To make sure he was all right, Thomas had hung close to their window, open to allow in the last cold air before the spring turned warm and invited mosquitoes. His father was fifty-five and showing the distress of the past months. A year ago, the jeweler in town, the same age as his father, had died in bed next to his wife, the strain of a nightmare too much for his heart.
His poor father had reason to suffer nightmares, Thomas thought. The events of the last months had taken their toll. Silas Toliver’s pleas to the Texas legislature and his friends of influence to oppose secession continued to go unheard. February first, Texas became the seventh state to join the newly formed nation calling itself the Confederate States of America, shortened to the Confederacy for brevity’s sake. His father’s old friend, Governor Sam Houston, had been deposed from office after he locked himself in the basement of the capitol building in Austin and refused to come out to sign the papers authorizing separation from the Union. Contrary to the opinions of the Tolivers’ aghast friends, his father had tirelessly supported the governor’s views of the state’s inevitable fate if removed from the teat that nourished it. He’d been sickened to his soul when public opinion turned against Sam Houston and forced the hero of San Jacinto, the man to whom the state owed so much, to withdraw from government service and retire to his farm in Huntsville, Texas.
Still his father had persisted in trying to convince anyone who would listen that the South was outmanned, outgunned, and outmatched. Typical of the reception of his views, in a town meeting called to discuss the wisdom of secession and the consequences of an armed conflict, one farmer dared to demand of the prominent Silas Toliver, “Why should we listen to you? For years you said there would be no war.”
“That was before Mr. Lincoln was elected,” his father countered. “Listen to reason,” he’d begged. “Only a third of the population in Texas owns slaves. Why should a few dictate the course that will involve the rest of the state in economic ruin and the waste of life to support a cause bound to be lost?”
Boos and hisses had answered his pleas. No less polite had been the reaction from other planters when his father had encouraged them to follow his plan to save Somerset from destruction should the slaves be emancipated. To a man, they believed the South would succeed as a nation. No Northern president would have a say in the rights of the Confederacy’s citizens to hold slaves. Great Britain and France would come in on the side of the Southern states in case of war, and the United States would back off. Those two great European countries were dependent on the region’s cotton, and to produce cotton, slaves were a necessity. In no way would they tolerate the disruption of their vital import by Mr. Lincoln’s Congress.
Thomas had seen his father pale at these optimistic assumptions. “Don’t the fools know that cotton agents in London have warned that England has a stockpile of cotton in their warehouses, whereas much of Europe’s wheat harvests have suffered?” he would moan. “Great Britain is far more dependent on the North’s grain than they are on the South’s cotton!”
His father’s anti-separatist stand, coupled with his mother’s long-known views on slavery, had made the Toliver family all but social pariahs. To his father’s great disappointment, he was not re-elected to the city council. Parents withdrew their children from his mother’s Young People’s Reading Group. Only their status as first settlers and city founders and the steadfast friendships of the DuMonts and Warwicks prevented them from being cast totally out of Howbutker society. Henri DuMont and Jeremy Warwick wielded such economic power and influence in the county—indeed, in the whole state—that none dared to exclude the Tolivers from their guest lists—not that their invitations would have been accepted anyway.
The cruelest charge—and the one that disturbed Thomas the most—had been the allegation from Lorimer Davis that Silas Toliver had gone crazy from anxiety that in case of war, his son and only heir would be killed. No one need listen to him, the planter declared. Parental alarm and fear that Somerset would pass into oblivion were his sole reasons for opposing secession.
Tonight, drawing away from his parents’ window, Thomas was forced to believe he’d heard evidence that Lorimer Davis’s theory was correct. He felt almost nauseated from the chilling revelation that his father had considered selling Somerset to ensure his safe return in case of war. Good God, what an appalling, unthinkable idea! He knew his father loved him—too much, he’d thought at times—but sell Somerset? To appease an imagined curse? Thank God his mother had made him see the ridiculousness of it.
Thomas sat down in his room, stunned from the proof he’d heard tonight that certain rumors drifting to him over the years had a basis of truth. Threads of gossip, innuendos, whispers, vaguely familiar names, together with his own impressions and knowledge of family history, began to weave into a sort of decipherable tapestry. He had never questioned the love between his mother and father, but there had been intimations that their marriage had been arranged. His powerful grandfather, Carson Wyndham, had been involved, and money had traded hands between him and Silas Toliver back in South Carolina. The transaction had required that his father abandon the woman he was to wed in exchange for the money to buy his plantation in Texas.
Only wisps of such hearsay had ever reached Thomas’s ears, and he’d never been curious enough to wonder or ask about their foundation. But evidently there had been another woman in his father’s life: this Lettie he’d mentioned tonight. Wasn’t she the wife of his brother, Morris? Was she the sacrifice his father had spoken of? Apparently the deal he’d made with the devil had been with the wealthy man who became his father-in-law. Was it true that Carson Wyndham had paid Silas Toliver to marry his daughter? Why? To prevent her from entering a convent? And had his father in fact used the money to bankroll Somerset?
Thomas remembered his “Willowshire” grandparents well—especially his imposing grandfather—even from their one short visit long ago. The only reunion with his mother’s parents had been strained. Thomas recalled a contract-burning ceremony that had set his father’s teeth on edge, and his parents had not been sad to see them go. He knew very little of the “Queenscrown” side of the family. There was a grandmother named Elizabeth who wrote occasionally, but she had never come to see them or they her. He knew there was an uncle called Morris, and once he’d heard the name Lettie mentioned whom Thomas assumed to be his wife, but his parents did not discuss them in his presence.
Thomas now had a fair understanding of why his grandmother had prophesied that a curse would fall on her son’s land, but how could his father give a rational, intelligent thought to it? Did he really think Joshua’s death or his mother’s failure to carry children were punishments from God for whatever deal he had struck over twenty-five years ago? Or that his son’s death would be God’s final stroke of vengeance? Sheer nonsense! If there was a war, Thomas would go. In what capacity he would serve was another matter. In February, the lieutenant governor of Texas had authorized a committee for public safety to recruit volunteers, but he and Jeremy Jr. and Armand, Stephen, and Philippe (Robert suffered from bronchitis severe enough to preclude war service) had already decided to wait and join the regiment formed that would best defend Texas.
And, yes, he could be killed, and there would be no heir to take over Somerset, but he’d already decided on a solution to defray that possibility. He’d planned to talk to his parents tomorrow about proposing to Priscilla Woodward. He and Priscilla had known each other since her father had hung up his shingle as one of the town’s two physicians ten years ago, and he’d courted her for one.
Thomas had been waiting to feel for her what she clearly and unabashedly felt for him, but while he liked her and enjoyed her company, something that he could not put his finger on was missing. She was the prettiest girl in town, with bouncy golden curls and sparkling blue eyes, and she exuded a buoyancy good for his more serious nature. She was a little too impressed with his house on Houston Avenue and his link to English royalty, but he could understand it. Pr
iscilla had grown up in a modest house still home to her two older brothers, who worked as lumberjacks for the Warwick Lumber Company. Meals in the Woodward house consisted of meat and potatoes, eaten at the kitchen table with her brothers still in their work clothes, shirt sleeves rolled up. Mrs. Woodward’s finest possession was an English bone china tea set. Priscilla wasn’t ashamed of her upbringing—Thomas couldn’t have gone with that—but she appreciated the refinements of his home and lifestyle and that was all right with him.
The idea of marrying her had gradually formed when the same realization hit him that had deeply troubled his father. If he should die, what would become of Somerset when his father passed on? The idea of the plantation passing out of Toliver hands was abominable to him. It must not happen, and Priscilla Woodward was the resolution. He would marry her, and they would begin a family right away. He was almost twenty-four. It was time he tied the knot, became a father. He felt much better now about the fact that he did not feel as deeply for his future wife as he would have liked. He had deduced from his parents’ conversation tonight that his father had not loved his mother either when they first married, and yet, here the old boy was at his age proving to her he did.
Somewhat at ease, Thomas crawled back into bed for another hour’s sleep before the sun fully rose. When he awoke, the news had been telegraphed to the community that Confederate forces had—at the exact hour Silas had cried out in his sleep—fired upon the federal troops stationed at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor. The War Between the States had begun.
Chapter Sixty
“He doesn’t love her, you know.”
Jeremy’s sandy brows lifted. “What makes you say that, Jess?”
“It’s something a mother knows about her son. The bud is there, but not the bloom.”
“Perhaps it will blossom to full glory as happened with you and Silas.”
“Perhaps. He’s marrying her to produce an heir for Somerset.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I’m sure of that.”
“Is Priscilla aware of that?”
Jessica shrugged. “I cannot tell.”
“Does she love him?”
“I believe she thinks she does. The girl is such a romantic. In her eyes, Thomas is quite a catch—handsome, of a prominent family, connected to royal blood, a subject that enamors her. She sees Thomas as her knight on a white charger, come to deliver her from the yeoman she most likely would marry if he didn’t rescue her, but she says she’s eager for children, too, and of course that pleases Thomas. Mutual respect and liking and the bond of children can go a long way in making a happy marriage.”
Jeremy lit a flame to his cheroot. “Indeed,” he murmured.
“And in some ways, her blond beauty aside,” Jessica continued, “Priscilla reminds me of Lettie. The other day she said to Thomas, ‘Failure is only experience for success.’ Doesn’t that sound like Lettie?”
“The way she once was,” Jeremy said. “Do you think Silas has noticed the comparison?”
“Silas notices only cotton, as does his son.”
It was three weeks after war had been declared. Jeremy, wishing to see his brothers before the Union blockade of southern ports made a visit to the family plantation in South Carolina impossible, had returned with news from Plantation Alley. Today, he had brought a report of Jessica’s family to her. In dismay, she’d heard that her father was ill from heart disease and her mother in declining health. Michael had taken the exemption offered to males of draft age whose services were essential to the war effort. Their wily father had anticipated the blockade as a move to disrupt the exportation of cotton, and much of Willowshire was now under crops to sell to the Confederate troops.
“They all sent their love, Jess,” Jeremy said.
Jessica’s throat throbbed from painful recall of happier days with her parents. She’d had no desire to return to the home of her birth. Her parents’ last and only visit and her mother’s willful neglect to inform Tippy of Willie May’s death had sealed her interest in seeing them. Now she never would. Michael, perhaps, if he survived the war.
“What of the Toliver family?” she asked.
“Not the best news to report there, either,” Jeremy said. “Elizabeth is in frail health as you’d expect at eighty-one. Morris has aged, too, and become somewhat of a lay preacher. He spends much of his time ‘about the Lord’s work,’ he says. Silas would be distressed to see the condition of the plantation.”
“Are not the sons a help in that quarter?”
“I gather they share their father’s lack of management skills and have put their faith in their overseers, a lazy bunch according to my brothers. At the first shot the Toliver boys were off to join General Lee’s army in Richmond.”
“The daughter?”
“Sweet like her mother but unfortunately looks like Morris with no beau in sight. She’s destined for old maidenhood.”
“And…Lettie?”
“Lettie has…lost her sparkle. I was shocked at how worn she looked, tell you the truth. Her duties and worries are many. Elizabeth requires constant care, and the servants are little assistance in the household because Morris refuses to discipline them. The management of the plantation has fallen to her. The house is in disrepair, and there’s no money to reclaim its former glory. Morris has gotten them into a hole of debt with no way to climb out, and of course, Lettie is worried sick about her sons.”
Jeremy paused, seeing Jessica wince as if from a sudden pinch. “Shall I go on?”
“You mean there is more?”
“I’m afraid so. Her West Point brother that she idolized has elected to stay in the Union army. He has become the enemy.”
Jessica shook her head sadly. “I am heartsick for her. What of her father? Is he still living?”
“He died last year from a long struggle with tuberculosis.”
“Oh dear.” Jessica sipped her iced tea. As deeply as she regretted Lettie’s grim circumstances, Silas must never hear of them. He would feel responsible—as indeed he was—and his guilt would stir his belief in that absurd curse again and a vengeful God bent on punishing him. She spread her accordion fan, her mind working. No breeze wafted through the open louvered shutters. The summer’s heat was upon them. They were sitting in her morning room, where she had persuaded Jeremy to be her ally in deceiving her husband. He had fulfilled his secret mission nobly. Jeremy had seen to the selling of her aunt’s house and belongings and deposited a small fortune in a Boston bank under her name. He had brought back news of Tippy’s happy entrenchment in New York and Sarah Conklin’s continued abolitionist activities in Boston.
“You were in Boston?” Silas had commented to Jeremy in surprise when he returned. “What for? I thought you went to New York.”
“I had a friend’s business to attend there,” he had told him.
Jessica carefully set down her tea glass. “Jeremy, my friend, apart from the report of Elizabeth’s health, must you tell Silas all you’ve told me?”
Jeremy eyed her skeptically. “What are you asking me to do, Jess?”
“You are a man of remarkable insight and understanding. Do I have to explain what news of Lettie’s plight will do to Silas?”
“Are you suggesting I not tell him of the situation at Queenscrown? He’s bound to ask, and I must relay the truth.”
“All of it?”
“What part do you suggest I leave out? Even if I don’t mention Lettie, he’ll deduce the toll Morris’s mismanagement and foolishness has taken on her.”
“Must you tell him you visited Queenscrown?”
“Are you asking that I lie?”
“No. I’m asking that you don’t volunteer all the truth.”
“Why, Jess? It’s been over twenty-five years since Silas and Lettie were…close. She made her bed with Morris. For better or worse, she must lie in it.”
A light tap on the door interrupted them. Jessica called to come in, and Petunia stuck her head in. “Pard
on me, Miss Jessica, but which china do you want to use tonight?”
“The Chelsea,” Jessica answered.
“And where do you wish to seat Dr. and Mrs. Woodward?”
“Dr. Woodward will be to my right and Mrs. Woodward to Mister Silas’s left.”
“And Mister Thomas and Miss Priscilla?”
“Across from each other. It won’t matter which side of the table as long as they have the other in sight.”
Petunia chuckled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said and withdrew.
Jessica explained. “We’re having Priscilla’s parents for supper tonight to formalize our children’s engagement. Silas is beside himself over the fact that Thomas is getting married. He hopes to be a grandfather this time next year.”
“Ah. And have in place that heir to Somerset.”
Jessica sighed. “In case Thomas doesn’t make it back from the war, you see. I only hope such a design does not carry future regrets.”
As usual these days when reflecting on Thomas’s motive for marrying, Jessica was reminded of her mother’s little toast to her and Silas back in the library at Willowshire when she expressed her hope that they could find something to love in the other that would keep them together besides the commitments of a contract. They had found it. Something told Jessica that Thomas and Priscilla would not.
She rose, too fidgety and warm in her wide-skirted morning dress to sit. Whoever had designed the double-layer pagoda sleeves women were wearing these days should be shot, she thought irritably, wondering if she should divulge Silas’s secret fear of a Toliver curse to Jeremy.
“Don’t take this wrong, Jess, but people have married for less noble reason than to beget children to inherit the results of their parents’ hard work,” he said.
Jessica fanned rapidly. “Oh, I have no quarrel with either of their reasons for marrying each other. I’m just less optimistic for their happiness. I’m thinking especially of the girl. She may never know the thrill of setting her husband’s heart on fire.” She glanced at Jeremy with a small smile. “It’s one of the most wonderful experiences a woman could ever know.”