Catching the Rose Page 9

  “Ronnie, wake up,” Amy commanded, kneeling beside her friend as Madge shut the door behind them. Veronica’s eyes flitted, confused whether or not they should open. Now enraged, Amy grabbed the salts from Madge and shoved them beneath Veronica’s nose.

  Veronica jerked away. She gasped and fell back, fighting a coughing spasm. Shaking her head from the fumes, she stared at Amy in confusion. “What happened?” Veronica weakly asked, clutching her head as her pulse pounded against her skull.

  “You fainted.” Amy set the salts aside and bathed Veronica’s face. “Brad offered his hand in comradeship, and you didn’t take it.”

  Pretending she couldn’t sense Madge in the room, Veronica shrugged while rubbing her head. “I will not be here long enough to cause more trouble, I am sure. Why should it matter whether I took his hand or not?”

  “Because you’re my friend,” Amy replied. “I had wanted to please you.”

  “So you brought me to a Yankee house?” Veronica frowned, re-pinning her bun as she irresolutely stood.

  Amy’s mouth dropped as she cried, “That didn’t give you any cause to go into hysterics, or faint when Brad came to your aid. When he offered his hand in apology for what he said?”

  “Apology! My word—Brad only apologized because you wanted him to. He’s an insufferable man who wants nothin’ more than to go to war and die a Yankee hero. And I never asked him to help me on the stairs. He did that of his own accord.”

  “If he were the brute you say he is, he would have left you on those stairs, and let you look the fool that you did! I am ashamed of you, Ronnie. Claimin’ my cousin apologized only to keep his egotism, retain my friendship, and die a Yankee hero. You have no right to speak of him like that. He’s practically my brother.”

  Madge shook her head in shock.

  Glancing at Madge, Amy began to worry for Veronica’s safety: Madge’s temper tended to have quite violent and physical results. With a sigh, she said, “What is it about my family that upsets you so? The fact that we are Yankees—” She interrupted herself to jump forward and effectively pin Madge from attacking Veronica.

  “Well!” Veronica exclaimed, falling back into the chair.

  “Amy, release me! How could she say such things?” Madge cried. “Have you no thought of what your words do to others, Miss Vernon? Do you think that because my brother seems to prefer your company that you are entitled to free expression, whether it is tactful or not? I realize your society behaves differently. But if this is how you act when permitted to speak freely, it is no wonder we took your rights away!”

  Veronica inconspicuously searched for something to throw: in case Madge happened to attack again. Though the room was sparely furnished, it had an unperturbed aura, and she was strangely calmed. So the room wasn’t decorated with the flourishes her plantation bedroom boasted; the bed was large, and comfortable, and the easy chair had a careworn feel. “Your room is quaint, Madge,” she murmured, smoothing the bedspread.

  “Only my closest friends and family call me Madge. You may call me Rachel.”

  Paling, Veronica couldn’t help but think this visit north was not going at all as planned.

  Veronica’s frock, obviously worn to tempt Brad, was aggravatingly pretty, and Madge resentfully admired Veronica’s lace cuffs and collar as Veronica stuttered, “I’m horribly sorry, Rachel. I only knew to call you…”

  “Have you evaded your faintin’ spell, Miss Vernon?” Madge drawled, mocking Veronica’s accent. Disappointed that Veronica refused to speak as someone knocked, she turned to usher her brother in as he sheepishly poked his head around the door.

  “I won’t bite,” he said, entering the room. A smile crept across his face as he mused, “In any case, I’m sure I wouldn’t like the taste of a southern rose more than a northern one.”

  “Your wit amazes me,” Veronica said, sarcasm drying her voice. It seemed he was still upset she wouldn’t consider him a suitor because of his heritage. Chuckling at the three Yankees’ expressions, she said, “Y’all are bein’ dumb. Speak!”

  Madge exclaimed in surprise as Brad placed his hand on her shoulder. “We are being dumb? Perhaps so. I would rather be dumb than say too much and reveal my true stupidity! Brad,” she cried, spinning to face her surprised brother, “I was there, this afternoon. I heard every word Miss Vernon spoke to you. She told such lies!”

  “Well, that was childish, to be eavesdropping on us. Madge, when will you learn to see both sides of an issue? Whatever Miss Vernon said was the result of my egging her on,” Brad calmly replied, rocking on his heels. The way the situation progressed, he would have another heated debate on his hands: how thrilling.

  Madge’s surprise silenced her.

  Brad sat on Madge’s bed and turned to say to Veronica, “And little Miss Spitfire, I don’t rightly remember how manners are conducted south, but I feel embarrassing your hostess is considered rude.”

  “What society lets men sit on a woman’s bed?”

  “What society lets women travel unchaperoned? I could turn you in for spying.”

  Veronica tried to remember, with much panic, how Union law dealt with spies. Not that she was much of a spy, having already insulted her host family and very close to leaving. With much relief and embarrassment, Veronica realized he noticed her discomfort, and the severity in his eyes disappeared.

  “Calm yourself, Miss Nettle. I will not turn you in, if you behave. I know you contemplated leaving, but right now, I’m afraid this is all you have as Amy is determined not to leave until a month at least has passed.”

  Veronica held her head. It wasn’t fair, that she be so attracted to a man who considered her so below him: it should be the reverse. “Mr. Williams, this afternoon, you were quite amiable, until we talked of war. Yet now you assault a woman for merely defendin’…her cause.”

  Brad wondered whether Veronica spoke a double meaning.

  “How funny, then, that you remind me of a dear friend.”

  He swiveled in surprise, his eyes narrow with curious suspicion. “I am curious, Miss Vernon, if that is what you are wondering with that brown, searching gaze of yours.”

  Veronica sullenly smiled, conscious that he insulted and complimented her in the same sentence. So, he had noted the color of her eyes. “I see I cannot leave until I humor you. My friend was kind, though when mad, awful scary. I never understood why. I never committed any crime that constituted my punishments. If I did anythin’ remotely silly…my word.” She frowned at how personal the conversation was becoming. Veronica had not meant to talk of Jonathan to anyone but Amy, yet here she confided in Brad. “You know, I was merely defendin’ myself, this afternoon. You twisted my words and commanded the entire conversation.”

  “Miss Vernon, I have been brought up with the understanding that the Deep South is the epitome of proper culture. A utopian world…for those who deserve it.” Brad rapidly walked the length of the room, a sign to Amy that Veronica had wounded his pride. “From what I understand, only the top five percent of southerners want war: the ones who can afford it. These plantation owners more often than not lay idle, twiddling their thumbs as their slaves work to death.”

  “That is not true! We treat ours very well,” Veronica burst. How she wanted to hit him.

  “You are ignorant about your own homeland, I see! Your shocked face at such a report reveals as much. Ha—I expected as much from a girl who could hardly defend her homeland.”

  “You care nothin’ for the traditions of classical life,” Veronica lamely replied.

  “So, the owning and beating of slaves is now classical? Or is that just the side we like to keep to ourselves over a cup of tea? Answer me this: did your father ever discipline you? Hearing what you and others have said of the South, southern girls are brought up to be the center of attention until they marry, when they become slaves themselves.” Brad ignored Amy’s gasp. No doubt, she had never heard him speak so harshly to anyone but Madge, who, incidentally, enjoyed the argument ve
ry much. “Not typical slaves, I assure you, but slaves to the southern system: managing the mansion but maintaining an air of the calm, ignorant woman, a mere extension of her husband. Who has your father chosen for you to marry, Miss Vernon? I hope for your sake he is rich. You deserve the hard work a huge plantation offers.”

  Veronica watched Brad with a reserved hatred. Every word he said was true. She hated how her mother pretended to be in a consumption to escape the work she should be doing as mistress of the plantation. And good lord—the man her father picked as a husband. How dare Brad speak to her as though she was so ignorant of her own home? Why did he think she came north?

  Brad frowned, disappointed, for Veronica did not burst into tears as before.

  “You know nothin’ about me, if you dare make such claims,” Veronica calmly replied, her gaze so set it seemed to be stone. “My father has been dead for five years. If you want to preach about the atrocious dogma of southern life, tell it to someone else. I have lived it my entire life, you hateful man.”

  “Miss Vernon…”

  “You needn’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Williams, by speakin’ in such a slow manner.”

  Brad threw up his hands in shocked silence. “That was never my intention.”

  “You needn’t patronize me, either,” Veronica spat, crossing her arms and turning so her back faced Brad. She could hardly abide to look at him, let alone be in the same room. This was all very distressing.

  “Have you ever done anything for yourself?” he asked after a length of silence.

  “I have never even cut a piece of bread for myself,” Veronica burst, her frustration masking her humiliation.

  “And you’re proud of this?” the three Yankees stared at her in unbridled surprise.

  “Look—we have slaves runnin’ our plantation. It is considered unladylike to be in the kitchen, or anywhere else a slave has any sort of control. And as long as Lincoln stops runnin’ his mouth, that’s how it's gonna stay.” It was aggravating that Brad seemed to sense her frustration, and yet not understand why she had to stay loyal.

  “I’m not afraid to lash you,” he finally admitted.

  “This will not be tolerated!” Veronica cried.

  “Stop this madness and calm yourself,” Amy said, holding out a restraining hand to Brad. “Ronnie, we mean you no harm.” Pulling at Veronica’s arm to further separate her cousin from her southern friend, Amy made a point of ignoring Brad’s presence as he moved to the far corner of the room to glower over their proceedings.

  The tension mounted as Brad’s frown deepened. He knew Amy’s ignoring him was an attempt to cool his temper—she often preached how unmanageable it was. Oh, how she preached. “Miss Vernon!” he called as Amy led Veronica from the room.

  Veronica turned. Frustrated by her falling hair, she took out the pins, feeling the weight decidedly land at her waist. She quickly re-pinned it, knowing it was incredibly racy for a man to see it down, though at the moment she could hardly care less. “Mr. Williams, if you have nothin’ to say, then I must beg leave.”

  With much irritation Brad saw Amy caught his uncertainty. “I didn’t expect such pretty hair on a nettle like you,” he muttered, brushing past Veronica through the door. He fled to his room, knowing if he went anywhere else Madge would attack and demand the purpose for at times being kind to the southern rebel.

  Amy caught Veronica’s eye as she murmured, “Round one point to Miss Vernon.”

  * * * * *

  Grumbling, Veronica awoke and bathed in ice-cold water, dressing in her cinnamon pink dress. Apathetically, she accented it with a sprig of flowers at her collar. “This simply will not do.” She thought of Brad demanding whether she did anything for herself, and felt ashamed of her answer, though it was true. Only this past year had she convinced Nan she could dress herself, and only under the most secret of secrets.

  Tiptoeing to the dining room, she found without much surprise that the family had eaten and the dishes already taken care of. Feeling helpless, Veronica plopped into a seat with her back to the door. Resting her forehead against her forearms, she mused, “I don’t know how to cook. And I’m absolutely…oh, what’s the word I’m lookin’ for?” Veronica paused, eyes narrowing at the wood grain of the table. “Horrible man. Does he suppose I enjoy havin’ to depend on someone else to simply feed me?”

  “Your food is on the warming plate, Miss Nettle.”

  Veronica stood, toppling the chair the floor. Aghast, she found Brad casually leaning against the doorjamb. She followed his gaze to the cooling oven. “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” she meekly replied, blushing as she walked past him, knowing his eyes carelessly pierced her.

  Already uncomfortable, Veronica grabbed the plate.

  “Nettle!” Brad was shocked, having assumed Veronica knew how warming plates worked. He watched Veronica stumble across the room and drop the hot plate with a cry, spattering its contents to the table. As she idiotically tried to cope with the pain, Brad pulled Veronica to the washbasin and rolled up her sleeves. With a smile, he cajoled Veronica to douse her hands. “Nettle,” he murmured, swishing her hands through the water, “As a rule, one picks up a hot plate with a towel so as not to burn one’s hands. Back home, though, I’m sure your slave did it for you.” Brad hid his grin, suspecting Veronica would hardly deny the temptation to soak him, as she was so near available water.

  Oh yes, today Brad would be all politeness, after the tirade he had given Veronica the night before. Uncomfortable with his soft grip, Veronica waited until her fingers no longer smarted before pulling away. Brad’s amiableness was unnerving, and she was intimidated by his height. How had she not noticed it before?

  “Are you better, little spitfire?” Veronica indignantly caught him trying to hide a smile as he motioned to the table and held a chair out for her. “Care to sit?” he smiled.

  Holding her hands close, she sat, much confused by his generosity.

  “Hold this ice to your burns. I don’t think you’d enjoy me feeding you, Nettle,” Brad said, sitting beside Veronica, knowing full well he perplexed her with his uncharacteristic kindness. He waited for a response, as she grudgingly accepted the ice and rolled it between her burned palms.

  “My name is not Nettle,” Veronica muttered, her voice raw with unspoken anger and humiliation. Glancing around the kitchen, she realized with a frown she had no idea where the Yankee family hid their cups.

  Following Veronica’s searching gaze, Brad rose to pull a glass from the cupboard and again reached into the icebox. He motioned for milk or wine, nodding as Veronica chose milk. “Did you sleep well on our Yankee bedding?” he asked, smiling as he sat across the table to watch Veronica eat.

  Veronica hesitated as she dropped the melting ice into her milk. Now feeling tolerable, she stabbed at her sausage with her fork. “Mr. Williams, I sleep well on any beddin’ for I am glad for any bed at night.” Then, as if triumph of her statement, Veronica ripped off a bite from her sausage.

  “I should apologize for last night, Nettle, I mean, Miss Vernon.” Brad watched Veronica stare at her forked meat as he continued, “Many of my comments should never have been voiced or thought of.”

  As Brad ran his fingers through his hair and smiled, Veronica suddenly wondered whether he was trying to flirt. She toyed with her food, her appetite waning in the growing humidity. “I’m not sure I should accept your apology, Mr. Williams.”

  Surely, she wasn’t serious. “Why?”

  “Your comments hurt. And you continued even when I tried to explain my own feelin’s about the south,” Veronica said, noting with a hidden smile that Brad’s brows shot up in surprise, for she suspected the thought had just occurred to him that perhaps she also did not like the south. Finishing her quickly cooling breakfast, Veronica blushed when Brad removed her empty plate to the washbasin. She waited until he reoccupied his seat before continuing: “You were sayin’ those things out of defense. It should be me apologizin’, not you.”

  Brad
wondered at the cause of her trembling smile.

  “I have come a long way, Mr. Williams. My journey hasn’t been easy to travel.” How Veronica hated speaking in euphemisms. She sensed a confidante in Brad’s current mood, but how could he understand Veronica meant to fulfill her uncle’s ultimatum? An ultimatum that declared in order for Veronica to escape her pre-arranged engagement, she must find a fiancé of her own? And that, because of this ultimatum, Veronica had not returned home for two years, and vainly searched for her childhood friend Jonathan to pose as said fiancé?

  “Mr. Williams, it was kind of you to seek me out this mornin’,” Veronica began, suddenly overwhelmed as she ineffectually turned to hide her tears. “I…sometimes I forget about my father’s death,” she lied.

  Hesitating, Brad moved from his seat to kneel beside Veronica and touch her shoulder. “Miss Vernon?” he said as she pulled away, quieting her tears. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I thank you for your offered help. But please, just leave me be.” Searching for her handkerchief, Veronica resentfully found it, memories of her fiancé surfacing. How many times had she cried into it because of him? She threw the handkerchief away, knowing she had not the strength to rip it apart in her anger.

  Brad was exceedingly confused as he fished through his pockets to find his own sadly mangled handkerchief. He placed it on the table beside Veronica’s trembling arm and reclaimed his seat to sit and watch her cry, as it was obvious she did not want his condolences. It was just Brad’s luck, then, that just so happened to Amy walk into the room.

  Silently catching a laugh, Amy wondered whether it had become her lot in life to find Brad and Veronica up in arms, as she had been the one to throw them together. She stepped from the door in alarm, rushing to Veronica’s side as she demanded of Brad, “What have you done this time, Cousin?”

  “I merely tried to apologize. This is no fault of mine, I assure you, Cousin,” Brad ungraciously replied, his eyes narrowing in response.