Swan's Way Read online

  Swan’s Way

  Table of Contents

  Swan’s Way

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  More from Becky Lee Weyrich

  Connect with Diversion Books

  Swan's Way

  Becky Lee Weyrich

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1997 by Becky Lee Weyrich

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition June 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-326-7

  Also by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Savannah Scarlet

  Sands of Destiny

  Rainbow Hammock

  Captive of Desire

  Almost Heaven

  Once Upon Forever

  Whispers in Time

  Sweet Forever

  Tainted Lilies

  Rapture’s Slave

  Summer Lightning

  Gypsy Moon

  Hot Winds from Bombay

  The Thistle and the Rose

  The Scarlet Thread

  Forever, For Love

  Silver Tears

  Prologue

  “What a delight to have such a handsome couple before me, Miss Swan, Mr. McNeal. You must both hold perfectly still now and look directly into my lens.”

  Slender, dark-haired, bearded Mathew Brady spoke to his subjects from behind the large, tripod-mounted box of his camera. He was a dapper gentleman in his black coat and doeskin trousers, topped off with a merino vest and silk scarf. Propped nearby was a handsome cane with a silver head fashioned like a tiny camera, a gift to the photographer from the Prince of Wales, who had had his own portrait done in this very room only five months ago, during his tour of America.

  Of all Virginia Swan’s extraordinary adventures on her first trip to New York City, this visit to Brady’s uptown studio at 859 Broadway and Tenth Street to have her engagement portrait done ranked as the most unique. She didn’t know what she had expected, perhaps a drab shop that reeked of chemicals and cigar smoke. She had steeled herself for such a place—something between a sweat shop and a mortuary. Instead, she caught the faint aroma of expensive Atwood’s cologne, the same scent her fiancé sometimes wore. And imagine her surprise when she entered the reception room two floors below, through doors of beautifully etched glass, to find inside velvet tapestries, walls hung with silver and gold paper, banks of mirrors, crystal chandeliers that sparkled like stars in the mellow gaslight, and elegant rosewood furniture. The special “Ladies Parlor” was no less pleasing, with its green satin decor and fragile gilt-painted chairs. Examples of Mr. Brady’s work hung everywhere—portraits of statesmen, European royalty, freaks from Mr. P.T. Barnum’s museum, along with likenesses of everyday people like herself.

  Now she stood one floor above “Brady’s Famous National Portrait Gallery” in the studio, her head firmly held in place by a metal support, waiting for the moment of truth, when Mathew Brady would uncover his lens and magically imprint the image of herself and her fiancé on his collodion-coated glass plate, stopping time for an instant and capturing forever the love that shone in her eyes for the man who would soon make her his wife.

  Having her portrait done photographically was a new experience for Virginia. But then she was finding these days that life after betrothal was full of new experiences, each one more exciting than the last. She was engaged, but more than that—in love. And love, she found, made all the difference in the world.

  She rested her hand lightly on Channing McNeal’s shoulder and smiled down at him. He looked especially handsome this morning, dressed in the high-collared, brass-buttoned, gray cadet uniform of West Point Military Academy.

  It swelled her heart with pride to think that in another four months, he would graduate with the Class of 1861 and receive his commission in the United States Army, along with her eldest brother, Rodney. The entire Swan family planned to travel with the McNeals from their plantations in Virginia to upstate New York to attend the commencement ceremonies and the grand reception afterward, on the superintendent’s lawn. There would be parties, too, teas, balls, and, of course, the traditional stroll along Flirtation Walk with her beau.

  Following that auspicious occasion, the two new second lieutenants would return to Virginia for a visit at home and for the wedding—a double ceremony to take place at Swan’s Quarter at which Rodney Swan would wed his childhood sweetheart, Agnes Willingham, while Virginia exchanged vows with Channing McNeal. There would be no time for a honeymoon, but that didn’t matter to Virginia. Becoming “Mrs. Lieutenant Channing Russell McNeal” would provide more than enough happiness for her. Wherever her husband’s orders took him, his new bride would follow, willingly. They would honeymoon, as they traveled to his first post, their first home together.

  Whither thou goest, she thought, smiling down at her darkly handsome fiancé.

  From behind the bulk of his camera, Mathew Brady peered out of his wire-rimmed, blue-tinted spectacles at the stiffly posed couple. “If you don’t mind, Mr. McNeal, this is to be an engagement portrait, not a wanted poster. Do try to relax, won’t you? You look as though you’re staring into a hangman’s noose.”

  Brady wasn’t far off the mark, Channing thought. Actually he felt as if he were staring into the barrel of a loaded cannon, as he might well be, before long. The prospect of war did not frighten him. He was trained for battle. Something else far more unsettling was on his mind this bright March morning.

  He had wanted everything about Virginia’s visit to West Point and his furlough to New York City to be perfect. Perhaps his fiancée had missed the tension at the Academy, but her father had noticed the dissension in the ranks, immediately upon his arrival, and Jedediah Swan had not been cheered by what he saw. Since South Carolina’s secession from the Union back in December, the cadets had become polarized, North and South. The atmosphere at the Point these days was explosive. Many cadets had already resigned to go South. The first had been Channing’s own roommate, Henry Farley, from South Carolina, who left in November of 1860, even before his home state seceded. There had been many fights among the cadets, even one duel. On Washington’s Birthday, one of Channing’s classmates, a flamboyant but unstudious fellow named George Armstrong Custer, had led the singing when the band in the quadrangle struck up the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Custer’s roommate, Thomas Lafayette Rosser, had countered with a boisterous rendition of “Dixie.” A near-riot had ensued. That was when Virginia’s father had ceased holding his silence to state his opinion to his future son-in-law clearly, and succinctly: “I am raising a cavalry unit for the
coming conflict, Channing. I expect all my sons will want to ride with me, should the North be so foolhardy as to invade our homeland. We men of Virginia know our duty and must answer the South’s call.”

  A war was coming; there was little doubt of that. The only question in Cadet Channing McNeal’s mind and heart was with which side—North or South—would he, a born and bred Virginian, cast his lot? He knew his own family’s sentiments. They were Virginians to the pits of their souls, the same as Jedediah Swan. But Channing himself had other feelings, other loyalties. How could he fight against his own country? He had walked the hallowed halls of the Academy at West Point for the past four years in the very footsteps of Ulysses S. Grant, Class of 1843; William Tecumseh Sherman, Class of 1840, and Robert E. Lee, Class of 1829, a Virginian himself, yet rumored about the Academy to be the most likely candidate to lead the Federal forces in the “Southern rebellion,” as his northern classmates termed it.

  “Smile, dearest.” His fiancée’s soft voice interrupted his troubling thoughts. “If not for Mr. Brady, smile for our children and grandchildren. What will they think, if they see you scowling so in our engagement portrait?”

  Mathew Brady gave a short bark of a laugh. “Ah, Mr. McNeal, she has you there! Think of the wonder of it. A century from now, your children’s children will gaze on my work and see you both, just as you are today, flesh and blood, smile and scowl. Do you really want to be remembered this way? With such a lovely fiancée, it looks rather unseemly, somehow.”

  Channing glanced up at Virginia. His heart never failed to thunder with joy at the sight of her. Dark gold curls draped her shoulders and framed a face that was as perfect as the finest French porcelain. Lips as delicate and soft as the petals of the first summer rose and a pert nose that tilted up just enough to suit him. Her eyes, though, were her most bewitching feature. Dazzling now in the shower of sun from the windows, with tints of blue, silver, and gold. Looking at her, he couldn’t help smiling. She was his love, his soul, his whole world.

  “Yes, that’s better,” Brady said. “Now, hold that pose. Don’t move a muscle.”

  Virginia held her breath. She felt almost wicked, having this portrait made. Her grandmother had railed against such modern voodoo, claiming that to have one’s image captured, other than in a painting, was the same as having one’s very soul stolen by the charlatan behind the camera. But if there was any soul-stealing going on in Mr. Brady’s Broadway studio, Channing McNeal was the thief. She had been in love with him since before she knew the meaning of the word. He had been born and raised on a neighboring plantation. Often, it had seemed that he was the fifth son of the Swan clan, or she the third McNeal daughter. Soon it would be so, and the two families would be linked forevermore.

  She had to force herself to keep from smiling wider when she thought ahead to the June day when she and Agnes would descend the elegant staircase of the main hall of Swan’s Quarter to be married in the front parlor, while their assembled families and friends looked on. Virginia planned to wear her mother’s wedding gown, the same handstitched satin and lace that Melora Etheridge had worn twenty-eight years ago, when she became Jedediah Swan’s wife. On that day, the happy couple had planted a tulip poplar sapling. Now a towering monument to their enduring love, it spread its branches to shade the swan pond on the plantation’s front lawn.

  Channing and I should plant a tree, Virginia thought. A symbol of our love for each other and a vow never to be parted.

  “Done!” Mathew Brady announced. “You are now immortalized, my young friends. I hope you will invite me to your wedding. I’m opening a studio in Washington soon, and I would dearly love to create your wedding portrait.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful idea!” Virginia cried. “By all means, Mr. Brady. The date is set for the first of June. A new month for our new life together. Mother and Father will approve of our inviting Mr. Brady, don’t you think, Chan?”

  Channing stood and took her hand. His dark eyes captured hers, and the intensity of his gaze all but took her breath away.

  “How could anyone not approve of whatever you want, Virginia?”

  She fought for control, before she could speak. When she did, her voice was a bare whisper. “Then it’s all settled, dearest. We’ll have another portrait on our wedding day.”

  A slow, lazy smile warmed Channing’s dark features. “There can’t be any wedding until I give you a token of my affection. Come along now, my love. We’re going to buy you a ring.”

  Virginia knew it was rather unseemly, but she couldn’t contain herself. Besides, no one but Mr. Brady was watching when she threw her arms around her fiancé’s neck and gave him a sound hug. He hugged her back, but, even as he did, she felt him sigh deeply. It was a worried sigh, and she knew, even though she had tried to keep it from him, that the possibility of the coming war was uppermost in both their minds.

  Why now? she wondered. When our lives should be so perfect!

  Chapter One

  The discreet wooden sign on the rolling lawn read in elegant gold script, “SWAN’S QUARTER.” Smaller lettering below the name of the former plantation identified the current establishment as a “Rest Home and Sanatorium.”

  Beyond the sign stood the old mansion. On the veranda, Pansy Pennycock, Elspeth McAllister, and Sister Randolph huddled together around the white wicker tea table, clutching their crocheted shawls close about their shoulders. They waited. They whispered among themselves. Nervous, excited, dry-throated bird twitters. All the while they talked, they watched the path that led out of the woods to the swan pond and up the hill, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ginna’s lithe form.

  Ginna always came on Mondays. Always! She came to laugh and chat and charm the inmates of the rest home. She came to hear how they had spent their weekend, to find out who might have had a surprise visitor, to inquire as to which of the three white-haired ladies had sung the loudest and most harmoniously at chapel on Sunday.

  But this Monday was fading quickly, with yet no sign of Ginna. As the afternoon sun began its gentle descent, the three little ladies—two widows, one spinster, all mothers who had outlived their children—shifted uneasily in their cushioned wicker chairs, their hopes fading with the setting sun.

  Why was Ginna late for tea? Today of all days! A day when the three friends were absolutely bursting with anticipation at the special news they had to tell. News of a mysterious young man who had arrived at Swan’s Quarter since Ginna’s last visit.

  “She’ll come,” Elspeth stated, adamantly, staring out toward the clearing west of the sun-spangled swan pond. She cradled an antique china doll in the crook of her mahogany-skinned arm and asked, “Did you ever know her to miss a Monday, Miss Precious?”

  Sister, who didn’t hold with talking to inanimate objects, snapped, “That old rag of a doll won’t give you any answers. Don’t act foolish, Elspeth. She’ll either come or she won’t, and that’s the long and the short of it.”

  “Oh, dear me!” Pansy’s pudgy, blue-veiled hands fluttered like moths before the flame of her cinnamon-brown eyes, eyes focused on the line of woods. “There was that one Monday last January. We waited and waited and she never came until a whole week later. Remember, Sister?”

  Sister had outlived all her six siblings, but still wore her nickname with pride and authority. She gave Pansy an arch look. “We had a blizzard, you ninny. The roads from Front Royal and Winchester were impassable that whole week long. Even the postman couldn’t get through.” She sighed. “Not that it mattered. No one ever writes to us, nowadays.”

  “It’s not their fault, dear.” Pansy always felt it her duty to apologize for everyone, even the dearly departed, as she added, “They’re all dead.”

  “And likely better off for it. You call this living?” Elspeth’s scornful voice trailed off in a weary sigh.

  “There, there now, Els.” Pansy patted her hand. “We still have our moments. Mondays at least are special—when Ginna comes.”

>   A tense, watchful silence fell over the threesome. Six rheumy eyes searched the clearing near the pond. But something was missing, something more than the first glimpse of Ginna. Elspeth would never have admitted it to Sister, nor Sister to Pansy, but a change in the atmosphere always preceded Ginna’s arrival. It was a shifting of light, a modulation of shadow, accompanied by a delicate breeze, flower-scented even in the dead of winter. And, most amazing of all, the old tulip poplar always materialized to cast its giant, ancient limbs over the pond, announcing Ginna’s approach. The tree, they all knew, had been wounded in the war, then blown down in a fierce storm back in 1924, over seventy years ago. Yet when Ginna came, the tree materialized miraculously, rising tall and strong, as if to banish the present and recall the past with its looming presence.

  “Tea’s getting tepid,” Elspeth said, through a scowl. “Miss Precious can’t abide cold tea. Shall I pour out?”

  “Please,” said Sister.

  Fluttering again, Pansy simpered, “Shouldn’t we wait, dears?”

  Ignoring her weak protest, Elspeth carefully tipped the heavy vessel toward Sister’s blue-flowered china cup.

  The late afternoon sun glinted off a disfiguring dimple a half inch below the old English 5 engraved on the right side of the antique silver teapot. The dent in the metal was as much a battle wound as any suffered by the men of Swan’s Quarter during the long-ago War of Northern Aggression. The women of the Swan family had suffered their wounds as well, but they had worn them deep inside, unlike their men and their teapot.

  The war might have been decided well over a century past, but all three ladies knew the conflict’s history by rote. They knew the teapot’s story as well, although each one of them told a different version of the bravely scarred vessel’s travails. For this reason, they seldom discussed the tale, because of the disagreements the telling always precipitated. But today was different. Today, Ginna had yet to come and there was little else to do besides retell old tales.