To Love Again: An Unforgettable Novel of the Gilded Age

By Jane Bennett Gaddy

Lee sat in the window facing the Bridge as calmly as his emotions would allow, waiting the moment when this day would enhance his lifes story. He drank the last of his coffee, spoke good-day to the waiter, and walked out into the morning mist off the East River. He strode toward the Bridge, many thoughts crowding his youthful mind. He had one more thing to do and now was the time

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491799352

Jane Bennett Gaddy

Thy bruise is incurable, and thy wound is grievous (Jeremiah 30:12). This was the heart-cry of Rachel Payne, my fictional exemplar of Great-great grandmother Margery Brown Rogers Clark, and all the women who fell victim to such humiliating loss. Rachel was compelled to deal with it the best way she could. And she did it by immersing herself into what she loved best—helping to restore the integrity and dignity of the Old South and its heroes who went down to their graves hopeless and helpless to vindicate the Cause. Rachel would not stop drinking from the well, her pen expressing heart and soul, until there remained nothing more to be written. Beyond that, there would always be an irredeemable love and devotion to the Confederacy and the Old South. Jane Bennett Gaddy, author of House Not Made With Hands, The Mississippi Boys, Isaac’s House, JOAB, Rachel After the Darkness, and co-author of GIBBO-In My Life, is retired and lives with her husband in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She holds a Ph.D. in Religion and administers a course in American Literature and English Composition for external studies students of Bethany Divinity College and Seminary in Alabama.

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Copyright © 2016 Jane Bennett Gaddy Ph.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Author photo by: Tracy Gaddy Danner

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-9934-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9936-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9935-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 07/07/2016

CONTENTS

Prologue A Powerful Moment

Part One

Chapter 1 McGill Creek

Chapter 2 Thoughtful Understanding

Chapter 3 To Be Consoled

Chapter 4 Waiting

Chapter 5 The Storm

Chapter 6 And Can It Be?

Chapter 7 The Secret

Chapter 8 So Greatly Admired

Chapter 9 Light in the Darkness

Chapter 10 These Things We Remember

Chapter 11 A Sense of Place

Chapter 12 A Most Excellent Idea

Chapter 13 The Blessing

Part Two

Chapter 14 Back to Gilsey

Chapter 15 To Love Again

Chapter 16 Beyond All Guilt

Chapter 17 The Crush

Chapter 18 So Much Richer

Chapter 19 Revealing Secrets

Chapter 20 Prattle or Blather

Chapter 21 Rachel’s Moment

Chapter 22 I’ll Be Seeing You

Chapter 23 One Day at a Time

Chapter 24 My Hand Left Yours

Chapter 25 With the Heart

Chapter 26 It’s Like Confession

Chapter 27 Depth of Feeling

Chapter 28 Fleeting Moments

Chapter 29 Beyond the Black Waters

Epilogue Lee

Afterword

About the Author

Dedication…

Suddenly jealous of you, Mother. Jealous in knowing you are engaged in the pursuit of the story. Eavesdropping on the lives and loves and secret words of a world you dared to imagine. There are so few things in this brutish life worth admiring. God’s magnificent creation, music, true art and words. Strung together or left alone. Sewn, a quilt of emotion and thought. Beautiful glorious letters placed gently beside one another until they speak and, if you’re lucky, they change someone’s mind, or better yet, their life.

I love you, Mother. Like jazz and art and words. But not necessarily in that order. Just kidding. Have a pleasant evening and remember what The Bard says, ‘The play’s the thing’, although I’m convinced he meant the quill and ink and page are the thing.

-Peter

Sent from my Windows Phone

June 8, 2015

Figuratively speaking, Peter, you have not left my side since I began writing To Love Again. Some of these beautiful words came directly from you, much better than I could have said it, for you are, indeed, The Bard. This is your family, your heritage, your forebears who have, in life and death, woven an unforgettable story for us. They left landmarks along the way, places we have explored, fantasized, and memorialized, and we have done it together on these pages. Thank you for coming alongside me, for encouraging me, for staying. And now it is done.

I dedicate this one to you in hopes that you will keep the fires burning long after I go hence. I love you, son!

Mother

The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit

My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ,—

Would it were worthier! but I am not now

That which I have been—

George Gordon, Lord Byron

With Thanks …

To my loving husband. You spent endless hours editing the manuscript, encouraging me, and helping me polish every line, seeing things I could not see, giving insight no one else would have been allowed to give. You convinced me I should not end with Rachel, After the Darkness, and you were right. To Love Again took us to new heights. As the historical paper trail of my Clark family of Sarepta found its amazing end, fiction and fantasy came alive, and the history of Old New York became indelibly written on the pages of my mind and this book. South met North in remarkable experience and in multiple treasured stories of passion and splendor. Thank you for inspiring me and forever living out an unforgettable love story with me.

Prologue

A Powerful Moment

Sarepta in late summer of 1876

F or thirteen years Rachel Payne searched the past, seeking answers that would suffice to comfort and persuade her into concluding that the war years and those that followed had not all been in vain. One thing had led to another.

Just three years ago the train rumbled out of the depot of the Bluff City, Memphis, and for three days of insufferable jerking and jolting, three evenings of watching the moon wax and wane and the sun rise over much more of the South than Rachel had ever seen, she found herself in another world.

With face pressed against the window, she watched as ghost-like frescoes moved mysteriously upon the mists while the train dipped and glided northeastward toward its destination, and at the end of the third day, thundered on the trestle over the Hudson River into full view of the Gilded City. She drew a deep breath.

In those moments she had no way of knowing that life would once again take on splendid meaning and purpose and that it would unfold someplace other than the Old South. The memories were haunting, beautiful. How and why such glorious contrasts? She had asked the question a thousand times, wondering if she could, in some small measure, ever hope to bring back those days. She longed to bring them back.

And she had not, for one moment, forgotten, not that Oscar Alexander would let her. The memory, the very thought, of a gentle touch and a loving spirit reaching for her hand, took her breath away as though it happened yesterday.

Her six-month assignment as a postwar journalist was almost over when on September 18, 1873, the financials crashed and New York City took the hard blow like a piece of hot iron against a naked anvil takes the blow of the artisan’s hammer, sending the United States and Europe temporarily into blunt force trauma. Oscar, loathing every memory of that day, hurriedly made arrangements for Rachel to leave before the railroads shut down and the cars were no longer making the long journeys out of the City. What he did was unselfish and Rachel knew it. He could have waited an hour or two and she would have been left without a choice. But he was too much of a man to even think of such. It had to be right or not at all.

They expressed their feelings on that day, an experience born out of uncanny circumstance. Rachel never gave a thought that such might happen the day she left Sarepta for New York City, having known the love and protection of Thomas Payne. She was skilled at making the most out of life, of suffering need and want, of living with and without. Oscar was born in London in pageantry and wealth, came to America as a young man only to add to his affluence as owner and editor of a successful New York newspaper. Six enchanting months with Oscar and The Press had given Rachel increased faith and a new perspective.

She reached into the pocket of her apron and touched the wrinkled envelope, slowly took the letter out and read it again. There had been many letters from Oscar over the last three years. But this one was different. The urgency, the need, the love. She felt it as never before.

My dearest Rachel, nothing has changed since I posted a letter to you in mid-August. Lord willing, neither will it ever change. When I say that I long for you, it is without exaggeration. Sometimes I think I cannot bear the separation, I cannot abide another moment without seeing your face again. I ask the Lord’s help to bridle my emotions until …

Rachel methodically folded the silky paper and returned it to the envelope. She pulled the corner of her cotton dress to her ankles and took the steps off the porch and into the warmth. Standing in the rays for a brief moment, she looked to the east, then to the west, and started to run toward the brilliance of the sun.

Oh, Oscar! Love is not supposed to be so complicated.

The words burst from her lips and resounded across the hills. Up to the big oak tree and without stopping at Ben’s grave, Rachel topped the ridge, dropping a moment to catch her breath before reaching her destination. The tears were streaming now. How long would she be torn between her first love, who was gone from her forever, and the love of a man who had invaded her life three years ago, the man she could not forget and who had never forgotten her?

She lay on the ground for a moment reminiscent of the war years when she so often came to this place. This time thinking of a more current state of affairs. Six months she had spent in New York City, learning another culture, willing to make changes to her life in a proper sense, though she would never consider adjusting her ideology. She would never think of abandoning her belief in a God who loved her with an everlasting love. She would never think of turning her back on her southern heritage. But Oscar had never suggested nor required such. On the contrary, he was far more steeped in her ideology than he was that of the North. Just because he had never been in the South didn’t mean he would not love it just as she loved it. But on the other hand, she thought, he may never wish to leave the North for any reason.

Rachel stood to her feet, brushed the red-clay dust from her dress, and ran the rest of the way up the ridge to The Secret Place. She had not been there in years. It had belonged to her and Thomas, this place where they came to meet with God, to share the cares of life, to beg for His intervention on every consideration of raising their boys. It was where Rachel ran when the war raged, entreating God to protect, to comfort, and even to feed and clothe Thomas and Albert Henry and Jonathan and later Isaac. It was where she came to release Thomas and Albert Henry to a loving God when their bodies lay cold in the bloody trough of Gettysburg, and to thank Him that she still had Jonathan and Isaac at the close of the war and that the war had ended, relieving her of the fear that it would go on for years, taking her younger sons, Joab and Samuel.

Remember me and the boys when you run to The Secret Place, Thomas had written after his first few months on the battlefield. And now she was here again in a powerful moment, placing yet another need at the feet of Jesus. Oscar Alexander. Rachel lay still on the bed of cool green grass, asking an omniscient God to give her some answers and instructions. She dared not trust the sweetest frame. Only God could give her leave to do what she had already done—fall in love with Oscar Alexander.

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Rachel sat in the window seat of her farmhouse thinking about Manton Marble, her mind transfixed on an old familiar place, the Granite Island of Manhattan. She had spent a lifetime there in 1873. A lifetime that lasted a mere six months.

It was much easier to write about secession and the war years while in the City. Absent the front line fighting, it was where the political and philosophical action had taken place. There was probably more intelligent thought amongst the journalists and newspaper editors in New York City than any other place on earth during the war. Rachel never knew that until she experienced the ambiance for herself. They were not all stuffed into one mold of the Radical Republican Regime, the Union’s war machine. Some had personal conviction that often collided with that of their colleagues; besides, there were plenty of Democrats in New York City.

All of the physical battles were fought in the South except for a few. In the past, when she recollected that Thomas and Henry were killed on Union soil, it had angered her. But some things got sorted out during her time in New York. Republican and Democrat spewed their venom of controversy, having been brought up sharply by reality and the truth. But there was fierce debate and not all New Yorkers had taken the Union side. In fact, many vehemently opposed Lincoln, and by way of her pen and serious southern voice, she seized the opportunity to address the most powerful arguments that lingered on the consciences of men who wished to know the truth—that opportunity afforded her by Oscar Alexander.

She learned that words are powerful; they hurt; they heal. She embraced the words of truth from those who saw the action at the front line of southern defense. They fought alongside the great leaders of the South in the Army of General Robert E. Lee. Rachel would not concede that ever a greater military leader existed. In contrast, though after the war, she had experienced the opposition from a front-row seat. How she wished Thomas could have known the things she learned in the amazingly-storied City. She met those who knew Mark Twain and Charles Dickens personally, mingled with those whose philosophy mirrored hers and, on the other hand, encountered those who were diametrically opposed to everything for which she stood.

Rachel was a brilliant writer, astute in history and the events leading to the war years, Reconstruction, and the evil empire that wished to abolish not only slavery, but the South itself. In all fairness, she had educated herself in the actions and reactions at the North, all from the newspapers her mother had sent her, and when she arrived in the City, she sailed to the heights, giving fullness and flavor to the adage, good seeds lavishly planted take all seasons to bring forth.

Hindsight had taught her that every season has its losses and its gains. She thought of Jessie Jamison. Yes, Rachel had lost, but in comparison to the degree of life-draining circumstance, she would have to concede that losing your husband and beautiful daughter to Yellow Fever, and having your house and possessions burned to the ground with their bodies inside to destroy all traces of the disease, was incomprehensible. Rachel could scarcely bear to remember that she was not there to help Jessie through the pain of loss. The boys did not call her home; there was nothing she could do. But Jessie was a real friend. Pettiness had never conquered her soul, not to Rachel’s knowledge. She had held no contempt for Rachel’s absence, and Jessie had begun healing from her unspeakable loss by the time Rachel returned to Sarepta. Just last year, her friends, including Rachel, her sons and their wives, and the gentle man, Jake Collins, had scraped the ground to the dirt and built Jessie a new house. Of course, it would never be the same, but that was what life was doling out, and Jessie had made the best of it.

Death lurked in Manhattan as in Sarepta. Rachel was in a dreadful carriage crash planned and executed by the evil Victoria Remming, who worked for Oscar’s newspaper. Unconscious and injured, Rachel hovered between life and death and awoke to find her beloved carriage driver, Omrí, was dead. And her temporary pastor, Dr. Gardiner Spring, had lived out his last days and died while Rachel was there, adding to the heartache.

But Manton Marble was, without a doubt, the most colorful figure, a true friend to Oscar and well-known in the newspaper realm. The wrath of Lincoln and War Secretary Edwin Stanton had fallen on Manton during the war. He and Rachel became close personal friends, Manton sensing Rachel’s admiration for someone who was willing to exercise the right of free speech and press at any cost. Lincoln’s mandates and behavior became further proof of his contempt for the South and the Democrat Party, and since Manton’s newspaper was the organ for the Party in New York City, he had inevitably suffered at the hands of the Radical Regime.

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Three years had come and gone. By now, Rachel knew things would never be the same, at least not for her. Daily, almost moment by moment, she fell into deep thought, trying desperately to remember every word spoken, every tear shed, every sound that kept her close to Oscar Alexander. She closed her eyes and listened for the musical clack of the keys on the Teleprinters and the muffled chatter emanating from the floor of the printer’s room that had so inspired her to write on and on, only to be shaken by reality and the summer sounds of Sarepta. It was late August, hot enough to melt steel. But September would come, and with it bring weather suitable for North or South and the most beautiful time of the year.

She had desperately missed her youngest, Samuel, the months she was away. And when she knew from Jonathan how Sam would slip off to the barn and weep for his mother, Rachel was ashamed. Now, her emotions were as unpredictable as the train ride from Memphis to Manhattan Island had been. And now—Sam was a young man of eighteen.

Rachel touched the pocket of her apron to secure Oscar’s letter, the envelope starting to fray around the edges. For all he had said, Rachel was fantasizing the far-reaching possibilities, seeing the world from a better vantage point than she had in a long time.

Was this so wrong?

Part One

Insert%20%231%202.jpg

McGill Creek on the old Clark Home Place,

Calhoun County, Mississippi,

site of Thomas Goode (T.G.) Clark’s Gristmill.

Photo taken by his fifth great-grandson,

Trey Wright, Summer of 2015

Insert%20%232%202.jpg

Precipice overshadowing McGill Creek

and site of the Clark Gristmill.

Photo by Jane Gaddy, great great-grandaughter

of T.G. Clark.

Chapter 1

McGill Creek

S eptember brought early color to the maples and tupelo trees, and brown leaves from the cottonwoods and scaly barks added crunch to the feet and dimension to the layers of peat.

I do so love this time of year, breathed Rachel aloud. The magical misty fragrance of early fall, the sumac, its dusty red leaves made brilliant by the touch of the morning dew.

She hoped no one was listening. But who could be out there? This was her world. The days were yet hot, but the nights were offering welcomed coolness. Feeling adventurous, she slipped her boots on and trekked toward the stream. Getting to the bottom of the creek bed would be treacherous, the walls packed with dark gray sandstone rendering it impossible to descend to the bottom without help. The drop off the precipice at the sheerest point would be some fifty feet. There was no sandstone on the other side of McGill Creek, just the woods. In a couple of weeks, an unexpected frost would touch the trees to darken the colors of red-wine and orange and they would cast a reflective glow in the stream below. She dared not try it without Sam, who was pulling feed corn on the hill. She would stay at the top of the wall and round the bend by holding onto the smaller saplings that had sprung up under the larger trees. Ground cover of thorns and beggar’s lice slapped at her fully covered arms leaving a layer of tiny cling-alongs. It was cooler here in nature’s den.

She tramped on the bed of thick leaves and pine needles, the mossy fragrance of mildew at her feet and on the mist of water below surely as comforting and particular as the wineries in the South of France about which she had read many years ago. Truth be known, if one were to travel very far up the stream, there was the probability of encountering some old farmer’s moonshine still with distillation versatility that would rival the fine wineries of France, absent the lovely fragrance of red grapes, present the rotten stench of fermented corn mash.

A water moccasin slithered along the edge of the stream—his home—and she would by no means disturb his routine. Rachel shivered. Scanning the unsullied landscape and breathing deeply of what it offered, she allowed there was nothing more natural and beautiful, not even the Central Park, so crowded with Irish and Italian and Jewish immigrants it was hard to see the glory of Creation.

She never saw Oscar’s brownstone on the posh Fifth Avenue, but from all indications it was lovely. She couldn’t imagine him living in less than finery. Would he love it here in the Old South given the chance?

A pair of cardinals flitted back and forth across the creek bottom. Snowbirds. They always came around this time of year and stayed, waiting for a thin layer of white to cover the walls of the canyon below. Redbirds against the white of the snow on the sandstone were a sign that someone was coming. It was not wintertime, neither did it ever snow in October, and Rachel was not the least bit superstitious, but wouldn’t it be wonderful—?

Hesitant to leave the memories, Rachel made her way back to the trail and walked to her weather-worn cabin. I do love this place, she mused. In sight of the house, she could see someone was there. A familiar horse with no rider. She stopped to put loving arms around Star’s neck, remembering how Albert Henry loved his horse in years past, then—

Bam!

Startled at first as it was the back screen door but she knew—

Joab? she gave a little yell, knowing she was right.

Yes, Mama. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was about to go looking for you.

Well, you might not have found me. I went to the stream.

What? Alone? Have you taken leave of your senses?

I didn’t go down into the creek bed.

I’m glad to know that.

However, I did carefully move close, hanging onto some small tree trunks to view the stream from the top. It was beautiful, so serene, and it has been years since I ventured there alone. I know that wall is treacherous.

Joab shivered.

Mama, can you not be trusted to be here alone? He was teasing her. To him and his brothers it was all in a day’s work or play in times past. He had slid down every inch of the gray wall over the years.

Rachel hugged and kissed her boy, and said, I knew it was you, Joab, and not just from Star.

She held him a few minutes, caressing his shoulder-length brown hair, momentarily thinking how he favored Albert Henry. Tears formed. She pushed him to arms’ length and studied his face while she caught her breath. Rachel was not much for letting her sons see her become emotional. His red flannel shirt and freshly ironed dungarees were so like her son, who had always made the best of the lack of dollars for grand clothing.

Joab grinned. What? I slammed the door?

Yes, and it was a wonderful sound. What brings you here, son? But before you tell me, let’s go to the kitchen and get you something delicious. I have coconut pie. Jessie Jamison brought me a coconut from the market in Oxford last week, and I couldn’t suppress the desire to make the pie.

My favorite, you know, said Joab.

Do you want coffee?

Yes ma’am, please.

Sit down and tell me what you are doing.

Rachel reached for the pot and filled it with water from the pump on the sink. Jonathan had rigged it for her while she was in New York, knowing she would be spoiled to running water, a convenience she had never known in Sarepta.

I came to get Samuel. I need him to help me clear some land over in Oxford. I have an opportunity to make a little money, which I’ll share with him, of course.

That’s grand news, Joab.

Yes’m. Aggie and I could sure use the money, and I figure you and Samuel could enjoy a few dollars yourselves.

He couldn’t help it—his eye scanned the old kitchen, time-worn and so inconvenient. His mother deserved better than this.

How long since you’ve been to Oxford, son?

A few months. I just go as I can, what with all the farm work and helping Aggie at the house.

How negligent of me! How is dear Aggie?

She’s fine, Mama. She’s always fine. I’ve never known another woman like her, except you, of course.

Well, you give her my love, said Rachel. And will you all be staying with her mama in Oxford?

Yes’m. It’s the best thing to do.

She added coffee grounds to the boiling water, cut and plated a large piece of the coconut pie, and handed it to Joab.

And Oxford. Are things getting better over there?

Oh, much better as far as rebuilding is concerned. The Yankees left it in shambles, you know. But the folks have rebuilt their town, for the most part.

I know, Joab, and you had a large part in that restoration.

Joab grinned, reminded of those days that led him to Aggie and a town full of people he loved. When he remembered the labor of love it took to get her, he would have to put the emphasis on labor.

Where’s Sam? Joab took a large bite and smiled. I feel like I should be waiting for him. This is some good pie, Mama.

He’s up on the hill pulling corn for the crib. He’ll be coming down pretty soon. I know he will be glad to see you and this coconut pie. Rachel cut a piece for Samuel and took another cup from the shelf.

I miss him. And you, Mama.

We miss you, too, son. I often think of the loved ones we’ve lost, though we can’t say we’ve lost someone if we know where they are.

A good point, Mama.

"We will all be together one day, but it does look like you could come home a little more often.