As the door opened, Jessie turned away from the tall window, where she had been contemplating her chances of surviving a jump without breaking her neck or a leg. She most dreaded to see Stuart Edwards, but the intruder could not be he. He had left some two hours after he had locked her in the night before, and she was almost certain he had not yet returned. Her window overlooked the drive, so unless he had ridden to Mimosa through the fields, she would know of his presence.
"I hope you slept well, Jessie."
47
Celia smiled unpleasantly as she walked into the room, shutting and locking the door behind her. This morning she was dressed in a charming gown of blue-striped white muslin, and her hair was arranged in girlish ringlets about her neck. Trying to appear younger for her lover, Jessie concluded with a silent sneer as Celia tucked the key into her sash, then gave it an ostentatious little pat. Jessie eyed her. Given their relative difference in size, Jessie had no doubt at all that if driven to it she could wrest the key from Celia in a matter of minutes. But Jessie had never physically challenged her stepmother, and it was clear that Celia expected today to be no different. Celia's very confidence was a deterrent. Jessie considered, hesitated, and was lost. Not seeming to expect an answer, Celia looked with casual interest around the room, which she rarely entered. Except for the substitution of Jessie's parents' marriage bed for the original small one, the decor had not changed much since Jessie was a child. The walls were white and largely unadorned, the curtains plain muslin, the furniture good quality mahogany but unpretentious. The elegantly carved four-poster was the only object of any beauty, and Celia regarded it with a frown.
"That bed looks ridiculous in here. It's far too elaborate for a young girl."
"I like it." Try as she might, Jessie could not keep the sullenness from her voice. It made her sound very young, she knew it did, yet something about Celia invariably brought it out. Biting her lip in chagrin, Jessie fell silent, waiting to hear what Celia wanted.
"I'm sure you do. Your eye for furnishings is about as well developed as your eye for clothes. Look at that dress you have on, for instance. You're far too fat for it, and even if it fitted you 48
perfectly, it's positively hideous." Celia sat in a small carved chair near the wardrobe, her hands complacently smoothing the skirt of her own perfectly fitting dress.
Unable to stop herself from reacting as Celia intended, Jessie glanced down at the green riding habit that was her habitual daily attire. It was too small and badly worn, true, but then so was every other garment she owned. Jessie had not had a new dress in nearly three years, not that she cared. Even if she'd had a wardrobe as extensive as Celia's, she would still have worn the beloved riding habit.
"Be that as it may, I did not come here to discuss your appearance. We need to have a little talk, you and I." Celia's eyes, bright with derision, moved over Jessie once more before fixing on her face. Trying not to fidget beneath that harsh gaze, Jessie bit the inside of her jaw so hard it bled. Of their own volition her hands slid behind her to clench on the edge of the windowsill, out of Celia's sight.
"Last night you called me a name that I never want to hear repeated." The voice Celia used with Jessie was a far cry from the honeyed lisp she affected for Stuart Edwards. Just as the coldness of her eyes and the set look to her mouth were expressions that Jessie was sure no man had ever seen. This woman sitting in her bedroom was the real Celia, the one whom no one save Jessie and the servants ever saw. The one Jessie feared and despised.
"Though that hardly bears saying, does it? I'm sure you're not stupid enough to say such a thing twice. It couldn't have been a pleasant experience, having Stuart slap you. He was so angry! I found it quite delicious, really. He's such a handsome man, and so in love with me. Fancy, he would have killed you for saying 49
that if you'd been a man! Of course, you'll probably never understand what I'm talking about. It's quite doubtful that any man will ever fall in love with you."
Given the fact that the young men thereabouts seemed unaware of Jessie's existence, that was a fair, if unkind, statement. It hurt, though Jessie hoped
Celia didn't realize how much. Celia couldn't possibly know about Mitchell Todd. . . .
"If you were to say such a thing again, why, there's no telling how angry Stuart might get. He might beat you—or he might even send you away. Up north, to a school for young ladies, say—though you're getting a bit old for that. Still, I'm sure something could be arranged."
"You know that what I said is the truth." Jessie knew from experience that the best way to respond to Celia's baiting was to keep quiet, but she couldn't hold back the words any longer. Stuart Edwards might not know the truth, might have reacted in righteous if wrong indignation to Jessie's charge, but Celia knew that Jessie wasn't lying. She'd probably been with more men than Jessie even suspected.
Celia looked her over, smiling.
"That I'm a whore? I certainly am not," she denied briskly. "A whore takes money for pleasing men, and I never do that. What do I need with money? All this"—with a sweeping gesture, she indicated Mimosa—"is mine."
Jessie's face tightened. Celia shook her head, still smiling. The yellow ringlets bounced against her neck.
"You're such a child, Jessie! You don't know the first thing about men—or women. Men are so big, such animals, and yet a clever woman can lead them around by their noses. A man in 50
love will do anything, anything. . . . Especially if a woman refuses to give him what he wants. That's the secret, Jessie: don't give in until you get what you want. Make them beg. . . . Your father married me because he wanted me in his bed and he knew he couldn't get me there any other way. And look what I got out of it: a year of nights spent pleasing him—and he was well enough looking—and all this. Mimosa."
"He—Mr. Edwards—doesn't have anything to offer you." Jessie could barely get the words out. At Celia's casual reference to her father, as if he were just another in Celia's parade of men, Jessie's hands clenched so hard on the sill behind her that her knuckles ached. Celia was making her feel physically sick.
"Doesn't he?" Celia smiled her sly smile and looked genuinely amused. "Stuart's so handsome, he sends shivers down my spine. Don't you find him handsome? Of course you must, whether you'll admit it or not. All women do. And he's so masterful. I do like a masterful man." Here her eyes drooped sensuously, while Jessie felt her face start to heat. She'd always known Celia had a coarse streak, but never before had her stepmother displayed it so openly. Despite Jessie's new maturity, such frankness about such an intimate subject embarrassed her. The very fact that she was embarrassed embarrassed her still more. Her face turned three shades of crimson, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
As Celia noticed Jessie's blush, her smile broadened. "Besides his very obvious physical attributes, he comes from a good family, and while I doubt that he's as rich as I am, he has a nice little nest egg. He could marry anyone, anyone at all—and yet he's chosen me over all the sweet young things around, and some 51
of them quite pretty, too. Getting him to propose was quite a coup for me—but, of course, you wouldn't appreciate that."
"Now that you've gotten him to propose—and everybody knows it—isn't that enough? You don't have to marry him. Why would you want to? He'll interfere with your—your trips, and your m-men, and . . . and . . . " Despite her embarrassment, Jessie got the words out. Perhaps if she could just get Celia to think of the disadvantages that came with a husband, she might yet manage to stave off the marriage.
"Much as I hate to admit it, I'm turned thirty years old. My looks have lasted marvelously, but they're bound to fade sooner or later. I've thought about remarrying for some time—without a husband, a woman past a certain age is pitied—but most of the men with the right background are so boring! Or unattractive, or both! But Stuart—" She shivered delicately, the gesture saying far more than words could have. Jessie felt herself blush again at the images that shiver conjured up. "I can see myself married to St
uart. It will be exciting. He's exciting."
"But marriage is for a lifetime. The excitement is bound to fade, and then you might—might start getting interested in other men. From what I've seen of Mr. Edwards, I don't think he'd like having his wife step out on him." Even as she spoke, Jessie realized that her words were rolling off Celia like water off a duck's back.
"Do you know, I think Stuart just might be man enough to keep me at home. And if he isn't . . ." Celia shrugged, smiling. "I doubt he'll interfere with what I do. How can he—if he doesn't know anything about it?"
Her voice grew colder, with a steely undertone. "Of course, should anyone be foolhardy enough to tell him that there is 52
occasionally more to my trips than shopping, or that I may have been something less than a properly chaste widow for the past few years, the consequences for that person will be extremely unpleasant, I assure you."
"You must know that he doesn't love you. He's marrying you for Mimosa." It was a desperate try, but even as she said it Jessie knew it wasn't going to work. Either Celia refused to see, or she didn't care.
Celia smiled at Jessie. "Stuart and I are going to be married two weeks from Sunday. He's quite swept me off my feet, and I see no reason to wait any longer. The Misses Edwards—they're Stuart's aunts, by the way; he's from the Charleston branch of the family, and very hoity-toity they are, too—are just thrilled that he's going to be marrying and staying in the vicinity. They are going to have a little
Party for us tonight at Tulip Hill. To celebrate the engagement, of course. You'll attend that, and you'll he pleasant and polite to everyone, especially Stuart. We wouldn't want anyone to think you were unhappy with the situation, now, would we? Gossip is so unpleasant! And you'll also attend the wedding. In fact, I might even let you be my bridesmaid." Celia's eyes narrowed as if she were momentarily considering. "Yes, I'm sure that's a good idea. You will be my bridesmaid. And you'll smile, Jessie." Jessie regarded Celia with loathing. Her stepmother was leaning forward as she talked, delicate and lovely-looking as always, a little smile on her face while she gave instructions to Jessie that she must know Jessie would never follow. Threats or no, Jessie meant to shout her displeasure to the rooftops. And if you're not pleasant and polite, Jessie, if you don't do as I have said—" Celia paused, her face settling into sharp lines of 53
malice. Jessie, watching, was reminded of a beautiful rock she had once picked up that, underneath, was crawling with maggots. Discovering the difference between what Celia pretended to be and what she really was, was exactly like that. "If you don't do exactly as I've told you, I'll have that dreadful dog you're so fond of shot, and your little mare, too. Just keep that in mind."
"Shoot—Jasper? And Firefly? If you even try such a thing, I'll
. . . " Horrified, Jessie came away from the window, taking a quick step toward Celia, her fists clenching.
"You'll do nothing, my dear stepdaughter, because there is nothing you can do. Your father left everything on this place to me. I can do just as I please with those animals. By law, they're mine, not yours."
"If you hurt them, I'll kill you!" "Really, Jessie, there you go again having histrionics, as Stuart might say. Of course you won't kill me. You'll do as I say."
With a satisfied look at Jessie's reddened, twisted face, which screamed of impotent fury, Celia got to her feet, casually shaking out her skirt.
"As far as I'm concerned, we can forget that that unpleasant scene last night ever happened." Celia crossed to the door and unlocked it. Opening it wide, she passed through it, leaving the key in the keyhole as if confident that there would be no need to lock Jessie in again. Jessie breathed a silent sigh of relief that she was leaving. Never in her life had she thought to hate anyone as she was growing to hate her stepmother. Then, from the hall, Celia looked back at Jessie over her shoulder, her brows lifting delicately.
54
"Oh, and I'll tell Stuart you've apologized, shall I?" she breathed, smiling, and without waiting for an answer moved off down the hall.
VI
It was four o'clock that same afternoon, and Jessie was standing miserably in front of the cheval glass in the corner of her bedroom. Tudi, positioned behind her, was sticking the last of a mouthful of hairpins into the precarious upsweep of her hair. Sissie crouched at her feet, industriously sewing a gathered flounce to the hem of the made-over dress so that it would reach past Jessie's ankles. Slanting rays of sunlight poured in through the pair of windows that overlooked the side yard, bathing Jessie and her helpers in their brightness. The effect, as she viewed it in the mirror, made Jessie grimace.
Caught in the bold wash of sunlight, the deficiencies of her appearance became glaringly obvious. The demure white muslin dress, selected by Celia three years ago because it was so suitable for a young girl, had yellowed ever so slightly since then. The tiny pink sprigs with which it was adorned had faded until they were a pale shadow of the shade they had once been. The pink flounce that Sissie was adding, in the hope that it would freshen as well as lengthen the dress, looked hopelessly out of place. So did the pink satin sash, which Sissie had borrowed from Minna, Celia's maid, who had unearthed it amongst a pile of Celia's discarded clothes. The pink flounce was from the same dress that 55
had yielded the sash, and the color of both bore only a general resemblance to the shade of the sprigs.
To make matters worse, although Tudi had tried her best in the matter of the bodice, it was still too tight. For one of the few times in her life Jessie was wearing stays (she'd had to, to get into the dress), but although they whittled her waist to some small degree, they had the opposite effect on her bosom, which was pushing against the cloth covering it as though determined to escape. The once modest scoop neckline did not quite conceal the excess flesh; enough soft white cleavage showed to make the dress too revealing for a young lady of Jessie's tender years. Tudi, scandalized, had been all for jettisoning the dress. Only the sorry fact that Jessie did not possess another in better condition stayed her hand. Borrowing a gown from Celia's vast wardrobe had been considered, but the sad truth was that no dress made to fit Celia's tiny frame could be stretched to cover Jessie. So Sissie, who at age fourteen was the most accomplished seamstress in the house, including Tudi and her mother, had come up with a compromise: she would purloin another section of the pink dress, and use it to make a ruffle around the neckline. With that addition, the gown would be perfectly respectable, if not entirely fashionable.
"Stand still, Miss Jessie." Made a trifle cocky by her new importance, Sissie admonished Jessie in a stern tone as she stood up to attach the all-important neck ruffle. Scrawny and several inches shorter than Jessie, her hair still in childish plaits, Sissie had to stand on tiptoe to do the sewing. Chafing, Jessie stood still under her determined ministrations, hoping that the addition of the pink frill would somehow magically improve her appearance. 56
It didn't. When Sissie stepped back, and Jessie was allowed to admire her handiwork, she looked at her reflection again and felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
"I look just dreadful," she said with conviction.
"Oh, lamb, you do not!" Tudi protested, surveying Jessie's reflection from behind her.
"You look fine, Miss Jessie," Sissie added stoutly, but Jessie was not fooled.
"I look like a Holstein cow in a dress."
"Miss Jessie!" Tudi's protest was severe, but there was a giggle underlying Sissie's simultaneous one. Glumly, Jessie knew her pronouncement was true.
"I do. My hair's too red and my face is too round, and as for the rest of me—I'm just plain fat."
"Now you just stop thinking like that!" There was fierceness in Tudi's eyes as Jessie met them in the mirror. Tudi never could stand for anyone to belittle her lamb, as she had called Jessie when she was little. Not even Jessie herself. "You're hair's a nice, rich mahogany color, not red at all. And it curls— my, how Miss Celia would love to have your curls! Minna tells me she spends every night in
curl papers. Your face is real pretty, with those big brown eyes and that cute little nose and those soft round cheeks like a young girl should have. And you've got nice skin, too."
"I'm fat as a pig," Jessie said dispiritedly, her shoulders drooping. The topknot that Tudi had spent the past twenty minutes arranging wobbled as her chin dropped, and Jessie knew it wouldn't last. Any hairstyle she attempted never did, which was one reason she never bothered. Itchy strands would be straggling around her face before the night was half over, and the topknot itself would slide into just the right position to look 57
ridiculous. That was what always happened when she tried to get herself up.
"You're healthy, lamb, not fat. It's just that Miss Celia's such a teensy little thing, and you're forever seein' yourself beside her."
"Oh, Tudi." There was no point in arguing with Tudi, Jessie knew. Tudi, seeing her onetime charge through the eyes of love, would never admit that there might be something lacking in Jessie's appearance. Looking at herself in the mirror, Jessie faced the bitter truth. At five and a half feet, she was tall for a female, although that was not so dreadful. But she was also, to put it kindly, plump; or, if one wasn't so kind, fat. The short puffed sleeves of the dress cut into her upper arms, making them bulge just below where the sleeves ended. Her bosom bulged, too, straining at the bodice, and so did her waist. She had no doubt that her hips would strain at the skirt if it had not been cut so full.
"Here, let me put these on you, Miss Jessie. Maybe they'll help." Sissie reached up to screw to her lobes a pair of dangling pearl earbobs that had belonged to Jessie's mother. Tudi fastened the matching necklace around Jessie's neck.
When they stood back, Jessie took another look. What she saw heartened her a little. Perhaps the earrings and necklace did help. At any rate they seemed to call attention to the thick-lashed brown eyes that were her best feature, and away from her figure, which was her worst. If only she did not have those thick dark brown brows that slanted like sable wings across the whiteness of her forehead, and if only the bright pink of the added embellishments did not clash so hideously with the reddish tinge to her hair, she might look almost—pretty.
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