Cass backed away, but her rage still flared. She looked for something to throw at him, found nothing, and headed for the window. He took hold of her hair, and she shrieked as she was dragged back toward the bed, was flung on it again and pinned down as he placed a palm to her stomach and stripped off her pants and boots as though they were nothing.
Then, surprisingly, he embraced her fiercely, rolling with her while she ground her breasts into his chest, her hips into his groin, sought to bite at his throat, his jaw, the lips that crushed hers and brought an ache to her teeth.
She took him as he had taken her, in a mindless passion that screamed at the pressure building within her. And when she came, she could only whimper. And when it was over, he rolled away from her, and the two of them lay unthinking, barely sated, while the rain outside slowed to a faint mist that lightened as the sun broke through a cloud and spilled weakly into the room.
That afternoon she directed Amos to secure the curing sheds. When he looked at her puzzledly, she almost struck him, but spelled out point by point how he was to be sure there were six men around the tall buildings at all times, at all hours, all of them armed as though expecting an army. Then she ordered Simon to take the buckboard and drive into Meridine. He was to speak with their usual dealers to see what the orders would be, the asking and selling prices without an auction. After that, he was to spend some time on the wharf, listening, to discover just what the prevailing attitude toward Riverrun was and if it would be safe to ship their crops downriver if they had to.
In one respect, she knew Eric was right: Hawkins would never let either of them go scot free. Even if they were to accept his proposal and hand over the land and the house and all that went with it, he would wait a while to make matters seem concluded, then come after them, no matter where they went. He did not want Riverrun, he wanted her; and to get her now, he would have to kill Eric, which made the alternative almost seem far better. Because here, too, she suspected he was lying. He would not simply wait for legal justice to give him what would be his with the debts still unpaid. He would rather see Riverrun in ashes. Realizing this, she knew that he would not wait for the week to end before returning for his answer. The pressure would not stop, and the visits would most likely come daily: his smile; his bow; the mocking sweep of that blood-stained hook to remind her of the man he had once been and was no longer. As if she needed reminding.
I’m damned either way, Father, she thought; damned either way.
An hour before sunset, the clouds finally scattered ahead of a slowly rising wind. Water that clung to the trees spattered as though it were raining. The smell of rich, damp earth filled the air, and Cass wished she were a child again so she could believe that the world had been washed clean of its evils and was ready to start anew.
She looked in on David and saw that he was asleep. Rachel sat on a low stool beside the bed, a damp rag in her hand, a bucket at her side for when he fell into a coughing fit. Garner had not been to the house for several days, and probably would not come again if Hawkins decided to keep him away. Rachel looked at Cass and shrugged: no change. Too impatient to remain lying, and too weak to stand, he was a cauldron of contradiction trying to decide whether he should take the chance and perhaps die standing up, or spend the rest of the winter—or so it seemed—staring at the ceiling and tearing out his throat.
And that, too, should not have been, she thought as she returned downstairs; there was more to his ailment than the slow-healing leg and the chill in his lungs. By rights, once the infection had been defeated and the cleansing begun, he should have been at least spending some of his time sitting on the porch to catch the fresh air, or in the kitchen complaining to Melody about the soups she prepared. And by rights, she thought sadly, Melissa and Kevin and Chet and Cass’s family all should be alive, and she shouldn’t be here.
The night passed quietly; she slept alone.
Most of the following morning was spent in the fields, checking on Amos’s work with the tobacco and seeing that the late corn was marked quickly for picking. She would have remained there all day just to stay away from the house, but shortly before Rachel and two of the hands were to bring out the men’s lunch, Melody came racing across the furrows, her skirts tangled around her spindly legs, her arms flapping as though she were trying to fly. Cass, who was on her knees searching for a reason not to let this particular field lie fallow the following year—assuming that there would be a following year—rose and dried her hands on her legs, frowning, wondering what could have brought the girl out here at such a dead run. It couldn’t be Geoffrey, she thought; it was too soon, even for him.
Melody tripped, fell into Cass’s arms, and began babbling even before she had righted herself. Cass nearly burst into laughter as she tried to calm the girl, finally placing her hands on her hips and telling Melody sternly to take the pebbles from her mouth and speak clearly.
“Mrs. Roe,” the girl said, her head shaking back and forth like a dog with a wet rag, “you ain’t gonna believe this, you ain’t gonna believe this at all.”
“What, Melody?”
“It’s the Mister, Mrs. Roe. I think he done gone ’round.”
Cass frowned. “The mister? You mean, Mr. Vessler?” A cold hand encircled her heart, ready to squeeze.
“No, ma’am,” Melody said. “I means the other one. That Mr. Martingale.”
“Melody, you’re not making sense.” She took the girl’s arm and began walking quickly back toward the house. “Now tell me. Slowly, Melody, so I don’t need a translator.”
Melody looked at her queerly, shrugged, and turned her face to watch where she was walking. “Well,” she said, “I tol’ you he gone ’round. Simon, he come back from doin’ what you tol’ him, y’see, and he’s lookin’ for you all over the place. Mr. Martingale, he come downstairs like he lookin’ for a storm to fight, if you know what I means, and Simon, bold as brass he step up to the Mister and say he gots a letter for him.”
“A letter?” Cass restrained herself from shaking the rest of the story out of the girl. Instead, she concentrated on the approaching treeline, a fleeting memory of her and Eric riding through it to the fields the night of the storm.
“… and Mister Eric,” Melody was saying, “he grabs Simon and swings him around like he was nothin’ at all, nothin’ at all, Mrs. Roe! That man sure be strong. Then he starts a runnin’ through the house like he was afire. I mean, he jes’ ran and ran, shoutin’ and yellin’ and we all thought the end done come. Rachel,” and here Melody’s voice turned slightly condescending, “she done cry like a baby, the fool, ’fore she ever knows what’s happenin’. Well, Mister Eric, he comes flyin’ into the kitchen and he grabs her and hugs her and—well, Mrs. Roe, he puts a kiss on her that would put a drummer to shame! Then … then …”
Cass looked at her quickly, saw the fleeting smile that marked the girl’s embarrassment, and could not help scratching at the back of her head.
“Then, Mrs. Roe, he done the same thing to me! He kiss me, Mrs. Roe, jes’ like that!” And she tried, and failed, to snap her fingers. “He tells me then I gots to put on wings and find you quicker than the wind. So here I am, and Mrs. Roe, I don’ know what’s goin’ on.”
“Melody, you’re not the only one.” She grinned briefly. “He kissed you, did he?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Melody said, suddenly realizing that she should have been affronted, and better late than never. “Jes’ like I was a somebody.”
By that time they were into the trees and on the path that led past the servants’ quarters and came out beside the stable; Cass wanted to run, to leave the girl behind and—as Eric had ordered—fly. But something held her back: a fear that perhaps he had “gone ’round”, that something inside him had snapped when he read whatever was in the letter Simon had brought to him. But what kind of news? . .
She shook her head impatiently. There was no sense in speculating. It had always gotten her into trouble in the past, and the way things were with E
ric now she might only be courting a further blowup. As it was, it was unthinkable that they could continue the way they were going. One of them would have to break, would have to leave, if either of their tempers refused to admit the possibility of compromise.
She stopped in her tracks. Compromise? She cocked her head slightly as she thought about it. Compromise? What was there to compromise about? The only thing she had to give up was Riverrun, and that would find no place in any negotiation for her peace of mind. Compromise. She wondered why the word had popped into her thoughts.
Melody, who had walked on without realizing she’d been left alone, turned and called to her. Cass grinned stupidly and broke into a slow trot that soon took her out of the trees. There was a commotion in the stable that she almost ignored until she heard Eric’s excited, impatient voice. With a look to Melody that received no reply, she pushed open the gate and fought her way through a sudden cloud of hens and geese. Just as she had made her way clear, the double doors burst open and Simon came racing out, laughing, spinning about in a wild dance in the mud that made Cass wonder what herbs Rachel was using for her cooking. Immediately behind him was Eric. He was leading the roan by its bridle, and there was an expression on his face of relief and joy such as she had not seen since the day he had arrived with her in Philadelphia. He was wearing a billowing white shirt beneath a loose-fitting cream-colored frock jacket; his trousers were black and tucked tightly into hastily polished boots that reached to his knees. When he saw her, he handed the reins to a jubilant Simon and raced over to her.
She backed away, suspicion plastered on her face, and he laughed.
“Cassandra, it’s done. By God, it is done and that bastard is finished!”
“What is it?” she said, looking around her at a grinning Simon, a bewildered and somewhat frightened Melody. “Has everyone gone crazy around here?”
Eric roared again, and beckoned to Simon to bring the horse. Slipping his arm around her waist, he led Cass toward the front. “You heard about the letter?” he asked, but did not wait for her to reply. “It’s crazy, you’re right, and I didn’t expect an answer quite so soon. But I’ve got it now, and Hawkins can whistle, for all I give a damn. God, I can’t wait to see his face!”
“What is this about?” Cass demanded, practically running to keep up with his long strides. “What is it, damn it?”
He stopped and put his hands on her shoulders.
“You may recall, m’dear, that I first came here to Riverrun because it was part of Martingale and Sons’ business for me to be here. You may also recall that business wasn’t too good, and dear brother Harry had decided to cut our losses and place this plantation on the market. You do recall that, don’t you, m’dear?”
He was teasing, and she wanted no part of it. She slapped his hands down and glared at him. “Eric Martingale, if you don’t tell me right this minute what has come over you, I’m going—”
“All right, all right,” he laughed, his palms up and out to ward off, her anger. “The letter that Simon so wonderfully brought to me was from that very same brother of mine. God, dear Harry!”
“Eric,” she warned.
“Right,” he said, and continued walking again, so fast she had to scurry to keep up. “While I was in Spain, on my way to the sea, I wrote him. He thought I was trying to make my way home again, and there I was heading right back for the thing he wanted me to leave. I told him I’d be damned if I was going to give up Riverrun, and if worse came to worse, I would find the money somehow to buy out the company’s share in the land. As it turned out, American law took care of that for me. But that’s beside the point right now.
“Right now, my dear and lovely Cassandra, my brother Harold and his flair for business has righted the dear old firm again. And what, my precious and most wonderful woman, do you think he is specializing in? And not only specializing in, but also making a damned good show of getting wealthy in?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly; but she was lying and he knew it. He nodded, and she closed her eyes for a long, delirious moment. “How much?” she whispered. “The most the market will pay,” he said. Then he shrugged and gave her a sly grin. “He is my brother, after all.”
“The … most?”
Eric nodded. “Every leaf, every bundle, every ounce we can send him. Virginia tobacco is making a lot of men rich in England, love, and Harold, bless his fat little heart, is one of them.”
They rounded the corner of the porch and Eric took the reins from Simon, launched himself into the saddle, and began rubbing the horse’s quivering neck.
Cass suddenly realized what was happening, reached out and took hold of his leg. “But where are you going?” she asked.
“Richmond,” he said. “Harry waits for no man, including me. Being a clever gent of the desperate sort, he has already anticipated that I will not turn down his generous offer and has seen to it that letters of credit—in gold, mind you—are waiting for me at the Merchants’ Bank there. Don’t you understand, Cass? In four days or less I can be there and back, sitting on that pompous little Jennings’ desk and tearing up Hawkins’s claim on us once and for all. It’s done, Cassandra. Damn it, and praise to Harry, we … have … won!”
She was too stunned to speak, despite Melody’s outburst of giggling and Simon’s breaking into a sprightly song.
“And Cass,” he said, softly, leaning down and snaking an arm around her shoulders, “Cass, everything you said to me was right. I was tired, and I was not thinking about anything but myself.”
“No, Eric—” she protested.
“Yes, Eric,” he said. “All of it right down the line to the part about the coward. That’s exactly what I had turned into. I had forgotten what kind of a woman you are, Cass, forgotten completely, and I was rather taken aback by what you had done to Riverrun on your own.
“But that’s all beside the point now. The point now is this: when I get back from Richmond, and I have finished shoving that smarmy little smile down Jennings’s throat … Cass, there’s no way you or I will be able to stay on here together. Unless we’re partners.” His smile was as soft as the words he spoke. “I mean, complete partners, Cass. Right down to the end.”
When she opened her mouth, he put a finger to it, a gloved finger, then covered her lips in a lingering, promising kiss. And before she could recover, he had given a shout loud enough to be heard in Meridine and had spurred the roan into a headlong gallop.
“Mrs. Roe,” Melody said, moving to her side and tugging at her arm. “Mrs. Roe?”
Cass stared vaguely at her. “What is it, Melody?”
“Mrs. Roe, if you two gets married, how am I ever gonna learn to call you Mrs. Martingale?”
Chapter Thirty
Cass stood at the head of the lane and waited. For what, she did not know. Eric was gone. Melody had stopped hovering at her side and had returned to the house. Above the trees, the sky, fragmented by their leaves, was a blue so sharp, so bright, that it almost hurt to look at it. A warm wind eased across the plantation and with it the faint memory of a languid summer heat. She thought for a moment that she could hear the river slowly making its way east toward the sea, its smooth surface reflecting the changing season and carrying remnants of the old to the reed-cages along its banks. A hundred yards down, where the lane made a slight curve as it moved toward the road, a pair of dark figures stalked out of the brush. Cass started, relaxed, crossed her arms over her chest, and hugged herself; two deer, a doe and a buck, were picking their way like lord and lady over the mud. They vanished again without looking up.
As she tightened her grip on herself, trying to understand why she was shivering on so delightfully comfortable a day, she realized that there was a pressure within her, something like a slowly growing bubble that had settled between her breasts and her stomach. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but it was a startling one. It made her shiver even more, and her teeth chattered until she clamped her jaws tightly together. Goosebumps rose along he
r arms and she rubbed them vigorously. Complete partners, Eric had said. Mrs. Martingale, Melody had said. It was natural, so completely natural that she was puzzled when she could not explain to herself why the idea both excited and frightened her. After all, isn’t this what you’ve dreamed of? she asked herself. Isn’t this what you’ve wanted from that first moment you opened your eyes and saw him in the room upstairs? Come on, Cassandra, get hold of yourself! This is it, this is what makes everything worthwhile, isn’t it?
The bubble grew, and her arms lowered slowly to her sides. She lifted them again and pushed her hands into her hair, the ever present bun falling out of its pins into a soft black cloud that drifted to her shoulders, was caught by the wind and veiled across her face.
The bubble grew, and an ache began to fester in her breasts. She closed her eyes tightly, hoping the sparks of color that whirled before her would prick the bubble, release the pressure, somehow give her the explanation that she needed.
She turned around and looked at the house. The rain had washed it free of summer’s last clinging dust. Its white was nearly blinding, its scars invisible from where she stood. Yet, despite its age, it did not seem permanent. It was poised. Waiting. Too many questions were unanswered. Something, however—something about it made it seem different. She squinted, trying to see if there were a veil she had to pierce, or if something had been repaired incorrectly, or if the color here was darker than the color there. Something. Riverrun. Something. Eric. The bubble grew, and she flung her arms wide, pirouetted and nearly lost her balance.
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