The Willows

by Mathew Sperle

  As she thought this, the stable door creaked open, revealing the soft, mellow glow of a candlestick. Instinctively, she ducked down in the stall, as she saw it was her father and Lance. Sat crouched with her back to the wall, frantically dabbing at her eyes, for she’d rather die than have the two most important men in her life catch her crying.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” Jervis was saying. “Edith can easily make up a spare bedroom.”

  He bristled. Truly, the man had begun to take her for granted. Did he think she was one of the servants?

  “It is kind of you to offer, but if you don’t mind, I would just borrow your horse and return in the morning.” Lance gave a low chuckle. “It might be wise to start warning mother we will soon be moving out of the house.”

  Moving? With a painful wrenching, she wondered where they would go with no money. Poor Lance, she thought, picturing him of breaking the news to his mother. Hard to picture the demanding Lorna Buford settling for some snug little cottage in town.

  “I must say,” Lance went on with another chuckle, “I never thought you could get your brother to go along with our plans.”

  “And why wouldn’t he? He wants Gwen out of his hair, and besides, he doesn’t yet realized you will be in the running. John purposely raised the entrance fee so you cannot afford it, though, of course, I would be willing to waive it in your case. As long as you keep your half of the bargain.”

  “You are welcome to Bella Oaks, Jervis. For myself, I will be happy to see the last of it and start a new at the Willows.”

  “A good start it will be, too, with your share of the entry fees. I plan to start advertising tomorrow, up and down the river. The more fools we can convince to part with their money, the richer you and I shall be.”

  Edith could now see why heard father was promoting the match. If he would be getting Bella Oaks, it would mean he could own lands for the first time in his life. And if he plans on taking a share of the tournament profits with him, no wonder he was laughing with Lance.

  “And while I am busy setting things up,” father went on, “you make sure our goal Gwen is too preoccupied to notice what is going on. Charm the curiosity out of her, keep on filling her head with all that nonsense she loves to daydream about. I trust you are up to the task?”

  Lance gave a snort, much like the horse he led out of the next stall. Edith shrank down lower, more desperate than ever not to be seen.

  “And mind you,” her father added as they walked the horse out of the stable, “see that you keep practicing. All our planning won’t amount to anything, if you don’t win the tournament.”

  There was another snort, but whether it was Lance for the horse, Edith could not say. In her mind, all she heard were her father’s last words, if you don’t win the tournament.

  Waiting for them to leave, she wore a secret smile. So much could happen between now and the competition.

  Indeed, she might even design plan of her own.

  ***

  Sitting on her window seat with her feet curled behind her, Gwen stared out over the empty moonlit field of the Willows, feeling lost and frightened and burdened by guilt. Jervis had spoken to her at length after Lance had gone home, explaining how much this could mean to the future of the Willows. There would be money for the planting, a chance at prosperity, and stability, for the first time in years. With it would come hope, he spoke, and a spirit of surging forward that might well become contagious. Imagine what it would mean for her father, if John could start relying on his daughter and new husband, instead of the bottle.

  Jervis had not come right out and said it, but he might just as well have. They both knew participating in this competition was the one way Gwen might atone for her part her mother’s dying, the only way you could get her father to forgive her.

  Oh father, she thought, her throat going tight and hot.

  “Amanda?”

  Gwen turned to find her father in the doorway, his frail frame edged by the light of a distant lamp. It was too dark to make out his features, but the way he suddenly hunched over his cane made it unnecessary to correct him. He had realized Gwen was his daughter and not his wife, and his obvious disappointment made her want to cry. For both his loss and her own.

  “You are too much like her,” he said brokenly, “damn near breaks my heart just look at you.”

  “Daddy, I miss her, too,” he said, thinking to console him, but before she could completely on curl her feet, he shut the door in her face.

  Numb, she stood staring at the closed doorway, wondering if there would ever come a day when her daddy stop shutting her out.

  “John is going through a rough patch” Jervis said. “He needs his baby girl to help him.”

  Biting her lip, willing the hurt and guilt to subside, Gwen realized he was right. She could no longer be willfully blind to what was going on around her. There was no temporary mood her daddy was going through. She wanted to atone, wanted to help him, there was but one choice open to her. Come what may, she had to have to go along with the competition.

  No matter who she must marry.

  Chapter 6

  Michael rode along the Bayou, cursing himself for a fool. Several days have passed since his visit to the Willows; only a fool would hang around, waiting for the possible, but this particular fool needed the money the McCloud family owed him. Without it, the dream he had been building would soon collapse.

  Michael had been ready to quit after Jervis had so rudely dismissed him, but later that night, sitting in the local saloon nursing a beer, he had been approached a servant from the Willows. If he went to Riverview Tavern today, servant promised, Michael would find compensation. Up until now, he had thought it was worth a shot, but the closer he got to Riverview, the more wary he grew. The servant had not said who had issued the summons. For all Michael knew, it could just be another of Gwen’s games.

  Spat on the ground, as if to rid himself of the ugly taste in his mouth, but the memories came to him faster than he could fight them off. There had been a time, he remembered painfully, when playing her games had meant the world to him.

  Poor as a youth, he had gazed with fascination and envy at that grateful, elegant house with its larger-than-life occupants. Compared to his family’s shack, it was a magical wonderful land. Beautiful people came and went with careless ease, the laughter bright and gray admitted the obscene display of luxury. Watching them, equating happiness with wealth, security with success, Michael had sworn the one day he would fashion such a life for himself.

  Early on, he’d seen that its mistress with the focus of the Willows’ charm. Young as he was, Michael had been a little in love with the lovely and gracious Amanda, many merely walked into room to make everyone smile, male and female alike. Never an unkind word, always generous with your time and money, she brought joy to those around her. Michael could recall how often she come to visit his poor mother, even against their families wishes, and how only Amanda had come to say goodbye, presenting a farewell basket of food when her husband had the family evicted.

  Gwen had grown up to be more like her father, but back then, watching her play with her friends, he’d thought her a younger replica of Amanda. For like her mother she seemed the day she’d asked him to join their game. She’d been his angel of mercy, the answer to all his yearnings, for by inviting him into her world, she’d let him think he could become part of it, that is the difference between them no longer mattered. When she smiled at him, with a gaze as warm and open as Amanda’s, he’d believed even a common dirt farmer could be her King.

  Right up until it she’d handed him the Apple.

  It still made him burn, her casual insole She’d brought him right to the break, getting him so swept up in the dream that he’d made a fool of himself, only to draw her favor at the last hour. The instant she no longer needed him, she dismissed him from the game-and her in mind-as if he had never existed.

  Frowning, he thought of the handkerchief in his pocket, at soft,
sentence great con and lace, and wished strongly that he had never met Gwen. Was one thing to play the heartless flirt as a child, but she was a grown woman now, old enough to know what those soft, melting looks could do to a man, if Gwen had summoned him today, he’d make it good and clear that he was too busy for her nonsense, that he wasn’t about to be toyed with her games. He had no attention-and even less desire-of rescuing her again, only to have her stroll off with Lance.

  Lance, he thought with a snort of disgust. Maybe the summons he had come from him. He had been at the Willows that night, had no doubt heard each sorry word of Michael’s argument with Jervis, and had grabbed this means of curing favor with the McCloud’s. How like the bastard to hide behind anonymously, while boating about his powers to his friends. He could hear Lance telling his clones, “I’ve drawn the stupid, up start farmer out of the edge of nowhere, so we can go pound him into a pulp.”

  If so, Michael thought as the road came to an end, Lance could not have chosen a better location. Set at the edge of the Bayou alone and isolated, the Riverview covered in trees and darkness, a small building hid. Michael had been in hundreds of bars in his travels, and he’d learned to tell at a glance which spelled trouble. This one, with its narrow door and single window, could well be a trap.

  Dismounting, he secured the horse out of sight among the trees and approach the Tavern cautiously. He wish now that he brought a weapon. If it had come to Fists, he could hold his own against one or two, the lances kind travel in packs, referring to use ambush to beat their enemy.

  Looking ever alert, he climbed the steps and pushed through the door. The room inside was gloomy, with only the dirt streaked window to reveal the darkness, but Michael sensed no immediate danger. As his eyes adjusted to the reduced light, he took in a dozen or so tables to the left, and a shadow opening in the back wall. Another exit he hoped: my yet come in handy.

  A long wood frame bar lined the wall to his right, behind which stood a stout balding man in his mid-30s. Michael recognized Jim Longley from his youth, and what he remembered was mostly unpleasant, Jim was a bully, unlike most of his kind, a coward-real strong when it came to those younger and smaller, but not much to worry about any fair fight. Jim had gone after his sister once; ref he had stopped his taunting by knocking him unconscious.

  Today was, neither of them were youngsters now. Jim had grown taller and broader and a lot more menacing. But then, so had Michael. Even if Jim held a grudge and was foolish enough to act on it, there was every good chance he wouldn’t recognize the boy he had once fought. Gwen certainly had not.

  Refusing to knowledge how much that bothered him, Michael strode to the bar for a beer. Though Jim acted as surely as ever, he barely glanced at his customers face. With a spurt of sympathy, Michael realize that some, the isolated life on the Bayou spelled intellectual death. And unimaginative man like Jim-with little stimulation and less hope of escape-would have long since stopped seeing anything out of the ordinary.

  Michael paid for his shot and retired to the back of the room, where he could watch the door. Sitting, he surveyed his fellow patrons. A sorry looking person sat at the end of the bar, a clear case of one whiskey too many, while a younger man with the flashy waistcoat and clean white shirt of a gambler sat nursing a bottle in the front corner. A drifter. Michael recognized the man’s restless, almost lonely air, for he himself had wasted a good eight years on the road, searching for that elusive pot of gold, hoping for the one lucky break that would make his fortune.

  And what had changed? He asked himself. If he was not still chasing rainbows, why was he sitting here, waiting to be jumped, on the off chance that Jervis truly did mean to honor his words?

  Small chance of that, he emitted. Service considered Michael beneath them, far outside of the gentleman code. There was no need to honor a debt to a common white trash; told Michael could prove he, too, was landed gentry, he didn’t have to knowledge his existence.

  So what was he doing here? There were banks. Michael could get another loan, or at least an extension; there was no need to put himself through this trouble. How many ways must he be humiliated by this family, before he gave up and quit?

  As if in answer, the door burst open, and a tall, graceless gentlemen stood over the threshold. His attire was of the best quality, yet it varied colors and textures seem to indicate the man had dressed himself in the dark. With a smile and a nod at Jim, he glanced about the room, his gaze skipping Michael and coming to rest on the drifter. “Mr. Williams?” He asked.

  Michael recognized Hamilton as the one of the privileged few with played with when as a child. How typically, that Michael could name every last one of that group, while not one knew him. Clearly, none thought him import enough to remember.

  “I’m Williams,” he said sharply, draining his beer. “And I’m leaving.”

  With Jim glaring at him and Colby staring open mouth, Michael brushed past the door. There are both remembering him now, they didn’t doubt, and considering Jim’s vindictive nature, he might better put a goodly distance between himself and the Riverview Tavern.

  “Michael, please wait,” Colby called out in his crisp British accent.” I imagine you don’t remember me, but”

  “I know who you are, Colby” Michael turned in time to catch the sudden light on the man’s face. Hamilton Colby had been shy and retiring, he now recalled, always in Lance‘s shadow, so maybe it was unfair to lump him with the others. “What I don’t know is what you want.”

  The man scratched his unruly mass of Auburn hair. “This is already artwork. I’m here, well, rather as a liaison. I have someone who wishes to talk with you. If you would follow me, she’d be ever so grateful.”

  Michael stiffened. Who did Gwen think he was, some puppet she could jerk on a string? “Thank you, but no thanks.” He said, turning back to his horse. “I have more important things to do with my time.”

  “All she asks is a moment. To let her explain.”

  “Thank you, but let me handle this from here. Michael, please, it is quite vital I speak to you.”

  Michael spun in surprise. It was not Gwen who stood facing him, but rather her cousin. Edith was another of the Camelot group who’d never had the chance to shine. She always seem it quite little mouse, taking the crumbs her cousin left behind.

  “There is a dock, down by the Bayou,” she said, gesturing with her hands. The people smile and fidgeting hands betrayed a her nervousness. “We run less risk, I think, of being seen.”

  Michal was tempted to go with there. They must be a vital issue indeed, to force the timid Edith to meet with the likes of him in some backwater hole in the Bayou. Still, he had no wish to deal with anyone even remotely connected to the Willows. “I’m sorry, Edith, this has anything to do with your family, I’m something not interested.”

  Please hear me out. You might find it to work to your vantage. You do want my father to pay what he owes you?”

  “You know about that?”

  She looked at her hands, refusing to meet his gaze. “He relies on me to take care of what he calls trivial details. They may seem insignificant to him, but those details at up, Michael. I think that he would be amazed at how much I know about him.”

  Michael smiled. Jervis, typically arrogant, had overlooked that it was often the quiet ones who required the most security.

  “Indeed, it was about my daddy’s activities that I wish to speak. Please, Michael, if you will follow me? Hamilton will stand guard to make certain we are not disturbed.”

  She turned into the trees, taking for granted that he would follow. Looking at Colby, who held out his hands and shrugged, Michael knew the man was right. There’s not much in either of them could do at this point. Edith had played her hand beautifully. Michael cannot leave now, curiosity got to him.

  He followed her through the trees, coming to a discrete small dock that no longer reach the Bayou. Some time ago, the area had been underwater, but the course of the stream had changed, leaving the dock
standing in the middle of nowhere.

  Coming to a stop, she gestured around them. “I suppose all this must seem terribly discouraging,” she said with the strength smile. “It is just, well, I’d hate for my father or his friends to overhear what I have to say.”

  “Just what is this about, Edith?”

  She studied his face a moment, then apparently came to a decision, for she reached into her back to lift out a sheet of paper. “This,” she said, handing the paper to him. “My father plans to put these handbills up on every tavern from here to Baton Rouge.”

  Roughly looked down at the black and white drawing of Gwen’s face. Underneath in stark block letters were the words, “come compete for the mistress of the Willows.” His eyes widen as he noticed the extraordinary amount required to join the ranks of competition.

  Edith was nodding. “Can see her face that you’ve seen the entry fee. Daddy is quite convinced that men will happily pay it.”

  “No respectable gentlemen, I’d wager,” he said, thinking aloud. To participate, a man would have to be either blindly in love with Gwen, or totally new to social commendations. At best, the contest would draw the outer fringes of light society, at worst, adventurers like himself. Too bad he had neither time nor money, or he could well imagine there burbling features if Michael charge into the field of play.

  “On the contrary.” Her voice assumed is a presently hard edge. “We both know how it is with the world. Money talks louder than gossip. Society has always been happily to overlook the indiscretions committed by the owners of the Willows.”

  How true, and how annoying to hear her say it. “Your family is hardly overburdened with cash at the moment. Rumor has it the Willows is one gasp away from the auction block.”