Deep Summer

by Gwen Bristow

  He smiled at her again. “Mother, you have a great deal more sense than most people. Thank you very much.”

  “My dearest boy,” said Frances. She took his face between her hands. “God help me to let you live your own life in your own way. Run along to Silverwood, and tell Ann I sent my love.”

  “You’re rather a dear,” said Denis. He bent and kissed her cheek.

  She heard him clatter down the staircase. Frances went to the mantel and began pulling one of the dahlias to pieces. The petals fell on the hearth.

  She had tried very hard to do her duty in the world. Nobody knew how hard it had been. Nobody but herself seemed to remember those four little graves in the churchyard. Frances felt a flutter in her bosom like a little flame. Her heart sometimes behaved this way in moments when an effort at self-control had been almost too much for her, though she complained of her own ill-health as rarely as of the pains her spirit had undergone. But now she wondered if those two glittering young things would ever have to learn by experience how hard it was, when one was being continually assailed, to keep one’s character intact. In spite of her, a sob caught itself in her throat and she laid her forehead on the marble, grateful for its coolness. A tear trickled down her cheek where Denis had kissed her and splashed on the rich-colored petals at her feet.

  Frances found herself striking the mantel with her hands. She had been so proud of Denis, watching him ride his acres with the imperious authority of one born to rule. But either he or she was wrong about this marriage, and she loved him enough to hope it might be herself. It was quite simple to say to Denis she would leave the house so as not to be one of the mothers-in-law of funny stories. He would love her better for her tolerance. And as for that canary-brained girl he was marrying, she would merely shrug and take it as her right that the older generation should bow itself out to leave her room.

  4

  Denis and Ann were married in the period of mist and quietness that came to the plantations between the time of the cotton-picking and the time of grinding the cane. Ann stood by Denis in the great hall of Silverwood in a gown that had required forty-two yards of handmade lace, and a veil that looked, as Denis said, as if it had been made of river-fog. Her skirt was so wide that Denis almost had to lean over to reach her hand when she slipped her finger out of the slit in her glove and held it to receive his ring, a heavy gold band that had engraved inside it, “Denis to Ann, December 6, 1859.” There were a hundred guests at the ceremony, and two hundred others who came to offer congratulations and speculate on the value of the wedding presents, while two trusted slaves wandered with owl-eyes about the parlors lest some inebriated wellwisher take a spoon for a souvenir of this the most brilliant wedding the river country was likely to see for years.

  Half the party piled into carriages and rode after the bride’s carriage to the wharf, where Denis and Ann were to take the boat downriver to New Orleans. They planned to spend the night at the St. Charles Hotel and go on to Pass Christian the next day. At the wharf Ann let Denis help her out of the carriage, and she stood arranging her skirt around her and pulling her fur cloak closer about her throat—for it was cold here by the river—reflecting that she was being very self-possessed for a bride and reflecting also that she had never looked better in her life. A wagon rumbled down with her trunks. Denis went over to speak to his boy about their proper disposal and Ann stepped aside, nearer the gangplank and away from the chattering guests, whose reiterated good wishes were beginning to be tiresome.

  Her hoops brushed the carpetbag of some lowly passenger waiting for the crowd to thin so he could mount the gangplank. She glanced up, a word of apology on her lips, and saw that the man before her was her father’s ex-overseer Gilday.

  Ann started back as she felt his raisin eyes creeping over her again, but behind her was a line of Negroes carrying her trunks to the boat and for the moment she was prisoned where she stood. Seeing that she could not get away, Gilday took off his hat with a cool deliberate movement and looked her over.

  Ann turned her eyes aside, toward the river. She was remembering what Jerry had told her when she complained that she did not like having Gilday at Silverwood. Jerry said the colonel would have got rid of him anyway, because he had just discovered that Gilday had formerly been part owner of a breeding-farm in Maryland and wanted no overseers of that ilk on his plantation. Ann had never heard of a breeding-farm and asked Jerry what such a place might be. Jerry did not want to tell her; he was sorry he had let the word slip out. But she insisted, and he finally explained that there were stretches of cheap land in Maryland and Virginia where men established colonies consisting of a few Negro men and many Negro women, where they forcibly bred infant slaves for the market, and where women were advertised for sale at prices based not on their training but on their fertility. When she heard it, the idea horrified her so that after barely managing not to be sick she buried it deep in her mind, and resolved never to think of Gilday or his wretched ways again. Meeting him here today gave her the same feeling of physical revulsion. She had a sickish sensation in her stomach. And this was her wedding day, she recalled angrily. She could have wished him dead for bringing her such thoughts at such a time.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” Gilday was saying greasily. “So you got married.” His lips stretched in a sleek smile. “Quite a fancy wedding, I observe.”

  Ann glanced indignantly at the moving trunks. Oh, why didn’t they hurry? If this creature touched her she was going to scream. But he did not touch her.

  “Well, I’m going,” said Gilday, mouthing his words slowly. “You got no reason to be upset any more about me. But too bad,” he murmured, “I should just happen to take your honeymoon boat, seeing as how you don’t like me.”

  “I’m not concerned about how you travel,” she said shortly.

  “No ma’am, I expect not,” Gilday drawled. “But I been hoping to see you. They tell me it was you told your father and brother I should ought to be sent off their place. Told them you didn’t like me. Now that warn’t pretty of you, miss, not pretty of you at all.”

  “Will you please be good enough to let me pass?” Ann exclaimed.

  “Sorry.” But he did not move. “I just wanted you to know I ain’t thanking you. On your wedding trip at them fine hotels you might think sometimes about poor Gilday, with no job because of you.”

  “Oh, be quiet!” she cried through her teeth. The Negro carrying the last of her trunks passed behind her, and she rushed away from Gilday, up the wharf to where her friends were. One of her bridesmaids, a merry red-headed girl named Sarah Purcell, ran to meet her.

  “Why, here she is! Where on earth have you been, Ann?”

  “I got caught behind the trunks,” Ann said hurriedly, feeling as if Gilday’s slimy eyes were still on her back.

  “A fine bride you are,” Sarah chided, “getting lost at your own wedding.”

  Ann tried to control her panting breaths. “Where’s Denis?”

  “Here,” said Denis’ voice. It had never sounded so welcome. She unceremoniously snatched her hand from Sarah’s and caught his arm. “The trunks are on,” he was saying. “We can board now.”

  She held his arm tight. They started toward the gangplank under a sudden shower of rice. Denis laughed, and Ann laughed too with almost hysterical relief. All this was so right and normal, running across the deck of a steamboat on her wedding day with rice falling on her bonnet and trickling down the back of her neck. They ran together across the saloon and into their cabin. Denis banged the door behind him and slipped the catch.

  “There’s tons of it on deck,” he exclaimed, flinging off his coat and hearing the rice clatter on the floor. “Nobody’ll be able to walk there till it’s swept up.”

  Ann laughed as she shook the rice off her bonnet. Tossing the bonnet to one side she linked her arms around Denis’ neck and looked up at him.

  “Denis, I do love you so
.”

  He put his arms around her. “I love you too, darling.”

  “I don’t think I knew till this minute how much I loved you,” said Ann. “But you’re so nice, Denis. So—so inevitable. I always know exactly what you’re going to do because it’s always what you ought to do at the moment. I’m so glad I’m married to you!”

  Denis kissed her. In his embrace Ann felt as if she had withdrawn into a citadel.

  5

  The slaves of Ardeith were curtseying and singing on the lawn when Ann came home. The whole clan of the Larnes, headed by Denis’ mother, stood on the gallery to welcome her. Ann neither blushed nor fluttered, but received their kisses smiling, knowing perfectly well they were studying her for possible circles under her eyes that might indicate the shadow of the stork’s wings and finding it amusing to keep them in doubt before her blooming countenance. She had no reason to expect the stork yet, but she knew they had too much delicacy to ease their curiosity by asking her.

  She went in, changed from her traveling-dress into a gown of checkered blue challis with white lawn collar and undersleeves, and a matron’s cap of lawn and lace with blue ribbons; and she presided for the first time over her own supper-table. There were twenty guests, including her father and Jerry and a confusing group of cousins of both families. Mrs. Larne, who was leaving for Europe tomorrow (“God be praised,” Ann thought devoutly), sat remotely at the far end, at Denis’ right hand, but Cynthia sat next to Ann, adoring.

  As the ladies rose to leave, Mrs. Larne came down the length of the table and proffered Ann her keys. Ann said “Thank you,” and kissed her forehead. Denis’ uncle rose to give another toast to the bride. Ann waited, thanked them, and slipped the key-chain around her girdle.

  The keys made an uncomfortable burden at her waist. These ceremonies were really a nuisance. That night as she was going upstairs with Denis, Ann caught sight of Napoleon putting out the candles in the hall. She leaned over the balustrade and called him, slipping the chain off her belt.

  “Napoleon, I’ve engaged a housekeeper-lady and she’ll be here next week. Until then I reckon you know more about where things are kept than I do. Suppose you take these.”

  Napoleon cupped his hands, but his expression was astonished. “You want me to carry the keys, Mrs. Denis?”

  “Yes, until she gets here. Then give them to her.”

  She dropped the keys. Napoleon’s eyes went to Denis. Denis laughed with loving indulgence. “It’s all right, Napoleon.”

  Ann tucked her arm into his and they went on up the staircase.

  Standing in the open doorway of her own room, Frances heard their voices. As Denis and Ann came up the stairs she stepped hastily inside, but though they did not look in her direction she could see them. Denis opened the door of the master bedroom. As they went in he picked up the decanter on the little table just inside. “A nightcap, honey?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Ann.

  He leaned across the decanter and kissed her, reaching with his free hand to push the door shut. Behind them Frances could see the candles burning in the silver sconces, and the white marble mantel with a bowl of roses at either end, and the armoires ready for Ann’s clothes, and the great crimson-curtained fourposter that had had to be brought up the river in pieces because it was so huge. She looked along the hall at the spiral staircase built by Denis’ grandfather as the monument to a great race. Frances felt a helpless anger that was like pain. She closed her door.

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  About the Author

  Gwen Bristow (1903–1980), the author of seven bestselling historical novels that bring to life momentous events in American history, such as the siege of Charleston during the American Revolution (Celia Garth) and the great California gold rush (Calico Palace), was born in South Carolina, where the Bristow family had settled in the seventeenth century. After graduating from Judson College in Alabama and attending the Columbia School of Journalism, Bristow worked as a reporter for New Orleans’ Times-Picayune from 1925 to 1934. Through her husband, screenwriter Bruce Manning, she developed an interest in longer forms of writing—novels and screenplays.

  After Bristow moved to Hollywood, her literary career took off with the publication of Deep Summer, the first novel in a trilogy of Louisiana-set historical novels, which also includes The Handsome Road and This Side of Glory. Bristow continued to write about the American South and explored the settling of the American West in her bestselling novels Jubilee Trail, which was made into a film in 1954, and in her only work of nonfiction, Golden Dreams. Her novel Tomorrow Is Forever also became a film, starring Claudette Colbert, Orson Welles, and Natalie Wood, in 1946.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1937, 1965 by Gwen Bristow

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  ISBN 978-1-4804-8527-3

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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