The Handsome Road (42 page)

But he was delighted with his fatherhood, sent telegrams to everybody he could think of and for a week kept open house, serving wine and eggnog in the parlor to a stream of congratulating visitors as though it had been New Year’s. Denis and Lysiane came up to see the baby—“Well, well, now where did you get this?”—and Fred, who could not get away until the following Sunday, came up at Kester’s urgent invitation, bringing Molly and Eleanor’s sister Florence, and they spent a merry day admiring the squirming pink object that was still called “the baby,” for though Kester and Eleanor had discussed dozens of possible names none of them seemed quite right. Eleanor lay in the great fourposter under its crimson canopy, vastly enjoying her homage. She was glad to see her parents; they were so frank, so strong, laughing at the elegance of her surroundings and reminding her that she had been born in a tent. Here in the legended quiet of Ardeith they seemed to Eleanor refreshing, like a wind in summer, and she thought how proud she was that she could pass on to her child such an unconquerable heritage as hers. They took the night train back to town. Though she was tired, she told the nurse she wanted to speak to Kester before she went to sleep.

The nurse brought him and left them alone together. As Kester sat down by the bed Eleanor told him she knew what she wanted to name the baby. “I’d like to name her for a very courageous woman,” she said. “My father’s mother. Unless you mind.”

Kester was sitting on the bedstep. He laid his head on the pillow by hers. “My dearest girl, why did you think I’d mind?”

“Dad was illegitimate—had you forgotten that?—and you’re so conservative about some things.”

“Why no, darling, I hadn’t forgotten it. Something about a carpetbagger during Reconstruction.”

“I’ve never thought much about it until now,” said Eleanor. “She was a poor creature who’d never had a pretty dress nor very many square meals until she took the only chance she’d ever had to get them. He deserted her before dad was born. When dad was a child she used to take in washing, and somehow she brought him up and made him go to school. She couldn’t read, she didn’t know any of the sort of things we know, but I think she must have been splendid. She died when I was a little girl, as triumphantly as any soldier who had won a battle, for she knew dad was a great man and she had made him one. She had the courage that makes the mothers of heroes. I’d like to name my daughter for her.”

Kester smiled. “I suspect you’re very like her. What was her name?”

“Corrie May Upjohn.”

He took a long breath. “Eleanor, forgive me, but I think that’s atrocious.”

“So do I, but can’t we arrange it somehow?”

“Isn’t Corrie sometimes short for Cornelia?” he suggested after a moment’s consideration.

“Cornelia. I like that. Let’s name her Cornelia.”

“All right.”

Eleanor moved to rest her cheek against his hand as it lay on the pillow. They went on talking about the baby. Kester began to outline her future. He wanted Cornelia to have a hobby-horse with a real hair mane and tail. Eleanor began to picture her as she would come down the spiral staircase in bridal white.

“And maybe take her wedding trip in a flying-machine,” Kester suggested.

Eleanor shivered. “And scare me to death. Do you suppose they’ll be practical by then?”

“Why not? Automobiles weren’t practical twenty years ago. Why, Eleanor, she may live to see anything—even rockets going to the moon.”

Eleanor could not help laughing at his romantic imagination.

“Well, she might,” he persisted. “The world’s getting to be an amazing place. Did you read the list of inventions they made speeches about at the German Kaiser’s silver jubilee?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was a gorgeous celebration—a sort of handshaking-and-eternal-friendship party for all the kings and queens and writers and scientists in Europe. The Kaiser combined the anniversary celebration with the marriage of his daughter, and the bridesmaids were English, Rumanian, Russian and Italian princesses—to symbolize the unity of Europe, you know—and the visiting kings made speeches and called the Kaiser Europe’s man of peace. You needn’t laugh at what I said about rockets, either. The Kaiser conferred the title ‘Greatest German of the Twentieth Century’ on Count von Zeppelin.”

“Who’s he?”

“He invented the dirigible balloon. And they can go anywhere.”

“Not to the moon, stupid. When was all this?”

“Last summer. Stop being so practical. Don’t you like the idea of your daughter’s growing up in a world that’s turning into a sort of wonderland?”

“I don’t know. It’s rather frightening. But I do think I’d like to go up in a balloon.”

“So would I,” Kester agreed. In the ancient cradle near the bedside Cornelia began to kick. Eleanor kissed Kester’s hand as it lay against her face. She was very tired, and drowsy, and very happy indeed.

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About the Author

G
wen Bristow (1903–1980), the author of seven bestselling historical novels that bring to life momentous events in American history, such as the siege of Charleston during the American Revolution (
Celia Garth
) and the great California gold rush (
Calico Palace
), was born in South Carolina, where the Bristow family had settled in the seventeenth century. After graduating from Judson College in Alabama and attending the Columbia School of Journalism, Bristow worked as a reporter for New Orleans’
Times-Picayune
from 1925 to 1934. Through her husband, screenwriter Bruce Manning, she developed an interest in longer forms of writing—novels and screenplays.

After Bristow moved to Hollywood, her literary career took off with the publication of
Deep Summer
, the first novel in a trilogy of Louisiana-set historical novels, which also includes
The Handsome Road
and
This Side of Glory
. Bristow continued to write about the American South and explored the settling of the American West in her bestselling novels
Jubilee Trail
, which was made into a film in 1954, and in her only work of nonfiction,
Golden Dreams
. Her novel
Tomorrow Is Forever
also became a film, starring Claudette Colbert, Orson Welles, and Natalie Wood, in 1946.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1938 by Gwen Bristow

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN 978-1-4804-8528-0

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com

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