Chapter Twenty-Two
That Sunday, the usually organized and focused Reverend Sedgewick appeared distracted and rambled in his sermon, and there was the notable absence of his lovely daughter in the choir loft. All was explained when in the week following, those invited to the marriage ceremony of Lettie Sedgewick and Silas Toliver received the return of their gifts and a brief note stating the wedding had been called off. The citizens of Willow Grove, members of the First Presbyterian Church, and the residents of Plantation Alley shared a mutual gasp of shock and wondered if the cancellation had anything to do with the burning of the groom’s Conestogas the week before. No one associated the mysterious closure of the Wyndham house over the holidays with this latest development until the news was leaked that Silas Toliver was now set to marry Jessica Wyndham.
The leak had come from Meadowlands when Silas had met with Jeremy to tell him of his decision. The plantation had its own version of Willowshire’s Lulu, and the servant was outside the open door of the Warwick library at the moment Silas asked Jeremy to stand with him when he married Jessica Wyndham in five days’ time.
“Morris refuses, and Mother says she won’t attend the ceremony,” the servant overheard Silas say, and got an earful of the why and wherefore he had to marry Jessica Wyndham and jilt his betrothed. The maid carried the scandalous news to the servants’ quarters and added her own opinion that eventually reflected the consensus of the whole town. Lettie Sedgewick was the daughter of a poor minister while the daughter of the master of Willowshire, though plain as cheesecloth, was rich. Silas Toliver was broke. It didn’t take the sharpest intellect to figure out why he was marrying Jessica Wyndham.
Shock waves immediately rocked the underpinnings of the village and plantation community, and Silas found himself an object of scorn and aspersion for which not even his worst anticipation of the scandal had prepared him. Elizabeth and Morris would not speak to him. The townspeople shunned him. Tradesmen were surly when he went to buy supplies and make arrangements for the wagon train. His worst moments came when he told his son he would not be marrying Lettie.
His child’s mouth trembled, followed by tears that filled his large hazel eyes. “Lettie won’t be my mama? Why, Papa? Doesn’t she like me anymore?”
“She not only likes you, Joshua. She loves you. This is not about anything you’ve done, son. This is about…what I have done.”
“Have you been bad?”
“In her eyes, yes.”
“Can you undo the bad thing?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Joshua had cried himself to sleep every night and would not eat or respond to any diversion, but, the worst cut of all, he turned from Silas’s arms to his uncle’s.
“Have you any idea the grief you’ve caused that child?” his mother reproached him.
“Yes, Mother, but I rely on time to heal it. I fear time will not be so kind to me.”
“Nor should it.”
Only his friendship with Jeremy, who kept a closed mouth on the situation, and their earnest preparations for the journey to Texas kept Silas from going mad over the suffering he’d caused his son and Lettie. Within days after he’d left his former fiancée with bowed head, she had taken a boat down the coast to Savannah to stay with relatives. According to Reverend Sedgewick’s denouncement of him that Elizabeth was pleased to report, she would not return until “Silas Toliver was gone and good riddance to him.” Doggedly, Silas thought of himself as a man rowing his boat through darkness, no beam of light anywhere, but he knew the shore was somewhere in the distance. He must keep rowing and trust his judgment of the direction he had chosen. Eventually land—and liberation—would appear.
The five days flashed by with the speed of lightning and dragged with the slowness of a ball and chain. Silas had not seen Jessica since striking the deal with her father five days before, nor had he spoken with a member of her family. He had dealt with Carson Wyndham’s banker in settling the financial details of his marriage contract. Little money was to come to him outright, Silas learned to his dismay. He was to be paid for the destroyed Conestogas and the money used to finance his trip to Texas and provide start-up capital for his plantation. Beyond that, funds would be allocated at stages of Somerset’s development and for specific purposes. Silas was to keep careful records and receipts as proofs of purchase and evidence of his endeavors. Carson Wyndham would regularly—and unannounced—dispatch an emissary to collect them and check on his daughter’s welfare. If all were in order, Silas could expect another deposit into his bank account.
Silas had believed the cash he required at the outset would be deposited as a lump sum into his account to be drawn upon as he saw fit, rather than doled out in increments. He was enraged to discover that the original agreement he signed after careful study had loopholes that allowed Carson to maneuver him into a position where he was indeed a beggar divested of his former leverage. Silas had burned his bridges with his fiancée, his family, town, and society, and now, too late to mend fences and without financial resources, he had no recourse but to marry Carson Wyndham’s daughter—and abide by the man’s dictates. Every time Silas signed his name to a bill for supplies that would be forwarded to his future father-in-law for payment, he hated the man even more.
He and Jeremy arrived at Willowshire ten minutes before the ceremony was to take place. Only the Wyndhams and the minister were gathered in the drawing room. It appeared there were to be no other witnesses to the nuptials. Silas nodded to a dour-faced Eunice, but he did not exchange handshakes or pleasantries with Carson and Michael as he and Jeremy took their place beside the minister to await the entrance of the bride.
Carson was apparently not to escort his daughter into the room. The practice of “giving away the bride” must strike too close to reality. Lettie had made a study of the history of wedding customs and told Silas the tradition had begun in feudal England when fathers literally gave the property of their daughters to a man to be his wife. Today, the gesture was to show approval of the groom and serve “as a symbol of the father’s blessing of the marriage.” Neither was true in this case. Mentally Silas could hear Lettie explain that the tradition of the groom standing to the right of the bride went back to medieval days—“so his sword arm would be free to defend her from attackers. Isn’t that the noblest thing?”
Silas shook his head to free it of her voice, and the reverend of the First Methodist Church gave him a strained smile, which he did not feel the least compunction to return. Rather, he eyed his “benefactor,” as gossip described Carson, with undisguised contempt. Carson ignored his glare, while Michael seemed to find something on a far wall to hold his attention. The few visual attempts to suggest the purpose of the occasion—probably achieved by the reputed creative hand of Jessica’s maid, Silas figured—depressed and mocked him beyond despair. Intertwined with white satin ribbons, the first narcissus, tulips, hyacinths, and crocus of the season stood upright in large containers about the room, and an elaborate, three-tiered wedding cake, bearing the maid’s signature sugar roses, reigned from a tea trolley along with a bowl of punch. Silas felt a minor relief to see the piano bench empty. Apparently there was to be no music to usher in the bride. Lettie had spent weeks deliberating on the music she wished sung and played at her wedding.
Servants opened the heavy paneled doors to the drawing room, signaling the entrance of Jessica. She floated in wearing a white dress that shimmered as she walked but no veil to hide her pale face and freckles that stood out like small, rusted nail heads. Silas temporarily lowered his lids, feeling a loss so great it left him faint. Opening his eyes, he saw that Jessica had not missed his moment of pain. There was a fraction of a second when she almost stumbled, and pink daubs of embarrassment glowed briefly on her cheeks. She raised her head an inch or so higher, focused her gaze hard on the minister, and the flush disappeared. Oh Lord, Silas sighed to himself as he, too, faced the minister when his bride-to-be drew beside him.
Hours later, Silas remembered hardly anything about the wedding ceremony. It was as gray and lackluster as the weather outside. His and Jessica’s emotionless responses to the vows were mumbled in monotones hardly above whispers. There were no smiles and certainly no trading of long, amatory looks since the bride and groom did not glance at each other. Wedding rings were shoved on fingers with indifference. Silas had sent the bill for Jessica’s plain gold band to Carson and returned the diamond solitaire he’d chosen for Lettie to the huffy jeweler for a refund. Silas could not silence his former fiancée’s commentary on wedding tradition in his head that made a travesty of the rings he and Jessica had traded. “The wedding ring has been worn on the third finger of the left hand since Roman times. The Romans believed the vein in that finger runs directly to the heart.”
When the Methodist minister declared them man and wife (timidly, looking as if he feared being struck) and gave the groom permission to kiss his bride, Silas barely touched his lips to her impassive cheek. Jeremy gave the moment some semblance of traditional merriness when he put his hands on Jessica’s shoulders and said with a smile, “Now it’s the best man’s turn,” and kissed her other cheek.
“Well, that’s that,” Carson announced with a relieved sigh when it was done and patted his stomach. “Let’s have some punch and cake, shall we?”
“I’d like to invite Tippy in to have some,” Jessica said, turning from Silas as if his act in the play was over and she was ready for the next performer.
Eunice gave her a look of annoyance. “Oh, Jessie—”
“I’d like to meet this Tippy I’ve heard so much about,” Silas intervened, thankful for a diversion to fill the space before he and Jeremy could civilly leave.
Jessica cut him a sharp look. “As you know, she’ll be going with me to Texas,” she said, “but as my friend, not my maid, and certainly not as a slave. Is that understood?”
For a moment, Silas did not. Then he realized that this…Tippy of whom Jessica was obviously so fond was his property now. Everything that belonged to Jessica now belonged to him. Marriage made it so. Jessica could speak with the growl of a tiger, but she lacked the teeth to enforce her commands. But he would be gracious. He bowed his head a trifle. “As you wish.”
Eunice addressed a servant in attendance at the tea table. “Send Tippy to the drawing room.”
Afterwards, cantering away together from the scene of the disaster, Jeremy threw Silas a measured glance. “Want to get drunk?”
“It wouldn’t help.”
“She’s a fine girl, Silas.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Time will take care of that,” Jeremy said.
Arriving at Queenscrown, Silas instructed Lazarus to round up Joshua. He had allowed the boy the comfort of his grandmother and uncle to assuage his loss of Lettie, but now Silas wanted the company of his son.
“He’s with Mister Morris, sir.”
“That’s as may be, Lazarus, but now I wish my son to be with me. I’ll be in my room.”
“Very good, Mister Silas.”
Waiting for Joshua, sunk in gloom before the fire, Silas reflected on the events of the afternoon. The only bright spot had been the odd little creature of a maid servant called Tippy. There was something about her not of this world. She had the widest smile and brightest eyes he’d ever seen on a human face. The girl radiated a light that even he could see would be a shame to extinguish. It was plain that she and Jessica were closer than the grip on a pistol, and he didn’t know what to think of such a friendship between a white girl and a Negro slave, but he would do nothing to interfere with it. He was grateful that Jessica would have companionship on the trip to Texas. Small and delicate-looking creature that the maid was, she looked like she could weather anything, and Jessica would need a sustaining friend to endure the hardships of the trail. Used to the finest comforts, Jessica had no idea what she was in for, and he should make an appointment to educate her.
Silas studied the circle of gold on his finger. Make an appointment. He felt no more married to Jessica Wyndham than if he’d said I do to an empty sheet. He felt like an empty sheet. Lettie had told him that in many places in the world, the bride and groom did not meet until their wedding day, pawns of an arranged marriage. He had thought the idea bizarre and barbarous. Never in a million years could he have imagined himself marrying not only a stranger but a woman who thought of him as an enemy—an advocate for all she was against. Was she really sincere in supporting the abolition of a system that had provided her a life of privilege, or had she chosen her path to rebel against her father? Jeremy was of the opinion that daughter and father loved each other but—like roses and thorns on the same stem—were born to abide in conflict.
Silas could handle Jessica Wyndham’s toothless bidding, but how would the girl take to his son? What would be Joshua’s reaction to her?
Slight footsteps approached his door. A small hand pushed it open. “Papa?”
Silas held out his arms, his chest swelling with love and need. “Come here, Joshua, and crawl into your papa’s lap. It’s been a while since I’ve held my son.”
“You’re sad, too, Papa?” Joshua said, climbing up on Silas’s knees.
“Yes, Joshua, I am very sad,” Silas said, tucking his young son’s head beneath his chin. He had already caused his child a great deal of pain. Was he selfish to inflict more by uprooting him from those he loved and the only home he knew to take him to a foreign land in the company of a stepmother neither of them knew? But if he left his son at Queenscrown until the time was safe to bring him to Texas, Silas might never reclaim him. Joshua was in the most sensitive, impressionable stage of a boy’s life. What would be between father and son must be established now or forever be lost. Silas well remembered the period when he was Joshua’s age. Between his fourth and eighth years, he had felt himself a mere shadow out of the corner of his father’s eye. Their chance to know each other slipped away. He would not make that mistake with Joshua. Besides, he must think of Jessica. How could the boy ever accept her as a mother figure if he were not weaned from Lettie now?
But all questions regarding Joshua narrowed down to the one most important: Was Silas wrong to ensure for his son the birthright and future his own father had denied him, no matter what the cost might be?
Only time held the answer.