Regardless if you're using a lens or an eye, the real treasure of Rosewood Plantation is its pillared palatial home. Whether it's a passing guest from a neighboring plantation, a wandering horseman escaping 'Nawlins, or even a member of this planter family, the Rosewood mansion was nothing short of breathtaking. The eight Doric columns that guarded the tall double doors with its ornate detail were unlike any other along the great Mississippi river estates in the fact that elements of Grecian mythology could be traced near the columns' caps as they met the sweeping ceiling, common reflections of the enormous wealth held by this family in this land of white gold. To the left of the mansion, right before the courtyard disappears near the huge row of snowball bushes bursting with baby blue blossoms, one of the family carriages has just returned from an outing swarmed by young black bucks working to polish its ivory sides and gold trimmings respectful of older grooms wiped down the four white horses that pulled the luxurious landaulet to and from its journey. Inside of this white southern castle, it becomes more evident of which family member had gallivanted away from Rosewood this afternoon as the young and beautiful Tricia Lynn, the flirty, short-tempered niece of Beatrice Tarleton from Georgia, appeared to float across the shiny marble floor in her billowing yellow frock while still holding her matching parasol above her head as she twirled it in anticipation. The elaborate laced-edges of white ribbon of her spreading skirt made a soft hiss as they barely glided on the smooth surface, proof that it wasn't just her Daddy's fortune that assured the young belle her position in elegance. As she entered the large study, which she normally found boring on most afternoons, Tricia Lynn was relieved to see the light rings of smoke gently bursting above the great oak chair that cornered the large yet empty fireplace. "Oh good!" she thought, "Daddy is here!" On opposite ends of the arched entry way leading into the study, two Negro maid house servants in common black and white uniforms stood in silence as Tricia Lynn stretched her frilly parasol outward to be immediately retrieved by the servant just to her left. As she approached the leather arm resting above the base of the French design, she stopped for only a moment and in a swirl of frothy crinolines, eased into a backward motion as the coquettish belle gracefully tip-toed and plopped down on her Daddy's lap of white satin pants, spilling her mounds of poufy fluffy dress all about him and the chair.
The interior of the chair was clearly large enough for both his posterior as well as her tiny frame yet her dress was smothering. With his bifocals on, Daddy – or Planter Beauregard as the citizens of Natchez referred to him, was caught up in a report in his favorite daily newspaper, The Cotton Fields. As he held the journal at a brief distance from his eyes before her, the handsome, distinguished gentleman inhaled a deep breath and looked amused as his daughter. The crunching sound of wide hoops, as they adjusted to her position, was in no doubt what prompted the idle standing black girl to rush to their side, dropping to her apron covered knees as she began to knead the ruffled edges of Tricia Lynn's skirt, gathering wads of expensive ribbon and taffeta trimmings in the process all in the effort to reshape and prevent the materials from forming unwelcome wrinkles. With a sigh, her Daddy removed the pipe from his lips and looked up from his reading column and placed his eyes on his only daughter, the heir to Rosewood and the future Mistress of this prosperous empire of wealth. "Oh June bug…what is it Princess" he asked humorously. Regardless of her sixteen years of age, Tricia Lynn would always be his little girl and she reassured his justification as she spoke in the tone of a spoiled child with an adolescent voice. With her delicate hands around his lavender pastel neck cravat that decorated the collar and top buttons of his rather puffy, frivolous embroidered shirt, she fidgeted with it at first, then purposely untied it. "Oh Pooh Daddy. Do you not think for one minute that I just don't like sitting on your lap?" Struggling to keep a straight face, the successful planter caught her antic and played along. "Of course dear. I could never suspect that you had an ulterior motive for sitting on my lap like this," as he chuckled with a deep laugh squeezed from the pits of his smoky lungs. As she began pouring out compliments of how beautiful the plantation looked today followed by how handsome she found him reading his journal, his eyes wandered back to the newspaper.
As she continued her innocent canter, he became disengaged from her chatter. Soon, she was visually interrupted as she saw one of the serving house grooms bringing her a refreshing crystal glass of lemonade, a plantation custom to be served to members of the family after returning from carriage rides in the humid afternoons here in the South. Turning back to her Daddy, she released the cravat and put both hands on his bifocals, removing them as she smiled. As the black groom bent over to serve her, she placed the bifocals on the tray as well as the newspaper as she pulled it from his grasp without resistance. Taking the lemonade, she took a sip as the servant bowed to his owners and trailed off in the distance. "Well Daddy… You know how I visited Shadowvale this afternoon?" she teased. "Did you have a nice time?" he asked. "Yes of course. But while I was there Daddy, I asked Mr. McCord and his son Preston over for dinner this evening." With a long pause to gage his facial expression, she continued "I know sometimes you don't feel like socializing, especially during the planting season. But Daddy, they were so hospitable to me today – why we even had ice cream under their gazebo by the lily pond!" she said with humility. "I just couldn't help myself and if I had stayed longer, why they would have insisted I join them for dinner. I know how much you like it when I'm at the dining table with you and Mother." Laughing, the wise planter looked his daughter in the eyes, protected by fluttering thick lashes and shades of fashionable makeup worn by all of the ladies of class in Natchez, he sighed and said "Honey… that's fine." Then with a sly grin, the gentle Master said, "I take it the cavalier Preston is anxious to officially declare as your exclusive suitor?" "Fiddle-dee-dee Daddy," she said coyly, "I do confess that he is extremely witty and one day will be the Master of Shadowvale and all its property and people, but he isn't as handsome as you Daddy," she flirted. Without waiting for any follow-up questions, Tricia Lynn reached for his flamboyant cravat and began to tie back around his neck. With a snug pull, she said "Thank you Daddy for being the best Daddy a southern girl could wish for!" As he proudly stiffened his proud chest to allow her to finish tying the cravat into the perfect ascot, he noticed the black girl, almost unnoticed, still on her knees, fluffing his daughter's voluminous petticoats and satin garments. Triggered by embarrassment from his daughter's condescension, irritated, he brashly swatted the slave on top of her turban head and shooed her with his hand. Finishing the final pull on the lavender ascot, Tricia Lynn said "Why Daddy, did I embarrass you?" Shaking his head, she continued "Don't be embarrassed Daddy, especially in front of the darkies" she giggled. "What am I going to do with you?" he smiled. "Hold that thought Daddy. If the McCords are coming, I must tell Ezra to prepare the kitchen slaves for our guests." With a gleam of joy in her thick eye-lashed blue eyes, she asked "Do you think we can have that new hand-painted porcelain set Mother purchased in Charleston last month served?" "Why I don't see why not dear," he agreed. With a huge kiss on the cheek, Tricia Lynn tossed her dangling curls, and then rose as she inflated the hoops that under carried her yellow piles of overskirt.
With a glide across the floor, she turned back to her Daddy. "Oh my… whatevah shall I wear?" With a shrug of his white-jacketed shoulders, he said nothing but watched his lovely southern belle prance across the floor of the study, talking to herself as her thoughts in the form of girlie words faded into the rotunda. Expressing her sweet southern accent, she yelled to Ezra, the Rosewood butler, that guests were coming before ascending up the double-swirling staircase to her room…