Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [52]
Chapter Nine
Richmond 1859
As our train neared the city and all the familiar sights of Richmond came into view, I knew that I was home at last. Gilbert stood waiting to meet us at the station, greeting me with a rare smile.
“Welcome home, Missy Caroline.”
“Thank you, Gilbert. It’s so good to be home.”
He loaded all my trunks and hatboxes and carpetbags into the carriage, then Daddy asked him to drive to Hollywood Cemetery to visit my mother’s grave.
The parklike graveyard was quiet and still. The crunch of gravel beneath the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels was the only sound as we drove downhill from the entrance. Gilbert threaded the carriage through the maze of winding roads, beneath ageless trees in their fading fall colors, past the jumble of tombs and monuments, as he must have done countless times.
The James River was visible from Mother’s grave site, with wooded Belle Isle floating serenely in the middle of it. As I stood silently gazing at her tombstone, I felt as though my mother had finally found the peace that had eluded her all her life.
“It’s nice here,” I said with a sigh.
Daddy nodded. Then he put his hat back on, and we drove away.
Hollywood Cemetery was west of downtown, our house on Church Hill east of it, so I was able to savor the sights as we drove up and down Richmond’s hills on the way home. The brick buildings of Tredegar Iron Works sprawled near the canal, smoke rising majestically from its tall chimneys. I saw Crenshaw Woolen Mills, the Franklin Paper Mill, and a half-dozen flour mills whose names I couldn’t recall. On the next hill, in front of the pillared capitol building, George Washington gazed southward from astride his bronze horse. Bells chimed the hour from nearby St. Paul’s. I could see the curving James River in the distance, sparkling in the sunlight, and mules like toy figures laboring to haul packet boats up the Kanawha Canal. We rode through the business district, past shops and banks, past the Spotswood Hotel, past newsboys hawking the latest editions. I begged Daddy to drive past his warehouses so I could see the ships docked at Rocketts Wharf.
Richmond wasn’t enormous and frantic and loud, like Philadelphia, but lovely and dignified, a proud queen perched on her hills. And best of all, everywhere I looked I saw a wonderful mixture of black faces and white faces.
As the horses labored up Church Hill, the spire of St. John’s came into view, and I knew I was nearly home. Then I was standing in our front hallway at last, and Tessie was running out to meet me, looking even more beautiful than I’d remembered. She hugged me so tightly I thought my bones would snap, but I never wanted her to let go.
“I hardly know you, baby,” she wept as we hugged and cried. “You all growed up.”
“Oh, Tessie! I’ve missed you so much! I’m never going away again.”
“Is that our gal?” Esther cried as she hurried in from the kitchen. She took a long, tender look at me before swallowing me in her ample embrace. “Land sakes, honey! You growed some bosoms while you was gone. Looks like it gonna take a mighty strong wind to blow you to Washington, D.C. now!”
We were all laughing and crying, even shy Luella. My mother’s maid, Ruby, cried the hardest. “I just knew you gonna be as pretty as you mama someday. Oh, it so good to have you back.”
But someone was missing. I felt bone-chilling fear when I looked around and realized that Eli’s beloved face wasn’t among the others. “Where’s Eli?” I asked.
“He’s wanting to see you real bad,” Esther said, “but he don’t have clothes that’s good enough to wear inside the big house.”
I flew out the back door and down the walk to the carriage house. Eli stood in the doorway, tall and proud, waiting for me. His hair and beard had turned nearly white while I was gone, but his arms and shoulders were as sturdy and strong as ever. I fell into those arms and smelled the wonderful scent of horses and leather as I rested my face against his broad chest.
“I’m home, Eli.”
“Oh, yes . . . thank you, Massa Jesus! This place sure be dark and dreary without our