The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“Not in the slightest,” Ophelia replied. “I think men just say that because they’re afraid that women will take their jobs.” She tilted her head to one side. “You have to have patience, yes, and it helps if you already know how to type. And I can’t lift a full case of type—not yet, anyway.” She lifted her arm and flexed her bicep. “But that may change. And I’m here to tell you that anybody who can operate a sewing machine and run up a dress pattern can certainly learn the Linotype.”


“That’s wonderful, Ophelia,” Bessie said. “Now, when I read the newspaper, I’ll know that you were the one who put all those words on paper.” She paused, looking around the table, as if to make sure that she had everyone’s attention. “Speaking of jobs, have you heard about Miss Rogers?”

“Uh-oh,” Verna said ominously. “Has the town council closed the library?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Ophelia put in. “Not for a while. That’s what Jed says, anyway. Somewhere, the council has found some money to keep it open.” She paused, frowning. “He didn’t tell me any of the details. I guess it’s not definite yet.”

Bessie dropped her voice. “The money your husband was talking about,” she said quietly, “is coming from the sale of Miss Rogers’ family heirlooms—the pillow and the documents that were hidden inside it.”

“She’s sold them?” Lizzy cried, alarmed. “Oh, no! They were really important to her!”

Bessie held up her hand. “It’s okay, truly, Liz. Now that she knows who her family was, she feels a lot less anxious about hanging on to a piece of the past. She decided to put the pillow and the documents to good use, so she sold them to a collector in Wilmington. He apparently has a few other things, including an autographed copy of Rose Greenhow’s memoir. He plans to donate everything to a local museum, where people can see them and understand what a courageous woman Miss Rogers’ grandmother was.”

Myra May clapped her hands. “Good for Miss Rogers,” she said. “I knew she had it in her—she just had to find it, that’s all.” On Violet’s lap, Cupcake clapped her hands and crowed happily, and they all laughed.

“And here’s the best part,” Bessie said. “Once the items are installed in the museum, she’ll be invited to Wilmington to see them. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“It really is,” Violet agreed. “Miss Rogers will love it.” She shook her head. “But I don’t see how any of that is going to help the library.”

“The money isn’t coming to Miss Rogers,” Bessie explained. “She’s giving it to the town council, with the stipulation that they use it to keep the library open—and let her use some of it for more books.”

“What a wonderful idea!” Lizzy exclaimed.

“More books,” Verna said. “I’m for that.”

“You bet,” Myra May replied emphatically.

“Let’s drink to Miss Rogers,” Ophelia said, lifting her lemonade glass.

“And to the Confederate Rose,” Bessie said.

“To the Confederate Rose,” they all said, in unison.





Historical Note

Rose Greenhow, Civil War Spy



The characters who appear in The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose are entirely fictional—that is, except for the Confederate Rose herself: Rose O’Neal (sometimes spelled O’Neale) Greenhow, who was born in 1813 or 1814 and died by drowning on October 1, 1864. I have taken the story of her life, as it is related by Charlie Dickens in Chapter Sixteen, from a variety of sources, including Wild Rose, the excellent biography by Ann Blackman that appeared in 2005. If you’d like to learn more about Rose Greenhow, look for Blackman’s book.

Historians have debated the value of Rose’s spy craft and the importance of her espionage. Her coded dispatches were not the only secret information that General Beauregard received about the movement of Northern troops before the First Battle of Bull Run (as it was called by the North), but it is clear that the Confederate command placed a great deal of confidence in the intelligence she provided, which she obtained by listening to and asking questions of the government officials and military officers she entertained in her Washington home, on West Sixteenth Street, within sight of the White House.