All Things New by Lynn Austin
She couldn’t reply. Alexander said that suffering wasn’t God’s punishment. Wasn’t that the lesson from the book of Job?
“I tried to end it all and take the shortcut to hell,” Harrison continued, “but God sent you and that ridiculous Yankee to stop me. The two of you make a fine pair of hell’s messengers, sent for the sole purpose of torturing me and punishing me here on earth for a little while longer. I guess the price of my sins hasn’t been paid in full yet.”
Josephine had no idea what to say.
“Have I shocked you? Aren’t you going to ask me what my unforgiveable sins are?”
“That is none of my business.”
“Ah! But you’ve made the rest of my miserable life your business. Why is that, you little hypocrite?”
“I’m not a hypocrite. A hypocrite is someone who claims to have faith but lives an entirely different life. You weren’t listening to me, Harrison. I said I no longer believed in the sort of God they taught us about in church, who’s always there listening to our prayers and—” She stopped. If what Alexander said was true, if God had better reasons for not answering her prayers, wanting to set the slaves free, to set her free, then could she begin to trust Him again?
“Go on . . .” He was waiting for her to finish.
“Never mind. I’ll give you your wish now. I’ll go inside and leave you alone.” And she did.
But Harrison’s words haunted her. Would God really turn him into a cripple to punish him?
Josephine asked Alexander about it the moment she met him beneath the tree house the following Tuesday. “You said the book of Job proved that suffering isn’t a punishment. But does that mean God never punishes people for their sins?”
“No, what the book of Job shows is that even good people sometimes suffer for reasons only God can see. . . . Shall we sit down, Josephine? We don’t need to visit standing up today. It isn’t raining.”
Her heart sped up at the thought of sitting beside him. “No, thank you. My skirt would get all dirty.”
“I’ll bring a blanket or something to sit on next time. I should have thought of it, I’m sorry.” His smile disarmed her. It seemed to come from a source deep inside him that filled his entire body, instead of a smile that was a mere social pleasantry. They remained standing beneath the floor of the tree house, as close together as they had the last time even though it wasn’t raining.
“Please, go on,” Josephine said. “I want to understand about Job and suffering.”
“If we believe God is good, then we can trust that if He brings suffering into our lives or if He doesn’t answer our prayers, it’s for our ultimate good.”
“Harrison thinks he lost his leg because God was punishing him. Could that be true?”
Alexander moved his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug, as if to say there was no simple answer. “Sometimes our suffering is a consequence of our own choices, going our own way, fighting against God. Losing his leg could be the result of Harrison’s decision to fight, not a punishment. God takes no joy in our suffering.”
“Why does He allow it, then?”
“Sometimes it’s His way of coaxing us to come back to Him. God used the war to draw me back to Him. People do more praying on the battlefield than they ever do in churches.”
“But if that’s true, I would have to believe it was good that Daddy died, good that my family and I suffered during the war and lost nearly everything we had.”
“You can never know for certain what your life would have been like if the war hadn’t happened. Suffering is part of living in a broken world. Your father might have died another way. Your family might have lost their fortune in some other kind of disaster. We’re wrong to expect our lives to be perfect on this side of heaven. And it’s wrong for parents to shelter their children and make them believe that the most important thing is to be happy.”
“If life isn’t supposed to be happy, then why live it? Why not end it like Harrison tried to do?”
“Because there’s a big difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is external and can change when your circumstances change. If you believe that money will make you happy, for instance, and then you lose all your money, you’ll be very unhappy. But joy is deep inside us and isn’t dependent on circumstances. Even poor people can have joy. Didn’t you tell me that doing simple chores like working in the garden brought satisfaction?”
“Yes . . . and it gives my mother fits. She claims the work will ruin my hands, among other reasons.”
Alexander reached for her hand and held it, looking at it before looking up at her. “When we walk away from God, we walk away from any chance of joy. Joy doesn’t come from circumstances but from God.”
His touch warmed her entire body as if she stood beside a flaming hearth. So did the way he was looking at her. Her heart began to gallop, and she had a sudden memory of how her brothers used to race each other down the lane on Daddy’s horses, hooves thudding on the dirt, pounding faster and faster. That’s what her heart felt like right now. She wanted Alexander to continue holding her hand, which was why she pulled it free. She forced herself to look away from his intense gaze, looking down the path toward home.
And there stood Mary, a stone’s throw away, watching them.
How long had she been there? Josephine turned her back on Alexander and hurried toward her. “Mary! What are you doing here?”
“I saw you get up and get dressed. I heard you leave the other morning, too. I wondered where you went, so I got dressed and followed you.”
“I needed some fresh air and—”
“You came to be with that Yankee. I saw you with him.” Jo turned to look back, but he and his horse were gone. She linked arms with Mary to walk home.
“You were spying on me?”
“Is that why you asked me about marrying someone unsuitable? About marrying for love? Are you in love with him?” She said the word in a disparaging way, as if Alexander were nothing, less than nothing.
“No, I’m not in love, don’t be absurd! We were just talking.”
“He was holding your hand, Jo.”
“He wasn’t—”
“I saw you!”
“Listen. He’s trying to help me understand things about the war—”
“What does a Yankee know about our side of the war?”
Jo couldn’t begin to explain their strange friendship, nor could she tell her sister that she’d lost her faith and could no longer pray. Mary would never understand. “Are you going to tell Mother that you saw us?”
“That depends. Are you going to keep sneaking out to see him?” When Josephine hesitated, Mary said, “Jo, you can’t! It isn’t proper! People will think . . . I mean, he’s the enemy, and I saw him holding your hand. I saw the way he was looking at you.”
“Stop it. He’s not our enemy. And I swear we were simply talking. It’s not what you think.” But Mary was right. The way Alexander looked at her made her heart race like a thoroughbred pounding down the track. She drew a deep breath and let it out. “Please don’t tell Mother. I sewed you a new dress, I brought you new shoes—that’s where they came from, by the way. From Mr. Chandler’s church up north.”
“You’re sweet on him, aren’t you? And don’t tell me you aren’t because I can see it on your face.”
“Mary—”
“What will our neighbors think if they find out? Mother is having this dance so we can find husbands—proper, gentlemanly husbands—and you can’t ruin it for me, you can’t! Maybe you don’t want happiness, but I do.”
Jo drew Mary to a halt near the stables, afraid Mother would hear them arguing if they went near the house. She recalled Alexander’s words about happiness and joy and wondered if she could explain the difference to Mary.
“Happiness is what we had before the war, when Daddy was alive. It was based on being wealthy and having servants and a beautiful home, and it didn’t last. When our circumstances changed, we weren’t happy anymore. But we can have jo
“You aren’t making sense.” Mary looked so much like Mother when she stood this way, with her hands on her hips and her chin in the air.
“Have you ever watched Lizzie and Otis with their children? They have nothing—no house, no money, they wear rags and walk barefooted—but they have love and joy.”
“And you think you can have that with your Yankee?”
“No, Mary. No. I need someone to talk to, that’s all. I can’t stand being trapped inside the house all day with nothing to do. I’m bored. That’s why I started sewing your dress and cleaning up the terrace. Mr. Chandler is someone new to talk to, that’s all. But please don’t tell Mother. She won’t understand. She’ll turn me into a prisoner.”
“If you promise not to see him anymore, then I’ll promise not to tell.”
“Fine. But I’ll have to see him once more to explain why—”
“No! Just stop going to the tree house. He’ll figure out why.”
“But he’ll think—”
“What? What will he think?” Mary planted her hands on her hips again.
Josephine had been about to say that Alexander would think she didn’t care for him, but she didn’t dare say that out loud. Because she did care for him. Against all reasoning, all logic, all propriety, she did care for him. Perhaps too much.
She took Mary’s hands in her own, looked her in the eye. And as much as Josephine hated to do it, she said, “I promise. I promise I won’t see Alexander Chandler again.”
25
JUNE 17, 1865
“I would like this room thoroughly cleaned,” Eugenia said as she surveyed her guest room. “That means the bedding must be changed, the floor swept, and the room dusted. Those curtains will need to be taken down, washed, starched and ironed. Leave all the windows open while you work so the room gets thoroughly aired.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Roselle had given the proper answer, but Eugenia caught her looking out the window, not at the work that needed to be done. The two little Negro girls who would be helping Roselle looked suitably frightened of Eugenia, yet they were mere children and much too young to be proper servants yet.
“Pay attention now, Roselle. I want it done right. We have company coming from Richmond in two weeks.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Josephine, who also had been following Eugenia all around, moved close and whispered, “You can’t order them around, Mother. They aren’t—”
“I know, I know. For heaven’s sake, Josephine, quit pestering me about it.”
“Well, servants should be paid for their work and—”
“I’m providing room and board, aren’t I? The very least they can do is help me with a few simple chores once in a while.”
“But when they helped me with the terrace—”
“I never should have agreed to let you pay those children for their work. Now they’ll expect it all the time.”
Josephine sighed. “At least let me help them take down the curtains. I’m taller than everyone else.”
Eugenia agreed, but only because they were running out of time and there was still a great deal of work to be done before her dance. Thank heaven she finally had Clara for another house servant so Josephine didn’t feel compelled to help Lizzie do everything. Clara was proving to be a much better cook than Lizzie and nearly as good as Dolly had been. Of course, their menu was still severely limited, but they would have fresh produce from the kitchen garden in a few more weeks. Roselle and these two new little girls were very young, but that meant Eugenia could train them herself, the right way—if they weren’t too dull-witted, that is.
“Can I leave you under Josephine’s supervision?” she asked. “Can I expect the work to be done properly?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roselle repeated.
“Promise me you won’t do any of the work yourself, Josephine.”
“I’m simply taking the curtains down.” She had already moved a chair in place beneath one of the windows and was lowering the rod. As Jo stood on tiptoes, Eugenia noticed her toes were no longer sticking out from her shoes. She moved closer for a better look.
“Josephine? Where did those shoes come from?” Jo turned around so fast, still holding the unwieldy curtain rod, that she nearly fell off the chair. Eugenia reached to steady her.
“My shoes? . . . Um . . . Someone noticed I needed new ones and—”
“Does this someone have a name?”
“They wish to remain anonymous. Everyone knows how you feel about accepting charity.”
“But you accepted charity just the same?”
Josephine drew a deep breath, then exhaled. “Yes. I did. And you may as well know that I accepted a pair for Mary, too. We need them, Mother. And someday when we get everything back, as you’re so convinced we will, we’ll be able to repay the good deed and be charitable to someone else in need.”
Eugenia couldn’t argue with her daughter’s logic, nor could she explain the pain it caused her to be unable to meet her children’s needs herself. “I’ll be downstairs if you need any more instructions,” she said. “Priscilla promised to send two of her girls over to help me rearrange the drawing room, and they should be here any minute.”
Eugenia was gazing at her newly restored terrace when Priscilla’s servants arrived. The flagstone courtyard had turned out even better than Eugenia had dared to hope, with the weeds cleared and the railings newly whitewashed. Of course she knew what Josephine had been up to, sneaking around trying to teach those children to read. But at least the work was finished and the terrace looked wonderful. Now if only Josephine would meet a nice young man at the dance. Surely one of them would take a fancy to her, someone who wanted his family name associated with the Weatherlys.
She put Priscilla’s servants to work, rearranging the drawing room furniture, pushing chairs and end tables against the walls to create a dance floor, sweeping and mopping the huge room. They were just finishing when Lizzie entered, carrying a dusty bottle of elderberry wine in each hand. “Look what I found, Miz Eugenia.”
“Where in the world did those come from?”
“I found them in the root cellar, ma’am. We hid them from the Yankees after you left, and I forgot all about them until I got to the bottom of the potato bin today. There’s a few more bottles just like these.”
“Wonderful! Now make sure you remember to wash and dry all the wineglasses for our guests.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The next two weeks flew past with a bustle of activity that White Oak hadn’t seen since before the war. Eugenia could barely fall asleep the night before her dance, and by the time her guests began to arrive, she felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. Her sister, Olivia, had arrived from Richmond that afternoon with her family and would be spending the night in the guest room.
“You’re very brave to open your home to entertain guests this way,” Olivia said as the first carriages began to arrive that evening. They stood in the foyer together in their well-worn gowns, wearing the few pieces of jewelry that hadn’t been sold. “To tell you the truth, Charles and I still can’t afford to entertain this way. We’re forced to go to bed when it gets dark most nights to save lamp oil.”
“I checked the almanac and planned the dance on a night with a moon. Thank heaven the weather cooperated and there aren’t any clouds. Lamp oil and candles are scarce here, too, but I asked everyone who could to bring a candle with them.”
“Everything looks lovely.”
“Thank you. I was afraid the . . . shabbiness of this affair would be embarrassing, especially compared to the lavish parties Philip and I used to give.”
“Not at all. I think you’ll win everyone’s admiration for being brave enough to move forward.”
That admiration proved to be enough for Eugenia. It felt like the old days as she greeted guests at her door and welcomed them into her home. Some of her friends had
Soon her volunteer musicians arrived and began to play. Mary and Josephine took turns on the piano. Guests whirled around the dance floor, the women in their best gowns, many of the men in their Confederate uniforms. Laughter and music filled the room.
For the next few hours Eugenia made the rounds like a good hostess, talking to her guests, attentive to their needs. They showered her with compliments. She saw Daniel waltzing, and he was smiling for once. An admiring group of young men, including Joseph Gray, hovered around Mary and her cousins. Mary looked beautiful in the dress Josephine had remade for her. But Eugenia couldn’t understand why Josephine hadn’t sewn one for herself. When she had asked, Jo had simply shrugged and walked away.
Josephine wasn’t even trying to meet a beau. In fact, as the evening wore on it looked as though she was going to spend the entire time playing the piano. Eugenia waited until the song ended, then went over to the piano and took Josephine by the arm. “Come, dear. Let someone else take over for a while. You need to mingle with our guests.” She saw young Henry Schreiber conversing with Daniel near the open doors to the terrace and towed Josephine over to them.
“Are you gentlemen enjoying yourselves?”
“Yes, Mrs. Weatherly. Very much so,” Henry said. “Thank you for inviting me.” Eugenia lingered long enough to help Josephine start a conversation, then discreetly left when Henry invited Josephine to dance. She saw Priscilla Blake just coming through the drawing room door and hurried over to greet her.
“Where’s Harrison? Didn’t he come?”
“I told you he wouldn’t.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. But I’m glad you came, dear. Everyone has been asking about you.”