the years of antipathy between them, Jessie could not stand by and watch Celia be publicly humiliated, or worse. Any scandal involving Celia would inevitably involve Mimosa, too. Watching her new husband approach, Celia stood as white and unmoving as a marble effigy. Jessie knew that Celia was frightened. She could see it in her widened nostrils, smell it in her sweat.
And who wouldn't be frightened, under the circumstances?
Jessie knew that if she had to face Stuart Edwards' wrath, she would be petrified.
But Stuart surprised them all. He neither shouted nor hit Celia nor renounced the vows he'd just sworn.
"What is it about you that drives men insane for love of you, I wonder?" he said lightly as he rejoined Celia on the stoop. "I'd better take care lest I succumb to that fate myself." Then he smiled at her as if he had not the slightest notion that there had been any truth to Brantley's claims, and signaled for Progress to bring round the buggy.
For a few minutes Jessie was fooled. She felt the tension of the crowd ease, and everyone gathered closer, exclaiming over what had occurred as if it were some kind of tribute to Celia's beauty. Celia, for her part, rose to the occasion magnificently. Jessie watched her stepmother and Stuart receive the good wishes of the crowd and parry the inevitable jests, and marveled. Celia had come within a hairbreadth of a scandal over her virtue that would have ruined her name forevermore. And her new husband, the man most intimately concerned with her virtue, or lack of it, had rescued her from the brink of the abyss without even appearing to realize just how close to the edge she had been.
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Which left Jessie wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, Stuart truly did believe that Brantley's boasts were nothing more than the empty bombast of a lovelorn drunk.
Until he'd handed Celia into the carriage and looked around to meet Jessie's eyes.
In those icy blue depths she read the truth: before, when she'd called her stepmother a whore, he'd slapped her face for being a liar. Now he was willing to consider the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, Jessie had been telling the truth.
XIV
The wedding trip lasted a mere three weeks. It was to have been twice as long, but near noon on the first day of July, Jessie was seated on the upstairs gallery with Tudi and saw the now familiar buggy bowling briskly along the road toward Mimosa. The scene was an uncanny repeat of the first time she had set eyes on Stuart Edwards. Only this time, instead of uneasiness, she felt a burgeoning pleasure.
Absurd to think she might have missed a man she barely knew, a man whom by all rights she should still consider her enemy.
"You're all lit up like a Christmas tree," Tudi observed, looking up from the mending in her lap.
"They're back." Jessie got to her feet to stand leaning over the railing, watching the buggy approach.
"You ain't never that eager to see Miss Celia," Tudi exclaimed with a combination of surprise and disbelief.
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"Things will be different now that Mr. Edwards is in charge," Jessie said earnestly, looking back at Tudi over her shoulder.
"He's not like Celia. Truly he's not."
"Well, that bird sure changed its tune mighty fast," Tudi muttered, but Jessie paid her no mind.
It was all she could do not to run down the steps to greet the new arrivals as the buggy rocked to a halt on the drive. She managed to restrain herself, barely, and instead hung over the railing, watching.
The yard boy, young Thomas, Rosa's baby, came running out to hold the horses. Stuart climbed down. He was nattily dressed in a pale gray cutaway coat and bone breeches, with a pale gray bowler on his head. The crisp black waves of his hair gleamed with blue highlights in the sun. Despite the hundred-degree heat, he didn't look as if he knew what it was to sweat.
Jessie dabbed at droplets on her own upper lip and forehead with the let-out hem of the ancient white muslin dress she wore, then waved, but he didn't look up.
Instead he went around to help Celia from the carriage. Celia allowed him to help her down, but released his hand the moment her feet touched the ground. Even twelve feet above them, as Jessie was, she could sense the animosity in the air. A third person alighted from the jump seat. The visitor was a man, tall and gangly with light brown hair. He was dressed almost as elegantly as Stuart, but without the dazzling effect. Celia said something to him, and he nodded. Then the three of them started up the stairs, Celia in the lead and the two men trailing behind.
"You're back early."
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Jessie had seated herself on the railing and turned to greet the new arrivals. For her stepmother she had an appraising look. Celia was beautifully dressed as always in a smart traveling costume in a delicate shade of apple green, with a cunning hat tilted low over her forehead. But she bore little resemblance to a bride just back from her honeymoon. Her face was pale, and there were faint shadows beneath her eyes. As she glanced at Jessie, her mouth was tight.
"Stuart didn't like the idea of leaving the place without someone who was familiar with things to oversee it, so we had to come back. Though why we couldn't just send Graydon on ahead and finish our honeymoon as planned, I don't understand." Celia minded thoroughly put out. As she finished speaking she slanted an angry look at her husband, who h.id just stepped onto the veranda with the man Celia had called Graydon.
"We've been over this a dozen times, Celia. Until your cousin learns the ropes, he can't be expected to run an operation the size of Mimosa without guidance. Besides, I want to go over the books, see for myself how things stand." Stuart's reply was courteous, but it was clear that his patience was beginning to fray.
"And I told you that Graydon's handled everything at Bascomb Hall for the past six years. He's experienced, for God's sake. You're just being difficult to get back at me."
"I think this discussion would be better finished in private, don't you?" Stuart's tone was still pleasant, but his eyes were suddenly as hard as steel. Celia flashed him an almost hating look.
"I'm going to go lie down. My head hurts. If you had any sensitivity at all, you wouldn't have asked me to travel in such heat."
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Without waiting for a reply, Celia walked into the house, removing her hat and calling in a fretful voice for Minna as she went.
Jessie looked at Stuart with a combination of surprise and heightened respect. She didn't know how he'd managed it, but there was already no doubt about who was running that marriage. As hell-bent on having her own way as she knew Celia to be, to get the upper hand so quickly must have required some doing on his part.
"Hello, Jessie." Stuart watched Celia go, then turned to smile rather wearily at Jessie.
"Hello." Her answering smile was shy. Then, feeling she had to say something to ease the tension that still lingered in Celia's wake, she offered: "Celia's always been a poor traveler."
"Many ladies are, I believe." His answer was perfectly bland, but it couldn't have been more plain that he didn't care to discuss the subject. Then his eyes moved to Tudi. "And you're ....'?"
"Tudi, Mr. Edwards, sir." Tudi had stood up respectfully as her new master had climbed the steps. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the mending she had been working on bright against the white of her apron. Her eyes had been discreetly lowered during his exchange with Celia. She lifted them now to look him full in the face. Her tone was respectful, but no more. Tudi was a slave, but she was also a force to be reckoned with at Mimosa.
"Tudi. I'll remember in future." His faint smile acknowledged her importance. Then his eyes swung back to Jessie. "Jessie, this is Graydon Bradshaw. He's Celia's cousin, and Mimosa's new overseer. Graydon, this is Miss Jessica Lindsay, Celia's stepdaughter." 108
"How d'ya do, Miss Lindsay?" Graydon Bradshaw bowed in Jessie's direction. Jessie, instinctively wary of any cousin of Celia's, merely nodded by way of reply.
Stuart looked at Tudi again. "Is there someone who can take Mr. Bradshaw to the overseer's house and help him settle in?" If he was hopi
ng to get on Tudi's good side, then he was going about it the right way, Jessie thought, faintly amused. His tone was almost deferential.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Edwards. I'll have Charity do it. She used to see to Mr. Brantley." Tudi's eyes widened as this last slipped out. From her suddenly self-conscious look, it was clear she felt that she might have said the wrong thing.
But if he noticed anything amiss, Stuart gave no sign of it.
"That'll be fine." He nodded. Dropping her mending in the basket by the chair, Tudi turned to Graydon Bradshaw.
"If you'll follow me, Mr. Bradshaw."
"It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," Bradshaw said as he left, and Jessie nodded again.
Left alone with Stuart, Jessie felt suddenly awkward. After all, it was possible that their newborn friendship had not survived what had obviously been a rigorous honeymoon.
"God, it's hot," he said, dropping into a chair. "Hell couldn't be hotter than Mississippi in the summer."
He took off his elegant hat and fanned himself, his eyes on the baggage which Thomas and Fred, the other yard boy, were hauling out of the buggy and piling on the grass near the drive.
"It's not nearly as hot as it will be in August."
"God forbid," he said piously, and they both laughed. Then, still smiling, he looked up at her where she perched on the porch rail.
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"And what have you been doing with yourself these past weeks?"
"Nothing much. Riding. And playing with Jasper, mostly."
"Jasper?"
"My dog."
"You don't mean that that enormous, flea-bitten hound I've seen hanging around the stable belongs to you, do you?"
'He's not flea-bitten!" In defense of her pet, her tone was indignant. Stuart grinned.
"But you admit to everything else. Don't look so het up. I like dogs."
"Oh." For a minute there, she had been afraid he was an animal hater like Celia. Of course, she should have known that he wouldn't be. The friend whose acquaintance she had made that night in the garden at Tulip Hill couldn't dislike dogs.
"I brought you a present." He tossed the words at her casually, but his eyes were smiling as they watched for her reaction.
"You—what?" To say that his words were unexpected was an understatement. Not since her father died had anyone but the servants thought to give Jessie a present. Her eyes went wide.
"Did you really?"
"Cross my heart."
"What is it?"
He shook his head. "Wouldn't you rather wait and see it? It's in with the baggage. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, it's in the box those boys just lifted out from under the seat."
"Oh, can I go look?" She practically clapped her hands with excitement. Stuart regarded her indulgently.
"Go get the box, and open it up here where I can watch." 110
Jessie didn't need any second telling. She flew down the stairs, practically running despite the heat, and hovered over the box for a delicious instant before lifting it into her arms. It was a large box, and flat, but not particularly heavy.
What could it be?
Her steps were slower as she climbed back up to the gallery, where he waited, smiling. Anticipation was a sensation that was as new as it was pleasant.
"Well, go on, open it," Stuart directed impatiently as Jessie set the box on the floor and knelt beside it, admiring its gay silver ribbon.
She looked up at him then, a shy smiling look, and slid the ribbon off one end of the box.
XV
Jessie lifted the lid off the box, then sat motionless for a moment staring at the contents. What lay within was folded, so that she couldn't be sure, but it appeared to be an afternoon dress. She touched it almost hesitantly. The material was the finest India muslin, and the color was a soft primrose yellow.
"Take it out and look at it," Stuart said. He was rocking a little in the chair, smiling as he watched her hover over her present. Jessie lifted the dress from its box and stood with it, holding it out at arm's length so that she could see it better. It had a simple, fitted bodice with short puffed sleeves and a modest neckline that nevertheless would leave most of the wearer's shoulders bare. The waist was fitted, and below the waist the skirt formed a bell 111
shape that ended in a single flounce of cream-colored lace. More lace edged the sleeves.
"The sash is in the box," Stuart said. Jessie looked down to behold a cream satin sash that must have been six feet long still folded into the box. She looked from the sash to the dress and then over at Stuart.
"Well?" he asked, though from the grin that lurked around his mouth he already knew the answer.
"It's beautiful. Thank you. I never expected—you didn't have to bring me a present." This last was almost gruff.
"I know I didn't have to. I wanted to. After all, we're family now. Besides, the dress is as much from Celia as from me." Jessie knew that wasn't true. Celia went on trips several times a year and had never yet brought her back so much as a hair ribbon. The idea that Celia would remember her unloved stepdaughter on her honeymoon was ludicrous. But she didn't say so. Hard as it was to remember, Celia was now Stuart's wife. If he had not liked hearing the unpleasant truth about her before, he would undoubtedly resent it more now. And she didn't want to make Stuart mad at her. More and more, Jessie was beginning to realize how starved she had been these past years for a friend.
"Wherever did you get it?" Jessie didn't reply to his last statement directly. Instead she looked at the dress again. It really was gorgeous. If only it looked half as lovely on her as it did by itself. . . .
"In Jackson. Celia took me through so many shops that I couldn't tell you which one."
"How did you know how—how big to tell them?" The awful suspicion that the garment would be too small occurred to Jessie. If Celia had really had any say in its ordering, it certainly would 112
be. Giving Jessie a lovely present that she couldn't possibly wear was just the kind of thing Celia would do. Of course, unless the fit was impossible, Sissie could always let it out.
"I told the dressmaker that you were yea big—" Stuart demonstrated a certain height and girth with his hands, grinning widely as Jessie, watching, turned pink. "No, I didn't. Actually, though I hesitate to admit it to a young lady of your tender years, I'm a pretty fair judge of female sizes."
"From experience, I take it?" Jessie responded with spirit, refusing to surrender to his teasing despite her blush. Stuart leaned back in his chair without answering, but his knowing look was all the answer Jessie needed. Her straight little nose lifted reprovingly, and she turned her attention back to the dress. Reversing it, she held it close to her body with her arm pressed against its waist to approximate the manner in which it would be worn. In length, if in nothing else, it looked as if it would fit. Perhaps if Tudi put insets in the sides . . .
" 'Scuse me, Massah Edwards, but where you wantin' me to be puttin' your things?" The speaker was Thomas. He stood at the top of the stairs, a valise in each hand. More luggage was piled at the bottom. Fred had vanished with the carriage. Jessie wondered, amused, how Thomas had managed to get the coveted task of carrying in the bags. She was pretty sure that Thomas would find his way to the cookhouse before the job was done, where Rosa would reward him for his hard work with a slice of whatever pie she had on hand. Both boys had notorious sweet tooths, and once Fred had even gone so far as to steal and eat a whole pound of sugar. He'd been punished, of course, but the bellyache he'd suffered as a result of his misdeed had been far worse than the whipping Rosa had given him.
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"In Miss Celia's room. Get somebody to show you if you don't know where it is."
"Oh, I know." Thomas grinned. "I know every-thin' about this here house. I was born down in the front hall."
"Were you really?" Stuart sounded suitably impressed.
"Yes, he really was. Rosa—she's our cook—is his mother, and she couldn't make it to the infirmary in time. This is Thomas." Jessie
performed the introduction as an afterthought. Thomas bobbed his head.
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Thomas. Since you know where to put the bags, you can take them on in."
"Yes, suh. In Miss Celia's room." Thomas, his slight body bearing up manfully under his load, maneuvered through the door to the house and disappeared. Stuart's attention turned back to Jessie. "Go try it on."
"Oh, I . . ." she demurred, suddenly afraid that the dress would be too small and she would have to admit as much to him. She would die of embarrassment.
"Go on. Scat. Or you'll make me think you don't like my present."
"I do! Of course I do!"
Jessie knew when she was defeated. Gathering up the box and the sash, with about as much pleasure as she might have a rope with which to hang herself, she turned toward the door.
"Come back here and let me see it when you get it on," he called after her as she went inside. Jessie didn't answer. If the dress looked dreadful, wild horses couldn't drag her out where he could see her.
Despite Jessie's fears, the dress turned out to be a reasonable fit. Apparently Stuart really had a great deal of experience in judging 114
women's sizes. Oh, it was a trifle snug through the waist, but Sissie, whom Jessie had summoned to assist her, assured her that that was because it was designed to be worn with stays. Jessie hated the only pair of stays she possessed worse than she hated poison ivy, but under the circumstances . . . She struggled out of the dress and let Sissie lace her into the stays.
"Take a deep breath," Sissie instructed, her fingers twined in the laces. Jessie did. Sissie jerked so hard that Jessie thought her ribs might break.
"I can't breathe!" Jessie moaned, but Sissie was having none of that. She yanked on the laces again, then tied them in a knot so tight that Jessie feared she'd suffocate if she wore the stays for longer than a few minutes.
"Now let's put on that dress," Sissie said mili-tantly, gathering it up. Flinging it over Jessie's head, she pulled the skirt down and twitched the bodice into place. Then she did up the hooks that fastened the back. Finally she came around in front of Jessie to adjust the neckline, and tied the sash in a big bow in the back. Only then was Jessie permitted to stand in front of the cheval glass.
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