the little girl and carried her inside to make her presentable for her mother's prune cake and milk. As she washed Amy's face and hands, Jessica pondered the practicality of Jeremy's advice.

It made good sense to leave her aunt's money—
her
money, now—in Aunt Elfie's bank, but she dreaded an argument from Silas. The plantation was prosperous, but they often lived from crop to crop. Silas could not resist the urge to purchase more land as it became available, more work animals and the latest farm equipment, to build more barns, sheds, and fences. They were sometimes short of cash, never to pay their bills and see after their slaves properly, but enough to cause worry if the cotton didn't make it. Last summer's drought had wiped out their cash reserve, an all-too-common example of how easily their pockets could be emptied. After the war, the labor force uncertain, their money worthless and their land valueless, how would they keep the plantation going without Aunt Elfie's money?

Jessica sent Amy off to her mother in the kitchen and went into her morning room to better analyze the astonishing direction of her thoughts. If the money from her inheritance were deposited locally, it would soon be gone in the way of all their extra resources. After twenty-five years of marriage, she knew her husband's proclivities well—and hers, also. Silas would not be able to avoid the temptation to spend the money on the plantation, and she would not be able to refuse him the use of it. Jessica believed in Silas's plan to save Somerset after the war, but all sorts of problems could thwart it, and they would have no financial means to sustain the land that must be held for Thomas.

Jessica removed the letter from her pocket and slipped it into a secret compartment of her secretary. Then she pulled the bell to summon Jeremiah and, after sending him on his way, drew forth a sheet of stationery and dipped her writing quill into a pot of ink.

Jeremy arrived soon after she'd finished composing her letter. “Jeremiah caught me with your message just in time, Jess,” he said strolling into her morning room. “I was on the way to the office. I'm assuming this is about my proposal?”

Jessica handed him the letter she'd written, sealed with a daub of dark green wax embossed with a rose, emblem of the Toliver coat of arms. “I have decided to take you up on your kind offer to act on my behalf, Jeremy. Your authority is there in writing. The letter is to Aunt Elfie's attorney empowering you to act in my name to dispose of her house and belongings.”

“And what do you want me to do with the money?”

“The letter also authorizes you to open an account in my name at Aunt Elfie's bank.”

Jeremy's golden brow rose questioningly. “Silas has agreed to leaving your money in Boston?”

Jessica ducked her chin and cast an upward look at Jeremy.

“I've seen that look on my boxer after he's eaten a whole cake off the tea table,” Jeremy said. “What's going on, Jess?”

Jessica gestured that Jeremy take a seat and returned to her chair at the writing desk in a puff of hoop skirt. “Silas doesn't know of Aunt Elfie's death or of her leaving me her estate. He hasn't seen her lawyer's letter. He was gone this morning before I could show it to him.”

“As I told you, I'm not leaving for a few days. You have plenty of time to show it to him and discuss what you want to do with the money,” Jeremy said.

Jessica's face grew mutinous. “I don't want to discuss it with him. I don't want him to know about the money. I have my reasons, Jeremy, so don't look at me like that. I realize I'm deceiving Silas, but it's for his own good and that of our son—and for Somerset. Silas will run through the money if it's deposited here, may I be forgiven my disloyalty in saying so, but you and I both know that's the truth. The Tolivers have never been as…well, as prudent in business matters as you Warwicks.” Jessica raised her chin and added loftily, “If the burden of my deception is too much for his closest friend to bear, I will certainly understand.”

Jeremy remained silent for a moment before answering. He had not yet pocketed the letter. “If I don't do this for you, what will be your recourse?”

“I will go to Boston and handle the matter myself. If I'm detained by the war, I will stay in Aunt Elfie's house under Sarah Conklin's protection.”

Jeremy stood up. “I see you've thought this out.” He turned away as if needing privacy to think, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. Neither he nor Silas sported beards, the fashion of the day for men. After a moment, he swung back around. “For Somerset, you say?”

“And Silas and Thomas.”

“Same thing.” Jeremy approached Jessica still sitting before her desk and stared down hard into her eyes. “You know what will happen if Silas finds out I've gone behind his back on this?”

“I am aware of the risk, Jeremy, and despise myself for asking it of you. I know the value you men place on your friendship, but I know no other way to save Silas's dream for Somerset. He'll need money when the war is over, and we won't have any.”

“I have been longer acquainted with Silas's dream for Somerset than even you, my dear,” Jeremy said softly. “All right, I'll do it with the cherished hope that Silas never discovers the hand I had in the matter.”

Jessica rose with a swish of silk and stepped toward him. She placed a hand on the lapel of his finely tailored frock coat. “He will never hear it from me, Jeremy. I give you my word along with my deepest gratitude.”

“A forceful combination that will win my obedience to your wishes every time,” Jeremy said and sealed the pact with a brief press of her hand. “And I suppose you'll want me to look in on Tippy while I'm in New York?”

“If it would not be too much of an imposition.”

“And to make contact with Sarah Conklin while I'm in Boston?”

“I do not dare ask,” Jessica said, her eyes widening hopefully.

Jeremy chuckled and inserted the letter into an inner coat pocket. “You would dare anything, Jessica Wyndham Toliver,” he said. “I'll collect the addresses before I leave.”