Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “He’s in here!” Hopkins thundered.

  Sanders frowned annoyed. “Go help him, O’Hara!” he ordered. “I got business with the lady. After you’ve taken him out to the wagon you ’n Hopkins can come back and gather up some loot.”

  “You bastard!” I cried.

  I kicked him in the shin, breaking free. He caught my wrist and jerked me in front of him, slinging an arm around my throat, brutally pressing his forearm again my windpipe as I struggled to escape. O’Hara chuckled again and sauntered out of the room. Sanders loosened his hold a bit and bent his head down, his lips brushing my earlobe. I stopped struggling, standing very still, his forearm firm across my throat but no longer pressing.

  “You ’n me, we’re gonna have some fun,” he taunted.

  “We made a bargain.” I said hoarsely.

  “You made an offer. I didn’t promise nothin’. Just relax. Me, I know how to make a gal feel good, real good. We’re gonna move over there to that sofa, an’ when we’re done you’re gonna beg me to do it all over again.”

  Forearm tightening across my windpipe, he forced me across the room and shoved me onto the sofa. I looked up at him, desperate now, desperately trying to think. The pistol. I had to get the pistol. It was in my reticule. Reticule. Money. I would offer him money. He stood over me, leering delaying his pleasure. I sat up, the bodice of my soiled blue silk gown slipping low, almost exposing my nipples. He liked that. He opened his mouth. his tongue flicking out to lick his lip again.

  “I have money,” I said.

  It worked. “Money?”

  “A great deal of money,” I replied. My voice was level now. “Before my friend fell ill, he went to the bank. We were planning to leave New Orleans. He took everything we had out of the bank.”

  Sanders forgot his throbbing member and pulled me to my feet.

  “Show me!” he ordered, shoving me toward the door.

  I led the way across the foyer and into the bedroom. Hopkins and O’Hara had pulled Jeremy out of bed, each holding one of his arms. He sagged between them, moaning, his eyes closed, the maroon robe hanging limply to his calves. I moved calmly over to the dressing table, picked up the reticule and turned around. Sanders waited near the doorway with a new kind of lust in his eyes. O’Hara and Hopkins gave him puzzled looks. I pulled the pistol out and leveled it at Sanders’ heart. O’Hara gasped.

  “Jesus! She’s gotta pistol!”

  I stared at Sanders with eyes as hard as marble. “Tell them to put him down,” I said.

  He heard the deadly deliberation in my voice. His cheeks turned pale, and he valiantly tried to hide his fear from his mates. I cocked the pistol, holding it steady, my eyes never leaving his own.

  “Hey—hey now,” he protested. “You don’t wanna interfere with th’ army, ma’am.”

  “Tell them to put him down.”

  “You ain’t gonna let no woman intimidate you!” Hopkins snarled. “Knock her down and take that toy outta her hand.”

  “Looks like I—uh—looks like I’ll have to,” Sanders said nervously. “Why don’t ja put th’ pistol down, ma’am.”

  “Move a muscle,” I said, “and I’ll fire. I mean it. Tell them to put him down.”

  Sanders hesitated a moment, then gave the order.

  “Gently,” I warned.

  Hopkins scowled savagely. O’Hara was visibly shaken. They lowered Jeremy onto the bed and straightened up, and then Hopkins roared and lunged at me. I whirled around and pulled the trigger and the explosion seemed to rock the room. The blast knocked Hopkins halfway across the room. He fell to the carpet, his shoulder shattered, bones splintered, blood gushing a bright crimson. In the confusion I whipped open the top drawer of the dressing table and pulled out the pistol Jeremy had been carrying. O’Hara stared at me in horror through the curling smoke.

  “She’s got another one!” he exclaimed.

  “I happen to be a crack shot,” I said. “I could easily have put the bullet between his eyes.”

  “I believe you, lady!”

  “Sanders?”

  “I—I ain’t gonna argue with you.”

  Hopkins was moaning in anguish, on his knees, his face chalk white as he stared at the jagged, gushing hole in his shoulder with bits of bone protruding. His eyes rolled back. He pitched forward, arms flopping out in front of him, one of them slamming against O’Hara’s leg. O’Hara shuddered, looking as though he might faint. Sanders stared at the pistol in my hand his gray eyes wide and frightened.

  “Pick him up,” I ordered. “Get him out of here. If any of you come back, I’ll shoot to kill. Do you understand?”

  Sanders nodded briskly. “We made a mistake. This fellow ain’t got th’ fever, he’s gotta bad cold. Right. O’Hara?”

  “Right!”

  “Help me get him up. Let’s get th’ hell outta here!”

  They got the wounded man to his feet and, supporting him between them, led him out of the bedroom. I followed them into the foyer, holding the pistol in front of me. Sanders fumbled with the doorknob. Hopkins sagged, crying out in agony as his shoulder wrenched, then passed out again. Sanders pulled the door open, and they started to step outside.

  “Just a minute!” I called.

  “Jesus,” O’Hara whispered. “What now?”

  “The box,” I said. “The silver box you took from the parlor. Give it to me.”

  O’Hara hastily complied. I took the box and jabbed the pistol forward, indicating the door. They stumbled outside, dragging Hopkins with them.

  “This whole bloody town’s gone to hell,” O’Hara complained. “Folks just ain’t friendly any more!”

  I closed the door and locked it, then leaned against it and closed my eyes for a moment, beginning to tremble as delayed reaction set in. Taking several deep breaths, I stepped into the parlor and set the box down and looked out the window. The wagon with its pitiful human cargo was pulling away from the gate. I doubted seriously that any of the three men would return. Hopkins would be out of commission for a long time, and Sanders and O’Hara, cocky and confident when terrorizing a helpless woman, had cringed fearfully when I pulled out the pistol. None of the brave, stalwart soldiers would want it to be bandied about that they had been bested by a lone woman.

  Jeremy was sprawled sideways across the bed when I returned to the bedroom, and it took me a long time to get him back under the covers. He resisted me in his sleep, shoving me with surprising strength, muttering angrily and groaning all the while. When I drew the covers up over him, he thrashed about, pushing them back, and then he sat up abruptly, eyes wide, burning a fiery blue, lips drawn back. There was a deafening clap of thunder, a sudden gust of wind that caused the shutters to rattle. Lightning flashed, streaks of silver-blue filling the dimly lit room. Shadows danced on the wall. Rain began to pound on the roof. Jeremy glared at me with a murderous expression on his face, in the grip of a waking nightmare, and when I took him by the shoulders and tried to ease him down onto the pillows he roared and drew back his fist and slammed it across my jaw.

  Violent silver-yellow-orange lights exploded in my head as a million red-hot needles of pain stabbed my jaw. I stumbled back, and my knees turned into rubber and folded under me. I was swallowed up by smothering folds of inky blackness.

  Struggling, struggling, I fought through the layers of blackness, moaning as the pain returned, a dull ache now, no longer burning, and the rapping noise was a constant irritant, coming from a great distance. Black melted into gray, and I opened my eyes, blinking. Where was I? What had happened? It took me a minute to realize I was on the floor. What was I doing on the floor? I touched my jaw carefully as memory returned. Jeremy. He had grown violent, had struck me. Catching hold of the bedpost, I pulled myself to my feet. He was asleep, breathing heavily. The thunder and lightning had gone, and it wasn’t raining any longer, although rain still dripped from the eaves. How long had I been unconscious? I clung to the bedpost for support, dizzy, my legs still weak.

  As
my head cleared, I was aware of the rapping noise once more. What was it? I frowned, and then I realized that someone was knocking at the door. I almost sobbed. No. No. I couldn’t take any more. I couldn’t face anything else, not today. Go away, I pleaded silently. Please go away. The rapping continued. Whoever was there had no intention of leaving. Oh God. Oh God. I ran a hand across my forehead and stepped over to the dressing table and picked up the pistol. Staggering wearily into the foyer, I set my mouth in a tight, determined line, unlocked the door and threw it open.

  The old Negro woman I had seen lingering near Dr. Duvall’s office looked at the pistol with large, luminous black eyes that registered not the slightest alarm. Lifting them to look into my own eyes, she frowned, and I saw deep concern Stirring. She was wearing a faded blue cotton dress patched in a dozen places, and there was a tattered purple shawl around her shoulders held together in front by a brooch of blue and black enamel. Her thinning pewter-gray hair was pulled away from her face and fastened in a tight bun on the back of her neck. The ancient, wrinkled brown face had a curious and touching beauty all its own. Her clothes and hair were wet, and she was carrying a large bag that looked as though it had been made from a single piece of dirty, flowered carpet.

  “I’se Mandy,” she said. Her voice was low, scratchy. “I’se come here to help the young gen’leman get well.”

  I stared at her, much too startled to speak. The woman brushed raindrops from her withered brown cheeks. Behind her, raindrops dripped from tree limbs, and the bougainvillaea was like limp, drenched purple silk. Seeing the confusion in my eyes, she gave me a reassuring nod.

  “I heard you talkin’ to the doctor. I knowed who you were. I remembered, you see yessum, and I knowed it must be that young gen’leman who wuz sick, the one who give me all that money.”

  My confusion grew. “Money? I don’t—”

  “You wuz wearin’ a glorious red dress that night.” she rasped, “an’ he wuz dressed grand too handsome as a prince. Y’all wuz passin’ through the market, and I wuz prowlin’ around the stalls, tryin’ to find something to eat an’ he give me all that money and moved on ’fore I could even thank him.”

  I recalled the shadowy market place with only a few torches burning here and there, most of the stalls closed as we strolled through. I recalled the smell of nuts roasting, and I remembered the woman now. She had been picking through the scraps and rubbish on the ground, moving wearily, her back bent as she gathered up limp carrots and cabbage leaves. Jeremy had been incensed by by her plight, had angrily thrust several large bills into her hands and then ranted about the heartlessness of slaveholders who freed their slaves without providing them with any means of livelihood. That night seemed a lifetime ago.

  “You remember?” she asked.

  I nodded. I seemed to be in a daze. My vision was blurry.

  “Mandy never forgot his kindness,” she said in that ancient, scratchy voice. “Nobody ever give me so much money, it wuz over fifty pounds. I wuz able to set me up my own stall in the flea market an’ sell the things I gather up from the alleys, things people throw away.”

  She was still standing on the doorstep. I motioned for her to come inside. I seemed to be standing a long way off, observing the scene with complete detachment, yet everything was blurred, hazy.

  “I remembered,” she said as I closed the door, “an’ when I saw you on the street, I knowed it wuz you. When I heard what you said to the doctor, I knowed I had to help. I’d ’uv come sooner, but I didn’t know where you lived, I couldn’t hear you when you was givin’ directions to that young fella what helps the doctor.”

  “How did you find us?” The voice seemed to belong to someone else.

  “He told me where to come, that boy, Angus. I waited and waited, waited all night, hopin’ they’d come back so I could ask him, but they didn’t return till this mornin’ and then I had to go get my things.”

  “Things?”

  “Roots, herbs, powder. I brought lemons, too an’ a honeycomb that’s drippin’ with honey. Got everything I need here in the bag. Mandy knows all about the fever, knows what to do.”

  I shook my head. None of this was real. Mandy looked at me with those beautiful eyes, ancient eyes full of ancient wisdom. A frown creased her brow as she gently touched my jaw.

  “We’ll put somethin’ on that.” she said.

  “He—he hit me. He didn’t mean to.”

  “’Course not. He wuz havin’ a spell.”

  “Those men were here and tried to take him away, and I had to shoot one of them in the shoulder. When you knocked on the door, I thought—”

  “Hush, child. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  I shook my head again, unable to believe she was here unable to believe any of this was happening. Mandy asked me to take her to Jeremy. I led her into the bedroom, moving as though in a trance, unable to focus. She stepped over to the bed and examined him, touching his skin, frowning deeply when she saw the yellow tint beneath his pallor. I was still holding the pistol. I set it down, watching as she leaned down to listen to his heartbeat. After a moment she straightened up, the frown digging a furrow between her brows. Her black eyes were extremely worried.

  “I’se goin’ to have to get started right away,” she muttered.

  “I appreciate your coming,” I said, “but he’s very sick. I—” My voice broke and the tears spilled over my lashes. “I—I don’t think he’s going to—”

  I couldn’t continue. The tears streamed down my cheeks in salty rivulets, and I didn’t even try to stem the flow. Mandy came over to me and reached out a gnarled old hand and patted my shoulder.

  “Don’t you cry, child. Mandy’s here. I’se goin’ to take care of him, an’ I’se goin’ to take care of you, too. Stop that cryin’, hear? Mandy’s goin’ to make everything all right.”

  Thirty-Three

  He sat up in bed, cocky, confident, and altogether too smug, grinning at me as I entered the room. Cheeks freshly shaven, hair brushed to a sleek gloss, he wore an outrageously opulent brown brocade robe embroidered with lavish black silk leaves, and he smelled of soap and pine. Ignoring him, I walked over to the mirror and began to arrange my hair. In the glass I could see a crestfallen look appear on his face, quickly turning into one of petulances.

  “So you bathed and shaved and brushed your own hair.” I said dryly, not bothering to turn around. “You want a medal?”

  “I think it’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Most men do it every day.”

  “You’re so damned querulous!”

  “You’ve been spoiled quite enough these past three weeks, Mr. Bond. It’s high time you started taking care of yourself. I’m sick and tired of ‘Marietta, do this,’ ‘Marietta, do that,’ ‘Mandy, bring me another glass of milk.’ A person would think you were a bloody pasha.”

  “A person might show a little sympathy for a convalescent.”

  “Convalescent? You’ve been perfectly fit for several days. You just like being waited on.”

  “Wanna rub my back?”

  “Indeed I don’t!”

  “You’re very good at it.”

  I let that pass. He had taken terrible advantage of me, of Mandy, too, lolling about while we waited on him hand and foot. I had rubbed his back every day had shaved him and brushed his hair, and Mandy delighted in cooking up special dishes to tempt his appetite. If he’d eaten one piece of sweet potato pie, he’d eaten two dozen, not to mention all the caramel custards and bowls of rice pudding. Despite it all, he still had a slightly gaunt look, hollows beneath his cheekbones. Another week of Mandy’s cooking would take care of that. I mused.

  “New dress?” he inquired.

  I adjusted the sleeves of the pale violet and sky blue striped silk and nodded, putting the hair brush down. “Lucille finished it yesterday morning, did a rush job so I’d have something decent to wear. I’m going back today for more fittings.”

  “Preferred customer, I suppose.”

>   “I’m paying her a fortune. She can afford to give me special treatment. I expect a whole new wardrobe to be ready by the end of the week.”

  Jeremy stretched his arms and settled back more comfortably on the pillows. Although he was still too thin, most of his color had returned, and he looked wonderfully handsome in the elaborate robe. Brilliant rays of silvery-yellow sunlight streamed through the opened windows, burnishing his hair. I longed to go smooth that heavy wave from his brow and feel its rich texture against my fingers. Instead, I stuffed a few bills into my reticule and gave him a cool look.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asked.

  “I believe Mandy’s making pork chops and applesauce. I’m not having anything.”

  “Her applesauce is wonderful, much better than that horrible inky concoction she had me drinking. And those mustard plasters—” He made a face and pretended to shudder.

  “That horrible inky concoction and those mustard plasters just happened to have saved your life.”

  He shook his head. “It was the charms that did it, those and all the feathers she burned. When’s it going to be ready? Lunch, I mean.”

  “It will be ready soon enough. You couldn’t be hungry not after eating all those pancakes for breakfast.”

  “You made those, didn’t you?”

  “What if I did?”

  “They were soggy,” he accused.

  “Go to hell, Jeremy Bond.”

  “Ah, lass, I love you. You cook and you rub backs and you’re so gorgeous I could look at you all day long.”

  “I, on the other hand, can’t wait to be rid of the sight of you.”

  “You don’t mean that,” he assured me.

  “I haven’t time to banter with you, Jeremy. Lucille is expecting me.”