Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Good!” said the doctor, rising from his desk. “If you will help to ready her, Helga?”

  “Of course, Manfred. Give us only a moment, please.”

  Mary Scarlett’s heart was thundering. Her legs felt shaky as she followed Helga through the door. Lying down on the couch came as a blessed relief.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Helga said in a soothing voice. “I will cover you with the blanket. Close your eyes for a few seconds and take a deep breath. Then focus your gaze on the prisms of the chandelier. When the doctor arrives you will feel calm and prepared.”

  Mary Scarlett did as Helga instructed. Her suggestions helped. She felt herself relax. Her heartbeat slowed to its normal rate.

  “Thank you, Helga,” Schlager whispered when he entered the room. “I see that she is ready.” Then he turned his full attention to Mary Scarlett. “You are feeling well, my dear?”

  “Yes,” she answered, drowsy already.

  “You are studying my lovely chandelier, I see. A precious antique which I brought from my homeland. Notice how each crystal is perfectly formed to catch the light. See the colors, like a rainbow dancing before your eyes. Let your spirit soak up the colors. Let them flow through you. You are growing sleepy. Soon, it will be impossible to keep your eyes open. When they close, you will continue to see the beautiful colors. You will drift with them, dance with them, float in time like a leaf upon a river.”

  Mary Scarlett felt as if she were weightless, drifting up and up until she became a part of the colors and the light. All anxiety, all tenseness fell away. She felt free to roam as her spirit moved her.

  “Can you hear me, Mary Scarlett?” Dr. Schlager’s voice came to her from far away.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Dr. Manfred Schlager.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to tell me about Bonaventure Cemetery?”

  “Yes. I was there. Before today. Before eight years ago when we went to bury Granny Boo. I went there long ago.” The voice was Mary Scarlett’s, yet she had an unusual accent. European, decidedly, but with hints of both French and English.

  “And when was that? Can you give me a date?”

  “The month ‘twas November,” she said dreamily. “In the first year of the glorious new century.”

  “Which century? Tell me the year, please.”

  She laughed giddily, flirting like a young girl. “Guess, if you can. John Adams is our new president since our dear and illustrious George Washington passed on last December. Did you know he visited Savannah once?”

  “I’m afraid I am poor at guessing games, my dear. The date, please.”

  “Why, 1800, of course.”

  “Who was there with you at the party?”

  She laughed again as if remembering that night brought her great pleasure. “Everyone! See how the boat torches light up the river like a ribbon of fire? They are coming to Bonaventure from Savannah and from all the great plantations up and down the coast. Hear the voices of the slave boatmen? They ring through the soft night air. Oh, it is going to be a grand evening! I might even fall in love.”

  Dr. Schlager and Helga glanced at each other. She made a brief note on her pad. “She is no longer remembering,” he whispered to his assistant. “She is there.”

  “Your name, dear lady?” he asked Mary Scarlett.

  “I am Mademoiselle Louise Manigault Robillard, a distant cousin of Josiah Tattnall, the master of Bonaventure.”

  “Where is your home?”

  “Savannah now, but I was born in Paris, my father’s home, while my parents were on holiday.”

  “And your connection to the Tattnalls?”

  She pondered a moment before she answered. “Vague, yet valid. Third cousins twice removed or such.”

  “Tell me more about the party, please.”

  “There is a handsome young man here,” she whispered. “He has danced with none other all evening. When the house caught fire, I thought to myself that it must be his passionate nature which struck the fatal spark. He is from New Orleans—as beautiful as a prince, tall, devilishly dark of hair and eye, but soft of voice and nature. His name is Jacques St. Julian and I believe I will marry him.”

  “Has he asked you?”

  “The evening is still young.”

  “Will you accept if he asks?”

  “Most certainly! Even now he owns my heart.”

  “Where exactly are you at this moment, Mademoiselle Robillard?”

  “We have left the others,” she whispered, as if not wishing Jacques to hear her private conversation with the doctor. “He is leading me toward the old burying ground. It is dark and silent here, although we can hear the shatter of crystal as the other guests drink toasts to the ruined house, then dash their goblets against the oaks.”

  Suddenly, Mary Scarlett seemed to drift deeper still under Dr. Schlager’s spell. Or was it the spell of Jacques St. Julian?

  “I should not allow you to be so bold,” she purred. “No man has ever held me in his arms this way.”

  She paused, breathing heavily, making soft sounds that hinted at intimacy and desire.

  “Mademoiselle? What is happening?” the doctor asked.

  “Jacques,” she answered breathlessly. “His arms are around me. He is embracing me most tenderly. I both fear and hope that he might kiss me.”

  “Why should you fear his kiss?” Schlager asked.

  “I have never been kissed by a man. Perhaps I will swoon.”

  “Oh! Oh!” The two sharp little cries were followed by an extended silence. Mary Scarlett writhed on the couch, but she was smiling.

  “Please tell me what is happening?” Schlager demanded.

  “He did it!” She touched her smiling lips with her fingertips. “I have truly been kissed. But how can I explain the feeling to you? It was as if fire raced through my blood. My head felt light. My heart pounded. My slippers no longer touched the ground. I will never be the same. Never! Jacques is my soul, my life!”

  “What now?” Schlager asked excitedly.

  “He has asked my forgiveness for his boldness.” She gasped. “He loves me. He told me so. He wishes my hand in marriage. Oh, I may die of happiness! ‘Yes, my darling Jacques, yes! We will be married as soon as you return to Savannah.’”

  Suddenly, the smile faded from Mary Scarlett’s lips. She twisted on the couch, seemingly in pain. When she opened her mouth, a keening sound—awful in its anguish—filled the room. She began tearing at her hair and her clothes, beating her breasts, screaming.

  Helga was out of her chair, trying to restrain her. “Quickly, Manfred, do something!”

  He leaned close, trying to make himself heard through her screams. “Mary Scarlett, listen to me. I will count now. When I reach three, you will awake refreshed and happy, removed from what you have just experienced. But you will remember it all.”

  “No!” she screamed. “No, I can’t live! Not without him. Jacques…”

  “Manfred!” Helga was holding Mary Scarlett down, but it took all her strength. “Bring her out of it!”

  “I am trying. Mary Scarlett Lamar. Mademoiselle Robillard is gone! Do you understand? Gone! You must return now.”

  Still, she seemed not to hear as he counted quickly, “One! Two! Three!”

  Thirteen

  “No, no, no!”

  Mary Scarlett couldn’t hear Dr. Schlager’s counting or Helga’s frantic pleas. Gray mists wrapped her and cruel lightning flashed about her. Under hypnosis, Mary Scarlett had slipped away to some dark, unknown region—a place she had never visited even in her blackest nightmares.

  The howling wind died. The clouds parted. She stopped thrashing on the couch. Still she refused to respond to the doctor’s voice. She remained hypnotized, wandering in a world where she had existed long ago.

  Before anything came clear to h
er, she sensed the ooze of primordial soup inhabited only by lurking carnivores. She heard the groan of great, black trees as a storm wind whipped their heavy limbs. She felt the moist air of a wide river that seemed to stretch on forever, bringing scents from all over the world.

  Suddenly, light suffused her mind, turning the evil swamp bright with green velvet duckweed and swooping white birds. The great oaks and cypresses looked like ancient wise men, all bearded with moss. And the river—what a marvelous river! The Mississippi, flowing in all its glory, bringing ships down from Vicksburg, St. Louis, and Memphis. A never-ending circus parade of colorful sails.

  And then she was part of the scene, strolling along Charters Street on the arm of a handsome gentleman. She wore a lovely blue satin gown with a matching velvet coat and plumed bonnet. Nothing seemed the least bit odd or out of place about her world. Not her old-fashioned costume or the horse-drawn carriages in the street or the sight of the city as it had appeared over a century before Mary Scarlett’s time.

  “Is it not fortunate that I have cousins in New Orleans, Jacques, and that they invited me to come for the holidays?” she asked.

  As they promenaded down the street, the old city bustled around them, a magical carnival of color and a babble of languages, from French to Spanish to Creole patois.

  He smiled down into her glowing face. “More than fortunate, I’d say. I think Fate brought you here. What surprises me most is that your Maman and Papa allowed you to travel so far with only one servant and your old auntie as chaperone.”

  She squeezed his arm gently. “They trust me.”

  His dark eyes smoldered when he looked down into hers. “Ah, but can you trust me? ”

  She trilled a gay laugh, trying to cover the wild fluttering of her heart brought on by his teasing words.

  They soon arrived at their destination, a new town house owned by two of Jacques’ married friends, Adelaide and Demonde Beauchamps.

  Louise felt a twinge when the beautiful and uninhibited Adelaide threw her arms around Jacques and kissed him soundly before he even had an opportunity to introduce Lou to their hostess.

  “Watch her, Jacques,” Demonde said with a twinkle in his dark Creole eyes, “or she’ll do something truly outrageous and I’ll be forced to invite you to the duelling oaks.”

  Jacques laughed heartily and clapped his host on the back. “You know I’m too much of a scoundrel and far too poor a shot to accept any such invitation. How are you, you old barnacle?”

  “Home from the sea for good, thanks to Adelaide’s gentle persuasion.”

  “Ha!” she laughed in most unladylike fashion. “There was nothing gentle about it. I told him simply, ‘Marry me and stay on dry land or forget it. I’ll marry Jacques!’”

  “Ah, my loss, dear lady.” He bowed over her hand and kissed it. “However, I’m afraid your threat to Demonde was a ruse. You see, my heart is spoken for. Allow me to present my fiancee, Mademoiselle Louise Manigault Robillard of Savannah.”

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” said Demonde. He kissed her hand and, looking up, gave her a sly wink. “Are you sure this gentleman has told you everything about himself, my dear? I have known him for years and can tell you in all truth that he is no better than a snake oil salesman.”

  “Do not listen to him, Louise,” said Adelaide. “He is only jealous that Jacques has won you when he himself never had the chance. Now that Demonde has finally given up his freedom for marriage, it pains my darling husband that he must confine himself to only one woman. Were the choice his, he would keep a harem.”

  Shocked by this bold talk, Lou forced a smile, then allowed herself a small titter behind her fan while the other three laughed uproariously.

  “You must forgive my wife,” Demonde apologized. “You see, she and Jacques were children together—undoubtedly, very naughty children. They revert to their former mischievous selves whenever they see each other. Now do come to the parlor and let’s all sit and catch up. How ever did you convince Jacques to settle down? I was the last, save he, among our crowd to give in to marriage.”

  “And not without a fight,” Adelaide said loudly and laughed again.

  Demonde, taller than Jacques, and slender as a reed, leaned down to whisper to Lou, “She chased me until I caught her. I only pretended to love the sea. While on board, mal de mer was my constant companion. I considered marriage to Adelaide the lesser of the two evils.”

  “I heard that!” his wife called again. “You must stop your lies, Demonde. What will Jacques’ young lady think of us?”

  Jacques answered for his friend. “She will think exactly what I think—that you are the two most amusing people in all New Orleans, perhaps in all the world. You know how to enjoy yourselves.” Casting a mournful gaze toward Demonde, he added, “Even if you are married.”

  Once they were seated and Demonde was passing around thimble-sized goblets of sherry, Adelaide said in a whisper, “Marriage, my dears, is only the start of all the fun. The life of an innocent virgin is, alas, so boring!”

  Lou felt her face go scarlet. She dared not look at Jacques. Instead, she sipped her sherry and kept her eyes downcast.

  “Adelaide, really!” Demonde said in a sharp whisper.

  “Well, you are hardly a child, are you, Lou?” She was on the very verge of saying, “Or a virgin either, I’ll wager, if you’ve known Jacques for long.” But Demonde cut her off in the nick of time.

  “The others will be arriving soon. Is everything ready, Adelaide?”

  She nodded, obviously miffed at being interrupted. “Of course! That’s what we have servants for, dear.”

  They were saved from further exposure to Adelaide’s outrageous opinions by the arrival of the other guests. Lou had never seen such a gathering of handsome young people—all with dark hair, flashing eyes, and possessed of cutting wit to match that of their hostess. Most were the newly married sons and daughters of planters—wealthy and exuberant. A few in the group were still single, brothers and sisters who had accompanied their married siblings.

  During the afternoon call, every gay blade in the group cast his gaze longingly in Lou’s direction, but she had eyes only for Jacques. Over petit fours and café brûlot the young people exchanged gossip, talked about the latest fashions, and discussed the merits of the new soprano at the Opera. Lou smiled and made small talk, as she had learned to do so well in Savannah, but again and again her gaze drifted longingly to Jacques. It seemed every eligible female in the city had her cap set for him, and Adelaide’s words about boring virgins continued to haunt her. Lou could hardly wait to get him all to herself again, away from these sighing Creole beauties. She had been with her cousins nearly a week now, and all she and Jacques had managed were two brief kisses on the very first evening of her visit.

  As she sat watching a dark-eyed siren openly flirting with Jacques, Lou burned with desire and jealousy. She wondered how many of the young women present were still innocent … if any were. She began to feel like an oddity.

  Finally, it was time to say their adieus. Louise took Jacques’ arm possessively as they descended stairs to the street.

  Both Adelaide and Demonde called out to them repeatedly from the doorway. They turned and waved back to their hosts several times.

  “They liked you,” Jacques said admiringly.

  “Well, I can’t speak for the men, but all the women adored you!”

  “Ah, ma petite, is that jealousy I hear in your sweet voice?”

  “I cannot stand seeing other women look at you that way! Even Adelaide, the way she kissed you.” Her admission came in a sudden, violent outburst. “It makes me want to tear their hair and scratch out their eyes.”

  Jacques stared at her, shocked. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “I do not jest! If we are truly to be married, Jacques, we owe each other certain privileges. And I for one would like an opportunity to enjoy some of those. Why, if I could get you alone this minute,
I would—”

  “Yes?” he said. “You would what, my darling?” Blushing furiously, she stammered, “I would … I would kiss you! That’s what!”

  “Do you really mean that?” he asked seriously. “If I could arrange for us to be alone for a while, would you give me a kiss?”

  “Oh, yes, Jacques. I would kiss you over and over and over again!”

  He pulled her closer to him and whispered, “Then shall we see what I can do?”

  Leading her to a closed carriage on the square, he helped her in, then went to speak with the driver. A moment later, he was beside her, alone in the cab, with darkness coming on.

  “See how simple that was, my darling?”

  “But, Jacques, we mustn’t! I was to stay overnight at Madame Eugenie’s guest house until tomorrow when my cousins come for me.”

  He slipped his arm around her and drew her close. “I have your cousins’ permission to see you home this evening. All the way back to the plantation. They were worried about your staying alone in town, but they trust me to see you safely home.”

  “And should they?”

  In answer, he drew her close and lavished a kiss on her lips. All the pent-up desire she had felt simmering for hours and days came bubbling to the surface. She tried to hold back; they both did. Their love, however, would not be denied. Lou parted her lips and he kissed her deeply, making her body ache to know more of his.

  Fate again stepped in. No other explanation serves. No one could have predicted that a wheel would come loose on their carriage along a deserted stretch of the dark road. Had it been a bitter cold December night, they might have huddled together close to the cab while the driver fixed their conveyance. Had there been a bright moon, they might have been less tempted than they were by the cover of darkness. But the wheel did break and it was a balmy night for December and the sky was like inky velvet. Conveniently, the woods bordered the road. So, leaving the driver at his work, they strolled off into the shadows, following a red fox that dashed into a thicket at the edge of the forest.

  Jacques spread his cloak. “Shall we rest while we wait?”