Beauty From Ashes (28 page)

“There are four nice rooms up here,” Louisa was saying as they reached the upstairs

hall. “Mr. Bentley thinks the front bedroom on the north side is the choice one, which you will probably select as your own, Anne. Every room in the house, you’ll notice, has a good fireplace—all white mantles to match your precious light—and each hearth is of the same stunning white-veined marble. Oh, and off the end of this upstairs hall, that door leads out to a most attractive cantilevered porch where one can almost always catch a fine breeze of a summer afternoon. I believe Mr. Bentley said it’s considered a prized feature of the house.”

Anne turned abruptly to Pete and Louisa and said, “Before we finish seeing all the second floor, would I be too rude if I asked to be excused for a few minutes?”

“Do you feel all right, Mama?”

“Yes. I—I just suddenly need a few minutes alone to think.”

“Of course,” Louisa said cordially, “but before you’ve had a chance to see the bedrooms?”

“Before I’ve had a chance to see anything else.”

She could feel Louisa’s beautiful, perceptive eyes studying her. “I hope you

don’t think me rude,” Anne said 369 again. “Pete knows that now and then I just have to—be alone. I thought I might go out onto the balcony you mentioned. Just a few minutes to sort out my tumbling thoughts.”

Louisa pointed to the door, its paned glass trim exactly matching the main entrance downstairs, allowing still more light to pour in. “You won’t find a more suitable spot to think, my friend. Try your private upstairs porch—one of the very few to be found in the vicinity. Your daughter and I will be just fine. Take your time. I find Pete good company.”

“Don’t worry about my mother’s going off by herself like this, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just Mama. She didn’t do that until after my father died. There’s a lot different about her—without him.”

“I find her so likable now, I can’t imagine how attractive she must have been before she lost your father. And, of course, her own father died so recently.”

“Mama was always the best company and, to me, really beautiful. I used to hear my papa tell her no woman ever carried herself quite the way she

did. He meant to be telling her in private, but sometimes we heard, too.” Pete smiled, remembering. “He thought she had a throat that, as he said, really knew what to do with her head—just when to cock it to one side, when to hold it level. Papa must have loved her as much as she still loves him. She’s awfully different these days.”

“But do you know how blessed you are, my dear, to have grown up with so much real love around you?”

“I think about it a lot. And if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to help Mama begin to act like herself again. Sometimes it almost breaks my heart just to look at her and try to imagine what she’s really thinking down inside.” Pete fell silent, wondering if she dared tell Louisa Fletcher how many deaths Mama had lived through since Papa went away. She hated gossip. Mama hated it, too, but evidently Mrs. Fletcher knew only that Papa and Grandpapa Couper were dead. With all her heart, she was praying that Mama had found a real Marietta friend in this vital, genteel lady, but it seemed plain that Mama had mentioned losing only Papa. “Mrs. Fletcher? Could I ask you something?”

“Anything, my dear.”

“I know you read about my grandfather 371 Couper’s death in the Marietta paper and that Mama has told you my father is gone, too, but has she told you about all the other grief she’s known in the past few years?”

The quick look of deep compassion on the older woman’s good, open face told Pete that it would certainly be safe to tell her how much healing her mother needed.

“Your mother’s told me nothing else.” Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “But I’m sure she will when we know each other a bit better and when she wants me to know.”

“She will. I’m positive she will, because I can tell how much she thinks of you already, but my brother and sisters and I all want so terribly for Mama to find a way to be her real self again. Do you think I’d be blabbing, as Mother says, if I told you now and asked you not to tell her I did?”

“Oh, my dear girl, that’s a hard question to answer. Will it worry you, cause you to wonder about my discretion if you do tell me? I’m so, so eager to be your mother’s friend, to help you help her in whatever way I can, but I don’t want to add

to your load. After many years, I well remember the burden I dragged about with me after my father died when I was only six. My sister, Marianna, was younger than I, and yet I endured a heavy obligation to help Mother rear her.”

“And you were only six?”

“Yes, but the point I’m making is that even at that young age, I somehow felt my mother’s grief sharply. Any child needs to lean on a parent. When that parent appears helpless for any reason, the child suffers. My heart not only goes out to you, your brother, and your sisters, I truly understand. I loved my father, but even worse than losing him was my heavy heart for Mother. You may tell me whatever you need to tell me, but you know Anne far better than I do. If you think she’d mind my knowing, feel free not to say a word.”

“I’m ashamed of myself, but suddenly I need you to know the whole story of our lives beginning with my papa’s death in the year 1839. May I try to tell you before Mama comes back?”

As she listened to Pete’s story, Louisa marveled that the young woman was so aware not only of the nearly unbelievable, rare romance between her

parents, but of Anne Fraser’s tearing 373 grief at losing him. Grief made more poignant because she tried so hard to be a whole person again for the children’s sake. Then in less than two years another kind of grief struck. Anne’s only sister, Isabella, died in childbirth early in the year 1841, and toward the end of that very same year, the severest blow to any mother’s heart, Anne’s firstborn daughter, Annie, also left her while bearing her first child.

“My sister Annie was Mama’s closest friend outside Grandpapa Couper,” Pete explained. “I know I’ll never take her place because we were nothing alike, but I just try to do the best I can. Mama and Annie’s husband didn’t like each other much. Then he married again and took the child to be reared by his new wife. Mama’s heart breaks every day because she knows almost nothing about how little John Fraser Demere is getting along.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” Louisa Fletcher said. “Forgive another personal reference, but before my husband and I moved down South, we lost three small children. Our three girls born down here give us great pleasure, though, and although no child ever takes another’s place, they are, in a

way, dearer.”

“Forgive me, please!”

“For what?” Louisa asked, tears on her face again.

“For causing you to remember your own dreadful losses. I’m ever so sorry.”

“Please don’t be. Am I right to think your mother has lost both her parents? I’m assuming this because she did tell me no one close, except a few friends, still live down on the coast.”

“Grandmama Couper died just a few years after my sister Annie. In our immediate family, Mama has just John Couper, Fanny, Selina, and me. But she does have good friends. It’s just that my brother and I agree that she also has too many reminders down on the coast and could be ever so much more like herself again up here.” Pete took a step toward Louisa. “And Mrs. Fletcher, my mother’s such a wonderful lady and so much fun to be with when she—when she isn’t so heavy in her heart.”

Just then they heard the balcony door open and both turned to smile at Anne, who had finally decided to rejoin them in the upstairs hallway. Louisa waited for Pete to speak first, but she was

struck in her own mind by Anne’s almost 375 peaceful look. Peaceful and in a weary, somewhat strained way, strong.

“Mama, you’re back,” Pete said, her expression hopeful, eager. “It must be a nice view from out there. Is it?”

“Yes,” Anne said in a firm voice. “Yes, Pete, it’s a lovely view out over the village of Marietta and the mountain. That is Kennesaw Mountain, isn’t it, Louisa?”

“It is indeed. I’m so glad you enjoyed your little upstairs porch.”

“Should I apologize for staying alone for such a long time?” Anne asked with a somewhat nervous smile. “If so, I do apologize to you both, but I want to put this into words right away: I’ve made up my mind. The payments on the house can be covered between my British pension and what John Couper vows he can send each month once he’s in his new position in Savannah. You see, I now know that, all things considered, it will be best for us to move to Marietta as soon as this kind, kind place is available to us.”

“Are you sure?” Pete asked. “Are you sure, Mama?”

“Yes, dear. I’m sure. I want to try to live again, right here in this house. And I will. Oh, I will really try!”

Louisa was not surprised to see Pete rush to embrace her mother. “We will all try, too,” the young woman promised. “And it’s going to work out just fine. You’ll see, you’ll see!”

“That’s right,” Anne replied in an almost matter-of-fact way. Turning to Louisa, she added, “We do thank you, my friend, for all you’ve done. And if Lawyer Bentley is in his Marietta office and not out riding circuit, I’ll see him myself and commit us to buying the house —this sheltering place—just as soon as possible. I find myself hoping, frankly, that it may even be available earlier than we first expected. You and I, Pete, will go back to Savannah by train, then have your brother buy tickets for us on a steamer scheduled to stop at St. Simons Island. I’ve decided I want to see both Mrs. Mackay and Anna Matilda King before we go back to Uncle James’s house at Hopeton. They will understand, and both visits will give me the courage to explain to him why I believe I must make such a big move.”

On impulse, Louisa Fletcher 377 also embraced Anne. “How can I tell you of my delight in having found a woman friend who actually knows her own mind? I won’t even try to tell you how happy I am that you and your family will be living right here in Marietta. In a most definite way, you’ve handed me the chance for a new life, too.”

Back on St. Simons, the Retreat dogwoods were just beginning to show their pure white spring blooms when Anne and her childhood friend Anna Matilda King took rockers side by side on the shady front porch. For a long moment they just sat there, looking at each other. Anne found it a bit difficult to reorient herself with her friend after so much time had passed since their last visit.

“I thought I had weeks’ worth of things to tell you, Anna Matilda,” she said with a vague smile, “but now that dinner is over and the children are outside with Pete, I’m almost tongue-tied. Are you sure I’m not keeping you from something

important you should be doing?”

“Don’t be foolish,” her friend said. “Your letter written from dear Mrs. Mackay’s house in Savannah reached me three days ago. I knew you were coming back to St. Simons. Do you think I’d have scheduled a single thing to do around the place here that might interrupt us after such a long time apart?”

“Aren’t you terribly lonely here without your husband? Hasn’t he been out in San Francisco for nearly a year?”

“It seems like a year. Thomas has been gone for six months, three weeks, and two days. He’s been appointed Collector of the Port of San Francisco, but he hinted he’d like to be a senator from the new state of California, so who knows how long it will be before I can even look at him again.”

“Does that man know how blessed he is to have a wife who can do a man’s work here at Retreat Plantation? He’d better know! If I ever find out he doesn’t, I’ll certainly inform him.”

Anna Matilda tried to laugh but failed. “He knows. I’m sure he knows. Most

important, I know that he loves me. 379 I married him exactly the way he is and I married him because I couldn’t imagine living my life with anyone else. Besides, when he’s here, Anne, he’s adored by all our people and the children. And so, so respected.”

“I’m not doubting that for a minute. I just love you so much and sometimes, even with all the other things I’ve had to worry about, I worry about you struggling day in and day out to see to all this planting, to the care of so many people, to the care of the children. I know Hannah’s nearby at Hamilton and, although she has a new baby, does all she can to help, but—was

“But nothing. I want to hear all about you! Your letter only caused my curiosity to grow by leaps and bounds. What are your plans? You know what my life’s like and if it’s left up to me, I’ll always be right here in this old house at Retreat. Tell me about you, Anne. Tell me everything.”

For a long moment Anne looked out over the expanse of well-cared-for Retreat lawn toward the water of St. Simons Sound, blue-gray under the spring sunlight. “I know I don’t have to tell you that even though John will have been gone

twelve years in July, I haven’t done well at all without him.”

“Does any widow?”

“I don’t know. And I still hate it when anyone uses the word widow! Even you. But at least I have some hope these days and it’s all thanks to two of my children, Pete and John Couper. I probably knew, but I see clearly now that at least part of me had refused to face the plain fact that I was scarring all my children because I was so scarred by my own losses during the past few years. I thought I was trying. At times I thought I was succeeding in learning how to live without John, without Papa, without Mama, without my blessed Annie, without Isabella, the sister I was just coming to know. I wasn’t succeeding. I was existing day by day, forcing my children to work at trying to cheer me up, to help me. Anna Matilda, mothers are supposed to help their children. I was harming mine.”

The more she talked, the more she warmed to her subject. Anna Matilda’s unbroken silence while she listened intently to Anne’s every word was exactly what Anne had been hoping for. Not because she wanted to return in any way to the

pride-inducing knowledge that her friend had always 381 shown a flattering deference to her, but because she needed someone she felt entirely comfortable with to listen to her. Needed to be free to say exactly what she was thinking without having to wonder if the listener might even silently be criticizing her. Despite their enforced long separations through the years, Anne could still trust Anna Matilda. And so she talked, trying to make her friend understand everything that had taken place around her and in her since the day Papa had been forced to tell her she would have to leave her beloved Lawrence cottage and spend her days learning to live on the charity and goodwill of family and friends.