Prairie Rose

By Rachel C. Morris

Who would have thought that I, Anne Whitmore, beloved daughter of a wealthy Boston businessman, would be bouncing along in this dirty, uncomfortable Conestoga wagon, wearing this dreadful, faded homespun dress and the most unfashionable bonnet I could have imagined?

My hair is filthy and stringy. My nails are short and chipped. I have scratches and bug bites all over my body. I have become the family maid and caregiver to my ungrateful, complaining parents. We are headed West to who knows where with robbers, Indians, and broken wagon wheels for excitement. And now, how can I ever keep my promise to my grandmother?

I want to remember my pleasant life in Boston with its fresh sea breezes, the refreshing carriage rides in the park, our fine home with a maid and butler, and hopefully, a proposal from the banker’s son—not the constant, choking, gritty dust of this hot, endless prairie as we ride into an unknown future.

Yet I have watched the Quaker family who are at peace with each other. Eli the carpenter, their tall, handsome son with the sparkling blue eyes, is so kind to me in spite of my tatty appearance. How very different he is from the banker’s son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973648246

Rachel C. Morris

Rachel Morris was born a farmer’s daughter in Northwestern Ohio where her interest in the arts and storytelling was fueled by her mother and great aunt. Rachel is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, Poets Roundtable of Arkansas and Siloam Springs Writers Guild. She has repeatedly won Poem of the Year contests and numerous poetry and short story awards in Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Ohio. She has published a devotional series, “On Eagles’ Wings,” and a book of short stories, “Living on the Edge of an Era,” telling about life in Northwestern Ohio before electricity came. She resides in NW Arkansas.

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Copyright © 2019 Rachel C. Morris.

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.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4823-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4822-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4824-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914634

WestBow Press rev. date:  06/21/2019

Contents

Part I - Boston

Part II - Change

Part III - The Journey

Part IV - Losses

Part V - Tragedy

Part VI - A New Trust

Part VII - New Beginnings

Part VIII - The Destination

Epilogue

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Dedication

T his book is dedicated to the most beautiful One, Jesus, the Author and Finisher of my faith. To Him be the glory.

I am so grateful for my family and friends who supported and worked with me in writing this book. A big thank you goes to my dear daughters who helped with its editing.

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Introduction

A s a gardener, I have been intrigued by antique roses. These bushes have endured travel from the Orient to Europe and from Europe to the Colonies. Consequently, certain of these roses migrated from the East Coast to points south and west.

I found one of my favorite roses, the prolific pink climber, Seven Sisters Rose, was grown by one of my friends. His roses adorned the altar of our church for many summer weeks. The Seven Sisters Rose grows along the East Coast to the Mid-west and in deep Southern states like Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas.

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Prologue

T he invitation inscribed on the finest parchment and embellished with scrolls and twining violets was hand delivered to the butler of Clydesdell mansion. He, in turn, handed the envelope to the youngest lady of the house, Miss Tilda Clydesdell. Her hands trembled with excitement as she ripped the envelope open and read,

Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whitmore request the honor of your presence at a debutante ball being held to celebrate the birthday of their daughter, Roseanne Lea Whitmore, on the 18th day of May, 1840, in the Grand Ballroom at Whitmore House, Tremont Street, Boston.

Tilda squealed, Mother! I have an invitation to Anne’s ball. It just came! She said she would invite me to her coming-out party. It’s only three weeks away. Oh, what shall I wear?

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Chapter 1

Early Spring 1840

A nne couldn’t sleep from the excitement of last night’s birthday party. She slipped on a robe and tiptoed down the stairs of her family’s seventeenth-century Boston mansion to the ballroom. The household was sleeping, but she wanted to relive her happy moments of the night before.

As she passed the door to her father’s den, she heard her mother and father. Why would her parents be up at this hour? Surely they were worn out from last night’s festivities. She crept closer.

Samuel Whitmore, her mother’s agitated voice rang out, when are you going to tell her? Or is it just one of your crazy fleeting dreams?

Silence.

Samuel, it is not fair to keep this from our daughter if you mean it. You must tell her soon. It will totally change her future.

Tell me, tell me what? Anne wondered, frowning. What could be so important?

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Anne stood in the center of the ballroom and flung out her arms, remembering last night. Violets and ribbons still decorated the banisters and window sills. Half-burned candles in lavender and white nestled in leaf wreaths on small tables. She whirled about and remembered all of it.

Her parents had promised a lavish fifteenth birthday party, and they kept their promise—but not until Anne turned seventeen. She wore her first formal dress for her coming-out party. Her friends, Marie, Tilda, and Francine were there, dressed in elegant finery. Anne couldn’t believe the transformation of the young men she knew, dashing in their black-tailed suits and white shirts. Drinks were poured. She felt her first bubbly taste of French wine slide down her throat. Dancers whirled to a real string quartet. A kaleidoscope of pinks, reds, greens, and yellows swirled before her eyes. It was so glorious!

With her full skirt swirling and her face flushed with excitement, Anne followed her partner’s lead in the Gallopade, the opening dance of her coming-out party. Handsome Stephen Carter, the banker’s son, had placed his name at the top of her dance card for the first dance of the evening. Her heart fluttered as he escorted her to the center of the marble ballroom floor. Other couples whirled around them in a fantasy of brilliant colors. Anne’s feet barely touched the floor as Stephen nimbly led her across the room. After a tap on the shoulder, Anne found herself in the arms of Geoffrey Chandler, attorney-at-law. One-two-three-four-five-six. She found it hard to concentrate on the steps of the English Boston because the scent of Geoffrey’s cologne was so strong. At the end of the waltz, she begged to sit and sip a glass of punch.

Her father, Samuel Whitmore, seated himself beside her, puffing on his cigar.

Are you enjoying your birthday, my dear? He smiled and patted her hand. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it happen when you turned fifteen, but …

Oh, Papa. Anne’s face flushed with excitement. This is the best party ever. I’ve already danced with two fine gentlemen, and my dance card is totally full. She sighed, I fear my feet will never hold me up until the evening is over.

Ah, my Anne, this party is for you to always remember. And I see a number of eligible bachelors here this evening. Is there anyone you especially like?

Anne felt heat creeping up into her cheeks. Papa! She fingered the jeweled brooch at her neck, a gift from her father.

Ste…Ste… Anne looked into her father’s warm eyes. She felt a light touch on her shoulder. Stephen! The warmth crept up from her neck again.

Anne felt like she was nineteen instead of seventeen with her bronze hair intricately pinned high upon her head. Her green brocade gown with organza trim accented her tall, slim figure and brought out a sparkle in her green eyes. She was a pampered princess tonight. Her dear parents hadn’t spared a cent to make this party a success. Many of her classmates from Chauncy Hill School, where she studied, were invited. Her best friends had whispered their plans about this evening behind their fans many weeks ago.

The next dance was the Pompadour Waltz. Frederick Hamilton was her partner and danced opposite her in the intricate grapevine sequences that alternated with the five-step Boston. Anne was glad her mother insisted she take a year of dancing instruction. She knew she was not an accomplished dancer, but at least she could hold her own without stepping on her partner’s feet.

Anne flung out her arms and waltzed around the ballroom, lost in a dreamy haze.

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After her birthday party, Anne’s friends also held parties. First was Tilda, who lived only three blocks away. A servant in a black frock coat brought the invitation to the Whitmores’ door. Tilda’s parents were throwing an exciting extravaganza for their only daughter. Tilda had whispered to Anne weeks ago that there would be a full dinner served at seven o’clock. After that, her friends would be allowed to dance to the music of a string orchestra all night if they wished Anne searched through her closet for a gown she hadn’t worn. As she buried her head between garments, Martha, the maidservant, knocked on her bedroom door and called her name.

Miss Anne. Miss Anne. Come downstairs. You have a gentleman caller.

Wha-a-t? Anne backed out of the closet, her hair standing practically on end, crackling from static electricity. Who? Martha, find out who he is.

I never have gentleman callers. My hair is such a mess. I simply cannot receive anyone looking like this.

It’s Stephen Carter, Miss. Martha glanced at Anne, her black face wrinkling in despair. Oh, Miss, you can’t let him see you like that. Here, I help make you presentable. Let Martha help. Martha had been the Whitmores’ servant from before Anne’s birth. She had come north from South Carolina before the North became violently opposed to slavery. The Whitmores had given her a home and showed her more kindness than she had found in the South.

With her hair properly in place, Anne proceeded down the grand stairway to the entrance where Stephen awaited.

Stephen held his hat in his hand, smiling widely. Good afternoon.

Miss Whitmore, it’s such a lovely day. I hope you don’t mind that I have stopped at your house without an invitation.

Anne’s cheeks flushed as she stammered, Why, of course not. I don’t mind a bit, Mr. Carter. What brings you out on such a fine day?

I will be direct, Miss Whitmore. His eyes roved appreciatively over Anne’s flushed face and trim figure. I received an invitation to a party Matilda, er, Tilda Clydsdell’s parents are giving in her honor. I was wondering…

Stephen suddenly inspected his shiny shoes, gathering the courage to continue. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to her party.

Please allow me to speak with my parents. If they give consent, I will be delighted to accompany you. I will send a message to you tomorrow with my reply.

I’ll be eagerly waiting. Stephen bowed slightly, smiled at Anne and followed Martha to the door, humming quietly to himself.

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The Whitmores always attended the Sunday morning church service together. They rode by carriage to the stately Park Street Church, built in 1809 on Brimstone Corner, the corner of Tremont and Park. The church site was named for the gunpowder stored in its basement during the War of 1812 as well as for the fiery sermons that proceeded from its pulpit. Park Street Church history recorded the first missionaries sent to Hawaii and the founding of the first prison aid society. America the Beautiful was originally sung at Park Street by their renowned children’s choir long before Anne was born.

Anne loved its red brick architecture, the tall, white, Greek Revival columns, crowned by its steeple and cross glowing in the early morning light, all designed by Sir Christopher Wren. She delighted to hear the bells tolling the worship hour as parishioners hastened to their seats. She slipped her small Bible from her purse and read from St. John while waiting for the service to begin. She loved this quiet time before the service, feeling the awe of God’s house. Lost in her Bible reading, it was almost an intrusion when the service began.

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Sam Whitmore considered himself a good Presbyterian. He faithfully drove his family to church each Sunday, where they sat in their pew engraved Whitmore. Sometimes he listened to the sermon. Sometimes he dozed, uncomfortable on the straight, unforgiving pew. Other times he sat admiring the beautiful cathedral ceiling, dreaming of being the architect who created an edifice so glorious and wishing Sir Wren had included comfortable seats in his plans.

Following the sermon and greetings of friends, Sam drove the family home to the other end of Tremont Street in their shiny, black buggy pulled by a pair of matched grays. He personally selected the horses, consciously considering their breeding and size. But now, after that lengthy sermon, Sam’s stomach was clenching under his belt. Time to get home.

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Sunday dinner was always a family affair. Martha spent the morning cooking for her people while they attended the service. After the wraps were put away and the hats securely resting on their racks, the family filtered into the dining room. Martha had prepared a sumptuous roast of beef surrounded by baked vegetables. Small plates contained fruit and freshly baked bread. The fruit compote for dessert sat on the sideboard.

Each member of the family took his or her places beginning with Grandmother Ellis who sat at the foot of the table. She was dressed in a peach satin gown with a wide white collar edged with tatting. Her silver hair was pulled back and secured by a pearl hair pin. At the head of the table, Samuel Whitmore presided with Anne’s mother, Maybelle, at his right. Anne sat beside her Grandmother Ellis. Her eleven-year-old brother, Tucker, faced his mother. The servants, Martha and Elsner, stood at attention until Mr. Whitmore said grace.

Tell me, Roseanne, Mrs. Whitmore asked, when are you going to bring that delightful Stephen Carter to visit us?

Anne gulped at the sound of her given birth name. Nobody but her mother dared to call her that. ‘Roseanne,’ she almost choked at the sound of it.

Mother, we are just friends. Anne lowered her head to hide her flushed face. She wished they were more than just friends. He was the most charming man she had ever met.

Tucker grinned. While his mother questioned Anne, he quietly slipped an extra piece of roast off the serving tray and into his pocket. The stray puppy waiting outside the back door would really enjoy this treat. He quickly cleaned his plate and asked to be excused.

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Chapter 2

Madisons

A few blocks away, the Madison family arrived at their home from a four-hour church service. Elva Madison hurried into the house to prepare their Sunday meal. She and her close Quaker church friends did not believe in having servants although some Boston Quaker families did.

Eli, put up the horses while I finish chopping vegetables. And don’t forget to change thy clothes after thou grooms those horses, and then wash up afterward.

Yes, Mother. If thou has my favorite fried chicken, I will gladly change and wash twice.

Eli, thou flattereth me. But take care of the horses anyway.

Eli chuckled to himself. He always took care of the horses so his father didn’t have to do it. And he always changed his clothes after his family attended their small Quaker church in mid-Boston. Eli was glad to remove the heavy black coat and top hat that every Quaker man wore to the morning service. Sometimes his mother thought he was four instead of twenty-four when she reminded him. Today, the service was extra-long because his father and another elder, Mr. Doud, were very long-winded. Eli was ready for that fried chicken.

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Chapter 3

Grandmother

S everal months had passed since Anne’s birthday party. The early October leaves were changing to bright reds, oranges, and yellows, signaling that summer was over. Even though there had been no frost, coldness of winter was approaching. Anne loved to walk outside, noting the splendor of autumn’s finest colors and enjoying the fresh, crisp breeze.

So there you are, my dear, taking the autumn air, A soft voice called.

Anne looked up to see her beloved grandmother standing near the garden gate.

Walk with me in the garden, Anne dear.

Anne hurried through the gate and slipped her arm around her grandmother.

Mother Ellis, I haven’t seen you for days. Where have you been? Anne gave her a light peck on her cheek.

Grandmother Ellis patted Anne’s hand. I’ve been traveling to see my sister in Connecticut. She has been ill with the grippe. She paused. But now I’m here to stay for the winter. After all, I wouldn’t miss the Christmas holiday with my family and my very grown-up granddaughter.

Anne blushed, concentrating on the tips of her slippers.

Come, dear. Let’s walk through the garden. Grandmother Ellis took Anne’s hand and led her about halfway through the garden. See my pretty roses. I’ve worked very hard on them this year.

Anne looked at roses on both sides of the path. There were reds, whites, yellows, light peach, salmon, and pink roses. But Mother Ellis, why don’t you ask the gardener to care for your flowers? You should not have to soil your hands digging in the dirt.

Ah, my child, Elsner has enough to do helping in the house with the flower arrangements and house plants. Oh, but I do let him care for the perennials and the annual flower beds. He trims the hedges and shrubs. The real reason is that my roses are like a part of myself. I must care for them as I would my children. I don’t want to trust my roses to anyone else.

They walked slowly, smelling the second rush of honeysuckle, the subtle scent of lavender, and the roses, delighting in them just as a few bees were enjoying sipping nectar from the remaining flowers. The garden air was pleasingly fragrant, with a hint of the pungent earth Elsner had been digging that morning.

And over here … over here, are my darling flower children. Grandmother Ellis motioned for Anne to follow. These are my treasures, the best of my roses. Let me introduce you to my beauties.

This lovely rose is ‘Souvenir de la Malmaison.’ She is brand new from France, a Bourbon tea rose. Bourbons are smaller now that summer is over.

Anne cradled the lovely crème and light pink rose and bent her nose to it. Oh, such a heavenly fragrance! Grandmother smiled like a proud parent. The rose was a cluster of pressed petals encircled by a creamy band.

This one, Grandmother cradled a large yellow rose, this is ‘Harrison’s Yellow,’ one of the first roses to bloom in the season.

And over here – look! This is my very favorite of all my roses.

Anne saw a rambling rose bush covered with various shades of pink blossoms. She cupped a cluster of flowers in her hand and sniffed. And what is her name?

Grandmother smiled, pulled out a tiny scissors from her apron pocket, and snipped off a rose with an attached bud. This is the Seven Sisters Rose. It is a multiflora rose which means that it has many blooms on each stem.

Why do you call it Seven Sisters, Mother Ellis? Is there something special about this rose?

In our family, I was one of seven sisters. When this rose was brought to us from France, we saw that it had many hues of pink. Each shade of pink represents one of the sisters in our family. Grandmother caressed the blossom in her hand and handed it to Anne. My Mam told me my shade was the deepest pink.

Anne, this rose is a part of my life. I want it to bloom and flourish in our family as long as we exist as a family. It can be transplanted and can be divided. Shoots may be taken off of the roots to propagate new plants. Grandmother hesitated. A frown flitted across her pleasant face and disappeared. Anne, promise me something…

Anne looked at her grandmother’s kind face, at her sparkling blue eyes, the face with happy lines she dearly loved. Yes, Mother Ellis, yes, whatever I can do for you.

Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take care of this rose. Promise? Grandmother’s twinkling eyes filled with tears that she quickly blinked away.

Anne nodded solemnly, thinking, This rose means so much to Grandmother, but it seems so much ado over a mere rose.

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Chapter 4

Unbalanced

S amuel Whitmore rubbed his hands across his bleary eyes and laid his head on his crossed arms on the library table. Stacks of paper lay in prim soldier rows, mocking him. He had tried over and over to make the columns balance in his ledger. Again and again he added the bills on his left. Over and over he added the receipts stacked on his right. Each time his figures showed a negative balance.

What am I to do? He moaned. He withdrew his pocket watch. The small hand seemed to be stuck on one o’clock a.m. The long hand was swinging toward two. I’ve been here fighting these figures since seven o’clock. I cannot find a way to balance our money. I dare not tell Maybelle. She will fret and be inconsolable. When I mentioned my thoughts of sometime traveling west, she almost went crazy. She cannot bear for anything to change. And as for our dear daughter, Anne, I cannot tell her that we are nearly bankrupt, that we will soon lose our home. Not now when the suitors are coming. Not now when she is approaching the happiest time of her life. Oh, what am I to do?

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Sam prided himself on his reputation, that of a prosperous businessman in Boston. His barrel factory was thriving, having survived the faltering economy in the 1830s. When he was a younger man, he invested heavily in a shipbuilding business. The depression of 1819 wiped out all of his savings. By economizing and careful investing, he raised up his business from a few scraps of lumber into a booming enterprise.

He loved his family consisting of his wife, Maybelle, his seventeen-year old daughter, Roseanne, who wanted to be called Anne, his eleven-year old son, Tucker, and his mother-in-law, affectionately known as Mother Ellis. He had great plans for his children. Anne would go to college, perhaps the one at Elmira, New York, to study for a teaching career. He hoped Tucker would assist him at the factory and become manager someday.

Sam was not an imposing figure. He was about 5’10" with early gray hairs creeping around his mustache and sideburn, although he was only fifty-one. He kept himself neat and properly dressed for the office in a suit with matching striped vest—the image of a prosperous man. He was soft-spoken and gentle with his servants and family, always seeking to find a way to please them. As Anne grew up, he delighted in daughter-daddy walks around the park. He played games with Tucker. When the children had a problem, he was the parent they approached for guidance.

Because he was proud of his family, he desired the highest social status for them. He delighted in allowing Maybelle unlimited funds at the dress and hat shop for herself and Anne. He paid for private school at Chauncy for Anne and Beacon Hill for Tucker. Their social calendar was full of fine parties and concerts at Symphony Hall. His home was in the better section of Boston. Sam determined to do everything to keep his family living in utmost comfort.

Sam had hired an accountant many years ago who worked at the factory to keep his business affairs in order. Sam kept his own office in the lower room of his home. Lately, he noticed there didn’t seem to be much profit. Still, the company was putting out more and more products. As clipper ships built by Donald McKay crossed the ocean to Europe, the need for barrels to hold flour and grain increased. Trade goods were coming in from East India and China. Boston was fast becoming the leader in foreign trade as its ships sailed to all corners of the globe. Whitmore Barrels should be making an enormous profit.

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Sam Whitmore was embarrassed as he signed the loan papers at the bank. He refused to meet the bank president, Mr. Carter’s, eyes as he slid the papers over the desk and handed back the gold pen. He had not told Maybelle or the rest of the family that his finances were not in good order. They wouldn’t understand. Surely his company would be able to pull out of it.

Why couldn’t I see it? Sam shouted as he pulled at his hair. Why didn’t I suspect him? Sam ground his fist into the mahogany desktop muttering, It was right before my eyes and I couldn’t see it! Claude Jenkins is a thief. Stealing my money from right under my eyes. Sam closed his eyes and sighed. And I trusted him as my accountant for these ten years. I gave Christmas gifts to his family. I helped his children at their school. I wonder how many years he’s been pilfering my money. I certainly paid him well enough. I trusted him. Sam pounded the table. His face grew red, the veins bulged. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his sideburns.

Sam chanced upon Foster Spencer from the police headquarters as he walked downtown. Foster and Sam were childhood friends. Foster was a large man, with a graying fringe straggling from beneath his black police cap. His black and gold-trimmed uniform fit snuggly over his stomach. He pulled off his cap to straighten his few hairs with his stubby fingers, his large hands, the symbols of his strength. Foster had recently been promoted to head detective, and bought Sam a drink at the local pub. Normally Sam wouldn’t stop at the pub, but today he needed someone to hear his story.

How are the barrels rolling at your place? Foster chuckled at his own joke. But when he saw Sam’s face, he knew something was very wrong.

What’s wrong, old friend? Your secrets are safe with me. As a long-time detective, Foster was an expert at reading body language. Sam’s face drained of color and his shoulders slumped. His pride was devastated. He needed to tell someone.

I cannot figure out why I’m not making profit at the factory. Sam picked at his collar as though it had a burr in it. "The barrels are rolling!"

Foster asked for another round, muttering I’m off duty, and folded his arms on the bar. Go on.

I’m wondering if my accountant has been taking money. I’m ready to accuse him. I can’t find any other leak in my books.

Foster nodded. I’ll check into it and let you know.

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Six weeks later Sam sat slumped at his desk. The sun had set an hour ago. The evening was cool and still. Yesterday’s Boston Globe lay open before him, June 15, 1840. Today Sam visited the bank in the hope of getting another loan against his property. When Mr. Carter refused to meet him, he suspected something terrible was wrong. There it was, headlined in the paper: Banks in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia Struggle for Stability.

Sam’s hopes for recovery were slim, probably non-existent. His family’s social status was ruined, his fortune gone. Slowly he pulled the middle desk drawer open and felt around the back with his right hand. His hand closed over a smooth, pearly handle. He eased it from the drawer. Maybe today …

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Chapter 5

Garden Bench

A nne left her bedroom and slipped down the back stairway because she wanted to be alone and enjoy the morning sunshine in Grandma Ellis’ garden. There were so many things she needed to think about. One of them was Stephen, the banker’s son . He would be the perfect husband for her . She thought maybe she was falling in love with him. She wandered down the path where the honeysuckle grew. Music wafted on the air through the bushes. Someone else was in the garden, someone singing.

Good morning, Grandmother Ellis, I thought I heard music in the garden.

My dear Anne, what a pleasant surprise. I expected you would still be in your bed.

"I thought the garden would be the perfect place for a