When she returned to the carriage, Rad said, “Where to, now? Shall we drive toward the mills?”
“No. Let’s bypass them. I’d rather ride on to Rose Mallow.”
Allison directed the driver away from the mill village and the mills, which were once again in operation. Down the Roswell road they traveled, until they reached the wooded entrance to Rose Mallow, the upcountry mansion Allison had shared with Coin. That would be the true test—to see the house again, if it were still standing.
The carriage turned into the long, curving driveway. But before the house came into view, Allison called out, “Driver, stop here.”
He did as he was told, bringing the horses to a stop. Rad helped Allison down but made no attempt to follow her as she began to walk along the familiar winding drive, paved with the same smooth gravel she remembered. The wooded areas on each side had changed little over the years. The same tree azaleas, with their flame-colored blossoms, loomed tall in the woods, and the gentle breeze that had suddenly stirred held the same perfumed, delicate scent of the sweet-shrub bush.
Allison quickened her pace. For, just beyond the curve, Rose Mallow would soon come into view.
When the house appeared, she stopped and stared. It was not her house. Instead it was a carpetbagger’s house, shining and freshly painted. The summer kitchen was gone; two wings had been added. And, worst of all, the classical Greek Revival lines had been destroyed by the gingerbread trim.
“Is it the way you remembered it?” a voice asked gently at her side.
She turned her head. And for the first time that day, she smiled at her husband, who had come up behind her. “No,” she answered. “Not at all the way I remembered it. I wonder if it’s just as monstrous inside?”
“Would you like to knock on the door and see if you can go inside?”
“No, there’s no need to bother the owners. I’ve seen enough, Rad. I’m ready to go now.”
She began to walk back to the carriage. Then she stopped to take one last look. “At least it doesn’t leak. I see they put on a new roof.”
She climbed into the carriage again; then she heard Rad say, “Driver, we’ll go to the hotel now.”
“Hotel?” Allison repeated. “I didn’t know there was a hotel here.”
“Actually, it’s one of the old mansions converted into a hotel. I wired ahead for reservations.”
She recognized the house, but the owner had long since sold it to a newcomer, a Mr. Jones from Ohio. Allison was now the stranger, and she gave no indication that she had ever seen it before. As they registered, she allowed Rad to answer the questions that visitors are usually asked. And he gave nothing away that would tie his wife to the town.
Later, as they settled in the large old mansion, with its wide porch holding a long row of rush-bottomed rocking chairs and the bedrooms filled with dark, polished furniture, Allison stood by the open window in their bedroom.
“How long are we to stay here?” Allison asked.
“As long as it takes you to make up your mind.”
“Then I hope you haven’t paid for more than one night.”
“Allison?”
She ignored the wary look in Rad’s eyes. “It’s difficult to put things into words,” she began. “You know I would never have chosen to come back here on my own. But you forced me, and I suppose you’ll have to suffer the consequences.”
“And exactly what does that mean?”
“Coin Forsyth died years ago. I realize that now. And the man we both know as Charles Forsyte is merely Ginna’s father.”
He stared at her as if he had misunderstood. But then she smiled and reached out to him. “That means you’re stuck with me, Rad, for the rest of our lives.”
“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
He squeezed her hand and said, “Then let’s go downstairs for dinner. Suddenly, I’m very hungry.”
That evening, as they sat on the porch and listened to the whippoorwills amid the faint rush of water in the distance, Allison was content. For the first time in her life, she had rid herself of the old animosities. And along the pilgrimage, she’d discovered truth as well.
It had not come in viewing wood and stone, but had been found as she looked into her own heart along the way. She’d had her share of joys and sorrows, partings and coming togethers, experiences with birth and death.
Now she could accept them all as part of life, with love as the ultimate hope and love as the ultimate sacrifice. Life went on, flowing as constantly as Vickery Creek toward the millrace gate. It could never turn backward to yesterday. And in that knowledge, Allison had finally found freedom.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FRANCES PATTON STATHAM is an award-winning artist, musician, writer, and lecturer. She received her undergraduate degree, magna cum laude, from Winthrop University, a master of fine arts degree from the University of Georgia, and an honorary doctorate from World University.
Listed in such biographical reference works as International Authors and Writers Who’s Who, World Who’s Who of Women, and International Who’s Who of Intellectuals, Statham resides in metro-Atlanta, Georgia.
