View Tree Mountain Serial Saga Books 2-8 (Box Set): View Tree Mountain, #2

By Sara Dixon

View Tree Mountain Book One (The Vow) took readers from 1859 Virginia to the Atlantic shoreline at Hilton Head Island where a killer set his sights on pursuing Brad and Polly to their deaths. Escaping the madman, and now back home in Warrenton, they plan their wedding and Brad's legal career with the Orange & Alexandria Railroad, while his former fiancé Lorena plots to destroy all that Brad and Polly build together.

Brad and Polly's 1876 private journals reveal the San Quentin arrival of a bold young woman claiming to be Brad's daughter. Can their memoirs serve as the glue that can restore their faith in each other, even now? Or will secrets and second guesses continue to lead them in opposite directions?

Book 2: Firefly
Book 3: From the Ashes
Book 4: Night of the Moon
Book 5: Destiny
Book 6: The Kilcullen Cloth
Book 7: Chicago Junction
Book 8: Return to Plum Creek

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Dixon
• Release date: Jan 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005017361

Sara Dixon

While growing up in western Kentucky, I felt a strong tug toward the northern Virginia region that I would one day write about. Using a paper map, I zeroed in on Warrenton and Fauquier County. At age twelve I wrote my first story featuring Polly and Brad and the land they loved. I imagined the town's history, the coming of a railroad and the impact of Civil War, and wove those elements into my tale. During my first visit to Warrenton three years later, I felt I had come home. There I also purchased a local history book that confirmed my childhood imaginings. My detailed foreknowledge of landscapes, historic places, names and dates goes unexplained to this day. I am a former public school teacher, school librarian, and social studies textbook author for three major U.S. publishers. My textbook "Virginia" was taught in public schools across the commonwealth. But my heart is in my adult fiction: "View Tree Mountain" serial saga.

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Sara Dixon

Copyright 2022 Sara Dixon

Smashwords Edition

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View Tree Mountain Book 1: The Vow

Box Set:

Book 2: Firefly

Book 3: From the Ashes

Book 4: Night of the Moon

Book 5: Destiny

Book 6: The Kilcullen Cloth

Book 7: Chicago Junction

Book 8: Return to Plum Creek

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you.

This is a work of fiction. Historical figures and places have been used fictitiously. All opinions expressed in this book are the author’s, or fictional.

View Tree Mountain

Book 2 Firefly

Preface

‘Imperfect people, flawed people: their truth penned for their eyes only’

Authors: Brad and Polly pen memoirs for each other, alongside personal private journals. Lorena’s secret diary plays puppeteer with everyone who knows her.

Book 1 The Vow Journals 1876

The discovery of a trickster’s diary inspires Polly to challenge her imprisoned husband Brad to pen his own account of life before San Quentin. She will pen her account of their shared life, with hope that they may reclaim life together when he is free.

Brad’s journal reveals the cell-door arrival of a daughter whose existence had been hidden from him. He witnesses Polly’s heartbreak when a guard speaks of Brad’s ‘pretty red-haired visitor’ whom Polly assumes is a former rival. Polly flees to Savannah where she encounters islander Paul Seabrook who admired Polly from afar in 1859. At San Quentin, Brad persists in penning his memoir for Polly, while internal dialogue with Woody’s spirit keeps him alive.

Book 1 The Vow Memoirs 1859

While apart, Brad and Polly recount their journey to Savannah to mourn the death of Brad’s fellow law school graduate Russ Baker. On the Baker family’s island plantation, former childhood sweethearts Brad and Polly rediscover romantic love while remaining true to his engagement to Lorena. They barely escape the island when pursued by deranged planter Davánt who threatens to track them to their death for a perceived injustice. Upon arrival home in Virginia, they are elated to learn that Lorena’s elopement with Brad’s brother frees them to marry.

Book 2: Firefly

Journal – John Brad Jamison

San Quentin Prison – 7 November ‘76

Back to daily labor in the furniture shop, thanks to New Boy’s intervention. New stripes, new shoes, fresh air. A few familiar faces at the workbench. No talk allowed, as always.

No need to talk with these fellows, Wood. You’re all the talk I need.

Four hours daily labor. Then to a malodorous cell that evolves into Hilton Head Island, then a homebound train, and memories that come alive as I pen them.

I think of Polly’s September challenge, issued after I refused to read Lorena’s diary. Lorena: a lifelong liar and manipulator, and I would trust her word? And stake my future on it? Pol assumed I was despondent about San Quentin. Sure, who wouldn’t be? Add Keep the sadist, who wouldn’t be? But I trod paths unknown to her, and to Lorena, long before San Quentin. Paths Pol would find abhorrent. Or would she?

Her challenge: Write a memoir of your life. About everything you would have me know. Then I’ll read it. And I’ll know you. A cell door between us. Her daring, me accepting.

It’s easy, penning our youth: our lifelong love that blossomed on Hilton Head. Easy (on the penned page) being the young man who loved her. Before Three-Mile Switch. Before Rosie. Before Conleigh of Kildare who claimed my soul within a year of my marriage. Can I tell her that? Truth. Should I? What do you say, Wood?

Don’t cross that bridge til you come to it.

I ponder my unchanging love for Polly. From childhood to now, can’t imagine not loving her. So, for her, I’ll return in mind and heart to who I was in August 1859. After Hilton Head. After sunrise shorelines and island attire that enchanted us, but didn’t shape us. I’ll return to our Virginia homeland that had already molded us. Mainly I want her to know that I didn’t fall in love with an island daydream, but with her.

Memoirs – John Brad Jamison

Warrenton, Virginia – August 6, 1859

Basking in happiness. Madly in love. I’ve heard those clichés all my life. Now I’m living them. This I thought during our carriage ride home from Warrenton station where David Bond restored my life with minimal words: Lorena eloped with your brother Forrest to Saratoga Springs.

I gave no thought to Lorena’s baby-to-be –mine– that she would likely pass off as Forrest’s, seven months from now.

I didn’t brood over who might learn the truth about that, other than Polly and me.

Free, I thought. I’m free. Like an animal released from a trap, I continued to marvel at the open horizon of my life: free to marry, free to love, free to express to Polly the adoration and the passion that have consumed me since Wilmington.

–Wilmington, and on the train to Georgia, in the Savannah carriage, the sailboat’s cabin, on the dunes of Hilton Head, and on our homebound train where –moments ago– our life together was over before it could begin.

I still feel the sad press of Pol’s last kiss before David met us at the depot and set us free. Pol’s kiss had said goodbye, I will always love you.

Here in David’s carriage, I turned to look at her sun-bronzed hair, her brown eyes set on the road’s destination –home– and her musician’s fingers that clasped mine as we rode.

Not goodbye! I kissed her cheek. Hello.

She turned and grinned at me. My delight is mirrored in her eyes.

She squeezed my hand as if to say: I’ve not forgotten you, nor will I ever. But she was listening to her father, at her left, and I realized I should come down out of the clouds and do the same.

David had shown no enthusiasm for my impromptu marriage proposal at Warrenton depot. Under the circumstances, he said now, don’t be too hasty to set a date. He smiled at Polly. I can’t part with two daughters at once.

Detained on the island, we had missed Charlotte and my brother Aaron’s wedding in July. Even so, considering David’s uncharacteristic chilliness with me at the depot, I pondered aloud, What circumstances? Forrest and Lorena? I would hope that their duplicity won’t reflect negatively on Polly’s decision to marry me. Why wait?

Seated between us in the carriage, Polly said, All of Fauquier County has expected us to marry since we were twelve.

David, reins in hand, kept his focus on dusty Salem Road. Perhaps you’re right, Brad. Why wait? Yet he seemed more resigned than pleased.

Likely he was concerned about public scrutiny: my engagement announced to Lorena at a well-attended party in July; now a sudden reversal than involves his daughter. Had he known about Lorena’s pregnancy, I’m sure he would have forbidden Polly to consider my proposal, much less marry me.

However, if he had more on his mind than public opinion, I needed to know. I’ve long considered David to be as much my father as hers, and I’ve never been at odds with him for long. Therefore I leaned around Polly on the carriage seat and said,

Want to go fishing?

During my childhood, he and I resolved many an issue over fishing poles, garden spades and wood awls. I was casting a familiar line, with this question, and he would easily interpret my overture.

He cast me a genuine smile. Not yet. Cool your Carolina heels awhile. Get the sand out of your shoes. Register with the court. Land on your feet.

What’s that quotation about head over heels in love? Shouldn’t that be: heels over head? Ah, I was in the clouds, all right. He knows me well. I said,

I assure you I will be a practicing attorney before Pol and I take our vows, even if we should marry a week from now.

He concluded his to-do list for me: Make peace with your sister-in-law.

So. That was it. I didn’t reply, because there would be no peace with Lorena. Then I thought best to say, Yes sir.

Polly said, I’ve always wished to marry on my birthday. Or near it.

Therefore Polly and I set our September 4 wedding date before I went home to The Shadows.

As we crested View Tree Mountain and descended into the Rappahannock Valley that has forever been our home, we decided to marry immediately after church on that Sunday, in the sanctuary itself, rather than in her parents’ parlor, as is customary. David proffered no objections.

Papa, on the other hand, has never concerned himself with people’s opinions, or with people in general. When I deposited my valise in the foyer at The Shadows that same day, he ambled out of his study as if I’d never been away.

Damned August heat. He wiped his forehead with a French lace cuff. You decide to jump out of that Georgia swamp, at long last?

I was surprised to see him. Why are you here?

He stopped short. Splayed out his hands. Shrugged broadly. I live here.

Not very often you don’t. Are you implying you’ve been here ever since I left for Georgia on the fifth of July? Why?

For God’s sake.

It’s a natural question, Papa.

I can count on one hand the months he’s been in residence since my mother died in ‘45. As a boy, I assumed he detested my company. Even now, I wonder where I stand with him, but I don’t agonize about it as I once did. Papa is Papa.

He threw open the front door, admitting a breeze off the portico, and stood gazing off toward View Tree Mountain and the valley below where David’s distant roof reflects the afternoon sun. Then he turned to me. Expelled a deep breath. Has anybody told you? Lorena– and Forrest–

His reluctance to deliver a verbal blow was rare for him. Yes. Thanks. David met me at Warrenton Station.

His rare sensitivity vanished on the breeze. Ever the doctor, eh? Patching up your broken heart?

My heart’s in fine shape. I’m to be married, September fourth, to the lady I’ve spent the past month with. In fact, I hope you’ll attend our wedding.

He grinned at me. His blue eyes twinkled. Liquor has taken its toll on him, and his black hair is etched with gray, but at forty-five he is still a handsome man. And you wonder why I stay around. To tell you the truth, I was staying around for the fireworks.

He beckoned me into his study. Said, Now that you’ve moved on to higher ground, I reckon there won’t be any between you and that back-stabbing little bitch you hauled up here from Charlottesville.

He opened the liquor cabinet and refilled his silver tumbler from a bottle of Irish whiskey. Swear to God, that slut occupied my house like Napoleon in the house of kings. He savored a long swallow. I’m glad she’s met her Waterloo. Just sorry to hear there won’t be any fireworks.

There will be. I plan to light the fuse as soon as Lorena walks in the door from Saratoga. If you want to sit out there in the foyer and watch her explode, you’re welcome to.

Again he grinned. And you wonder why I’ve stayed around, lately.

Lately? I take it my life thus far hasn’t been sufficiently entertaining. Maybe the next few decades will entice you to take up residence more often.

He ignored the barb. You and Polly getting married here at The Shadows? In the ballroom? Same as you and Miss Twitchit planned to do?

Gosh no. We’ll marry in our church.

Our?

I believe you missed that part too, Pop. So much of me he doesn’t know.

I heard a tap at the study doorframe, and Uriah’s voice: Welcome home, Mas’ Brad.

I turned and saw the warm eyes that have assessed this house and its people for more than forty years.

Belongings going up? He hoisted my valise in a gnarled black hand. Or going down?

Down the hill at David’s house is where I’ve spent most of my nights, this past decade.

Up, I said. Can’t go down. I’m marrying one of the ladies of the house, a month from tomorrow. I must be proper in the meantime, yes?

Uriah’s smile widened as he limped toward me, favoring the most painful of his arthritic hips. You marrying Miss Polly? I smiled. Ah glory, Mas’ Brad.

He reached for my shoulder, glanced at Papa, and quickly lowered his hand. Nodded. You marrying Miss Polly. Glory be, happy day.

Amen. I captured his reluctant hand and shook it. Had we been alone, I would have hugged him, but I do know my station in this house and in life, and I didn’t want to set Papa off.

Fraternizing with the servants: one of my worst infractions, through the years.

I retrieved my valise from Uriah. Leave it here. I’ll take it up later. Papa snorted.

Got to put this good news on the grapevine, Uriah said as he hobbled out. I know some folks gone celebrate tonight. I know one, specially, gone clap and shout.

Uriah, wait! I stepped into the hall and whispered to him, Don’t put the word out. I’ll tell her myself.

Sadie half-raised me, and she would want to hear it from me, rather than on the black grapevine. And yes, she will celebrate, because she loves Polly almost as much as she loves me.

One of these days, Papa said when I returned, you may be called upon to be a slaveholder, and God help the county when that day comes. Got to tighten the chain, Kid, or your neck will be in it, on Insurrection Day.

An oft-repeated taunt from the Johnny Jamison archive. Why does he press it? I’m the youngest son, and considering his lifelong disdain for me, I’ll be surprised to inherit the privy. When are Forrest and Lorena due in from Saratoga?

He threw me another visual dagger, but allowed me to change topics. He’s racing for stakes at Fauquier Springs next Saturday, a week from today. I’ll bet he won’t stay away and miss it, regardless of what’s stirring between the Saratoga sheets.

I agree.

He drank. Raised his glass to me. I’ll be at your wedding. Since you invited me.

I smiled. You’d better behave yourself.

I behaved myself at your engagement party, didn’t I?

Yeah, you did. Thanks.

I’ll also be here to watch the fireworks, since you offered me a ticket to that fine show. So make it worth my while, will you?

I said what I figured would please him: Count on it. Attorneys do know how to fire the verbal cannon.

Within the hour, I bid him adieu. My home is not here. My home is with Polly.

Memoirs – Polly Bond Jamison

Warrenton, Virginia – August 6, 1859

I miss him so! We part for two hours, and I miss him.

I realize now that I have spent most of my waking hours with him since the fifth of July, and I am not accustomed to his absence. Seated here in the front porch swing, savoring the familiarity of home, I find myself repeatedly gazing up the hill toward The Shadows.

One month from tomorrow, I will be his wife! No wonder I’m craning my neck to see him. Half of me is missing.

When at last I spotted him astride Shadow, I expected to see him break into a gallop down the hill, eager to see me. But he didn’t. Shadow was walking. Even at this distance, I saw Brad lean forward to stroke Shadow’s face in a reunion with his old equestrian friend.

I realized anew: how little time Brad and I have spent together, these past two years. Except for our stay in Savannah and on the island, I’ve seen him hardly at all. He rode Shadow only during holidays from the University. And whenever Brad was at home on holiday, he was more often with Russ Baker than with me.

In June he proposed to Lorena. She is carrying his child. I appeared unannounced at his graduation, then invited myself to Savannah to grieve Russ’s death with him. He didn’t invite me along. I invited myself.

On Hilton Head he had relations with Cassandra –Russ’s Caribbean servant– while professing to wholly love me.

Now I watched him ride leisurely down the hill, and I wondered: when he proposed to me at the depot today, was he merely swept away? With memories of kissing me in a gossamer dress, on a Hilton Head dune? Of me inviting his hands onto my bosom as we rode the shoreline at midnight? On that night, he had dunked us both in the cold Atlantic waters, to cool our passions. Where are his passions now?

My heart raced as I thought the worst: will he love me here, in sturdy Virginia fashions, as he loved me in exotic fabrics on Hilton Head? Did he fall in love with the island, or with me?

He waved as he crossed Salem Road. I stepped down off the porch to meet him.

Long time, he said, as he extended his hand down to me in the carriage yard. I thought I’d never get away from Papa.

He dismounted, slow and easy. He certainly didn’t leap off his horse! I wished he had scooped me up, set me on his horse’s neck and kissed me, as he had that morning on the dunes.

In my heart, I was still on the dunes, not on a train bearing him home to an empty marriage to a calculating woman. We’re free, I thought! –Free to ride from the dunes into forever, the two of us, the soon-to-be one of us, with no obstacles to bar our way.

Then when he glanced warily around the yard and quickly kissed my lips, my fears intensified. If my heart is still on the dunes, where is his?

He cupped my face and gave me another chaste kiss. Where are Mama and David? I have a favor to ask, and I’d best seek their approval.

Just then the outside door to the kitchen slapped shut, and I heard my younger sister’s squeal. Brad! Melanie raced across the shaded yard with Inky lapping at her heels. Braddie, you’re home!

I wished to say: not now, Mellie! But I could not voice my consternation to a seven-year-old who had assumed –until two years ago– that Brad was her brother. Until then, none of us had thought to tell her otherwise.

You and Sissie are getting married! She lurched to a stop between us. Mama told me. Even Inky let out a soft woof of welcome.

Brad smiled at me. That’s good news. I was hoping you hadn’t changed your mind.

His eyes sparkled, but I felt myself frown. You thought I would change my mind? Between Warrenton depot and home?

He said solemnly, I hoped you wouldn’t. I prayed you wouldn’t.

Melanie said, You’ll still be my brother, won’t you? If you marry Polly, can I still be your sister? Will we still be the same?

I realized: her worries mirrored my own. And his!

You’ll always be my sister, he assured her. After Polly and I marry, you’ll be my sister twice over: my sister, and my sister-in-law. Sounds complicated, but it isn’t. It simply means I’ll love you twice as much.

Delighted, she propped a foot on his knee for a customary boost up into his arms, but he bent instead and kissed her cheek. Can’t pick you up, Double Sister. A big fish bit me, on the island, and I can still feel his teeth.

Big fish? Bit–

As he stooped to kiss Melanie and to scratch Inky’s ears, the bite bandage was visible beneath his white shirt. I realized, That’s why you–

On the island he had shot Davánt, to save me, while bleeding from that evil man’s bullet. Seated beside him on a steamer and on a train, these past few days, anxious about his pending marriage to Lorena, I had forgotten about the fresh wound.

His eyes searched mine as he rose to say, Why I what?

I said, Why you’re so careful. Why you walked Shadow. When you know he loves to run.

Aye, darlin’ Polly, he said, mimicking Bridget Baker’s Scottish dialect. If not for the big fish bite, I’d a-been sprintin’ down the hill like a shootin’ star at midnight.

He smiled with ease. So did I, remembering Bridget’s description of his horsemanship on the night of the island race. An apt description. No wonder I was anxious! This charming man is mine, forever mine. I will never let him know that I doubted him. Never!

Come with me to Papa’s office, I said. I’ll fix you up.

He accepted my hand for our short walk to the front porch. Melanie clasped his other hand and walked with us, her thick, blond braid swinging at her back. Wait ‘till Mama sets her eyes on you, Braddie. You are as black as a field hand.

Field hand? He laughed. Virginia field hand, maybe. Not a Carolina field hand.

I said, Mama told me I had ruined my face, and am as black as a mule skinner.

Field hand and a mule skinner. He squeezed my hand. A match made in heaven. Run and play, Mel, would you please? Polly wants to fix me up.

Melanie cast a sly grin at him. She’s probably going to kiss you.

He grinned at Melanie, then at me. I hope so.

And there, in his eyes and his smile, I saw his love for me. Not furtive passion or brotherly affection. I saw the love of heartfelt commitment and joy.

Never, never will I tell him that I doubted him, even for a moment, for all is well. I will kiss him, I told Melanie. And I don’t want an audience.

She honored our wishes, and called Inky away with her to the carriage house.

I said as Brad opened the front door for me, You poor thing. When I hugged you at the depot, I must have hurt you terribly.

He followed me into the foyer. That hug was worth it. He paused at the foot of the stairs. The favor, Pol. Would you ride with me to View Tree? I have something for you, and that’s where I’d like to present it. I think best to advise Mama and David before setting out.

What better place to celebrate this homecoming day than on View Tree Mountain where our lifetime of devotion began? They’re in the peach orchard, plucking our welcome-home pies. Do tell: what might you give me on View Tree, other than a kiss?

You’ll see. He shrugged. Something I’ve saved, through the years. Nothing new. But of course I will make a presentation of it. He grinned. You know me.

Indeed I do. I guessed he had found a memento of ours, and I knew his presentation would be delightful. I said, There’s no place I’d rather go today, than View Tree. First the laudanum?

Yes, thanks. I’ll also scribble a note for David, so he won’t think I’ve eloped with you.

This he did, in Papa’s downstairs medical office, after downing the dose I offered him. He posted his note on our family’s message-hook in the foyer:

Rode with Polly to View Tree. Home for supper. Love– B

As he opened the front door to depart, my eyes lingered on his simple note that said so little, yet so much. I savored what I now know will never change: our mountain, our sense of home and family, our love.

Then we set off –me on Patsy, him on Shadow– on a trek our horses knew by heart. Favoring his bullet-grazed back, we rode without haste down Salem Road and along Great Run, the play stream of our childhood. In comfortable silence we crested the incline and dismounted on the grassy peak where a lone chestnut tree stands sentinel over our valley.

From View Tree Mountain we’ve observed the spires of Warrenton countless times. We’ve gazed into the valley where I live, and across to Wildcat Ridge and The Shadows where Brad was born. We did so again today.

Standing beside him, I drank in the curvaceous beauty of our homeland. After a grueling journey through Carolina swamps, and a respite on the exotic island of Hilton Head, I felt rooted to this gentle Virginia peak that we love.

Brad said, Do you remember the day I carved our heart on the view tree? And why I did?

My mind skipped back to an autumn day when we were ten. The grapevine gave way. I plunged down this mountain into a briar patch, and tore my pinafore.

Your face was scratched, too. You were crying.

I smiled at him. So were you. His empathetic tears, that day, had blended with mine as our cheeks pressed during his consoling hug.

You asked me why, he said. Why was I crying, if I wasn’t hurt.

And you said–

‘Because I love you, Polly,’ Brad declared, as he had on that long ago day. ‘I can’t bear to see you hurt. When you hurt, I hurt too.’ He looked into my eyes. Since that day, I’ve hurt you more than anyone else has.

I wished to correct him, but I could not. Because he was right.

Not purposely, he said. Carelessly. Recklessly. His eyes retreated in thought, then refocused on mine. I vow to you: I will never again hurt you. As long as I live, I won’t.

I said, Yes you will. I then quickly addressed the sorrow in his eyes. I’ll hurt you, too, I said. I’ll try not to, but I know I’ll fail. You’ll try not to hurt me, but you’ll fail. Time and again. But I will love you, through it all. Through every misunderstanding and restoration. That is my solemn vow to you. Here on our mountain, and for all time.

He nodded, his eyes still on mine. I’ll never love another. Betray you, with another.

I know that. I said this confidently, because I did know it.

His eyes moistened. You restored my life, on the island, by forgiving me. Not once, but twice.

Lorena, I thought. Cassandra.

I’m in your debt, he said.

No. I smiled. You’re in my love. Forever, in my love.

Then he kissed me. I cherished the kiss, our promises, and the very ground we stood on: View Tree Mountain, Fauquier County, home.

When he released me, he said, I brought you here, to show you our heart. Instead, you showed me yours.

So did you. Let’s look at it anyway. Our childhood heart.

We walked through high summer grass to the chestnut tree –the view tree– where he pointed out the weathered heart on its trunk: the heart I watched him carve after I took my tumble down this mountain. He traced with his forefinger the carvings within:

BJ – PB

1848

He said, Our heart has weathered the test of time. So will we.

Yes. Like sturdy old trees.

Then he said, Now for the presentation.

His memento, the one he brought from The Shadows. I turned to face him, eager to see what portion of our past he had unearthed for this special day. Then when he dug in his pocket and opened his palm, I saw a surprising flash of brilliance in the sunshine.

A ring, I said. Emeralds. A wealth of them were deeply set in heavy, braided gold. He turned the ring in his island-tan fingers, and I saw the diamond.

It was my mother’s wedding ring, he said. Now it’s yours. Will you marry me? He smiled. I want to hear you say yes again. Yes, you’ll marry me. Yes, you’ll be my wife, for as long as we live.

I looked into his beautiful eyes. He is my jewel! Yes. Yes, I will. And he placed the ring on my finger.

Even in the joy of the moment, I was spellbound by the heirloom he had presented. Your mother’s wedding ring. I looked at it; at him. Did your father give it to you, today? I couldn’t fathom such sentiment in his father, even if Johnny still lingered at The Shadows during racing season at Saratoga.

No. I doubt Papa knows or cares about the whereabouts of this ring. Sadie gave it to me. On the day she left The Shadows to live at Jamison Cottage.

More than a decade ago! You’ve never told me. I would not have forgotten.

In July, in the ballroom at The Shadows, I had watched him place an engagement ring on Lorena’s finger, but it wasn’t this one. Why now? Why me?

He lounged against the view tree, and cupped my left hand in both of his. Sadie told me to save it for the woman I marry.

He paused. Perhaps he, too, was thinking of his engagement to Lorena.

I was saving it for you, Polly. I studied his somber eyes. I’ve made some foolish mistakes, he said, but saving this ring for you wasn’t one of them. I would have given it to you someday, whether or not we married. Because I love you, my friend. On September fourth, I’ll give you a wedding band that I’ll select myself. New. Especially for you, my bride. This one, Sadie always told me, can be given only once. ‘So you watch out,’ she said, ‘lest you pick the wrong girl.’

I was captivated by his account of an episode that had occurred in his life before he and I met at the age of seven. It certainly shed some light on the Dark Ages. He continued,

Last summer, I went to visit Sadie at the cottage. I told her about the girl I’d met in Charlottesville. I don’t know how she knew –that I’d chosen the wrong girl– but she said, ‘Don’t you dare give that girl Miss Anne’s ring. That ring of Miss Anne’s belongs to Miss Polly.’

Brad smiled. I knew, even then, that it did. And now it does.

Tears filled my eyes. I envisioned Sadie in the summer kitchen behind Jamison Cottage: kneading dough, chopping walnuts, calling out her door to the two white children on horseback, Got ginger snaps on the tray, get on in here.

I could see her seated at her work-table, pouring milk from a tin pitcher into two tin cups; Sadie watching Brad, Sadie watching me, while we told her about our day’s adventures.

I envisioned her thin shoulders and sinewy black arms, her rich fudge complexion, black marble eyes, and hint of a smile.

I knew Sadie loved you, I said. I didn’t know she loved me.

He cocooned me in his arms. The selfish old darky, he said in loving jest. She loved you because you loved me. Then he looked at me and said, If you’ll live with me, at the cottage, she’ll cherish you as I do. But I warn you: Sadie is a servant who thinks.

I chuckled at what was fast becoming our personal joke.

Brad said, Unlike those servants in Wilmington, who did not think.

Oh yes they did.

He grinned. Will you live with me there? With a thinking servant? And with Malachi, who also thinks?

At the cottage? Yes, of course I will. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

It will be your home, Polly. Yours and mine. I’ll have a talk with Sadie, before we marry, explaining that you’re unaccustomed to servants, and that you prefer to manage your own household.

You mustn’t discourage her, servant though she is.

I’ll phrase it courteously. But do consider this: since you’ll be busy with your piano students much of the day, Sadie can be of great assistance to you. And to me, since I’ll have my office there too. I promise she won’t burst into our bedroom, at sunrise, with a breakfast tray.

Again I envisioned that enslaved black woman who had saved Brad’s life, in infancy, by nurturing him at her own breast when his mother was sick. If not for Sadie, Brad would not be standing before me, this day. I said,

As the soon-to-be Mrs. Jamison, I sense that I will adapt quite well to servants.

He smiled. She’ll enjoy your company. He nodded. She loves you.

Although Sadie’s sentiments had not mattered to me before, Brad’s words meant a great deal to me now. Every portion of his life that he holds dear, is now dear to me. I looked again at the gold and gemstones on my finger.

I am honored, I said. To wear your mother’s ring. Safeguarded for you, all these years, by one who knows you well.

That she does. Now, can we stay here awhile? And enjoy the views?

I had never felt so complete, as now. I could stay here forever, with you.

Now forever pledged to one another, we sat down against the trunk of the view tree. From up here the views of Warrenton’s spires are as picturesque as oils on a canvas. Above the foliage of August, I spotted the cupola of the courthouse where he will practice law, and the steeple of Warrenton Presbyterian Church where we will marry.

I saw Warren Academy and Florence Seminary, the schools of our youth.

I saw the slate roof of Paradise –the Winchester Street estate in which we first danced together at fourteen.

The rails of the Orange & Alexandria branch line railroad, his family’s project, stretch south toward the distant junction with the main line. South of Warrenton, down beyond the Culpeper Pike, stands Jamison Cottage, not visible from here, yet waiting for us to claim it as our own.

I looked again at the church steeple and said, I’ll ask Charlotte to attend me at our wedding.

He sat silent for a time. In that case, I’ll ask Aaron. That should please Charlotte.

And you?

He shrugged. He’s my brother. Seems appropriate. He grinned. I could ask Forrest, bless his heart.

Oh hush.

I owe Forrest a great debt.

Hmm. That you do. We do. Bless his heart indeed. But as for our wedding–

I’d ask you, my friend, but you’re pledged to be the bride. He sighed. I’ll ask Aaron. I’m sure he won’t mind.

I studied his profile, his vacant gaze across our homeland. I sensed that he looked not on Warrenton’s spires, just now, but at the charred rubble of Russell Baker’s train in the murky waters of Black Creek Swamp.

If you could, I thought, you would ask Russ.

I said, Now that you and Aaron have college behind you, both taking up residence and careers in Warrenton, maybe you’ll get to know each other better. And be friends, as well as brothers.

I’m not hungry for friends, Polly. He grinned at me. Was I ever, Lady Penelope? He entwined his fingers in mine, on the grass. I’m marrying my closest friend. Who will I confide in, when my wife is aggrieved with me? Then again, if I disagree with my friend, I can confide in my wife. He kissed my cheek. I love you. You’re all I need or want.

I placed my left hand on my upraised knees, and once again admired the golden band of emeralds. Tell me what Aaron says, when you ask him.

What do you expect him to say?

He’ll be delighted.

He peered at my eyes as I continued to admire my ring. Are you telling me something I’m not hearing?

I smiled. I want you to have a brother, in the way that I have a sister. Having a brother won’t detract from us, but will add to you.

Don’t throw me to the lions, Polly. I barely know Aaron from a stranger.

I turned to face him. When you went away to school in ‘57, Aaron was on his way home from William and Mary. And, with him growing up in boarding school, and you with us, your life paths had no chance to cross. But he isn’t a lion. He’s a lamb. A frisky lamb, yes, but certainly not a lion.

Point taken. He enticed me into the Black Horse Troop, in July, so it isn’t as if our paths won’t cross again. He gazed again at Warrenton’s distant spires. You’re right, Polly.

I don’t seek to be right, for right’s sake. I merely–

You’re right: my friendship with Russ didn’t detract from us, but it did add to me. He looked at me. I’ll say it again: don’t throw me to the lions. It took me six months to get to know Russ, even while living in the same quarters with him. In the immediate future, I’d rather concentrate on being your husband, than on cultivating friendships.

I smiled. That’s allowed. ‘My husband.’ I like the way that sounds.

His eyes warmed with contentment and love. So do I.

To firmly settle his spirit I said, If Aaron says no, to being your best man, I hereby grant permission for you to ask Drew Pendleton.

Then I knew all was well, because he chuckled and kissed me.

Journal – Polly Bond Jamison

Savannah, Georgia – November 8, 1876

As I further extend my visit with Bridget Baker in Savannah, I question my own motives. I love her dearly, of course, and have since I first met her in this city, 17 years ago. Yet when I arrived here a week ago, I had no inkling that Paul Seabrook was also in the city and that he would re-enter my life.

–Enter it, that is, for until now he had been merely a brushstroke on the canvas of Hilton Head.

If that portion of my life were a canvas, Brad and I would fill its center. Behind us would be the ocean, the dunes, Palmetto Bend and Bridget, and our grief for Russell Baker whose sudden tragic death inspired our arrival on the island in the summer of 1859.

All other memories of Hilton Head are little brushstrokes that add color, not substance. I would not even include the hurricane, or our mortal enemy Davánt, because Brad and I escaped both.

Last week, when Paul spotted me in the Savannah Market and followed me home to Bridget’s, I could not even see Paul on my mental canvas until his presence jogged my memory: the pleasant young man whom Brad and I had met at a fish fry, and whose island home –Seabrook Landing– Brad and I had raced past in a pony cart during our escape from Davánt and the hurricane.

I had not known Paul on the island, and I did not know him now. As he insightfully stated the other day: on Hilton Head I had eyes only for Brad. And in Paul’s next breath he dared ask: is that still the case?

Is it? And so: I question my motives for allowing Paul to call, to sit beside me on Bridget’s settee, and to occasionally take my hand while we review the past 17 years that he and I have spent apart.

I want to know Paul. Of that I have no doubt. As I recently wrote to Papa: if Paul’s company can add sunshine to a bleak tomorrow, why not accept Paul’s overtures?

Yet tonight, as I dressed for another evening with him, I realized one facet of his appeal: Paul knew Brad. As cavalrymen in General Stuart’s division, they were together during the war years when Brad and I were apart. After Brad and I bitterly separated in 1861, Brad and Paul soon renewed acquaintances in General Stuart’s camp. Now, these many years later, Paul is supplying me with details of Brad’s life that I was never privy to. And, I admit, these are details I want to know.

Much of Brad’s life has been a mystery to me, witnessed again by his betrayal at San Quentin a month ago with the red-haired dolly. I still hear that guard’s taunt, and my realization: Rosie McGuire is in California! Now, estranged though we are, I find I still want to complete the canvas that Brad represents in my life.

Brad has been my lifelong friend, and twice my husband, yet on these evenings when Paul shares details of their war years together, I want to shout: you knew him better than I! And so, I want to know.

Who did I so deeply love, all those years? Who was Brad? And who is he? My own pride demands to know: who owned my heart? So I listen. And as I listen, I sift my past through the sieve of Paul Seabrook’s heart –the heart that I may pledge myself to, when I am ready.

Tonight Paul told me of a wartime sweetheart of Brad’s. Someone he met in the autumn of 1862, when their cavalry division enjoyed an unprecedented respite at a western Virginia estate called The Bower.

During our postwar years in Nebraska, Brad told me about The Bower, but he did not mention Eve Dandridge. Brad’s summary of The Bower was that it had been an oasis of peace within the turbulence of war. –A time when life reverted briefly to the carefree days that had preceded the destruction of Virginia and our lives.

Paul’s assumption tonight was, I thought he was remaining true to someone at home. Not until you told me, last night, did I know he was unattached at the time.

Our marriage had ended, although Brad’s second marriage had not yet begun.

Paul went on: He and Eve were inseparable, but there was a distance about him that implied: this is temporary. In many ways, Brad was a private person, so I knew not to press.

Paul filled the empty cavities of my memory with charming details that are sad now, as loving epitaphs on tombstones are sad.

We came out of the Seven Days’ campaign feeling ravaged. Then General Stuart took up the Dandridges’ invitation to pitch camp on their lawn. That perceptive commander of ours assigned us the healthy, restful duty of guarding the foothills and the Valley. His voice was warm with memory. And, to play. He ordered all of us to play.

Paul chuckled at his word choice, but he did not rescind it. We played and we danced and we sang, and serenaded the Dandridge girls, and we strolled and courted and boated on the Opecquon. Again he chuckled. Pelham lavished a coat of garish yellow paint on a captured ambulance wagon, and we banged about the countryside in it, we and the Dandridges and their neighbors.

This Eve, was a daughter of the house?

Cousin. She lived in nearby Martinsburg, but stayed at The Bower throughout our respite. Many cousins and neighbors visited. JEB Stuart, and my commander Wade Hampton, always collected folks like pied pipers of Hamelin.

I hoped he would tell me more about Brad and Eve. He did:

We hosted charades and dances and musicales every night, at the house. Eve Dandridge played the harp. She was fair haired, and struck quite an angelic pose in the music room. Brad was mesmerized by her music, to the point that the general and Major Pelham teased him about being smitten. But he retained what I termed a distance. I saw them chastely kiss one another’s cheeks, outdoors. It seemed more gesture than affection.

I wonder, now, at this midnight hour: had he been thinking of me? Of his lost one who had charmed him with music, and to whom he had said when we bitterly parted in ‘61: I love you, Polly. I always will.

I can hear the echo of similar words after Woody saved him at the Loudoun Heights massacre in ‘64 and delivered him into Papa’s arms in our snowy yard. His head on the pillow, his anguished eyes on mine: Marian. I love you. I never stopped. Don’t forget.

I had thought him near death, so I reaffirmed: I’ve never stopped either. I love you, Sweet Robin, I’ve never loved anyone but you.

And that was so, from our early Robin Hood and Maid Marian adventures, our Lochinvar and Lady Rosalind days, to this moment. But Brad later recuperated in his wife’s bed, and I remained faithful to my second husband.

We’ve repeated our loving declarations frequently through the years. As recently as a month ago, his haggard face met mine through the bars at San Quentin prison, and he said: ‘I love you, Polly. There’s not been a day in seven years that I haven’t.’

If he did, and if he does, why did he betray me –yet again– with that same person who destroyed what we began?

His declaration at San Quentin –It wasn’t her!– can not mask the identity of the visitor whom his guard described: the red hair, the red curls, likely the same today as seventeen years ago, in the Fauquier court room where I first saw her. Rosie McGuire.

I turn often to the diary in my reticule. I have learned from reading it that Lorena was more responsible for our destruction than anyone. Although she is dead, her calculations are vividly alive. Had Lorena been our only adversary, her death would have assured our eternal freedom. However, as I learned last month at San Quentin, there is still another.

Journal – JBJ

San Quentin Prison – 8 November‘76

Still no sign of Erie Rose. Just another simple note from her, posted from San Francisco, with a yellowed newspaper clipping enclosed. About Pelham’s attack on the Yankee gunboats at Port Royal, and my statement to the press about serving as Pelham’s aide. Article clipped from a Buffalo newspaper. Yankee slant, of course.

Why would Erie send me that? Unless to imply that her mother saved it, which she may have. No doubt the newspapers were Rosie’s only link to me after the war began. And she could scarcely read those. Neither can Erie. Erie, my child! Fifteen years old, yet unknown to me until scant weeks ago.

My failings as a father settle around me like a dirty blanket. My failings as a man. Why didn’t Rosie tell me, before she went away in ‘61? Did she think that I would take no responsibility for Erie? Rosie knew me better than that. Didn’t she?

Erie hails from Buffalo, but she didn’t talk about her mother. Dead or alive? Alive and thriving, I hope. My heart belongs to Polly, but sweet, sweet Rosie– who saved my soul, way back then and whose memory saves me here– she deserves the very best.

I remember when her name connoted merely my first case as a young attorney, in 1859. The widow McGuire. That’s all she was then, all I thought she’d ever be. I seldom even thought about the case, at first, because my focus was on Polly: my friend, my fiancé, soon to be my wife forevermore. I was crazy in love with her. She was all my mind could contain.

Pol, I pray you’ll read my memoir when I get home, lest I didn’t convey to you, back then: you were my everything.

Memoirs, continued – JBJ

Saturday, August 13, 1859

I spent no overnights at David’s during the weeks preceding our wedding. No nights in the bedroom (the former sick room) he gave solely to me when I was eight, when Papa spent far more weeks on the road than at The Shadows.

Polly and Charlotte’s bedroom lay adjacent to the room that became mine, thus we knew my presence upstairs would be improper, at the present time.

Suppers I often ate at David’s, with Polly and our family. Afterward, she and I strolled on Salem Road, sat on the porch steps and in the swing, and savored the yearning that accompanies waiting.

I created a wish list that I presented to her, one wish at a time: words written on calling cards and slipped into her hand at an unpredictable moment each evening. The words were: Wilmington, sailboat, fish fry, dune, and other places where I had yearned to make love with her.

These notes were our secret. We played our pass-and-read game like school children, but our ardor was mature.

Six reenactments with passionate endings, she said, counting her cards. All on our honeymoon?

All on our wedding night, I teased, and she accepted my kiss with sweet anticipation.

In one way, I dreaded giving up our period of engagement, because I so savored the waiting. I am characteristically impatient, but the security of her love gave me peace.

Before I departed David’s house each evening, I asked Polly to play for me, and she often played the Nocturne. Watching her hands, her face, her serenity as she played, I felt my life coalescing into purpose, passion, and peace. I will love her all my days. I felt complete.

Every night I slept at The Shadows, where little of my youth had been spent. The late-night hours I passed with Papa in his study. One evening, he hauled me with him to the Fauquier White Sulphur Springs to celebrate my engagement at Rowdy Hall, but my scruples and my limits annoyed him. Debauchery didn’t appeal to me. He couldn’t understand why.

Your sweetheart won’t know what you’re up to, if you don’t tell her, he said.

The ornery coot tried to bed me with a New York Delilah he’d invited up from Greenbrier. Even she could see through his sham. Why can’t he?

She, pleasantly clean and reasonably young, said, Your son says he is engaged to be married, and is in love with his young lady? How refreshing.

I transferred her perfumed hand from my arm to Papa’s. Told him, You sleep with her.

He did, while I slept on a sofa in the bachelor parlor.

Next morning, I led Papa’s horse home on a lead line, Papa dozing on Jupiter’s neck.

Later that morning, as he sobered up on his study sofa, I said with a smile, If you keep up this tawdry behavior, I won’t invite you to the show when Lorena comes home.

Smart ass. This is my house. I’ll watch what I want.

Why do I love him? I don’t know why, but I do.

I wasn’t as glib about Lorena as I led him to believe. I could have ignored her arrival, been away, said nothing. I didn’t love her. I never had. Why provoke her? Why corner her?

Polly has always said that pride is my tragic flaw. I proved her right. Lorena had deceived me, damaged my pride, and I planned to take her down.

Papa, having no scruples at all, was present for the carnage. And, like Old Uncle on that bateau across the Pee Dee River where I booted Davánt overboard to the alligators, Papa enjoyed every minute of it.

When Forrest’s carriage clattered up the drive on Saturday morning, the 13th of August, I took a seat on the grand staircase, as casually as I used to sit on Hilton Head’s dunes. I didn’t want to appear impatient or angry. Papa lounged against the study doorframe at my right, arms crossed, eyes keen and clear, free of drink.

My speech was committed to memory. Then Lorena burst in, in a flounce of blue taffeta, Forrest on her arm. She saw me, and spoke first. What are you doing here? Her eyes never dodged mine. Her frowning self-confidence enraged me.

Papa’s recent reply came to mind. I live here.

You don’t expect to go on living here, do you? That pout of hers had at one time tantalized me. That and her upswept saucy curls that screamed ‘fashion.’

With you and Forrest? I let her stew on that a moment. No. Because I’ll be married in a few weeks. But I do plan to live here until then. Didn’t you once tell me that this roof is broad enough for all of us?

Married?

Forrest stood wary and silent. Papa sauntered out from his spectator doorway and barked, Well, tell her who. He lounged against the balustrade beside me. He’s marrying the girl he’s been in love with since he was three years old.

Seven, I corrected.

Polly Bond. Lorena’s lips tightened. Her violet eyes burned into mine. She shook her head in disbelief. Behind my back, the two of you– I knew it. I knew it when she set off with you to Georgia. You didn’t write, you didn’t come home–

I came home. To marry you. I honor my promises. I keep my word.

I looked at Forrest. Thanks to you, I no longer have to. You have taken this pregnant woman off my hands, which I believe is the grandest favor you’ve ever done for me. Maybe the only favor.

Now his lips parted, but only for a second. Lorena withered in his stare. Thus I knew:

You didn’t tell him, did you, Lorena? You hooked him into marriage, like you tried to hook me, without even having to tell him.

I said to Forrest, I didn’t want to marry her either. I was already accepted at Oxford, and eager to take the year abroad. But I felt sorry for her, because she was pregnant, and– I shrugged. I could have been responsible.

Lorena blurted out what I knew she would:

You know I was never with anyone but you! She lunged up the lower step at me, and snarled at my face. What are you trying to do to me? Make me look like a tart?

I retained my cool deportment. What were you trying to do? Pass your condition off as Forrest’s doing?

Forrest stood like a glacier, as stunned as I have ever seen him.

I shrugged again. However, maybe it is his doing. You two seem well matched. And I was down in Carolina for a long time. By the way, you may keep the engagement ring I gave you. As a gift.

My ring? Again she crouched near my face, in fury that gave way to tears. I don’t have your cheap little ring! I had to sell it, to get myself to Saratoga! To marry the only man on this earth who might love me, really love me, like no man –like nobody– has ever loved me before!

Her words and her tears held us all at attention, even Papa.

I was true to you, she wept, until the night I went to Saratoga. My condition is every bit your fault, and you know it!

I stood, and said from my position on the staircase, Now everyone knows it.

Lorena crumpled, and Forrest walked out. Never said a word. Never looked back. His valise at Lorena’s feet was the only evidence that he had been a part of this inquisition.

When Lorena realized he was gone, she lashed out at me, I hate you, Brad Jamison.

I said, I deduced that, when you married another man.

Then she raced out the door after Forrest.

Papa slammed the door shut. Clucked his tongue. More fireworks than I expected. Was that true, about Oxford? And a pregnancy?

Partly. I stepped down beside him, and said in Lorena’s defense, She’s pregnant. But she’s not a tart. I was her only one, at school. Only one until him. I simply wanted to fix her wagon with Forrest.

I had expected to feel vindicated and exalted in having done precisely that. Instead I felt defeated. Like Polly, I had hoped Lorena’s pregnancy was a lie spun for entrapment. Now I must face the truth I had feared. Now, so must my Polly. I will soon be a father.

Maybe she’s not a tart, Papa said as he beckoned me into his study. But she’s an unadulterated ornery bitch, and you’re damned lucky to be shed of her.

He sat down at his big factor’s desk and pulled open the drawer where he keeps his business papers. Come here.

I didn’t want to extend the Lorena denouncement. I sat on a corner of the desk while he dipped his pen and scribbled off something, folded it, extended it to me. Call this my thanks for the fireworks. Good show.

I unfolded a bank note for twenty-five thousand dollars. No mistaking: twenty-five thousand, and he was clearly sober. I stared at it. Shook my head. Why?

I had never been awarded blood money, and I came near to handing the note back to him with a firm ‘no thanks.’

Blood money. My child’s blood money, my child sold to Forrest who will despise its mere existence. My child sold for pride.

I heard Papa ranting, Why? He splayed out his hands. You’re asking me why? Hell, I don’t know why. I don’t know why about a lot of things I do. Just take the damn money. You and Polly can use it, can’t you? To start off on?

Such a sum could support us for a lifetime. I didn’t know he was worth this much. I’ve never asked him. He lets this house crumble to ruin while he rambles from spa to spa, and I’ve sometimes wondered if he was near bankruptcy. Yet instinctively, I knew he was good for the note.

Thanks, Papa. I didn’t know you held such an affinity for fireworks.

He shoved back his chair and propped his heels on his desk. Too bad I missed your earlier presentations.

My childhood. My graduation. My life.

I looked down at the bank note, and shook my head in wonder. Blood money, indeed. But he was apologizing, in his odd way, and I knew it. I smiled warmly at him and said, Thank you.

He brought his feet down off the desk. His chair screeched across the parquet as he stood. Off to the fireplace he stalked to say, Here’s another thing. He lit a cigar before he went on. If you’ll trounce that ragtail widow who’s suing the britches off us, I’ll match you another twenty-five when the verdict is in.

The O&A lawsuit. I was a step ahead of him, on that one. I’m don’t work for you, Pop. I do believe President Barbour and the Board of Directors will pay my salary, whether I win or lose.

He frowned at me from across the room. What makes you think you’d lose?

I mimicked his inquisitive outlay of hands. I’ve never met the woman. She may hold a number of legitimate grievances against us. At least let me investigate the circumstances, before I guarantee a win against her.

Just when do you plan to start investigating?

I pocketed his bank note. This very day. At his expression, I said, Coincidence. I had planned to ride to Three-Mile Switch as soon as I welcomed the newlyweds home.

Papa began to laugh. He seldom does laugh, except cynically. There was no cynicism in him now. He rounded off a hearty bellow and said, You let me know how you get along down there, with those ragtails.

I will, I promised, and left him smiling.

I don’t understand it. The changes in him, the changes in me, that make us suddenly compatible. But I’m not quibbling about it.

Lorena Elliot’s Diary

The Shadows – Saturday, August 13, 1859

When I realized the extent of Brad’s devious cruelty, I knew my only hope lay in