Too Late For Tomorrow

By Diana Lee Johnson

Jeremy Hamilton makes Albemarle a showcase of free labor in a hot bed of slavery and rebellion. Driven into a marriage of convenience and confrontations with neighbors, he asserts his belief that slavery should die.

 

Gabby Hamilton is obsessed to prove Jeremy is not her half-brother and make him admit his love for her. Nothing deters her, not his wife, public opinion, deaths of loved ones, or war itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884195

Book preview

Prologue

Blackmail

New Kensington Plantation, North Carolina

April, 1848

As he opened the door to the drawing room, Nathaniel was unnerved to see the visitor had made himself at home. Sitting in a wingback chair, feet propped on a table, he smoked one of Nathaniel’s cheroots. He removed his hat, revealing his blonde hair as he released a puff of smoke.

Aren’t you going to say ‘hello’, dear cousin? The voice was patronizing as always.

Edmond, what-the-hell are you doing here? I’ll be glad to finish what I should have in Paris, if you don’t leave this very minute! Wasn’t ruining you in business enough to teach you a lesson? The veins in Nathaniel’s neck stood out as his face turned red with rage.

Come, come, cousin. Surely after all these years we can let bygones be bygones.

Edmond, I’m warning you! Get out of my house and off my land, and if you ever bother me or any member of my family again, I’ll see to it you’re shot. Better yet, I’ll shoot you myself.

Edmond dropped his feet from the table to the floor and leaned forward in the chair. My, my, such a violent attitude, dear cousin. Where ever did you acquire it? Perhaps living with your little French tart?

He lazily rose from the chair, eyeing the cheroot as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger.

Nathaniel grabbed his cane and struck one good blow to Edmond’s face. The gold knob on the handle connected with his cheekbone forcing the skin to split, immediately drawing blood.

You’ll pay for that, Nathaniel! Edmond shouted as he blotted the blood from his cheek with his fingertips, staring at it in disbelief. Once he composed himself, Edmond continued.

You see, I know something of your family, and I don’t believe your children would understand the revelation that one of them is not so closely related to the others, if you get my meaning.

I don’t know what you’re talking about Edmond. Nathaniel tried to be convincing.

Don’t you? Well, there are two servants near Paris who can swear you never slept with Yvette during the three months you were there, prior to your September marriage. And I have, in the safe at my hotel, a statement from the priest who married you, in September, and a statement from the ‘craftsman’ who produced the forged documents to indicate the marriage took place in June. The very papers you used in order to leave France and enter the United States. Would you like Jeremy, or perhaps little Gabriella to have them for keepsakes?

You are a black soul, Edmond. What do you want? Nathaniel knew he must destroy the papers before anyone, especially poor Yvette, could see them. It was obvious Edmond didn’t suspect she had no memory of his assault. It would destroy her if she learned Gabby was not Nathaniel’s child.

Well, cousin, you have caused me a great many lean years. But, I shan’t belabor the matter. You can have all the documents I mentioned for, shall we say twenty-five thousand dollars.

Twenty-five thousand dollars? You bastard! What’s to prevent you from having other statements, copies, whatever, and coming here again?

I knew you were a shrewd businessman. I’ve had a contract drawn up and witnessed, in which I swear these are the only such documents. He withdrew a folded paper from his inside pocket and flipped it open.

Upon payment, you may do with them what you will, and I shall never approach you again on the matter. If I do, you can turn this over to the authorities. Fair enough?

Fair? That’s a strange word to be coming from your mouth! Nathaniel sat down in his favorite chair. I want an additional clause, that you will never set foot in North Carolina again.

Done! Come to my hotel in Raleigh, in two days time, Edmond gloated unmercifully. Turning to leave, he looked back at Nathaniel, and seeing little Gabby peaking through the rails at the top of the stairs he added in a loud voice, Do you think I might get a glimpse of my daughter before I go? Gabby, I believe you call her. I hear she’s a bright little one with my coloring. How do you explain that, Nathaniel?

Nathaniel was beside himself. He bounded from the chair making a tight fist as he hurled himself at Edmond striking him soundly on the jaw.

Gathering himself up off the floor, Edmond remarked, The look on your face was well worth the blow. You haven’t lost any strength with the years. He rubbed his aching jaw, wincing as he flexed it.

Oh, cash only, please, cousin, Edmond added. His eyes met those of the frightened child cowering at the head of the stairs, out of Nathaniel’s line of sight. Edmond nodded slightly toward the child, a simpering smile on his lips.

Nathaniel’s attention remained on Edmond’s retreating back.

One

New Kensington Plantation, North Carolina

March, 1842

Mother, I can’t wait to go tomorrow! Jeremy Hamilton burst into his mother’s bedroom, then stopped short and composed himself. Looking toward her bed, he couldn’t tell if his mother’s eyes were closed, perhaps she was resting. He stood silently, trying to adjust his eyes to the dusky light of her room as he inhaled the lilac scent she loved to have around her.

Come here, darlin’. His mother struggled to sit up from her pillows, her arms outstretched to her only son.

I’m sorry, Mother. Were you sleepin’?

No, dear. I was just waitin’ for our evening talk with my eyes closed. She patted the high feather mattress next to her, inviting him to sit. I can’t believe how grown-up you are, lean like my brother, Benjamin. Twelve-years-old tomorrow. Turn the lamp up darlin’, so I can see you better.

Yes, Mother. Jeremy leaned toward the table and turned the wick higher on the lamp. The light made his mother’s blonde hair glow like a halo, the paleness of her oval face brightened by a rosiness in her cheeks he couldn’t remember ever seeing before. He took her hand between his own. Thank you for insistin’ Father take me with him. I’ve wanted to see Grandfather’s home for so long.

I know you have. She gave his hand a little squeeze. You must pay careful attention to everything I’ve told you about, darlin’, so you can tell when you return; whether Uncle Benjamin kept up my garden, my lilacs, and if my room still looks the same, and how great-grandmother’s harpsichord is...just everything!

Are you sure it’s all right for us to leave you, Mother? We could wait a few days.

No, no. I insist. It’s important to me for you to see where I grew up before anything happens to Albemarle. And I’m feelin’ so much better than I have for a long time.

I’m glad you’re better, Mother. He bowed his head. I’m sorry Uncle Benjamin died. It must make you sad.

Yes, it does, but I have you and your father. I’m not lonely. Leonora placed her fingertips against her son’s cheek and gave him her brightest smile. You must behave well if you wish to accompany your father on other such trips, leavin’ me here all alone with only Aunt Millicent and the servants for company. Her lips molded into a bogus pout, then she twittered her fingers on his stomach, and ruffled his auburn hair as she giggled like a schoolgirl.

Mother! Jeremy crossed his arms over his stomach to stop the tickling, then reached up to smooth his hair before he dissolved into laughter with her.

I’ve never figured out where you got that hair of yours.

That’s easy, it’s a cross between your golden hair, and Father’s dark brown. I got stuck in the middle.

I suppose. But there was never any red hair in my family. She poked him teasingly again. I do take credit for your cornflower blue eyes, and your father accounts for your height. All the Hamiltons are tall.

You really are better, aren’t you?

Yes, darlin’. I feel wonderful. I’ll be up tomorrow mornin’ to bid you farewell. I promise. Now, you have to go pack, and remember all the things I’ve told you. Act like a gentleman, if you would be treated like one, Son. Make me proud of you as you always do.

Yes, Mother. He leaned toward her, planting a kiss on her cheek, then he slid down to lay his head on her shoulder for just a moment, inhaling her familiar lilac scent. I love you so, Mother, and I love Albemarle, just as much as you do. I’ll make you proud of me.

Leonora closed her eyes and held Jeremy tightly to herself with every ounce of strength she had. One lonely tear slipped down her cheek as she swallowed the lump in her throat. She patted his back to let him know it was all right to release her.

Now, you must retire early and sleep well for the long journey with your father in the morning. I’ll be down for breakfast. We haven’t had breakfast together for a while. I haven’t been out of this room in months. It’ll be nice to come downstairs.

He walked slowly toward the bedroom door, then turned around and rushed back to his mother, pouncing on the bed on his knees and throwing his arms around her. I’m so glad you’re better.

Leonora giggled and squeezed him one more time, then she gently released him. She ran her fingers through his thick hair then down his cheek before he jumped down and raced from the room. This time Jeremy didn’t look back. Leonora fell back against the stack of pillows in limp exhaustion.

~ * ~

Jeremy tossed restlessly in his bed—I must sleep! But how could he sleep with all the noise? Somebody talking...then maybe someone crying. I have to remember to tell Mother how much I’ll miss her on my trip. He tossed and turned, squeezed his eyes tightly closed and covered his head with his pillow.

At last the first rays of dawn peeked through the shutter slats casting eerie beams that resembled splayed skeleton fingers across his bed as he lay impatiently awaiting morning. All night Jeremy tried to sleep, but couldn’t chase from his mind the elation of his long-awaited visit to the plantation where his mother grew up in South Carolina. He’d never been more than fifty miles from his home, and never out of North Carolina.

He must be dressed and ready for breakfast early, so Father had no excuse to leave him behind. He didn’t mind forgetting about his birthday, or a party and presents. He was twelve—not a little boy. He’d show Father how grown up he was. One day Albemarle would be all his. His father would still have New Kensington.

Jeremy dressed hurriedly, ran a comb halfway through his hair and dragged his well-stuffed valise out into the hallway on his way to the stairs. Elijah won’t overlook this when he takes Father’s trunk to the carriage.

He paused at the top of the huge curved stairway, tempted in his excitement to slide down the banister the way he did when he was just a child of eight or nine. But he straightened his spine and squared his shoulders—not today, he was a young gentleman today. He was twelve years old now, and he must, above all, act like a well-bred southern aristocrat. He settled on a run down the stairs, but that, too, was unrefined—he would walk.

As he descended the stairs, Jeremy’s thoughts wandered, pondering the responsibilities of manhood...more of his mother’s words coming to mind. Mustn’t ever call our people ‘slaves’ the way other plantation owners and their children do, darlin’. They are ‘servants’, or ‘field hands’, or ‘workers’. ‘Slaves’ are sometimes treated harshly and rarely loved. Our people are like our family. Her words became a rhythmic gait to which he lightly bounced down the long staircase.

Jeremy paused at the base of the stairs. He’d never allow other planters to call him soft like they sometimes did his father, even though he was respected by them all the same.

Father rarely disciplined his people. They almost never tried to run away, and they never stole or lied that Jeremy knew of.

His memory drifted back to a party, when his mother was not so ill. He could almost hear his father saying, I’ve never sold a single member away from a family. I ‘sold’, if you can call it that, the sixteen or seventeen-year-old daughter of my wife’s personal maid so she could marry a young buck on a neighboring plantation. But it was at the young girl’s request. Jeremy struck a boastful pose, playing his father’s part in his mind. No money changed hands, just a gentleman’s agreement with the owner of Wicklow Plantation that he’d never break up her family, and she’d be allowed to visit her mother at reasonable intervals.

No, people won’t get a chance to scoff at me. When I’m master of Albermarle we won’t have a single slave. I’ll show planters how well a plantation can be run, and I’ll do it with free workers.

He thought about his best friend, Thomas, whose father lost Peachwood Hill, in a game of cards, moving away just when Jeremy turned eleven. Its new owner, Robert Carlton tried everything to be accepted by the local gentility, but he hadn’t succeeded. He was coarse and offensive.

Poor Thomas had moved to Maryland to live with his grandfather. Now Jeremy was rightful heir to two plantations. Maybe Thomas would come back someday and work with him.

He shook off his cornucopia of daydreams as he approached the dining room. He pushed half the sliding door open enough to get through and was surprised to see Aunt Millicent sitting at the breakfast table, fully dressed and sipping a cup of tea. Her aged body hunched over despite her valiant effort to hold herself erect. She never came down for breakfast. She always had it in her room—said she was getting too old to move around quickly or be sociable in the morning before she had her tea.

Father was there, too, though he was obviously not ready to go on the trip. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was disheveled, his cravat untied and dangling, his eyes swollen and red. Is Father sick now, too? Jeremy wondered as he saw the doctor hovering near and then he heard his words.

Seen it many times, Hamilton. Chronically ill patients often rally right at the end. Nothing terribly unusual.

Looking around the room, Jeremy saw a number of people—teary-eyed women with limp hankies, somber-looking men shaking hands with Father and grasping his shoulder.

He stood very still, not making a sound; then, turning his head slowly, he looked as far around the room as he could. His gaze darted quickly from one face to another, until the visitors noticed him. One old woman, whom Jeremy remembered seeing in church when his mother was well enough to go, swooped over and tried to scoop him up in her arms, dribbling kisses upon him as he politely resisted.

My poor dear child, was all the old woman said.

Jeremy quickly wiped any traces of her kisses from his cheek with the inside of his wrist as he slowly approached his father.

Father, he said in a whisper, what are all these people doin’ here? Why aren’t you ready to go on our trip? Isn’t Mother coming down to say ‘Goodbye’? When he finally stopped to take a breath, he noticed his father’s confused expression.

Come here, Jeremy, he beckoned him closer, getting down on one knee to face him. We won’t be going to Uncle Benjamin’s plantation just yet, Son— He couldn’t find the proper words. His lips were dry and trembling. His tongue swelled, filling his mouth. S-Son, you know your mother hasn’t been feeling very well of late...

Yes, Father, but she was much better yesterday. That’s why she said I could go with you—is that it, Father? Do you need me to stay here and look after Mother? Jeremy was reluctant to offer, but even having to stay home would be an admission of his manhood, if it were to take care of his mother and the plantation in his father’s absence.

No, my boy, that’s not it. The wavering tone of his voice frightened Jeremy. He stood still as a statue, his eyes fixed upon his father’s face. Jeremy, your mother was taken from us last night. She wasn’t better, Son. But she will never be sick again. Tears streamed down his father’s cheeks, though he made no sound. I loved her so much.

No, you’re wrong! Why would you say such an awful thing? She’s better! Mother? Jeremy turned to look questioningly at the other faces. What he read there froze his mind for a moment.

Suddenly a kaleidoscope was set off in his head. His mother’s face, his mother’s words...his father’s tears. The vibration of a deep chill crawled up his spine. His eyes burned.

Realizing everyone in the room had turned toward him, Jeremy raised his chin, took a deep breath, and swallowed back his tears. He maintained his stony expression, turned mechanically and walked out of the dining room, through the foyer, and out the large front door. He paused on the veranda, leaning momentarily against one of the large white columns as if to draw strength from its stateliness. He imagined he smelled his mother’s lilacs, but it was too early. He was remembering the scent of her as she held him the evening before. The lilac water she used seemed to fill his nostrils.

He inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air chilling his lungs. Then he let the breath out slowly through his mouth. Raising his head, he continued down the front steps of the mansion, willfully forcing his emotions back by clenching his fists tighter and tighter until his knuckles were white. He must not cry. He must be strong. It was expected...of a gentleman.

He wandered through his mother’s beloved garden, toward the stream which babbled happily with the heavy flow of early spring rains. It had no right to sound so happy, not today. Didn’t it know what just happened? Jeremy stood looking down at the cool, clear water, watching the bubbles it created by running so quickly through and over the stones, worn silky smooth by years of washing.

He thought about crying, out here, all alone; but that wouldn’t be manly. Father had cried, but that doesn’t mean I have to. If I’m strong, perhaps it will show Father just how grown-up I am and we can still go on our trip soon. Mother wouldn’t expect us to stay here forever and not see to the other land. After all, it was her home. He reasoned calmly with himself, numbly watching the rows of bubbles disappear down the stream. He picked up a handful of pebbles and began throwing them in the water one at a time.

Masta’ Jeremy, the familiar voice of his playmate, Kalib, brought Jeremy back to the present. Kin’ I help? the round dark face emanated sincere concern as Jeremy turned around to look at his friend.

"No, nothin’ to help, Kalib. Mother isn’t gonna be sick anymore. Father and I have to see to our affairs, check up on Uncle Benjamin’s—my property. I might just have to stay there and manage it once we go to South Carolina." He threw the last stone then put his thumbs under his suspenders, giving them a little tug as he saw his father’s banking friend do while they talked business.

Yes, sir, masta’ Jeremy. Guess y’all be busy puttin’ things right. Does ya need me ta help?

Jeremy put his arm around his chubby friend’s shoulder. We’ll see, Kalib, his voice and his head dropped, we’ll see.

We best be gettin’ back to da house ‘for yer Pa looks fo’ ya. Kalib nodded repeatedly as he did whenever he and Jeremy were talking serious grown-up talk.

Jeremy sighed and nodded once in agreement as he watched a particularly large bubble travel around a rock without bursting. Then he turned his attention to his friend. Kalib, you must try to speak more genteel, like Mother taught you. I may have to take you with me to South Carolina, Jeremy boasted. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we aren’t refined.

Yes, sir, Kalib said crisply as they walked by the stream.

You know, Mother broke all the rules with you. She’s been teachin’ you all to speak proper English, and you and a few others to read and write. We could get in big trouble for that. The least you can do for her now is to use what you’ve learned.

Yes, sir. Kalib hung his head. You ain’t cried yet, masta’ Jeremy, has—have ya?

Cried? Jeremy arched an eyebrow.

Yes, sir. Mama says don’t nobody get over the passin’ of a love one without they cry good.

Jeremy’s eyes felt like hot coals buried into his face, but no tears came yet. Just emptiness. He reached into the little stream and drew out some of the cool water and splashed it on his burning eyes. But he still didn’t cry.

Kalib, do you think your folks will stay when their twenty years are up? I mean, well, you know, the way Father has been lettin’ our people earn their freedom?

Never much thought on it. Reckon we wouldn’t have nowhere, uh, anywhere else t’ go. ‘Sides with free papers, a small piece o’ land to garden, chickens or a pair of pigs, and the materials to build a house, why would they want t’ leave?

Jeremy shrugged his shoulders. It’s a slow process, but someday, when we’re grown, everybody will be free. I’m not gonna have slaves at Albemarle.

Then how ya gonna get the crops in?

I’m gonna pay people to work, right from the start. That’s what Father thinks we should do now, but he says we can’t afford it all at once.

By the time Jeremy and Kalib got back to the house, some of the women were preparing Leonora’s body for viewing and burial. One of the dual sliding doors to the parlor was not closed completely. Through the gap, Jeremy listened to the whispered words of one of the neighbors and Kalib’s mother, as they worked.

She hadn’t been well for so long. It’s God’s own peace now, the neighbor whispered.

My poor darlin’, Mamaleen sobbed softly. Seems like she done give up all her life’s breath years ago bringin’ Mas’ Jeremy into dis worl’. She jus’ used up, that’s all, jus’ used up. No more strength left for the bearin’ of no more babies. Not even for t’ nurse li’l baby Jeremy after he come so strong and healthy. She give him over t’ me fo’ the feedin’. And he and my Kalib done growed up strong and well...Poor Miz Leonora... Her voice dissolved into weeping.

No one noticed Jeremy standing there peering through the slightly opened door. He saw his mother’s face clearly as the women worked. She had not looked so serene in his memory, and years had melted from her face. He knew only the hand of God could have put such a peaceful expression there and he was comforted. He stood in the doorway of the parlor and watched, expressionless until one of the servants came and led him away.

It’s all right t’ cry, boy, Elijah said quietly, taking Jeremy’s hand.

"Cry? I’m not gonna cry! Jeremy insisted. Tempted to stamp, he refrained, as he indignantly shook loose from Elijah’s hand. I’m goin’ to my room and unpack my bag and put my own clothes away, that’s all. Everyone else is busy. Then he mumbled to himself as he climbed the stairs. Even if I was gonna cry, I wouldn’t let anyone else see. I’m grown up today. Mama said so."

As he reached the top step, he broke into a run down the hall to her bedroom. The door was locked. He ran to his father’s room and through the adjoining door. Her bed was stripped of bedclothes, but he threw himself upon it. Closing his eyes he could smell her fragrance. He pushed off the bed and made his way to her dresser and grabbed her bottle of lilac water. Pressing it to his chest, he hurried to his own room and hid the bottle in a drawer.

He sat in the window seat staring out at the garden, his eyes focusing on nothing. At last, salty tears burned his cheeks, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. No matter how many times he told himself that men don’t cry, he couldn’t stop the flood.

Oh, Mother, he sobbed, "you were better. You said so. What will we do without you? Who will tell me the stories of Albemarle? No one is left."

He recounted to himself every story, every descriptive phrase about Albemarle his mother told him, until he could see it clearly in his mind. He wanted to remember every loving detail she imparted. He longed to glimpse the girl who lived in those stories and imagined his mother lively and young. He had only seen her as the sickly matron, aged far beyond her years, until last night.

Jeremy didn’t hear his door open, or realize his father was sitting next to him in the window seat until he reached for Jeremy’s hand, but Jeremy snatched it away.

I’m all right, Father, really, I am. I’m not a child. I can understand things like this now. He tried to hide the tearstains where he’d wiped them away with his shirtsleeve.

Then maybe you can help me Son, for I’m afraid I can’t understand. Nathaniel broke down and wept openly.

Jeremy stepped back from him and glared. This was not how a man should act. Mother always said he must be strong to be the master of New Kensington. Was his father weak? Was it up to him to be strong for them both? He was confused about everything he was taught about setting a hardy example and not displaying his feelings openly. But he wasn’t going to cry anymore now, not Jeremy, not in front of his father, not on his twelfth birthday.

Father, I—I don’t know what to say. Jeremy supposed he should tell his father not to feel guilty, but deep inside, he felt his father bore at least some of the responsibility for his mother’s death. He’d heard the servants talk about the downturn of her health with each pregnancy. Sometimes he hadn’t even known she was pregnant, until the baby was lost, the doctor gone, and the servants chattered.

But in his heart, Jeremy knew they loved each other, and he was sure his father was always devoted to his mother. He put his hand on his father’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort him. Nathaniel grabbed Jeremy and held him tightly with both arms. Jeremy looked over his father’s shoulder, out the window, trying not to think about how weak his father appeared.

~ * ~

After the funeral service, the topic of conversation among the women who gathered at the house was how stone-like little Jeremy had been through it all. He heard the comments whispered behind his back.

How cold and unfeeling he must be, one elderly woman told a younger one.

He’s in shock, another said.

How sad it is he doesn’t get it all out and cry. Jeremy recognized her as the woman who tried to dribble kisses on him the day his mother died.

He continued to act the stalwart Southern gentleman and proper host as his mother always taught him. He preferred to dwell on the comments he heard from other gentlemen—how brave he was being and what a comfort he must be to his father, and, most of all, how grown-up he’d become.

Jeremy hoped his father was listening to those comments. He’ll know I’m truly a man. I can prove myself and be the master of the plantation, freeing Father to grieve, or to look after our other interests.

Nathaniel shuffled around in a fog. His eyes were always red and swollen and he was rarely far from a bottle of brandy during the day, and whiskey after supper.

I shouldn’t have married you. He talked to his wife’s spirit alone in his study, staring at the portrait he commissioned of her when Jeremy was two. She already looked thirty instead of eighteen, and he feared she wouldn’t be with him long.

"Nope, should’ve left you there with your father...too fragile, too lovely. Thought I was takin’ you away from the fever. Fifteen when we married, sixteen when Jeremy was born. Should’ve stayed away from you after that. Knew you weren’t strong, but no, I had to inflict my lust upon you, my little flower..." He flopped into a wingback chair, the bottle dangling from his hand.

Twenty-eight, just twenty-eight and you looked more like fifty. I did it. I couldn’t be strong, be a gentleman. Had to have you, touch you, give you more babies. Should’ve shot me, that’s what you should’ve done. You could’ve said ‘no’. You could’ve... his words slurred.

Why’d ya have t’ trust me so damned much, Nora? Why’d ya have to trust God? The bottle slipped from his hand, but was caught by George Robertson, the family attorney, as he entered the room.

Come on, old man. Time for bed. Robertson laid down his cheroot and tried to help Nathaniel to his feet, but he was too much smaller than his host.

Begged her, no more children after Jeremy’s sister died. Wouldn’t listen. I tried to keep myself from her bed, George. Took to my separate room.

I know. Now come on, stand up old friend.

...would have no part of it. Said we loved each other too much to be kept apart. God’s will...God’s will be damned! I killed her. I know it. You know it. Worst of all, Jeremy knows it.

Robertson flopped on the settee, exhausted from his efforts to get his friend to his feet. You could’ve taken a wench, he said matter-of-factly, flicking the ash off his cheroot as he picked it back up, but Nathaniel didn’t stop his lament to listen.

I can’t live with myself, Nathaniel told Robertson. "I’m to blame for her suffering and her death. All our poor dead babies, that’s what killed her. I could’ve prevented that, but I was weak. He punched himself in the chest. I just had to have her body next to mine. I killed her as surely as if I’d taken a knife to her heart."

Nathaniel reached for another drink, but Robertson had removed the bottle.

You’ve got to stop this, old fellow. You’ve got a plantation to run, and you haven’t done anything about Albemarle.

I’m old, too old. You’ll have to go to Albemarle—see to its proper runnin’ until I’m up to making the journey—for the boy.

Tonight, all I’m gonna see to is gettin’ you to bed. We’ll talk in the mornin’ when you’re sober. Robertson rang for Elijah to help him. "And just for the record, we’re the same age, and I’m not old!"

~ * ~

Nathaniel was up before his friend. Robertson found him in the plantation office, hoisting a whiskey to his lips.

It’s certain we can’t talk today either. I’ll go to Albemarle, but when I come back, I expect you to be sober. Robertson shook his head and turned to leave.

Nathaniel merely shooed him with a wave of his hand and returned to his drink.

But weeks turned into months, and then the summer was gone. New Kensington’s cotton and tobacco didn’t fetch as handsome a price this year as in the past. Jeremy was following the business of both plantations, though he had no real say in anything. He and his tutor, Harrison Garvy, studied the books thoroughly. Mathematics was Jeremy’s strongest subject, and Garvy made many constructive suggestions for both plantations.

Robertson, returned to New Kensington in the late fall.

Jeremy ran to meet his carriage.

Mr. Robertson, so good to have you back. How are my holdings in South Carolina?

I’ve left a local plantation owner, friend of your Uncle Benjamin’s, to see to the running of Albemarle during the winter. He’s to make sure the overseer doesn’t get too zealous or what few slaves are left may run away.

Good, what other news? How did the crops do this year? Jeremy followed him into the house.

I’ll discuss all that with your father.

"You’ll discuss it with me. Albemarle is my inheritance."

Robertson ignored Jeremy, who was hot on his heels. He closed the study door in Jeremy’s face.

Nathaniel was there, unshaven, disheveled, and drunk.

Robertson pounded a fist on the desk.

Do you think you can listen, or are your faculties gone completely?

My ears are fine, and I’m capable of understanding anything you may have to say. Nathaniel’s words were not slurred. I’m not quite drunk—yet.

I can see you’re still in no condition to try to run two plantations, or even one for that matter. Robertson paused, but Nathaniel just looked at him to continue.

The luxurious summer house in Charleston was sold many years ago to pay some gambling debts of Benjamin’s. There’s nothing left of the family fortune, but the plantation itself. I think you already suspected as much. Robertson fumbled in his leather satchel, rattling papers.

The plantation is now only eight thousand acres. Benjamin found it necessary to sell over a third and a corresponding number of slaves. I’ve managed to secure a fair offer from a rich Italian immigrant, Robertson told Nathaniel. I’m sure you could do no better at this time, and it’s apparent selling Albemarle is your best course.

Hearing the discussion of the offer, Jeremy listened intently outside the door. When he could no longer bear the idea of someone else, a total stranger and a foreigner at that, getting his hands on his mother’s beloved Albemarle, he burst into the room.

Father, you can’t sell Albemarle. It’s my inheritance. Mother loved it so. She wanted me to have it! Jeremy stomped his foot and pounded his fist on the desk.

Jeremy, boy, you know nothing of such matters. Robertson spoke patronizingly. This is your Father’s decision to make, and his alone.

It’s my plantation! Jeremy protested. Father—

Robertson, Jeremy has a right to speak. He’s been keeping himself informed of the affairs of New Kensington and Albemarle. He defended his son, but then turned to Jeremy and spoke more softly. Son, I think perhaps this is best.

But, Father, I could go down to Albemarle and see to it. I’ve never been there, but I know it well. I remember everything Mother ever told me about it. It’s mine. I love it as she did. It’s all I have left of my mother. It’s not fair for you to sell my inheritance!

Jeremy, if you were a little older, I’d consider it, but you have much schooling left, and you’re not yet thirteen.

But Father—

Nathaniel simply lifted his hand to dismiss his son from the room. Jeremy stormed out and slammed the door.

You should invest some of the sale proceeds in improvements at New Kensington, invest some elsewhere for Jeremy’s continued education, and take a sizeable amount and get away from North Carolina for a time. Go to Europe, meet new people, and try to forget your heartaches. Robertson laid the papers out on the desk.

Nathaniel ruffled through them, signed the deed, and agreed. Perhaps a trip would revive me. Perhaps I can return and be the father Jeremy needs. Maybe I’ll learn how to break through his shell of coldness and find a way to regain my son’s respect, but not just now. Maybe in the spring.

~ * ~

In a more lucid moment, Nathaniel concluded he could fulfill one of Jeremy’s dreams and accomplish the business of the sale at the same time.

Jeremy, Nathaniel called him near. "I’ve decided you should go to South Carolina and see to the sale of your mother’s plantation. I’ll send you and Garvy with Robertson when he goes to close the deal and collect the money.

That way, you can see your mother’s home and collect whatever family belongings you wish to keep. Robertson has instructions to let you remove anything and everything you wish to bring back, and use money from the sale to buy the horses and wagons needed to transport your mother’s treasurers. After all, you might someday want to build your own home, though why you would not wish to remain at New Kensington, since you are my only son, I can’t imagine.

Come with us, Father, Jeremy urged in a warm tone, sure that seeing Albemarle would prevent the sale. Mother would want you to go.

"I can’t go back there—ever!" Nathaniel growled. Then he closed his eyes remembering when he met Leonora. She was thirteen. In his mind, he could still see her and how lovely she was standing on the porch in that pale pink dress. It tortured him to remember. She’d been so full of zest for life and all he’d brought her, aside from their one son, was pain and grief.

Seeing his son still waiting as he opened his eyes again, Nathaniel gave a negative shake of his head. His voice softened, the harshness subdued. I’m sorry Son, I’ve no interest in seeing Albemarle again. He sighed, picking up his pipe instead of his whiskey. You’ll have to wait for spring for such a trip.

Jeremy stared at the floor as he shuffled from the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Two

Jeremy looked out the window of his classroom, wondering if winter would ever end, wondering if his father was going to drink himself to death. But winter was ending, Jeremy’s thirteenth birthday was near and his father’s attorney would come any day to discuss Albemarle. He came and went without Jeremy knowing.

Robertson re-appeared a few days later as his father informed Jeremy he would.

Here are all the necessary papers, Robertson. Nathaniel tossed the packet on his desk. I give you full authority, but make allowances for the boy. Jeremy is still bitter about selling his mother’s home.

Robertson nodded. Rest assured, my friend, I shall afford him every possible accommodation. He mounted the carriage in which Jeremy and Harrison were already waiting. Kalib rode with the driver, at Robertson’s suggestion. Jeremy had intended him to be in the carriage with him. Two strong Negroes were on the back of the carriage to carry out whatever tasks were necessary when they reached their destination and to drive the wagons home.

I can’t stop Father from selling Albemarle, but mark my words, I will get it back some day!

Robertson raised an eyebrow in tolerant disbelief.

I’ve no doubt you’ll try. Harrison smiled at his student understandingly.

The trip was endless for the anxious young man. When they arrived, Jeremy wasted no time strolling about like the lord of the manor.

House is obviously in need of some repair, Jeremy remarked as they approached on foot, his hands clasped behind him, but it’s as splendid as Mother always described it. He pictured the light in his mother’s eyes as she spoke of Albemarle.

Before Jeremy entered the house, he had an uncontrollable urge to see the garden. Harrison didn’t follow him. This is the saddest part of the plantation.

He remembered how many times his mother told him of its loveliness. The grand oaks were still there lining the drive as they approached and scattered about the lawn for shade. The Spanish moss still dangled ominously from nearly every branch, just as she said, but the flowers and shrubs were withered and dying from neglect.

His eyes filled with tears. I’m glad Mother doesn’t have to see this, he choked in a whisper.

Jeremy stood at the riverfront of the house, staring at the cool, spring-green grass the width of the house that terraced down to the dock, like a carpet rolling over giant stairs. His gaze wandered to the meticulously laid-out gardens on either side that had gone to seed for want of attention. Flowering shrubs bloomed in every direction. Spring was much earlier here than in North Carolina. Mingling fragrances wafted on the breeze.

He continued day-dreaming as he surveyed the landscape, imagining the grandness of the garden, his Mother sitting on the marble bench beneath the biggest oak on the grounds reading, as she so often told him she passed time in the spring and fall.

He could discern places in the garden his Mother nearly duplicated at New Kensington, except for the palmetto trees.

The stories flooded his memory, his mother’s voice ringing in his mind. In the summers the whole family would go into Charleston where we had what Benjamin used to call a ‘modest’ summer house of only eighteen rooms, opposite the battery. How much I missed my big garden in the summer. We had only a small one in town and it was impossible to get far enough away from the house to enjoy a quiet walk or sit and read without interruption. There were always parties and visitors in town.

How could Father sell my mother’s life here? Jeremy’s tone was bitter. His dreaming ended for a time; Jeremy finally entered the house. Even this early in spring the muskiness of the humid warmth of the low country assailed his nostrils. Combined with the dustiness of over a year without inhabitants, the air was chokingly thick and still.

Jeremy went from room to room, throwing open windows and French doors, encouraging some kind of air exchange as he decided what he wanted to take back with him.

I know every room here, Harrison, he commented over his shoulder as he raced about. They are as familiar to me as my home at New Kensington. Mother described them all over and over again in such detail. That’s what she used to do in the hours I’d spend in her room when she was too ill to come downstairs with the rest of the family. I would close my eyes as she spoke and picture every room. It was like a game.

He remembered how he climbed up on the big bed and laid his head in his mother’s lap. He could almost feel the stroke of his mother’s fingers through his hair as he recalled her telling the same stories over and over.

I know the first two things I want to take. Jeremy headed quickly to the ballroom. There, you see, he pointed, the portrait of Mother hanging just where Father said it was. He climbed onto a chair and took the huge painting down gently, handing it to Harrison. Jumping from the chair, he retrieved it.

He leaned the portrait against the wall, positioned the chair in front of it there in the great room, and stared at it intently. His mother wore an aqua gown of gossamer satin, which set off the startling blue of her eyes. She was sitting at a harpsichord, her expression full of life and anticipation, her long, slender fingers poised