When the Splendor Falls Read Free Page A

abode of the gods, ever unchanging: it is neither shaken by winds nor ever wet with rain, nor does snow come near it, but clear weather spreads cloudless about it, and a white radiance stretches above it.

Homer
    Carolina yellow jessamine trailed over the white, split-railed fence bordering the green pastures of Travers Hill. The sweet-scented jessamine was a favorite of Beatrice Amelia Travers, mistress of Travers Hill. Beatrice Amelia was one of the Leighs of South Carolina, and jessamine and azaleas, benne wafers, and the daily ritual of sipping her syllabub were comforting reminders to Beatrice Amelia of her girlhood days in Charleston.
    Fortunately her family enjoyed chicken curry with rice, another of Beatrice Amelia’s favorites, because they had the dish every Sunday, along with crab soup, honey and cinnamon-candied yams, corn fritters, baked ham, garden stuffs, and brandied peaches. Except for Mr. Travers’s bourbon pecan cake, which was always prepared with ceremonial care the afternoon before, Sunday dessert was subject to the seasons. The Travers children, however, had always been very fond of Jolie’s caramel custard, which was a treat for year-round enjoyment. But on this particular Sunday late in July, blackberry cobbler had been planned for the family’s delectation.
    Beatrice Amelia Travers was also very fond of roses. That was why the garden before the entrance to the house had been planted entirely with roses. Beatrice Amelia was especially fond of her Rosa gallica aurelianensis , one of her prized French roses. But it was an old damask rose, lost amongst the China, sweetbriar, and cabbage roses, with its heady scent of cloves that lent such a spicy sweetness to the air when one entered Travers Hill.
    Travers Hill sat upon a wooded knoll overlooking the river and was a pleasant day’s carriage ride from Charlottesville. The curving lane swept up a gentle slope from the river where sweet bay and loblolly grew wild with the willows along the banks. Scattered through the landscaped grounds, the sourwood was heavy with white blossoms, and the camellias and gardenias were in full bloom. A field of sun-bronzed daylilies stretched toward the blue-green pastureland where blooded mares and their foals grazed peacefully in the shade of a gnarled oak. Even the long row of stables, the heart of Travers Hill, showed little sign of activity this sleepy afternoon. A solitary, stately chestnut with a canopy of leafy green branches divided the narrow road halfway up the knoll. One of the lanes led to the sawmill and lumberyard just upriver, and the other curved up to the house and around to the big barns, servants’ quarters, and coach house behind.
    The lower slopes to the east were planted with orchards, the fruit turning amber, scarlet, and purple as peaches, pears, apples, and plums ripened under the summer sun. The valley floor that surrounded Travers Hill like a sea of green was lush with cultivated fields of crops. The master of Travers Hill had proudly predicted a bountiful harvest this year.
    Westward, toward the Blue Ridge Mountains, wooded slopes and tiny hamlets dotted the rolling hill country. The Travers family’s nearest neighbors were downriver at Royal Bay Manor, home of the Braedons, and the finest example of Georgian architecture outside of Richmond. The ties between the two families had become even closer since the eldest Travers daughter, Althea Louise, had wed Nathan Douglas, the firstborn son of the Braedons and the first in line to inherit Royal Bay.
    The Travers family lived in an unpretentious style; the manor house being of modest proportions, the brick facade mellowed with time. The house was tastefully decorated in a comfortable manner that seemed to welcome visitors. Which was perhaps why Travers Hill was always filled with family and friends, and no stranger had ever been turned away from the emerald green door with its pineapple-shaped brass knocker. A row of green-shuttered windows