A Hope Beyond (19 page)
“I’m not the reason James left,” Carolina whispered to Virginia’s now peaceful face. “I’m not to blame for your choices.”
Then she turned to go, not completely certain of the truth of her words, because all her denials would never change the fact that Carolina had fallen in love with Virginia’s fiancé.
Carolina was still contemplating her future the following week when she visited the White House. President Jackson had opened his home to the public in celebration of Washington’s birthday. The entire city was a mass of confusion and revelry during that holiday, and Carolina found herself actually quite anxious to return to the quiet of country life. But she wanted to see President Jackson once more before returning to Oakbridge.
She was received warmly by the staff, who by this time recognized the young woman whom their President had come to admire. She carried with her Jackson’s letters and felt a lingering sorrow as she pushed through the crowds to make her way to the staircase. These people had little idea the anguish and pain that had been inflicted upon Rachel and Andrew Jackson. Nor did they know of their deep abiding love—a love that had suffered through many separations.
Throughout the house were tables laden with gifts. Pipes, ornate walking sticks, a small wagon made of hickory, hats, and other personal articles all came from the people who loved Jackson and wished to bid him a fond farewell from public office. The strangest gift of all came in the form of a huge wheel of cheese. Said to weigh fourteen hundred pounds, the cheese was four feet in diameter. At least it had been at the start of the day. Now there was little left of it given that every visitor to the White House had taken for himself a memento of the day. The smell of cheese lingered in the air, however, and Carolina smiled to think of the onslaught that must have ensued to so diminish the thing.
Jackson’s mulatto, George, stood at the top of the stair awaiting her ascent. He bowed slightly and led the way to the President’s bedroom. It was said that Jackson had only come downstairs five times since the December elections. His health and spirit were failing him fast, and Carolina felt honored that he’d given her so much of his time and strength.
Passing through, she silently contemplated the upstairs hallway. There were packing boxes and trunks everywhere. The eight-year accumulation of Jackson memorabilia had to be readied for the move to the Hermitage, Jackson’s beloved plantation in Tennessee.
George paused to open the bedroom door, then stood back to allow Carolina entry into the room. The drapes were pulled against the harsh winter light, and only two candles were lighted.
“Miss Adams,” the aged Jackson called from his bed, “what an honor to receive you. Please take off your coat and stay with me a while.”
“The honor is mine, sir,” she said. Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, Carolina set it aside and quickly shed her coat as well. She took her place on a straight chair beside the bed and smiled. “I don’t blame you for hiding out here. The crowds downstairs are quite unruly.”
He smiled, the weary lines of his wrinkled face lifting for a moment. “There is nothing quite like a party to fetch in the prettiest of women. I must say, you grow more lovely by the day.”
Carolina felt herself flush, but she kept her gaze firmly fixed on Jackson. In her heart, she wondered if he would live to see his successor take the oath of office in March.
“I read worry in those lovely brown eyes,” he said before she could voice her thoughts.
“It is my prayer that you recover your health,” Carolina replied softly.
“I will recover when I’m once again returned to my home.” He spied the letters in her hands. “Ah, I see you’ve returned my youthful prose.”
Carolina smiled and handed over the bundle. “I was most impressed. I laughed and cried and felt as though I knew Mrs. Jackson as a personal friend. You were truly blessed in your love, and I can only pray to find such a love myself one day. If such things are not reserved only for a lucky few.”
Jackson coughed fitfully for a moment. Carolina thought the rasping sounds of his gasping breath could be compared to death rattles, but she pushed such an idea from her mind and tried to concentrate instead on the letters.
Finally calming, Jackson shook his head. “There is true love for you, Miss Adams. Of this I am sure. But you mustn’t settle for anything less than the purest heart. There will come many men to woo you, and their charms may well lead you to the altar, but God alone knows who the right one will be. Trust Him for that direction.”
“You speak as one who knows, yet I’ve heard it said . . .” She paused, suddenly realizing her boldness.
“Heard what said?” Jackson asked. “Surely we are good enough friends that you may be honest with me.”
Carolina smiled. “I’ve heard it said you do not attend church and that you hardened your heart toward God after Mrs. Jackson’s death.”
Jackson’s expression grew rather pinched. His snowy brows knitted together, further wrinkling his forehead. “God knows my heart and that it is not hardened toward Him, but rather toward those who killed my Rachel. You see”—he coughed for a moment, then continued—“my Rachel was sorely used and abused by her first husband. They divorced and we married, and folks have never forgiven her or me for such a deed. I always presumed God would be my judge, but instead I find it the pastime of a nation.” He paused, his eyes filled with sorrow, as though painful memories haunted his every waking moment.
“Rachel was a lovely woman,” Jackson continued after a moment, “as I’m sure you found out in the letters. She wanted only that we would share a quiet life together, but it was not to be. I was called upon to serve my country, and given that it was my duty, I could not trade one responsibility for the other. Rachel always supported me, however, and she fully planned to make the trip to Washington when I was elected President.” His eyes grew misty. “She was buried in the gown she’d chosen for the inauguration. She was a vision, Miss Adams, an angel in white. She was buried on Christmas Eve, 1828. Almost ten years have gone by, yet it feels as though it were only yesterday that I watched her pass from this earth. Pass to a place where they couldn’t hurt her anymore.”
Carolina couldn’t think of what she could possibly say that would offer comfort, and so she simply placed her gloved hand upon his bony one. He smiled in appreciation and brought his free hand to rest upon hers.
“Rachel would have loved you,” he said.
“And I would have loved her,” Carolina replied, knowing it was true.
He sighed and drew a ragged breath. “So you see, with my Rachel in heaven, how can I hate God? No, I assure you, Miss Adams, the matter of heart and soul is not one I treat lightly.”
“But why is it that you refuse church? I’ve heard it said that you used to attend with Rachel in Tennessee.”
“True enough, but I always feared that folks would see it as a political ploy. Rachel always wanted me to make my confession before the congregation and become a member of our church, but I knew the newspapers would catch wind of the fact and make a circus out of it. The cartoonists would no doubt have had me nailed to a martyr’s cross, mocking our Savior’s crucifixion. I couldn’t bear the thought of bringing that about, but now that it’s finished, now that I can return a free man to my home, I will honor God and Rachel and make such a declaration.”
Carolina felt her heart soar. “That’s wonderful!” She remembered something her father had said and offered it up. “God knows each heart, Mr. President. You have but to confess to Him, and He will honor your faith. To declare Him publicly is important, for it shows that you are unashamed to be associated and called one of His children, but even in private He hears you.”
Jackson nodded. “I believe that, too. It’s never been a problem accepting what God has to offer. The problem has come in forgiving the wrongs.”
Carolina felt an instant pang of regret. Virginia would never forgive the injustice she held Carolina responsible for. Jackson had already declared on many occasions that he would never forgive those who’d robbed him of his wife. She braved the question that arose in her heart. “What of forgiveness? Will you forgive everyone?”
Jackson’s expression remained rather stoic. “For those who’ve wronged me, I will forgive. But for those who wronged her . . . they must answer to God.”
With the coming of April and the spring thaw, memories of the crippling blizzard of 1837 were quickly forgotten by the small but thriving community of Harper’s Ferry. James found himself calling this place home more and more, yet his heart was not really here. It had been six months since he’d spoken to any of his family, and he hadn’t found the courage to even drop them a letter and assure them of his well-being. He was ashamed. Deeply and undeniably ashamed.
His actions hadn’t been those of a man, but of a spoiled child who, upon seeing that the game wasn’t being played his way, had taken his leave and refused to play on. Now, toying with the last of his supper and considering the next day’s work, James found his heart turning ever homeward. The evenings were always the worst. When the workday was done and everyone went their separate ways, James then realized just how alone he truly was.
It wasn’t a lack of friends that left him feeling so isolated and rejected. He’d managed to make many new acquaintances, among those, the sister of Annabelle Bryce, Mrs. Letitia Martens, and her family. But it wasn’t the same.
Lost in his thoughts over dinner in the hotel where he resided, James didn’t react to the feminine voice that called his name until he felt a gloved hand on his shoulder and heard the voice again.
“Mr. Baldwin. How good to find you here.”
He looked up and found Annabelle Bryce’s amused expression.
“Miss Bryce, what a surprise.” He got to his feet and gave a bow before pulling out a chair for her. “Won’t you join me? I was nearly finished, but I would happily keep you company.” In truth he’d hardly touched his food.
“I’ve dined already, but perhaps you would honor me with a walk about town?”
“With pleasure,” James replied, tossing several coins down to pay for the meal even as he extended his arm to Annabelle.
Once they were outside, Annabelle’s formality broke down. “So how are you? It seems like forever since we endured that snowstorm together.”
James smiled and secured his top hat before answering. “It has been forever, but I’m faring well.”
“James, this is me, Annabelle, remember?” She used a familiar tone and looked upon him with the tolerant expression of a mother to her child. “You look awful. You’ve lost weight. Your face is positively gaunt, and there are dark circles under your eyes. You haven’t gone and caught consumption, have you?”
Rather than being put off by her attitude, he was curiously drawn by it. “No, nothing so manageable as that.”
She laughed. “You must be in a bad way to suggest consumption as manageable. Now, tell me what is wrong.”
James shrugged. He’d never allowed himself to be completely honest with anyone since leaving Carolina back at Oakbridge. It seemed awkward to share his heart, and so he took the conversation in another direction. “Would you care to climb the steps to Jefferson’s Rock?”
“I’d love to, and afterward we can visit Letitia and beg some refreshment.”
Forty-four stone steps had been carved out of the solid cliff to the upper levels of the Harper’s Ferry community. It was said that Laura Wager, niece of the town’s founder, Robert Harper, had overseen this ambitious task in 1817, and now the steps were used with little consideration to their origins.
While the scenic view from Jefferson’s Rock was impressive— Harper’s Ferry was less so. It was rapidly becoming the most important factory town in the Potomac valley, but because of this the air smelled of coal smoke, and a constant clatter of hammers, machinery, canal barges, and trains disrupted the pleasantries of this secluded valley.
Annabelle, barely winded from the excursion, took off her bonnet when they reached the top and let the wind blow through her strawberry blond curls. James thought she looked a bit pale, but considering that winter was just now behind them, it wasn’t unusual to find people in such a state. He also knew her penchant for overworking. Articles announcing Annabelle Bryce’s performances were never hard to come by, and if James had rightly calculated, Annabelle had starred in continuous nightly performances since her departure from Harper’s last January.
They enjoyed a companionable silence while James’ thoughts drifted back to his dismal life. He was glad Annabelle seemed intent on the scenery. After a time, however, she turned to him and questioned, “So, aren’t we good enough friends that you can share the heavy burden you carry?”
James knew she would ask this before the words were even out of her mouth. “I do not like to burden my friends,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the river below.
“I see,” she said and turned to walk away.
“Wait! Where are you going?” James asked, hurrying after her.
Annabelle’s violet eyes widened. “You don’t want to share your bad times . . . your heartaches. So, therefore, I want no part of your good times. Friendships are not to be based on such superficial foundations.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
Annabelle adjusted her knitted shawl and squared her shoulders. “Will you deal honestly with me?”
“I’ll try.”
She appeared to consider this for a moment, then turned again as if to leave. “Not good enough, Mr. Baldwin.”
James sensed she would not back down, and besides, perhaps he did need a friend right now with whom to unburden some of his heavy load. “All right, but if you should hate me for my confession, let it be on your shoulders.”
Annabelle turned with a mischievous grin. “Me, hate you? Should I stand in judgment of another when my own actions have been considered so questionable?”
James felt immediately relaxed at this. Perhaps the only one to truly understand such indiscretions as his was one who had had similar experiences. “It isn’t a short story.”