A Hope Beyond (2 page)
Thinking of Virginia caused Carolina to put down the magazine with a morose sigh. For weeks now, Virginia had barely spoken a civilized word to her. The death of their baby sister Maryland had naturally put a great damper on the holiday spirit, but for Virginia it was magnified by the fact that her betrothal to James Baldwin had been dissolved. Carolina had the distinct impression that Virginia blamed her for the entire matter. And just maybe Carolina did deserve some of her sister’s ire. James had been Carolina’s tutor for a few short but glorious months, and during that time Carolina and James had become friends. Unfortunately, Carolina had also fallen in love with her teacher.
Sighing again, Carolina left her mahogany writing desk and ambled to the window. It was here, in her favorite spot, that Carolina felt most at home. The window seat had always offered her much comfort and tranquility. She pulled up her knees and placed her dainty pink slippers on the brocade seat cover. At sixteen, she had been properly presented to society, and instructed and trained in the ways of running a plantation household.
Living just west of the country’s capital, near Falls Church, Virginia, Carolina had also enjoyed a strong political background. This pleasured her in ways that she could never share publicly, for what young woman of such genteel upbringing would dare to boast an interest in the government?
On the surface of things, she appeared to have all life could offer, yet she felt trapped like a bird in a cage—like the slaves who worked on her father’s plantation. She knew her life was better by far than that of the poor souls whose only future was to work their master’s land, but she felt as helpless in deciding her own future as they must have felt in deciding theirs. Society looked upon women as the bearers of children. It was a woman’s responsibility to esteem her husband, bring glory to his name, and ease his burdens. Those few men who actually admired intelligence in a woman were greatly outnumbered by the general population, who deemed it totally unnecessary to educate and enlighten the female gender. Let women be placed on a pedestal in honor of their beauty and gentle nature—but whatever you do, don’t allow them to think for themselves.
Margaret Adams had fully supported this ideal. She wanted her daughters to marry and raise a fine family of properly behaved children. She had instilled a firm belief that a woman’s place was to first do her husband’s bidding, and then see to her family. But it was not a view shared by Carolina. There was nothing wrong with those things, but there was so much more. . . .
“My baby!”
A moaning scream tore through the strained silence of the house and brought Carolina instantly to her feet. It was her mother. Again. Carolina hurried out of her room and down the hall to see what assistance she might offer this time.
Peering into the nursery doorway, Carolina grimaced at the scene. Margaret Adams, unable to deal with the death of her youngest child Maryland, had taken up residence in the nursery. Eleven-year-old Pennsylvania Adams, affectionately called Penny, sat quivering, quite frightened, at one end of the room while several slaves tried to calm Margaret.
“Where is Mary? Where is my baby?” Margaret looked accusingly at each of the slaves. “You have taken my baby!”
Margaret didn’t seem to even notice Carolina’s arrival, so Carolina went to her sister first. Penny looked so frail and ghastly white that Carolina feared she, too, would succumb to the aftermath of the yellow fever that had stricken her and killed their sister little more than three months earlier.
“Mother?” Carolina called softly. “Mother, you should sit down and rest.” Carolina gave Penny’s shoulder a reassuring pat, then crossed the room slowly to where Margaret stood over an empty cradle.
“Mother?”
Margaret Adams, a handsome woman of thirty-nine, turned and stared at her daughter as though seeing a ghost.
“I can’t find her,” Margaret sobbed hysterically. “They have taken her away and I can’t find her.”
“Mama . . .”
“Where is my Mary?” Margaret turned plaintive eyes toward Carolina.
The negresses backed away, their dark eyes hopeful that Carolina could ease the tension of the moment. Carolina reached out to touch her mother’s arm.
“Mother, don’t you remember?” Carolina led her to the rocking chair. “Mary died of yellow fever this August last. She and Penny were so very sick. Remember?”
Margaret stared in disbelief for a moment, and then, as if reliving the painful past once again, she finally nodded, her eyes stark with grief. “Yes . . . I remember now.” She calmed a bit and allowed Carolina to help her sit. Glancing around the room, Margaret seemed to come out of her daze and realize her surroundings. “Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. It’s just so hard to imagine she’s really gone.”
“I know, Mama. It’s hard for all of us, but especially hard for you.” Carolina glanced over to Penny, who was now being helped back into bed by one of the slaves.
Carolina knelt beside her mother and waited for her senses to fully return. These days were so troubling to Carolina. Her mother’s mind had weakened in the loss of yet another child. Many years ago, she’d given over two infant sons to the fever. Carolina had never known these brothers, as they were born in the years between her older brother York and sister Virginia, but the effect on her mother had been the same. At least that was how it was told to Carolina. Apparently, Margaret had suffered tremendous melancholy after the death of her sons, and it wasn’t until the birth of Virginia that Margaret was restored to her original strength. It was little wonder that Virginia had become her favorite child. She had given Margaret a reason to live.
As if thinking of her could conjure her presence, Carolina glanced up to find Virginia standing in the doorway. “Look, Mother, Virginia has come. Why don’t we go into the music room? Virginia could play for you, and I’ll arrange for tea.”
Virginia swept into the room in a lovely forest green muslin. The gown was trimmed heavily in black, but the green and the youthful styling made it clear that the nineteen-year-old refused to give in entirely to the black bombazine of mourning.
“Come along, Mother,” said Virginia. “I can take care of everything. You and I will take a short walk out to where they are butchering the hogs. We can’t let that process go unsupervised, now can we?” She didn’t wait for an answer but quickly added, “After that, we will return to the house and I will tuck you into bed for a rest.” Virginia threw Carolina a glance, but no word of acknowledgment.
There was clear hostility in Virginia’s icy blue eyes. Where Carolina had dark brown eyes and rich chocolate brown hair, Virginia’s eyes were like their father’s, and her hair was a shade lighter. Virginia’s beauty and grace were lauded by all around her and especially captivated the young men. At one time she had been one of the most notable belles in the county, although as the years edged up to push her toward spinsterhood, Virginia was less and less regarded as such a prize. Her own stubbornness and desire to find just the right man to marry had created this circumstance. But she refused to see it that way and thus, as far as Carolina could tell, had blithely broken her most recent engagement to James Baldwin, announcing to the world that she needed to remain close to her mother in order to offer her proper care in the wake of Mary’s death.
People, of course, thought Virginia the epitome of southern womanhood. The supreme sacrifice of giving up one’s own interests to care for an ailing parent was highly regarded in the social circles so very important to Virginia. But Carolina had an idea that it was not for these people that Virginia had made her choice. Carolina couldn’t guess what her true reasons might be, but Virginia always seemed to have ulterior motives.
Watching as her sister led their mother from the room, Carolina felt an emptiness that refused to be filled. Her entire life had been spent in the security of family and material comforts, and now it seemed that her family was falling apart.
Her two older brothers, York and Maine, were both away from Oakbridge, the plantation of their birth. Maine, having felt God’s calling, attended seminary in England, while York, destined to be in the public eye, found politics and the Washington scene to be his forte. Assistant to the ailing President Andrew Jackson, York had only recently learned that he would be held over as an aide to the newly elected Martin Van Buren. The only other sibling, besides the ailing Penny, was Georgia Adams.
Poor Georgia, Carolina thought to herself. The child had been positively overlooked on numerous occasions, much to her detriment. It seemed even worse now with the other members of the family wrapped up in their own problems. Often completely unsupervised, she managed to move in adult circles and engage herself in adult activities, even though she was scarcely fourteen. She flirted outrageously with grown men and often opened her mouth to share most inappropriate conversation. It was after Georgia had relayed the intimate details of her friend Mercy Pritchard’s love life that Carolina had first spoken to their father. But, steeped in his own grief because of the collapse of his wife’s sanity and daughter’s death, not to mention growing national economic struggles, Joseph Adams was unable to offer much help.
“Mama scared me,” Penny said weakly from her bed, drawing Carolina from her brooding thoughts.
“I know, and I’m so sorry. Mama doesn’t understand how frightening her cries can sound. But you don’t have to worry now, Penny dear. Lydia is going to sit with you until you fall asleep.” Carolina nodded to a young female slave. The wide-eyed girl took a seat beside Penny’s bed.
“Would you tell me a story, Carolina?” Penny asked as Carolina turned to leave. “Just a little story?”
Carolina took pity on her sister and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “What would you like to hear about?”
“Tell me about the railroad again. Tell me about how they are going to build the railroad to go clear to the other side of America.”
Carolina smiled. “Well, they are certainly going to try. First they have to be able to handle all of the mountains in between. Mountains make a very big obstacle for the locomotive engines. You see, the engines must not only go up the mountain themselves, they must pull a load of cars behind them. Sometimes the engines aren’t powerful enough, and sometimes the wheels slip and slide on the rail.”
“What do they do to make it work?” Penny asked, and Lydia also leaned forward as if awaiting the answer herself.
Carolina smiled. “They do all kinds of things. One thing is to use incline planes. These are places on the rail line where the road gets too steep. They put the rails into place, sometimes going straight up the mountainside for a short ways, but only if it isn’t too steep. Then they lay track that goes on a flat space to kind of even things out. This makes it look like they are going to go around part of the mountain rather than straight up. They use as many sections as they need to finally reach the top of the mountain, weaving the railroad back and forth until they reach the summit. Then they do the same thing coming down the other side. Sometimes locomotive engines pull the cars up the incline planes, but some lines use horses.”
Penny yawned, and Carolina knew it would only be a matter of minutes before she would fall fast asleep.
“Does our railroad use horses?” she asked.
Carolina almost laughed at her sister’s choice of words. Ever since the Baltimore and Ohio had built their southern branch to the capital city, Penny had called it
their
railroad. Carolina felt the same way.
“They do on the western line,” Carolina replied, patting Penny’s hand. “But incline planes aren’t necessary on the Washington Branch.”
“Aren’t the engines too heavy for the horses to pull?” Penny asked sleepily.
“They don’t pull the engines. There are engine terminals on both sides of the mountain. They unhook the engine there and simply take the cars up and over and hook them up to another engine on the other side. Understand?”
Penny fought to open her eyes and finally gave in to sleep. Carolina smiled, but then a serious thought about Penny’s weakness crossed her mind. The doctor hadn’t thought Penny would survive the fever, and now that she had, he didn’t believe she would live much longer. The fever and its aftermath had left Penny’s heart weak, and because Margaret had refused to allow her children to be bled—or so the doctor said—there was little he could do.
Carolina couldn’t imagine the house without Penny’s sweet, gentle spirit. But then, she couldn’t have imagined the house without the rambunctious Maryland. Mary, who used to so love running up and down the main staircase that, whenever she was missing from the nursery, one had only to look to the stairs in order to find her.
Rising, Carolina reached out and brushed back a sandy brown curl from her sister’s face. She’s so little, God, Carolina silently prayed. Please give her strength to fight this illness. Don’t take Penny away as You did Mary.
James Baldwin stood atop Jefferson’s Rock, high above Harper’s Ferry, and watched in anticipation the opening of the new bridge across the Potomac. Harper’s Ferry was the door through which the B&O would eventually reach the Ohio, and today, with his companions, James was witnessing the dramatic opening of that door.
Harper’s Ferry, nestled at the base of a low hill, was the joining place of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers. The scenery was both treacherous and breathtaking, and even set against the harsh briskness of the winter day, James thought it a lovely place with tremendous potential. It was, in fact, the prospective trade west that drove the B&O Railroad to seek passage through the small community.
James watched as the small grasshopper engine pulled closer to the Potomac Viaduct. Behind it trailed a string of cars, some carrying supplies, others carrying passengers—all sharing this monumental moment in history. Instead of riding in the train, James had opted to view it all from his present spectacular vantage point.
He had the utmost confidence in the small but powerful engine. The design had been that of his friend Phineas Davis. Davis had died just over a year ago in the rail accident that had left James injured and confused. He had wanted to give up the railroad, and would have, but for Carolina Adams.
