As she listened to the men talk of surviving the war to come, Clara couldn’t help but shake her head in protest. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
She had first lost her heart to Jeremiah Turner when she was nineteen years old, five and a half years ago. The Collins and Turner families had intermingled many times through the years, but he’d always been merely a boy in the background. It wasn’t until she was in attendance at a party at Laurel Hill that Clara observed an admirable quality in him which secured his place in her heart.
The beautiful white house was alive with conversation and laughter, crowded with women in colorful satin gowns and men in black linen suits. The spring breeze drifting through an open window had been inviting as she stepped back from the press of bodies and the hum of voices. Slipping away from the melee and down the hallway, Clara had let herself out onto the back porch, breathing deeply the cool evening air and enjoying a moment of solitude.
The moon overhead in the starlit sky was full and bright, casting a white glow over the grassy lawn and draping the trees in shadows. The brick smokehouse was visible from her position on the porch, and Clara’s attention was snagged from the ethereal beauty of the night by the sound of hushed voices in the yard.
She spied a man, dressed formally in suit and cravat, crouching over the plump figure of a black slave woman.
“Are you all right?” she heard the masculine voice ask in concern.
“I so sorry, suh! I done dropped the ham!”
“I’m not worried about that. Did you hurt yourself?”
In response to his insistence, the husky voice of the woman replied, “My hands…”
Clara watched as the young man took the Negro woman’s hands gently into his own and studied them. “You scraped your palms up pretty good, didn’t you? Go inside and let Phoebe tend to you.”
The woman made an attempt to kneel down but the man caught her by the elbow. “Don’t worry about the meat, Mamie,” he assured her. “You go on inside and I’ll dispose of it. No one ever need be the wiser.”
Mamie’s sigh was audible even at a distance. “You a good one, Mistuh Jeremiah. I thank you.”
“Well, I’ll just expect my favorite supper tomorrow as an expression of gratitude,” his deep voice teased. In the moonlight, Clara could make out the contours of his handsome face as he smiled.
A deep chuckle came in reply. “Steak with mashed potatoes and gravy? Yes suh. I do that for you,” Mamie promised as she bustled back into the kitchen.
Jeremiah Turner, heir to the estate, knelt down in her place and carefully gathered the slices of soiled meat onto the tray and made his way to the barn to eliminate all evidence of the mishap. It was an act of both humility and compassion, rare qualities to be found in a man. And in that moment, Clara knew exactly who she wanted to one day become her husband.
The question was how to let him know.
Her opportunity came two years later, at the wedding of Margaret Palmer and Colin Ferguson. The violin had played a merry tune as couples swished and twirled on the dance floor. Jeremiah had noticed her, dressed in a gown of lavender satin with her auburn hair styled in ringlet curls, watching him from the sidelines. Her breath had caught in her throat as he’d purposefully strode toward her, bowed, and offered his hand.
The next thing she knew, one strong hand was resting on her corseted waist, the other warm and callused against her right palm. Clara had peered up at him through her lashes, aware of his solid form beneath her left hand. As far as she was concerned, Jeremiah was the most handsome man in Centreville, in Queen Anne’s County—or the entire Eastern Shore, for that matter.
Dark hair tumbled over his tanned forehead, thick brows shadowing eyes the color of amber honey. A smile hovered around the corners of his full lips, partially hidden beneath his beard. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she smiled up at him, letting the adoration in her eyes say everything for her.
Before their marriage, Clara had tried to ignore all the predictions of war. She’d focused on preparing for her wedding day: the purchase of a white silk gown that flattered her small waist, laced tight in a corset, and flared out into a wide hoop skirt decorated with lace and ribbons; the purchase of an elaborate and beautiful trousseau; and the excitement of planning for bridesmaids, guests, and decorations.
After all, a year ago there had been talk of war erupting after John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry, Virginia, but nothing had ever come of it. The abolitionist had reputedly organized a small army of twenty-one men and captured the armory there with the grand scheme of arming local slaves and heading south to draw more Negroes into his army. He had hoped to eventually bring about the economic collapse of the institution. But it was an overly ambitious plan, though some said he may have met with greater success if his Canadian supporters hadn’t been prevented from joining him in the raid.
In the end, the mission was a failure and Brown was hanged. The event, however, had sparked fear of slave uprisings led by abolitionists inspired by his fanatical efforts. In Centreville, the local militia reorganized under the name of the Smallwood Rifles to ensure the safety and social order of the town’s occupants.
Clara had looked at the family’s slaves with new eyes after the incident, wondering if they were as content as they appeared or if they would murder her in her sleep if given the chance.
But after the initial uproar, life quieted down and resumed its normal pattern. Clara’s thoughts had turned back to celebrating this time in her life of being young and in love, dreaming of all the future would hold. She hadn’t given it another thought until the Presidential Election of 1860 was discussed at the breakfast table by her father and her younger brother, Eddy. Abraham Lincoln—the Republican candidate who would turn their world upside down—had won the election without a single vote from the residents of Queen Anne’s County.
It had seemed so far and removed from her own life and dreams. But suddenly all of Clara’s wedding details had blurred as she listened to the rise and fall of her father’s voice. He leaned forward, the biscuit in his hand dropping crumbs as he suspended it in the air over his plate, brown eyes narrowed. “This is just the beginning of the end,” he’d predicted.
“What do you mean?” Eddy’s dark head tilted quizzically. Although only seventeen, he took an avid interest in both his father’s business and in the political affairs of the era, largely because they effected his allowance and the standard of living the family afforded.
“We’ve been teetering on the brink of war for some time. Lincoln’s a Northerner, through and through. The scales have just tipped, and the South is going to react.”
“You think there’s going to be a war?” Eddy worried, more inclined to ledgers and business negotiations than to violence.
George Collins had never looked more solemn as he met his son’s gaze across the table. “I do, son.”
“But… when?” Clara had asked breathlessly.
“Now, don’t you worry about such things, dear,” her mother, Naomi, had patted her hand. To her husband she’d suggested, “Why don’t you save such talk for another time?”
George had nodded in compliance, draining his coffee cup as he pushed back his chair, directing a look at his son which said it was time for the men to retire to his office. Ignoring his mother’s disapproving glare, Eddy finished his bacon in a single bite then quickly gained his feet and followed his father from the dining room.
Clara watched their hasty exit, their eagerness to resume talk of the approaching war obvious. Always immaculately dressed in the finest materials and modish designs, George cut a stylish figure with his gray hair neatly combed and his chin defined by grizzled whiskers. Just as well dressed, Eddy’s smooth face revealed his youth and inexperience as he trailed along behind his father.
“Mama, will the war ruin Clara’s wedding?” Jane turned anxious eyes to her mother. Three years younger than Clara, Jane was her closest friend and confidante.
“Of course not,” Naomi assured both her girls. “Men love to talk of fighting, but it doesn’t always come to it. Now, let’s finish our breakfast and make sure the rooms are set up for Aunt Martha and the cousins. They should be arriving any day now.”
Clara had taken her mother’s advice and turned her thoughts back to the joy of her upcoming wedding. She’d giggled with Jane as they sampled pastries and cakes in the kitchen with the cook, dreaming of the day when the house would be filled with guests to celebrate her marriage.
It had been a Christmas wedding, the church decorated with evergreen boughs and sprigs of red holly berries. The twinkling flames of the candles burned with hope and the promise of a bright future. The wedding ceremony was held at the Methodist Protestant Church on Commerce Street, just a few minutes by carriage from the Collins’ home on Chesterfield Avenue.
A light snow fell, covering the roofs and the grass with a powdery dusting. The sky above was gray as gunmetal, contrasting against the colorful Christmas decorations on the houses they passed. Evergreen boughs draped wrought iron gates, and many doorways were dressed with a fan of green magnolia leaves, the pineapple in its center accented by red pears or yellow lemons.
Drawing her cloak tighter about her shoulders, Clara suppressed a shiver. Her mother observed her reaction to the chill and commented, “I remember suggesting a summer wedding, dear.” She smiled indulgently as Clara blushed in remembrance of the conversation. Everyone knew she was too in love with Jeremiah Turner to wait another six months to become his bride.
They would have married sooner if her mother could have been assured that the arrangements would have been satisfactory and all the necessary family in attendance. Jeremiah had courted her for a year before proposing in July of 1860 with her father’s permission. Clara had been delirious with happiness as she’d recounted every detail of the moment to her mother and sister. Jeremiah had been both poetic and sincere as he’d promised his undying love and asked for her hand in marriage.
When she finally walked down the aisle of the church on December fifteenth of 1860 in her white silk gown, the stately figure of her groom obscured by the lacy veil hiding her face, Clara had felt as if her greatest wish had been granted. She was to be Mrs. Jeremiah Turner, and the man she respected and loved was to be hers forever.
“I’ve joined the Smallwood Rifles,” Charlie announced, pouring himself another glass of fresh milk from the porcelain pitcher on the table. “Captain Goldsborough is enlisting men to prepare to defend Maryland,” he continued as all eyes fell upon him. “We march beneath the Confederate flag with nine stars.”
“Nine?” Clara questioned.
Jeremiah sighed as he explained, “They must be counting Maryland as the ninth state.”
Francis regarded his youngest son from beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to fight, son.”
“I’m not in a hurry to lay down my liberty, father,” Charlie retorted. “There’s going to be a war, and there’s no avoiding it. Peace isn’t an option anymore, and I see no reason to surrender our rights without a fight. I’d rather be killed as a rebel than live as a prisoner.”
Clara’s eyes flew to Jeremiah as Charlie’s impassioned declaration hung in the air. “I agree with Father,” he assured his wife, while also trying to reason with his brother. “Rash action can ruin all chances of eventual victory. It’s an elaborate game of chess, and Maryland needs to look at all the pieces on the board before she throws her lot in with the South.”
“I’ve already made my choice,” Charlie insisted. “I’m drilling with the Rifles this afternoon on the Courthouse Green.”
The remainder of breakfast was consumed in silence. Mamie’s buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, and spicy sausage made delicious fare, but the food didn’t settle well in Jeremiah’s stomach. War was coming, Charlie was right about that.
But who to side with didn’t seem as clear to him as it did to his impetuous brother. Jeremiah didn’t want to surrender the freedom his grandfather had fought to gain for them in the War of 1812. Nor did he wish to see that flag—the stars and stripes of freedom—rent in two. He was loyal to his country and felt constrained to fight for her and never set himself against her as a rebel.
Yet wasn’t that what the Patriots had done when they fought to be free of British rule?
Lifting the yellow linen napkin to his lip, he stood and pushed back his chair. “Clara, would you like to walk with me for a moment?”
She hastily dabbed at her mouth as she came to her feet and followed him from the dining room, through the front door, and down the brick walk toward Turners Lane. He laced his fingers through hers, looking down at her upturned face, studying him with a worried expression.
“I’ll never fight on either side unless I have to,” he promised. “Put your mind at ease about that.”
A small sigh escaped her lips. “There’s some consolation in that, but if you are forced to fight, what comfort is there for me?”
“That I will always love you,” he promised, turning to face her and lifting her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles.
The morning sunshine was warm and golden, its fiery rays touching her auburn hair and setting it aglow. Her skin was smooth and fair as she stared up at him, brown eyes framed in dark lashes, her full, bow-shaped lips parted as she released a heavy sigh.
“Jeremiah,” she whispered. “I can’t bear the thought…”
He slid an arm around her slim waist and encouraged her to walk with him down the lane, the spring breeze stirring the green leaves of the birch trees which lined it. She wore a dress of blue plaid cotton, its wide skirt swaying over the tips of her black boots with every step she took.
Jeremiah couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Clara any more than she could—either for a time, or indefinitely, should death claim him in his prime. But she needed to understand that such sacrifices were sometimes demanded. Though his desire may be to stay, duty may call him elsewhere.
“Whatever comes, Clara, we must face it bravely. Life doesn’t ask what we want of it, otherwise I would never leave your side,” he vowed sincerely.
Behind the sheen of tears which glistened in her eyes, he saw both understanding and resignation. She nodded silently.
As if by mutual understanding, they simultaneously turned and began walking back. Turners Lane curved as it made its ascent up the gradual incline toward the two story white house, black shutters dressing the windows. The pitched gable roof was accented by twin brick chimneys, the front façade dominated by a white pillared portico over the entrance. Flanked by towering laurel trees on either side, it overlooked the acres of fields and the creek called Gravel Run with quiet nobility.
Laurel Hill had been in the Turner family since it was purchased from the Nicholsons in 1812. As the eldest son, Jeremiah would inherit the farm and he’d always hoped to one day produce an heir to carry on the family’s legacy. Clara’s hand slipped through the crook of his right elbow, and he covered it protectively with his left hand.
This was his home. Here, at Laurel Hill with Clara. And he would never leave them if there was any other possible alternative.
He’d been born within those walls. He and Charlie had scraped their knees on the wood floors of its hallways learning to walk. His mother had breathed her last in the master bedroom where his father now slept alone. Even the familiar faces of the slaves, Old Joe and his wife Mamie, and their children, Phoebe, Lena, Eli and Silas, were part of what made Laurel Hill home. Phoebe’s husband, Henry, had come to live with them about a year ago, and had quickly integrated into the Turner household.
The house faced west, toward the town of Centreville. Its shell-paved streets were as familiar to him as the grounds of Laurel Hill. It too, was home. And he would do all he could to protect his family, his farm, and his town from whomever threatened it. Whichever side that decision required him to take.
Reaching the house, Jeremiah kissed his wife’s hand as they parted ways, Clara returning inside while he continued to the barn. “Try not to worry,” he reminded her. “My greatest loyalty is to my wife and my family.”
The smile that curved her lips was grateful, even if worry still lurked in her eyes. “I’ll see you tonight,” she replied.
Within the shadowy interior of the barn, Jeremiah strode to Archie’s stall and reached for the curry comb. He could hear Charlie in Buck’s stall, swinging a saddle over the gelding’s back and tightening the cinch. Setting the comb aside, Jeremiah went to join him.
“You make me crazy,” he stated plainly, “but you’re my brother. I just want you to be careful.”
A crooked smile softened Charlie’s features. “You drive me crazy too, you know.” He placed the bit into Buck’s mouth and slid the bridle over his ears, fastening the buckle under his chin.
“I’ll be as careful as I can, Jeremiah. But just as Grandfather Turner answered the call to keep this country free for us, I have to answer the call for those who will follow us. Sometimes our ideals demand a sacrifice. I don’t want to raise my children in a country where the government dictates their lives, suppresses their rights, and limits their freedom. What made this country great was its liberty, each state making the laws which suited it best, rather than one man ruling over every state and every individual like a king. We rid ourselves of the monarchy and established a republic. I don’t want to believe that the bled shed in the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812 was for nothing,” Charlie finished passionately, fists clenched by his side. Buck nickered in response and stamped his hoof.
Jeremiah sighed wearily. “I respect your position.” He shrugged as he admitted, “I guess I’m just hoping we can find another way to keep her a great country without shedding more blood.”
Charlie absently rubbed the gelding’s tan neck beneath his black mane. “I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want it go any further than this,” he lowered his voice, checking over his shoulder to be sure they were alone.
“What is it?” Jeremiah wondered.
Charlie’s blue eyes appeared darker in the dim lighting as he leaned forward, speaking just barely above a whisper. “Colonel Emory and James Earle are going to Baltimore to find weapons and ammunition to defend the county. There are rumors that Union troops are moving this way. We need to be prepared.”
Jeremiah glanced through the open barn doors at the proud lines of the white house set against the pale blue canvas of the sky. “I don’t want Clara to hear of this,” Jeremiah agreed with his brother on this one point. “She’s worried enough.”
The following day Charlie brought the report that while fifty kegs of gunpowder and a large quantity of lead and shot had been acquired, there were no weapons to be had in Baltimore. Everyone there feared another invasion by Northern troops.
“We stored the powder and shot in the courthouse,” Charlie confided. “I sure wish we could have put our hands on some more rifles.”
Jeremiah felt as if his insides were twisted in half. If he had to defend his town against Federals, he’d be pitting himself against his own government.
He closed his eyes, praying it would never come to that.