Page 34 of Where the Rivers Merge

Fireflies (Lampyridae), also known as lighting bugs, are a type of beetle known for bioluminescence, an ability to produce light within their bodies. The light serves to attract mates and warn off predators. Fireflies are nocturnal and hide in tall grass or other dense plants during the day.

1925

The wedding banns for the marriage of Eliza Pinckney Rivers of Mayfield and Arthur Middleton Chalmers III of Charleston were read in July at St. Phillips Episcopal Church. Wedding plans began in earnest.

My mother was never happier.

From the moment the banns were announced she embarked on a journey to create a celebration that would be forever etched in the annals of Charleston’s finest. A year later, every detail had been carefully considered, from the decision to hold the reception in the ballroom of her East Bay Street house (at last she could use it in the style she’d dreamed of) to the exquisite floral arrangements.

I willingly slipped into the excitement of the preparations, allowing my mother full reign over plans that far exceeded anything I’d ever dreamed of, or wanted. Tripp and I would have been happy with a simple country wedding. But as Mama often pointed out to me, ours was a significant social wedding in Charleston, the wedding of the season, adding another level of grandeur and excitement to the event.

Mama engaged the services of the esteemed Parisian dress designer, Madame Estelle Dubois, renowned for her impeccable taste and style. On the day of my fitting, we strolled down King Street, parasols in hands. Overnight it seemed Charleston had become a hubbub of fashion. Jazz permeated the city and the styles. Women and men alike adopted glitz and glamour with shorter skirts for women and more casual suits for men.

I loved the new fashions. Not only did the style suit my slim, flat-chested body but I felt freer than I ever had in corsets and floor-length dresses with long hair bound up into fragile Gibson styles. Mama wore her long hair in a traditional chignon at her neck, but she was stylish under a saucy, tilted broad-brimmed hat.

In short, we were happy. At last, Mama could host a wedding, I was marrying a handsome young man from a good family, and I had left Mayfield behind to make my home in Charleston near her. Mama and I had our differences when I was a young girl. Some whoppers, to be sure. Yet, as women, a new bond had developed between us. An understanding, and dare I say, appreciation for each other as the women we were. I took some small pleasure in knowing that I was, at long last, the daughter she’d always wanted.

I looked over at Mama as we walked side by side along Meeting Street and thought how Tripp had been right that day in the tree hollow. How he’d said life was about change, and we either had to change with it, or get left behind.

The Bridal Salon entrance had an arching bower of colorful faux flowers. Beneath that, the scrolling letters of Dubois were encircled with gilt-edged roses. A Parisian cart overflowing with fresh flowers sat in front.

“Impressive,”

I said, stopping to take in the view.

“Since Madame Dubois set up her salon, all the Charleston elite are coming to her. Yours will be one of her first creations, so she is giving it her best effort.”

I knew this meant a lot to her and nodded with enthusiasm.

She put her finger to her cheek in thought. “What do you call it when one promotes one’s business in the papers?”

“Advertisement?”

I replied. “The News and Courier is full of them.”

“Yes, that’s it. Well, Mrs. Dubois said your gown is her advertisement, as it were. And, since I was one of her first customers, she is giving your gown the utmost attention.”

I heard pride in her voice.

“Indeed.”

Mrs. Dubois was waiting for us in the pink shop dominated by an enormous Venetian mirror. She was a slight woman dressed entirely in black. Her raven hair was slicked back with pomade, and with her dark, kohl-lined eyes and beakish nose, she reminded me of a crow. After greeting us with flourish, she clapped her tiny hands to alert her two assistants, then led me to the mirrored dressing room.

My wedding gown was indeed a testament to Madame Dubois’s talent and the wedding’s glamour and opulence. I stepped upon the platform as Madame and her assistants fluttered around me. The dress was a sheath of delicate satin adorned with intricate lace appliques, painstakingly handsewn by skilled artisans. The gown fell like water down my body with a cascading skirt that swept into a long train. My veil, a simple, long piece of intricate French lace.

Mama drew close, tears in her eyes. She reached up to gently touch the heavy veil of French lace that hung straight from my head to the floor. “I wore this on my wedding day. To your father.”

“You were a beautiful bride, Mother.”

She sighed as memories clouded. “As are you.”

She cupped my face. “My duckling has turned into a swan.”

The memory of being scolded and called ugly after putting on Mama’s makeup flashed in my mind. Today I received the gaze from my mother I’d always wished for.

Madame Dubois drew closer to walk around me, her face tight in concentration. She touched a rose applique, adjusted the veil, then stood in front of me, her head cocked to one side. We waited. At last, she exclaimed, “C’est parfait!”

* * *

Mama and I were in high spirits. The quaint restaurant Mama had chosen had once been a private house and was now a favorite spot for Charleston women to lunch. Paintings of local scenes covered the walls, the tables were draped in crisp white damask, and spotless crystal gleamed. The ma?tre d’ led us to a small, enclosed garden where the air was cooler and the sweet scent of roses filled the air.

“Well, here we are,”

Mama said, settling in her chair and removing her gloves. “Our last lunch together with you still a Rivers.”

Her gaze settled on me. “In two days, you will be Mrs. Arthur Chalmers.”

I looked at my hands, focusing on the trio of stones on my left ring finger. The small round diamond set on either side with blue sapphires had belonged to Tripp’s grandmother. This, like my marriage to him, was in keeping with societal expectations. I wasn’t in love with Tripp. But I had given up on the notion of marrying for love. My heart had been broken and I was resigned that finding true love again was unlikely, or impossible. Tripp had advised me to put away the things of a child, and I had done so. Now I saw marriage as both a duty and a wise choice based on affection.

“I’m ready. It’s been a long journey to find happiness with Tripp.”

Mama’s gaze rose from the menu in concern. “But you are happy?”

“I am content. I have accepted the notion that practicality outweighs matters of the heart. Marrying my best friend offers me companionship and security. We will build a life based on trust and mutual understanding.”

“Wise. Passion in marriage is highly overrated. It’s easiest to simply live in the present.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, and we placed our orders.

“Here’s to living in the present,”

I offered as a toast, once the champagne had been poured. We clinked glasses. As I sipped, I wondered if I could ever really live my life that way. “I’ve always been driven to succeed,”

I said. “To have some goal, to cross the finish line a victor. Remember the horse race?”

Mother gave me a cold look. “That approach didn’t prove successful.”

I laughed without humor. It was the harsh truth. The past six years of my life, my determination to manage Mayfield, was for naught. “No,”

I conceded. “I suppose in the end I lost.”

“Whatever are you saying? You are about to cross the finish line as Mrs. Arthur Chalmers.”

“Quite.”

I was spared answering further as lunch arrived. Over Dover sole we chatted about all things wedding—the gown, the flowers, which of the guests had accepted the invitations and which had declined. For the wedding of the season, those were few. The waiter arrived to refill our glasses.

“We’ll be tipsy,”

I warned her.

“All the better. I am enjoying this time with my daughter before her wedding.”

“Mama, we’ll be living close to you in Charleston. We can have lunch together often.”

She cocked her head. “Did you find a house?”

I nodded with relief. “At last. Most everything we looked at was far too grand for our budget. But Tripp’s practice is doing so well,”

I added quickly. “I worried about the number of clients he’d have in the city, but since he opened his doors, it seems everyone in Charleston has walked in with a dog or a cat or some other sort of pet.”

“Pets are all the rage these days.”

“You should get one. A cat would suit you.”

Mama put up her hand. “Spare me. I’ve had enough animals at Mayfield to last a lifetime.”

I looked at the woman across the table from me. The tightness in her face had softened, and she laughed more often. A woman myself now, I was coming to appreciate how happy she was living in Charleston and all she had given up to marry my father and live so far out in the country.

“So,”

said Mama, setting her silverware down, her lunch finished. “Tell me about this house.”

I pictured the small brick house with its large window boxes. “It’s a sweet house nestled among important houses on Church Street.”

I approached such discussions with caution and deference since Tripp didn’t have much money of his own. I didn’t want to shame him. “We are so grateful for the money you gave to us for our wedding. And Tripp’s family has been generous as well,”

I hastened to add. “I admit, we were surprised at the expense of this neighborhood, but it’s close to his practice. And, of course, family.”

Mama tilted her head, listening, saying nothing.

“I want you to see it. The house is—”

I groped for words to describe the cramped house “—charming. Sweet. Cozy.”

“Those are words used to describe a cottage.”

I held back a laugh. “It’s the smallest house south of Broad Street, I’m afraid,”

I confessed. Then added brightly, “But that’s what makes it such a find.”

Mama paused in thought, then asked, “Did you purchase it?”

“No,”

I said, alert to the change of tone in Mother’s voice. “Tripp is putting together an offer.”

“Before you decide . . .”

Mama reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope, which she laid upon the table between us.

“What’s this?”

Mama coupled her hands. “The graduation dinner for Lesesne never sat well with me,”

she began. “Not as a woman or a mother. I never held with the concept of primogeniture. I always felt it was a system that unfairly excluded daughters and younger sons from their inheritance, based solely on gender and birth order. Your father differs with me, as you know all too well. He fervently believes primogeniture is the only way to maintain the family wealth and land holdings over generations. The eldest son inheriting the family estate ensures continuity in the management of an estate as large as Mayfield.”

She gave a dismissive gesture with her hand. “It’s all so intertwined in our culture with hierarchy, tradition, legacy. . . . I worried the pressure and expectations on Heyward’s shoulders was a burden for him.”

Her face clouded with memory. “Yet it was one he clearly was suited for. He would have been a great steward of Mayfield.”

“Yes,”

I agreed, feeling a twinge at the heart. I had never told her about Heyward’s thoughts of leaving Mayfield and going with Covey to France. That was best kept in the grave with his memory.

“But when Heyward passed, I felt that a more egalitarian approach to inheritance would alleviate such pressures from Lesesne, who clearly was not suited for managing the estate. Or country living, for that matter. I argued with your father for equal distribution between the two of you. I know how you feel about Mayfield. The sacrifices you have made. I hoped too that sharing the estate would promote a healthier relationship between you and Lesesne.”

She reached for her champagne and took a sip. “Oh, the arguments we had.”

Setting the glass back on the table she let her finger trace the rim.

“As you well know, your father did not agree with me. He felt only a son should inherit the family’s property.”

She gave off a short laugh of disgust. “Which is rich, considering it has been his wife’s fortune that has kept the farm afloat these many years. Another age-old tradition.”

She looked me in the eye. “You were the one clearly suited for managing Mayfield.”

The old hurt roiled in my heart, but I tamped it down. “Thank you for that. I appreciated your continued support of Mayfield when I asked for it. I know it was hard for you to give.”

“No matter now,”

Mama replied lightly. “I felt you earned it. You gave up college to run the farm when your father couldn’t. You showed strength, loyalty, and vision. And, in truth, despite all the years of guiding you away from your dreams for Mayfield, I hoped things would end differently for you. That your father would see your worth and reconsider his antiquated position on primogeniture and leave it you.”

She clucked her tongue in frustration. “But in truth, I am relieved you’ve escaped that fate,”

she said. “Let Lesesne inherit Mayfield. You were right, you know. He never wanted it. He was jealous of your brother. Everything came so easily to Heyward. He was the apple of your father’s eye. I daresay Rawlins looked at Lesesne with disappointment.”

She cleared her throat. “No, Lesesne may not have wanted Mayfield. What he wanted was your father’s approval. And God help him, he got it.”

I realized my mother had not read Heyward’s letter, or knew that he’d asked Lesesne to take care of Mayfield. Even still, my mother was also right. Lesesne wanted our father’s approval as well.

She lifted her glass and stared at the amber liquid before adding, “My Lord, your father is a stubborn man. And . . . he’s not well.”

My heart hardened. “Not well? Mama, he’s a drunk.”

Mama’s face was pained, and she quickly looked away. When she could speak, her voice was sad. “Heyward’s death shifted something in him. He’s . . . changed. Like his father was after the war.”

“I don’t know about my grandfather, but I do know that Daddy drinks all day, blusters and storms about, rudely making a mess of everything Wilton and I had worked so hard to achieve.”

I shook my head, brushing away the memories. “Daddy is not the man he was. You’re right. That man died with Heyward.”

Mama’s gaze assessed me quietly. At length, she asked, “When did you become so hard?”

“I’m not hard, Mama,”

I replied soberly. “I’m a realist. I’m no longer the child with dreams.”

Then I added, “Were you hard when you left Daddy?”

“What?”

she asked, startled by my boldness.

“Why did you leave? I had often wondered. You may have avoided scandal by not getting a divorce, but people still talk about your separation.”

Mama blinked several times then said simply, “I was dying.”

I was both surprised and intrigued by her candor.

“There was nothing left for me,”

she continued. “I could not stay at Mayfield to watch Rawlins wither away. And . . . yes. He is a mean drunk.”

“Is there any other kind?”

My mother heard the accusation and looked away. There was no denying that alcohol made her angry and aggressive, as well. Their bitter fights remained scarred on my memories. To her credit, however, she’d curtailed her drinking since she’d left Mayfield. Whether it was the marriage or the place, free from both, I believed she had at last found peace.

Mama finished her champagne, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and smiled with anticipation. “Eliza, I was my parents’ only child. A daughter. You are my only daughter. The beloved granddaughter of your grandparents Bissette. As you know, I inherited their fortune.”

Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “So much for primogeniture, right?”

I raised my glass to her.

“That fortune included the house on East Bay Street. In this envelope—”

she reached out to tap the envelope with her fingertip “—is the deed to that house.”

“Mother, no,” I gasped.

She waved my comment away with an elegant sweep of her hand. “It’s done. It’s not only my great pleasure to give the house to you, but also the right thing to do. Your father determined that only his son would inherit his property. Likewise, I’ve decided that my daughter would receive mine.”

“But Lesesne. He always believed the East Bay house was his.”

“He made his choice.”

I had long accepted that Lesesne had been my mother’s favorite. Or at the very least, she spoiled him and kept him close. While he lived with her at the East Bay house, Lesesne accompanied her to events such as the theater or art shows, proving himself a gallant and handsome escort. After he accepted his inheritance of Mayfield, however, Mama sent him packing. They’d had a fierce row about it. Mama was as unrelenting as my father had been with me. She would not let him return to her house except as a guest.

“I will share my wealth between the two of you, which should be enough for him to maintain Mayfield, should he choose to, and for you to maintain the East Bay house. Now, please, open it.”

I reached across the table for the envelope. Unsealing it, I pulled out the legal document. On the first page, in bold print, Eliza Pinckney Rivers Chalmers was written as the owner of the great house on East Bay Street.

“I never expected this,”

I said in a soft voice.

“Which gives me all the more pleasure to bestow it,”

Mama said. She turned her head, caught the gaze of a waiter and discreetly lifted her hand. Looking at me, she sensed my hesitancy. “Darling girl, the timing is right. Don’t you see? You and Tripp do not have to scrimp and save to buy a house. You can live at East Bay.”

“But where will you live?”

Mama laughed lightly. “Why, with you, of course. It’s a very big house.”

I swallowed thickly, staring at the papers. I would never be able to think of that grand house as mine—especially not as long as my mother lived there. She would always be the lady of the house. I’d lived a lifetime as her daughter. Now I wanted to be Tripp’s wife. I needed to be the master of my own home, no matter how humble. Slipping the papers safely back into the envelope, I placed it on my lap. The waiter arrived and refilled our glasses, finishing the bottle.

“Mama . . .”

I said when the waiter left. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate this. Of course, it is so generous. But . . . Tripp and I, we will be newlyweds. We should live in our own house. We need time to be alone, don’t you think? As husband and wife.”

Mama was bringing her glass to her lips. She held it midair a moment, then set it back on the table. “It’s very sweet, you wanting your own place as newlyweds.”

She reached over to put her hand over mine. “My dear, friendship with a man is a treasure. Marriage, however, is . . . complicated. Love is complicated.”

She sighed and tossed up her hands. “Men are complicated.”

Then she leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Eliza, listen to me carefully. I’m your mother and I recognize my failures in the past. I want to support you in the future. This house provided me with a safe haven. It’s important that a woman have her own money. It allows her freedom of choice. Independence. For that reason, I put the East Bay house in your name only, Eliza.”

Her lips curved in a wry smile. “Consider it matrilinear primogeniture. This is my gift, from mother to daughter.”