Suddenly frightened by his and intensity, by what he meant to do, she tried a feeble protests, came down upon her and sounds to her with a desired-drugging kiss. For Edith, so long starved for his love, it was like a gift from heaven.
“I need you,” he bit out at last, his hands running roughly over her body. “I’ve waited so long. Don’t you deny me, too?”
She shook her head. If she gave him this, gave him herself, she would be offering something her cousin never had. When it came time for marrying, surely Lance would remember that stood by him and who had not.
There was a moment’s guilt, in which she wondered about Gwen and hoped she was indeed enjoying herself with Michael, before Edith surrendered completely to lance’s possession.
***
Gwen sat on the porch swing, barely moving. Never had she felt as though use as she did this moments, covered with mud, her hair tangled, and her skin scratch in a dozen places.
And never had escaped seem so hopeless. She’d followed the stupid by all the way back here, and tell she had no choice but to accept that she was trapped on some wretched island. If she hoped to leave, she’d need some sort of a vessel, for she absolutely refused to step one foot back in that water. She shrugged as she thought of the Leach she’d had to pull off the tender white flesh of her leg.
She done her best to scrub the mud from her face and hands, but she doubted the riding dress would ever dry. Its wool would cling to her uncomfortably for the rest of her life, for what else had she to where? She’d removed her boots, since the drying leather was tightening painfully, slipped off her soggy stockings as quick as possible. All she’d accomplished, however, was giving the mosquitoes licensed to feast on her toes.
And did the children care? She glared at the now closed door. No, they just went about their business, snickering at her whenever they pass in an out of the cabin. You must know how her empty stomach reacted to the smells of their cooking, but no one had offered to share their meal, not even when starvation had gotten the best of her and she’d gone in, prepared to be gracious if it turned her a slice of bread.
Though there’d carefully blank faces and not stopped her, site of whatever was on their plates did. Staring at the mess, Gwen made the mistake of asking what it was. To each child, they’d shielded their bowls with their arms, Jude telling her that their food wasn’t for sharing. If Ms. high and mighty wanted to eat, she could cook for herself.
“What are you doing back here anyway?” Jude had added nastily. “We thought you were running away.”
And then they’d laughed at her, giving Gwen no choice but to tell them that she’d decided to stay and make their lives miserable. Smiling smugly, she’d then announced that she was retiring to her quarters.
That had earned their silence. Unfortunately, when Gwen stomped into the back hallway, she realized she had not the slightest idea where she was to sleep. It donned on her, with a slow creepy flush, that as Michael’s wife, she’d probably sleeping down with him.
She’d found three doors in the dark, narrow hallway. The one on the right open up into the as yet unrepaired pantry, with the hole in the roof. Briefly, she wondered what the children might have been doing to start a fire, but turning to the door to her left, she told herself it was none of her concern. The less she knew about those brats, the better.
The next room had been relatively large, the size of the main room. Several bunks line the walls, and from the mess she decided this was beware the children slept. Shuddering again, she’d been ready to turn away when Jude came up from behind her. “You got no call to be snooping about our things, “the child said belligerently.
“I was not snooping. I was trying to find my room.”
He sneered back, “I don’t believe you for a minute,” Jude pointed to the third door. “The back room. That’s yours.”
Opening the door, Gwen had found it to be small, furnished only with a cupboard and a narrow cot with a straw mattress and threadbare blanket. At least the bed was a single. If she cannot sleep comfortably, Gwen had thought at the time, at least she could sleep alone.
But now, sitting on the porch by herself, she found it rather daunting how little the prospect appealed to her.
I am not used to being ignored, she thought, rocking the swing with more vigor. Most men cannot wait to seeing her praises, but Michael had called her a drowned rat. His teasing grin, his lack of regard for her feelings, proved he did not view her as a desirable woman. All he wanted her for was to stand guard over these brats he called children.
You should have kidnapped Edith, she thought angrily. With her cousin’s newfound abilities to cook and clean, she’d have soon with the entire house sold back into shape.
Stunned by how much that thought bothered her, Gwen blamed her sudden in the on habit, a result of competing against her cousin for so many years. What was there to be jealous of? Edith lived the life of a Drudge.
Except now, Edith stock would improve, Gwen it didn’t doubt. Her cousin would take full advantage of her absence to influence her daddy–and perhaps even Lance–against her.
He is my Lancelot, she thought, feeling doubly sorry for herself. In her mind, Lance became a symbol of all she had lost, and all she had stolen from her. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine him coming to her rescue, putting his strong arms around her shoulders and leading her out of this dismal swamp.
But her imagination played tricks on her, too, for when he leaned down for a kiss, his fair features suddenly darkened.
“Michael” she hurt herself whisper.
She saw the boat first, breached on the bank of the Bayou, then the man bending over it to lift something out. “Michael,” she whispered again. As he stood, she felt a second stab of disappointment.
Coming toward her carry a heavy cast iron pot, the man be no more than inch or two taller than Gwen, though clearly a good many years her senior. A grizzled beard covered his face, no doubt to make up for the small gray hair on his head. His hunched body moved awkwardly, but it was hard to tell if age, or merely the wait is did. He had a ruddy complexion, indicating a good part of his time spent outdoors, and, she noticed as he came closer, there was a devilish twinkle in his gray green eyes.
“Gumbo I made,” he said, his accent a mixed blend of Cajun and southern drawl. “You are hungry, no?”
Even had she not gone through the swamp all morning and missed her lunch, Gwen would not be able to resist the delicious sense waving up from the pot. Peppers, onions, spices–heavens, was that seafood?–Sent visions of Lavinia’s shrimp and crab concoction dancing in her head. Had Gwen been the rat Michael called her, she’d have followed the pipe piper himself, happy to march to the death for a single bite.
Besides, the poor man had his hands full; was only polite that she offered to open the door.
The children were again busy at the fire place, either planning a second arson, or devising another crazy meal. They glanced up with their usual hostility, until they saw she was not alone.
“Jeffrey” the little one cried out, running forward as if to wrap his arms around the old man’s legs. Forcing potential disaster, Gwen reach out to take the pot from Jeffrey’s hands.
It was heavier than she’d anticipated, and smelled even more delicious up close. As the children came running to bus over their guest, Gwen carried the pot to the table, meaning to sneak a peek, if not a taste, while they were too preoccupied to notice.
Jeffrey clapped his hands as he reached for the lid, she yanked her hand behind her back with a guilty blush. “Quick, quick,” he said to the children, helping Gwen realize he had not been clapping at her. “The sooner you set the table, the sooner we eat.”
They obeyed so quickly, Gwen wondered if he might be some relative-a grandfather, perhaps-but more likely, they were as starved as she. Gwen would gladly have set the table herself, if she’d the least idea how to do so, and if she thought for a moment the children would let her touch their plates.
With an un
comfortable gulp, she knew she must brace herself, for there was a good chance she would not be invited to dinner.
Just as her stomach made a sound, Jeffrey gestured her to the nearest chair. Smiling, he pulled it back for her, and when she was seated, took the chair directly opposite. Watching this, the children looked ready to protests, but aside from the glares they gave Gwen, they can’t their displeasure to themselves. They, to, just took their seats.
“You are not going to eat with those filthy hands?” Gwen protest as Jude reached for the pot.
The child pulled back his hands, looked at them guiltily, and then swiftly recovered his hostility. “Ain’t nothing wrong with good, clean honest mud.”
“Jude.” Jeffrey I the child disappointedly. “Go now, washed up, all of you.”
After the boys ran out, Gwen and gave Jeffrey a smile. “They don’t like me much,” he said unnecessarily. “I, don’t know a lot about children. I haven’t been around them much.”
He nodded. “They look, they see the haughty lady. It takes time to discover the person underneath.” Leaning over, he lifted the lid off the pot.
As the aroma drifted toward Gwen, she became so entranced by it, she forgot everything else. “Amazing, what kind of gumbo is it?’ She asked, as if it mattered. He can offer her shoe leather, she would happily eat it.
Grinning, he poured some into her bowl. “A bit of this, a bit of that, mostly crab and shrimp. And for the children, I sprinkled file on top.”
As if on cue, they filed back to the table, each managing to show Gwen how much they resented her presence before taking their seats. Jude, she notice, hadn’t done much to clean his hands, but Gwen decided to ignore him. What did she care, if the child got sick?
None to patiently, she waited while Jeffrey served the others, introducing each child as he served them. “This fine boy, he is Patrick,” he said, handing able to the one who looked most like Michael. “He is the dreamer, yes? The poet.”
The boy blushed, clearly embarrassed either description. Taking momentary pity on him, Gwen would have told him that Michael had been a dreamer at his age, too, but Jeffrey went on to Jude. “This one will be the death of us,” said with an indulgent smile. “Always getting into mischief and taking the others along. Too curious, and far too proud, our Jude is.”
Unlike Patrick, Jude preened.
“And these two,” Jeffrey went on, “are the twins. Hard to tell which is Peter and which is Paul. I think they’d be like in confusing this old man, no?”
Grinning proudly, the twins also bore a resemblance to Michael, though she could never remember him having such sparkle in his eyes. It wouldn’t be hard for Jude to leave that pair into mischief.
“And Christopher, he is the baby.” With his golden brown curls and sweet round face, the boy looked like a little cherub. Remembering how eager he had been to help her, even if only for the promise of taffy, Gwen decided that of them all, she might just be able to tolerate this little boy.
Setting the ball down before him, Jeffrey gave their ages-Patrick, 11, Jude next at 10, the twins 8, and Christopher just turned 6.
Looking at the dirty faces, so close in age, there was no need to ask what became of their mother. The poor woman hadn’t run off screaming, a life spent in perpetual childbirth must have killed her. Either way she had all Gwen’s sympathy.
“Mother chose the names of saints for us,” Christopher said brightly as he offered a slice of bread. “She wanted to protect us from Papa’s evil.”
Gwen found it hard to hide her shock. She resisted the bad things Lance and told her about Michael, but here were his own children, so matter-of-factly calling him evil. The boys’ mother felt the needed protection from their own father was the most damning fact of all. No wonder they hopped to attention at Michael’s every order; they were afraid to define him.
“And me,” Jeffrey said, as if Christopher had just commented on the weather, “I am Jeffrey, a neighbor. Everyone just calls me Jeff.”
“A neighbor?” Gwen asked, finding it hard to keep up with the shifting conversation. “I thought you were the boys’ grandfather.”
“Me?” He chuckled. “I am just Michael’s friend, though we go way back, back to when he was a child himself. Taught the boy what he needs to know about the Bayou, I did. And now, for him, I teach the children.”
For him. Gwen’s mind said with confusion. Jeffrey conjured up a different image of Michael. It forced her to wonder how a man who inspires such loyalty could be completely evil.
Yet Lance insisted he was, and there was the fear Michael inspired in his children and mustn’t forget that he’d kidnapped her.
Jeffrey wash her face, no doubt seeing her confusion. “Someday, if you want, I will be teaching you how to get by in the Bayou, too.”
Inside, she recoiled. That much at least was clear. She might like this gentle Cajun, but she hated the swamp and had no intention of staying.
Not that she waited for her answer. Turning to the boys, he nodded. “Go on, go ahead and eat.”
Watching them gobble their gumbo, Gwen forgot about Michael in the face of their bad manners. The children might know about survival, but they knew nothing about how to properly sit down to a meal. Sniffing with this dismay, she reached for her soup spoon, finding a short what in utensil instead. She hated wood; touching it gave her goosebumps. “I cannot use this,” she blurted out. “I must have the proper silver.”
The children are at her with every new discussed, while Jeffrey patiently explained that they were short on tableware, but would Patrick go see what he could find? The boys rose reluctantly to search his kitchen and returned with a teaspoon. Thanking him primly, Gwen wiped it carefully on the tablecloth, before taking her first taste of the gumbo.
It was sheer heaven. Not even her servants had ever managed to cook shrimp this soft and succulent, or blend her vegetables in such’s a savory stew. It was old Gwen could do not to moan in pleasure.
No one spoke as they ate, except to ask for seconds. Gwen normally stopped after one bowl, but she hold hers up for a refill. Not only was the food delicious, she wasn’t sure when, or if she would eat again.
The children have thirds, but Gwen knew she’d burst if she took one more bite. Sitting down her spoon, she was complementing Jeffrey on is cooking when she felt a tickle on the top of her hand. Glancing down, she found a big ugly spider, crawling across her fingers. With a shriek, she brushed it away and jumped to her feet.
“What, it’s only a daddy longlegs,” Jude said with a derisive snort, lifting the insect by the legs. “It can’t hardly hurt a fly.”
“It could be she is not used to spiders, no?” Jeffrey said with a smile before turning to Jude. “So tell this old man, how’s the repairs to the house coming along?”
In that collective silence, everyone looked to Jude. Letting the spot ago, Jude grimaced. “The thing is, we ain’t had time to get started.”
“No?” Jeffrey stared each boy. “Couldn’t it, that you been spending your time in the swamp?”
“We have to, Jeffrey,” Jude hissed, frowning I Gwen as if reluctant to discuss this with an enemy present. “You know that.”
He nodded. “I do, yes, we’ve can’t be neglecting your chores. The roof must be mending, before I go to my family.”
“I forgot you are leaving,” Patrick said softly, obviously distressed. “When will you go?”
“Soon. Worry not, I will stop and first, yes?”
“Are you going to see the fortress?” Christopher asked Jeffrey as the old man rose to his feet. “Jude’s got a-“
There was a thud, and the word out from Christopher, as if he’d been hit. With a smile for both children, Jeffrey said he was sorry, but his visit would have to wait for another time. “There is not much light left in this day. I need to be getting back home.”
Rising from the table, he told the boys to do the dishes. “It was a pleasure, enjoying your company,” he said, bowing at Gwen.
&nb
sp; As he left out the door, Gwen realize that she’d again been left alone with the children. She jumped up and follow him outside. How she’d stop Jeffrey from going, she had no idea, but she was not about to let the first friendly face she’d seen all day.
Seeing him step into his boat, something snapped in her brain, a fact she would never have overlooked earlier had she not been so hungry.
The man had a boat–only means off this wretched island.
“Jeffrey, wait,” she called out before he could shove off. He stood expectantly, his head cocked to the side. Surely she could count on this kindly man’s help. Once she explained her situation, appealed to his senses shivery and decency, surely he would only happy to take her home.
“I need…” She pause a moment as he frowned, for he seemed to be bracing himself for what she’d say next, “that is, I wondered if you could take me to Willows.
He shook his head, dismissing her request. She forgotten in her desperation, they he and her kidnapper were friends.
“I know you want to be loyal to Michael,” she told him, gathering up her dignity, “but surely you can’t condone him keeping me prisoner. It’s illegal, what he’s doing. If you don’t wish to go to jail with him, you must take me home.”
“You and he are married. Before God and family, no?”
If one more person through that ridiculous ceremony interface, she was going to spit. Frustrated and angry, she stopped her foot. “I meant to ask nicely, but now I am demanding you take me home this instant.”
He chuckled softly. “Michael warned me about you. Said you like to play lord over people, order them here and there, play the Queen, no?”
Gwen went on the defensive. “You don’t understand,” he said, appealed to herself whimpering. “I need my family and servants and all my familiar things about me.”
“Them children, they need you, Gwen,” he said critically, nodding toward the cabin.
The Willows Page 18