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The Whistle Walk (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga) (Volume 1)

By Stephenia H McGee

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One



Cedarwycke Plantation
March 15, 1862


Lydia pinched her nose to stifle the sneeze that would surely betray her hiding place. Drawing her skirts farther under her legs and silently berating the hoops underneath it, she forced herself to ignore bits of straw that scratched and poked their way through the layers of material. She only needed a few measly moments to clear her head. Then she would be ready. Why couldn't Mother understand?
"Miss? Miss is yous in here?" The mousy voice of her mother's maid drifted with the dust up to the rafters of the loft. Sally sighed loudly, an uncharacteristic display of exasperation. The day flustered even the mellowest among them. "Miss Lydia, you know your momma gonna be madder and madder the longer you stays out."
Lydia inwardly groaned. As if she weren't aware of that already. She knew she must stop acting like a child, but could not bring herself to relent. She remained perfectly still. After a few moments the girl gave up her search and the barn door slid closed behind her. Lydia let out a long breath of relief and reclined against the freshly cut storage of the horse's winter feed, but her restless mind wouldn't allow her to enjoy her stolen freedom. She would go when she was ready. Not because someone summoned her. Still, if she didn't hurry…
Unfolding her stiff muscles, Lydia stood and brushed her lavender skirts free of dust and clinging straw. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth – a habit Mother said would ruin her smile. If she didn't present herself to be fussed over soon, she'd be accused of blatantly ignoring her mother's instructions. Everyone knew ignoring the mistress of Cedarwycke was completely unacceptable. Such disrespect most especially could not come from her own daughter.
Lydia peered over the edge of the loft, and seeing no one, descended the ladder. Ladies do not climb, her mother's voice repeated in her head. Yes, Mother. Neither did they do any number of the other things she'd done.
Her shoes landed on the dirt floor and a soft whinny greeted her. Lydia glanced over at her mare, which waited with ears forward and a welcoming gaze. What could a few moments more hurt? Lydia ran her hand over Snowflake's smooth muzzle.
"Hey, pretty girl. You knew about me hiding up there the whole time, didn't you?" The horse bobbed its head and Lydia laughed at the impossibly implied response. "But you won't tell anyone, will you, girl?"
She placed her cheek against the horse's face and smoothed the hairs along her mane. Unable to stall any longer or risk giving away her secret sanctuary, Lydia bid her childhood companion a good afternoon and made her way back to the house.
She'd barely set foot in the door when her mother's voice brought her steps to a halt.
"You are determined to be the death of me, aren't you?"
Lydia adjusted her features into a composed, yet slightly confused expression, before turning around. "I'm sure I do not know what you mean, Mother."
Mother placed her hands on her slim hips; her bright blue eyes flashing. "Do not play games with me, Lydia. You have been gone since the noon meal!"
Lydia wove her fingers together to keep them from digging into the folds of her skirt. "Forgive me, Mother. I did not intend to give you flutters. I simply lost track of the time."
Mother raised her eyebrows but elected not to argue further. "Get on up to your room."
Lydia turned and started up the staircase, Mother's commands for hot bath water sending the house girls running. She closed her bedroom door behind her, leaning on it for support while trying to gather her strength for what lay ahead. Within a mere moment, a heavy knock vibrated the wood against her back. Stifling a groan, Lydia opened the door for her mother to enter.
"Now, no excuses. I do not care where you've been. Right now we've got to get you bathed."
Lydia nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Mother looked her over for an uncomfortably long moment. Finally, she sighed and sat down on the patterned quilt spread across Lydia's canopy bed.
"Come, sit by me. I need to tell you what to expect on your wedding night."
Lydia's heart shuddered. Oh no. She shook her head fervently, sending half her hair sliding from its pins. Anything but that.
"Come now. I know it is an awkward thing, but a lady must understand her duties to her husband. He will expect you to produce children, and I do not want you to be unaware of how such things are accomplished."
Lydia lifted her chin, refusing her mother's invitation to sit. Her nerves required the freedom of movement. "I already know, Mother. You explained it to me as a girl. When God wishes to gift a married woman with a child, He will place one in her womb. It is later born by expelling through the birth canal, a painful and messy process."
Mother smiled. "Very good, dear. I am surprised you were paying attention. But I am afraid there is more to it than that. The father also has a role in making a child."
She could not have this conversation. Lydia rubbed her temples with her fingers. "Yes, I understand that as well. I do know that it requires both a stallion and mare to produce a foal."
Mother frowned, the lines creasing the planes of her face. "You have spent far too much time in the barns. A lady should not witness the goings-on of livestock."
Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. "It is much too late for that now. Surely a husband and wife will do things in much the same – "
"Lydia! Stop that talk this instant. A marriage is not like being a mare..." She fanned her hands in front of her face. "Oh, Lord, where have I gone wrong with this child?"
A knock at the door saved her from one of Mother's rants on Lydia's missing sense of propriety and grace. It came as no surprise Mother wished to marry her to Mr. Harper as soon as possible, lest the man figure out Lydia's knack for clumsiness and lack of social refinement before he was properly shackled to her.
Ignoring her mother's fanning, Lydia opened the door to two young, dark-skinned girls weighted down with steaming buckets of water. They silently dumped the contents into the copper tub and slipped out the doorway. Their procession of several more trips saved her from continuing the conversation.
When the water level reached half full, her mother, having recovered from her feigned shock, pointed a long fingernail at the tub. "Go ahead and get in. No soaking for you today. You've lost the luxury. We need to get you scrubbed." She eyed Lydia's half-loose locks. "And we still have to get all that tied. God blessed you with that thick hair, but we want to make sure it's not a tangled mess in the morning."
"Yes ma'am." She loathed being unclothed in front of others but knew better than to push Mother any further. She shed her clothing and waited for the final bucket of water to flow into the tub. Sally kept her eyes downcast and likely didn't notice Lydia wrapping her arms around her chest to cover feminine parts that still looked as if they belonged to a young girl and not to a woman of twenty years. Sally pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click and left Lydia alone with Mother. Lydia needed to find a distraction.
She pulled her fingers through her hair as she stepped into the tub. "Mother?" she asked, working the soap into a lather and removing the scent of horse from her skin. "When will I get to see the dress?"
Mother's eyes lit and excitement tugged her serious lips into a wide smile. She clasped her hands. "Oh, it's just gorgeous. I'll run get it for you while you finish up."
Mother nearly skipped from the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Ignoring her mother's strange behavior, Lydia sank as deep into the water as she could and tried to let the heat work the tension from her muscles.
She wasn't afraid to marry Charles Harper. Not really. Anyone could see he was handsome, smart, and well-liked. Her father had accepted Mr. Harper's attentions almost gladly. Rumors said he would never marry, since many a debutante had batted her eyelashes in his direction with little notice. Lydia did no such thing, and somehow he noticed where others had always dismissed her. She wasn't really sure why. Her family had relatively little to offer a man of Mr. Harper's stature and she'd never been the belle of any ball. Too skinny for men's tastes and unskilled in the art of charm. She possessed none of the things Mother said drew a man, so why would he choose her? Perhaps the ever-encroaching war had flamed a desire for an heir.
She'd just let her lids fall closed when the door flew open. She let out a startled yelp.
"Mother, you about scared me to – "
Mother waved her hand to dismiss Lydia's protest and held up her prized accomplishment, a wide grin revealing her perfectly straight teeth.
Lydia's breath caught. "Oh, Mother!" she cried. "It is beautiful!"
"Isn't it? I am rather proud of it."
Lydia rushed through rinsing the soap from her hair and hurried from the tub, quickly toweling off and wrapping herself in a cotton robe. "It's perfect. Never have I seen a more beautiful gown." She actually meant it, for once not merely trying to appease her mother. "Is it truly silk?"
Mother nodded. "The best, imported from France. You don't know what it took to get it through those blockades and… Well, never mind. Here, at the bottom, is handmade lace. I had the seamstresses start on it the moment Mr. Harper spoke to your father. There hasn't been a finer bride in all of Mississippi."
Lydia listened to Mother's tumbling words as she ran her fingertips over the smooth material of the bodice, enjoying the feel of it against her skin. The bodice and skirt were made of bright, white silk as pure as the rare snow that fell only during the coldest winters in Mississippi. The silk was slightly gathered at the front hem to reveal the beautiful layer of lace underneath.
"Well, hurry up. I cannot wait a moment longer to see you in it."
Lydia donned her undergarments, and Mother helped her step into the gown. The neckline draped across her shoulders and dipped slightly in the front, showing her collar bone. The sleeveless swathe of fabric left her arms bare. She felt slightly exposed, but also more womanly than ever before. Lydia turned, enjoying the swish of the fabric as she moved. A large bow was tied at the back of her waist and trailed down to the floor. "It's perfect, Mother. Thank you."
Tears gathered in Mother's eyes. Lydia was certain she'd never seen Mother's eyes mist over in all her twenty years. "You look simply beautiful," Mother said.
Lydia threw her arms around Mother's neck. Mother took a deep breath, and after a brief squeeze, unhooked her daughter's arms. "All right now. We don't want to wrinkle it, and there is much that still needs to be done."
Lydia turned and looked at herself in the stand-up mirror. "Just let me look at it for a moment. We have the time." There stood a bride in the most beautiful gown she'd ever seen, made from material her family could scarcely afford. Mother would do her best to make her daughter a bride worthy of such a handsome groom. Not that a little powder and lip stain would ever make a beauty out of her. Her stomach knotted. He would arrive soon, and on the morrow she would be a wife tethered to a man she barely knew. All she could do was hope his hands would be as gentle as those honey-colored eyes.
"All right. Let's get you out of it. We need to get your hair in ties."
Lydia surrendered the luxury of the dress and pulled her robe around her before settling into the dressing chair. "Am I to see guests with ties in my hair?"
"Don't be ridiculous child. No one is to see the bride before the wedding."
"Then what shall I do all evening?"
"You will remain in your room."
"By myself?"
Mother pulled the comb through Lydia's protesting hair, yanking on knots with little compassion. "Gracious, girl. The questions. It is not proper for Mr. Harper to see you before the wedding, and besides, your hair is so thick that if I do not get it tied now it will still be damp in the morning. Think of it as a little time to yourself. I should think you would be glad not to have to entertain."
Lydia smiled. True. As Mother well knew. It would be nice to have some time to herself. She could even read as long as she liked and no one would say anything to her for it. Assuming she could bridle her thoughts enough to keep them on the page.
"And you will go to bed early. You'll need your rest for tomorrow."
Lydia nodded, though she knew lying abed early wouldn't help matters any.
She hadn't slept well all week. "How many are coming?"
"Aside from my cousins and your father's sister, I've invited every family of standing in the county."
She'd guessed as much. They would be there to grieve the loss of a man many a parent had hoped to capture for their own daughters and little else.
"But what with so many of the young men already joining up and gone to Arkansas," Mother said, twisting a piece of hair around a strip of cloth, "I would not expect a large crowd."
Mother's fingers flew through their task, and soon her entire head was tied in tight curls. Mother never let anyone else work on Lydia's hair. She always insisted on doing it herself. Lydia couldn't be sure if Mother enjoyed the time or if she simply didn't trust anyone else to do it correctly. When she married, who would tame her wild mane?
"One more thing," Mother said, breaking into her thoughts. "Your father and I have gifts for you."
"Oh?" She turned in her seat to see the small leather book her mother held out.
"This is from your father. He said it is for you to write down your thoughts and the joys of your new life."
Lydia smiled and unwound the thin leather cord wrapped around the cover. Inside, blank pages stood waiting for her to fill. Excitement welled within her. What would she write? Drawing the little book to her chest, she smiled up at Mother. "Thank him for me. It is most thoughtful."
Mother nodded and pulled something from her dress pocket. Lydia held out her hand, and Mother dropped a delicate piece of jewelry into her palm. She held it up to the fading light to study it. Thin strands of silver swirled together around little milky-white stones that were cut into the shapes of four-petal flowers. "A brooch," Lydia mused.
"Yes. It was my grandmother's. She gave it to my mother on her wedding day and my mother gave it to me on mine. Now it is your turn to wear it."
Lydia blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Why have you never shown it to me before?"
Mother straightened her shoulders. "I have been saving it." Her voice cracked, and she waved her hand. "These are dogwood flowers," she said, pointing to the little tiny stones. "Grandmother said the dogwood flower is in the shape of the cross. White, except on the tips where it looks torn and darkened. That represents Christ's blood. The dogwood reminds us to keep him close." She patted Lydia on the shoulder. "The guests will soon be here. I will see you again in the morning."
Lydia put the brooch next to her comb and smiled at her mother in the mirror. "Goodnight."
As soon as Mother left the room, Lydia pulled on a nightdress and grabbed the gown, holding it up in front of her in the mirror.
Tightness gripped her chest. This gown was far too beautiful for someone like her. She returned it to the hanger.
Lydia sighed and gathered a pen and a well of ink. How well Daddy knew her heart. She untied the bindings of the book and stared at it. What could she write? She couldn't yet blemish the clean pages with her galloping thoughts. No, she must save them for something important. Tomorrow, she would become a wife and the lady of her own home. Maybe after tomorrow she would have something of more consequence to record than the twittering of a girl afraid to wed.

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