Morning Song

by Karen Robards

  else that was wrong with her life, it was all Clive McClintock's fault!

  Then Jessie heard the faint rumble of thunder. Even as she looked up in trepidation, the heavens opened and rain began to fall in great silvery sheets.

  By the time she had rounded the bend in the road where Clive waited on Saber beneath the sheltering overhang of some juniper trees, Jessie was soaked to the skin. Her hat had wilted long since, the brim tipping soggily at the sides to allow water to pour down on both shoulders. Her gown, as wet as her hat, felt as if it weighed a ton. Water sloshed inside her shoes. The wet leather was, she was sure, rubbing blisters on her feet.

  Still, she was not quite ready to give up the ghost. When she saw Clive waiting for her, she lifted her nose and stomped right past him. The knowledge of how utterly ridiculous she must appear, soaked to the skin and hobbling through the still pouring rain, goaded her. When he nudged Saber into keeping pace with her, she flashed him a look of loathing.

  Her one consolation was that he was every bit as wet as she was. Although, of course, his hat had not wilted. No hat of his would dare!

  "Changed your mind yet?" The question was maddeningly genial. Jessie threw him a look that could have sliced granite, and continued to stalk through the rain with her nose in the air.

  "Stone in your shoe?" The falsely solicitous inquiry made her want to pick up a rock and brain him with it. Ignoring him, she slogged on.

  Then Saber, through what she suspected was no mere

  mischance, shied. The big horse did a little sideways dance step before Clive could bring him under control. At the conclusion of 333

  the performance, the animal's rear end swung around to collide solidly with Jessie's back. Caught by surprise, she stumbled forward and lost her footing, falling facedown in a puddle. In the minute before she could recover her breath enough to pick herself up, Clive was off Saber and hunkering beside her.

  "Jessie! Are you hurt?"

  "You did that on purpose!" she accused, turning over and sitting up to glare at him.

  "Obviously not," he answered his own question, then took one look at her, with the straw brim of the already ruined hat crushed now to dangle over her nose and reddish mud coating her person from her eyebrows clear down to the hem of her skirt, and started to grin.

  "If you laugh, so help me, I'll kill you," she warned through gritted teeth as he gave every evidence of doing just that.

  "I guess I'll simply have to risk it," he managed, before succumbing to a fit of the chuckles that made her look longingly at his still just slightly discolored nose.

  Jessie glared at him. Before she could make any other move to carry out her threat, he picked her up out of the puddle and stood up, still chuckling, to deposit her on Saber's back. If she hadn't been so wet, and so muddy, and so tired—and if he hadn't cannily kept his hand on the rein—she would have kicked Saber into a gallop before he could swing himself up behind her, and left him standing there.

  But she didn't. Clive got up behind her, turned her so that she was sitting sideways between his body and the saddle horn, and slid his arms around her to reach the reins.

  Her only satisfaction was that, in doing so, he got himself nearly as muddy as she.

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  "I hate you," she said to the trees at the side of the road, refusing to look at him and keeping her body rigid so that she didn't have to touch him any more than was absolutely necessary.

  "No, you don't. You're just mad," he told her comfortably. Jessie had to clench her hands in her lap to keep from hitting him.

  And so they rode the rest of the way to Mimosa, with Jessie, muddy and sullen, not quite sitting on Clive's lap, and Clive, grinning widely, enjoying himself for the first time in two days. But when they reached the turn-in to Mimosa, he stiffened.

  "Something's happened," he said.

  Jessie slewed around in the saddle to look at the house. Half a dozen carriages were parked in the drive, and twenty or so of Mimosa's people were gathered in the front yard despite the slackening rain.

  "That carriage belongs to Dr. Crowell," Jessie said suddenly, recognizing the battered buggy that was a familiar sight at houses where there were birthings, sickness, or death.

  "Good God." Clive nudged Saber into a canter. Jessie hung on to the saddle horn for dear life as the animal slipped and slid on the muddy drive until Clive reined in at the foot of the steps. Then she slid down, ducking under Clive's arm before he could help her.

  ' Miss Jessie, oh, Miss Jessie!" Amabel, Pharaoh's wife, was one of the small group in front of the house. " 'Twas Pharaoh what found her!"

  "Found who, Amabel?" Jessie asked, fighting to stay calm. Clive was beside her, tying Saber's reins to a newel-post in the absence of Thomas or Fred, who in the face of the current crisis had apparently deserted their posts.

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  "What's happened?" Clive demanded sharply. Just then Dr. Crowell, accompanied by Tudi and Rosa, appeared on the veranda above them.

  "Oh, lamb, where you been?" Regardless of the rain, Tudi hurried down the steps toward her.

  "What's happened?" Clive demanded again, more sharply this time, as Tudi folded Jessie, mud and all, into her arms.

  "I'm sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, Mr. Edwards," Dr. Crowell said heavily as Stuart climbed the steps toward him.

  "But I'm very much afraid your wife is dead."

  XLIV

  Celia lay in the front parlor, on the settee where Jessie had sat as she had waited for Mitch to call to receive her answer to his proposal. A quilt covered Celia's body, but the tip of one small muddy shoe was just visible. Jessie felt her stomach tighten. It was impossible to comprehend that Celia was dead.

  With Dr. Crowell murmuring something at his side, Clive moved toward where Celia lay. He reached for the quilt to twitch it back from her face. Jessie turned quickly away.

  "God in heaven!"

  Apparently, from the sickened tone of Clive's voice, whatever had happened to Celia wasn't pretty. Jessie's stomach heaved, and she clapped her nana to her mouth as she fought against casting up her accounts. Clive looked sharply at her.

  "There's no need for you to see this," he said to her, then spoke over her shoulder to Tudi, who hovered just behind her. "Take her upstairs and help her get changed."

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  "Yessir, Mr. Stuart."

  "Oh, God!" At the reminder that Stuart was not Stuart, Jessie felt a fresh wave of nausea overtake her. She was thankful for Tudi's arm to help her up the stairs.

  Tudi undressed her while Sissie, summoned from the back hall, where the house servants had gathered, prepared her bath.

  "Was it the baby?" Jessie whispered as she slid into the steaming water.

  "The baby?" Tudi asked, seemingly uncomprehending. Jessie, still so nauseated from shock that she could barely lift her head without gagging, lay back against the lip of the tub as Tudi washed her like a small child.

  "Celia. What happened? Was it a problem with the baby?" Tudi and Sissie looked at each other over Jessie's head. "No, lamb," Tudi said, gently running the wet cloth over Jessie's neck.

  "It wasn't the baby."

  "She was kilt!" Sissie, who was laying out fresh underclothes for Jessie, added in a rush.

  "Killed!" Jessie sat up straight, looking wide-eyed from one woman to the other.

  "The doctor, he said somebody done beat her to death," Tudi said. Then, before any of them could say anything more, there was a tap at the door. Sissie went to answer it, and had a lowvoiced conversation with the person on the other side. When she closed the door and turned back into the room, her eyes were wide.

  "Dr. Crowell, he said you should come on down into the library when you're ready, Miss Jessie. Judge Thompson is here."

  "Judge Thompson!"

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  "Miss Celia was murdered, lamb. He's probably come to see if he can discover who did it." "Get me dressed!" Something niggled at the back of Jessie's mind. She couldn't quite bring it forward so
that she could consciously examine it, but it was there, nonetheless. Whatever it was urged her to go downstairs quickly, before events could be put in motion that she would be helpless to stop. Although just what those events might be she couldn't quite express, even to herself.

  She stood up abruptly and stepped out of the tub. Tudi said something in a low voice to Sissie. As Tudi enveloped Jessie in a drying cloth, Sissie slipped from the room. By the time she had returned, some ten minutes later, with a black dress hanging over her arm, Jessie was clad in her underwear and Tudi was pinning up her hair.

  Jessie's eyes widened when she saw the black gown. But of course she had to wear black. Her stepmother was dead, and she was officially in mourning.

  "It was Miss Elizabeth's." Tudi answered her unspoken question as she deftly threw the dress over Jessie's head. "From when your grandmama died."

  The dress was a trifle too short and a trifle too snug in the bosom, but Jessie didn't care about that. As she looked at herself in the cheval glass swathed from neck to ankles in black like a crow, the reality of the situation hit her like a blow: Celia was dead.

  "I can tell 'em you're not feeling well, lamb," Tudi offered as Jessie hesitated before leaving the room.

  Jessie took a deep breath. "No. I'm all right." Then, with Tudi behind her, she went down the stairs.

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  As promised, Judge Thompson was in the library. So, Jessie saw after she opened the door, were Dr. Crowell; Seth Chandler, who held the largely honorary post of county coroner; and Clive. Seth Chandler looked tense; Clive wore his icy mask. The tension in the room was palpable.

  All four gentlemen turned to look at her as she entered. Tudi closed the door quietly behind her but remained outside, in the hall.

  "Gentlemen." Jessie's voice was steady despite the churning in her stomach that would not go away.

  "Ah, Miss Lindsay," Judge Thompson greeted Jessie. "Please join us. You have my deepest sympathy on the loss of your stepmother."

  Seth Chandler and Dr. Crowell murmured similar sentiments. Jessie sat in the leather chair farthest from the desk where Clive perched on a corner, inclining her head in acknowledgment of their words.

  With an odd feeling of detachment, she saw that, unlike herself, Clive had not had a chance to change. He was still wet, with smears of mud marring his gray suit. For once his hair was disordered, curling wildly about his head as it dried. His face was composed, but very pale.

  "I'm sorry to have to distress you with these details," Judge Thompson continued when Jessie was seated. He pulled up a chair beside her and lowered his voice as if in respect for the somber subject he must broach. "Mrs. Edwards was discovered shortly after noon today, lying out behind your privy. Your man Pharaoh found the—uh, her. I understand he's been with your family for a long time?"

  "All his life. He was born on Mimosa."

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  "Ah. And do you have any reason to suspect that he might have wished to do Mrs. Edwards harm?"

  Jessie's eyes widened. "Pharaoh? No. He would never hurt anyone."

  Judge Thompson exchanged a look with Dr. Crowell. "Miss Lindsay, again I hate to distress you, but I understand that you left the house some four days ago in a state of some, ah, emotional disturbance?"

  Clive made a sudden movement as though he might be going to protest, but Dr. Crowell moved to stand beside him, silencing him with a hand on his arm.

  Jessie's attention shifted back to Judge Thompson. "Yes."

  "And Mr. Edwards came after you?"

  Jessie looked fleetingly at Clive. His thoughts were hidden by that expressionless mask that she realized now was the mark of a professional gambler. But what, this time, had he to hide?

  "Yes."

  "When and where did Mr. Edwards locate you?" "In Natchez, the day before yesterday."

  "I see. And has he been with you ever since?" Suddenly Jessie saw where Judge Thompson's questions were leading. He was trying to find out if Celia's husband had an alibi for the time of her murder. Fortunately for Clive, he'd been with Jessie. Then her blood froze as the truth dawned: he had not been with her at the time Celia was killed. She had run away from him yesterday morning and had not seen him again until he'd met her at the dock some two hours ago. Of course, he'd ridden clear from Baton Rouge in that period, but had he somehow found time to stop by Mimosa and beat Celia to death before he met Jessie at the dock? Preposterous! Wasn't it?

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  "Yes, he's been with me ever since," Jessie answered clearly, her eyes moving to Clive again. Was it her imagination, or did he look just the tiniest bit relieved by her answer? She waited, but he didn't contradict her.

  "I see. Thank you very much, Miss Lindsay. Of course, Mr. Edwards told us the same thing, but we have to corroborate everything, don't we?"

  As Judge Thompson got to his feet, seeming relieved, Jessie looked at Clive again. He met her eyes, his expression as unreadable as it had been when she'd entered the room. Those sky-blue eyes were as unfathomable as the sea.

  There'd been much she could have told Judge Thompson, above and beyond the fact that Celia's husband had no alibi for the time of her murder. But she had held her tongue, and even lied. The question was, why?

  Jessie was all too afraid she knew the answer. And so, she feared, did Clive.

  It lay in the vagaries of her foolish heart.

  XLV

  Celia was buried the next day, in the small cemetery where Jessie's parents and grandparents had been laid to rest. It was raining, not the pouring sheets of the day before, but a steady drizzle. Like everyone else present, Jessie was both cold and thoroughly damp. Beside her, Clive, soberly clad in black as befitted a newly bereaved widower, held his hat in front of him and bowed his head at the Reverend Cooper's solemn words. He 341

  seemed completely oblivious to the rain. Droplets of water beaded on his black hair and rolled like tears down his face. He looked so much the perfect picture of the grieving husband that Jessie's lip curled. Fraud! she wanted to scream at him, even as he was throwing the first clod of dirt on the coffin. He had not loved Celia, had hated her, in fact. He'd made no bones about having married her strictly for Mimosa. Now, since he was Celia's nearest survivor, Mimosa was his.

  The question was, had he killed Celia to get it?

  Miss Flora and Miss Laurel stood behind him, their faces puckered with concern for the man who, if they did but know it, was not their nephew at all. Neighbors crowded the small family plot. Beyond the iron fence stood Tudi, Sissie, Rosa, Progress, Pharaoh,

  and all the rest of Mimosa's people in a large, silent mass. Jessie thought that she would by far rather have stood with them than where she was. They were her family now, the people who truly loved her and whom she loved.

  Except they weren't her people now, but Stuart's. No, curse him, Clive's.

  The fortune hunter had played his hand perfectly, and had got up from the table with the prize.

  "Come, Jess, it's over."

  Jessie's thoughts had taken her far away from the soggy graveside. Clive's hand on her arm and his whispered words brought her back to reality with a start. The service was over, his hat was firmly in place on his head, and the neighbors were parting to let the grief-stricken family pass. Jessie kept her eyes lowered as Clive pulled her hand through his arm, turned her about, and escorted her through the sympathetically murmuring 342

  crowd down the hillside to the buggy that waited on the road below. It was only a short distance to the house, an easy walk in fine weather and one that Jessie frequently made, but in times of tragedy the family invariably chose to ride. Today, the rain had made it doubly necessary.

  Now, according to custom, the mourners would retire to Mimosa to offer sympathy to the bereaved and partake of refreshments. In this instance, there would be the added attraction of speculating about who the killer might be. The most obvious candidate, the new husband who inherited all, was taken out of the running by the stepdaughter's alibi. That left the field ope
n for the most farfetched of theories. Jessie did not doubt that the crowd in Mimosa's formal rooms today would enjoy itself very much by exploring them all.

  'Are you all right?" Clive asked Jessie in a low voice as he handed her up into the front seat, where she would sit beside him.

  Miss Laurel and Miss Flora, as the widower's supposed aunts, rode in the buggy with them. Their presence kept Jessie's reply brief.

  "I'm fine," she said. Ignoring his frowning look, she lapsed into silence as he helped the old ladies to their seats.

  The remainder of the day was a nightmare. Forced jy common courtesy to circulate amongst the neighbors who crowded into her house, Jessie developed a blinding headache. It was hard enough to pretend a grief she didn't feel. Except for the shock of it, and her niggling suspicion that maybe, just maybe, Clive's infamy might stretch to the extent of clobbering his wife over the head, she could not really ?e sorry that Celia was gone. But to see Clive pretending to be Stuart, accepting compliments on how 343

  well he was holding up and looking suitably grave, made her want to shriek the truth to the skies. More than at any other time, during the course of that endless afternoon Jessie had a chance to observe firsthand what a consummate actor the man really was. Of course, always before when he had played at being Stuart Edwards, gentleman, Jessie had not known about Clive. It was later, near suppertime, and the crowd had begun to thin out, when Jessie saw Clive pull aside Mr. Samuels, Celia's lawyer, for a low-voiced discussion. Jessie's lip curled. Clive no doubt wanted to discuss the will.