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Overview
Founded in Portersville, Pennsylvania, in the latter days of Andrew Jackson’s presidency, the Interstate is a small regional railroad with vast potential. Also, it is the birthright of Aaron deWitt’s sons: ruthless yet charming Rufus and stubborn, idealistic Stephen. When Stephen wins control of the Interstate, his victory starts a series of events that will roil the deWitt family for generations.
Over decades, the Interstate grows into an enterprise capable of shaping the future of the nation. Yet, both its triumphs and defeats sow the seeds of the deWitt family’s downfall. Brothers plot against brothers, sons demean fathers, wives betray husbands—all in pursuit of monumental power. Not even Cornelia, Rufus’s beautiful and cunning daughter, can ensure that the deWitt family name won’t disappear.
Spanning nearly a century, Never Victorious, Never Defeated is a brilliant dramatization of the lives of America’s robber barons and further proof that Taylor Caldwell “never falters when it comes to storytelling” (Publishers Weekly).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504053204 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 10/02/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 574 |
| File size: | 19 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Taylor Caldwell (1900–1985) was one of the most prolific and widely read authors of the twentieth century. Born Janet Miriam Holland Taylor Caldwell in Manchester, England, she moved with her family to Buffalo, New York, in 1907. She started writing stories when she was eight years old and completed her first novel when she was twelve. Married at age eighteen, Caldwell worked as a stenographer and court reporter to help support her family and took college courses at night, earning a bachelor of arts degree from the University of Buffalo in 1931. She adopted the pen name Taylor Caldwell because legendary editor Maxwell Perkins thought her debut novel, Dynasty of Death (1938), would be better received if readers assumed it were written by a man. In a career that spanned five decades, Caldwell published forty novels, many of which were New York Times bestsellers. Her best-known works include the historical sagas The Sound of Thunder (1957), Testimony of Two Men (1968), Captains and the Kings (1972), and Ceremony of the Innocent (1976), and the spiritually themed novels The Listener (1960) and No One Hears But Him (1966). Dear and Glorious Physician (1958), a portrayal of the life of St. Luke, and Great Lion of God (1970), about the life of St. Paul, are among the bestselling religious novels of all time. Caldwell’s last novel, Answer as a Man (1981), hit the New York Times bestseller list before its official publication date. She died at her home in Greenwich, Connecticut, in 1985.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
For three days there had been the typical January thaw so that one might have thought spring had come.
Each day everybody prophesied snow for the morrow. But the snow did not come. Instead, the grass turned bright green, and the perennials in the gardens were brilliant with life against the wet black ground. The snow retreated like a white wave against walls and huddled in the hollows in the woods. A pale bright sun burnished the naked limbs of trees and struck the sides of houses with a glow. The river swelled darkly, and mists rolled down the mountains at sunset, and the sky became a soft and tender blue.
It might have been spring except that the earth gave out no scent and the balmy air and winds were sterile of all sweetness, and though the grass was green it had an artificial quality. No tree toads sang at twilight; no bird-song struck the ear. People looked uneasily at the sky or watched the rising river which threatened the valley.
On the fourth night rain began to fall, and there was an ashen look in the sky which slowly took on a pinkish color. Black clouds began to drift rapidly against this eerie background, and suddenly vivid lightning slashed through them. A burst of thunder followed. The storm broke furiously over the countryside, and the bare trees lashed the roaring air, and mountain and valley quivered in the wild blazes of light and seemed to shake in the thunder. The river, illuminated with white flame one moment, then dark the next, tumbled in flight between the hills. It was eleven o'clock, and in the midst of the storm, when Lydia deWitt rose slowly through the oblivion which had engulfed her for hours. Her dazed ears became aware of the battering against the windows, and then her eyes, feeble and still dim, caught the glare of the lightning between the folds of the red velvet curtains. She was very confused. She could not remember where she was. She heard the thunder and asked herself weakly: Is it summer? What has happened to me? The gutter streamed with water, and she could hear it, like a small cataract. Then she saw the lamplight in the room and tried to raise her head.
"Well!" exclaimed a hearty male voice. "She's awake at last! Our Liddie's awake!" The solid floor, heavily carpeted, shook slightly under someone's footsteps. The lamplight flickered before Lydia's vision, and she closed her eyes again. A woman was speaking now, in soft and servile tones: "She's all right now, Mr. deWitt. Our lady is all right. Aren't you, Mrs. deWitt?" Lydia kept her eyes closed and swallowed against her nausea. She shivered when a violent peal of thunder exploded over the house. It was a great and sturdy house, but it trembled under that assault.
"A wonderful baby, Liddie!" said the male voice. "Won't you open your eyes again, and the nurse will bring her in."
Lydia sighed. Her lashes fluttered open. "A girl?" she whispered.
"A lovely girl," said the voice exuberantly. "Bright red hair. Cornelia! Yes, that's what we'll call her."
Cornelia. A hard and rocky name. Lydia lay flat in the huge bed and looked at her husband. She looked at him, and hated him, and turned aside her head. But he continued to stand near her, smiling, tall, wide, and strong, his red and waving hair afire in the lamplight. She could see him as he stood there, though her head was averted. She could see the massiveness of him, and his fine black broadcloth suit, and his black cravat with the pearl pin. She could see his large and ruddy face, his beaming hazel eyes, his thick lips parting widely over big white teeth. His hands were large and white and soft, and he wore a fine signet ring.
She could feel the magnetism that crackled about him, and his health and vitality. She knew he was still broadly smiling. She knew many more things about him, and her loathing mounted in her until she was afraid she would shriek. Her flesh turned hot and she clenched her hands. Her eyes fixed themselves intensely on the fire which spluttered and rose in golden sparks in the throat of the chimney. Then a stiff white skirt and apron intervened between her and the fire, and the voice of Mrs. Brunt, her nurse, spoke again: "I'll bring in the sweet baby for you to see, Mrs. deWitt. Such a beautiful baby girl!"
No, thought Lydia. I don't want it. I don't want to see it. A hand touched the long sweep of her dark hair which coiled on the pillows, and she winced.
"Such a hard time our girl had," said her husband murmurously, continuing to stroke her hair. "But everything's well now. Did you have a good sleep, darling?"
Lydia drew in an exhausted breath. She wondered if she could not throw herself back into that darkness forever. Someone kissed her cheek, and she shrank away. The presence of her husband overpowered her, and her flesh prickled. "Don't," she muttered. "Please don't, Rufus."
Rufus began to laugh. His hand touched her wet throat solicitously. "I don't mind that it's a girl, dearest," he said. "I wanted a boy, yes. But this baby is even better. She looks just like me, Dr. Worth said." His voice, always rich, became richer with pride. Lydia knew his chest was swelling. Red Rufus! she thought with bitter contempt.
She turned her head abruptly and looked at him, wanting him to see the hatred that boiled in her, and which had begun to boil in her less than three months after their marriage. She could not help herself now. Her large dark eyes brimmed with the fire of her hatred, and her pale mouth opened, involuntarily. She stared at her husband, her white face shining with the passion of detestation she had concealed for over two years. She did not care if he saw it; she willed him to see it.
Rufus stepped back. His reddish brows drew together as if he were bewildered. His face took on that anxious young look which was so appealing to women. Mrs. Brunt saw it, and clucked. "Sometimes ladies are disturbed at a time like this," she said consolingly. "Perhaps I'd better not bring in the baby yet. Mrs. deWitt ought to sleep some more."
But husband and wife regarded each other fixedly, and in silence. Then Lydia, looking only at Rufus, said slowly and clearly, "I don't want to see the baby."
"Of course not; not yet," said Mrs. Brunt soothingly. "We must sleep a little more...."
Lydia said, "I want to see Alice and Stephen."
Rufus glanced away, and after a moment he said jovially, "Why, of course, my darling! They're still here. They never went away. And Mama and Papa are waiting up."
He took a step toward the fire, and Lydia could see the strong muscles of his back and shoulders. He began to stir up the coals; they shattered and filled the big warm room with yellow light. He stood there then and stared into the fire. He said softly, "What's the matter, Liddie?" He looked at the closed door through which Mrs. Brunt had vanished.
Lydia became aware for the first time of the huge pain in her body. She writhed with it, gripping the sheets. Sweat burst out over her face. The hatred in her mind and the pain in her flesh were too much to be borne. She cried out, suffocatingly. Rufus did not turn. He pushed a fallen coal back onto the hearth. His red hair was lighted up by the firelight, and it was like a nimbus over and around his large head.
"I'll never have another child!" exclaimed Lydia, and she writhed again in her agony. "Not ever by you, Rufus!"
He came to her now, apprehensive and genuinely concerned. He did not touch her. He began to frown, and he bit his underlip thoughtfully. He was uncertain and baffled. It could not be possible that Lydia hated him, he thought. It was just imagination, or the lamplight, or the suffering she had endured, which had given such a fierceness to her eyes.
"Why, Liddie," he said. "I don't understand. Of course, you've had a dreadful time, and women —"
Lydia lay on her pillows, panting, looking up at him, her hands tense and white as they pulled the sheet over her in a self-protective and instinctive gesture. She had no more words. The emotion that surged in her was too powerful for speech. It had been there, held down, kept in control, for over two years. Now it rose to her lips in a flood of cold rage and loathing. The habits of twenty-four years of gentle breeding could not be overcome, however, so she was silent.
Rufus spoke again, almost inaudibly, and as if to himself: "You look at me as if you hate me, Liddie. Why? What have I done? Have I hurt you in any way, my darling? You know how much I love you, don't you, Liddie? Was the pain too much for you?"
Lydia said through the hard muscles in her throat, "Yes."
He was satisfied, and relieved. Ladies like Lydia, who had always been protected and sheltered, sometimes became emotional after childbirth. Dr. Worth had warned him of this. There might even be a period of "depression" and "melancholy." It was quite usual. He looked down into Lydia's eyes, and saw the bright and staring fever of them, the furious concentration. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, frowning again.
The firelight leaped and fell over the white walls, touched the crimson velvet curtains to a brighter color, stretched in shadows over the white ceiling with its gold molding. At Lydia's feet, the carved bedposts with their pineapple-shaped tops rose like the slender trunks of trees. Two blue velvet chairs were drawn near the fire, and there was a gold silk sofa near the windows matching the soft gold of the carpet. A mirror over the fireplace reflected the room and its fine furnishings and the lamp which stood on a distant table.
"There's been a storm while you slept, dearest," said Rufus. "Thunder and lightning. Like summer." His voice was tentative and troubled.
Lydia turned away her head again and closed her eyes. Oh, God! she thought. If I never had to see him again! She did not think of her child at all.
The door opened and Mrs. Brunt appeared. She was a short stout woman with a coarse and friendly face, though her small eyes were fawning and obsequious. She smiled at Rufus archly, and lifted a fat finger in coy warning. "Mr. and Mrs. deWitt, sir. But only for a moment. Please. We must sleep, you know."
Lydia turned on her pillows eagerly. There was her sister, her dear sister Alice, and Stephen. They were coming toward her, walking gently. She held out her hand to Alice, and her fingers closed tightly about her sister's fingers.
"She's very tired. It's been hard," said Rufus. The handsome and ruddy face had turned cold, though it still smiled. It was impossible for Rufus not to smile. "She mustn't be disturbed too much."
Alice bent over Lydia and her pretty, light blue eyes filled with tears and sympathy. One of her long pale curls touched Lydia's cheek. She whispered, "Dear Lydia. I'm so glad it's over. And such a beautiful baby. Hush, dear. Hush, hush." Lydia was trembling violently, and her fingers clutched Alice's hand in a kind of desperation.
"Don't leave me, Alice, don't leave me!"
Alice was alarmed. She stroked her sister's damp forehead and tried to understand the frantic expression in her eyes. This was not like Lydia, the quiet, the humorous, the steadfast and poised. She had never seen Lydia like this, not even when their parents had died after a long struggle against "lung fever." There was something frightfully wrong with Lydia. Was it so awful, then, to have a child? With apprehension, she thought of her own child, who would be born in three months.
Even in her suffering, Lydia at last saw the fear in her gentle sister's eyes. Alice was only twenty-one, three years younger than herself, and she had always protected her, for Alice was frail. She told herself sternly that she was frightening this young creature, and she despised herself for her emotionalism. She held her body stiff against her trembling, and tried to smile.
"Don't mind me," she said in a stifled voice. "I'm just tired, Alice." She pressed Alice's fingers lovingly against her cheek in an old gesture of affectionate protection. Nothing must hurt Alice, who had never known hatred and anger and who had never felt an overpowering detestation for anybody, and who had lived always in trust and under the shelter of the love of parents and sister. Nothing must disturb Alice's dream of life, in which all mankind was good and heroic, all things lovely and tender, with God in His heaven and war a nightmare which did not exist in reality. The dream had been so strong in this young woman, who in so many ways was only a child, that the war which had ended less than a year ago had not really touched her consciousness. She had been horrified at Mr. Lincoln's assassination, and had cried a little, and had been comforted by her husband, and everyone had conspired to drive the event from her mind. Within a few weeks she had forgotten. No one spoke of that death in her presence again.
"You are so white, Lydia," said Alice, and her voice shook.
Lydia called on her strength, and patted her sister's cheek. "It was nothing, dear. Nothing. I'll be well very shortly. You'll see."
There was no comfort anywhere for her, no consolation, no courage, no friend. All her life she had had to be the strong one in a family which never faced reality. She thought of her parents, so like Alice, so small and fragile and touching. As a sturdy child, she had known all about them, and had defended them against all ugliness and truth. She could not remember when she had first appointed herself as their protector; to her, it seemed that it had been forever.
She thought now of that gracious and charming home in which she had been born, and in which her parents had died. She saw the timeless gardens with the fountainlike willows and the white beeches and the tall elm trees which massed their branches together in dark enchantment. She saw the lilacs and the rose gardens, the dial and the moss-covered flagstones; she heard the cheeping and the songs of birds in the misty sunlight. The very mountains which rose far beyond had a purple unreality about them, and even the storms and the winters were dreams.
The rooms of the house never echoed; the windows always seemed to shine softly. The fires never roared. Even the winds were quiet here, never once drowning out the sound of tinkling teacups, sweet low laughter, and gliding footsteps. Life had muted itself around that house. Nothing had ever caused a book to be dropped abruptly, nor had a voice ever been raised in annoyance or anger. When death came, it came noiselessly, without pain and without distress. Lydia remembered now, and the strange suffocating sensation which she had known for so many years in her parents' home returned to her overwhelmingly.
Recalling all this, and seeing her sister's lovely young face, Lydia demanded more and more of her strength. She kissed Alice's hand, and weakly tried to laugh.
"I'm almost well, now, dear Alice," she said. The sickness in her heart, the pain in her body, the wild hatred in her mind, must not be revealed to her sister again. She murmured lovingly when Alice bent over her even farther and pressed her soft cheek against her own. The pale curls lay across Lydia's lips, and she kissed them remorsefully. Alice's scent, as tenuous and as light as herself, filled Lydia's nostrils. She put her arms about the girl's shoulders, for Alice had begun to cry.
Someone was lifting Alice away from her. It was Stephen, brother of Rufus. Lydia looked up at him gratefully. He held Alice to him, while she wept gently, and smiled down at Lydia. She lifted a hand to him and he caught it and held it kindly and warmly. She did not see Rufus standing at a little distance with that cold smirk on his face.
Stephen deWitt was a tall, thin, and unprepossessing man of thirty-two, his brother's elder by two years. Nothing glowed or brightened about him. He gave an impression of muted brownness, of faded insignificance. His body was narrow, his face was narrow and without virility, and his eyes were small and light brown. He had a long and crooked nose, a quiet mouth under a large brown mustache, big ears and scanty brownish hair. He was like a shadow beside his brother's blazing color; when Rufus was present he appeared to retreat, to become entirely inconspicuous, even absent. People always forgot him immediately. If they spoke of him at all they invariably remarked that he was repellent, uninteresting, without conversation or wit or charm, and that he had not much intelligence. It was "well known" that without Rufus's quick intellect and strength and tireless vitality Stephen would be "nothing."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Never Victorious, Never Defeated"
by .
Copyright © 1954 Taylor Caldwell.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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