Richmond 1863
At last the train pulled into the Richmond station. It had been a long, arduous journey. There had been delays of all sorts—breakdowns of the worn-out engine, times when the passenger car had been shunted onto a sidetrack to let boxcars of military supplies and soldiers go through. Mrs. Fulton had been an irritating traveling companion, talkative and complaining. JoBeth had been glad to see her get off at Fredricksburg junction. She hoped the woman’s daughter-in-law had more patience than she herself had been able to muster for the last hundred miles.
Alone and nearing her destination, JoBeth felt both excitement and exhaustion. The trip had seemed endless. A combination of nervous tension and discomfort had made it almost impossible to sleep. There were frequent unscheduled stops, and looking out the grimy window of the car, she had seen wounded Confederate soldiers helped onto the train. The sight was depressing—the haggard, hopeless faces, the stretchers being lifted, men missing arms or legs, others with heads bandaged, still others hopping on crutches or leaning heavily on canes. Obviously the South had suffered enormous casualties and heavy damage. JoBeth was confronted head-on with the terrible results of war.
It seemed almost selfish to close her eyes and send up a prayer of thanksgiving that Wes was out of the fire of battle, when her uncle and cousins were in the thick of it and probably on the losing side. But it was only natural, she knew, that whatever catastrophic events are happening in the world, it is only how they affect one personally that matters. Her prayer turned into an earnest plea that soon those in charge of such things on both sides would see the futility, the cost in human terms, of this conflict and, as Wes had once written, declare peace.
“Richmond! Richmond!” The conductor’s shout brought both a relief and a tremor of nervousness. Here she was. For the first time completely alone. The enormity of what she had undertaken and what she planned to do made her almost dizzy. Life was scary and unpredictable, and for one awful moment, JoBeth wished she had never left Hillsboro. Thrusting back all those feelings, she gathered her belongings and made her way to the end of the aisle to the door.
Wearily, JoBeth descended from the train onto the platform and stood there looking around dazedly. She felt stiff and achy from the cramped coach, and she felt suddenly bereft. There was no one to meet her. Not that she had expected anyone. Amelia Brooke had no idea when she would arrive, just the approximate week. The station was filled with people, some saying good-bye, others greeting a variety of persons—women, soldiers, children. Voices raised all about her, sounds of children crying, women sobbing. People jostled by her, pushing their way toward the train, some elbowing their way out. She had to find a carriage to take her to the Brookes’ house. Her heart was hammering. She had never had to do anything like this before, not on her own, not without someone to look after her.
Slowly she made her way through the crowd, the handle of her portmanteau in one hand, the wicker basket in the other cutting deeply into her palm. Breathing hard, she finally reached the curb of the street. This, too, was lined by a variety of people—civilians, soldiers, women with children—all looking for some sort of conveyance.
After seeing several possible vehicles taken by more aggressive types, JoBeth finally got the attention of the driver of a shabby rental carriage just as he was unloading his passengers. She was forced to share it carrying a woman with a baby in her arms and with a fussy toddler hanging onto her shirt. She had been standing helplessly alongside JoBeth, frantically waving at several passing hacks. The toddler was crying hysterically. So JoBeth, taking pity on the distraught mother, helped her get her luggage, valises, baskets, parcels, into the carriage.
Bunched uncomfortably inside, at least they were off the street and moving. Between sighs, the woman told her she was to be let off at the Spotswood Hotel, where she was to meet her soldier husband. Leaning her head out the coach window, JoBeth relayed this information to the driver. After getting rid of her fellow passenger, she would worry about getting to the Brookes’ residence. There was nothing she could do about this delay. The woman looked drained and certainly had her hands full.
After they and all their paraphernalia were safely deposited at the hotel, which looked as war weary as everything else, JoBeth gave the driver the Brookes’ address.
Richmond looked entirely different from the time JoBeth had accompanied her mother here on a visit before the war. Everywhere were the effects of war on the city. Everything looked shabby—the buildings, the streets, the people. They left the main part of town and soon were driving through a pleasant, tree-lined residential section of the city. When they came to a stop in front of an imposing red brick house, JoBeth peered curiously out the carriage window.
After checking the number on the black ornamental iron gate against the one on the small card in her hand, she alighted from the carriage. Almost as soon as she did, the front door opened and a lady in a bell-skirted lilac dress hurried down the steps.
“Well, well, darlin’ girl, welcome!” she greeted JoBeth in a soft Virginia accent. JoBeth was immediately enveloped in a rose-scented embrace. ‘I’m Amelia, your mother’s best friend, and I’m so happy to see you,” she declared, then turned to direct the driver to set down JoBeth’s luggage. In spite of JoBeth’s murmured protests, Mrs. Brooke paid the driver and sent him on his way.
“You shouldn’t have, Mrs. Brooke…,” JoBeth began.
“Nonsense, honey. My pleasure. Now, come on along into the house. I declare, this has been one of the muggiest summers I can remember. We’ll just get us some cool refreshment.”
Used to the cooler climate of the Carolina foothills, JoBeth thought that Richmond was sweltering. It was a relief to step into the dim interior, where the closed window shutters kept the outside heat at bay. The house felt refreshingly cool, and the fragrance of potpourri faintly perfumed the air.
“Do take off that jacket and your bonnet, honey,” Mrs. Brooke urged. “Then we’ll go into the parlor and have some lemonade.” She took JoBeth’s biscuit beige bolero and hung it across the banister of the stairway, placed her bonnet on the hall table, then gave her a quick glance. “I do declare, you are so like your dear mother! I want to hear all about her and your dear little brother, Shelby. Although I reckon he’s a big fellow now. Gone into the army, I’ve no doubt, like most all of our brave young men.”
There was a sharp silence. Amelia put her fingers to her lips, smothering a tiny gasp. At first JoBeth wondered if she had forgotten what her mother had written about Wes. But a moment later Amelia apologized.
“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean anything by that! I am sure you know that I do understand.” She moved hurriedly ahead of JoBeth into the parlor.
Whatever Amelia thought she understood, JoBeth realized that the woman had too much courtesy, too much tact, and too much affectionate consideration for her friend to ever express any disapproval. JoBeth whispered a tiny prayer that Wes would complete their arrangements speedily so she wouldn’t have to impose longer than necessary on this gracious lady’s hospitality.
“Sit down, honey.” Amelia gestured to one of two wing chairs on either side of the fireplace. On the low table between was a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade, glasses, and a plate of thin cookies.
Amelia Brooke looked younger than her forty-plus years. She was slender as a girl, and her movements were graceful. She was sitting under a portrait of her that must have been painted when her doll-like prettiness was at its peak, and JoBeth saw that her once-golden hair had silvered, that there now were a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but that she still was very attractive.
For the next twenty minutes, they chatted about inconsequential things, Amelia dwelling mostly on reminisces about her school days at Miss Pomoroy’s with Johanna. At length, when JoBeth had refused a second glass of lemonade and another wafer-thin cookie, Amelia said, “Now, I know you must be simply fatigued, and I insist you take a little rest before we have supper. We eat late, because Jacob—Colonel Brooke, my husband—doesn’t come home until after seven. He is on President Davis’s staff, as your mama might have told you, and they work the most awful hours. I’m hoping he will be in good time tonight. He knew your mother, you see.” Amelia gave a soft little laugh and said in a conspiratorial tone of voice, “In fact, I accused him of being smitten by Johanna Shelby first, when he met her at one of Miss Pomoroy’s ‘dansantes.’”
Despite the scarcities and ravages of wartime—the upholstery, draperies, and carpets being perhaps a little worn—the Brooke household had somehow retained its tasteful elegance. The guest room to which JoBeth was shown was equally charming, the bed’s ruffled canopy and curtains crisply starched, a lovely bouquet of fresh flowers from the garden below daintily arranged on the bureau.
“There are fresh towels and an extra quilt if you should need it, which I doubt,” Amelia said, darting around the room. “I hope you will find everything you need, and if not, you have only to ask,” she assured JoBeth. At the door she paused to say, “Now, do have a little nap, honey. I’m sure you’re worn out. I hear travelin’ these days is deplorable. Of course, I have not moved an inch since this war began—and do not intend to, come the Yankees or high water.” When Amelia left, JoBeth took a long breath. She was here at last. She walked over to the window and looked out, stretching her imagination farther than she could see. The Potomac River, which separated Richmond from Washington, was all that separated her from Wes! After all these months, they would soon be together.
Everything had worked out so much better than she could have hoped. Amelia couldn’t have given her a more genuine welcome. Whatever she thought of JoBeth’s reason for being here, it had not seemed to interfere with her spontaneous friendliness. How lucky it was that her mother had kept in touch with Amelia since their school days. How very convenient indeed. How fortunate she was to be in such congenial surroundings.
However, JoBeth had yet to meet Colonel Brooke.
After Amelia’s warmth, Colonel Brooke was like a dash of cold water. He was a good-looking man in his late forties, with an erect, military bearing. He wore a mustard-colored mustache and sideburns, and his eyes, a steely gray, were keen, penetrating. He gave the impression of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He was an exact contrast to his wife. JoBeth was at first quite put off by his aloofness. But although his manner was rather stiff, he was still a courteous host. JoBeth wondered how much he had been informed about her reason for being there. However, from the triviality of the dinner conversation, she felt reassured he knew nothing of the real circumstances.
Johanna had told JoBeth that Amelia was the type of person that “once your friend, was forever your friend.” Amelia never gave the slightest hint that JoBeth’s visit was cloaked in mystery and secrecy. She treated her as she would have any young house guest—with the kindest attention. Within the first week, JoBeth became very fond of her and understood why her mother had said she was such a delightful person.
The Brookes entertained a great deal. For the most part it seemed unplanned. Many nights, extra plates were put at the dinner table, because Colonel Brooke often brought home fellow officers. It did not seem to perturb either Amelia or her placid cook, Delilah. There always seemed to be another a batch of biscuits ready to pop in the oven, and no shortage of garden vegetables.
The talk was usually general. When it turned to the war or serious topics, JoBeth—who had learned to receive Amelia’s discreet signal—rose with the other ladies and left the table.
These evenings were not out of the ordinary. They seemed, even if unexpected, not to upset the smooth running of the household. Weekends were different. Sunday nights, JoBeth discovered, the Brookes always held an open house. These evenings were attended by not only the colonel’s contemporaries but younger officers as well. Mainly single, young men far from their homes, lonely for family. It was to these especially the Brookes opened their hearts and home.
The first Sunday JoBeth was with them, Amelia explained what had become the custom. “So many of these officers are just boys, like your own friends in Hillsboro. But they’re homesick. Most are here in Richmond on furlough, some are stationed here temporarily, many are recovering from some injury or waiting to be sent back to their regiments. My heart goes out to all of them.” Amelia shook her head sadly. “Even though I was never blessed with children of my own, I can just imagine how their mothers feel, and I try to give them a taste of home here.” She went on, saying, “I also invite some of the young ladies I know, girls your age, to help make things light and let them have a little fun. Where they’ve been and where they’re going to is dreadful—so I want them to have pleasant and happy memories to recall when they do.” Amelia’s wistful expression changed quickly into one of her radiant smiles. “Now, wear one of your prettiest dresses, honey.” She wiggled a playful finger at JoBeth. “I know the sight of you will cheer some of these fellows enormously.”
JoBeth felt a little reluctant to play the role Amelia expected. She felt awkward to be entertaining Confederate soldiers while Wes was arranging for her to join him in enemy territory! But there was nothing she could do but comply with her hostess’ request.
She had brought a few summer dresses with her, having been warned by her mother that even in early September, Richmond might still be hot. From these, she chose a yellow organdy with a portrait collar embroidered with small yellow daisies. When she was dressed, she went downstairs and out into the garden.
Summer weather lingered, but in the late afternoon Amelia’s brick-walled garden was shadowed by leafy fruit trees. Curlicued white iron benches and chairs were placed in small groups surrounding a lily pond in which goldfish could be seen under the lily pads. It was such a tranquil place, seemingly remote from the war and whatever was going on only a few miles away. For a few minutes JoBeth was alone there, relishing the serenity.
Soon Amelia, a lacy cloth over one arm, bustled out, followed by Deliah, who was carrying a large glass punchbowl. As she passed JoBeth, Amelia said over her shoulder, “It’s so lovely and cool, I thought we could have our refreshment out here before we go in to supper.” JoBeth helped them use the cloth to cover a table at the far end of the garden, then helped set out rows of small cups.
It wasn’t long before the guests began to arrive. A half dozen young officers, smart in pressed gray uniforms, were soon followed by four extremely pretty young women. The young ladies immediately embarked on a lively repartee with the officers, as if this sort of party were something they did by rote. JoBeth had heard that wartime Richmond was a constant circus for belles. Now she believed it as she watched them ply their artful coquetry.
JoBeth felt suddenly shy. She had been so long out of the social swing of Hillsboro—having been not invited, overlooked, or simply left out—that she had almost forgotten her social skills. Feeling inadequate to the occasion, she retreated to a bench half hidden by a huge magnolia bush. Here she could stay until she got her bearings, felt a little more at ease, she told herself.
It was from this vantage point that she saw a tall, slim officer, his right arm in a black satin sling, escorted by Amelia to the trellised entrance of the garden. Then Amelia was evidently called back into the house on some domestic errand, leaving him standing alone. In a moment of startled recognition, JoBeth saw that it was Curtis Channing.