“You’ll do what I say?” he asked her, his voice a deadly calm now.
“Yes, anything—” she said, her voice seeming to seize upon the chance. “Anything—if you won’t hurt him. Just, please, promise you won’t—”
He stared at her for a moment, knowing that he had won, inwardly celebrating the triumph even as he sealed Janson Sanders’s fate. “You’re going to tell him that you never loved him, that you’ve only been amusing yourself with him, and that you’re tired of the game—and you’re going to tell him to leave, that you never want to see his face again as long as you live—”
Her eyes had become more disbelieving with each word. “He’ll never believe I don’t love him, that I never loved him! He’ll know I’m—”
“You’ll convince him.”
“But, I can’t! He knows how I feel about him!”
“Then you’ll see him die!” He shouted the words at her, and then stood looking at the horrified expression that came to her face, knowing truly in that moment how completely he had won. “You’ll tell him you never cared for him, that you were only trifling with him, and that you’re tired of it now, and of him—” He watched her eyes for a moment, seeing the desperation there. “And don’t think you can run off with him. I’ll find you wherever you go, and, when I do, I’ll take the pleasure of killing him with my own hands—” He waited for a moment, allowing the full impact of his words to sink into her. “If you want to be responsible for his death, then just try leaving with him, or try even once not doing just exactly as I say. You’re going to drive that boy away from you for good. Anything else, and his blood’s on your hands.”
She stared at him for a long moment, a hell going on behind her blue eyes. Her tears had stopped now, and he saw a set, pained, but horribly resigned look settle about the corners of her mouth.
“Are you going to do what I say?” he asked her. “Or are you going to watch him die?”
Her expression did not change. There was no longer any of the innocence of youth in her eyes, only a cold, stark resignation to a reality she could not deny. “I’ll do what you say,” she answered, her voice flat, drained of emotion. “I don’t have any choice.”
She turned, glancing briefly at her mother, and then started toward the staircase. After a few steps, she stopped and turned back to look at him again. “I hope you know I’ll always hate you for this,” she said. She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned, and, without another word, she mounted the first step.
The single room of the old house seemed chilly that evening in spite of the fire Elise had lit in the fireplace. She stood staring down into the flames, going over in her mind the thousand things that must never seem amiss tonight—the gathering darkness outside would help to hide the smoke from the chimney, the dark cloth over the windows concealing the light from within, just as it had done on so many other late evenings when she and Janson had met here to be alone together. There would be nothing to alert him that anything was different this time, nothing to tell him that their relationship had been discovered, and that it would end, that it must end, for his sake this night.
She had sat in her room for hours before coming here, trying to think of some way, of any way, she and Janson might still be able to leave here and be married—but there was no way. Her father would find them, and at that time she would see Janson die—“. . . his blood’s on your hands,” her father had said, and that would be true, months from now, even years from now, once her father found them. She would have to drive Janson away from her, drive him away so far and so completely that her father could never find him—there was no other choice. She would have to drive him away, and then she would have to wait—for it would be only a matter of months before her condition would become known, and before William Whitley would discover that Janson had gotten her with child. Then her father’s anger would turn on her—for ruining her name, for ruining his, for getting herself into this predicament, for saddling him with a child he would have to deal with, a child with one-quarter Cherokee blood in addition to his own. She would be spirited off somewhere to await the birth of the baby, and then she would return to Endicott County alone, for she knew her father would never allow her to keep and raise the child herself—the scandal could ruin the family name forever, and William Whitley would never allow that; but he would make sure the baby was given a good home, a good family, and that was all she could hope for now. Janson would be safe, and the baby would be safe, and she would be alone—but she could not think about that now; if she did she would lose her resolve, and she knew she had to keep her mind clear and her courage up to tell Janson what she would have to tell him this night.
She pulled one of the old straight chairs toward the fireplace and sat down, continuing to stare into the flames. The fire had already been laid before she had arrived, waiting only for the touch of a match to the kindling to start its blaze, and the sight of the burning logs made her heart ache all the worse—Janson must have stopped here before going into Goodwin earlier, taking the time to lay the fire so she would not have to be cold, and that knowledge of what he had done made what she knew she now had to do hurt all the worse. She pulled her sweater tighter about herself, hugging her arms for warmth, but the chill seemed to be coming from within her now just as much as from without, and she found herself wondering if she would ever be able to feel warm again.
She had arrived here early tonight, hoping for time to prepare herself and her mind before Janson could arrive. Her father had allowed her to leave the house without protest, sure of himself and his power over her, making her hate him all the more simply for that assurance—she had carefully chosen this position before the fireplace, hoping that the shadows it cast, plus those thrown by the kerosene lamp on the table behind her, would help to hide the bruise on her face. She knew she would have to remain at least partially turned from Janson as they spoke, making sure he would never see the left side of her face, or he would know immediately they had been discovered, and that her words were not her own.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm the pounding of her heart, rehearsing in her mind the things she knew she must say—oh, how different these words would be from the ones she had intended to give him this night.
The sound of his footsteps came up the narrow board steps and across the rickety front porch, and the door opened behind her, sending a chill gust of wind into the room for a moment. She did not turn, and did not have to, sensing his presence as he entered the room and closed the door quietly behind himself.
“What’re you sittin’ there s’ still for?” he asked, his tone light, a smile in his voice that she could hear, sending an even further stab of pain through her. “You wanted t’ see me bad enough earlier.”
The sound of his voice cut right through her, bringing a lump to her throat. She swallowed it back and glanced quickly at him, and then away again—she had to look at him one last time while he still belonged to her, take one last memory that would remain in the years ahead.
“I have to talk to you,” she said, her voice sounding so terribly flat and lifeless in the room—is that me? she wondered. It sounded so cold, so absolutely dead of feeling—is that really—
“Yeah, I remember.” The smile was still in his voice, his words holding added meaning, and her heart pained at the memory of having made this date to meet him, of how he had wanted to touch and hold her when she had needed to talk, and of the reasons she had wanted to speak to him in the first place—oh, how would she ever be able to do this? How would—
“You wanted t’ talk, s’ go on an’ talk,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it across the edge of the table, and then starting across the room toward her—he was going to take her in his arms; she knew it. He was going to—
“I think we’ve made a mistake—” she said, rising from her chair and moving toward the fireplace, not looking back. Her words were rushed, determined to
keep a distance between them—if he touched her, she knew she would fall apart. She knew—
He stopped where he was halfway across the room and stared at her. She could feel his eyes, feel them touching her, though she did not turn to look at him. “A mistake?”
“Yes—that is, I’ve made a mistake.”
He did not speak, and she knew that he was waiting.
“I should never have let it go this far; I realize that now, but, well, I can’t change what already has been,” she said, staring at some spot above the mantlepiece before her, not daring to look at him, for she knew she could never speak the words if she had to look into his face.
“Let what go this far?”
“The two of us—I’ve just come to realize that what has been happening between us is nothing more than a mistake. We have nothing in common, nothing we could ever hope to build any kind of life on. If I’ve led you on in any way, I’m sorry, but—”
“Quit foolin’, Elise. I don’t like this,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.
“I’m not ‘fooling’; I’m absolutely serious. After tonight, I don’t want you ever to try to see me again or get in touch with me for any reason.” She tried to make her words sound firm, but knew somehow that she failed miserably. There was a terrible ache inside of her as she finally turned her eyes toward him, a loneliness for the love she was at that moment destroying—but it was too late, and she knew she had no choice in the matter anyway. She had to do this—she had to, to make him safe.
“Stop it, Elise—”
“I mean what I’m saying. Don’t ever—”
“Stop it! You cain’t tell me you don’t love me.” He came closer, stopping before the fireplace to stare down at her as she turned her eyes away again, and she thanked God in heaven that he had chosen to stand on the side away from the bruise on her face. From the corner of her eye she watched the firelight playing off his features, off the high cheekbones and the firm jaw, and a pain went through her again.
“I do not love you, and I never have. It was nothing more than a silly infatuation—and it’s over now—” Each word seemed to drive a dagger into her heart. She refused to look at him again, but stood staring down at the logs burning in the fireplace.
“That’s a lie,” he said, his voice rising in tone. “I don’t know why you’re doin’ this, but I don’t like it. You cain’t make me believe you don’t love me. You even let me lay with you—”
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides—she knew there was only one way, only one thing that would push him far enough away to make him safe. She took a deep breath, and then steeled herself for what she knew she had to do. “Love you—” she said, the bitterness in her voice genuine, but directed at life, and never at him. “Don’t be absurd. How could I love you?”
Silence lay between them for a long moment—please say something, she begged inside. Please—“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.
“Do you really think I could love someone like you?” she asked, raising her chin and glancing at him for a moment, and then away again.
“Like me?”
Goodbye Janson—she told him silently. “You’re nothing but a dirty, sweating farmhand—do you really think I could love someone like you?”
He stared at her for a long moment, not speaking. “I don’t believe you,” he said at last. “Somethin’ has happened, an’ I want t’ know what it is.” His words were clear and determined, his voice strong—he did not believe, would never believe, that everything between them had been nothing but a lie.
Dear God, don’t make me do this! Don’t make me have to completely destroy him just to make him safe! Please, make him believe me! Make him believe—
“The only thing that has happened is that I’ve gotten tired of this game,” she said, trying to keep the shaking from her voice. “It’s over. You’ll just have to understand—”
“‘Understan’—hell! You’re gonna tell me what’s happened! Somebody’s found out about us, ain’t they?” She could feel the rage building within him—not at her, but at whoever, or whatever, was doing this to them.
“No one’s found out!” She raised her voice in agitation, her words sounding an anger she did not feel.
“You’re gonna tell me th’ truth, an’ you’re gonna tell me right now,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.
There was no choice, no alternative left. She knew what she had to do. She knew—
“How do you think I could love you—you dirty, ignorant, half-savage dirt farmer—” The words tore her heart in half. “You make me laugh.” That was it. It would be over. He would be safe.
There was nothing but silence in the room for a long moment. She felt almost as if she would scream if he would not speak, if he would not at least curse her or damn her soul to hell forever. When he did speak, she wished that it were a curse, wished that it were anything other than the soft, gentle voice that came to her, a voice filled now with nothing but love and concern.
“What’s happened? Who’s found out about us? Is it your pa?”
He reached to place a gentle hand on her back, and she leapt away from him almost as if she had been scalded. “D—don’t you touch me!” She screamed the words at him, then quickly turned away again before he could catch sight of the bruise on her face—if he touched her again, she knew she would fall apart. She knew—“Don’t you ever touch me again!” She groped desperately within her mind for something, for anything, to scream at him that might make him hate her as he must. “You—you disgust me, you dirty half-breed—”
“Stop it!” he yelled, reaching for her again, determined to turn her to face him even as she tried to push his hands away. “I know somebody’s makin’ you do this, so just stop it! I know you love me! There ain’t nothin’ in this world that’ll make me believe you don’t! I can feel it!”
“Let me go!” she screamed at him, slapping him hard once across the face as she tried to struggle away. “I don’t love you! I never loved you!”
“You do! You know you do! I remember all th’ times we laid t’gether, th’ way you touched me—you cain’t tell me you don’t love me! I know you do. I feel it.” He struggled with her, trying to turn her to face him. “Somethin’s happened. I know it has. Your pa knows, don’t he? He’s makin’ you do this. He—”
He finally managed to grasp her shoulders and turn her toward him. An awful look of comprehension came to his face as he saw the bruise darkening her cheek. Her hand flew up to cover it, but it had not been quickly enough.
“Your pa—” His green eyes showed shock, concern, and a growing rage within them. “He’s found out about us. He did this to you; he made you say all these things—”
“No! You’re wrong! He doesn’t—”
He reached to gently pry her hand from her face. “Oh, my God—what’s he done t’ you?”
“No, it wasn’t—I bumped it. It wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie t’ me. It was your pa, wasn’t it?”
“No—” She stared up into his eyes. “It wasn’t—I don’t love you. I—I never have. I—”
“Yes, you do, an’ I know you do. Just like I love you—” He looked into her eyes in the flickering light for a moment, then repeated, drawing her closer against him. “I love you.”
The ache welled up inside of her—he was assuring his own death with those words. Her father would never let him live now. Never—
She opened her mouth to deny her feelings, to tell him that she hated him—anything that would take him from her forever, anything that would make him safe. But she could not speak. She stared up into his green eyes, feeling herself quietly fall apart inside. There was nothing left, no strength, no energy—only a horrible ache within her. She struggled hard to maintain control, but failed. The tears came, and she could not stop them.
He held her,
gently stroking her back, his lips in her hair, speaking soft, soothing words to her as she cried—he would never leave her, never. No matter what her father might do to him, no matter what hells they might have to face to be together. He would always love her, always be with her, always—
The words of love and promise terrified her even as they should have comforted. He loved her and would never leave her—and those words did nothing more than to assure his death at the hands of her father.
“No—you’ve got to leave! You can’t stay here! Daddy’ll kill you! He said he would; he’ll kill you!” She held him at arms length away, looking up at him, the tears still streaming from her eyes and down her cheeks.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, at least not without you—”
“But we can’t! We—”
“We knowed we’d be leavin’ one day; we’ll just be goin’ sooner than we expected. I may not have enough yet t’ buy my place back, but it might be enough t’ put down on it, an’ we can take a mortgage for th’ rest. It may be hard goin’ th’ first few years, but—”
“No!” She screamed the word at him, silencing him immediately. “He said he’ll kill you if we try to leave together! He can find us anywhere we go, especially if we go back to Eason County! I can’t be responsible for—”
“I don’t care what he says, Elise. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you.”
“But—”
“No,” he said, touching a finger to her lips, and then moving it to gently touch the bruise on her face. “Ain’t neither one of us can stay here now, not after what he’s done t’ you. I ain’t leavin’ you. We’ll go, but we’ll go t’gether.”
“But, he said I’d see you die once he finds us. He said he’d see us both dead before he’d let me marry you. I can’t let—”
“There ain’t no lettin’ to it, Elise. I ain’t leavin’ you, not now, an’ not ever.”
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