Rose scuttled to the rear of the wagon and drew up her dress gently, and stepped up with no assistance whatsoever. “Go on Emmanuel. Get on Portia, before folks start to staring.”
Portia didn’t know what else to do, so stepped up beside her husband and prayed that the good Lord shut every judging eye they passed.
The wagon lumbered along at a slow pace and Rose made certain that she hunkered down and enjoyed the ride, remembering times she rode to town with her father, sharing her memories with Lily and Thomas.
Before long they had arrived at Jamison’s near the run down areas on the edge of town. The sewer smells brought her handkerchief to her nose and then she remembered her manners. This was home to some folks and well she should think of that. They all jumped down and children ran out from the facility, which was tattered and barely standing.
The building constructed of wood needed paint but was clean and tidy, if not modern. The smell of cornbread and beans wafted into their noses. Then the stink of stale fish from the wharves on this side of town soon covered the wonderful fragrances from within. Two outhouses stood at odd angles.
White-toothed smiles in dark faces were everywhere. Some stood back shyly while the elder children walked forward without a word and helped unload, eyes big with joy as each item was handed down.
“Come in. Sit down.” Mrs. Jamison offered her guests. “We were about to partake. And there’s plenty, right children?” She looked about.
Rose looked to Emmanuel. He nodded and she noticed immediately that several of the older children left. She wondered if they would be eating their dinner. She decided it was so and said, “I believe we will join, if you will allow us to pay for our meals.”
“’Tis not necessary. You are guests and are welcome at our table.” Mrs. Jamison said again.
“If you feed us as well as I think you will, we will pay our way.” Rose said, her chin jutting out.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Jamison said with a smile. “Come on then, we have hungry children. The others have gone for plates. You will not be eating anyone’s meal.”
Rose was glad Mrs. Jamison answered her question and lifted her skirts and found a bench. Emmanuel, Portia, Thomas and Lily followed. This was her first adventure outside her home. And a grand one it was, she decided.
Suddenly the room became silent. Prayers were offered up by Emmanuel, at Mrs. Jamison’s request. Rose knew they were standing, well, sitting on holy ground. Why had she spent so many days wandering around that big old house?
After bowls of beans and cornbread, the children began to bring out their handmade items to show to the guests. Rugs made of rags. Baskets made of reeds and grasses from the swamps. Bowls made from branches and sea shells. Spoons carved from wood. And jewel boxes made of beads and polished wood.
Rose noticed one of the smaller children sitting at the desk they’d brought. Proud looks and thankfulness were on the faces. She sensed they had much to teach her in the days to come. This would be her work until her husband came home from London. Home to fix the trouble she and Captain Wyatt had caused.
Chapter 11
The next day, June 29th Captain Wyatt came to call.
“The Emerald Star is loaded with her stock and wares. We will set out tomorrow morning. Is there anything you wish to send to your husband?” He offered quietly barely looking at her.
“Yes, if you would be so kind….” She hurried to the hall desk and extracted several letters from a drawer.
With a bit of embarrassment, for they smelled of lavender, she handed them to Captain Wyatt. “I have explained what transpired between Mr. Dalton and I.” She looked him in the eye.
“Aye. And I will be forthright with my part, as well.” He was solemn as he placed the letters in his pocket.
His dark eyes were bloodshot. She wondered if drink would destroy him. And what of the woman he was with. It was certain, Captain Wyatt was put out at having to be in this position and she, Ireland Rose, had not helped one bit.
Rose cast her eyes away and sensed the man needed to be on his ship and away.
Just like every other time, he bowed slightly and stalked out, boots clicking loudly on the polished wood floors then she heard them tap on the marble as he exited.
She pulled in a breath and prayed for Captain Wyatt and his crew a safe journey across.
* * *
Ashton Wyatt walked slowly this time. The woman was going to be his death. She had her coloring, her small stature. The haunting resemblance of a woman he loved stopped at Mrs. Lovell’s voice and tender gaze, he reminded himself. It had been more than ten years, why hadn’t he contained his bitterness? Why did her memory pierce his heart every time he entered that infernal house. And now he was obligated by duty to Captain Lovell. There was no way but to walk it through. He started for the tavern and hated himself.
* * *
Rose swept across the floor and made her way to the servant’s stairs. She meant to be busy today. Another storm was brewing outdoors. The rain had already begun to tap at the windows. The attic would be stifling, but she needed something to do before another bout of brooding overtook her. With firm steps she intended to search out more items for the orphanage now that she could see what it was about.
The entire afternoon was spent cleaning out the smaller trunks. Some had children’s clothes, which was perfect. She hadn’t noticed them before and set out to make piles.
Dust flying, she sneezed regularly and found that even her rolled up sleeves gave no comfort in the stifling heat.
She found items of interest and set them aside for another time. One a box of letters. Another what looked to be a handwritten journal. She wondered what family lived here before her husband purchased the house; her mind twittered away at all sorts of ideas. Her mother always said she was a dreamer. Perhaps she was.
Twice, she stopped and stepped down to the floor level to relieve her back and feel a bit of coolness. It was hard work walking, head bent, at the roof angle of the attic. Portia had scolded her, but to no avail. Now there was a large pile of laundry for Portia, so Rose found herself working alone until near dark.
Happy with the results, she asked Thomas if he might come up and carry several of the larger items down the narrow stairs. Whoever thought to carry trunks and portraits up these stairs into the attic must be quite daft, she concluded.
When Thomas was almost finished, she laughed out loud when one leg of a table broke off and bounced, stair by stair, like a pirate’s wooden limb, to the bottom. She caught Thomas’ eye and they nearly tripped over in laughter at the sound of it clunking each stair as it rattled down.
The day over, she patted her hands in the air, dust flying, and stepped down, Thomas behind her. “Well done.” She said. “Now Thomas, if you would please set these items in the extra room, we will load up again for the orphanage.
Thomas said smiling with joy, “Yes ma’am.”
Rose retired to her room. Portia had a warm bath ready and she climbed in filthy and came out half an hour later, smelling of lavender, and clean, hair to toe. Now what she wanted was a strong cup of English tea with cream and sugar and a book. An old book. She wanted to read history this afternoon.
Portia had hung the sheets for they smelled of fresh air. Sighing after a good day’s work, she arranged her pillows and threw herself across the bed on her stomach. The thick and heavy book on Irish history came from her husband’s library; she smelled it and cracked it open.
Not ten minutes later, she heard rumblings below stairs. Captain Wyatt was to leave on the morrow, so he would be preparing his crew. But who would call at this late hour, she wondered. Proper calling times were past.
Rose knew that she had been absent from Charleston’s society meetings these last weeks and now regretted it. Her husband had been right, indeed. She had no invitations or calling cards on the silver tray below stairs.
Hurriedly, she found a dress, forgetting that she’d given many of them to the orphanage. She
chose a soft pink lawn and slipped it over her head. It was not stylish in the least, but then no one had left their card this afternoon, signaling they would be callers, so it did not matter her appearance this eve.
Thankfully, the dress did not require buttoning up the back, for it was an older style. Her long hair, still wet from the bath needed Portia’s nimble fingers. Rose fumbled with it and found it heavy and tangled. Shrugging, she picked up a brush and worked at the mess. She wished that her hair was not so thick at times like these.
Portia came bursting into the room. “No need to worry, Miz Rose, just a child from the orphanage bringing you a lemon cake.”
“A child from the orphanage,” she repeated. “Bother, I’ll go down as I am.” She scurried away before her maid could protest.
“Ah, a babe…” She heard Portia speak under her breath.
Happily, Rose didn’t mind at all that she was almost running, so happy she was to know there was a young visitor at the door.
“Emmanuel, I’m on my way. Hold the door.” Rose ordered. “Ah, I see I have made it before the young lass has gone her way.” She cried out.
The dark eyes looking back at her were large.
“Please come in. What is your name?”
“Arella.” Came the shy voice. But she did not move.
“Arella. What a beautiful name. So you have brought a cake for me then?” Rose coaxed her just inside the door.
The girl appeared to be twelve, maybe fourteen, Rose wasn’t sure. She took the cake from Emmanuel. “Shall we have some? I am famished.”
The girl’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She had never been invited to eat with a…a rich white woman. She started backing away and shaking her head.
“Do you have permission to stay for perhaps an hour? It is nearly dark. I will have Emmanuel take you back by wagon should it be required.” She offered.
“I…I had better get back right away.” She said nervously. “I ain’t s’posed to come inside.” Her eyes grew large.
“Okay. Then you must do your duty. Can we sit out on the verandah then?”
“Guessin’ that’d be all right.” She said.
“Emmanuel would you please ask Portia to bring us tea? And a knife so we can devour this lovely cake. I promise to share.” She smiled at him as he turned.
“Arella, did you make this cake yourself?”
She nodded sitting stiffly in the white cane chair.
“Did your mother teach you how?” Rose made conversation as the early evening sound of crickets chimed in. The wind blew the willowy trees softly, the day’s raindrops blowing away dry before they fell.
“Mama died when I was nine.”
“I’m so sorry.” Rose gazed at the girl. “And she taught you how to cook, then?”
“Yes’m.”
“My mother died, too. And my father. In Ireland.”
The girl’s head swung toward her and Rose caught her eye. “Seems we have something in common.”
Thankfully, Portia came with tea and plates. A strange smile rested on her lips. Rose guessed her maid was just as pleased to serve another as Rose was.
“Portia, would you join us, please?”
Portia’s eyebrows shot upwards but she pulled off her apron, looked about, and sat. She reached for the teapot, but Rose gave her a look and lifted it herself and poured, then served their guest first and then Portia before she took her own. She saw Portia look left and then right and out front, she knew, checking to see if any of the society ladies may be walking by. For the house was on the Battery and many people took advantage of the boulevard and the river views nearby. Rose knew she’d hear about it later.
No one was about and Rose was glad, for it settled Portia down immediately. The three talked of the orphanage, St. Michael’s Church, and the weather.
At the end of the evening, Portia and Emmanuel set out in the wagon and deposited Arella safely home. In Arella’s arms were three lightweight blankets from the hall bureau and a small hand-stitched pillow from Portia.
Chapter 12
Weeks passed without word from Captain Lovell or Captain Wyatt. Rose began to feel the creeping of worry climb up into her mind. She prayed every day and wondered what would keep the two from writing, unless…no she would not entertain those thoughts.
Her work at the orphanage kept her busy. The entire house had been sorted and reduced to such as they needed. All extra furniture, dishes, clothes and shoes were given to the orphanage. Rose had never been happier. She must continue to spend the days fruitfully so she could tell her husband all that had passed. She knew he would be proud of her.
With not a little fear and trembling, she was to accompany Stella to a private women’s meeting where funds were to be raised for the African orphanage. Someone had dared release that information and Rose doubted there would be many in attendance since the most prominent women of Charleston were the epitome of kindness to the white orphanage.
But Rose scolded herself for judging. What did it matter who was helped as long as it was the needy. She knew the other women were called in one direction, she in another, that was all. God expected no one to be someone else, only themselves. She thought about that for a few minutes. Who was she? What was she here for? She would never bear children. Rose felt a certain sadness, for she so wanted them. But if that was not meant to be, heaven knows, there were already many children who needed a mother. And her husband was known for his service to the poor here and in London. Why should she not join him? Her resolve firmed. She stepped up into Stella’s carriage and her driver took them to the Episcopal Church where the meeting was to be held.
Rose had not set foot in this church. When they walked through the doors, she gasped at the beautiful stained glass windows at the front, the mahogany pews. The platform graduated level by level until one could see the simple white cross between the tall, colorful windows painted with scenes from the Lord’s book.
The high ceilings were planked with cedar boards and two lecterns stood at the ready, one on the floor, the other on a tall pedestal.
Several ladies meandered toward the front of the church. When they had gathered Rose counted five in all, including Stella and herself. They waited a proper amount of time and began the meeting. Speaking quietly, they introduced themselves. Twenty minutes later, Miss Celeste Antoinette Bertram walked into the church, her blond hair swung up beautifully revealing her slender neck, blue eyes scanning the pews.
She put a white gloved hand over her brow and found the ladies. Slowly, she made her way up front. “Oh, I’m sorry to be late. Is there room for another?” She asked sweetly.
Rose could see the word “no” forming on Stella’s lips and prayed she would keep quiet. Perhaps the rich and beautiful Miss Bertram was inclined to be of service. They could use all the help they could muster, Rose thought.
“Please join us.” One kind lady said. And then there were introductions again.
Oddly, Miss Bertram sat next to Rose. There were other seats more convenient but she seemed to choose carefully.
Stella all but rolled her eyes. Rose gave her a look.
One fashionable hour of talk passed and the ladies dismissed. Stella stood to her feet and Rose watched as she lifted her dress and stomped toward the door.
“Mrs. Lovell…how good to see you.” Miss Bertram stood in front of her, barring her leave.
“Miss Bertram. I hear congratulations are in order.” She said sweetly. “Is there a date for the occasion?”
“We are discussing the matter. The heat is too severe for my dress, so we may wait until Christmas for the nuptials. St. Michael’s is already attained.” She said, her hands fluttering in the air. “And the dress must be shipped over from Paris, you know.”
“Oh, that will be a lovely affair.” Rose said kindly and stepped to the side. “It is good to see you. Perhaps you’ll be at the next meeting?”
“Indeed.” And Miss Bertram sashayed down the wide aisle leaving the others
in her wake. All except Stella.
Rose hurried to meet up with Stella. She knew there would be plenty of talk all the way home. She only hoped her friend remembered they had arrived together.
The horses were dancing. Stella’s man was impatient, or should she say Stella was impatient to leave. “Did you see her? She was there to spy. I’m telling you Rose, I can’t abide that woman.”
Rose remained quiet, letting her friend blow off some steam. It would help settle her nerves. Stella was no-nonsense and Rose liked her for that. She couldn’t quite bring herself to judge her since Stella always told the truth the way she saw it.
The carriage jerked forward. Stella stewed most of the way. Rose knew she was holding her tongue for her sake.
“I’m excited about our plans for Jamison’s.” Rose tried a different tact. Their first assignment was to talk to friends who may be interested in donating quality items. Or they might hire out the older children for work in the gardens, the kitchen or child care assistance.
Stella still stewed, her jaw clamped shut.
Rose smiled and allowed her gaze to follow the cobblestone pathway. The clanking of hooves and wheels rolling over the cobblestone street made it impossible to talk anyway. She wondered how her husband was doing and hoped a letter may be waiting when she arrived home.
The strong fragrance of Gardenia lifted her spirits. The plantation families from the low country were away at their summer homes to escape the oppressive heat. Rose tapped her handkerchief across her brow wishing for a large glass of Portia’s sweet tea. Even the vines and branches seemed to hang lower as the moist heat settled on the evening ground.
Stella said her goodbyes and Rose knew she would have plenty to tell Foster this evening. She wished she could tell Captain Lovell about her day. Sensing he would be proud of her, she stepped down from the carriage and hurried inside. Maybe a letter had come in the post.
Her hat was off and she tossed it willy nilly on the hat rack then made for the hall table where Portia always set her mail. No letter. Sighing, she lifted her skirts, glad that she’d gotten in the door without disturbing Emmanuel. No doubt they were tired from their daily chores and might even now be sitting in the garden sipping tea.