Surrender at Orchard Rest (20 page)

She was envious of her mother, who had been across the ocean to visit the manors of the Marshalls. It made her dizzy to consider all the places in the world teeming with people in their happiness and misery. It made her lonely to consider the vast prairie somewhere in the West where Sawyer would carve out a new life, never to return. She felt a pull deep inside herself, the urge to stay and bind the family together again against the secret desire to fly, as far away, as she could. The depot with all of its mysterious comings and goings, with the secrets of people’s trunks, bags, and chests, was alluring and frightening at the same time.

Joseph nudged her.

“I barely remember her but there she is.”

Myra stood on the sidewalk with a maid and six trunks in tow. It was Myra, Somerset knew, because it could have been Blanche standing on the planks thirty years ago. She was a couple of inches taller than Blanche but just as slender, with a bearing that said she was the most important person at the depot. Her hair was wavy and golden and she wore it up, beneath the smartest little blue hat Somerset had ever seen. The hat was not as blue as her eyes, which were framed with thick black lashes and exuded an air of dismay at her surroundings but also mirth. She was ready to play and have a good time if there was any to have. The biggest difference between Myra and Blanche was in their mouths, Somerset saw. Blanche’s mouth was far smaller. Myra had a pair of plump lips that looked made to purse or to pout, depending on mood.

She stood tapping her foot on the walkway clutching her valise against her side while the maid sat on one trunk and guarded the rest. The maid did not possess Myra’s humor and looked ready to climb back on the train and get to civilized country again. Myra murmured something to her and she gave a small
hmmpf
and went back to looking disparagingly at her surroundings.

“Cousin Myra!” called Joseph.

Myra’s head craned in their direction.

“Joseph?” she asked.

“The very same.”

He climbed down from the wagon and helped Somerset down from her seat. Somerset thought he looked wary.

Myra waved and proved that her mouth could do something besides pout. Her smile was big and wide. She looked bright and young, thought Somerset, in her blue tweed traveling gown. She recognized jealousy and tried to put it away. She put on her friendliest expression.

“Hello! It’s your very own Myra,” the girl said. “Nice to see you again, Joseph. This must be Somerset. Hello, Somerset. We must be family. Looking into your eyes is like looking into a mirror at my own. This very dignified woman behind me is my maid, Birdy. Really, Birdy, they don’t have teeth and claws to eat you up with. They’re family! Birdy thinks any place outside of Richmond to be barbaric.”

Joseph narrowed his eyes, not sure how to take her jolly speech, so Somerset returned her impulsive hug and led them to the wagon. Joseph began carrying trunks to the back. Myra sat down in the center of the front bench, her billowing blue skirts taking up most of it. She looked unaware that anyone else might occupy more than three inches of space. Somerset stood for a moment, precariously balanced on the wagon wheel waiting for her to move over, but she was more occupied with looking over her shoulder to be sure her trunks were being packed well.

“You should take care with your dress,” said Somerset as she began to climb in.

“I should, but it’s been beaten to death on the ride out here. I’ll have to throw it away or give it to Birdy when we get home.”

The dress was pristine, according to Somerset’s sharp eyes, but she felt no guilt as she sat comfortably down and scrunched it up.

“Birdy, guard Daddy’s old steamer trunk with your life. It’s filled with breakables.”

Birdy, with gloomy, hooded eyes that seemed to be seeing her own demise in a rickety wagon on a country road outside proper civilization, climbed with a sigh onto the trunk to hold its already solidly fastened lid in place.

Joseph took his seat with less consideration than Somerset and they set off for the Grove.

“I do hope your servants can provide a late tea when we arrive,” said Myra. “I’m famished, and it won’t quite be time for a meal when we get there.”

“A tea?” Joseph’s hazel eyes turned on Myra as if she were an unusual insect.

Somerset recalled that old Grandmother Marshall was as formal and old world as she was pretentious. When they were in Richmond, she served tea every afternoon without fail, even on holidays where the only thing one could do was hold their bone china cup and pretend to eat a sandwich while suffering to hold in the multicourse dinner that had been eaten over a period of hours.

“The Marshalls observe tea every day in Richmond. You know that,” said Somerset. She contrived to make it sound as though tea was something that was occasionally observed at Orchard Rest. “Myra, we don’t, as a general rule, have tea time at Orchard Rest. Things are far different since the war, you know. We’ve made budgetary considerations, and the work at Orchard Rest doesn’t stop long enough to allow a break as long as tea. Cleo or I will be happy to get you a bite to eat after you freshen up, though.”

Somerset thought she handled the situation with dignity and aplomb, but the expression in Myra’s wide eyes was similar to a child’s after being told he must observe a month of Sundays before having a birthday. The expression soon faded and she put back on her determined-to-make-it-and-be-happy face. Joseph glanced at her as though she should room with Blanche.

“I declare, this will be a grand adventure,” she chattered, “like going to a foreign land and discovering a new way of life, won’t it, Birdy?”

Somerset couldn’t summon a reply, she was so shocked by this statement, but Myra continued happily on.

“Of course, some work will be appropriate for me. I don’t know how to do a blessed thing. Mother says I have no aptitude for labor. I can’t embroider or knit.”

She held up her long peachy hands with thin fingers.

“Can you imagine these hands being used to such things? I can’t. And cooking. I can’t cook. Maybe you all can teach me to conjure up some divine dishes in the kitchen. I don’t even know how to break an egg. They tell us that Auntie Blanche is something of a poultry expert. I thought it was odd for ladies to do business, but Daddy says that things are so poor in your area of the country that people do what they must to get by. It’s funny to think of a belle reaching under hens’ bottoms for eggs, isn’t it, Birdy? Perhaps you all can do for me what seven governesses couldn’t. So I do look forward to the chores. I’m a lily of the field, fair to look upon but useless. What will you be toiling over tonight? Perhaps a sock needs darning or a table dusted?”

Joseph met Somerset’s eyes over the back of Myra’s head. Contempt filled his expression. There would be little kinship between him and his cousin.

“We didn’t expect you to do very much on your visit,” said Somerset as she bit back a laugh. “There is no darning or dusting to be done, though. Victoria and I were going to clean out the chicken coops tonight, and if we were done by nightfall, we hoped to put up several more quarts of tomatoes.”

“Why, that’s servants’ work,” laughed Myra. “Don’t you make your hired help do it?”

“We don’t have as many servants at Orchard Rest as you are accustomed to. I’m glad you brought your maid. You’ll find Bess and Cleo are sometimes too busy to help us dress.”

“You’re joking. Surely you have more help than that! Daddy has twenty on the payroll just for our house at the Marsh.”

“We once had eighty-two slaves,” said Somerset. “We now have five hired hands. Bess was originally a lady’s maid and still is but does as much kitchen and housework as the rest of us. Cleo primarily cooks and tends to the smokehouse and most food-related tasks. Tuck and Jim work the fields with Joseph and with Papa when he is home. Jim is also Joseph’s old body servant and does the driving for us as appropriate. Franklin was our butler, and now he oversees the daily schedule. He devises a chore list, a schedule for the others, plans menus, and contributes to the housework. He is also best with clothing repairs, laundering clothing, and fills in in the fields when Jim or Tuck is ill. If you have a question about who to ask for help, ask Franklin his opinion, and he’ll get you what you need.”

“Only five servants,” murmured Myra. “Why, I generally have five servants doing tasks for me at one time at home.”

“I think you’ll learn some self-reliance while you’re with us. You can’t ask someone who’s preserving several dozen pints of pickles to stop what they’re doing to sew your buttons on tighter. You’ll learn to do it yourself.

“You’ll remember that Orchard Rest is set up as a main house with two small wings that once served as a ladies’ wing and a gentlemen’s wing. We made up Helen’s bedroom, which is very near to my room as well as Victoria’s, but we also prepared a room in the ladies’ hall if you like more privacy. Birdy is welcome to sleep on a pallet in the room with you or she might enjoy bunking with Bess or Cleo.

“We rise at five most mornings to begin our work. Joseph rises earlier to tend to the farm. Breakfast is served between six and seven, depending on how heavy our schedule is. We don’t linger long over the table unless we’ve invited guests. We do try to slow our pace on Saturday and try to socialize some with the neighbors but it isn’t always possible, and the same can be said for church on Sundays. We attend Century Grove Episcopal, but if you were willing to ride farther out you could attend The Grove Methodist.”

Myra looked speechless as she took in Somerset’s catalog of life in Century Grove, which was delivered with nurse-like efficiency.

“It’s a simple way of living here then?” she asked.

“Plain living but not simple living,” amended Joseph.

“It’s no wonder that they thought a little time here would be good for me. There’s nothing to get into.”

“No, if you aren’t from here there is very little to get into,” agreed Somerset. “What brought you here, Myra? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I was a great hand for stirring up trouble,” confessed Myra.

I just bet you were, thought Somerset as she watched Myra’s mouth pout.

“I doubt that,” said Somerset. “You had far too many servants to manage to get into trouble.”

“You would think so,” sighed Myra. Her fair brow wrinkled. “It wasn’t me. Richmond fellows are fast. They seem courtly in the drawing room, but they’re rakes when they get you alone.”

Joseph turned his head at the word “fast” and began paying her attention. His eyes twinkled.

“I didn’t kiss Hiram Whitman. He kissed me,” said Myra plaintively. “Why would I want to kiss an old married wart with gout even if he does own a bank or two?”

“So you were the subject of scandal,” said Joseph in a pleased way.

Somerset could feel him warming to Myra.

“It wouldn’t have been a scandal if his wife hadn’t walked into the library and caught him,” flushed Myra. “She knew it was his fault. She knows that I wouldn’t look his way in a hundred years if we were the last two people on earth, but she very well couldn’t blame him. So she blamed me. Lenore is head of the Richmond Societal Improvement League and the Richmond Botany Club and a dozen other ladies’ clubs. She was so angry that it got around in no time and before I knew it, there wasn’t a tea or social in town where I had friendly reception. Most of the time, the invitations never came. It isn’t as if I wanted to discuss varieties of roses all afternoon or pretend to be interested in what plant we decorated the cemetery gates with for the holidays, but it did beat an afternoon at home. I wouldn’t have minded so terribly if it hadn’t cut me off from all the gentlemen. Some of them knew how to show a girl such a nice time. There were three men interested in me, but after I was branded an adulteress, what could they do? Nothing happened to Hiram. The myopic old mole is probably pinching some other young socialite right now and breathing his dank breath down her neck. Situations like mine come up all the time. By winter most of it will have died down, and I’ll go home and get properly married, won’t I, Birdy?

“If you can find someone of the same station,” came the mellow, dignified voice from behind them.

“You’re even prettier than we heard,” said Myra to Somerset and then she added with faux solemnity, “but take my advice and avoid libraries with married men.”

There was no other word for Myra than jolly. She laughed all the way on the drive back to the house. She told scandalous stories about every other important person in Virginia and made them promise not to repeat them, and then she told Somerset that she had been courted at some time or another by every unmarried man in the state so she would be useful when Somerset met suitors there.

“Most of them are dreadful kissers but I can tell you with certainty who has the thickest wallets and the best-furnished homes,” she said. “Only you have to affect a very languid and delicate nature because no one likes to wonder what is making you so giddy. Society in Richmond is a solemn thing to be part of so…” She pulled her eyelids down and made a horrific face. “It’s really best if you behave as though your heart is broken because your mother is being boiled alive after contracting the plague.”

She talked almost without stopping all the way back, only taking pauses to catch her breath or pausing to point out something to Birdy. It was uncanny how very much she looked like Blanche. It made her gaiety and lack of reserve appear false but it wasn’t. Somerset couldn’t detect a shred of inhibition about Myra and could easily see why suitors flocked to her and wives disliked her. She couldn’t imagine any tragedy weighing on her conscience for long, though.