since the day he had come here, had wondered what he was going through.
“You hear that, Mother? What did I tell you?” Chris said.
Chris, not wanting to worry her, had never told his mother of the demeaning torment and physical misery he had suffered at the hands of some sadistic upper-classmen. He had never once, in his weekly letters, mentioned his agonizing loneliness, his intense fear, his constant exhaustion. His biggest fear had been that he would be branded a coward and drummed out of the corps like so many others who had come here with high hopes, only to be sent home in shame.
He never would tell her.
He had made it.
The first year was almost over and he had survived the rigors of the institute and had never complained, except to the three cadets who were his roommates. They had been through the torture with him. They had shared his terror and had understood his fear. They had comforted him when he was in danger of breaking and he had done the same for them. The experiences they had shared had drawn them closer than brothers. The four of them were good friends. The best of friends. Chris loved these three brave, loyal men with whom he had been through the fires of hell. He knew that they would be his friends for life.
Chris invited the roommates to join his mother and him for dinner that evening, but they respectfully declined.
Jarrod Willingham, a slender, red-haired, freckle-faced cadet from Memphis, Tennessee, said, “We do appreciate the invitation, Chris, but I know if my mother came to visit, she’d want to have me to herself for a while.” Jarrod grinned and winked at Ellen.
Ellen smiled and nodded.
The visit to Charleston was everything Ellen had hoped for and more. After an excellent dinner that evening, she and Chris strolled toward the Battery in the bright Carolina moonlight. Their pace leisurely, their conversation inconsequential, they soon reached South Battery and continued beneath the tall oaks to the seawall.
Chris took Ellen’s hand as they ascended the steps of the seawall. At the top, they stood in silence for a time before the railing, watching the glittering lights of houses along the shore of James Island and listening to the unique sounds of the sea.
The tide was going out. The powerful beams of the moon were now in command of the ocean’s current. It was a warm, beautiful, starry night, perfect for promenading along the old seawall.
Deeply inhaling the heavy, moist air, Chris said, “It’s nice here, isn’t it, Mother?”
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Breathtaking. I wish I could spend the rest of my life here.”
Chris laughed. “You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do. I would love to live in these warm lowlands near the ocean.”
“Who knows? Maybe someday you will,” Chris offered. Left unsaid was that it would have to be after Alexandra had passed away.
“Perhaps,” she said dreamily, not really believing it.
On leaving the seawall, they walked down the Battery to East Bay and Chris pointed out the stately mansions on the tree-shaded streets South of Broad, where the aristocracy resided.
“The old Charleston families dwell in these houses,” Chris told his mother. “I know a couple of cadets who came from here.”
Although she had been raised around great wealth, and presently lived in an opulent town house, Ellen was awed by these splendid southern residences that were guarded by ancient towering oaks and surrounded by lush, verdant gardens. It was the gardens that most impressed her. Accustomed to the starkness of the plain concrete sidewalk outside the Park Avenue town house, she was enchanted by the profusion of flowers and leafy vines and velvet lawns before her.
“This incredible garden,” she enthused, gazing at one particularly well-tended, flower-filled terrace sloping down to the street. “These grounds must be the most beautiful in the entire state of South Carolina.”
“They are exquisite, but you should see Middleton Place,” Chris said offhand. A pause, then, the idea abruptly striking him, he said, “How would you like to see Middleton Place, Mother? It’s an old, uninhabited plantation that was once one of the glories of the Low Country. The gardens and ponds are still there. Would you like to see them?”
“I would love to see them.”
“Tomorrow at noon, as soon as general leave starts, I’ll hire a carriage and we’ll drive out into the country. You have the hotel pack us a picnic lunch and we’ll make a day of it.”
“I can hardly wait.”
The ride out into the lush, green countryside of South Carolina was highly enjoyable for Ellen. Along the narrow dirt road, tall pines grew and several bountiful orchards were filled with blackberries, grapes, persimmons and plums. Birds sang sweetly in the trees and the occupants of passing carriages waved as if greeting old friends.
It was early afternoon when the pair reached Middleton Place on the banks of the Ashley River. Ellen was eager to explore the estate and Chris was only too happy to point out where the plantation house had once stood. He told her the home had been built in the mid 1700s in the style of an Italian villa.
“What happened to it?” Ellen asked. There was nothing there but a pile of rubble.
“A detachment of Sherman’s army occupied the plantation in the war. When it was time to move on, the soldiers ransacked the house, then set it on fire. Then the walls finally fell in the earthquake of ’86.”
“Such a shame,” said Ellen.
“Yes,” Chris agreed, “but the gardens are still here and someone—I don’t know who—tends them regularly. Come.”
Chris showed Ellen the most magnificent grounds that she’d ever imagined. Classical in concept, geometric in pattern, the gardens featured parterres, vistas, allées, arbors and bowling greens. And everywhere, among the live oaks and Spanish moss, was water, reflecting in its depths the clear Carolina sky.
There were broad-terraced lawns and butterfly lakes and a rice mill pond. Azaleas and magnolias and camellias in full bloom sweetened the air with their fragrance.
Chris told his mother the history of the house and its family while they ate cold chicken and ham and cheese and rolls as they sat on a blanket in the shade of a tall oak.
Feeling lazy after the meal, they stretched out on their backs to talk and doze and enjoy the serenity and beauty of the warm May afternoon. A time or two Ellen considered telling Chris about the upcoming adventure—or misadventure—that Alexandra had planned. But she didn’t want to spoil this perfect spring day. She would tell him tomorrow.
On Sunday, Ellen and Chris attended church services at St. Michael’s. Afterward they had lunch in the Mills House dining room. It was during the meal that Ellen told her son of Alexandra’s latest folly.
“Chris, you know that Aunt Alexandra hates the idea of getting old,” she began.
Chris laughed and said, “Somebody should tell her that she’s already old.”
His mother smiled, then was serious. “I know. But she doesn’t want to get any older, so…”
Ellen drew a deep breath and related the entire story. She told him that Alexandra had been furious with the physicians in London when they’d told her there was nothing they, or anyone else, could do to slow down the aging process. That she was an old woman and couldn’t expect to live many more years.
Ellen went on to explain that Alexandra had seen an ad in the newspaper promising magic waters that would keep a person forever young. Ellen talked and Chris listened intently, seeing the worry in her eyes.
When her story was finished, Chris did his best to console Ellen, to jolly her, to make light of the situation, although it worried him that his mother and aunt would be traveling with strangers, people who were obviously of less than sterling character.
“I