Woman of Three Worlds

by Jeanne Williams

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  Woman of Three Worlds

  Jeanne Williams

  This book is for

  Edna Hastings, my dear neighbor, who first got me interested in Fort Bowie;

  Bill Hoy, guardian of the Fort, who shared his knowledge and material so generously and who has done much to preserve the spirit of that place,

  And Eve Ball, faithful chronicler of the Apaches, to whose work I owe much inspiration and background.

  I

  Brittany wept as she placed fragrant white dogwood blossoms on Tante Aurora’s grave after Jem Harrison, the stocky, grizzle-haired circuit-riding Methodist minister, spoke the last words and closed his Bible. He had earlier helped Brittany build a fence around the raw grave to keep out the razor-back hogs that foraged through the woods.

  There was nothing more to be done for her foster mother, part Cajun, part black, part Cherokee, and wholly loving, faithful, and practical about keeping herself and her young mistress alive on the decaying plantation adjoining the mirrored dark waters of Caddo Lake, on the Texas-Louisiana border.

  Jem Harrison cleared his throat. He was a dedicated man who risked his life to desperadoes, swollen creeks, and freezing northers to preach the Good Book to his far-scattered flock. He was old enough to be eighteen-year-old Brittany’s father, and she was as close to a daughter as he’d ever have. He’d taught her to write, cipher, and read till she’d devoured all the books in the musty library where her father had solaced himself after the death of her mother.

  When Brittany was three, Fulkston Laird had ridden off to fight for his native Virginia, though he was long estranged from his aristocratic family, who had cast him off for marrying a beautiful Cajun girl when he’d gone out to Texas. Fulkston died at Shiloh. If his family knew about the orphaned child in the bayous, they did nothing, but they must have faced ruin themselves after the war and had neither thought nor energy to spare for a waif they suspected of mixed blood.

  It was doubtful that Cajuns, descended from the French Acadians exiled from Nova Scotia by the British after the French and Indian War, had mingled more than any other whites with blacks and Indians. Whatever the bloods that had produced Brittany, she had grown into a woman so lovely that Jem, in spite of his fatherly devotion, felt a stirring and desire he hastily prayed against.

  The poor child had no one else to help and advise her. Unbefriended, what would befall a lass with such creamy, flower petal skin, a proud head set on a long curving throat, weighted back with a mass of glorious black hair that provided a shocking contrast to wide-spaced gray eyes? Perhaps some wouldn’t have thought the triangular face, with its high cheekbones, soft enough for female beauty, but Jem liked that tang of angularity, the modeling of strong bones. Showed character—which she was going to need.

  “Brittany,” he said gently, “when I stopped by here this spring, I saw Tante couldn’t live much longer. I took the liberty of writing your father’s family. Your father’s lawyer in Jefferson had their address. When I stopped through town on the way out here, this letter was waiting.”

  He reached into his coat and drew out a crumpled letter that bespoke the long miles it had traveled. “From Arizona Territory,” he said, privately regretting there hadn’t been a fine Virginia mansion for this girl to take refuge in. “Your cousin Regina’s married an officer at Camp Bowie. She’s sent money for your stage fare and offers you a home.” When the girl’s dark eyebrows drew together in shocked displeasure, he said hastily, “You’ll have to agree it’s kind of your cousin.”

  “Oh, I’ll agree to that. Very kind. And kind of you, dear Jem, to worry about me.”

  The stairs of the house creaked as they went up them into the back part of the rambling building, where Tante and Brittany had lived in two bedrooms, the library, a small parlor, and the kitchen. Fulkston’s lawyer, Bruce Hackett, had helped Tante survive by selling off the handsome furnishings after Fulkston’s shipping business collapsed during the war. Tristesse had never been a working plantation, only a gracious country home for the Virginian and his darkly beautiful bride. The few house servants were free and all except Tante left when there was no longer money to pay them.

  Growing up without a father or mother, Brittany couldn’t miss what she’d never known. Secure in Tante’s rapt devotion, she’d run wild in the woods, paddled her slim pirogue among the cypress knees and giant trees marking the lake, exploring its curves and bends, coves and small islands. Nearly every day she brought home fish, and the woods yielded mayhaws and berries in the summer, nuts and acorns in the fall. With chickens and a big garden, they’d seldom gone hungry.

  After the war Tristesse had been confiscated and sold, but the new owner was a carpetbagging speculator who had died before he could see his acquisition in the bayou. His heirs either had not known about it or hadn’t bothered to claim such a remote holding. Brittany thought of the place as hers and Tante’s.

  It was a shock now when Jem sighed and reluctantly extracted another letter from his wrinkled black coat. “Even if it was fitting for you to stay here, child, I’m afraid you can’t. Lawyer Hackett had this news from Tristesse’s owner with the same post that brought your cousin’s letter.”

  “What news?”

  “Mr. Bradley Eustis, son of the man who bought Tristesse, has completed his education, traveled for a time in Europe, and is now ready to assume full charge of his father’s affairs.” Jem faltered at Brittany’s look; he’d seen that same amazed disbelief in the eyes of a fox as a trap snapped on its foreleg. His throat ached. Dumbly he thrust the second missive into Brittany’s hand. She read it quickly. Bradley Eustis announced his intent to visit Tristesse and decide whether to sell it or install a manager to make it productive.

  “He’ll be here this week,” she said in a stunned voice.

  “Yes.”

  Brittany stared unseeingly at Tante’s rocking chair beside the hearth. Jem said gently, “Read the other letter, my dear.”

  Rousing, Brittany shook her head so fiercely that the black waving mass of hair escaped the yellow ribbon holding it at the nape of her neck. “I’ll talk to Mr. Eustis. There’s a fisherman’s cabin around the bend of the lake. Maybe he’d let me stay there if I’d help with the work.”

  “But child—”

  “This is my home!” Brittany cried. “I love it! I don’t want to go out to that desert and live on the charity of relations who thought themselves too good for my mother.”

  “It wouldn’t be charity,” Jem said with a quirk of his lip. “You’d be governess to two children and ‘generally make yourself useful.’”

  Brittany put both letters down and poured boiling water to steep in a pot with mint and blackberry leaves. “I’ll wait for Mr. Eustis.”

  Jem was preaching that Sunday in two small communities. He left next morning, troubled as he grasped Brittany’s hand. She was so young, so unaware of the ways of the world. He doubted that she’d ever even talked with a young man except for an occasional fisherman or hunter.

  “I’ll stop back on my swing west,” he told her. “If you can’t come to an agreement with Mr. Eustis, I’ll help you arrange to go to your cousin or do whatever seems best.” He took a deep breath. “If—if Mr. Eustis is not a gentleman, get yourself to Jefferson at once! Lawyer Hackett will find accommodations for you till I return.”

  “Unless Mr. Eustis is an ogre, he can’t object to my living in that old cabin,” she said, natural confidence coming back. She squeezed the minister’s hand. “Bless you, Jem, you’re good to worry about me, but you needn’t! Have a safe journey.”

&n
bsp; She waved him off. As his mule disappeared along the overgrown wagon road that twisted through hickory and oak with a towering overgrowth of pine, beech, and magnolia, her smile faded. She felt suddenly very alone. Going to sit on a log by Tante’s grave, she got out her cousin’s letter.

  Dear Reverend Harrison: Your saddening news was sent me by my mother, who is in frail health. The war ruined my family. None of them have the means to take responsibility for my unfortunate young cousin. It is upon me, therefore, to aid her in her distress. In spite of his merits, my excellent husband, Lieutenant Graves, has not received the promotions he so greatly deserves, so I cannot offer my cousin an idle life till she shall marry, but if she would come to us at Camp Bowie, serve as little Ned and Angela’s governess, and generally make herself useful, we would give her a home, the respectability of a brother-in-law both officer and gentleman, and provide the chaperonage she must direly need. I will also do my best to remedy those defects in social graces and deportment sure to occur in one reared in the swamps by a servant. Because of the difficulties and slowness of communication and since I cannot believe my cousin has any other recourse, I enclose sufficient money for her journey. Camp Bowie is set in villainous desert country, and she must steel herself for the hardships I endure gladly for my dear husband’s sake. At least the savages have not yet attacked the post, though they make quick work of isolated parties.

  Regina Graves

  Brittany made a face, trying to picture the woman who had penned these dutiful, cool lines. Brittany assumed that with young children, Regina was not too much her elder, but no glow of high spirits or friendliness warmed the invitation.

  Glancing at the great trees, the bowers of jasmine and honeysuckle, the deep grass, flowering dogwood and redbud, Brittany shuddered at the thought of a desert. No, this was home! Even if he was the son of a carpetbagger, Bradley Eustis would be stony-hearted to deny her the old cabin, which was of no use to anyone else.

  She folded the letter over the money and put both in the envelope. When Jem returned, she’d ask him to send the fare back to Regina along with a note she’d write in the most elegant phrasing she could devise, explaining that she thanked her cousin very much but had found a way to remain independent.

  As Brittany rose and shook the wrinkles out of her skirt, she couldn’t help but wonder if, even grudgingly, Regina would have offered her shelter if “little Ned and Angela” hadn’t needed a governess.

  With Jem gone, Brittany was overwhelmed by fresh desolation at Tante’s death and aching, almost unbearable loneliness. During these last painful weeks while Tante had seemed to visibly wither away, Brittany had been kept busy taking care of her and looking after the garden and house. With Tante gone and her home about to be taken away, Brittany suddenly felt as if she had no purpose.

  The house was already clean. Burnish it to impress Bradley Eustis? Brittany grimaced at the thought. Jem knew a widow who could use Tante’s few good garments and he’d taken that pathetically small bundle with him. Battling her sadness and worry, Brittany fed and watered the chickens, collected half a dozen eggs, and surveyed the garden, fenced by posts set close together to keep out wild hogs and deer.

  It had rained several days ago, and a whole new crop of weeds was pushing up. Later on today she’d attack them with the hoe, even though it didn’t seem likely that she’d be the one to enjoy juicy red tomatoes, green beans, and succulent roasting ears. At least, until that carpetbagger turned up, she could feast on tiny new potatoes and tender peas, green onions, and leaf lettuce. Only—how hard it was going to be to get used to sitting down to eat alone!

  Eyes filling with tears as she passed Tante’s grave, Brittany fled down the path to where her pirogue was tied to the rickety pier. In the bayou she had always been alone. She would go there now.

  Waters so dark and still that they magically reflected skies, clouds, and trees that looked as real as the actual ones. Polished rounded cypress knees rising from the water like primordial carvings; an island where two snowy egrets arched their necks, seeming to speak to each other; grapevines and feathery green Spanish moss trailing near the water from extended limbs of water oak, willow, and giant bald cypress.

  Blue herons, green herons, an incredibly beautiful pair of spoon-billed rose-colored birds changing places on their nest. Perched on a half-submerged log, a snake-bird dried its handsomely patterned feathers. A row of turtles slipped into the water at her approach. Brittany laughed at them and felt better.

  For hours she drifted or paddled gently, comforted by the teeming life of the bayou as much as by its beauty. When she finally tied her pirogue at the pier, she was still grieved by Tante’s death and she was still lonely but she felt able to go back to the house.

  After a quick meal she’d take a hoe to those weeds! By night she should be tired enough to sleep. Still, the oak floor of the kitchen echoed at her footfalls.

  Oppressed by the emptiness, Brittany decided against taking time to build a fire for cooking. Spreading a big hunk of corn bread with wild grape jam and filling a glass with mint-blackberry tea, she carried her lunch to a stump near the edge of the clearing and listened to the trills of a hermit thrush and the distant rat-a-tapping of a woodpecker. She left some crumbs for an inquisitive squirrel, swallowed the last cooling tea, and went to her work.

  When she leaned the hoe against the fence three hours later, her shoulders ached and hair clung moistly to her neck and forehead, but the weeds were gone and it was good to breathe in the warm smell of rich black earth. She drew up a bucket of water from the well, drank deep, and washed her face and hands, letting them dry in the sun.

  Reluctant to go inside, she went off to gather may-haws, returning at dusk with a basket of the ripe red fruit. Placed in a crystal bowl in the center of the rough plank kitchen table, they looked lusciously elegant, a sort of charm against night settling about the isolated house. She lit a candle, setting it where it would reflect off the crystal, before she built a fire in the hearth and put last night’s potato and pea soup to heat.

  She had never noticed before how many sounds the house made. As her scalp prickled and her heart jumped, she chidingly told herself that the noises had to be a loose shingle, shutter, or floorboard. After the dishes were done, she took the candle to the library and curled up in what had been her father’s big chair, but she sorely missed Tante, companion of all her years and days, and the pages of Melville’s Moby Dick kept blurring.

  At last, heart crying out for solace, she sat on a footstool and went through the books Fulkston Laird had long ago purchased for the daughter to whom he’d never gotten to read most of them. Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare, the works of Dickens, Scott, and Kingsley.

  Just barely, she could remember leaning in strong arms while a deep voice read:

  The owl and the pussy-cat went to sea

  In a beautiful pea-green boat …

  Picking up Lear’s Book of Nonsense, she read whimsical verses till her eyelids began to droop. Then, getting ready for bed, she placed the book by her pillow.

  She shivered in her coarse muslin nightgown as she tried to summon up the courage to blow out the candle. It was extravagant to let it burn. She had to stop acting like such a baby! But a shingle or shutter rattled just then and her heart leaped into her mouth.

  Just for tonight she’d burn the candle. She didn’t really believe in ghosts and Tante Aurore would never hurt her, but all the same—Using the steps to climb into the high four-postered bed, Brittany huddled into the pillows, pressed against her cheek the book her father had read to her, and, after many starts and moments of frightened listening, she sank into uneasy slumber.

  Only to wake to what were unmistakably footsteps coming up the hall. She sat up, heart pounding, as a form blocked the door.

  It was solid, no ethereal mist. Candlelight picked up yellow hair, revealed a smile on full red lips as the tall, heavy-shouldered young man advanced. He w
as dressed in tailored dark blue coat and trousers, not like a strayed hunter or fisherman. There was no weapon in reach. If he meant harm, her only defense was her wits.

  “Sir,” she said, swallowing to steady her voice and trying to behave as if strange men routinely came bursting into her bedroom. “Are you lost?”

  His smile widened. “How could I be when your candle was a beacon?” His tone turned mock reproachful. “Can it be you had no thought for a weary traveler but were only reading that book?”

  She thrust Lear under the pillow hastily so the intruder couldn’t see she’d been reading children’s rhymes. He acted as if he had every right to be there, even as if she should have been expecting him. Her heart sank.

  “You—you’re Mr. Bradley Eustis!”

  He bowed. “And you must be the Miss Brittany Laird that Lawyer Hackett told me about.” A blond eyebrow rose. “Has he seen you lately?”

  Brittany frowned her puzzlement. “Not for three or four years.”

  “That explains.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t warn me that you were beautiful.” Eustis turned his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “He only said you were the late Colonel Laird’s spinster daughter dwelling on here with an aged slave.”

  “Tante was no slave.”

  The legal owner of Tristesse shrugged. “Maybe he said servant. No matter. I’m hungry. Could she make me something to eat?”

  Brittany recoiled before reminding herself that he didn’t know. “Tante’s dead.” She fought back tears. “Our food is plain, but I’ll prepare something for you.” Her mind raced ahead. The owner would naturally expect to spend the night in his house.

  Guessing her dismay, Bradley Eustis said, “I’ve tinned delicacies in my saddlebags. Let me bring them in and we’ll have a midnight feast. Then, in as large a house as this, there must be a chamber I can use without disturbing you.”

  This amiable behavior was a surprise but, unusual as her bringing-up had been, she was sure an unmarried man and woman shouldn’t sleep in a house where there were no other people.