A Civil Affair
Chapter 1: (Madeline's POV)
The summer of 1861—that was when I first met him. It was also the
summer that changed my life. That was a year ago, but I need to inform
you of what happened before then and how we got to where we are now.
I'll begin in the spring of 1860, shortly after my 18th birthday.
Father had just closed up the bookstore for the evening and Mama had
already begun supper. My brother, the younger of us, was seated in his
usual chair by the fireplace, reading the weekly news. I sat opposite
him, fiddling with a cross-stitch I just could not get right, waiting
patiently for him to be done with some part of the paper so I could read
it.
"You know this election is going to be a bad one," my brother casually
made conversation.
"I really wish you'd let me have some of the paper so I can make a
proper opinion about it," I sighed helplessly.
Father came into the room just then and kissed me on the head. "You
don't need to have an opinion on it, Maddie. It's not proper for a young
lady to dabble in politics." Sometimes, I hated when he had this view of
me.
"And why not? I mean, surely a lady could find herself entertaining
without a clue what to say to the gentlemen talkin' ‘bout politics." I
always had to say my piece.
"Supper is ready," Mama announced, breaking up our quarrel. "Make sure
you wash up first!"
My brother quickly threw down his paper and ran outside to the washbin.
Nothing was funnier than his race to the table and the boy sure had an
enormous appetite. I waited patiently, again, for my turn to use the
bin. Once done, and on his way back to the house, he turned around and
whispered behind him, to me I assume.
"I think Breckinridge has a shot."
I eyed him suspiciously but let the water run over my hands without
saying a word. According to the papers, this election was the next best
thing since the birth of Jesus and people knew how critical it was to
the security of their jobs and their livelihood. Father didn't talk much
about it, although my brother insisted on stirring him up a bit every
now and again. Why Father never allowed me to get involved in the
conversations I'll never know, but he always said the same thing.
When I got to the dining table, everyone was already seated, food
steaming at the center, smelling delicious as always. All politics and
papers aside, Mama always created such feasts for us and we were very
fortunate to have help in the kitchen, otherwise she'd be cooking almost
the entire day. As I seated myself and took one of my brother's hands
and one of my mother's, the pleasant smells wafted around my head,
before I bowed it for grace.
"Dear Lord, bless us this evening as we sit at your table…" My father's
voice, barely above a whisper, seemed to drown out in my ears until it
was time for the Amen. It almost took me by surprise when my brother
pulled his hand away and gathered food onto his plate. It truly amazed
me how he could eat so much in just one sitting.
Supper was uneventful that night. We hardly talked during the time we
eat and we tended to save the conversations for tea by the fireplace.
But that tea conversation had been anything but pleasant. Father was the
first to speak, while Mama worked on her cross-stitch quietly. That
night, the conversation would be anything but pleasant.
"I've had a lot more gentlemen coming into the store than usual," he
began, looking down at his tea as he spoke. "I've never seen so many,
most of them scholars, wanting to know which books are the newest. I
believe sales have been better than they've ever been."
"That's wonderful!" I believe I shouted that.
"It's going to be a fine business for you to come into." He was
addressing my brother, who had taken up reading the paper again.
Austin scrunched up his nose a bit at the thought. Truth be told, my
brother didn't want the family business—the bookstore that was built
from the first settlement in Kentucky. Austin had his eye on a bigger
prize and when he turned 18 (not for another two years), he wanted to
enter into the world of politics. He always believed in democracy but he
also had a very good knack for how to get people to listen, a fine
quality in any politician.
"May I be excused from tea?" I asked politely. I really didn't want to
get in the middle of yet another argument between them. My mother simply
nodded and sighed, knowing she couldn't escape the way I could.
Even though my brother was slighted to inherit the bookstore, I had
always found more of an interest in its bookkeeping and sales and
atmosphere. Truth be told, I secretly hoped my brother would go
into politics so that I could learn the trade. I also always had
a book between my fingers, sometimes just reveling in the feel of the
spine or the pages. Books to me were like individual lives, waiting to
tell their stories.
At that time of year, I believe I was rereading Shakespeare's sonnets. I
always found the ones to read on the most apropos days, so the words
blended with the scene around me. If I remember correctly though, that
was the particular night I had chosen to read one of his tragedies
instead. There's something to be said about the chills that run down
your spine after reading a Shakespearean soliloquy.
Reading for me was just something I did—it was always second-nature.
Father sent me to a good school in the city so that I could learn to
read and write and I never seemed to get enough of my literature
classes. It was also probably due to the endless supply of books we kept
in the store. The shelves seemed to blend together yet they were
organized so eloquently.
Looking down at the book in my hand, as I sat in the reading room, I
reread Hamlet's ode to his father's ghost. I could almost see his
petrified face as he realizes the ghost is his father and I could almost
feel the air in the room grow colder. Hamlet has just heard the truth of
his father's murder by his uncle's hand and the hair on my neck stood
up. It pains me to see the characters unable to deal with their
realities and I wish I could run to them, console them, and make them
whole again. My brother would never understand the power of their words
the way I do, just as I would never understand the political workings of
his mind.
My thoughts were interrupted though as raised voices and angry words
came from the tea room. I knew it was inevitable. Austin always wanted
to talk politics and Father always wanted to talk business. They never
saw eye-to-eye and it was deafening to listen to them quarrel so. I
closed my first edition collection of Shakespeare, sighed, and closed my
eyes, willing the noise to stop.
* * * * *
It was late spring and the weather in our little town had gotten
warmer—the promise of the summer to come. My brother came home from
school in a chipper mood, claiming that Breckinridge was to be making a
stop here, in our town. My mother was in the kitchen and my father was
in the tea room, reading his latest novel he had coveted from the
bookstore. It made me laugh to myself to see how upset he was at being
interrupted from his book, a trait I no doubt inherited from him.
"And I suppose you want to go to the fanfare?" my father asked him,
pulling off his reading glasses and placing a marker between the pages.
"I'd be ecstatic!" Austin jumped up and down in place.
My father looked him up and down then replaced his glasses. "I'd prefer
you didn't waste your time with such nonsense."
"But it ain't nonsense! I just want to see what he has to say!" Austin
protested strongly.
"I said no! I don't want you getting involved in the politics of this
country!"
"Why not?" Austin challenged. I tried so hard not to listen in, but I
couldn't help it. I was secretly hoping for my chance to learn the
business.
"There's been talk." That was my father.
"What kind of talk?" Austin pressed. I could almost hear the reluctance
in my father's voice to answer his inquisitive son.
"There's been talk… around the bookstore. Gentlemen come in and talk
politics. They say this election will hurt our economy, change our
world."
"What do you mean? This election is exactly what we need! It'll give us
a chance to boost our businesses and keep up with the high competition
with them Yankee states!" The look of elation in Austin's eyes was
enough to put my father over the edge.
"Now listen here, boy! I will have no more talk of politics or this
election in my house! You will not be going to that rally! I will not
lose my bookstore because my son stuck his nose where it didn't belong!
We work hard for our money and I'll be damned if some educated
politician is going to take that away!"
"But that's what Breckinridge understands!" Austin tried to protest.
"There's no reason for us to lose our businesses while the North builds
their super-factories!"
"There's been more talk than that, boy! You have no idea what a harsh
world it is! There are whispered voices of the consequences of this here
election!"
"But—."
"No more, Austin, enough!"
My father had said his piece and Austin had lost the battle. I knew the
truth of it though; I read the papers. News could travel faster now that
the railroad came through our town. People talked and media wrote it all
down—again the power of the written word. There was talk of a great
rebellion—a stirring in the stomach of the South. We looked at our
northern brothers as outcasts, trading in their hard work for complex
machinery. Large buildings littered their cities and smoke filled their
air. It wasn't right, people said, to make a living without putting your
back into your work. They countered, claiming working a machine was a
lot harder than working manually.
Truth be told, I was scared of them northern folk. Angry they were;
bitter from the cold of their winters and smoldering from the heat of
their coal-burning turbines. I had never met a Yankee before but I had
heard the stories of how different their world was to ours. For one, no
one owned another. To some it was a release from bondage, but to me, it
was a necessity. I mean, if Mama had no help in her kitchen, she'd never
have time for us, her family. And really, if those plantation owners
didn't have their slaves, they'd have to make enough babies so their
children could help in the fields. Our economy thrived because there
were enough people to work the land; there was no need to build a
factory and put those people out of work.
My thoughts were interrupted yet again when there was a crash in the
kitchen. Mama shouted something and our servants scurried to fix the
problem. I rolled my eyes and my father chuckled, obviously noticing. I
met his eyes and he smiled at me before closing the book he had tried to
go back to reading and coming over to me, a package in his hands.
"This is something I found at the bottom of one of the shipments from
Raleigh."
I ripped open the wrapping and gazed at a second edition copy of
Wuthering Heights. "Thank you!" I exclaimed, hugging the book to my
chest.
"Now go put it in a safe place where your mother doesn't see it. She has
no idea I bought it for you." His smile was the greatest a girl could
ever see.
I ran up the stairs of our large two-story house and into my room.
Carefully pulling a box out of my closet, I placed the book in with the
others. Every now and again my father would buy a special book just for
me and include it with his orders to warehouses and bookstores
elsewhere. How he knew my original Wuthering Heights had gotten wet on
the way home from school one day I'll never know. But it was nice to
know he thought of me this way. I don't recall him ever buying gifts
like this for my brother.
Speaking of my brother, since his argument with our father, I hadn't
seen him. He hadn't run upstairs to his room and he hadn't gone into the
kitchen to bug Mama about supper. He might have slipped out the back
door without any of us knowing. I was putting the box back up on the
shelf when he came whipping into my room, scaring me half to death, and
causing me to drop the box, books flying everywhere.
"Austin!" I screamed as I fell from the onslaught of books.
He stood there and laughed before helping me put the books away. One by
one he looked at the titles and then cocked his eyebrow at me. "Does
Father know you stole all these from the bookstore?"
I yanked a book from his hands. "I didn't steal any of them. They were
gifts."
"You have a secret admirer then?"
"No, they were gifts from Father. But please don't tell Mama."
At supper that night, Austin opened his big mouth and told Mama I had
been stealing books from the bookstore. This prompted Father to explain
I hadn't stolen them but they were gifts from him. This steamrolled into
an argument about him buying me presents and spending valuable money. I
shot Austin an angry look, excused myself from supper, and ran upstairs
to my room. Mama had come upstairs once the dishes were cleared by the
servants.
"Madeline, honey, please talk to me. I don't want you to be upset."
"Mama, it's not what you think! I didn't ask him to buy me books!"
"I know but he should not be buying so many. Where are you keeping them
all?"
"In a box," I admit.
"Please return them to the bookstore in the morning. Every book your
father buys could be sold at a better price."
That night my heart was crushed. Austin was just being Austin, I knew.
It was always like him to feign jealousy when something wasn't going his
way. Mama knew I was spending too much time reading and not enough time
learning how to run a proper kitchen. Even with my love of all things
books, my father still insisted on giving the bookstore to Austin when
he turned 18 in two years. I knew I had to give back the books but I
vowed to keep a few of my favorites—namely, Shakespeare, Austen and a
few bits of poetry. I also wouldn't dream of parting with Bronte,
Dickens, Anderson and Grimm. So needless to say, most of my books did
not make it back to the bookstore.