Roses

by Leila Meacham

  “I’ll tell you why you hate him,” Percy said. “You hate him because he’s nice and considerate and gentle. He doesn’t seem quite the boy you think he should be, but I want to tell you something, Wyatt. He’s every bit the man you seem to think you are.”

  “I know that.”

  The response was not what Percy had expected. “Then why do you hate him?”

  A shrug. A quick blink of the defiant eyes.

  “And this type of thing has been going on a long time, I understand,” Percy said, rolling up the other sleeve. “He’s come home with bruises and bumps and cuts, all delivered by you. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And it’s never bothered you that you’re bigger than he is?”

  “No, sir.”

  Percy stared at his son, unable to assess the baffling combination of his dispassion and honesty. At eleven, he was already pushing six feet and acquiring the breadth of his father’s shoulders. “You’re jealous of Matthew, aren’t you.”

  “So what if I am? What’s it to you?”

  “You watch your mouth, young man, and don’t you ever talk to your mother like you did back at the house. You are never again to tell her to be quiet, understand?”

  “Why? You do worse to her.”

  Rage exploded in his head, blinding him. All he could see was the slashed baseball glove and the bandage over Matthew’s temple. He saw love in the green eyes and hate in the blue. He drew back his right hand, balling it into a fist, and with his left reached for the jacket front of his other son, the one he did not know, did not love, did not wish to claim. “I’m going to let you feel what it’s like to be beaten up by somebody bigger than you,” he said through clenched teeth, and brought his fist forward.

  The blow landed Wyatt on the floor hard against the front of the couch, a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose and a cut lip. Percy went outside and drew water, brought the bucket inside, and doused a towel in it. “Here,” he said, thrusting the wet cloth at his son without pity or remorse. “Wipe your face. And Wyatt—” He reached down and yanked the boy into a sitting position on the couch. “If you so much as look cross-eyed at your—” The blue eyes shot a look into his. For the second time that day, Percy had caught himself from saying your brother. “Your neighbor and classmate,” he amended, “I will make sure you never bully anybody else again. You understand what I’m saying?” He glared into his son’s bloody face. “Do you?”

  A nod, then through red-stained teeth, “Yes, sir.”

  When they returned home, the visitors from California were happily, volubly getting drunk in the drawing room. Dinner had been waiting an hour. “Where have you been?” Lucy hissed, meeting her husband in the back hallway. Percy had already sent Wyatt to his room.

  “Getting my son acquainted with me,” Percy replied.

  It was the last formal event ever hosted by the Warwicks. When Lucy, fearing the worst, attempted to bolt up the back stairs, Percy grabbed her arm and directed her back to the drawing room with a grip that said she’d leave their guests on pain of injury, divorce, or worse. All through the long meal and port afterward, she sat uncommunicative and anxious-eyed while her husband, freshly attired, steered the conversation and poured the wine. When finally the guests had departed, she fled up the stairs to see Wyatt.

  He heard her wail of dismay and awaited her fury in his room, where he was calmly removing his cuff links when she burst in. “How could you have done what you’ve done?” she screeched. “You’ve nearly beaten our son to death.”

  “You exaggerate, Lucy. What I did was nothing compared to what he’s been dishing out to Matthew DuMont for years. I simply gave him a dose of his own medicine.” He related what had happened that day at school and the report of Wyatt’s systematic bullying of Matthew.

  “What he did wasn’t right, I know that, Percy,” Lucy cried, “but what you did was worse. He’s going to hate you for it.”

  “He already does hate me.”

  “Only because of the attention you pay Matthew. That’s why he treats Matthew the way he does. He’s jealous of your affection for him.”

  “Matthew deserves my affection. Wyatt doesn’t.”

  “Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!” Lucy struck her palm with the wedge of her hand with each cry of the boy’s name. “That’s all I hear from you! Holy Mother of God, you’d think Matthew was your son!”

  The words held in the room like smoke following an explosion. Lucy stood as if shot, her figure rigid in the satin folds of her evening gown. She stared at Percy, realization dawning across her countenance like the slow breaking of light over the sea. Percy was not quick enough to avert his face before it confirmed the blinding truth of her charge. “No…,” she gasped, horror filling her face. “Matthew is your son! It’s true, isn’t it? He’s yours and… and Mary’s….” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Mother of God…”

  He turned away, knowing that no amount of denying could undo what his expression had betrayed.

  Lucy moved to stand in front of him, her scrutiny of his face so intense that he could almost feel her eyes boring into his skin. He refused to look at her. He riveted his gaze over her head to the vista of immaculate, moonlit grounds beyond his bedroom windows, removing himself mentally from the room. It was a trick he’d learned in the trenches when to be aware of the wreckage around him was to go mad.

  A hard slap across his face shocked him from his escape. “You have your gall!” Lucy shrieked. “How dare you shut me out at a time like this! Tell me the truth, you prick!”

  His cheek stinging, Percy answered wearily, glad to be relieved of the charade. “Yes, it’s true. Matthew is Mary’s and my son.”

  Temporarily without words, Lucy gaped at him for several agitated heaves of her enormous bosom. “I should have realized from the way you look at Matthew and never at Wyatt that he is yours, but I believed Mary when she said that you two weren’t interested in each other and that I had a clear field. I believed her because I knew she’d never spread her legs for a man who didn’t give a fiddler’s fart for Somerset….” Her mouth opened wide as another apparently horrifying realization stunned her. She moved back from him as if to give herself room to strike. “So you were able to do it with her! At least long enough to get her pregnant.”

  “Lucy, there’s no point in discussing that.”

  “No point in discussing it?” Lucy circled Percy slowly, dimpled fingers spread, tapered nails like claws itching to get to his eyes. “Tell me, you bastard. Tell me! Were you able to get it up and keep it up with her?”

  Percy looked at the twisted face of his wife and decided that he could no longer live with the lie between them—or with her. The lie had accomplished nothing but to unbridle the inherent meanness within her—as his dissatisfaction with their son had unleashed his.

  “Tell me, you goddamn bastard,” Lucy screamed at him, “or can’t you bring yourself to admit that not even the beautiful Mary Toliver was enough to rouse your manhood? What a shock that must have been to her, the lying bitch.” She began to laugh, bending down with her hands on her satin knees, the hem of her evening gown pooling on the floor. Hysterical tears streamed from her eyes. “Can you imagine how she must have felt when she discovered that she’d gotten pregnant with so little for her pains? Got her hair blown, did she, and without so much as a ride around the block. What a joke on Mary.”

  Percy could endure no more. What feeling he’d ever had for Lucy all at once, irretrievably, flowed out of him as if he had a hole in his heart. He reached forward and, shocking her out of her laughter, gripped the bodice of her satin gown and pulled her to within inches of his stalactite gaze. He could not have this little witch feeling sorry for Mary—not his Mary, whose losses were as great as her own.

  Boring into the startled blue eyes, he said, “Permit me to answer your question, my dear. Not only did I keep it up, I lifted her with it. Sometimes, I even carried her by it to the bed, where we finished what we’d starte
d somewhere else.”

  Lucy struggled to free herself, drawing back her hand to slap him, but Percy caught her wrist and gripped it with such force, she cried aloud. “You’re abominable when you make love, Lucy. You’re like an alley cat in heat. That’s why I can’t keep it up with you. There’s no mystery with you, no tenderness, no sensitivity. Your sweat feels like pus, and your body odor rises up like heat from stones. I’d rather stick my pecker into a pig’s snout than slide it into your cunt. Now, does that explain why I don’t come to your bed?”

  Ruthlessly, Percy pushed her from him. Lucy nearly fell, but she kept her footing, her look on Percy stricken, disbelieving. “You’re lying! You’re lying!”

  “The only lie I’m guilty of is letting you believe the fault was mine.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What don’t you believe, Lucy? That I kept it up with Mary or that you’re a terrible lay?”

  She spun away from him, hiding her face with her hands. Percy waited. Now was as good a time as any to get everything out in the open, get the tears, the hurt, and the charges over with all at once. He said presently, “Lucy, I want a divorce. You and Wyatt can go anywhere you please. I’ll see to it that neither of you ever wants for anything. We can’t go on like this. I’m a poor husband and a poorer father. Somehow we have to cut our losses and get on with our lives.”

  Lucy dropped her hands and swung to face him. Her bodice was torn, her wrist showed the pressure of Percy’s grip. Mascara streaked her face. “Just like that. You’d get rid of Wyatt just like that.”

  “He’ll be better off. We all will.”

  “What is it that you have in mind, after you’ve gotten rid of us? Try to get Mary and your son back?”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “After what you did to Wyatt, I don’t know you at all.”

  “What I do when you leave here is my business and should not decide your course.”

  Lucy had begun to tremble noticeably, and her face was shockingly white. Clasping her hands together, she asked in a voice struggling for composure, “Why did you let me believe it was you all these years? Why didn’t you tell me that… that I was to blame, if I am?”

  “Because I owed you, Lucy. You married me because you… loved me, and I married you for the wrong reason.”

  “The wrong reason,” Lucy repeated softly. Her chin trembled. “Well, I’ve always known you never loved me. So why did you marry me?”

  “I was lonely, and you made me less lonely—then.”

  Lucy attempted a laugh to cover the patent sadness that scored the soft, round features of her face. “Well, what a couple of sad sacks we make! Feature it, folks—the great Percy Warwick, with all his looks, popularity, and money—lonely! An unimaginable picture. Why didn’t you marry Mary? Don’t tell me she was stupid enough to choose Somerset over you?”

  Percy said truthfully, “Somerset has always been first in Mary’s heart.”

  A corner of Lucy’s mouth pulled to one side. “And you couldn’t be second, of course. Do you still… want her?”

  “I still love her.”

  Lucy fixed him with a glance that dared him to lie to her. “Are you two still going at it?”

  “Of course not!” His tone was sharp. “I haven’t been with Mary since before I left for Canada.”

  Inaudibly his breath caught, and he regretted his words the minute they popped out of his mouth. When he saw the quickening of Lucy’s eyes, a cold hand gripped his heart. “Canada…,” she mused. “That’s where you’d gone when Ollie and Mary married, the reason you weren’t in the wedding…. Does Ollie know that Matthew isn’t his?”

  Her tone made him think of the smooth glide of a snake toward its prey. “He knows.”

  Lucy sauntered to one of the windows and asked with her back to him, “Matthew doesn’t know that you’re his father, does he?”

  Percy could feel the crawl of icy fear down his spine. Why in hell had he mentioned Canada? The truth in the hands of Lucy would destroy them all… all the ones he loved. “No, he doesn’t.”

  She turned around slowly. Her expression was calm now, her hands toying with the ripped neck of her gown. “Of course he doesn’t. I do recall asking your mother why you weren’t in Ollie and Mary’s wedding, and Beatrice explained that you returned the day after the ceremony. The way I figure it, Mary discovered she was pregnant during the time you were in Canada. So she went to Ollie, always her devoted slave, and he was only too willing to take her as she was. Soiled goods are better than none, especially to a man with one leg. And, of course, Ollie knew whose hands had used her—”

  “Shut up, Lucy.”

  “Not before I make several points clear, Percy, my love.” She sashayed near him and thrust her face close to his. Percy recoiled, feeling his nostrils flare, and Lucy stepped back, her face blazing. “God, I hate you, you persnickety bastard. All right, here it is, Percy Warwick. I will never give you a divorce. And don’t try to get one, because if you do, I promise I will go to Matthew and tell him the truth about his father. I will tell Howbutker. I will tell the world. Everyone, just like me, will put two and two together. They’ll remember that Mary was in Europe with Ollie when Matthew was born. They’ll remember the hasty wedding, the hurried departure overseas, and how unlike Mary it was to run off and leave the plantation for so long. They’ll remember that you were in Canada at the time, unable to make an honest woman of her. No one will find it difficult to believe the truth.”

  Casually, she removed a pair of pinching diamond-and-ruby earrings as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Are Mary and Ollie aware that you know you’re Matthew’s father?” When Percy remained silent, she said, “Ah, I didn’t think so. Their manner makes me think they believe they’ve kept the secret from you. I couldn’t begin to guess how you found out, but I can guess what it will do to them—to all of you—if the scandal of Matthew’s paternity comes out.”

  Percy felt cold to the bottom of his feet. He was convinced she meant every word of her threat. She had nothing to lose, and he had everything. “Why do you want to stay married to me, Lucy? You’re miserable here.”

  “No, I’m not. I like being the wife of a rich and powerful man. I’m going to start enjoying it more. And if I am… abominable in bed, then I wouldn’t have much chance of marrying a man of quality again, now, would I? And there’s another reason I intend to stay married to you. I never want you free to marry Mary Toliver DuMont.”

  “I wouldn’t be free to marry her in any case, not if I divorced you tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’ll just make sure of it. No, Percy, you’re married to me for good—or until Mary DuMont’s death.”

  Her satisfied expression slipped abruptly when Percy approached her, eyes the color of arctic waters. She backed away as near to the fireplace as the lit fire and her flammable gown allowed. “Then you understand this, Lucy. If Matthew ever discovers that I’m his father, you’re out of this house on your ear without a cent. You’ll wish you’d hightailed it while the getting was good. You said earlier that you didn’t know me at all. I’d remember that if I were you.”

  Lucy inched by him. “I can forgive you for not loving me, Percy,” she said, reaching the door and escape, “but I’ll never forgive you for not loving Wyatt. He’s also your son.”

  “I am fully aware of that, and it should make you feel better to know that I’ll never forgive myself for not loving him either.”

  Chapter Forty

  HOWBUTKER, JULY 1935

  Here’s a letter for you, Mr. Warwick. It was hand-delivered by the Winston boy.”

  As he took the letter from his secretary, Percy recognized the writer of his name on the envelope. He coughed to regain the sudden loss of his breath. “Did he say who sent him here with it?”

  “No, sir. I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Thank you, Sally.”

  Percy waited until the door had closed before slitting open the sealed flap. He w
ithdrew a single sheet with the message “Meet me at the cabin today at 3:00. ML”

  ML. Mary Lamb.

  Percy sat back and pondered. What the hell was this all about? It had to be important, and secret, for Mary to ask him to meet her at the cabin, the place so sacred to their memories. They hadn’t been there together since the afternoon of their last fateful row fifteen years ago.

  She’d not indicated that anything was amiss last evening at the little welcome party she and Ollie had given for William, Miles’s son, who’d been sent to live with them after his father’s death in Paris. She and Ollie had both seemed edgy, but Percy believed it had to do with the hard times they’d fallen on, like almost everybody else in the county. He wasn’t sure how hard. The families never discussed one another’s financial straits, but falling cotton prices and bleak retail sales had to have affected them adversely. While he was uneasy about the DuMonts’ future, he was more anxious about Matthew’s. What affected them affected his son.

  Did this note have to do with Wyatt?

  There was no accounting for the capricious cards life could deal, the unexpected faces that turned up. After the session with Wyatt in the woods, he’d feared that his son would hate Matthew even more. The reverse had occurred. To his and Lucy’s and Miss Thompson’s astonishment, within days the boys began to pal around together, and by the end of the school year they were inseparable—as close as brothers, everybody said.

  At first, Percy had thought the friendship an attempt of Wyatt’s to get on his good side. It soon became apparent that Wyatt hadn’t the slightest interest in getting on any side of his, good or otherwise. His son courted no notice or attention from his father, and Percy’s opinion of him did not appear to matter in the least. The boy ceased to acknowledge that he existed.

  “Do you see what you have done?” Lucy railed. “Have you any idea? You have driven away the only son you can ever call yours. Oh, you may not love him, but there was a chance he would have loved you. And we can all do with more of that, Percy, no matter who it comes from. Look around you. You may not have noticed, but the wells from which you once drank so freely have dried up or disappeared.”