ATLANTA, 1872
HIS UNCLE’S HOME HAD SEEMED SO GRAND IN HIS MEMORIES OF IT, with its lace-curtained double parlors and dark-paneled study, its carpeted hallways and gleaming brass light fixtures. But after the elegance of Philadelphia and the excitement of St. Louis, Uncle John’s house on Forrest Avenue seemed merely comfortable in comparison—though comfort was all John Henry needed, as long as Mattie was there. And being able to sit with her on the curve of the veranda after his welcome home supper, sharing the evening together, made his uncle’s house seem like paradise.
Mattie made a pretty picture, sitting there on the porch swing and smiling up at him. She was dressed all in white, in a soft cotton gown that clung to her legs as she pushed the swing back and forth, her slender little feet wearing leather slippers as simple and white as her dress. Against all that pristine whiteness, her auburn hair shone like a dark fire.
The only thing wrong with the picture was that they weren’t alone. Cousin Robert was there as well, sitting comfortably beside Mattie on the porch swing, and John Henry had to look at them both together from where he sat balancing on the porch rail. But Robert was only being a good cousin, he reminded himself, showing polite interest in his plans and asking all the proper questions.
“And after Dr. Ford comes back from his convention trip, what then? Will you open your own practice here in Atlanta?”
“Not right off,” John Henry said. “I’ll have to partner for a while first, until I can save enough money to outfit my own office. I have my hand-tools from dental school, but you’d be astounded how much equipment it takes to practice dentistry these days. Things aren’t as simple as they used to be, back when your father pulled teeth in his medical office.”
“I’ll remember to take that as a warnin’,” Robert replied, “and study hard in dental school myself.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Robert wanted to surprise you,” Mattie said with a smile. “He’s been talkin’ to Uncle John about followin’ in your footsteps, and goin’ into dentistry as well.”
“Father says he can manage the tuition all right,” Robert added, “and with my own cousin as my preceptor, I ought to do well enough in Philadelphia.”
“But I don’t even have a practice yet—how can I be your preceptor?”
“Oh, I won’t be goin’ for another year at least, so you’ve got time to get yourself settled first. Father needs my help in the store awhile longer, as Mr. Tidwell is sellin’ his half of the business to us. But when I do get my degree, you can take me into your practice as a partner. Think of it: Holliday and Holliday, Dentists. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“But what changed your mind from medicine? I always thought you’d take over your father’s practice one day.”
“Same thing as changed yours, I suppose: too many sick people and too many late nights. There’s not many dentists who have to make house calls in the middle of a good night’s sleep.” Then he smiled in his old taunting way. “Or maybe it’s just that old family rivalry—I never could stand to have you beat me at anything!”
John Henry’s eyes narrowed with the challenge. “Then you’re gonna have a mighty miserable life, Robert Holliday, ‘cause there’s nothin’ I can’t beat you at!”
“Listen to you two!” Mattie scolded. “Does everything always have to end up a competition?”
John Henry looked up at her from under his sandy lashes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Seems like you were the one who turned things into a competition, Mattie, jumpin’ out of windows, and all, and darin’ us to follow.”
She started to blush, remembering, and Robert laughed.
“You sure did look pretty Mattie, sittin’ underneath that tree with your skirts up around your waist!”
“Stop it, both of you! That was a long time ago, and I was just a child!”
The pink flush ran across her face, and John Henry thought how little she had changed since those childhood days—still as tiny and delicate as ever, her fragile figure a lovely counterpoint to that stubborn Irish spirit—and yet somehow she had changed completely. There was a light in her eyes now that John Henry had never seen before, a soft new expression when she smiled. And when she leaned forward to laugh, there was a gentle hesitation, a shy flutter of dark lashes against ivory skin that set his head spinning. He’d thought he was in love with her before, but that was nothing compared to the way she made him feel now.
“What did you miss most about home?” she asked, turning the attention away from herself and toward John Henry.
His voice caught in his throat and for a moment he couldn’t speak. He wanted to answer: “You, Mattie. I missed you more than anything. I missed seeing your face and hearing your voice and having you close to me like this.” But he couldn’t tell her that—not in front of Robert, anyhow—though as he thought of it, there wasn’t much of anything else that he had missed. “I reckon I missed my name,” he said, settling on something at last. “Those Yankees couldn’t even take the time to say the whole thing out. Just called me plain ‘John,’ like they couldn’t wait to get it over with and get on to somethin’ else. It didn’t even sound like me to me.”
“John Henry Holliday,” Mattie said slowly, his name sounding sweeter than anything, coming from her mouth.
“Well, I don’t care what they want to call me up there,” Robert said, “as long as I can get a good hot meal every day and a good warm bed every night. You two are just plain short on common sense.” Then he yawned and stood up, stretching his long arms. “I am fallin’ asleep out here, listenin’ to your nonsense. Time I went on to bed. You comin’ up, John Henry?”
“Not just yet,” he answered as he stared into the night, avoiding Mattie’s eyes.
“Then don’t wake me when you come to bed. Father needs me in the store early.” Then he bent down and kissed Mattie’s cheek. “G’night, honey. Don’t let him keep you up too late.”
Mattie tipped her face up for his kiss on her cheek, smiling. “G’night, dear Robert.”
John Henry tried not to let their easy intimacy bother him—Mattie and Robert were only fond cousins, after all—but feeling as he did about her, he couldn’t help feeling a little proprietary jealousy, as well. If Mattie hadn’t left the swing just then, coming to stand by his side at the white-painted porch rail and looking up at him with tender eyes, he might have had to make an issue of it. But her gentle words calmed his worry.
“It’s so good to have you home again, John Henry! Seems like old times, havin’ the three of us back together again. Almost like old times, anyhow,” she said as her voice took on a sudden sadness. “Except that things aren’t well back home. I wrote you about my father’s troubles, didn’t I?”
“You mentioned he was feelin’ poorly. What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’ in particular. But he gets worn out so fast and has such a hard time workin’. He’s been that way, on and off, ever since he came home from that awful prison camp. Oh, how I hate the Yankees, John Henry! They didn’t have to be so cruel, just to win the War! Was it just awful, livin’ up there in the North?”
“It was hard at first,” he admitted, “like livin’ in a foreign country, almost. They don’t understand anything about us or what we were fightin’ for. They all talk about the ‘Emancipation of the Slaves,’ like that’s all the War was about. Keepin’ a slave isn’t somethin’ worth dyin’ for! But the right to choose what you will do—now that’s a cause. Seems like we’ve lost our own freedom, when the government can tell us how we ought to live our lives.”
Mattie gave him a long look, like his words were the solution to a puzzle she’d been working over. “I guess I never understood what you were so angry about, that summer your father sent you to Jonesboro. I thought you were just a hot-headed boy lookin’ for somethin’ to fight about. You used to slam the screen door every time you came in, like you needed to hit somethin’.”
“I reckon I was hot-headed, back then, but I wasn’t lookin’ for a fight. But when there’s one I believe in, I can’t just stand back and stay out of it.”
“I was so worried about you that summer. You were so very unhappy.”
He stared at the woods across the way, dark shadowed in the moonlight. “I wasn’t altogether unhappy, Mattie—you were there. And now, you’re here,” he said, turning to look into her eyes, and smiling.
It should have been the perfect moment for the conversation to take a more romantic turn, but instead, she said:
“Thanks to Robert. He arranged the whole thing after my father had to go back home. Robert has friends all over town and found me the teachin’ positions, and the summer tutorin’ as well. Wealthy folks are always lookin’ for tutors. Then he insisted that I come live here instead of stayin’ with my students. Most tutors take room and board in their employers’ homes, but Robert wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Cousin Robert sounds like a real hero,” he said slowly, watching her face.
“He’s been wonderful! I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
And seeing the tenderness in her eyes, John Henry felt something tearing at his heart. Then he started to cough, that same troublesome cough that had plagued him on and off ever since his bout with the pneumonia.
“John Henry, what’s wrong?” Mattie asked in sudden concern.
It took him a moment to catch his breath, the wheezing leaving him dizzy. He put his hand to his forehead and felt the cold perspiration that always came with the coughing fit. From somewhere in the folds of her dress, Mattie pulled out a handkerchief and started dabbing at his face.
“Oh honey, you look awful! What’s the matter? You didn’t tell me you were ill. Here, hold onto me until you get your breath back,” and somehow tiny Mattie was steadying his whole weight and helping him to the porch swing. Then she sat beside him wiping his brow until his breathing came slow and regular again.
“I’ve had the pneumonia . . .” he started to explain.
“I know. But that was last winter.”
“It’s hard to get over. The doctor warned me to watch out for relapses.” Her touch was so gentle, her nearness so comforting.
“That’s nonsense. You don’t relapse all of a sudden on a warm summer evenin’. Has this coughin’ happened before?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “Maybe once or twice. But I’m fine, Mattie, really. It’s just that leftover cough, that’s all. I am not sick.” Although he was enjoying her attentions, he had never forgotten his father’s philosophy that illness was weakness. He was not weak; he would not be ill.
But Mattie peered into his face, her head to one side, not believing him. “I never heard anybody cough like that who was altogether healthy. We must have Uncle John listen to that cough first thing in the mornin’.”
“I don’t need Uncle John to examine me. I am a doctor now myself, and I tell you I’m just fine.”
“And still as stubborn and arrogant as ever! I don’t believe your dental degree makes you a physician, not like Uncle John. You may be a wonderful dentist, but you are not a medical doctor.”
It was good to have her attention, even though she was fussing at him. And since she was still holding his hand in hers, stroking it while chastising him, he couldn’t let the evening go completely to waste.
“Mattie, do you remember what I told you last summer in Jones-boro?”
“I remember you sayin’ you were in a bad way for some lemonade after mendin’ that fence all day,” she said, smiling. “I never saw anyone drink a whole pitcher full down so quick!”
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. I told you I was gonna kiss you when I came home again. Well, I’m home now. And I still want to kiss you, if you’ll let me.”
She dropped his hand and looked away bashfully, just the way a lady should, and said softly, “I don’t mind.”
But when he put his hand under her chin, lifting her face to his, she suddenly turned her head, giving him her cheek instead of her lips.
It was such an unexpected rebuff that he didn’t know what to do but kiss her on the offered cheek like a good cousin. Had she misunderstood his intention, as Thea Morgan had misunderstood in a different way? Did she think that all he felt was a brotherly sort of affection for her? Or worse, was a sisterly affection all she felt for him?
But before he could ask her to explain her sudden aloofness, she looked up at him with glistening eyes, and whispered:
“Oh, I have missed you, John Henry!”
Then she slipped off the porch swing and ran into the house, leaving him alone with his unanswered questions.
The dental office of Dr. Arthur C. Ford occupied a second-floor suite of rooms above a confectionery shop at the corner of Whitehall and Alabama Streets, right in the middle of Atlanta’s business district—which meant that it was in the middle of Atlanta’s railroad business, as well. Indeed, Whitehall might have been more properly named Railroad Avenue, with the tracks of the Atlantic Rail and the Macon & Western Railroads running alongside each other down the middle of the street. Crossing Whitehall during the business day was an act of faith and fortitude, dodging wagons and buggies, and listening for the warning whistles of oncoming locomotives, and it wasn’t unusual for an incautious pedestrian to be hit by a train. Only then did the traffic on Whitehall Street slow while an ambulance came around to carry the victim off to the hospital or the morgue. Then as soon as the road was cleared, business started up again right where it had left off. Atlanta didn’t have time to stop long for anything.
Any other dentist might have found the constant noise of Whitehall Street distracting. But John Henry had spent two years in bustling Philadelphia, and he found the commotion less of a bother than the uncomfortable heat rising up from the big candy stoves in the confectionery shop below, though all in all, Dr. Ford’s office was a pleasant place to work. The two small rooms were well-appointed with velvet upholstered cast-iron dental chairs facing toward the light of the long windows overlooking the street, fancy brass cuspidors beside the chairs, and a carved rosewood cabinet for the instruments. Dr. Ford had even installed a Morrison Dental Engine, the new foot-powered machine that drove the dental drill, as modern as anything at the dental school. And with all that, it was likely the best-equipped office in Atlanta, and a far sight better than Dr. Frink’s crowded little storefront where John Henry might have had to spend his professional life.
Dr. Ford’s fine office seemed a reflection of the man himself, for in a society in which birth and breeding still meant something, Dr. Ford had the best of pedigrees: English by birth, trained in his profession by an eminent New York dentist, and a Southerner by choice and service to the Confederacy. His manners were impeccable, his grooming flawless, his speech cultured and refined. And compared to him, John Henry felt like a county rustic, although Dr. Ford had been impressed enough by his credentials to offer him a temporary position. Young Dr. Holliday was, after all, not just a graduate of the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery, but also the nephew of Dr. John Stiles Holliday, and thereby kin to Dr. Crawford Long whom Dr. Ford had known in Jefferson, Georgia, his home before moving to Atlanta. Birth and breeding, it seemed, had worked in John Henry’s favor as well.
Dr. Ford announced their association in the professional card section of the Atlanta Constitution of Friday, July 26th:
CARD
I HEREBY inform my patients that I leave to attend the session of the Southern Dental Association in Richmond, Virginia, this evening, and will be absent until about the middle of August, during which time Dr. John H. Holliday will fill my place in my office.
Arthur C. Ford, D.D.S.
Office 26 Whitehall Street
It wasn’t the first time John Henry had seen his name in the newspaper, as there had been a brief article in the Philadelphia Ledger listing the graduates of the dental school there. But it was the first time a newspaper had printed his name with the title of “Dr.” preceding it, and seeing it that way made John Henry feel he’d already made a success of his professional life. And just in case he might never see his name in the papers again, he cut out the advertisement and tucked it away inside one of his dental textbooks, as a memento of his coming-of-age.
Aunt Permelia had her own idea of how a coming-of-age ought to be celebrated. So on the Sunday afternoon before John Henry’s twenty-first birthday, she had Sophie pack a lunch and the stable boy hitch up the phaeton, then instructed her husband to carry them all out to Ponce de Leon Springs, the popular resort just outside the city limits where mineral waters bubbled up out of the rock and flowed into Peachtree Creek. It was a lovely picnic spot and quite fashionable for social gatherings, though John Henry had to laugh at the way his aunt mispronounced the name of the place, slurring the Spanish syllables together until they came out sounding something like “pons-da-lee-on,” and barely recognizable as the name of a famous explorer. Her brief history lesson, taught as they rode out to the park, was almost as amusing.
“They named the springs after the gentleman who went lookin’ for the fountain of youth,” she explained. “But he got lost and found Florida instead. The real fountain was back here in Georgia all along, and now we have a nice park built around it.”
In spite of its adventurous history, Ponce de Leon Springs was civilized recreation, well-mannered and well-dressed. Ladies in bustled gowns strolled along the stone paths with gentlemen in light summer jackets and wide straw Panama hats, the woodland quiet only occasionally disturbed by the rumble of a passing train on the trestle of the Air Line Railroad or the sound of waltz music drifting down from the bandstand where the old 5th Georgia Regiment band played. And every leisurely idyll ended with a stop at the springs, where the little colored boy in attendance dipped an iron cup into the mineral water and passed it around—health and happiness for only a penny a drink.
Picnics in the park were elegant affairs, and Aunt Permelia was not to be outdone. Her table under the trees was spread with linen and set with bone china and the family silver, and even the sweet tea seemed like something special when it was poured from a cut crystal pitcher. But though John Henry should have enjoyed all the fuss the family was making over his birthday, he found that he didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner, what with the August heat and humidity, and the insects buzzing all around, and Mattie drawing Robert like she was some sweet summer flower. And worse: Mattie seemed to be overly enjoying Robert’s attentions, laughing at all his jokes and not paying nearly enough attention to John Henry.
But no one else seemed to notice Robert’s flirtations, as they all chatted around the table discussing business and politics and family matters as the afternoon slid by. Then, over a dessert of lemon cake, Uncle John tapped a silver table knife on the tea pitcher, and the crystal made a pretty tinkling sound as he announced:
“As y’all know, your Cousin John Henry here will be turnin’ twenty-one years old this week, the age at which a young man takes his proper place in society and comes into his inheritance. And as John Henry has always been a special nephew to me, bein’ my namesake and myself havin’ had somethin’ to do with his comin’ through infancy safely, it seems fittin’ that I should bequeath him somethin’ of my own as an inheritance in honor of his comin’-of-age. George, reach me that gun case, please.”
Aunt Permelia smiled and nodded approvingly as Uncle John opened the polished mahogany gun case to reveal a glint of dark metal and a pair of matched pistols resting in black velvet.
“I ordered these revolvers when the War started,” Uncle John went on, “standard issue for the Army in those days: Colt’s Navy Model 1851, single action, .36-caliber, blued steel barrels with walnut grips. Happily, I never had to use them, except for target practice. But these pistols bein’ manufactured the same year that both Robert and John Henry came into the world, I thought they’d be appropriate comin’-of-age gifts, sharing a shared birthdate so to speak. I’ve already gifted one of these pistols to Robert, when he turned twenty-one. Now I’m givin’ the other to you, John Henry,” he said, carefully lifting one of the guns and handing it to his nephew.
John Henry was near speechless at his uncle’s offering, that fine pistol being the best present he could ever remember receiving, although his gratitude was a little diminished by the fact that Robert had already received its twin. Robert was always first in everything. Still, it was a very generous gift.
“Sir, I’m honored,” John Henry said, as he took the heavy revolver from his Uncle John’s hand. Then he added admiringly, “They say Colt’s 1851’s the very same model that Wild Bill Hickok uses.”
“If you can believe what Harper’s Magazine writes!” Robert said with a laugh, taking his own pistol from the box. “And who cares what Hickok uses? You’ll never do anything but target shootin’ with that gun, anyhow.”
“Maybe Robert and John Henry can have a contest over at the shootin’ range,” said young Cousin Johnny eagerly, “to see which pistol’s the fastest.”
“Where mine will win, of course,” Robert replied, challenging as always. “Not because it’s a better firearm, but because I’ve been better trained.”
It was true that Robert had good training, having learned marks-manship among the other gentlemanly subjects taught at the expensive private school he’d attended on Atlanta’s Peachtree Street. But John Henry knew a thing or two about shooting himself, and was proud of his skills.
“I reckon I can beat you at draw and fire, Robert, even without your fancy trainin’. I’ve done my share of shootin’, livin’ out in the country.”
“Well, the way I was taught, it’s not good form to try and take the target by surprise the way you do. A gentleman shouldn’t have to lower himself to actin’ like the animal he’s stalkin’, sneakin’ up on it.”
John Henry was about to say something cutting in reply when Aunt Permelia, seeming to sense a growing tension in the air, drew the conversation in another direction.
“I expect your father will have a nice birthday gift for you, as well,” she said. “Henry’s done just fine in business, with his carriages and his rose farms. And now he’s growin’ pecan trees, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” John Henry replied, reluctant to turn his attention to his father, always a sore subject for him. “He says pecans are the next cash crop of Georgia.”
“Uncle Henry always did have a mind for business,” Cousin George commented approvingly. “I reckon we’ll see him as a wealthy planter yet.”
“And how is your stepmother?” George’s wife Mary asked, looking up from tending to her new baby. “I haven’t heard you say anything of her.”
Having to talk about his father was bad enough, but making pleas-antries about Rachel was beyond him on any day, and especially on the day of his birthday celebration. Instead of answering the question, he dropped his linen napkin on the table and said quickly, “Will you excuse me, Aunt Permelia? I believe I’ve had enough for one afternoon.” And with a stunned silence following him, he pocketed his new pistol and walked away from the picnic table, heading toward the wooded grove at the stream’s edge.
He stood there fuming, trying to get his angry thoughts under control. He’d been unsettled enough by Cousin Robert’s attentions to Mattie without having his father and Rachel brought into the conversation, as well. He still remembered too clearly the words Rachel had repeated about his courtship plans—that cows didn’t breed well in the same lot. Why, if she’d been a man . . .
“Would you like someone to talk to?” Mattie asked, and John Henry turned in surprise to see her picking her way through the leaves to join him in the shade of the trees.
“Won’t Robert be missin’ you?” he said sharply, but Mattie seemed not to catch his meaning.
“The rest of the family’s all goin’ off to try the mineral water,” she said, sitting down on the thick summer grass and spreading her skirts out around her. “You know Mary didn’t mean to offend you, askin’ about Rachel. She’s still new to the family. You can’t expect her to understand about your stepmother.”
“Rachel is no mother of mine,” he replied bitterly.
“Well, she’s your father’s wife, isn’t she? And that does make her your stepmother.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Mattie,” he answered, but she ignored his protest and went on.
“I know what a hard time that was for you when your father remarried, but it was so long ago. Can’t you forgive him? You know you’ll never be happy if you’re not at peace with your own family.”
He sat down beside her then, caught up a clump of wet grass and flung it aside. “I don’t feel like I have a family anymore. Rachel ruined that. And my father . . .” his words broke off angrily. “Sometimes I think I hate him, Mattie!”
“You don’t hate him, John Henry. You love him, and that’s the trouble. Can’t nobody hurt you that you don’t care about. Why, I remember when you used to just idolize him.”
“He used to be my hero,” he agreed sullenly, “the great Major Henry Holliday. I used to look at that sword of his hangin’ on the parlor wall and wish I could be like him someday. Even when he came home, so sick and all, I imagined it was like a battle wound. But then my mother passed and he brought Rachel home, and there was all that talk . . .”
But he couldn’t tell her what the townsfolk had said. Such things weren’t fit for a lady’s ears, and he shook his head and looked away.
“I thought he was a hero, Mattie, but I was wrong.”
“And do you have to have a hero?” she asked gently.
“I reckon I do . . .” he replied, and had to blink back unexpected emotion.
“Oh honey!” Mattie cried, looking into his eyes and somehow seeing everything that he was feeling. “It just breaks my heart to have you hurtin’ so!”
At the touch of her hand on his, the anger and the pain in him started to melt away. It was amazing how someone so small could have such a powerful effect on him.
“Sweet Mattie!” he said, a sudden urgency in his voice. “You know how much you mean to me, don’t you? How much I care for you?”
Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak. Then she looked away, a sudden hesitation, a quiet pulling away from him. “Of course I know how much you care. I’d be a fool not to know. But there is nothin’ in it, John Henry, not the way you want it to be. I can’t ever care for you like that.” Although her words were earnest, there were tears glistening at the edges of her lashes.
“Is there someone else, then?” he asked, but she looked down and didn’t answer, and he pressed the point. “Is it Robert, Mattie? Hell, anybody but Robert . . .”
Then she looked up past him, a flush on her face, and John Henry realized that they were no longer alone.
“Did someone mention my name?”
Robert strode toward them, hat in hand, and John Henry was struck by the unhappy notion that they still looked enough alike to be brothers.
“Well, honey,” Robert said, smiling broadly, “you missed a mighty fine walk. But that mineral water—I think it’s the awful taste that chases the disease away!”
He bent over and gave Mattie a quick kiss on the cheek, then sat down beside her on the grass, his long legs brushing the edge of her cotton skirt.
“So what do you say about tryin’ out that new pistol, John Henry? I mean, if you’re still good at that sort of thing.”
John Henry glared at him. “I am still damn good at that sort of thing!”
“No need for that kind of language, Cousin,” Robert chastised. “We’ve got a lady present. Though I suppose we can’t expect someone who’s been livin’ in the North to remember his manners all the time. But don’t you worry, Mattie honey,” he said with a wink, “we’ll turn him Southern again, soon enough!”
If Mattie hadn’t been sitting right there between them, John Henry would have slapped him across the face. “Are you callin’ me a Yankee?”
Robert laughed out loud. “I never saw a Yankee with a temper as quick as yours! What’s got you so riled today, anyhow?”
There was no explaining it without confessing his feelings for Mattie, and he wasn’t about to do that in front of Robert. Instead, he forced a smile and answered:
“I believe I would enjoy doin’ a little shootin’ this afternoon. But why don’t we make it a real contest, with a prize for the winner?”
“I’m game,” Robert replied. “But what shall we have for a prize?”
John Henry looked up at Mattie and said with a slow drawl, “How ‘bout a kiss from our favorite cousin for the champion?”
Mattie started in surprise, but Robert laughed. “Well, what do you say, honey? Shall we make you our Helen of Troy and give you to the winner?”
“I never heard of anything so ridiculous!” she said, tossing her auburn hair.
“Come on, Mattie,” John Henry said. “It’s just a little wager to add some excitement to the game. Unless, of course . . .you’re scared.”
He knew just what to say to taunt her. Mattie had never been afraid of anything in her life, courage being the Holliday birthright, and she put up her little chin and gave him a steady, solemn gaze.
“All right, if that’s what you boys want.”
“Well, then,” Robert said with a smile, pushing himself to his feet and brushing the grass from his linen summer trousers, “gauntlet thrown and challenge accepted. And may the best man win.”
“Oh, indeed,” John Henry repeated coolly, “may the best man win.”
The shooting range was already crowded with curious spectators by the time Robert and John Henry had loaded their pistols and taken their places facing the paper targets. But John Henry wasn’t paying attention to anything except the competition, and Mattie who would be his prize. He was certain to win, but not so certain of what her reaction would be.
On the toss of a coin Robert was the first to shoot, using the twin of John Henry’s new Colt’s Navy. He bowed to the crowd, then turned sideways to the target in a classical shooter’s stance, back hand on one hip and pistol raised, and taking careful aim he slowly pulled back on the trigger. The pistol jerked as he fired, and a moment later the target shuddered with the impact.
“Bull’s eye!” he called out proudly, and the crowd answered with applause. “Your turn, John Henry. See if you can beat that!”
John Henry squinted into the sun, studying the targets. “Be a mighty fine trick if I can. I reckon I’d just about have to blow that target to pieces to beat your shot.”
Robert smiled in triumph and called to Mattie, “Got my kiss ready, honey? He’s practically concedin’ defeat.”
But Mattie’s face was unreadable, her gaze set on the distant targets. John Henry shrugged and took a deep breath, preparing to make his shot, then he paused to consider. He’d always been ambidextrous, almost as good with his left hand as he was with his right, and he had the sudden urge to show off. He switched the pistol over from his right hand to his left, and smiled at the spectators. Then in one fluid motion he spun around and fired, left arm flung out and pulling off five fast shots from the revolver. The target jumped at the first hit and exploded, then shattered into the air. He watched it, staying crouched as the smoke rose up thick and acrid around him. It wasn’t the fine classical style that Robert’s school had taught, but it always seemed to work—and it gave him pleasure to know that he could beat his cousin even left-handed.
There was a startled hush from the crowd, no one quite believing that lightning fast shooting or the quick destruction of that paper target. Then there was a smattering of appreciative handclaps that grew into a full round of applause, and John Henry stood and slowly turned around, cool and arrogant.
“There, I win,” he said, casting a contemptuous glance at Robert. “And I believe I’ll take that kiss now, Cousin Mattie.”
He walked toward her, the pistol hot in his hand, and reached for her with his free arm, pulling her close.
“You are makin’ a fool out of me,” she whispered. “Everybody’s watchin’.”
“But you are the prize, and I have won you fair and square.”
“Then get it over with and let me go,” she said, turning her head to the side and waiting for his kiss on her cheek.
But John Henry slid his hand under her chin and tipped her face up toward his.
“Nothin’ so chaste as that, dear Cousin. I’ll have a real kiss this time or none at all.” Then he bent his head to her face, his lips close to hers, and spoke under his breath. “Unless you’d rather have my cousin Robert kiss you.”
“Stop it!” she said, yanking her arm free. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”
“Are you in love with him, Mattie?” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Are you in love with him?”
But Mattie raised her eyes and spoke with a resignation he did not understand. “What difference would it make?” Then she walked away toward the rest of the family, and left John Henry standing there alone.
It had all gone wrong, from start to finish. Yet John Henry could not believe that he had misread Mattie’s feelings for him. She had always cared for him, had always been so tender and loving and full of understanding. And what of the promise they had made to each other, before he went away to dental school? He had been so sure of her love then. He had lived on the certainty of it all these years, and his stubborn pride wouldn’t let him believe that she might not love him after all—stubborn pride and the powerful need to have her with him.
But as the carriages pulled into the gravel drive after the ride home from the Springs, Robert stood in the way of his following after her into the house
“Let her go, John Henry. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
John Henry looked at him sharply. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talkin’ about the fool way you’ve been actin’ all afternoon, fussin’ and fumin’ and teasin’ poor Mattie like some lovesick school boy.”
“And what are you doin’ with her, Robert?”
“I am not stealin’ her away from you, if that’s what you’re askin’. I know you care a great deal for Mattie. There’s always been somethin’ special between the two of you, even back when we were children. But that doesn’t mean she wants you to romance her.”
“I don’t reckon that’s any of your business,” he said angrily.
“It is if your plans are gonna make her unhappy. And I think they might, if her father still feels the same as he used to about you.”
“You’re talkin’ in riddles, Robert.”
“I’m just tryin’ to talk some sense into you. Do you remember the boy who went to stay with Mattie’s family that summer after the War, the one whose father had to send him away before the Yankees came after him? Well, Uncle Rob does. Hot-headed, he called you back then, and he cautioned Mattie against gettin’ too close to you. And you should understand Mattie well enough to know that she will never disobey him. She adores her father.”
“But that’s not the way I am now. You know I’ve changed!”
“Have you? And what was all that show at the target range today? That wasn’t a friendly shootin’ match, and you know it. That target you shot to pieces was me, and you were damn proud of it.”
“A man’s got a right to fight for what is his!”
“Mattie is not yours, John Henry. And no fightin’ with me will ever win her for you. No fightin’ with anybody will. If her father considers you a bad risk, then that’s the end of it. I reckon you sealed your own fate with her back in Valdosta when you tried to take the law into your own hands and run the Yankees out of town. Forget tryin’ to win her, John Henry. You lost her long ago.”
He had no reason to doubt Robert’s words, but his heart still railed against them. What did it matter if Mattie’s father disapproved of him? It was Mattie’s opinion of him that counted, and she had always loved him and thought the best of him. Indeed, it was Mattie’s good opinion of him that had helped him to get where he was now, starting out on a fine professional career. Without her constant letters and loving support, he might have wasted more time in dental school, taking up DeMorat on his offer of a life of debauchery in Philadelphia. He might have taken up Kate Fisher on her unspoken offer as well, and had a real affair with the varieties actress in St. Louis. But knowing that Mattie trusted him, he had kept himself from it. Surely she wouldn’t turn away from him now on account of the troubles of his youth. But Mattie had hurried into the house after their return home, obviously unwilling to talk to him, so he’d have to find some other way to calm his anxious mind.
What he needed was a drink, something more bracing than a crystal pitcher full of sweet tea or his Aunt Permelia’s prized peach wine. And then he remembered that the streetcars ran into town clear into the night, and he could be downtown in no time at all. And downtown he could find a drink and clear his mind enough to sort everything out.
It was already dusk by the time he got into the city where the plate glass windows of the Maison de Ville Saloon were shining in the light of the gas street lamps, welcoming him. The Maison was a first-class drinking establishment, owned by a longtime friend of the Holliday family from Griffin, Mr. Lee Smith. The finest men of Atlanta society played cards there, while the deposed leaders of the Democratic party planned their political comeback over drinks at the bar. So no one could fault John Henry for celebrating his upcoming twenty-first birthday in such a friendly masculine atmosphere, or for drinking more than he might otherwise have done as Lee Smith poured him free drinks in honor of his coming-of-age.
By the time he was on his way back to Forrest Avenue, walking as it was past the hour for the streetcars to be running, he was feeling relaxed and almost cheery again and even Robert’s warnings didn’t seem to trouble him anymore. It was wonderful what a little whiskey could do when life got difficult, and he’d had more than a little at the Maison. Then as he rounded the corner of Pryor and Decatur Streets, he stopped. From somewhere up above, a voice was calling out, a friendly female voice offering flattering words.
“Hello, handsome!” the voice called, and John Henry looked up into the open windows of a Decatur Street bordello. “Lookin’ for some fun?”
Decatur Street was an interesting mix of businesses, with warehouses and proper saloons standing side by side with discreetly shuttered bordellos. Except on this hot summer night, when one dark-haired girl was daring to flaunt propriety and call to potential customers down in the street below. But John Henry wasn’t interested in a prostitute, and he told her so.
“I’m just out for a birthday drink, that’s all,” he said as politely as he could.
“Well, happy birthday,” she replied. “Kind of a poor party, though, celebratin’ all alone.”
“What makes you think I’m alone?”
She leaned a little farther out of the window and took a look up Decatur Street one way and then the other. “I don’t see anybody down there but you. Shame to be alone on your birthday. Why don’t you come up and share a drink or two with me? No charge, bein’ as it’s your special day. Business is slow tonight, anyhow.”
It wasn’t quite a proposition, but still he hesitated. Stopping into the Maison de Ville for a round of drinks on the house was one thing, but having a nightcap in a Decatur Street bordello would be quite another, if anyone saw him.
But who was there to see, in the dark lamplit hours past midnight? And she was a pretty thing, with a tangle of dark curls falling over a bosom indiscreetly exposed. Dark hair, he thought with a sudden stir of memory, like Kate Fisher’s . . .
“Well?” the girl asked as he stood a moment longer in the street. “Are you comin’ up or not?”
He took a quick breath and gave her his most gentlemanly smile. “I believe I am.”
Her room was at the end of a dark little hallway, but he found it fast enough, though once there, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’d only come up for a last drink of the night, after all, and there was only one chair for the two of them to share. The only other piece of furniture one could sit on was the bed, occupying most of the rest of the shabby chamber. And though he’d already had plenty of liquor for one night, he said uncomfortably, “You had a free drink for me? I’d prefer whiskey if you have it.”
“Whiskey it is,” she said cheerily. “Whatever the gentleman prefers.”
She brought the glass to where he stood, hat in hand. “Come now! At least let me take that nice hat of yours so you don’t spill your drink on it. Shame to spoil a nice expensive felt like that.”
She pulled the hat out of his hand and brushed it off gently, then laid it on the dressing table. She knew how to treat fine things, anyhow.
He finished the whiskey faster than he should have considering the amount of liquor he’d already downed that night, but the girl was already refilling his glass. She was a sweet and attentive little thing, bringing him his drinks like that and not expecting anything in return. Why had he hesitated before coming up? Then she startled him by reaching to touch the blue silk of his necktie.
“Pretty color,” she said, “just like your eyes. You have real nice blue eyes.” And in a moment the tie was loose and in her hand. “Silk is so soft, and mighty expensive too. You must be rich as well as handsome.”
He nodded, not sure what to say, but her pleasant chatter ran on like music in his liquor-filled mind. “A shame to do nothin’ but drink on your birthday,” she said as she moved closer to him, deftly unbuttoning the high starched collar from his shirt bosom, her fingers brushing over the blonde stubble on his neck, and she laughed when he jumped at the unexpected intimacy.
“Now don’t tell me this is your first time, a handsome thing like you! Must have been plenty of other girls ready to go for a tumble with you.”
He couldn’t answer her, his head dizzy with whiskey and his senses warming at her touch. He wondered if there was any liquor left in the bottle and if he could reach it easily from where he was standing. But he wasn’t standing anymore, as the girl took his hand and led him toward her bed.
“We’re gonna have a real nice birthday party together, just you and me. And when we’re done, you can pay me what you think it’s worth.”
What better way to celebrate his coming-of-age?
By the time he got back to Forrest Avenue, the dawn was breaking, the sky already beginning to thin out and turn from deep black to a misty early morning blue. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood sentinel in the front hall. Thank goodness it was still too early for the maid Sophie to be up getting breakfast. He couldn’t face anyone right now. He could hardly face himself.
“Johnny,” the girl had called him, like he was young as his young cousin. “Johnny,” she had murmured against his neck, and even the memory of the sound of it gave him chills all up and down. He could still feel that silky black hair of hers falling over his skin, still smell the perfume she rubbed down the long white curve of her throat. He hadn’t realized that sin could smell so sweet. He stood there letting the memory run across his skin and cursed himself for it. This must be what hell was like, he thought—trying to forget and relishing the memory all at once. If only he were a Catholic like Mattie and could attend confession! For surely God would understand how a woman like that could make a man forget his moral duty. In the future, he would be sure to do his drinking in a proper saloon.
He stepped lightly as he made his way up the stairs, glad the family was all still asleep, glad he’d spent most of the evening at the Maison de Ville where Lee Smith would surely keep his confidences. But as he snuck into the second-floor bedroom that he shared with Robert, he found his cousin still awake, sitting reading by the light of an oil lamp.
“You’re out late,” Robert commented, closing his book. “And you’ve been drinkin’, by the smell of you.”
“I was celebratin’ my birthday,” John Henry replied. “I reckon comin’-of-age means I’m man enough to do as I please. More of a man now than you are, anyhow –”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means my life is none of your business!” he said, the anger of the afternoon and the shame of the evening running together. He was sure that respectable Robert had never spent a few lost hours in a woman’s bed, on Decatur Street or anywhere else.
Robert studied him a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? You’re still just as selfish and thoughtless as ever. I wasn’t the only one waitin’ up for you. Mattie stayed up past midnight herself, worried over where you’d gone.”
“Mattie waited up?” John Henry said sharply, his heart growing cold. Mattie had waited up for him, while he was spending himself in a bordello?
“She had a birthday present for you and wanted to give it to you privately. Poor thing cares for you more than she should. And if you cared about her half as much as you care about yourself . . .”
“She had a present for me?” he asked as his heart slowly warmed again. If she cared enough to wait up, to bring him a gift, then there must still be hope . . .
“Take it,” Robert said, tossing a small paper-wrapped bundle into John Henry’s hands. “She asked me to give it to you as soon as you got home, so now I’ve done my duty. I won’t tell her how late you came in, or how much liquor you’ve been drinkin’. She deserves better than that.”
But not even Robert’s chastising words could hurt him, as he opened the package and found the gift that Mattie had brought for him: A little leather notebook, the pages blank as if she meant for him to fill them with his own words, the inside front cover inscribed in her delicate and feminine handwriting:
To my dearest cousin, J.H. Holliday –
Happy birthday!
Love always, M.A. Holliday
It had all been so easy, once he knew that she still cared, to set things back on course again. He’d simply taken her into the parlor of his Uncle’s house and lied a little, telling her that he had no intentions toward her other than friendship, so there was no reason to worry her father over his past or his future.
“But what about that talk we had, before you went off to Philadelphia?” she asked as they sat together on the hard horsehair sofa. “I thought you wanted . . .” she stopped, too well-bred to make such assumptions out loud.
He reached for her hand and held it lightly. “Of course I had intentions, Mattie. How could I not? You are the finest girl I know. Who wouldn’t want to win your heart?” That part came easily enough; he meant every word. Then he took a breath and went on. “But after Robert told me the situation with your father, of course my intentions no longer matter. I will never again press you for somethin’ you cannot give.”
“And we can still be friends?” she asked.
“Oh Mattie!” he said, with unfeigned emotion, “haven’t we always been friends?”
But alone with her there in the quiet of the parlor, with just a breath of space between them and her face tipped gently up to his, he had a sudden yearning to bend his head and kiss her, after all.
“Don’t look at me that way, John Henry,” she said softly.
“What way?” he asked.
“That way,” she said, pulling her head away from his shoulder, though she kept looking up as though his eyes had some kind of hold on her. “It makes me feel funny.”
“Funny good or funny bad?” he asked, teasing her a little, and enjoying the sudden discovery that he did still have some effect on her.
“Just funny, that’s all,” she said, giving a small quiver with her shoulders. “Just don’t do it anymore.”
But still she didn’t look away, and all at once he knew just what she meant. He had that same funny feeling too, flushed and breathless, and for a moment he didn’t know who had a magical hold over whom, or if they were both caught in the same thing.