Violet Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  “You bastard!” She sensed then that she had gone too far, and clutched his sleeve. “I’m sorry.” She tried to placate him. “I miss you.” Her tone dropped to a husky, sensual note. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about you.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, extracting his hand.

  She smiled seductively. “You look tired. I think I know exactly the cure for what ails you.”

  Rathe softened with the knowledge that their affair had already ended. “I have an appointment in town tonight, Louisa.”

  “That’s what you said last night—and the night before.”

  He smiled slightly, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. Then he rubbed his thumb along her lower lip, which was starting to tremble. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s someone else,” she accused. “I can feel it. Someone you’re seeing tonight!”

  He thought about Grace. “There’s no one, Louisa. I’m playing cards tonight.”

  Her brows knit. “Just what were you doing with the governess? I wouldn’t think you would like her, but…”

  He felt anger rising. He didn’t like scenes and he didn’t have to answer to her, but so far Louisa had only managed to annoy him. The slur cast on Grace was another matter—one that made him surprisingly angry. He reminded himself of how much Grace needed this job, how he’d hate to be the cause of her dismissal. “I told you, I was giving her a ride back here. Leave it be, Louisa,” he warned.

  Louisa intuited all she needed to know; she could tell that something had occurred between her governess and her lover, and she felt a stunning fury. “That bitch.”

  “Louisa, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m wrong? Oh, no, I’m not wrong. I know something’s going on between you two. Have you been carrying on right here under my nose?”

  “There’s nothing between us,” Rathe said, too grimly.

  “I hate you,” Louisa hissed.

  Rathe sighed. “On that note, I think I’ll leave. Tell the girls I’ll be back to say goodbye to them, will you?”

  “Don’t you dare set foot on my property again,” Louisa shouted.

  Rathe shrugged and left.

  Inside, Grace bolted for the stairs.

  Louisa picked up the nearest object she could find, a delicately wrought brass lantern, and flung it after him. It hit the ground harmlessly, spraying dirt and stones. Then she ran up the stairs, panting, and flung open Grace’s door without even knocking. Grace was standing in the middle of the room, waiting, hugging her arms to her breasts.

  “You are discharged,” Louisa shouted. “Get your things and get out now!”

  She was trembling so violently she felt faint.

  Grace sank down onto the bed. She was in the midst of packing up her two bags and valise. Dear Lord, what was she going to do?

  She only had a few dollars left. Most of her meager savings had been spent on the ticket to come south. She had been counting on her income from her position at Melrose—her mother’s hospital bill would be due shortly. Now she would have to find employment, when the whole country was still struggling out of an economic depression. And the South, because of the War, was far worse off than the North. Damn! Double damn! Damn that rogue for chasing after her! Here she was, stranded in a strange city with no income; and most likely even two jobs, should she have the luck to find them, would not be adequate. Of course, there was Allen.

  Allen. She would go to his boardinghouse and talk to him. He was her dearest friend, and she knew he would help her. Of course, what she would really like to do…A very satisfying image rose in her mind: herself slamming a fist into Bragg’s charming, dimpled face. This was all his fault. If only he had stayed out of her affairs in the first place—oh, damn him!

  She finished packing her bags. The valise she managed to sling over her shoulder, despite the short strap. It dug immediately into her collarbone, but she ignored the pain. She gripped a carpetbag in each hand, and carefully made her way downstairs. Despite the need to focus all her attention on taking each step without losing her balance, she thought about the children.

  It wouldn’t be hard leaving Margaret Anne and Mary Louise, yet she knew she’d always feel sad that she hadn’t been able to reach them and open their minds to the joy of learning. But Geoffrey? She felt a terrible pang of regret. She would have to talk to Allen about him. Maybe there was some way she could still tutor him in secret. He was too bright to condemn to a miserable life of sharecropping.

  Pebbles seemed to work their way into her shoes. Her hands stung and ached. The strap of the valise dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. She had to stop to catch her breath and rearrange herself, and she was only halfway down the driveway. Tears came to her eyes, tears of anger. She was fighting mad.

  Grace picked up her bags and stumbled on.

  Rathe found himself sitting on his stallion outside of Harriet Gold’s boardinghouse.

  He was deep in thought. There was no poker game, of course. He was staying at the Silver Lady Hotel on the cliffs overlooking the Mississippi River and he was on his way back there. There was no reason for him to be here, except that he was, once again, thinking about the unfathomable, indomitable Grace O’Rourke, and this was where Allen Kennedy roomed. He’d toyed with the idea of stopping in and visiting with Harriet, but couldn’t quite make up his mind. He now found himself recollecting the events of the evening, specifically Grace’s fervent efforts to convert the good ladies of Natchez to her goals. Remembering her words and tone made him smile. “Ladies,” she had shouted, “we must unite. We must stand together. Otherwise there is only defeat at the hands of our oppressors!”

  Did she really see men as oppressors?

  He chuckled into the night. He had no doubt she did—that she believed every word she spoke. Grace was no hypocrite. She would cling to her beliefs until she took her dying breath. Had he ever met anyone, man or woman, with such integrity?

  Had he ever been so fascinated with a woman? What was it about her that held him so enthralled?

  His stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, and Rathe put a soothing hand on the thick, corded neck. He thought of Allen Kennedy—of Allen Kennedy and Grace. He knew how right they were for each other, but that knowledge did not ease him. And what would Louisa Barclay do? She was proving to be a consummate bitch, capable of spending her jealous anger on Grace. If she actually discharged her, Grace would have every reason in the world to blame him. What’s more, it would certainly drive her straight into Allen’s open arms.

  A cry of pain made him twist his head sharply around. A dark, shapeless form had paused on the street, then moved forward awkwardly, laboring under an indistinguishable burden. Rathe was about to look away when the person stepped into the gaslight. “Grace!”

  She froze, eyes wide.

  Rathe jumped off his mount and rushed to her. “Are you all right? Here, let me take those. What are you doing out here alone at night? Dammit all! I left you not two hours ago at Melrose!” The last was shouted with growing fury as he realized she was in exactly the position he had worked so hard to avoid earlier—out wandering the streets alone at night.

  “You!” she cried. She was flushed from exertion. “Let go! Put down that bag! I don’t want your help! Put that down!” She grabbed the valise he had taken and yanked it so hard that Rathe let it go, surprised. Grace stumbled backward; Rathe reached to steady her.

  “This is all your fault!” she panted, pushing him away from her. “Don’t touch me. You’ve done enough!”

  His shock at seeing her had worn off, and now it was all too evident what had happened. “So Louisa terminated your position,” Rathe stated, a sick feeling of guilt starting to gnaw within him.

  “Yes! Because of you!”

  “That’s not fair,” Rathe said quietly, but he was already blaming himself.

  “She’s your paramour!” Grace cried. “I didn’t want to be driven to Melrose, I didn’t ask for your attentions!”

  “I could not let
you walk alone at night,” Rathe said softly.

  “You mean you could not resist the challenge I provided!” she spat.

  He stiffened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry,” she echoed. “Why, that helps. That will pay all my bills.” She began picking up her bags resolutely, first the one over her shoulder, then the others. Rathe removed the two valises from her hands to carry them for her, very grim and guilt-ridden now. She gave him a look which he expected to be withering; instead, he saw she was close to tears. She started marching up the path to Harriet’s. With her bags in hand, he followed.

  It was still early, about eight o’clock, and not only were lights flooding from the parlor out into the street, there was a soft hum of conversation from the veranda, where several of Harriet’s boarders were enjoying the night air. All discussion ceased as Grace and Rathe stepped onto the veranda, the two elderly women staring openly. Rathe managed to sling the two bags into one hand and push the door open for Grace. She ignored him as she entered.

  A rag rug lay at their feet; a chipped white banister rose directly to their left. Old, well-worn draperies lifted ever so slightly in a whisper-soft breeze. The place was in need of repair, that was obvious, but it was clean and cheerful and Harriet had the well-deserved reputation of being a good-natured, motherly woman who made the best flap-jacks in the entire state.

  Harriet Gold was a middle-aged widow. Before the War, the boardinghouse had been her family’s Natchez home where they stayed when not in residence at their plantation across the Mississippi. Her husband had died a natural death in ’64; two of her sons had died on the battlefield, and her youngest was now studying law back East. She had opened Fairlief to the public years ago when high postwar taxes had left her no other choice. At that moment she came bustling in, a pile of linens in her arms. “Rathe!” the plump, gray-haired widow cried.

  He smiled. “Good evenin’, Harriet. Beautiful night now, ain’t it?”

  “Why, of course it is. What are you up to, you young scoundrel? I see a gleam in your eye.” She smiled warmly at Grace. “And you must be the new governess at Melrose.”

  Grace flushed. “Yes, well, I…”

  “Miss O’Rourke has decided to take other employment,” Rathe interjected smoothly. “She is in need of a room. In fact,” he abruptly decided, thinking about Grace and Kennedy, “I need a room as well.” He ignored the incredulous look both Grace and Harriet directed at him.

  “I have a few rooms left,” Harriet said cheerfully, “but why you need one here when you keep that fancy suite over at the Silver Lady is a mystery to me. You’re just like your daddy, full of no-good. Watch out for him, Grace, I’m telling you.”

  “Yes, Missus Gold.”

  “Are these your bags?” Harriet asked. Rathe instantly had them in hand. Harriet winked at Grace. “What a gentleman! Come on, let’s get you upstairs. You look exhausted. And you can call me Harriet.”

  In no time Rathe was settled into a cozy blue and white room with a fine view of the treetops gracing the Mississippi River. Harriet told him to come down to the kitchen for a plate of leftovers, and Rathe agreed. He hung up his jacket in the small wardrobe, removed his tie and unbuttoned the top four buttons of his white linen shirt. He opened the window wider, inhaled his favorite scent, that of magnolias, and was about to turn when he heard Grace’s voice coming from the garden below. He leaned over the sill, straining to hear and see.

  He could do neither from there, so he left his room and went downstairs, pausing to check his speed so as to appear unperturbed, sashaying nonchalantly into the back drawing room which he guessed, correctly, opened onto the garden. He hesitated in the doorway, hanging back just enough so she couldn’t see him. He wanted to gage her mood.

  Suddenly he realized that she was with Allen Kennedy. Jealousy rose in his chest.

  “What am I going to do, Allen?” Grace was saying, standing very close to him; in fact, Allen was holding her hands.

  “Darling, don’t worry, there is a solution, such an easy solution.” He was gazing at her with such tenderness Rathe couldn’t stand it.

  “I have no money,” Grace said, sounding choked. “Oh, it’s all his fault! That no-good, philandering scoundrel…”

  Rathe’s eyes went wide—she was referring to him. She was talking about him to Allen!

  “Grace,” Allen interrupted. “Grace, marry me. I love you. I know you care for me. We suit. I’ll take care of you and you’ll never have to worry about anything—”

  Grace yanked away with abrupt, explosive anger. “How dare you patronize me, Allen.”

  “Grace, I didn’t—”

  “I can take care of myself!”

  “Grace, I didn’t mean it that way!”

  “You did! From you, of all men—I’d expect it from someone like Rathe Bragg, but never from you!” Her voice broke.

  “Oh, Grace, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Allen said, pulling her into his embrace. “I meant I love you. I’m here for you, always. I want you to be my wife. We can teach together. It would be perfect. Grace?”

  She gazed at him, and Rathe felt so positive in assuming it was with adoration, that her next words shocked him. “Allen, you know I don’t want to get married. Why should I? My life is just fine the way it is. Why should I become some man’s chattel?”

  “It wouldn’t be that way with us, Grace,” Allen said tensely.

  “Oh, Allen, please, not now.”

  “I know you care for me.”

  “I do. Very much.”

  “I’d make the perfect husband, Grace. We share the same beliefs, the same morals, and best of all, a deep respect and friendship. Think about it. Really think about it.”

  “All right,” Grace said.

  Rathe stared at her, a disturbing sensation cramping his guts—an unfamiliar, shaky feeling. Grace was considering Allen’s proposal. Apparently she had never really considered it before. And she cared for him. He had heard her say so himself.

  She had paced away wringing her hands. Allen stared at the ground. Rathe remembered how she had flung herself into his arms last Sunday, how they had kissed so passionately, gazed at each other with such desire. The shaky feeling increased. Grace was going to marry Allen…unless something happened.

  She turned to Allen. “I have just enough money to rent a room for a few days, and hope I can find work. I don’t even have the means to go back to New York.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Allen said. Rathe echoed his sentiments silently.

  “Allen, I’m so worried about my mother. I need to work. If I can’t pay the hospital bills…tomorrow morning I will find work, even if it’s scrubbing someone’s floors.”

  “Oh, Grace,” Allen said, “let me lend you some money.”

  “You’re very kind,” Grace whispered. “Maybe. But not right now, thank you.”

  Rathe barely heard. An exciting thought occurred to him, penetrating his thick jealousy. She needed money. He had money. His heart beat wildly. He had the perfect solution. He would take care of her.

  He would make her his mistress.

  Chapter 9

  It was mid-afternoon, but Natchez-Under-the-Hill was just coming awake when Grace’s hunt for a job finally brought her to the notorious district’s outermost edge. At the end of Silver Street she hesitated, but not for long.

  Curiosity, more than the prospect of a job, drove her forward now, for she never even entertained the thought that there might be suitable employment in a neighborhood that was nothing more than a den of decadence for the worst sort of lowlives. Contrary to what she had told Allen, she really had no intention of scrubbing floors, not if she could avoid it. The pay was far less than what she needed.

  Unfortunately, she had not come across one open position of any kind all day long. Her first stop had been at the seamstress’s, Mrs. Garrot, who she hoped might need help. However, Mrs. Garrot told her that there just weren’t enough orders from the ladies of Natchez to warrant her ta
king on an assistant. “Business hasn’t been the same since the War,” she sighed. “No one has the money to buy beautiful clothes, no one except for a very few of Natchez’ planters and the carpetbaggers, of course. It’s terrible.”

  A pharmaceutical sales clerk repeated this theme, informing her that these were bad times. After that she had tried dozens of shops and stores in town, to no avail. She even inquired at the better hotels atop the cliffs, with the same results.

  Grace stood now, watching a number of bleary-eyed sailors stumble through the twisting streets, a woman vendor trying to sell fresh biscuits, and a man smoking a cigar on the porch of a saloon, from which strains of raucous revelry already emanated. Three women lounged on a balcony clad in nothing but corsets and petticoats. Grace took a second glance at that last sight, staring with shock at such blatant marketing of their dubious wares. One of the faded, plump beauties caught her eye and waved. Grace blushed and looked away. Imagine appearing almost naked right out on a public street!

  She whipped her head around and stared at the door of a house of ill-repute. Her heart climbed frantically into her mouth. Rathe Bragg closed the door casually behind him, glancing around. Grace had already turned away, her heart pounding. Fortunately, a huge dray moved right in front of her, blocking her from his view. Grace stood stiffly, flushed from her head to her toes. She couldn’t help it—she imagined Rathe and the prostitute who had waved entwined together. A surge of righteous outrage flooded her. A man like him would consort with the lowest kind of women! Why, he had practically jumped from Louisa’s bed right into the arms of a prostitute! And he was the one responsible for her dire circumstances right now. That man was the worst sort imaginable!

  It was then that she really looked at the young, Negro woman vendor, and she was instantly, thoroughly, distracted. A man was holding her basket of biscuits tauntingly out of reach, while another fellow grabbed her by her waist. She struggled futilely, and Grace saw that she was close to tears. One of the men planted a hard kiss on her mouth, at which point Grace realized he was inebriated—not that that was any excuse. He then shoved the woman into his buddy’s arms, laughing, the basket thrown aside, all the biscuits rolling out into the dirt, while the second man held her and shoved his hand down her blouse.