Chloe

by Lyn Cote

  Bette nodded and ran faster as the sharp, cold wind whipped at the skirts of their coats. Chloe kept glancing over her shoulder back at the cottage, deserted and forlorn in the early winter’s night. The melody that had haunted her since her last day in Paris came again. This time she dredged up a few words, “Just as I am . . .” She didn’t know the rest, but it was Granny singing. That much she recognized.

  That evening, Chloe sat at her vanity writing a letter to Drake. Crumpled pink, rose-scented paper littered the vanity top. What did she want to say to the man she’d agreed to marry? Everything had been turned upside down and not just for her. Drake must be struggling, too. She was afraid simultaneously that he might not want to marry her now—and that he might still want to marry her. She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. She began again.

  Dear Drake,

  I came directly home to Ivy Manor after returning from Paris. Will you come and see me? We need to talk about many things.

  Chloe halted and twisted the pen between her fingers. Did he still want to marry her? The thought that the stock market might have changed Drake, changed his feelings toward her, was a bitter one. I gave you my promise, Drake, and I won’t break it. But maybe you don’t want me anymore.

  Please come.

  With love,

  Chloe

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  New York City, January 1930

  On Saturday morning, Roarke hurried down the threadbare carpet of the stairs of his rooming house. The smell of last night’s fish soup still lingered. The plump, glum landlady stood at the bottom, holding out the receiver to him. “You won’t hold up the line too long?” she recited the usual question.

  “No, ma’am.” Roarke took the receiver from her. “Hello.”

  “Roarke,” his father’s brisk voice came over the line, “I need you to come home.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before,” Roarke muttered, aware that the other unemployed men and his landlady, all sitting just through the arch into the overly neat parlor, were hanging on his every word.

  “Your mother is dying of cancer.”

  His father’s stark words hit Roarke squarely in the head like a claw-hammer. His throat constricted. “It’s for sure?”

  “Yes. She didn’t want me to tell you over Christmas. But the diagnosis is accurate. A tumor in her uterus has spread its malignancy throughout her body.”

  Weak-kneed, Roarke leaned back against the polished staircase. “How long?”

  “The doctor can’t tell me. She could die tomorrow.”

  “Does Kitty know?”

  “Yes, I just finished calling her but . . .”

  On Saturday morning, Chloe stood in the midst of the kitchen of her Granny Raney’s three-room cottage. The January wind rattled the old windows, but Jerusha’s husband had come over this morning and cleaned out the pipe on the old wood stove and started a snug fire for her. Still, she wore a thick green sweater and knit gloves against the chill. She looked around at the dusty interior and lifted the broom to sweep away the draping cobwebs. Nearly twenty years of neglect. Was she crazy for planning to move here?

  A timid knock came at the back door.

  Chloe glanced over her shoulder and glimpsed her daughter’s wind-rosy face looking in. A thrill of pleasure zipped through Chloe. “It’s open, Bette. Come on in.”

  The little girl in her dark wool coat hurried inside and shut the door firmly behind her. “Brrr.” She shivered.

  The temptation to hug the child to her and kiss her over and over rocked Chloe, but she resisted. Easy does it. “Come warm up by the stove, honey. I did.”

  Bette obeyed the beckoning wave of Chloe’s hand. “Grandmother says you’re crazy to clean up this place, that a servant should do it.”

  Bette’s unsurprising words triggered a vivid memory. Chloe gazed at the center of the kitchen, seeing herself at Bette’s age with her granny and mother facing each other. Chloe was standing at the ironing board with the heavy, well-heated flat iron in hand, poised over a white pillowcase she’d embroidered with butterflies for her granny. “My daughter doesn’t need to learn how to iron,” her mother had snapped.

  “There be some things every woman should know how to do,” her granny had countered, standing slightly bent.

  Her mother had sniffed. “My daughter will always have servants to do for her. She is a Carlyle.”

  Her granny had put her arthritis-twisted hands on her narrow hips. “We’re all the same to God. He loves us just as we are—Carlyle or Kimball, master or servant.”

  Chloe pulled her mind back to the present. “Grandmother mentioned that to me.” And a lot more.

  “Why do you want to move out here?” Bette asked, still holding her arms around her, trying to get warm.

  Chloe heard the uncertainty, the worry in her daughter’s voice. She heard Bette’s real question: “Why are you leaving me again, Mother?”

  “I love you, Bette, and I’m not going to leave you behind anymore.”

  Her daughter worried her lower lip.

  I know you don’t believe me, honey. Her mother’s resentful voice replayed in Chloe’s mind: “You hold me responsible for the fact that you’ve spent Bette’s whole childhood in Washington, D.C., suiting yourself. The truth is that you could have taken her from me any time you really wanted to.”

  What Chloe had hated most of all was that her mother merely spoke the truth.

  Moving into Granny Raney’s cottage had been triggered by the desire to put some distance between her and her mother’s waspish tongue. Each time she’d walked past the cottage it had beckoned her, just like her granny had in life, invited her to come inside and lay down all her burdens on a sympathetic lap. But her granny was long dead.

  Bette had come closer to Chloe, who stroked the child’s soft hair. I’ve got to stand on my two feet or I won’t be able to teach Bette how.

  Another knock at the door. Chloe turned and froze. Drake stood outside . . .

  “Is Kitty coming home?” Roarke asked his father, desperate for an excuse to refuse.

  “No.”

  Just no? Roarke clutched the phone. “What’s happening with Kitty?”

  “I don’t know.” His father suddenly sounded two hundred years old. “Son, I need you. The county’s in trouble. The bank’s on the edge. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to extend credit for seed this spring. Your mother’s dying. I need you.”

  Roarke struggled with himself. Could he go home to stay?

  “Roarke, I’ve never hounded you to tell me what happened to you in France. But whatever it was, it’s history. A scarred face and a stiff arm haven’t kept you from home. I need you now. Will you come home?”

  Roarke stared ahead, but saw northern France, a battleground. The image still had the power to—

  “Son, will you come home? I need to know . . .”

  Chloe opened the door and Drake walked in, handsome in a gray pin-striped suit and looking very much out of place. Surprise held her speechless.

  “The butler told me where you were,” he said.

  She stared at him. Then she felt Bette burrowing under her arm. “Drake,” Chloe said, “this is my daughter, Bette.”

  “Hello.” Drake smiled down and took her daughter’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bette.”

  Bette pressed against Chloe, tongue tied. Chloe patted her arm. “Why don’t you go keep warm by the stove?” Bette fled to the kitchen. “She’s shy,” Chloe murmured.

  “I’ve surprised you.” Drake stated the obvious, rubbing his chilled hands together. “But I finally was able to get away for a few days, so I drove down. I . . . we have to talk.”

  Chloe nodded. His grandmother’s engagement ring tingled where it still encircled her finger under her glove. “You didn’t answer my letters.”

  He drew her toward the front windows, which rattled in the persistent wind. “Some things can’t be said in ink or over a phone line.”

  Chloe felt her stom
ach sliding toward her toes. She wanted to say, “I know.” But she couldn’t find her voice.

  “I told you that my family has suffered major losses in the crash.”

  “Yes, Daddy lost everything.” She pulled up the collar of her sweater against the chill. But was it just the wind or the distance she perceived that stood between her and Drake?

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for his funeral.” He shoved his hands in his pockets like a boy. “But I was trying to help my father shore up what remained of our corporation. My father didn’t speculate wildly, but others did with our stock.”

  “I’m sorry.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Me, too. As the dust has settled, we’ve managed to keep the corporation and our oil refineries going, but our stock price is dreadfully low—less than half of what it was. And everything around us seems to be slowing or shutting down. The market for our petroleum shrinks daily.”

  For the very first time she saw worry crease Drake’s forehead. She reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “This must be very difficult for your parents.”

  “Very.” He put a hand over hers. “But you and I must discuss our future . . .”

  “Roarke,” his father prompted, breaking the silence on the line.

  “I’ll be home within a week,” Roarke said the necessary words, the only ones he could say. “I have a few loose ends to tie up and then I’ll come down on the train.”

  “What about your car?” Father didn’t sound surprised.

  “I sold it.” To buy food and pay rent for one room.

  “Then send me a telegram and I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “I will.” Roarke hung up and felt as though he’d just hung up his last hope. I can’t support myself and my mother is dying and my sister won’t come home. Every eye in the parlor was turned to him. He cleared his throat and felt his back against an invisible wall. “I’ll be leaving in a few days, ma’am.”

  His landlady said something polite, but his thoughts were already home. I can’t run away anymore . . .

  Before the words came out of Drake’s mouth, Chloe knew what he was going to say. She closed her eyes and waited.

  “I still want to marry you, Chloe.”

  She opened her eyes. That wasn’t what she’d expected.

  He took her wrists in his hands and pulled her closer. “That hasn’t changed. But I’m not the wealthy man I was. I’m not destitute, but—”

  “I wasn’t marrying you—” Chloe paused and softened her harsh voice; Drake hadn’t meant to insult her. “. . . for your money, Mr. Lovelady.”

  Drake folded her deeply into his arms with familiar ease. “I still love you. I still want to marry you.”

  But standing there, Chloe suddenly knew what she had to say. Her mind was as clear as polished glass. “I’m going to give you back your grandmother’s ring.”

  “No, I’d rather—”

  “No, it’s a family heirloom and I want you to keep it in your care.” She tugged off her glove and then the ring, put it into his hand, and closed his fingers over it.

  “You don’t intend to marry me, then?” Drake sounded defeated, hurt.

  “No. I’ve not taken back my promise. I told you I wouldn’t. All I know is that right now I belong here. My daughter, my mother, the county need me. I’ve an obligation just like yours to family and to business.”

  “Business?” His eyes met hers.

  “Yes, I’m one of the largest landowners in the county. Times are hard. People are worried.”

  Drake slipped the ring onto his little finger between the first and second knuckles. “We thought the party would never end,” he said wistfully, wryly.

  “We were wrong.”

  “I still intend to marry you. I’ll be back.” With a last smile, Drake kissed her wrists above her glove cuffs and left her. Chloe shut the door behind him and rested her back against it. Where would it all end? What was she doing moving into this cottage? All she knew was she could think clearer here.

  Bette ran from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Chloe’s waist. “Don’t leave us again.”

  Chloe felt her heart swell with both joy and sadness. Her daughter couldn’t talk to her in the big house. Away from her grandmother, though, they had a chance. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere you can’t come with me.”

  But Chloe looked around her at the musty dust and cobwebs. Her father’s lawyer had given her a quick education in her responsibilities. Property taxes on the Carlyle acres loomed ahead. After years of prosperity, where had this deflation or recession or depression come from? Where would it all end?

  February 1930

  Her nerves jittering, Chloe walked into the McCaslin bank with its polished maple, brass fittings, and deep green carpet. Over the winter, she’d taught herself how to drive and had come alone. She needed advice and plenty of it. After smiling at the teller and his one customer, she walked through the gate into the bank office area and halted. The door was open; Roarke McCaslin in sober gray sat at his father’s desk. Awareness pulsed through her.

  She cleared her throat. “Welcome back, Roarke.” Jamie had talked of nothing else but Roarke’s return a week ago. But she hadn’t seen Roarke since last November. After all their years apart, how did he still have the power to make her react to him?

  With an impersonal expression, Roarke rose and motioned for her to come in and sit. She followed his invitation and perched on the chair in front of his desk, afraid of letting him know how the sight of his stony face unnerved her.

  “What may I do for you, Chloe?” His voice gave nothing away.

  They might have been strangers! All the polite words she’d practiced became molten lead. Chloe leaped up and snapped the door to the office shut and whirled to face the stubborn man once and for all. “I’m tired of us acting like we’re strangers until we decide to rip up at each other.”

  The truth of her words slicing through him, Roarke stared at her. She still wore mourning for her father. The black made her look paler, more vulnerable.

  “Kitty won’t answer my letters.” Chloe plumped back down into the chair. “Your parents won’t talk about her. And no one knows or will tell me what’s wrong with your mother.” Chloe leaned forward. “Roarke, you have to be my friend again, or else.”

  He wouldn’t be cornered. “I’m supposed to make everything right for you?”

  She repressed the urge to throttle him. “I don’t have the patience for this. What’s wrong with your mother?”

  Her quick change of topics ripped the scab off this particular wound. “Cancer. She doesn’t want Jamie to know so she is keeping it as quiet as possible.”

  Chloe blanched. “Dear God, no.”

  “Don’t faint on me.” I hate sitting here saying this to Chloe. God, are you listening? Are you there?

  Shock registering, Chloe pressed three black-gloved fingers to her unrouged lips. “I can’t say how sorry I am, Roarke. How long?”

  “No one knows.” He picked up his pen and gouged his blotter with it.

  “That’s why you came home.” The hope that he’d come for any other reason died another nasty death.

  “Yes.” That and insolvency.

  Looking up, she studied the ivory crown molding and calmed her jangled nerves. “If you need me for anything, I won’t fail you.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time, his tone was honest. Suddenly he wanted to tear off the mask he’d worn since the raid at Seicheprey. He wanted to be honest with Chloe, with someone.

  “It will hit Jamie hard,” Chloe murmured. “And Bette. She’s become very attached to your mother.”

  He couldn’t risk letting down his guard yet. “What do you need from me, Chloe?” His tone sharpened.

  She longed to give him a personal reply. But no, she’d given her promise to Drake and wouldn’t renege for any reason. No more lies or half truths in her life. “Advice,” she replied briskly. “I’m worried about our croppers
. They’re going to need seed next month and I don’t have the money to buy it and loan it to them against the crop.”

  She was here on business then. He glanced up and saw only her lips, remembered how soft they’d felt against his so long ago. He gripped his pen tighter. “What is the balance in your savings account here?”

  “Don’t you know?” She looked up, wide eyed.

  His mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “I don’t memorize the balances in all our accounts.”

  She sat back, suddenly feeling lighter. But why, she didn’t know. Her savings account wasn’t heartening. “We have a few hundred dollars and the first installment of property taxes comes due in June.”

  “That I knew.” I was already thinking of how to help you. Old habits die hard, I guess. But he’d come up with exactly nothing.

  “All Daddy’s property and money were swallowed up by his debts to banks in Baltimore and Washington. I have some jewels I can sell, but friends have written me, saying that they’ve tried to sell items and have been offered ridiculously low sums.”

  Roarke tried to see from her gloved hands if she still wore Drake’s engagement ring. He couldn’t. He knitted his fingers in front of his vest. “Supply and demand. Many are selling. Few are buying.”

  She clutched a black handbag in her lap. “I need help or my croppers will have nothing to plant this spring.”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t plant anything,” he said in sudden disgust. Couldn’t anything go right? “Commodity prices have dropped through the floor. Neither tobacco nor cotton will bring much this year—again supply and demand. People without money don’t buy cigarettes. If people aren’t buying clothes, factories won’t buy cotton to spin into cloth—on and on. Tariffs have killed trade internationally.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She released her purse and it slid to the floor. “Good heavens, Roarke. What should I do?” For weeks now, singly and in groups, both black and white croppers who worked Carlyle land had stopped at the back door of Chloe’s cottage, voicing worries about the coming crop. Underlying all these had been, “You’re the Carlyle. What are you going to do to keep us going?”