The Gates Of Trevalyan

Other Novels by Jacquelyn Cook

Sunrise

Magnolias

The River Between

The Wind Along The River

River of Fire

Beyond the Searching River

The Gates of Trevalyan

by

Jacquelyn Cook

BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright

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

The Gates of Trevalyan is based on factual accounts of the lives of Alexander Stephens, Jefferson Davis and other notables of the Civil War era. While Jenny and Charles King and their plantation, Trevalyan, are fictitious, locations and settings in Madison, Georgia and elsewhere are portrayed as accurately as possible. The Gates of Trevalyan is ultimately a work of fiction as imagined and invented by the author, and thus is subject to all disclaimers applied to such fiction works.

BelleBooks

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935661-31-3

Print ISBN: 978-0-9802453-5-6

Copyright © 2008 by Jacquelyn Cook

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

House © Deborah Smith

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Other credits:

The Spirit of The South

by Robert G. Stephens

©1994 by The United Daughters of The Confederacy Magazine

Used by Permission

:Atgv:01:

Dedication

For J.N.

Chapter I

JENNY MOBLEY clenched her lace-gloved fists, ready to admit to no one, least of all herself, that she was afraid. She dared a glance at the stranger beside her on the buggy seat and gave an unladylike lick at the salt beading her lip. Heat, intensified since the afternoon thunderstorm, rose in pine-scented mists, shimmering over the road of slick, red Georgia clay. They rolled along it with silence between them as thick as the forest walling the road.

Suddenly the vista opened. A split-rail fence set apart a grove of hardwoods thinned to leave only the select. Towering oaks cajoled the breeze, their beneficent boughs shading dainty dogwoods. Scaly-barked sycamores gleamed against dark magnolias. And, away on the far side, prickly-burred sweet gums bore a hint of coming crimson.

The procession ahead of them stopped before plantation gates sparkling with fresh white paint. Jenny leaned forward to watch as two small boys, their round, black faces split with grins of welcome, sprang to the wrought iron barriers and rode them as they swung apart.

A barouche draped with bunting entered first and proceeded down the avenue. Next came a landau. The covering was folded back; Jenny could see gentlemen, wearing top hats that made each look tall, with their ladies kept powerless in soft, slope-shouldered dresses.

Today, July 28, 1844, people from the Piedmont of eastern and central Georgia had converged on the town of Madison, known as the most cultured spot on the stagecoach route between Charleston and New Orleans. Thousands had come for the Whig rally to hear the orator Alexander Stephens, to see the flamboyant politician Robert Toombs. Only the elite were invited to Trevalyan for tea.

Jenny’s excitement was not diminished by the fact that women could not vote. This trip to Madison with Cousin Emily and her solicitor husband, Joshua Hill, was the first time she had ever traveled from the farm in Jasper County into the adjoining County of Morgan. Just as this innocent young Union of twenty-six states was ready to move out in a thousand directions, Jenny felt ready to explode.

Only a few years ago, Jenny’s forebears had been among the pioneers who settled the Creek Indian Territory in the part of Georgia that was the western frontier. Most of their neighbors had traveled with one book, a big family Bible, but Jenny’s grandparents had also brought Shakespeare and Scott. From her reading Jenny knew there was life to be lived; and she yearned—with seeming impossibility—to find the strength to give hers meaning and worth.

For now, all she wanted was to enjoy today. She leaned back as the buggy swayed and moved toward the gates. Her head cocked so that her bonnet no longer shielded her face from the man she had met only an hour ago, she studied him.

Trevalyan, his home, was part of an idyll of fine living, its wealth derived from the white gold of cotton. Charles King belonged to this rich red land. He was part of its power.

Whoa, girl! Wait. Charles spoke gently to his mare, but his hands controlling the reins were strong and sure. I wanted to stop here so your first view of the house would be perfect, Miss Mobley, he said, softening o’s and burring r’s in the unmistakable tones of a Virginia gentleman.

Alighting from the buggy, they looked as dissimilar as the oaks and dogwoods. She, with a white organdy fichu draping her shoulders and matching redingote dividing her pink skirt, appeared fragile, all aflutter. He, with frock coat flaring over tight trousers on long, lithe, legs stood firm.

He pointed the direction of her gaze; she gasped.

Far down the lane, shining, white, with a green-velvet boxwood garden encircling it like a moat, stood Trevalyan.

Six towering white columns marched across the porch of the Greek Revival mansion. The steep-pitched tin roof flung back the dazzle of July light as if it could deflect the sun. With chimney pots thrusting high from the four corners, Trevalyan proclaimed power. It stood self-sufficient, secure.

Yet, Jenny thought, it also imparted graciousness. A white picket fence separated the naturalized grove from the formal garden of boxwood parterres. Slender elms shaded the house making it look inviting, cool.

She compared Trevalyan to the swept yards and unpainted, plantation-plain farmhouse that was home, and fear choked comment.

Charles’ handsome, boyish face reddened beneath his tan.

An awed, Um-um-uh broke into their confusion. Jenny’s maid Tacey unfolded her dusky, long-boned limbs and scrambled down from the rumble where she had been a sharp-eyed chaperon.

Lord Jesus, she blurted, I reckon that be just the big house, but them gates is might-near pearly, and it do look like...

Jenny’s laughter bubbled up easing her apprehension.

Yes, Tacey, she said, It certainly does look like heaven. Mr. King, your house is the most magnificent place I’ve ever seen.

It’s not really mine. Not yet. My uncle, Peter James Giles, built it in 1824, after the Creeks ceded the territory. When I came to work with Uncle P. J. about four months ago, he showed me this view first.

I—it was kind of you to take the time...

She smiled, realizing he was allowing her to prepare for her coming ordeal. She liked his eyes, hooded by sun-bleached brows.

His mellow voice deepened. I love this land. I hope you will, too. Land and trees will never lose their worth. They’ll always be there to support you.

He is assuming too much! She grasped for a change of conversation.

The houses we passed in Madison were lovely, but Trevalyan is... compelling. It looks as if it has stories to tell.

Charles’ brows bristled. He plunged his fingers into his thick blond hair setting awry the top layer.

She bit her tongue. Must I always say the wrong thing? Too late, she remembered that the ladies in the hotel had been whispering behind their fans about Trevalyan.

Don’t be swayed by gossip! He threw his hands out in agitation. I’ll tell you about Austin Dabney—when I know you better and you won’t think me indiscreet. Perhaps I see his story differently.

No, no. I’m sorry. I really know nothing... He sounded as if she had offended him, and she did not know why.

They stood apart, tentative.

Tacey, who had been waiting with the young gatekeepers, stepped beside Jenny and gave her a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Missy, she hissed. These here folks is quality. See them fine quarters spreading down the road behind the big house? No telling how many men work sich a big plan’ation. If you moving, I is coming, too.

Hush. Jenny shook her head. Naming Tacey the Latin for be silent had done no good.

I’m shorely glad I wore my brand spanking new dress, Tacey continued. ‘Spite you saying red wadn’t ‘propriate, this gal gonna have a fine time to-day!

She climbed back on the rumble.

Charles’ lips twitched. He tried to suppress a grin, but it spread, lighting his whole face. He turned to Jenny.

Are you ready to go in?

Yes, she said, straightening her fichu as if she could gather her courage like the shawl.

THE HORSE TROTTED down the quarter-mile avenue toward home, then stopped at a carriage block in front of the picket fence.

As Jenny stepped from the buggy, her cousin Emily Hill pounced.

What happened to you? she whispered to Jenny. We’ve been here nearly an hour.

Emily composed her face into a set smile as she turned to Charles. Her voice became syrup. Good afternoon, Mr. King. She patted her pale pink hair. You simply must forgive me fo’ snatchin’ Jenny away. But I’ve already attended to all the little doovers. Nervously she tightened the drawstring of her reticule only to open it again to fish for a handkerchief. Your aunt is waiting...

Yes, ma’am, Charles said, bowing over Jenny’s hand, kissing her fingertips.

Casting him a wild-eyed glance, Jenny followed Emily up the center walk flanked by musky boxwoods that cut off escape.

You’re beholden to Mr. Hill for his connections, Emily hissed. This match will do the family proud. Look at those Corinthian capitals. This house has rare sophistication for a plantation so far from Savannah.

Jenny did not know what Corinthian capitals were, but she knew she did not want to be indebted to Joshua Hill. She supposed she should be thankful. Emily was not obliged to be her matchmaker. But as the wife of a young solicitor, she was in far better position than Jenny’s father, with five daughters to dower, to arrange this marriage with a man from the Virginia branch of the clan.

But I don’t want to marry now. Especially not this dandy.

Now I know how you are, Emily continued as she bustled Jenny up the steep steps. Don’t you dare interrupt any of these ladies who are slow to finish a thought.

But Cousin Emily, I don’t want to marry a stranger and sit on a cushion and know in advance what will happen every hour of every day! I want to see the world! I want my life to matter!

Emily stopped in the middle of the porch and stared at her. Nonsense! Straighten your collar, take a deep breath, and move slowly and gracefully as a lady should.

Jenny ran a finger under the scratchy white organdy. What should she do with her parasol? But Emily was pushing her through the double doorways into Trevalyan.

Dark, quiet, cool, the hall was filled with the fragrance of roses from massed arrangements set on demi-lune tables on either side. Furnishings were few, uncluttered, creating a spaciousness that made each item special. The floor was bare, shining. On the left, doors opened onto the still dimmer recess of the parlor. There, closed shutters and lace curtains softened the glare of the sun filtering through nine-over-nine windows. Refracted rays cast a restful glow on gleaming woods and polished brass. Porcelains and oriental rugs invited inspection.

Jenny eyed the circle of matrons seated on stiff-backed sofas. Each erect gray head was perfectly coiffured. Each bejeweled hand was properly folded on each silk lap. Each pair of sharp eyes was turned upon Jenny.

I hate being scrutinized like a prized pig. Her wits were slipping away. She remembered that her kid slippers were shamefully grass stained.

Ladies, Emily Hill said, inclining her head in a deferential nod. She spoke now in a cultured voice. I want you all to meet Susan Virginia Mobley. Her mother, Johanna Jones Mobley, is my first cousin once removed. Jenny was born in Hillsboro.

She nudged her cousin forward. Mrs. Giles, this is Jenny.

How do you do, Susan Virginia? Charles’ aunt, Trevalyan’s mistress, nodded formally, looking somewhere above Jenny’s shoulder.

Jenny struggled to hide her more offending shoe. She curtsied and murmured a greeting.

She thought Lavinia Giles’ mouth looked as permanently pursed as if it had been drawn up like a reticule. She could see that the woman had already decided she would not make Charles a suitable wife. She could not blame her. She knew her face was plain. She considered her hair as uninteresting as brown broom sedge.

He’s not what I want anyway. She made her own mouth stubborn.

Come talk to me, young lady, commanded a humped dowager draped in a musty shawl in spite of the heat. Didn’t your grandfather once live in Goochland County? I believe my Uncle Henry knew him.

Yes, ma’am. Jenny curtsied more gracefully this time. She smiled, knowing it relieved the plainness of her face, and was rewarded when the old woman responded with delight. Grandpa emigrated from Ireland. County Down, it was. He fought with General Morgan at Cowpens during the Revolutionary War.

Most probably it’s his blood in me that makes me want to fight my brethren for independence. She suppressed a giggle that bordered hysteria.

But she had said the right thing. The old lady claimed her for conversation, and her merry spirits returned.

When at last Jenny fulfilled the demands of etiquette, Emily released her.

She slipped out the nearest door and found herself in the dining room where a long satinwood table was laden with delicacies. A footed crystal dish displayed the layers of an English trifle: cake, jam, custard, fresh peaches, and whipped cream. Jenny’s stomach growled. She felt Cousin Emily and the mistress with the drawstring mouth watching her. I can do without food. She hurried through the hall to the front door.

From the high porch, she could discern the pattern of scrolls, circles, and angles in the parterres. Boxwood, trimmed low, edged the labyrinth of flowerbeds. Young ladies, whose beribboned bonnets and ruffled parasols rivaled the blossoms, were exploring the maze of paths. The lovely garden, dappled with sunlight and shadows, beckoned her. Inquisition over, she felt giddy with gaiety and bounced down the steps to introduce herself to the promenaders.

Hello! I’m Jenny Mobley from Hillsboro.

I’m Sarah Allen from Madison, responded an older girl. And this... she generously included a solemn nine-year-old, is Rebecca Latimer.

Rebecca followed them, her freckled face lifted to Jenny’s. Sarah introduced the others. The group meandered, pausing here and there to sniff the lemon lilies or to wonder at speckled cups of foxglove.

Suddenly the girls’ chatter lagged; they peeped beneath their parasols at several young gentlemen alighting from a landau. The obvious leader, a tall man with great shocks of dark hair, strode up the center walk, blustering about encountering an abolitionist spy on a visit to Savannah.

Who is that? whispered Jenny.

You mean that specimen of male beauty? one of the girls retorted. That’s the infamous Robert Toombs. She shielded her disapproving mouth with a lacy fan. My dear, he was expelled from Franklin College and...

No, no. The slender one in the dark coat.

Slender? He’s the thinnest person I ever saw! Like a skeleton alive and walking.

He looks like Lord Byron, Jenny murmured. The man was pale, hollow-cheeked. His chestnut hair was thin, combed flat behind protruding ears. Not handsome, and yet... The look of pathos he bore went straight to Jenny’s heart. She wanted to push back that lock of hair and cool that intelligent brow.

Rebecca spoke up in a piping voice that carried across the garden.

That’s who everybody came to hear in the stump speaking. That’s `Little El-lick.’

The man in the dark coat smiled kindly at the child and looked over her head at Jenny.

Embarrassed that he had caught them discussing him, she nonetheless met his gaze. His hazel eyes blazed with fire. Here is a man who commands attention. I wish I could meet him.

He seemed to read her thoughts. If she spoke to him without being properly introduced, Emily would disown her, but he was heading her way.

ALEXANDER HAMILTON Stephens accepted the familiar nickname, Little Alex, with good spirit even though he was not actually that small. He only looked so from the shortness of his body and his disproportionately long arms. He pulled his ninety-four pounds up to his fullest five feet seven and started toward the delightful young lady who had met his eyes.

Then he saw Sarah.

Sarah Allen was wafting her fan with such frenzy that Alex felt momentary panic. Perhaps he had not concealed his passion as well as he thought.

As his footsteps traced the geometric turnings of the parterre, emotion flooded his soul as it had twelve years ago. He had graduated from Franklin College in Athens, Georgia. First in his class, he had ached to continue schooling and study law, but it was out of the question. His patrimony spent, he was in debt. Worse, there were rumors that he had accepted aid from the Presbyterian Board under false pretenses.

The day after graduation, August 2, 1832, he had arrived in Madison to teach at a local academy where he struggled with a hodgepodge of children from baby-fat four-year-olds to long-and-gangling full-grown boys. It had taken all of Alexander’s courage to apply the rod to lads much larger than he; but he had done it; and he had commanded respect.

And then the unthinkable had happened. He had fallen in love with a student, Sarah, a girl lovely both in person and character. Penniless, he had been unwilling to address her. With no prospects, he could not ask her to wait for him. Constantly ill, he was afraid he would become an invalid and not be able to make a living for a wife.

A knife had twisted in his stomach. After a few shy attempts to court her, he had known the only honorable thing to do was leave.

Now, at thirty-two, a freshman United States Congressman, already an expert on the Constitution, he was a man with prospects. He traversed the garden and stood before her. He cleared his throat, brushed back lank hair that had fallen over his forehead, knowing now that he could speak his heart. But the renowned orator could find no words. Speechless, Alex bent to kiss Sarah’s gloved hand.

JENNY, DISAPPOINTED, embarrassed, backed away as Alexander Stephens bowed over Sarah’s hand.

Wait, Jenny, said Sarah. I want you to meet my old friend. Mr. Stephens, this is Jenny Mobley from Hillsboro.

I’m delighted to meet you, he said, reaching out. I know your area well.

Charmed by the interest on his face, she responded with too much animation. It’s an honor, Congressman Stephens. I keep hearing all this shouting about the Republic of Texas. I wish that you’d explain to me why such a far away country is so important to us in Georgia.

Yes, of course, he said, but his eyes strayed to Sarah.

Sensing the restraint between the two, Jenny hurried to add, But I’m intruding now on your re-acquaintance. Some other time...

She looked up. Emily was frowning at her from the porch. Joshua Hill towered over her. His bushy auburn hair, standing out wildly, somehow made Jenny afraid of him.

Confused, she glanced back at Alex just as Charles appeared.

Congressman Stephens, I’m Charles King. May I invite all of you to the table under the elm for some cold lemonade?

Relieved, they followed Charles only to be joined by the Hills. Introductions were made and the refreshments served.

Jenny noticed Alex watching Sarah as she removed her gloves to take the cup. A muscle twitched in his face. She wore no wedding ring.

The lemonade tasted tangy, and Jenny rolled a piece of ice on her tongue. I’ve never had ice in July before.

Jenny!" Emily hissed.

Alex smiled. I suspect it’s a new treat here, isn’t it, Mr. King?

Yes, Charles replied. We’ve only had ice down from the north since the railroad was completed from the coast into Madison.

Joshua Hill spoke up, As a former South Carolinian, I’ll brag a bit. Of course, you know we had America’s first regular passenger train. In December of 1830, I actually rode The Best Friend of Charleston.

Alex’s eyes twinkled. Yes, Solicitor Hill, we’re used to South Carolinians boasting. His voice conveyed such gentle humor that everyone laughed.

Except for Emily, who whispered to Jenny, It was the first locomotive to explode!

I think, ladies and gentleman, Alex continued, that we’re on the brink of an exciting new era. Tracks only exist from point to point now, but I predict we’re about to see a boom in railroad building that will change the face of the nation.

As Charles and Alex continued to discuss railroads, Sarah turned toward a young man who had appeared beside her. Joshua drew Emily aside, leaving Jenny standing alone. Uncomfortable, she did not wish to eavesdrop, but Joshua’s voice carried.

My dear, railroads might change our lives right now. Judge Saffold, one of the men who brought the railroad here, thinks we should leave Jasper County and move to Madison.

Why? The dirty, noisy trains spoil the atmosphere with their smoke. Oh, no, Mr. Hill, I’d be afraid the sparks would burn down the town.

But Madison will be important now that it’s the railroad terminus. My dear, you know it’s not that I seek after `the glittering bauble,’ fame. But with clients in so many towns, it’s slow to serve them by stagecoach. From Madison I could travel the circuit the modern way, by rail.

Jenny could tell by his tone that his decision was already made.

Emily replied, I’ll make a home fo’ you anywhere you say.

Jenny disliked the pompous man. Feeling sorry for Emily, she moved toward the lemonade.

SHADOWS LENGTHENED over the garden. The breeze died. Jenny slipped away from the pressing voices into the silent grove. Excitement had ended with the departure of Alexander Stephens. Tired from the strain of the day, she sagged against a lichen-covered oak. Could she live here without succumbing to the power, the luxury? Would these people scoff at the simple faith that meant so much to her?

She laughed at herself; she was worrying needlessly. Charles King had avoided her as surely as she had avoided him. Even if he agreed and the match was made, his family would, no doubt, consider themselves far better than hers.

She took off her bonnet. A finger of breeze dipped down and cooled her damp brown curls. Through misty eyes, she gazed at the western sky streaked with white, with gold, with crimson. A rattle, a clank of carriages made her turn. The small gatekeepers were busy opening and closing the wrought-iron grilles. Beyond them the sky was dark. Ominous clouds scudded across the northern sky. Lightning split the blackness; the thunder was as yet unheard.

Even as she watched the boys swinging on the gates, she saw herself as helpless as they to choose the course her life would take.

Jenny!

Emily was calling. It was time to go.

Chapter II

MORNING BURST UPON Jenny. Her eyes flew open at the sound of singing and an off-key, brass band. She ran to her window on the second floor of the American Hotel in Madison, where she was staying with the Hills, and leaned out, envying the people pressing toward the music.

The courthouse clock struck eight. How could I have slept so late? The first day of the rally was hurrying by, but oh, she had promised to watch baby Clarence.

She dressed quickly in a pink-and-white striped chambray and carried the chubby child out on the columned balcony that stretched the length of the hotel. From there she looked down on the corner of Monroe and Jackson Streets where visitors from over the state were gathering. Banners flapping over the intersection proclaimed the Great Mass Meeting of the Sovereign Whigs of Georgia.

The Macon Volunteer Company led the parade. Behind them came plantation wagons loaded with provisions. The Newton County procession had one hundred wagons, the Henry County group seventy-five. Jenny had seen fifty people once at a church homecoming. This crowd numbered twenty-five thousand.

Look, Clarence! She held the baby up to see. An omnibus with sixteen wheels, drawn by eight yokes of oxen, rumbled by, bearing a banner from Clark County with a huge portrait of Kentuckian Henry Clay and the motto, The Great Old Statesman of the West.

Below Jenny’s perch the sidewalks were filling with sun-bonneted women. Their new, gathered skirts reflected political change. Gone were the clinging, confining gowns of her mother’s era. Now, Victoria was Queen of England. By her standards, the world’s women kept their bodies covered, but their minds were beginning to show.

Jenny yearned for more schooling. Eight years ago the first college in the world to grant degrees to women had opened in Macon, but with so many sisters, it had been impossible for her to attend. She thought she had a good mind. She wished she could have another chance to talk with the brilliant Mr. Stephens.

Look out you don’t fall!

Jenny whirled. Charles King was watching her.

A thought popped into her head unbidden as she looked at his blue eyes and sun-streaked hair. He is quite the handsomest boy I have ever seen! She blushed.

Good morning, Mr. King. She curtsied, flustered by his nearness. Remembering her cool goodbye last evening at Trevalyan, she felt redness creeping down her neck.

Would you like to join the throng?

Yes, but I can’t... Jenny hesitated.

Emily appeared with four-year-old Anna clinging to her skirts. Fiddlesticks, y’all go right ahead.

Trying not to notice the triumphant smile on Emily’s face, Jenny ran to don her hat and gloves.

CHARLES HAD BROUGHT a phaeton. Too small to accommodate Tacey, the sporting cart insured their being alone, pressed closely together.

Buggies and carts jammed them from all directions. Ruddy farmers, disparagingly called Georgia Crackers, blocked the way. Eager to move on, Jenny was amazed at how patiently Charles waited while two homespun-clad men stopped in the middle of the street to discuss their crops.

They rode through Madison, discovering that every vacant field housed a political delegation. The town common was covered with tents and plantation wagons. On one corner a glee club sang, on another men clustered around a speaker shouting a harangue.

Georgians love oratory as much as they do barbecue, Charles said, laughing.

We’re missing the speeches. I must hear Mr. Stephens.

Would you like to walk?

Oh, yes! All I catch is shouts of `tariff’ and `Texas Humbug.’ I want to get close enough to understand.

They left the horse at the livery stable and walked up Washington Street past the dry-goods stores.

They’re arguing about the annexation of Texas, but what it all comes down to is Southern rights.

But if the Whigs and the Democrats all want Texas, why such a disagreement?

Charles lifted his hands, Without a test you can’t know the strength. The North and South are jousting for economic power.

As they reached the top of the hill, they saw a group gathering around a platform to hear Alexander Stephens. Jenny hoped Charles would not realize how interested she was in the man, but she stood on tiptoe trying to see him as he moved to the podium.

My fellow Georgians! The voice was high, almost feminine. It is fitting that I speak in a town named for James Madison who well earned the title of `Father of the Constitution’ because I stand before you as one who finds the law, as embodied in that Constitution, the majestic source of all I hold dear. It is the richest inheritance ever bequeathed by patriot sires.

He constantly changes pitch, whispered Jenny. He can play his voice like a lyre.

The Texas treaty is a miserable political humbug! Stephens exclaimed, A ploy to dismember the Union and form a Southern Confederacy. His voice dropped, became conversational. He was reasoning with his listeners, and they leaned forward to hear every word.

I would not oppose annexation at the proper time and in the proper manner, but I am unwilling to endanger the Union over it.

As the speech ended, Charles King conceded, He might be small, but he’s all brain.

Jenny joined in the applause, understanding now that Alex’s Whig Party was fighting the Democrat’s plan to annex the tremendous territories of Oregon and Texas.

It was noon. The crowd, smelling the smoke drifting from the pits, where great quarters of pork and mutton had turned all night on spits over oak coals, surged toward the center of town.

A Columbus Enquirer reporter claims the table stretches one mile and ten yards long, Charles told her as they joined the line for the food, provided by the Whigs. He took a huge helping of the barbecue.

Jenny took little, moving instead toward pots of summer vegetables, simmered for hours with slabs of salt pork. There were slick pods of okra, placid squash smelling of onion, green pole beans, and field peas swimming in brown-eyed broth. Corn pones, like brown-lace pancakes, waited in stacks to be dipped into the vegetables’ pot liquor. She reached toward mountains of deep-fried chicken.

They found a shady spot beneath one of the towering oaks that kept the town cool.

Jenny grinned at him as she gnawed a chicken leg and licked her fingers. He leaned close to brush a bit of crust from her cheek. Her eyes shifted to a spot beyond him.

Alexander Stephens, plate-in-hand, stood uncertainly, looking at her. Moments ago he had been the center of a crowd acclaiming him. Now he was alone, vulnerable. Hair fell over a forehead beaded with perspiration.

Oh, Mr. King, do call Mr. Stephens over to share our cool spot. He’s so flushed, he looks about to faint. She half rose. They say he almost died of a lung problem a few months ago. Don’t you just admire the way he keeps on striving for the right when he could afford to stay home and be treated like an invalid?

Charles frowned, but said nothing. He stood and bowed as gallantly as he could, motioning to the congressman to take his seat.

Before he comes, he said to Jenny, let me ask you to grant me the honor of being your escort tomorrow night for the ball at Bonar Hall.

Yes, I s’pose. If you’re sure you want to, Jenny said, distracted by smoothing her chambray skirt and making room for Little Alex. Do sit here where there’s a bit of breeze, Mr. Stephens. She heard herself gushing and suppressed a desire to fan him. Such marvelous speaking as you do—all that debating—it must be exhausting.

Thank you for your concern, Miss Mobley, Alex said good naturedly. But don’t worry about me. I was made to figure in a storm.

He was looking at her in a way that made her feel pretty. Charles’ face was harder to read. Her smile encompassed them both.

JENNY HAD NEVER been to a ball. The event to climax the four-day rally was to be held south of Madison at the estate of Bonar Hall.

She was unsure which man she would rather escort her, but when Charles called for her with a coach pulled by horses with tossing black manes, she thought, I feel like Cinderella.

As they neared the plantation, her excitement turned to awe. This fence was brick, as red as the Georgia clay from which it had been made.

Colonel Walker had his people make bricks for every structure on Bonar Hall, Charles explained as they stopped at the gatehouse to present his invitation. It’s the finest place this side of Charleston.

The team of matched bays entered the gates on a driveway of sparkling white sand. Jenny caught her breath.

Towering three stories high at the end of a two-hundred-foot lawn, Bonar Hall rose in straight-faced Georgian architecture.

I’ve never seen a brick house before, she whispered.

Charles placed his hand over hers. It’s the lawn that intimidates the neighbors. In Georgia, growing grass is so difficult that it’s as costly as if it were Persian carpet.

The guests were welcomed with fragrance, for at perfect intervals, granite pillars supported climbing roses. Flambeaux also lined the way, and up ahead, candles twinkled in every window of the three-story house.

She closed her eyes, opened them. The carriage was still a carriage. The glittering palace remained.

They stopped before the Doric portico. She could hear laughter: an orchestra tuning up. Then awe turned to alarm, and her ears began to buzz.

The ladies alighting ahead of them were dressed in fragile silks and smooth satins elaborately trimmed with feathers and furbelows. The brightly colored ensembles looked like pictures she had seen from Paris. She and her mother had made her simple white organdy frock from a fashion plate in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Already it was wrinkled.

Charles helped her alight and guided her to greet the hosts, tall and handsome John Byne Walker and his dark-haired young wife, Eliza.

Jenny reached out to shake Eliza Walker’s hand. The beautiful woman wore elbow-length gloves. Jenny glanced around. Every woman present wore gloves! Panic prickled her scalp. She had known hats were not worn at night, but she had been ignorant to assume the same about gloves. Oh, why had she been so impatient, so independent? She had left the hotel the moment Charles called for her, slipping out before the irritating Emily could inspect her appearance. They would all know she was nothing but a Georgia Cracker.

She looked at Charles, but he, in his usual calm, confident manner, seemed unmindful of any difficulty. He ushered her up the stairs to the third floor attic, which had been turned into a ballroom with greenery and glittering candelabras. Each time she presented her hand to be introduced, she was aware that only she wore no gloves.

Momentarily, her courage failed her. She wished that she could turn and run all the way back to Hillsboro. How many times while she fed the hateful chickens had she dreamed of attending a ball? Now here she was stammering at Charles King’s friends and wishing she had not come. She had managed by being herself in the daytime, but she was out of place amid their evening finery. Why had Cousin Emily tried to arrange the match? She could never fit with such sophisticated people.

With glazed eyes she accepted Charles’ hand and swayed to a waltz.

The tempo changed. Couples began skipping about the room in a polka.

Emily’s lessons had not included the polka, but Charles wrapped his arm around her and whirled her away. She stamped upon his feet and giggled.

Laughing, Charles put his lips against the tendrils, which curled over her ear. Relax. Stop fighting and lean against my arm. If you’ll let me, I’ll guide you.

Her pulse, as erratic as the polka’s beat, surprised her. How had she not known what the touch of man’s lips could do?

His arms lifted her through the fast-paced steps. If she were a Cinderella, so be it. Tomorrow the rally would end. She would leave Madison, go back to her ashes, her chicken house. Let her sisters push her out of line for the matchmaker and call her a spinster. Tonight, she would enjoy the ball before her clock struck midnight.

ACROSS THE ROOM in a shadowy corner under the eaves, Alexander Stephens stood looking out on the ballroom. Partially concealed by potted palms, which had been carried up from the orangery, he saw couples playing out their own little stories. Darting in and out, they wove a tapestry of blue, of black, of yellow... His gaze pulled irresistibly to a focal point of white: Jenny.

She’s as pretty as a puppy. A green ribbon caught her curls at the back of her head. Matching ribbons encircled her tiny waist and streamed behind her over the froth of her skirt.

Perhaps she was too small to be considered a classic beauty, but her smile attracted him. Had he waited too long to fill a place on her dance card? He would have liked to have claimed her for one