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  Return to Shirley Plantation: A Civil War Romance

  By

  Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Hearts Overcoming Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever- except short passages for reviews – without express permission. For information, email [email protected].

  Second Edition

  January 2016

  Hearts Overcoming Press

  ISBN-13

  ISBN-10

  Cover Art by Roseanna M. White

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Julian Charity and Kathy Maher, without whom this story could not have come to life as it did!

  Acknowledgements

  Julian Charity, historian of Shirley Plantation in Charles City, Virginia, was invaluable to me in establishing the backdrop of real-life Shirley Plantation during the Civil War. Randy Carter, former director Janet Appel, and the staff of Shirley offered such assistance and hospitality. I especially appreciate this trio reading the novella to ensure accuracy.

  Kudos also for help on this novella to Kathy Maher, my critique partner for this project, whose quick turn-around on the critiques, knowledge, and ability to brainstorm Civil War ideas were critical to this novella being completed.

  Thank you to Julie Lessman, Lisa Norato, and Jocelyn Green for their endorsement of this novella! Thanks to my beta readers Debbie Mitchell, Anne Payne and “Overcoming With God” blog reviewers Marian Baay, Diana Flowers, Teresa Matthews, and Noela Nancarrow who also read Angelina’s and Matthews’ story.

  Last, but not least, to my husband and son who have given up wife and mommy time so this project could be completed and our daughter who has been such an encouragement. God has been so good to me.

  Thank you all for your help and I thank God that He put you all in my life!

  Chapter 1

  Southern Ohio, 1862

  Matthew Scott basked in accomplishment’s warmth as the theater emptied. Every seat had been filled, save one—Father’s. A congressman for their locale, Theodore Scott departed earlier to an emergency meeting with a colleague in Dayton.

  Having toiled unceasingly for his troupe to remain together despite the war, Matthew complained only of difficulty with wardrobe. Two gowns already had side seam tears. His face tightened—the seamstress who’d contracted to sew the clothing had failed to arrive the previous year. They’d farmed the work out to a tailor already over-burdened.

  Scott’s Theatrical Troupe was booked through the next three months for stops in cities and some to entertain the Northern troops. He grinned. Nearby, thespian J. W. Booth pulled on gloves, tipped his top hat at Matthew and exited the building. Matthew retrieved his beaver hat from its peg and followed suit.

  Outside, the last of the carriages clustering the circle departed.

  “Mr. Scott?” Cigar smoke accompanied the deep Southern-accented voice.

  Matthew waited for his eyes to adjust from the interior light to night’s velvet blackness.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  Shirley Plantation, Charles City Virginia June 1862

  Angelina Rose carried the heavy tray of hot tea, biscuits, honey, porcelain cups and saucers, and silver spoons to a cherry sideboard. The Carter women gathered in the parlor for Bible study.

  “Lou, will you read first, dear?” Mary Braxton Carter, matron of Shirley Plantation directed her request to her daughter-in-law.

  Louisa, the wife of Robert Randolph Carter, off serving in the Navy, sat up straight. “Matthew 25, verse 34 to begin. ‘Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.’”

  Angelina poured each woman a steaming cup of bohea. She mixed in a half-teaspoonful of honey for Louisa and a full spoonful for Fanny—then she added three cubes of sugar for their mother-in-law. She used silver tongs to lay a biscuit on each china plate and pressed a pat of butter atop each. She daren’t let anything touch her skin—mixed race skin, being one eighth African. And though no longer a slave, but a free woman, she was a servant in this household. Granted, her original hire was for seamstress chores. But with the war, Angelina had assumed some duties in the house.

  Mary B. gestured toward the settee. Nearby, Angelina’s nephew and niece sat—Charity’s legs tucked beneath her, and Julian’s folded, on the wool carpet.

  Angelina pressed her hands together in her lap, rumpling her apron. If she took the children and fled for the north, would strangers take them in? Comfort them? The Bible verses promised so. Yet she’d not believed it over a year earlier when she’d declined Mary B.’s offer to set her up as a seamstress in the north. She’d not been able to bear the thought of being separated from the children—her only family.

  Fanny, another Carter daughter-in-law, took her turn reading more verses. “Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?”

  Finally finished with her duties, Angelina lowered herself onto the settee, careful not to allow her skirts to brush against Louisa’s.

  “Angie, it’s your turn.” Louisa handed her the Bible.

  Although her benefactress in Richmond had taught her to read, Angelina detested doing so aloud. But looking into little Charity’s eyes, she couldn’t decline—her niece needed to hear these words as well. Julian stood and looked over her shoulder.

  Angelina’s neck perspired. “Or when…saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?”

  “So we’re ‘sposed to go to everybody and check on them like Mrs. Carter does?” Julian aimed his gap-toothed grin at the matron.

  “Yes, Julian—and others. And comfort those held captive.” Her face crinkled. “As I pray some kind northern woman will do for my boys, should something ever befall them.”

  Sensing Mrs. Carter on the verge of tears, Angelina continued on, her hands shaking beneath the heavy tome. “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

  After wiping her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, Mrs. Carter rose from the brocade settee. Her daughters-in-law filtered out of the room, but she placed a restraining hand on Angelina.

  “I didn’t want to tell the girls.” Those so-called girls were grown women with families of their own. “But there’s much military activity not far from here.”

  Everyone knew of the peninsula campaign. So why the concern? Perhaps because McClellan’s gunboats sat in the James River in full view of Shirley Plantation, something that had caused great excitement down in the slave quarters.

  Tiny pearl-like teeth nibbled on Mary B’s lower lip. “I’d prefer you and your sister’s children to take a room in the Old House. I don’t want you to continue to sleep over the laundry.”

  Energy siphoned away from Angelina. She’d not be able to transport her sewing machine by herself. The lower floor had been converted back to laun
dry work after having been used as a school when Robert E. Lee lived at Shirley with his mother. Long before her sister Lorena had been sold to the Carters.

  Angelina glanced around the graciously appointed room, ensuring no one would overhear them. “Mrs. Carter, I hoped my earnings from my private work last month could pay off Julian’s and Charity’s expenses.” Could she leave with the Union army?

  Mary B.’s blue eyes blinked rapidly. “You don’t understand. The armies are moving our way. They’ll likely destroy or occupy all the farms in Charles City County, including this one. We must pray, dear, pray very hard. Pray for God’s will.”

  “Yes’m.” She’d been a fool to stay behind when she could have gone north with her freedom papers. She could have earned the money through her sewing contract with the theater company to have brought the children north.

  “I’m sorry my husband didn’t free the children and let them leave with you for Ohio—he was too preoccupied with war and what he perceives as his duty to the commonwealth.” She ran a hand over an elaborately engraved 17th century sterling English covered serving dish.

  Angelina had already begun packing their meager belongings above the laundry to flee, despite the sensation that God was telling her to stay. Yet when she’d heard the scripture verses now, she’d wondered if they were meant for her—to trust and go. Niggling doubt wrestled with the sensation that something important was held in those words for her.

  Patting both children’s shoulders she then rose. “We’ll go get our things, won’t we, children?”

  Charity’s auburn head bobbed and Julian’s green eyes lit. “Come up here to the Great House?”

  “To the Flanker House. And hurry—it’s almost nightfall.” Granny Scott, the oldest slave at Shirley, sometimes filled the children’s heads full of superstitions to the point where they’d become frightened to be out at dark. Something Angelina hoped to overcome through a steady application of the Bible.

  Malvern Hill. Virginia.

  War.

  Matthew had landed in hell, where a cacophony of noise thundered around him. And before he fell to the ground of the battlefield, he watched himself raise his rifle and fire upon a line of blue-coated soldiers. God forgive me. Then the velvet curtain of blackness separated him from consciousness and his audience.

  Matthew raised his throbbing head. Where was he? He inhaled the scent of death, and passed out again. Waking later, the sun setting, he spied gray uniformed bodies surrounding him in the dirt. Twenty five days he’d served with the Confederate army. Sergeant Smith and a band of his men had taken Matthew, son of a Copperhead congressman, and conscripted him. Because of Father’s political beliefs, the Union army completely ignored their foray into southern Ohio. Smith said both Father and his crony were taken into custody by the Union army and Matthew could expect no relief from them. How could this happen?

  I won’t die like this.

  The Confederate soldier alongside him, coat coated in blood, turned his light blue gaze upon him. “Guess ya weren’t yella, like we thought.”

  Matthew couldn’t remember everything. He recalled forced marches, dirty work, and having a gun shoved in his hand. Dear God what have I done?

  He lowered his head back to the mucky ground. When he awoke, Confederate Lieutenant Carter groaned beside him “Can you take a letter for me, Scott? I think they’ll exchange me but they’ll probably take you with them.”

  The officer, who’d had nothing to do with Matthew’s abduction, pressed a missive into Matthew’s outstretched hand. “If you get to Shirley, give this to my Mama. Mrs. Mary Braxton Carter.”

  Blue uniformed Union troops tromped past, pulling men from the field. “We’ve got to get them out of here.”

  A Union private pulled Matthew up.

  Lieutenant Carter struggled to his feet. “This man is from Ohio and was conscripted into the Confederate army because of his father’s political leanings.”

  Matthew cringed and wished the officer had said nothing. Why would a Union officer be sympathetic to the son of a Copperhead congressman?

  A private jerked his thumb at the two of them. “Probably Confederate spies—ought to shoot them, Sergeant Ross.”

  Peering through his hazy vision at the men, Matthew spied a man with officer’s insignia on his shoulder—the one called Ross.

  “Get these wounded men out of here as fast you can.” He released a string of profanity.

  “And swap this one for a Union officer being held by the Rebels.”

  “Auntie Angie, can I brush your hair?” Nine-year-old Charity held out a brush as Angelina sat on a cushioned bench before a vanity with a real mirror on it—one like she’d had at the house where she’d lived in Richmond. Dawn’s light streamed through the two large windows in the room on the first floor of the flanker building, a building three stories high but rectangular rather than square like the Great House.

  “Yes, you should learn how to brush wavy hair, like mine, without tangling it.” Angelina’s mass of hair, free from its head wrap, flowed down to her waist, a cascade of gold and bronze.

  Mama said her papa had blonde hair straight as a stick and her grandpap before him. But they were never to talk of either South Carolinian man, from the plantation where they’d been born into slavery. Before she and her sister were sent north to Virginia. For reasons unknown to her, the mistress of Rose plantation, a strong Christian woman, freed Angelina and sent her to live with her aunt in Richmond, with the stipulation that she be educated and brought up in the Christian faith, as well as taught a trade—in Angelina’s case, stitchery and sewing. She’d served under a French seamstress on Broad Street, constructing gowns for the fanciest of occasions, including some held at Shirley Plantation—where her older sister had been sent.

  Lorena, however, hadn’t been freed. Her older sister had been slightly darker skinned than Angelina, with chestnut hair and dark eyes. But her children more resembled Angelina. Their father was a fair-haired Charles City feed store proprietor whom her sister had fallen in love with, despite being a slave in the laundry. Her gut wrenched with the stories Lorena had told her of his promises—none kept. But he’d given her these beautiful children, both belonging to the Carters until their freedom could be purchased. Although Mrs. Carter had been apologetic, the best she could provide was the opportunity to go to Ohio and earn a good income—and send for the children later. Something Angelina couldn’t bring herself to do.

  “I can’t believe we’re still staying here in the old house.” Charity’s blue-gray eyes, like her own, reflected in the mirror. “It’s been nigh on a week now.”

  As Charity brushed, Angelina snuck looks at herself in the mirror and at her niece—so sweet like Lorena at that age. Unbidden tears wet her eyes—Charity was worth waiting for as was Julian. Now what, though? Would they be stuck in Virginia for years as this war raged on or were the Shirley men correct—it would all be over in a year? And if it was, would they enact laws which would revert her freed status to slave again? Would she be able to secure papers for the children? Or would they have to journey north as best they could, passing for white. At one eighth African, she and the children should be able to manage. But it was no longer safe to do so. Thinking about her problems only made her head pound. Perhaps she should have gone and sent money back. No—the children would have been separated from her. And she’d clearly heard God telling her to wait.

  Unusual noises caught her attention—the sounds of many feet tromping up to the Great House.

  “Stop brushing, darlin’.” Prickles of fear ran along her scalp where Charity had brushed.

  Trodding to the window, she pulled back the velvet curtain then peered through the center crack in the shutters before lifting the S-shaped hook that held them together.

  There, covering the entire lawn of Shirley Plantation, was an army. They pitched tents, laid down bedrolls—hundreds of men dressed in blue. The Union Army. Chills chased up her arms. Could they take her north? Unearthly gro
ans carried across the fields to the house.

  No one else resided in the Old House, which was falling into disrepair. Costs to fix and replace glass, wood, and brick had become exorbitant once the war had begun. Would the army want to put some of the men in this building?

  They’d marched north, the Union army transporting their wounded, but under their watchful eye, Matthew considered. What would it be like to have a wife? Children? Grandmothers and cousins? He’d been told his grandparents were dead, but had found a letter to his father tucked inside his bible. The date on the letter was from one year earlier and in the top corner, his grandmother had written Little River, Kentucky. When he’d asked his mother about the letter, she’d become hysterical, insisting that he had no paternal grandparents.

  Why were they dead to her?

  They marched alongside the James River, their compatriots making their way down the other side, to set up their own camp. When periodic blackness overtook his vision, Matthew forced his feet to keep moving.

  Sergeant Ross rode by. “We’re not stopping at Harrison’s Landing where McClellan is. We’re to continue on.”

  They’d finally stopped and set up tents at night outside an old colonial plantation—at least a hundred years old from the looks of the brick buildings in the moonlight. At the center stood an impressive square three-story building, two chimneys atop, smokeless on this warm summer night. To the left of it, stood another three-story building, slightly smaller than the center structure and rectangular. The opposite side of the great house was empty, as though it, too, should have a similar building, making a row of three. In front of the houses which stood parallel to the James River, lined double sets of two-story brick edifices, each facing one another across a lawn. He’d never seen anything like it, save in a picture book of an English manor home in the country.