Chapter 26- Aging

4 JANUARY 1860

I am still in disbelief over what happened yesterday. Rufus called for a meeting with both John and me, and he also asked Joe to attend. I feared the worst.

As soon as my two sons came to the parlor, I spoke of things that worried me the most. “Oh, Rufus, tell us. Something very serious must be wrong to ask us to meet with you.” 

Our boys exchanged a glance. Joe’s face was unreadable, but Rufus’s eyes held a depth of thought that made my heart race even faster. Why were they delaying? The suspense was unbearable. Perhaps they were trying to soften the blow, whatever it might be.

“Mother,” Rufus began, his voice measured and calm. “Please, do not jump to conclusions.”

He cleared his throat and asked his father to put his newspaper down. “Father, we are here to speak about business, and Mother, we are in good health. But I fear you will not take it well.”

My hand flew to my mouth, and I gasped. “Oh, my! What news would upset us so?”

“Quickly come to the point, though with less drama,” my husband added, trying to mask worry with a facade of impatience.

Rufus took a deep breath, his eyes flicking to his brother, who shrugged as if to absolve himself of whatever was coming. “First, I wish to point out that Joe has been consulted on various details.”

I braced myself, clutching the armrest of my chair. 

“Just say it, son,” I blurted, unable to take the suspense any longer.

He hesitated, his brow furrowing.

I had a feeling we would need water soon. So, I called for Sally. The room fell silent until she left with her task completed.

“Father, as you approach sixty-two and Mother will have her sixty-first birthday in two days, we wish you to have more leisure time. You deserve to play with your grandchildren, catch up with friends, attend church, and enjoy long walks.”

“Son,” I interjected, “is there something wrong that you think we cannot manage without you? I am forgetful and often sit and ponder things for hours, but what harm does it do? We are not so old yet that we cannot make decisions for ourselves.”

“Louisa,” John said, turning to me, “contemplation is not the same as inaction. And as for aging, we are simply growing wiser.”

Looking at Rufus, he added, “I believe your mother is managing splendidly.”

“Please, do not misunderstand me. I am not saying you are incapable. You are both as sharp as ever. My point is, you have worked hard all your lives and deserve to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

My husband stood and began pacing. “If this is about my cotton gin, then this should not concern you. You have never taken an interest.”

“But John Weldon does know everything about it. He paid a visit to me months ago with his concerns, but yesterday told me it was time for action,” Rufus stated, his tone growing more insistent.

“He talked to you? Oh, I see. This is regarding the money he has invested in my factory.”

“Yes, the investment and more. The business is struggling to meet its obligations, and something needs to change.”

“Look, son, I acknowledge he and you have become very close over the years.” John was stating the obvious. “I presume that he worries we are not keeping up with the demand.”

Rufus crossed his arms, his stance growing more defensive. “Father, the market is changing, and we must adapt if we’re going to survive.”

John stopped pacing and glared at his son. “Adapt? We have always adapted. Every shift in the market—we have faced them all and come out stronger. This is no different.”

“But it is different. The political climate, the economic uncertainties—these are factors we cannot control.”

“Dear,” I said softly, hoping to mediate, “perhaps we should listen to what he has to propose. He is only trying to help.”

My husband glanced at me before directing his attention again to Rufus. “This is my business. I built it from the ground up, and I’m not ready to hand it over to anyone just yet.”

“No one is asking you to step aside. Weldon’s concerns are valid, but they are not insurmountable.”

John knew his son was speaking sense, even if it was hard to hear. “I suppose we should issue stock or something that recognizes his investment.”

“Father, Mr. Weldon will not require notes of you. But he believes he needs to step in and help run it, using the considerable business acumen he has. This would leave you free to invent whatever pleases you. And you could still exhibit at the fairs and give talks and visit the planters to make sure they are satisfied with your gins.”

“Thunder!” John pounded the wall so hard, the painting of me he had commissioned fell to the floor. Joe placed it back on the wall.

“Tarnation!” 

He flung open the door, his face flushed with anger. He stormed down the hallway, his footsteps heavy and unrestrained, then burst through the front door with a force that made it rattle on its hinges.

I turned to Rufus, my voice trembling. “Are we in danger of losing the house?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Not directly, Mother. And not immediately. Weldon tells me he and John Erving have spoken about mortgage that Erving holds. So long as he is alive, he will never call the note. But at the behest of his attorneys, he is placating his heirs.”

I felt ill. 

“Water,” I croaked, turning to Joe who was nearest the pitcher. I could say little else, my mind a whirl of dread and denial.

Joe poured a glass and handed it to me with the care of a nurse tending to a frail patient.

Rufus broke the silence. “Father takes calculated risks.”

My son is pragmatic, willing to face harsh realities we choose to ignore.

“Do you believe that Weldon’s intervention will save us?”

He hesitated. “I believe that he has the experience and the resources to navigate these changes. But it will require some concessions. We cannot do this alone.”

Joe had been listening intently. I could not read his expression how much of this was a surprise to him, too. “Do not worry. Mr. Weldon has always been considerate, and even magnanimous. But, Rufus,” he turned to his brother, “I got the impression he is so deeply concerned that he will settle for nothing less than partnership.”

Rufus strode across the room and seated himself next to me. He softened his tone as he held my hand. “I have been a neglectful son. Between my practice and my family, time just slips away. I am so sorry.”

“Rufus, you are not entirely to blame. My mind drifts at times. I am often thinking about something else and forget my surroundings. I am not the attentive mother and grandmother you deserve.”

My son squeezed my hand. “Your mind is as sharp as ever.”

I smiled weakly, grateful for his reassurance. “But what of your father? This will crush his spirit.”