This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

  A girl to whom they would not be introduced, Charity thought bitterly. A girl in a pumpkin-colored dress who would be gone like Cinderella before the musicians struck a note. A girl with whom they would never dance a measure or exchange a pleasantry.

  Chastened by her situation, she went back indoors and trudged upstairs to “help the ladies.”

  Upstairs was a madhouse. Many of the upriver planters’ wives and daughters, who had arrived with their dresses in trunks, had brought their own maids to attend them. The maids giggled, they chattered, they got underfoot. Some of the maids were penniless French Huguenot girls, lucky to have made their escape from the Terror in France; others were round-eyed black women in bright flounced cottons who had done this many times before and looked forward to the occasion as an opportunity to see their friends and relatives from other plantations.

  With what composure she could muster, Charity took control. She learned that Megan had assigned the rooms. The “ladies” would be sleeping packed two and three to a bed in the big second floor bedrooms. The younger ones were assigned to trundle beds which would be pulled out at night. But the maids were to be crammed into the attic, some of them on mattresses on the floor. The “gentlemen” were to be quartered downstairs in makeshift beds after the frivolities ended—and the overflow would go back in a covey of carriages to Charles Towne.

  Caught up in a sea of swirling petticoats, with maids running about trying to unpack amid angry cries as hurrying ladies barked their shins against hastily opened trunks set on the floor, Charity tried to make order out of the madness. She combed hair—on heads that would not stay still as they turned from side to side to gossip. She pinned on ribbons and helped pull petticoats over too-large bosoms and fiercely tightened sashes around protesting waistlines. By the time the music struck up she was exhausted and sank down grimly to await the arrival of the first lady who—her circulation impaired by her tight waist—would succumb to heat and require the smelling salts.

  But Charity’s hair clung damply to her neck and her new dress stuck to her so, that she decided to risk Marie’s displeasure again by taking a turn around the dark lawn. Leaving the churning group of maids—who would surely be able to deal with whatever rent gowns or attacks of the vapors might arise—she made her way downstairs.

  At the foot of the stairs stood a little knot of people. Marie, a vision in silvery lace and mauve brocade, was among them, but she had her back to Charity and so could not immediately banish her upstairs. They were talking animatedly and drinking champagne from the tall crystal goblets that had arrived with the last shipment of goods the extravagant Marie had ordered from England. The champagne had doubtless been smuggled in from France, Charity decided.

  An oldish gentleman Charity recognized as Dr. Cavendish was talking to Marie as Charity reached them. His legs were encased—as they always were—in voluminous old-fashioned “rhinegrave” trousers, but he had vast estates upriver so everybody overlooked his eccentricities.

  “The lights of London will shine ne’er so bright as the candles of Magnolia Barony,” he was saying gallantly, as Charity reached them.

  “Then nothing will dissuade you from taking the Gull and leaving us?” cried Marie on a note of mock despair. “How will we pass the winter without your company?”

  “As I told ye last April, I’ll be taking the Gull when she sails, and that’s Saturday with the tide. But the ten thousand pounds I was taking has dwindled to five.”

  “Oh, and how is that?”

  Charity paused to listen.

  “Tis for a friend upriver I’m carrying the money to pay off his son’s gaming debts in London. But the lad writes he’s had a bit of luck lately and won some back. So I’ll be taking five thousand pounds to buy the lad out of trouble—and bringing him back with me.”

  “You’d better be careful, carrying so much money,” laughed Marie, “that these cursed pirates don’t take it from you!”

  “They’ll not, they’ll not. As I told you, twill be in the false bottom of a most disreputable wooden chest—no respectable pirate would be wanting it!”

  “Unless they sink you and the disreputable chest goes to the bottom!” Marie continued to tease him.

  “Ah, that’s why I’m sailing on the Gull, even though she’s going first to Barbadoes, which is not a place I want to visit,” said Dr. Cavendish triumphantly. “But the Gull’s captain is a friend of mine and a sensible fellow. If he sees the Jolly Roger hoisted and they fire a shot across his bows, he’ll stop. And as all know, these pirates are out for gain, not blood—they’ll let us go quietly.”

  At this there was a storm of protest, but Charity moved on. Dr. Cavendish and his dangerous excursion into pirate-infested waters held no interest for her.

  All the doors and windows had been opened to their widest extent to admit the breezes, and Charity, slipping out one, walked disconsolately down the lawn toward the river.

  She turned as she heard a step behind her suddenly. One of the gentlemen had followed her from the house.

  His elegant clothes were of pink satin of a shade Charity preferred on women. His periwig was large and correct and very tightly curled. She was sure he must wax his mustache to give it such a stiff pointed appearance. But his face was what interested her most. Long and slightly sallow in complexion, with heavy lids that drooped over dark brown eyes. Watchful eyes, and a slightly sneering mouth.

  “Ah,” he said. “In the moonlight here under the trees, I thought you were someone else.”

  His narrowed eyes and half smile told her that he would willingly accept her as a substitute. She glared at him. His name was René du Bois, and she had seen him on several occasions when he had come with groups to the plantation. But she had never liked his face or the calculating way he had of stripping women with his eyes.

  “I am myself,” she said quietly, “and no one else.” And started back toward the house.

  Idly she wondered for whom he waited, lingering out there under the trees. On impulse she decided to find out, and instead of returning, made her way into a tangle of shrubbery where she could see him standing in the fitful moonlight by the river bank, a wiry arrogant figure, foppishly well dressed.

  As the moon went behind a bank of clouds, she cursed the darkness for there was a swift swish of running footsteps across the lawn and she heard René’s whispered, “Here, chérie, under these branches where we will not be discovered!”

  At that moment, Charity regretted her decision to stay, for the couple were coming in her direction. They halted only a few feet from her and, in the darkness, she heard René’s low laugh, heard him say, “Ah, these hooks on the bodice—they are hard to undo!”

  Charity’s face reddened. She had not intended to be a Peeping Tom—only from idle curiosity to identify the woman who would creep into the darkness to meet René. And yet she dared not leave or she would surely be discovered.

  Now, from under its cloud cover, the white moon appeared again and through the sheltering bushes Charity could see them plainly.

  It was Marie! Skirts up, bodice undone, she lay on her back looking up at the thin dark Frenchman resting on his arms above her.

  “Ah, René, René,” she sighed. “If only I could be with you more....”

  “Ah, but you could, chérie.” With a supple motion his body closed with hers and he pressed his lips against her ear, her throat. Lazily she pushed him away, turned on her side, staring moodily toward the bushes and causing Charity hastily to move back, lest she be seen.

  “No, René, it is not possible,” Marie said moodily.

  “There is always your long-lost brother,” he said.

  “I cannot send Alan on another wild goose chase,” she protested, and Charity’s pulse quickened. Wild goose chase? She bent closer, more afraid she would not catch the next words than she was of being discovered.

  René looked surprised. “You have used this ploy before?”

  “Twice before. Once I told him I had a letter fro
m Williamsburg. Another time from Boston.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Then you have had other lovers before me?”

  She twisted away from him impatiently. “Of course. Many. Did you think you were the first?”

  He caught her wrist in such a painful grip that she winced. “No, chérie, I did not. I had only hoped I would be the last.”

  “Of course you are the last, René. What do you take me for?” Again she tried to twist away from him. “You’re hurting me,” she said sharply.

  He gave a low laugh but kept his cruel hold on her wrist.

  “I have never taken you for anything but what you are,” he said. “Completely desirable, completely irresistible.” He kissed her again, then his head came up, his eyes glittering. “But tell me, the flame must have burned bright with these other lovers that you would go to—shall we say ‘equal lengths’—to rid yourself of your burdensome husband for a time so that you might linger on the grass with them?”

  “I should never have told you,” she said pettishly. “Now you will give me no peace!”

  “Ah, but I would know, Marie.” He twisted her arm so that she gave a low cry. “Who were they?”

  “One was a—a planter who lived near here,” she gasped. “He has since died. The Indians killed him. So, you have no need to be jealous of him.”

  “And the other?”

  “Please, René, you are hurting me!”

  He kept his grip. “And the other?”

  “My groom!” she gasped. “The boy who took care of my horse.”

  He gave a sneering laugh. “So you would stoop to the servants?”

  “He was not born a servant, René. He was of good blood and bound to my husband by his father in England for a period of three years—to pay his passage and give him a start in this new land and some education.”

  “And you supplied him with this education.” His voice was heavy with irony as he let her go.

  Her hand lashed across his face. “How dare you speak to me like that?” she cried. “He was handsome and homesick and I was lonely for England. Alan was busy—he neglected me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I begin to understand.” His hands stroked her throat, wandered down to her breasts, found their way under her skirts. “You are a woman of hot blood, Marie. You cannot be packed away like winter clothing in a trunk to be taken out when needed. So, you looked about and your eyes lit on this young stalwart fresh from England and you took him to your bed. Tell me, what happened to him? Is he still about?”

  “No, he ran away. Before my husband returned from Boston.”

  “Ah, I see. This groom was a man of honor. He could not face what he had done. And do you hear from him?”

  “No, never. Oh, have done with this talk, René!” she cried impatiently. “There is no one but you—no one else, ever.”

  “Not even your husband?” he laughed, as he lowered his body once again to hers.

  “No one,” she murmured brokenly, almost with grief in her voice. “No one. You have destroyed all men for me, René. There can never be another.”

  They were silent then, their bodies straining against each other in desperate passion, and the only sound was the wind sighing through the trees and an occasional moan almost of pain from the lovers on the grass.

  Charity was staggered by what she had heard. White-faced and wrathful, she turned away from what she had seen.

  Marie—the lying cheat! She had duped her husband, told him lies, sent him on wild goose chases, had a succession of lovers. Wild with rage. Charity waited until René rolled over on his side and Marie sat up, hurriedly fastening the hooks of her bodice.

  “Do not go,” René said lazily.

  “Oh, René,” she whispered. “I told Alan I felt faint and would lie down for a while upstairs. But if I am gone too long he will go up to see what is wrong. Please, René, I must get back to my guests. To stay is to court discovery.”

  Reluctantly, he let her go and she hurried back through the trees toward the kitchen door, while he sauntered back toward the front door. Charity waited impatiently and then followed. When she reached the house she saw René standing in the front door smiling at her with narrowed eyes. Her face reddened as she brushed past him and went upstairs.

  There the bedrooms were as busy as coach stops, with big-skirted women jostling each other and maids colliding as corsets were loosened for a “breath of air” and needles were swiftly applied to burst seams and torn stepped-on hems. But the cyclone of skirts and petticoats swirling about her seemed unimportant now. As did the fact that she had not been invited to the ball.

  She had seen René and Marie, and René knew that she had seen them. Would he tell Marie?

  The next day, when Charity combed out Marie’s hair, she was sure that he had. Silently Charity wielded the silver comb, and when she had finished, the scented woman in the lace combing jacket turned and considered her with a look of cool hard resentment.

  “The other ladies will need your services,” Marie said. “Be about it.” Not all the guests had departed; many still lingered to enjoy Alan Bellingham’s lavish hospitality.

  In silent fury, Charity left to see to the other ladies.

  She had no doubt that Marie knew and would take appropriate measures. What those measures would be she could not even guess, but if Marie thought that Charity would inform on her to Alan, she would stop at nothing to get rid of her.

  Three days later Charity finally learned what it could mean to threaten the beautiful Marie.

  All the guests had departed by then and Alan had gone in to Charles Towne by pirogue. When he returned, in the midst of a drenching storm, he brought with him the mail from Barbadoes.

  Alan rushed into the house dripping rainwater and, taking off his periwig, he shook it out quickly. Charity smiled. She much preferred his own hair, which was the same ash-blond shade as his wig. With a lighthearted greeting she walked past him and made a swift run across the wet lawn to McNabb’s office.

  She had just climbed on the high stool near McNabb’s desk to begin working on the accounts when there was a noise at the door.

  She looked up as a little black face peered in the door and a piping voice said she was wanted at the big house.

  Arriving wet and panting after her second run across the lawn, Charity shook out her wet skirts like a spaniel shaking itself. She found Marie and Alan in the long double living room. Both of the great fireplaces were lit and the room was cozy and bright. Soaked almost to the skin, Charity sneezed, destroying the dignity of her entrance.

  “You wanted me?” she asked, noting that Marie was regarding her with a wolfish smile.

  Alan frowned. “Yes, we do.” He looked very handsome today, even though the rain had streaked his velvet coat “My wife heard from her sister in Barbadoes.”

  Charity waited, thinking: And now she’ll go running off to Barbadoes again, but how does that concern me?

  “The children’s governess has eloped,” said Marie. “It is a difficult situation since there is no one to replace her.”

  Alan cleared his throat. “We hoped you would be willing to go out there and replace the governess until—”

  “Until a more suitable governess can be sent out from England,” said Marie flatly.

  Alan looked unhappy. “Of course, if you feel you don’t—”

  “Nonsense,” Marie cut in crisply. “Charity would enjoy the change. Barbadoes is lovely this time of year. I only wish I could go myself but—” she sighed —“I’ve been away so much this year.” Her gaze on Charity was expectant.

  Charity looked at Alan. “Don’t you need me here?”

  “Oh, we can make do,” he assured her, “until you return. It cannot be for long. Four or five months at the outside.”

  An eternity without him! Charity looked stricken.

  Her gaze flew to Marie. No help could be expected there. Marie was looking at her with steady unreadable eyes.

  “We’d be awfully grateful,” said
Alan in a humble tone.

  Charity melted. “I’ll be glad to do it,” she said. “Shall I write to you when their new governess arrives?”

  “My sister will keep us advised,” said Marie lightly. “But you can write and keep us informed of the children’s well-being. I am very attached to them, you know.”

  Charity knew. More attached to her sister’s children than to her own husband apparently.

  “When am I to leave?”

  “On Saturday,” said Marie promptly. “You will sail on the Gull”

  “Isn’t that rather soon?” protested Alan. “I’d like her to go over the accounts with McNabb first.”

  “No, Dr. Cavendish is sailing on the Gull,” insisted Marie. “He can look after Charity and make sure she reaches my sister safely. I’ll send word to him today—I’m sure he’ll be glad to do this small favor for me. You must arrange for her passage, Alan.”

  All the way to Barbadoes in the company of a man in his seventies. A delightful prospect for a twenty-year-old girl. Charity gave Marie a sour look and went off to her room. As she climbed the stairs, she looked back to see Alan squaring his shoulders in an effort to express his unconcern.

  The next day, the weather turned perfect with clear sunny skies. The magnolia leaves were a dark shiny green and the lawn had never seemed more lush. Heartbroken at being sent away. Charity walked about during the two days she had left, moving idly across the lawns, strolling through the rose garden. At the landing she lingered, wistfully watching an occasional pirogue glide by on the sluggish river.

  Magnolia Barony had never seemed so beautiful as it did now that she was leaving it.

  On Friday night, with tightly compressed lips, Charity packed her pitifully few belongings—the old mended dress and chemise, the brave new pumpkin-colored dress and stockings and ribbons she had bought with her earnings.

  On Saturday morning with her head held high and her expression unconcerned, in case Marie should be watching, Charity sauntered down the stairs with everything she owned in the little casket. She wore new shoes and chemise, but her dress was the same one in which she had arrived—the green cotton Alan had bought for her on board the Marybella. She was leaving as she had come—with practically nothing. At the doorway, Megan gave her a hug and pressed on her the shawl Charity had so often borrowed. “You might be cold,” she whispered, and Charity felt her throat constrict.