Beauty From Ashes (7 page)

“Grandpapa did surprise you, didn’t he?” John Couper asked, still half laughing. “Mama, the old gentleman will be so proud of himself that even Uncle James’s most elaborate birthday celebration will have to take second place!”

“The old gentleman?”

“Grandpapa!”

Then it was Anne’s turn to laugh. “Do you know I never think of him that way?”

“I know, because you’ve told me a hundred times that you and Grandpapa always called Uncle James Hamilton the Old Gentleman—even when he was still a boy.”

“Look at us, standing here like bumps on a log. When did you know you could come for Papa’s ninetieth birthday party? I thought Mr. McCleskey said you couldn’t get away quite yet.”

“He did. And even I didn’t know I could come until Mr. McCleskey informed me himself —after he got Grandpapa’s letter, of course.”

“What letter?”

John Couper took her arm and led her toward the closed parlor doors. “Let’s have him tell you. He deserves to squeeze the last drop out of his excellent performance in our behalf, don’t you think?”

“Yes. But first I have to know how long you can stay.”

“Until the day after the celebration. Grandpapa persuaded my employers to give me four full days.”

Anne shook her head and smiled. In her smile she let her son see into the fathomless depths of the singular respect and adoration she’d always held for her own father, who had never failed to find a way to make everything right. “John Couper, your father and I gave you an honored

name.” 81

“I know, Mama. I’ll never be able to live up to it, but I’ll certainly try.”

Anne grabbed his hand in a tight grip. “How —how will I be able to endure losing him too?”

His arms around her, John Couper said nothing for a moment. He just held her close. And as she struggled against tears, her mind went back to the afternoon on the Cannon’s Point veranda only an hour or two after they’d buried John. The strong young man holding her now was six and a half then, but he had helped her believe that once they moved back to Lawrence, the sunrise would somehow push away the shadows nearly suffocating her that frightening day. He’d been right. She had lived almost ten years believing in the promise of the Lawrence sunrise. At least most of the time she’d believed in it—thanks to young John Couper. This minute, as he stood holding her in his arms, there was no need for words spoken in his grown-up, man’s voice. She could still hear her boy child as he had spoken to her that helpless, long-ago afternoon: “I guess maybe when there’s enough light, Mama, the shadows just sort of go away, don’t they?”

Then, the gentle, tender man’s voice asked, “Does the Lawrence sunrise still help, Mama?”

John Couper had done it for her again. She lifted her head from his shoulder and took one step back so that she could look straight up at him. “Yes, Son. The sunrise still helps. Even on a rainy morning, I know it’s there. It will help when—when we lose Grandpapa too. Thank you for reminding me. Anyway, your grandfather’s right here—right in the parlor gloating, I’m sure, unable to wait a second longer to revel in his perfect surprise.”

“It’s hard to believe, but he will be ninety years old day after tomorrow,” John Couper said. “If there’s any way I can help you get ready for the possibility that this could be his last birthday, tell me, please.”

“You’ve already helped me—again, Son. Just go on being the finest son a mother ever had and forgive me for borrowing more sorrow.” She made herself smile up at him. “I do still live at dear Lawrence with that sunrise, you know. Don’t worry about your fretting mother. The last thing she ever means to do is to trouble you.” Her smile widened. “Or to lean

too hard against you. Don’t let me lean 83 too hard, John Couper. Not ever.”

“Do you think we’re supposed to wait for Grandpapa to slide open the doors? Or should I do it?”

“You open them. Papa won’t be able to stand the suspense much longer, I’m sure.”

Although there wasn’t a single stranger in the spacious Hopeton parlor, Fanny, always more at ease observing than talking, stood with her back to one of the high front windows that looked out onto the greening lawn to the canal. She watched them all, a contented smile on her plain, smooth young face. Even if she thought of something to say, Fanny was sure she couldn’t be heard above the din of laughter and merriment filling the room. Most of all, she was watching her pretty mother. I declare, Fanny thought, Mama hasn’t looked this young or this pretty since Papa went away. How she loves and depends on John Couper! Here it was supposed to be a big birthday celebration for Grandpapa, and as usual,

he pulled one of his merry pranks by keeping it a secret that John Couper’s new employers in Savannah would, after all, let him leave his work for four whole days to be with us for this happy time.

The last any of the Frasers had heard, John Couper would not be able to be there. No one had told her so, but Fanny’s hunch was very strong that Grandpapa had written one of his most persuasive letters to Mr. McCleskey, his young friend. Mr. McCleskey had relented and John Couper now stood beaming down at Mama, who still clung to his arm, then across the room at Grandpapa, then around the big room at the whole family. No wonder shouts and talk and laughter rang. There were five Frasers and Eve, all but one of Uncle James’s big brood, plus Grandpapa.

The contented smile left Fanny’s face when suddenly, despite the throng of close family members, she felt her father’s absence—and Annie’s, Aunt Isabella’s, and Grandmama’s—so painfully she had to blink back tears. This was certainly no time for sorrow. At least it was no time to let the sorrow show. But how proud Papa would be if he could see his only

son giving so much support and strength 85 to Mama! Maybe he could see—maybe he could see them all. Maybe Papa and Annie and Aunt Belle and Grandmama Couper were together this minute, enjoying the gathering of the clan, as Grandpapa would call it, right there in the beautiful Hopeton parlor. As Christians that’s what they were all supposed to believe. It was just so hard when no one had yet found a way to prove it. “Faith has nothing whatever to do with proof,” Pete went on reminding her. “It has only to do with whether you think God is truthful or not. Didn’t He say the night before they killed Him that where He went, there we would be also? Either we believe Him or we don’t, Fanny.”

How did Pete get to be so sure about everything?

Every single night of their lives, the two sisters had shared a room. Fanny, for the first few years after Papa went away, cried herself to sleep most nights. She’d cried, too, when their oldest sister, Annie, died and also Grandmama Couper, even though she had never lived in the same house with her grandmother. Not once had she caught Pete weeping. When did she do it? Pete always

appeared to be in charge, but her heart, Fanny knew, was tender. She must have cried a lot, especially on those sweet but strained evenings after Mama got so she could bear to play her pianoforte again without Papa there to sing. Six years separated the two sisters. Pete wasn’t all that much more grown-up than Fanny. I’m seventeen, she thought. How could Pete be so much more mature? And why did Pete seem not to care a fig about falling in love? Heaven knew, Fanny cared. But where did she ever go to meet eligible young men? Their little cottage at Lawrence was so rundown that Mama wouldn’t dream of entertaining, and evidently because of the financial panic all over the country, no one, not even Grandpapa or Uncle James Hamilton, had any money to fix it up.

Mama couldn’t bear to live anywhere else. Everyone knew that. No one who knew Mama believed she could make it through her days without the almost daily beauty of the sunrise over the marshes. Fanny hadn’t said much about it, but when Pete wasn’t looking, she too went first thing to their bedroom window, hoping as Mama must have hoped every morning for either clear skies or just enough

clouds to heighten the beauty. Would Pete 87 have made fun of her if she’d seen Fanny checking the sunrise? No. Pete did it too. Being Pete, she just went in plain view of Fanny or anyone else who happened to be nearby. Pete did everything that way, always seeming sure that if she did it, whatever it was, it would work out just fine.

Look at Pete now, Fanny thought, wondering what on earth her sister found to discuss so vehemently with Uncle James’s two sons, James Maxwell and John Lord Couper. After all, they were only about twelve and fourteen. How could Pete find such an animated subject for conversation with either of them?

In some ways I’m better with grown-ups, though, Fanny reminded herself. At least Mama says I am. “I never have to worry about what startling thing Fanny might blurt out before people,” Mama often told Pete. “I wish you’d think for two or three seconds before you say whatever it is your thinking, Pete. You are a young lady now.”

When Aunt Caroline, holding four-year-old William by one hand and little Rebecca Isabella

by the other, hurried to the window Fanny had been standing near during the excited hubbub in the room, her aunt was laughing. Then her still very pretty face abruptly took on a look of concern. “Fanny, my dear, is something the matter? Why are you over here all by yourself when the others—me included—are acting like silly children about to open Christmas presents?”

Fanny took care to give her an especially cheerful smile. “Oh, you’re just not with me much anymore, Aunt Caroline. I’m—I’m the dull, quiet one in our family. I just enjoy watching instead of taking part. Nothing’s the matter. Honest.” Fanny looked around the handsomely furnished room. “If I lived here at Hopeton, I think I’d never leave this glorious parlor of yours. What a beautiful house you keep for Uncle James!”

Aunt Caroline laughed again. “My dear girl, you know perfectly well your uncle selects every stick of furniture, every candlestand, every piece of tapestry and damask for every chair.”

“But you really adorn his house. Some people think he’s stiff and—well, difficult because he’s so precise and careful about everything, but you’re happy

with him, aren’t you? And you’ve always been 89 fun-loving.”

“I declare, Fanny, you should talk more often. You’ve a golden tongue—like your handsome father always had.”

At that moment Fanny saw little Rebecca’s laughing face turn serious. To get her attention, the child pulled at the end of Fanny’s best silk scarf. “Cousin Fanny, does it feel terrible having your father dead?”

“Rebecca, what a dreadful thing to ask our cousin!”

“No,” Fanny said. “I think it’s a perfectly plausible question. Yes, Rebecca. Sometimes it feels really terrible. Especially in the evenings when I miss the way he used to sing for us while Mama played.”

When Eve, who had gone to the Hopeton kitchen to help out, came to serve them a glass of blackberry juice from an ornate silver tray, she said, “Miss Rebecca Isabella, I ‘spect Fanny she miss her papa’s laughin’ more’n she miss almos’ anything.”

“How come you take part in our parlor talk, Eve? Our servants aren’t allowed to do that,” young

Rebecca stated.

All Fanny could think to say was “Eve’s— Eve’s different, Rebecca. That’s all. Families do things differently. You’ll find that out someday.”

“Why?” young William piped.

“Never mind why,” Aunt Caroline said. “Look! Look over there, Son. Your grandpapa’s motioning for you to come stand beside his chair. He may have something very important to tell you.”

When the small boy raced across the room, Rebecca said thoughtfully, “Papa forbids servants to chatter. Is it because my father doesn’t laugh a lot, the way people say?”

“But when Papa does laugh,” Aunt Caroline put in, “it’s a wonderful sound. Don’t you think it is, Becca?”

“Are you calling her Becca now?” Fanny asked.

“Yes,” the young girl answered quickly. “Grandpapa started to call me Becca because that’s what he always called our grandmother. I’m named for her and he misses her, so he calls me Becca. Grandmama’s dead, too, you know.”

“Yes, Becca, I know. Do you remember our

grandmother?” 91

“I—I think so,” the child said. “She died while she and Grandpapa were here on a visit. Mama says it was just a few months after Uncle William Audley and Aunt Hannah King got married.”

“I might have known William Audley and Hannah wouldn’t get here until tomorrow,” Aunt Caroline said, relieved at the change of subject. “William’s working so hard at Hamilton these days. He’s really trying to live up to the fine precedent your father set, Fanny.”

Before Fanny could think of anything to say, little Becca pulled her scarf again and asked, “Don’t a lot of people die? At least a lot people we know have died, haven’t they, Cousin Fanny?”

“Becca, today is no time for such talk. We’re supposed to be having a happy day in Grandpapa’s honor. When anyone lives to be ninety years of age, it’s cause for celebration. Now, run over to where he’s sitting and tell him you’re there to wish him a cheerful, happy birthday! After all, the day after tomorrow will be your birthday too.”

When the girl scampered off, Fanny gave Aunt Caroline her most loving smile. “Did you ever realize that I love you a lot, Aunt Caroline? You didn’t need to send Rebecca Isabella away. It’s all right for her to let me know she even noticed that—four members of our family died so close together.”

“You’re very sensible and strong, aren’t you, Fanny?”

“I am?”

“I overheard Becca talking to Pete about all the death’s we’ve experienced, and she made a joke to distract the child. I could tell Pete couldn’t face talk of it with such a young girl. Pete seems so strong and in command, too.”

“And I don’t because I’m quiet a lot, is that it?”

“I don’t know exactly. I do know I’m relieved to have discovered such poise and strength in you, my dear. Now, it is time for more merriment or Grandpapa Couper is going to explode. I can’t imagine what’s preventing Lydia from clanging her dinner bell. It’s past time for us to dine.” Laughing, Aunt Caroline said, “In fact, I’ll give your Uncle James exactly

two minutes before he comes striding across this 93 room to inquire of me why she’s all of seven minutes late!”