The young lady she saw looking back at her was a revelation. She was certainly tall, but not by any stretch of the imagination could she be described as fat. She was full-bosomed, yes, and round of hip, but with the constriction of her waist the effect was nothing short of femininely voluptuous. Instead of digging into her flesh around the edge of sleeves and neckline, as most of her too-small summer dresses did, the sleeves and neckline of this dress gently hugged her curves. Without the little rolls caused by too-tight sleeves, her arms looked enticingly firm. And her bosom—in every other dress she possessed it was either smashed 115
flat or pushed up so that it spilled over. Neither effect was particularly attractive. But in this dress her bosom looked soft and shapely, full but not overfull.
"Sissie—Sissie, what do you think?" Jessie croaked, staring at herself as if she were afraid that the young lady in the mirror might turn out to be a mirage, and vanish as soon as she looked away.
"Why, Miss Jessie, who woulda thought it? You look real pretty," Sissie breathed, staring at Jessie's reflection with the same wide-eyed awe that was on Jessie's face. "Real pretty." There was no mistaking Sissie's sincerity. Jessie ran her eyes over the young lady in the mirror again, still not quite convinced that what she saw was not some trick of wishful thinking—or of the light.
But the creamy shoulders she saw rising out of the demure yellow neckline were definitely hers. Just to make sure, she touched them, and watched her reflection do the same thing. The small waist tied with the wide sash of creamy satin was hers, too, as impossible as that seemed. No wonder all the ladies wore stays, if this was what it did for their figures!
The pale yellow color did wonderful things for her skin, making it look as creamy smooth as the satin sash. Her eyebrows were the same slanting dark slashes against her forehead that they had always been, but they no longer seemed to be the defect that Jessie had considered them. If one wanted to look on the positive side, then one might even think that their darkness made her skin look creamier by contrast. Her eyes were their usual soft brown, but they were shining with excitement and pleasure and looked far more interesting than usual. For the first time Jessie noticed the thick sweep of her own lashes, and she lowered them 116
experimentally, then raised them again. Why, her eyes were pretty, despite the fact that they were ordinary brown! Excitement had brought rosy color to her cheeks and a smile to her lips. Both were becoming, and as Jessie studied her reflection, her smile widened.
"I do look . . . almost pretty, don't I?" she asked Sissie shyly, hungry for reassurance.
"Miss Jessie, when Miss Celia sees you she's gonna pitch a fit," Sissie said with conviction. Jessie looked around at Sissie, her eyes widening at the prospect. Then both girls grinned.
"I hope so," Jessie said. Turning back to her reflection she lifted both hands to her hair.
Her impossible, unruly hair. The only incongruous note in an otherwise unexceptional picture of a fashionable young lady.
"There's so much of it." Sissie assessed the problem with a frown. "Miss Jessie, if I had a head of hair like that, I'd take some scissors to it."
Jessie stared at her hair, which had been twisted up on top of her head that morning more for coolness than for fashion's sake. The pins were worked loose, as usual, and the heavy knot had slid around until it dangled just over her left ear. Yard-long tendrils escaped every which way. The only reason they didn't itch, or obscure her vision, was because Jessie was used to them.
"Would you really?" she asked doubtfully. Her hair was a disaster, but to cut it short . . .
"I would." Sissie was firm. Jessie suddenly took fright at the whole idea and shook her head.
'Just put it up again for now, Sissie. I'd probably end up looking like Jasper if you started cutting on it."
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"Not me, Miss Jessie. A proper hairdresser," Sissie said impatiently, already starting to pull the remaining pins from Jessie's hair. "Look how Miss Celia's always having the latest styles done in Jackson. You could go there."
The idea of going to Jackson to shop and have her hair styled in the latest fashion had never occurred to Jessie. Indeed, before the last few minutes she would have sworn up one hill and down the other that she was about as interested in clothes and feminine fallals as she was in the life cycle of the boll weevil. In fact, she probably would have said the boll weevil actually interested her more. After all, the weevil had to do with cotton, and Mimosa was a cotton plantation, so knowing about the pesky insect might prove useful sometime or other. There was utterly no use to fashion that she could see.
At least, she'd thought that before she had beheld the amazing transformation in her looks wrought by the yellow dress. Sissie had brushed her hair out and was pinning it doggedly back into place. Both girls knew that the effort was likely to be wasted. Her hair would escape from its pins before an hour had passed.
But even knowing that, Jessie was dazzled by what she saw as she looked into the mirror one last time before hurrying out to the gallery to show Stuart.
The ugly duckling had become, if not quite a swan, at the very least an attractive little duck.
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XVI
Stuart was still sitting where she had left him, lazing back in a rocking chair on the upper gallery. Someone had brought him a mint julep, which he sipped at intervals. His hat lay on the floor by the chair.
He didn't hear her step out on the gallery. For a moment Jessie stood still, undecided. Should she run back inside without showing him the dress after all? Had he expressed an interest in seeing her in it just to be kind?
But he had bought the dress for her. Surely that meant he liked her at least a little.
"Why, Jessie."
He turned his head and saw her. Jessie felt a funny nervousness start in the pit of her stomach, but there was no turning back now. She took a deep breath and walked bravely toward him. He watched her without speaking, his face expressionless, his eyes unreadable.
It was the most unnerving thing he could have done. Jessie stopped walking, her arms crossing over her bosom in an instinctively defensive gesture.
Still he didn't say anything, just looked her over with those skyblue eyes that were as fathomless as glass.
"Well?" Jessie squeaked at last, sure that she had made a dreadful fool of herself and that she really looked awful and that the transformation she had seen in her mirror had indeed been the result of either wishful thinking or the light.
"You look lovely," he said then, and smiled. 119
The butterflies in Jessie's stomach stopped doing acrobatics. She smiled back with shy pleasure. Then her gaze dropped, and she smoothed her skirt with her hands because she didn't know quite what else to do with them.
"It's the dress. It's beautiful." She had recovered her poise enough to look at him again.
Stuart shook his head. "No, Jessie, it's not the dress. It's you in the dress. You look lovely. You mustn't sell yourself short." Jessie's throat tightened. For some absurd reason his compliments brought her to the verge of tears. Kindness was a rare and precious commodity in the world she'd grown up in, and she treasured it like a miser might gold.
"I'm glad Celia married you," she said suddenly, fiercely. Then, before she could embarrass herself any further, she turned and walked swiftly toward the door.
"Jessie . . . "
But what he intended to say she never knew. Celia came through the door at that precise moment, a half-full glass of tomato juice in her hand. When she saw Jessie, she stopped dead. Her eyes swept Jessie once, twice. They widened, then narrowed, then finally lifted to Jessie's face. Jessie waited, helplessly vulnerable, for the broadside she knew would come.
"Well, I'm glad to see you can fit into that dress that Stuart insisted on having made up for you," she said. "It's a pity the shop had to use so much more material than usual to fashion it in your size, but still, I suppose it looks well enough." Before Jessie could have her pleasure in the dress totally d
eflated by Celia's malice, Stuart got to his feet and came over to stand behind her. His hands rose to rest comfortingly on Jessie's 120
shoulders, and he met his wife's eyes over the top of Jessie's head.
"She looks charming, Celia, and the shop didn't have to use any more material than they would have for any female of average size. Being so petite yourself, you forget that most of the rest of the world is a deal bigger."
Jessie could have told him from experience that the best defense against Celia's tongue-lashings was feigned deafness and silence. To contradict her in any way only made her look for other, more deadly weapons to use on her quarry. But either Stuart had not yet learned that basic tenet of life with Celia, or he did not care.
Celia's eyes hardened as they touched pointedly on Stuart's hands. Something about the expression on Celia's face made Jessie's cheeks heat. With nothing more than a look, Celia had managed to make Jessie feel unclean.
To Stuart's credit, he didn't remove his hands, although he must have been aware of Celia's silent insinuation.
"Did you want me for something, Celia?" he asked coolly. His voice gave no hint that he was not perfectly calm. Only Jessie got an inkling of his rising anger, and only because his fingers had tightened fractionally on her shoulders.
Calm disregard of her verbal assaults tended to act on Celia like kerosene on a fire. Jessie was not surprised to see Celia's eyes flash with fury as she raised them from where Stuart's hand still rested on Jessie's shoulders to his face.
"Indeed I did. I had intended this discussion to be private, but since you and my stepdaughter are on such intimate terms, I suppose I might as well say my piece and have done with it." 121
"Please do, my dear." Stuart sounded almost bored, but his hands tightened still more on Jessie's shoulders. Embarrassed by the marital quarrel that was obviously on the verge of exploding, Jessie would have slipped away. But she couldn't, because Stuart, whether consciously or not, held her fast.
"Very well, then. I would prefer it if you would keep your belongings in the room where you are to sleep, rather than instruct the servants to dump them in my chamber." Stuart's fingers dug in until Jessie thought she must wince. Valiantly she fought the impulse. It would never do to let Celia know that Stuart's unruffled facade was just that.
"Somehow I rather thought that your room was my room. We are married, you know."
Celia smiled unpleasantly. "Oh, yes, I know. I know all too well. However, I prefer that we have separate chambers for sleeping. Though, of course, I won't deny you your marital rights, if you insist on taking advantage of them." Jessie did wince then as Stuart's fingers went almost to the bone. She blushed, too, at being privy to such intimate talk. Feeling her wince, Stuart released her, and gave her a little shove toward the door.
"Go on inside, Jessie."
She needed no second urging. She edged past Celia— "Oh, no!"
"You clumsy creature! You've made me spill my drink!" Both cries were simultaneous as Celia's glass upended all over Jessie's dress. The bright red tomato juice ran down the yellow skirt and was greedily absorbed by the muslin. Horrified, Jessie tried to brush the worst of the mess off with her hands, but to no avail. She had a dreadful feeling that the dress was ruined. 122
"You did that on purpose!" Jessie looked up from her damaged skirt to glare at Celia.
"I certainly did not! 'Twas your own fault, you bumbling ox!
You jostled my arm!"
"I did not!"
Jessie's fists clenched, and she closed her jaw so tightly that it quivered. Celia was gloating, pleased with herself and her triumph, Jessie could tell. For once in her life, Jessie knew the urge to kill.
"Go inside, Jessie." Stuart's hands closed over her upper arms, preventing her from flying at her stepmother before she even knew for sure that that was what she had meant to do.
"My dress!"
"I know. Go inside."
"But . . ."
"Do as I say."
Jessie went. Furious and sickened, she fled toward her room, where she practically ripped the dress to shreds getting out of it. Damn Celia, damn her, damn her! She would hate her until her dying day!
On the gallery, Stuart fixed his wife with glittering eyes.
"Why did you do that?"
She smiled. "It was an accident. Surely you don't think I'd damage the silly chit's dress on purpose."
"I know you would."
"Thus speaks a loving husband."
Stuart's mouth tightened. "Be warned, Celia, that I'll not stand by and watch you hurt Jessie or anyone else. You married me, for whatever reason, for better or worse. And I have it in my power to make your life a great deal worse."
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"I hate you!"
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"I must have been insane to marry you!"
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself."
"If you think you can come in here and just take over, tell me what to do with my stepdaughter, take charge of my property and—"
"That's exactly what I think. In fact, I know I can. I'm your husband, my love. Everything you once owned now belongs to me. Or in your haste to get me into bed did you overlook the fact that married women aren't allowed to own property?" "You're vile!"
"Not yet," Stuart said grimly, and reached out to catch her by the arm.
"Keep your hands off me! I hate you!" Celia batted his hands away, then ran inside, sobbing hysterically. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"
"And I," said Stuart bitterly to the still vibrating door, "hate you. God help me, I do."
Downstairs in the keeping room, Tudi heard the commotion above stairs and lifted her head. She listened for a moment, then as the sounds died away shook her head.
"Look like there be trouble in paradise," she muttered, then turned her attention back to the task at hand.
XVII
Over the next few weeks, life at Mimosa settled into a routine that was comfortable on the outside while seething with tension 124
beneath. Celia alternated between attempting to cajole Stuart and loudly hating him. Stuart seemed impervious to both approaches, impervious to Celia. If there had ever been any love in that marriage, it had vanished soon after the ceremony. It was common knowledge amongst the house servants that Mr. Stuart never went near Miss Celia's bed. And what the servants knew, Jessie learned soon after, whether she wanted to know it or not. She found the idea of Celia's estrangement from her husband in all its accompanying detail both embarrassing and, to her shame, reassuring. Maybe because she was increasingly beginning to think of Stuart as hers.
He had rapidly become father, brother, and friend, all in one impossibly handsome package. Jessie had never realized how much she had missed having such until Stuart became a fixture in her life. He was unfailingly kind to her (strange as it seemed that anyone who would marry Celia could possess a kind heart), treating her with a careless affection that Jessie soaked up as eagerly as a sponge might water. It was all she could do not to tag after him like a puppy with its master. The only thing that held her back was her pride—and Celia's tongue. With her marriage a disaster, Celia's bitterness spilled like acid over everyone at Mimosa. Although she minded her tongue to a certain degree in Stuart's presence, when he was not around, Celia made Jessie her favorite target.
Under the circumstances, Jessie spent a great deal of time away from the house. She rode Firefly daily, roaming the nearby piny forest with Jasper at her heels from dawn to dusk. Usually she would take care not to come home until after supper was served, and would then take her own meal in the cookhouse with Rosa. Considering the forbidding atmosphere that permeated the dining 125
room each night, Jessie was not sorry to content herself with the leavings of the main meal. According to Sissie, who most often got the thankless task of waiting at table, the master sat at one end of the long table and the mistress sat at the other, eating in grim splendor separated by acres of polished wood while neither said a
nything more to the other than was absolutely necessary. The swishing of the intricately carved mahogany punkah fan overhead and the rattling of dishes as Sissie served were the only sounds that broke the tense silence.
Often Jessie did not even bother returning to the house for luncheon, when Stuart would invariably be absent and Celia would be waiting to pounce on her stepdaughter like a spider on a fly with some imagined (or occasionally not so imagined) misdeed. Instead Jessie took to carrying with her an apple and a chunk of bread, and found that she did not miss the heavier meals that had once been the highlights of her days. This method of snatch-as-snatch-can eating, coupled with the extra hours she was spending in the saddle, was having a markedly beneficial effect on Jessie's appearance. So gradually that she hardly noticed it, she was slimming down.
Every morning Stuart worked with Graydon
Bradshaw in the plantation office. Most afternoons he spent riding around Mimosa, educating himself about everything from picking cotton to pruning fruit trees to how the field hands'
children were cared for in the nursery down in the quarters. Pharaoh, the slave foreman who had labored under Brantley for years, could usually be found at Stuart's side. Pharaoh was a big man, dark as ebony and brawny with muscle. He was also as knowledgeable about the plantation as ever Brantley had been. 126
Had he not been a slave, Mimosa would have had to look no further for her new overseer.
As Stuart learned the intricacies of running a plantation, Graydon Bradshaw nominally oversaw^ things, while rarely venturing out into the blistering heat of the fields. Jessie saw little of the dapper new overseer, but she heard much through the servants. Celia was apparently spending a considerable amount of time helping her cousin settle in. Knowing Celia, Jessie did not quite like the sound of that. Although, she thought hopefully, surely even Celia would not go so far as to play her new husband false right under his nose with an overseer who also happened to be her first cousin.
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