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  She looked at him for a long, openly astonished moment.

  Johnny waited to see if she would speak. When she did not, he stepped to one side, offering his arm as he did so. ‘Miss Henderson – Mattie – dare I ask, would you care for a stroll to the river? It’s a little windy, I fear.’

  Quite surprisingly, she felt, her composure survived even that. She moved to him with a commendably sober step. ‘As a matter of fact I rather like the wind, Mr Sherwood,’ she said. ‘And I love the river. So yes, thank you, a short walk in the fresh air would be most welcome.’

  * * *

  Johnny Sherwood’s swift courtship of Mattie Henderson was the talk of Bath. Mattie Henderson’s astonishing luck in capturing such a prize as Johnny Sherwood kept tongues wagging even faster. Mattie cared neither for the gossip nor for the unflattering and oft-expressed amazement that accompanied it. She lived in a world suddenly grown warm again with love. Even Constance could not discompose her.

  ‘Well, I declare, Mattie Henderson, you really are the darkest horse I ever knew! And keeping it all to yourself, Miss Slyboots –’ Constance would not have it, no matter how often she was told, that Mattie had had no more idea of Johnny’s feelings than had anyone else ‘– and now here you are being squired hither and yon by quite the handsomest young man in town. I must say Emma Johnstone was quite puce with envy when I mentioned it to her the other day – indeed she became quite unpleasant - said she could not understand in the least what he sees in you!’

  Mattie, quietly and quite without artifice, had asked much the same thing, as she strolled with Johnny by the waters of the Avon, watching the placid, graceful progress of a pair of swans upstream. He had taken a moment to reply. Then, ‘Because I love you,’ he had replied, simply. ‘And because you are the right woman for me. I knew it the first time we met.’

  ‘But – why? Johnny – why? If you wanted an English wife, why, you must know that you could have carried off any girl in Bath! Girls far more beautiful than I!’

  He had lifted her face to his. ‘Beautiful? Who says there is anyone more beautiful than you? Have I said it? You have a beauty all your own, Mattie; what better kind is there? What do you take me for – do you think I would look for a bright and shallow beauty that could be had by anyone for the asking?’ It would have taken someone of far more experience than Mattie to recognize the bitterness behind the words. He had looked away then, watching the lovely birds that moved serenely, hardly rippling the water. His face had been in shadow. ‘There are plenty of those to be had at home, believe me, without looking further afield for them. It’s you I need, Mattie. You!’ The hand holding hers had tightened, paining her.

  His vehemence had surprised and disturbed her a little; but it had excited her too. And his words she had treasured like a miser, bringing them out for her own pleasure in quiet, private moments, hoarding them. She looked into her mirror, studying the face that had apparently inspired this love, noting a little nervously that in her own doubtful opinion it had not changed a bit; the hazel eyes were clear enough – her father had often likened their colour to spring water – but unremarkable as ever, the face thin, the mouth wide, the black hair still obdurately lacking in curl.

  They spent hour upon long hour talking. They talked of poetry and of music. They talked of Charles Darwin’s exciting yet strangely disquieting new theories. They marvelled at the African adventures of those brave souls determined to open up that arcane continent to the avid and often greedy gaze of the rest of the world. They spoke of the cable that had been laid across the Atlantic which miraculously made possible instant communication between two continents. Mattie told Johnny of Coombe House and of her life with her father; and in speaking of it for the first time, the grief eased at last, as her father had predicted it would. She could, as he had promised, think of him now with gratitude and affection but without pain and regret.

  The vacuum was filled. Of one thing, however, they did not talk, except in the lightest and most passing of fashions. When, just five weeks after their meeting in the Abbey Church, Johnny Sherwood had proposed marriage and Mattie, eagerly and with love, had accepted, she knew no more about his home or his family than she had on the day of the quarrel in Mrs Johnstone’s garden.

  There was plenty of time. A lifetime.

  Quite wilfully she set her mind against any misgiving. She loved Johnny. He loved her. No differences in their background could come between them. There were no difficulties they could not overcome. Mattie had never been in love before; she knew no better.

  And Johnny, who had, did not try to find the courage in his craven young heart to enlighten or warn her.

  Part Two

  Georgia, USA

  1860-1865

  Chapter Three

  The sun shone from a sky of tropic blue on the late September day in 1860 that the SS Pride of Liverpool ended her four-week journey across the Atlantic and steamed past the salt marshes of Tybee Island and beneath the guns of the sturdy brick-built fort of Pulaski, which stood in defence of the wide mouth of the Savannah River.

  The long voyage had been by no means as trying as some of the passengers had feared; ocean and weather had been comparatively kind. Indeed the worst buffeting they had received – apart from a memorable three-day storm one week out of Liverpool – had been the day before this landfall, as the ship had approached the American coast through the warm waters of the Gulf Stream; a small tropical storm, as the captain had nonchalantly informed them, that had fortunately decided not to turn into a hurricane. ‘Remind me,’ Mattie Sherwood had said in heartfelt sincerity, her hand snug in Johnny’s, ’never to be at sea in a large tropical storm that decides otherwise.’

  They stood together now at the flaking, salt-crusted rail, narrowing their eyes against the shimmering glare of sea and sunlit sky, the marshy flatlands of the Savannah stretching into blue, green and golden distance on either side of them, watching for the first signs of the city that proudly bore the same name as the river that served her. Here on the water, for all the heat of the sun, the breeze was fresh and cool. Sea and river birds wheeled above them, calling welcome. The mere sight and smell of land, after the last featureless weeks of ocean seascape, was exciting. What Mattie saw and scented was the land of America – if she looked to the left she looked across the State of Georgia, to the right across South Carolina, until now simply names spoken in Johnny’s softly drawling fashion, holding no substance, no thread of recognition, making this arrival, so much anticipated, quite exasperatingly unreal; dreamlike. This was her new home. This was the start of a new life. A new life with Johnny. ‘Would it be dangerous to pinch myself?’ she asked, lifting her head. ‘Would this all disappear in a puff of smoke?’

  He bent his head to hers, eyes still watching the wide brown waters of the river ahead. ‘If there’s any pinchin’ to be done, honey,’ he said softly, voice mingling with the breeze, ‘I’ll do it. Tonight.’

  Her sudden laughter was so spontaneous that several people, watching with them, turned smiling to the source of it. She coloured furiously. Johnny’s hand curled about hers. She turned to look up at him. Mouth crooked in a smile he looked ahead, knowing her eyes were on him. It was just six weeks since the day that she had, to the astonishment of Bath Society, walked up the aisle in the Abbey Church, past the very spot where they had talked that memorable day, to become Mrs Johnny Sherwood. And those precious weeks had been as happy as any she had known.

  ‘There,’ he said suddenly, lifting a hand, ‘there – see? Savannah, bless her pretty heart!’

  A small buzz of excitement lifted around them.

  The sea was far behind them now. The river had curved to reveal, upon the distant left bank, a cluster of buildings, long, low and businesslike. Mattie was for a moment taken aback; used to ancient Bath, booming Bristol, and more recently the black giant of Liverpool, she had, to be honest, expected something a little more impressive. But beside her she sensed Johnny’s excitement, felt with him the emoti
ons of homecoming.

  Surprising herself, she found herself speaking in the silence of her mind to the God in whom she only half believed: please let me share this with him. Let me give him this; let me love his country as he does.

  There was a band on the quayside to welcome them, and much activity. The wharves swarmed. Cotton bales from a bumper crop were stacked and piled in mountains, waiting to be carried to the mills of Lancashire and the ports of France. Wisps of cotton wafted in the air, tickling the nostrils and bringing sneezes. Mattie already knew that the ballast the Pride carried was cobblestones, to be used to pave and extend the streets and byways of Savannah, free to anyone who wanted or could use them. The activity as at last they tied up beside the wharf was frantic. And, suddenly, the air was so humid that she could barely breathe.

  ‘There’s Young Peter.’ They were still on deck, watching as the ship docked. Johnny pointed. ‘Aunt Bess must have sent him.’ Beyond the bustle a shining two-horse open carriage stood, and at the horses’ heads was a figure in dark green livery. ‘Come. Let’s get the formalities over and done. They’ll be waiting for us.’

  * * *

  The city of Savannah stood on a bluff overlooking the river, a little over twenty navigable miles from the sea, the small defensible lift of ground on which it stood the very reason for its existence; for in troubled times any high position in these lowlands, especially any that oversaw the highway of the great river, was invaluable. In the past peaceful, industrious and prosperous years, however, the warehouses and offices had moved down more conveniently onto the waterfront and idiosyncratic iron walkways had been constructed to connect the upper storeys of the wharfside buildings with the bluff above, to give the cotton factors and rice exporters easy access to their offices. Steep cobblestoned ramps led behind the warehouses and beneath these ‘bridges’ up to the residential city above the waterfront. Still bemused with the excitement of landfall, none too steady on her feet after four weeks at sea and finding it all but impossible to breathe, let alone move, in the heavy, humid atmosphere of the city, Mattie found herself bustled through the formalities of arrival and whisked to where Johnny had called Young Peter waited with the carriage. The sun was westering in a sky smokily red. Never in her twenty-two years had Mattie experienced such heat or humidity. She was greeted by Young Peter – a man of middle age and a dignified mien well in keeping with his neat and understated uniform – as ‘Miss Mattie’ and helped into the carriage. Thankfully she settled into the well-polished and well-sprung leather upholstered seat and raised her parasol. She had felt in the touch of Johnny’s hand as he led her to the carriage the tension of his excitement. He sat forward now, hands clasped between his knees as the horses laboured up the steep cobbled incline towards the city. ‘You’ll love Savannah, Mattie, I know you will – wait till you see the trees – I’ll lay money you’ve never seen a prettier place. Every other block of the city is laid out as a garden – look, see the big tree there? The oak? Do you see the Spanish moss hanging from it? I always think it’s real pretty, the Spanish moss, like a girl’s hair. Peter, how is everyone? What’s been happening?’

  ‘Tol’able well, Mast’ Johnny, tol’able well.’ Straight-backed and impassive, the driver concentrated for a moment upon manoeuvring the carriage around the sharp bend at the top of the ramp and into the tree-lined streets of the city. ‘Bin some excitement ’round here ’bout them No’therners an’ their speechin’ – whoa, there, Sassy, car’ful now - Mast’ Henry and Mast’ Edward they sho’ gets mad now an’ again when they read them No’thern newspapers.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘I’ll bet they do. I’ll just bet they do.’

  They had left the waterfront district now and were into the residential area of the city. Mattie was looking around her in delight. Johnny was right; Savannah was as beautiful a place as she had ever seen. Elegant houses, of brick, of stucco, of white-painted clapboard, graced every gardened square. Wide porches, tall windows, sweeping steps, classical, fluted columns; the effect was of space, of beauty and of opulent well-being. And everywhere was the lush green of shade-trees and shrubs; the great spreading canopies of the live oaks decked, as Johnny had pointed out, with the delicate hanging tracery of the curious silver-grey Spanish moss. Sharp-leaved palms and bright, late-blooming bougainvillaea were exotic in the late afternoon sunshine. The streets, though busy, somehow held none of the mindless bustle of other cities Mattie knew; here the pace was leisurely – in the heat, indeed, it could be nothing else – and in the shaded squares frilled parasols and wide, swaying skirts vied with the shrubs and flowers to please the eye. But to Mattie, who had never until now left her native land, the most astonishing thing was the variety of skin colour in the faces about her. Every shade of black, white and brown seemed to be represented in this Southern city.

  ‘We’re nearly there – see – the house on the corner, with the iron railings – that’s it –’

  The house Johnny had pointed out stood foursquare and well-proportioned, taking up half a block. It faced onto a park where groves and avenues of young oaks shaded lawns and walks and, in the distance, a graceful white fountain. The house was three full storeys high, a wide sweep of marble steps leading to the main entrance on the shaded porch of the first floor. The windows and the double doors were tall, the pillared porch was screened by ornate wrought iron. As the carriage turned in the street to come alongside the gate, a small black child who had been perched upon the top step ran into the house shrieking like a steam whistle. ‘They’s here! They’s here! Mast’ Johnny done come!’

  Johnny swung from his seat and came around the carriage to assist Mattie to alight. Above them the door flew open again and a babble of excited cries and exclamations burst about them; Mattie received the swift impression of ringlets, ruffled skirts, lace-edged petticoats and small slippered feet. Johnny grinned widely. ‘Hold onto your hat, honey,’ he said. ‘Here come Aunt Bess and the girls.’

  * * *

  It was three days before Mattie extricated herself from aunts, uncles, cousins and assorted friends and well-wishers for long enough to write her duty letter to Constance; three days in which, as she wrote, only half in jest:

  ‘I swear, Connie, my two feet have not stayed upon the floor for more than a moment at a time! It apparently slipped Johnny’s mind entirely to tell me that he’s related to half of Savannah – and that the half that he isn’t actually related to is “cousin-by-marriage” to the half he is! The whole city has streamed to the door, I swear it! There are Mornings, Afternoons, Luncheons, and Teas – even breakfasts have their share of guests! Johnny’s Aunt Bess, “our” Aunt Bess I should say, for she is most insistent upon it, and I have promised, is – in the way, I’m coming to believe, of most of these Southern people – the warmest-hearted person imaginable. She won’t hear of our starting out for Pleasant Hill until I have, as she puts it, “quite rested my precious self” (!) One would think we had come from China rather than simply across the Atlantic! And, truly, how one could possibly describe as “rest” life in a household that is in the throes of perpetual comings and goings, eternal eating and drinking and absolutely constant chatter is quite beyond me! The ocean gales were positively restful compared to the Packard household! (I should explain here that Aunt Bess is sister to Johnny’s mother, who died when Johnny was born. She is married to Mr Henry Packard, a merchant and cotton broker, who, though a little daunting upon first meeting, is in fact as kindly and warm-hearted as his wife; their hospitality has been – there is no other word – overwhelming.) The four young people, cousins Edward, Dorcas, Clarrie and Maybelle, are equally (I almost said alarmingly) welcoming; the girls exclaim constantly over me (my speech – my hair – the “English delicacy” of my skin!) and are quite determined to make a romantic story of our precipitate courtship. It seems that we will not be able to extricate ourselves for some time yet. (I read what I have written there and am ashamed, for all is done with such love and enthusiasm that I know it to be churlish to
think in such terms – it is simply, I think, that I am now a little nervous of my meeting with the family at Pleasant Hill and would, given my own choice, get it over and done with as speedily as possible.) For his part Johnny seems quite happy to stay for a while in Savannah; I’m not surprised, since Aunt Bess and the girls coddle and pamper him so! He is also much taken up, as is everyone else, with the political trouble that seems to be brewing here; all over the city one hears nothing but talk of states’ rights and Northern interference. The view here seems to be that South Carolina will certainly leave the Union if Mr Lincoln is elected President in November, and that if that should happen many sister states, including Georgia, would feel called upon to do the same. For myself, I am an outsider and find it hard to share the passions that the matter obviously arouses; yet it is difficult to conclude anything but that, despite the rhetoric and the fire of patriotic indignation, the central issue is the institution of slavery, though few here in the South can be brought to admit it. And even with regard to that great debate, I now find myself torn; here in the Packard house the servants are black and, yes, they are slaves – but I have seen no whips, heard no cries, observed nothing, in fact, but a benign, even affectionate regime that many a free servant in England would be delighted – lucky! – to be a part of. I admit to confusion and – Cousin, I think you will not believe this –’

  Mattie paused for a moment, half smiling, wryly. She had allowed her pen to run away with her; Cousin Constance would neither believe nor disbelieve. This last part of her letter would almost certainly be passed over with a dismissive click of the tongue and an impatient hunt for far more interesting and important information. Herbert on the other hand might well have a fit at her diversion into politics. The thought brought faint satisfaction. She shrugged a little, dipped her pen into the ornate inkwell that stood upon the desk in the huge, comfortable room she shared with Johnny.