Beauty From Ashes (20 page)

“Somepin gonna happen to help, Miss Anne,” Eve said, her voice low and tender. “Eve not just sayin’ that. You see. Maybe not today —maybe not even dis year—but somepin good gonna happen for you again. Ain’t always gonna be so dark.”

In a way even Anne could not have described to anyone, one small thing that did help a little came to her notice when least expected: She looked up through her tears into Eve’s creamy brown face and saw that her cheeks were also wet.

“You loved Papa, too, didn’t you, Eve?” Anne asked.

“In their way, ain’t nobody didn’t take to Mausa Couper, Miss Anne.”

In September 1850, the year Anne’s father died, her sisters-in-law, Frances Anne Wylly Fraser and Caroline Wylly Couper, lost their mother. Of course, Anne and her girls made the boat trip to St. Simons Island with James Hamilton and Caroline to attend the funeral of Mrs. Margaret Wylly at Christ Church. In a brief moment together following the burial, Anne promised Frances Anne to send her own daughter Fanny to spend time with the exhausted Wylly sisters at their St. Simons plantation within a week or so.

“That’s so good of you, Anne, but I know how your heart breaks when you have to live apart from any of your family,” Frances said as they stood together in the shell road in front of the tiny white church. “I also know something of what I have ahead of me and how much help she’ll be, so I’m not going to refuse. Fanny must be head over heels with sewing for all of you, though. You need mourning

clothes, too.”

“So do you and your sisters,” Anne said. “You’ll see how fine a seamstress my Fanny really is. Just don’t let her strain her eyes too much. Ever since that dreadful bout with measles the winter before John left us, her eyes have been weak.” The two women embraced. “You can count on it. Fanny will be over here on the Island in just a few days from now.”

“Thank you, thank you! But is there a chance you might come, too, for a good, long visit later this fall, Anne?”

“Yes. There’s always a chance.” Anne’s laugh was halfhearted. “I’m homeless, remember? I feel my place is with dear Caroline at Hopeton for a few days. And with my brother. They have been so kind to us, and James Hamilton has somehow changed since we lost Papa. Of course, he’s as proper and strict as ever, but he’s also a very tender man. And Frances, I’m still dreaming for us both. For you and for me. Even though I do miss talking to Papa, I’m still believing that somehow, someday, you and I will find a way not to be homeless any longer. We need time together now, more than ever. I believe

I’ll try to come with Fanny.” 261

For Anne, the weeks she and Fanny spent at the Village on St. Simons with the Wylly girls were both sad and interesting. Her own grief over Papa was still fresh, so Anne inevitably felt the lostness and the sorrow of Frances Anne, Margaret Matilda, and Heriot. John, Anne knew, would have been more intrigued than ever by Heriot, who seemed to make the most creative use of her sadness. From morning till night she worked along with two Wylly gardeners, laying out new flower beds in memory of their late mother. Matilda wept almost steadily for the first few weeks and seemed able to dry her eyes only when infuriated enough that Heriot was “enjoying herself frittering with flowers—using Mama’s death as an excuse.”

“Don’t try to make sense of what my sisters say to each other, Anne,” Frances Anne warned after the first few arguments overheard from the new flower bed outside the dining-room windows. “Poor Matilda has never learned to accept Heriot as she is, and Heriot is convinced that Matilda’s weeping is mainly an

alibi for not helping set out new daisy plants. I just hope their bickering doesn’t cause you and Fanny to flee St. Simons earlier than you’d planned.”

“I hadn’t really planned,” Anne said. “I’ve long ago stopped such foolishness.” Forcing a small laugh, she added, “These days, Frances Anne, I’m trying to learn to substitute dreaming for anything so definite as a plan.”

“Do you realize you’ve never actually told me why Pete didn’t come along with you?” Frances asked as the two friends sat on the Wylly veranda, working at the seemingly interminable task of taking hems out of the parlor draperies that shrank with a recent washing.

“I know,” Anne said. “I think I’m a little embarrassed to tell you.”

“Why on earth would you be embarrassed?”

“Because I’m all but sure I sent her on a wild-goose chase up to Liberty County.”

“I know you and Pete exchanged several letters right after you arrived to spend this time with me, but what kind of wild-goose chase?”

“The girl is house hunting.” Anne tossed

a length of summer curtain to one side. 263 “Frances Anne, I’m not at all sure how much longer I can go on living from pillar to post. I knew it would be worse with Papa gone, but I didn’t, in my scariest nightmare, think it could be this hard!”

“Did you have a particular house in mind up there?”

“Not really. I acted on pure rumor that there just might be a decent cottage available on twenty acres near some of Mama’s Maxwell relatives in Liberty County. So far, I haven’t heard a word from her. Pete promised to write to me here at your place. Nothing.”

For a time, neither woman spoke. Frances Anne went busily ahead picking at a curtain hem. Anne stared into the sun-dappled late November woods where the Wylly south fields, no longer being planted, were going to pines and gums and hickories.

Finally, Frances Anne said, “Heriot and Matilda can’t go on here alone. Neither has the faintest idea how to manage crops, or people. Our young overseer is leaving after the cotton is picked next year. I’ve known things would come

to this, but I confess I hadn’t faced it. And my dependable brother John lies over there in the churchyard—unable to help, thanks to our neighbor Dr. Thomas F. Hazzard and his hot temper and trigger finger almost twelve years ago.”

“Frances, forgive me for complaining. My problems aren’t nearly as bad as yours.”

“Do you suppose Heriot and Matilda will ever get along living together—just the two of them? Anne, I don’t want to share a home with them. My own sisters! I should be ashamed. I’m not.”

“Is there the slightest chance that once he’s back from this voyage at sea, your son James might see the need for him to take over here?”

“He might see the need, but he’ll never settle down. I’m worried about his health, too. He coughs so hard. Had he been going to battle instead of on a cargo ship, I’m sure he’d have been rejected for health reasons.”

“I knew he looked thin when I saw him last, but are you really afraid he’s seriously ill?”

“I’m afraid about almost everything, Anne. The only comfort I have right now in my whole life,

humanly speaking, is Menzies. I’d 265 give almost anything if I were living in Marietta, Georgia, right now. Just to be near enough to his school to see the boy now and then.”

“I’m glad you are considering moving permanently to Savannah. He’ll be working there once school is finished. Have you thought of that?”

“I’ve thought of almost nothing else since Mama died except the disruption of facing life shut up in the same house with my sisters.”

“Menzies is your—John Couper, isn’t he?”

“If you mean I depend on the boy as you depend on young John Couper, yes. Oh, yes! Anne, are we selfish to lean on our two sons as we do?”

“Probably. I, for one, can’t help it, though. Although in hundreds of ways I depend on Pete, Fanny, even my youngest, Selina, I still find myself counting on John Couper to rescue me when I most need someone.”

“This minute, there’s almost nothing I dread more than for you to end your time here on St. Simons with me, but Anne, shouldn’t you consider visiting Miss Eliza Mackay in Savannah next?

John Couper is living just blocks from her house. Wouldn’t it help you to spend some time with the boy? Savannah’s so close. My Menzies in Marietta is hundreds of miles north. Miss Eliza and her daughters are always so eager to have visitors.”

“I’ve already imposed on that dear lady enough. Fanny and Pete and I were there twice last year, I think it was. Speaking of my good Fanny, isn’t she nearly finished with your Sunday mourning dress—and do you like it, really?”

“Yes, bless her, she’s almost through. Just the collar to be stitched on, and the dress is beautiful. Fanny’s so talented. And seems really contented with what she does with her days. I expect she’s up in the room you two share right now, hard at work basting that collar into place. I wish there was something I could do to show my gratitude to the child.”

“You’ve given us a refuge again.” Then Anne surprised herself by asking, “Do you have any idea how much I miss Eve since I’ve been here? Frances, how do you really feel about—owning people? I know how William and John felt.” She tried a halfhearted laugh. “I certainly

know how Fanny Kemble Butler felt. 267 But what about you by now? You and William had only three people—none as close to you, I gather, as I am to Eve. I miss her. Is there something wrong with me?”

“Not that I know of. And I know Eve misses you. How in the world did you ever convince her to stay back at Hopeton while you came here?”

“I didn’t convince her. She—obeyed me. Reminding me all the while that she had no choice but to obey because I do own her. I could smack her when she brings that up.”

“But Anne, you do own Eve—and her husband.”

“I know I do!”

“My, you’re touchy on the subject.”

“Yes. But I honestly thought by now she’d be here. June vows he means to tend that new olive tree he set out right after Papa died until it’s strong enough to move to Papa’s grave in the churchyard. I thought surely he’d be arriving at Cannon’s Point any day to check the olive trees and that Eve would assert herself and come with him, just to be sure Fanny and I are all right.”

Now Frances Anne laughed. “You do miss her, don’t you? And to answer your question, I don’t

know—I still don’t know—what I think about owning slaves, because I stay too occupied with my own selfish moilings over where I’ll go someday and what I’ll be doing. It is unusual the way you and Eve are so close. I’ve been fond of a few of our people—quite fond of old Bess, who raised me—but no one since I’ve been an adult. I haven’t had anyone long enough, I guess. To me, all the people here at the Village are still my parents’ property.”

“In John Couper’s weekly letter, which came yesterday, he seemed to think that the new Compromise introduced by Senator Henry Clay might help calm some of the growing anger between the North and the South over slavery. I admit I don’t know much about it. With John and Papa both gone, I know very little about what’s going on in Washington City, I’m afraid. I’m sure my brother does, but unlike Papa and John, he thinks women don’t understand such things. John Couper told me, though, that Governor George W. Towns is to call a convention when he thinks the troubles over slavery are bad enough. I believe my son said he’s called it for next month, December 10, in

Milledgeville. I’ll find out what 269 happens, I’m sure, since dear old Mr. Thomas Spalding, Papa’s closest friend, is to chair the meeting.”

“At his age? He must be way up in his seventies. And does he actually write to you, Anne?”

“Now and then I have a letter from him. One of his daughters writes for him. I think he must be nearly seventy-seven. I hope making the trip to Milledgeville won’t be too much for the old darling. One thing I know. He’ll go if at all possible. Thomas Spalding loves the Union, which, of course, puts him at fiery odds with his friend Mr. Calhoun of South Carolina. I can’t help thinking how Papa would relish being at that state convention. He cared as deeply about the Union as Mr. Spalding does.”

“I’ve always heard that down in their hearts your father and Mr. Spalding disapproved of owning slaves, too. Does John Couper think there could be any kind of real trouble over this new Compromise?”

“If men like John C. Calhoun have any say, he does think so, yes. What kind of

trouble I’m not sure, but I know my son fairly well. I can even read between the lines of his letters.”

“I know there must be a lot of talk about the resentment between the Northern states and those down here, but no one else in this house gives it a thought. Mama’s illness and now the mountain of decisions to make are all anyone talks about. Plus Heriot’s garden.”

“Frances Anne, I’ve just decided something. If it’s convenient for her, I am going to take Fanny and visit Miss Eliza Mackay in Savannah after all! Are you sure you and your sisters won’t mind having Fanny and me through Christmas? We may just go right on to Savannah from here early in the new year.”

“Haven’t I already begged you to stay? If you had any real idea how I dread being alone with only my sisters and their sparring, you’d stay out of the goodness of your heart.”

Frances Anne vowed there would have been no peaceful hours at the Wyllys’ home during the

holidays had Anne and Fanny not been 271 there as welcome guests. Saying good-bye to Frances Anne was far from easy for Anne when, early on the morning of January 2, she and Fanny boarded one of Captain James Frewin’s schooners at Frederica for the water trip to Savannah, with a night spent at the home of friends in Darien en route.

Eliza Mackay had written at once urging them to visit her, and when John Couper surprised his mother and sister by meeting them in Darien for the final leg of the journey with his father’s old friend Captain Frewin from St. Simons, Anne felt almost young again, almost excited in a way she hadn’t experienced in years.

John Couper surprised them for the second time by having rented a carriage, which was waiting at the Savannah waterfront to take them and their luggage in style to the familiar old Mackay house on East Broughton Street. With Miss Eliza and her two daughters, they enjoyed a deliciously prepared dinner and heard the latest news. That wise, aging Eliza Mackay feared trouble ahead in the country was plain to see. As did most ladies, Miss Eliza deferred

to John Couper for his ideas concerning the likelihood that the South would follow Georgia and accept the terms of the much-talked-about Compromise of 1850, as it was known, written in the main by the eminent Senator Henry Clay and designed to reconcile the differences now dividing the antislavery and the proslavery forces of Congress and the nation.