“I must be out of my mind taking a risk like this,” he said, and again he seemed to be speaking to himself. “I must go now, Dana. Jasper is waiting out front. Remember what I said—we must be very careful.”
I nodded. I hoped he would kiss me. He didn’t.
Later on, in the small sunny sewing room in back of the house, I sat with Kayla, diligently trying to help her with the mending. A luscious yellow satin drape was spread over my knees and flowing over the floor like a glossy pool as I worked with needle and thread, tacking the hem. I wasn’t very good at it, and my mind really wasn’t on the task. Kayla hummed to herself as she mended a linen tablecloth, her stitches so tiny and neat you would hardly be able to tell it had been patched. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and there were a number of potted green plants which created a pleasant atmosphere. The large worktable was piled high with various things that needed to be mended, a vivid magpie’s nest of whites and colors.
I thought about Charles, and I thought about love. How little I had known of life before. How naive I had been. During these past months I had devoured dozens of romantic novels, but how little I had actually understood as I turned those turbulent pages. In a love affair, George Sand wrote, there was one who loved and one who is loved. I had thought that a clever, rather cynical observation when I read it, but now I knew the truth of it. I loved. Charles was loved. For a woman, Madame Sand continued, love is everything, her reason for being. For a man, love is but a pleasant diversion from his main concern, making a living. Charles certainly gave more thought to business matters than he did to me.
Madame Sand, I knew, was a notorious creature who elected to live her life with the freedom of a man, taking lovers as freely as men took mistresses, sometimes even donning trousers and top hat in order to gain entry to cafés open to her male friends but closed to women. Scandalous she might be, but no one knew the human heart so well, and no one wrote of it with such insight. The worldly wisdom in her books might give me guidelines and help me understand the mysteries of the heart, but nothing could still the doubts and fears that so frequently besieged me when I was not in his arms. Love was a glorious awakening, yes, but it almost made you extremely vulnerable.
“Damn!” I exclaimed.
“You’se pricked your finger, Miz Dana!”
“It’s my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It ain’t easy, is it?”
“I never was good with needle and thread.”
“That ain’t what I mean. I mean it ain’t easy bein’ in love.”
I looked at her. Kayla made another neat stitch, deftly drawing the needle through the fine white linen.
“You know,” I said.
“Course I does. Them sheets you cleaned, Miz Dana—you didn’t do a very good job on ’em. I had to use lye soap and lemon juice to get them bloodstains out completely. I ain’t told no one, Miz Dana.”
“I’m almost glad you know. At least now I can talk to someone about it.”
“I’d a knowed even if I hadn’t seen them sheets. You got that bloom lovin’ brings. Your hair’s all glossy an’ shiny, your skin’s as smooth as a magnolia petal, an’ there’s a new grace in th’ way you move. Lovin’ does that every time.”
Kayla finished with the tablecloth and took the drape from me, yellow satin slipping and flowing over our knees.
“You’d better let me finish this. You got th’ will, but you ain’t got th’ skill. Guess I’ll just pull them stitches you done out an’ start all over. It ain’t easy lovin’ a man. Makes you all skittish an’ jumpy. When you is with him you worry ’cause you wanna please him and fear you ain’t, and when you is away from him you worry even more ’cause you start thinkin’ he don’t love you as much as you loves him. Men don’t,” she added.
“Are you in love with Jasper?” I asked.
Kayla laughed, shaking her head. “Lawsy no, Miz Dana. I lets him pleasure me ’cause I like it, but I shore ain’t in love with him. I’se only been in love once—’member that white boy I told you about, th’ one who took my cherry? Him I loved, an’ he broke my heart. Figured once was enough for me, an’ I promised myself I wudn’t gonna fall in love no more.”
“But—you were only a child. You were barely thirteen.”
“Reckon age don’t mean all that much when it comes to lovin’. Your heart ain’t keepin’ track-a th’ number of years you been on this earth. I was thirteen, yes’um, but th’ hurtin’ was grown-up hurtin’.”
“It must have been—very bad,” I said quietly.
Kayla had been tearing my stitches out of the yellow satin hem, and now she began to sew the hem up again with those neat, precise stitches she had used on the tablecloth.
“When you gives yourself to someone,” she said, “gives yourself entirely an’ with no holdin’ back, you gives them the power to hurt you. Jest a glance, jest a word, jest a tone-a voice, can cause a stabbin’ pain, can cause new doubt an’ make you lie awake worryin’ all night.”
Her voice was soft and serene. Her lovely eyes were downcast, looking at the satin she continued to stitch but not seeing it, seeing instead a time gone by. She was not French nor a celebrated novelist, but there was wisdom in her words. I told her so.
“Reckon it ain’t nothin’ every woman don’t learn eventually,” she said in that soft voice. “You’se got it bad for Mister Charles, ain’t you?”
“I’m afraid I do.”
“Reckon he ain’t an easy man to love, him bein’ so moody an’ all. With a man like that, you ain’t never gonna know where you stand, Miz Dana. You jest has to hang on, hopin’.”
“I don’t know how it’s going to end.”
“A woman don’t never know that,” she told me. “It ain’t no use thinkin’ ’bout how it’s gonna end—or when. You jest resigns yourself an’ takes your pleasure an’ takes your knocks an’ thank th’ Lawd you gotta fine-lookin’ man in your bed.”
“I wish it were that simple,” I said.
Kayla finished hemming the drape and stood up, folding the yellow satin into a neat square.
“It is that simple,” she said. “Leastways for us it is. White folks are always complicatin’ things. Mister Charles is smitten an’ he’s tormentin’ hisself ’cause he dudn’t think he should be. You’se head over heels in love with him and worryin’ yourself sick because he ain’t talkin’ tender to you an’ tellin’ you how much you mean to him.”
“He—he does love me, Kayla.”
“I’se sure he does, Miz Dana, in his way. Only his way ain’t th’ way you’d like. Man like Mister Charles ain’t never gonna woo you with roses an’ fine words. Man like that’s gonna keep it to hisself ’cause that’s his way. Either you accepts it or you drives yourself crazy.”
“You are wise,” I said quietly.
“Reckon I knows th’ ways of men. Lawd knows I’se had enough experience.” Kayla put the folded drape on the work-table and took up a pale blue pillowcase with a small tear. “Me, I don’t want nothin’ more to do with love. I takes my pleasure an’ takes my time, shoppin’ around. One-a these days I’m gonna find a man I think worth marryin’ an’ he ain’t gonna have a chance.”
“Jasper, perhaps?”
“No way,” she said, “but he sure is good at pleasurin’.”
I felt much better after talking to Kayla. We spent the rest of the morning mending, Kayla doing most of the work, and then I went up to my room. The frock I was wearing was wrinkled and damp under the armpits. I removed it and, wearing only my thin white petticoat with its five ruffled skirts, poured water into the ewer and sponged myself off. I brushed my hair until it shone and applied a little of my lilac perfume, examining myself in the mirror as I did so. Kayla was right. There was a new bloom. Lovin’ caused that.
And it was wonderful lovin’ indeed, I thought, turning to look at the bed. The golden headboard with its fancy darker gold and brown marquetry had a rich, glossy patina, and the heavy yellow satin counterpane glea
med lushly in the sunlight. It had been a virgin’s bed before, the repository of dreams, but now it was the field of amorous combat. I had no basis for comparison, of course, but Charles was a magnificent lover, passionate, patient, demanding, fulfilling. I felt a flush of pleasure as I thought of those prolonged bouts between the linen sheets. He was quite masterful, and there was a carefully controlled brutality in his lovemaking, yet there was tenderness, too, and, always, concern that I experience bliss equal to his. At first I had worried that I might conceive a child, but Charles stilled that worry, assuring me he was taking precautions. Relieved on that score, I achieved even greater pleasure as our limbs entwined, as flesh welcomed flesh and we two became one.
Sometimes, afterward, he held me close and I nestled in the prison of his arms and he stroked my back, my arms, my hair, tenderly, so tenderly, and I was sure that he loved me, even though he never spoke the words. As Kayla pointed out, that was not his way, and … and I would just have to be content with what I had. He was a complicated man, moody, often withdrawn, carrying a burden of responsibility that frequently made him seem hard, even ruthless, but he could be wry and charming and, on occasion, almost boyish. A perfect lover he wasn’t, but he was mine and I loved him passionately and longed for that magical hour when the house was dark and still and he crept into my room and I could melt into his arms once again.
I donned a pale yellow frock sprigged with small brown and dark gold flowers. I adjusted the off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and smoothed down the snug bodice. It was a girlish garment, but little of the girl remained. My breasts strained full and proud against the low-cut neckline, the line of cleavage distinctly, if modestly, defined. I did feel older, felt wise and experienced and full of wonderful secrets, and I reminded myself that I must continue to be the demure young lady for Delia and Julian and the others. Our secret must remain a secret, and I must remain a dutiful ward.
Delia and I had a light but lavish lunch of chilled lobster soup and fresh green salad with artichoke hearts and tiny shrimp and Jezebel’s wonderful dressing. There were popovers, too, as light and delicious as always. Delia told me all about her visit to Lavinia and Lavinia’s envy and inward fury when Delia described her triumphs at Grande Villa. A bit tired after we finished eating, Delia said she thought she would go up to her room and rest for a while. I confessed that I needed to spend some time at math.
“How dreary,” she observed.
“I’ll never get the hang of long division,” I complained.
“I never did, dear.”
I dutifully spent two hours at the desk in the library covering pages with numbers and trying to figure them out. Two into four went two times, sure, anyone could figure that out, but six into twenty-five was another matter altogether. I finally figured that it went four times and that made twenty-four, but I hadn’t a clue what to do with the one left over. It was all a useless waste of time, I decided, perfectly silly. I had been a dutiful schoolgirl all of these months, diligently doing all my lessons, striving hard to please my tutors, but I was ready to rebel.
Closing my math book and pushing the papers aside, I deserted the desk and stepped through the open French windows into the courtyard beyond. The sky was high overhead, a clear, hot blue, and afternoon shadows were already spreading, making cool blue-gray pools on the tiles. Deep green fronds spread, and lighter green ferns were like cascades of frothy lace. Pink, purple and deep red blossoms filled the air with exotic perfume, and the mimosa trees were like two huge umbrellas, one dusty mauve, the other pale yellow-gold. How peaceful and beautiful it was here, I thought, strolling toward the three-tiered fountain. The splash and splatter of water spilling from rim to rim made tinkling music.
I looked at that winding wrought-iron staircase that led up to the gallery running outside my second-floor bedroom. Every night since that first time, he had slipped out into the courtyard when the moon was high, silvering the tiles, intensifying the darkness, and he had silently climbed that staircase and moved along the gallery to my opened French windows. How impatient I was, waiting in the darkened bedroom, longing to hear his step, yearning for his touch, craving the splendid gymnastics that made us one.
Dipping my fingertips into the cool water of the fountain, I thought about the changes in my life. I was happier now than I had ever been, in one sense, but I was also more insecure. What you do not have, you are not afraid of losing, and now that I had this beauty, this bliss, I didn’t know how I could possibly live without it. I remembered the dream, and somehow I knew I was meant to love Charles Etienne. How disconcerting it all was. How much simpler life had been before I stepped over that invisible threshold and discovered my reason for being.
I heard a step behind me. I turned. Julian smiled.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Julian—”
“Kayla told me you were in the library. I found a math book on the desk, a clutter of wretchedly scratched-over papers, but I didn’t find you. I looked out. I saw you standing here.”
“You—you’re back.”
“Just got in a few minutes ago. Haven’t even changed. You—my God, you look beautiful. I paused at the French windows, watching you. You looked like a vision, standing here by the fountain in your yellow dress, the sunlight gilding your hair.”
That made me nervous. I changed the subject.
“I’m through with math, Julian,” I told him.
“Oh?”
“It drives me crazy. It makes my mind all a muddle. I don’t intend to try to learn any more.”
“Very well,” he said fondly.
“You—you aren’t even going to argue?”
“I want you to be happy. I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s about the most important thing in the world to me—making you happy.”
He smiled again, a lovely, tender smile. He was wearing brown leather knee boots and dark tan breeches and a pale beige lawn shirt open at the throat, full sleeves gathered at the wrist. The boots were dusty, the breeches snug, and the shirt was not at all fresh. He looked even leaner, looked trim and fit and brimming with robust good health. He had acquired a tan, which made him look younger, while his chestnut hair was lightly sun-streaked, golden glints showing amid the dark brown.
“Did—did you have a good trip?” I asked.
“Marvelous trip. Got everything I needed. Spent a lot of time in the sun. Didn’t encounter a single alligator.”
“You look wonderful, Julian.”
“I need to change. I’ve been traveling in these clothes.”
He was in an exuberant mood, exuding energy and vitality, and he seemed far more at ease than he had been when he departed. Those gentle brown eyes looked into mine and I saw what was in them. It was something I had never seen in Charles’ eyes.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.
“I heard.”
“Making you happy—that’s my main priority. You know what I’m trying to say.”
I nodded. I knew. I wished it weren’t this way.
“I love you, Dana. There, I’ve said it at last. Never thought I’d be able to come right out with it. I think I’ve loved you for a very long time, perhaps from the first.”
His voice was husky and gentle and sincere. How beautiful his words were. I was very touched, so touched I could feel my eyes grow moist. If only he were the one.
“I knew it was happening, Dana, but I fought it. I fought it valiantly. I told myself it was wrong. I told myself I was too old for you. I told myself society would disapprove. I told myself I’d get over it, and I tried, I really did try, but it was no use. That night after the ball, in front of your bedroom door, how I wanted to take you into my arms.”
I didn’t say anything. Julian shifted his weight, legs spread wide, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
“It bothered me. I tried to avoid you. I tried to put you out of my mind. I couldn’t Dana. I decided to take this final trip and try to sort things out in my mind. I did quite a lot o
f soul-searching.”
He paused, smiling at me and looking at me with eyes that made no secret of the love inside him. How I wished this weren’t happening. How I wished I were someplace else. I loved him, too, though not the way he wanted, and I couldn’t bear to hurt him.
“I decided age didn’t matter,” he told me. “I’m older, yes, but you make me feel young again. I’m old enough to protect you, take care of you, give you the security a younger man couldn’t. Do I seem terribly ancient to you?”
I shook my head, loving him.
“I decided I didn’t give a damn what people might say. Let them talk. I’m not going to sacrifice happiness for fear of a few wagging tongues. People are going to talk no matter what you do.”
I nodded, afraid my voice would betray me.
“I—I never thought I would feel this way again, Dana,” he continued, his voice quiet, full of sincerity. “This is difficult to say, but—after I lost my wife I shut myself off from—from any kind of emotional entanglement. There were women, of course, but they were mere amusement. When I lost Maryanne I was so crushed I vowed I—I’d never allow myself to love again.”
“I—understand,” I said.
“Then you came charging into my life and turned everything upside down. My comfortable old routine was unsettled. Peace and quiet was disrupted. I suddenly had new concern, new responsibility, and, I might as well confess, it was extremely aggravating at first. Something started happening to me, and I tried my best to deny it. After the night of the ball, I could no longer even try to deceive myself. I knew I loved you.”
He took my hand in both of his and squeezed it.
“I love you, Dana. I want to marry you.”
I was startled, so startled I pulled my hand free.
“You—you want to marry me?”
“Of course I do,” he replied. “I love you, and I’m an honorable man. I wouldn’t dream of—any other kind of arrangement.”
Your brother would, I thought.
“I want to make you my wife. I want to give you the world. I’ll be completely finished with the book in six weeks, two months, and then—then I want to take you to London, to Paris. I want to show you a world you’ve never seen. I want to make you the happiest woman on earth and—I swear I’ll try.”
They Call Her Dana Page 32