by Mysti Parker
“All right. I’ll go with you.”
He took her hand and kissed it then gave her a wink. “You won’t regret it, darlin’. G’Night, Portia.”
“Goodnight, Harry.”
Once in her room, she hung her dress from a hook on the wardrobe to air it out, trying not to think about the gala or Beau or Harry or anything for that matter. On impulse, she took Jake’s picture from the drawer and set it on top of the dresser. It didn’t hurt so much to see his image now. She smiled at his stern face, knowing all too well the seriousness was a farce. The laughter in his eyes was unmistakable. She could hear him in her head — Jake, always laughing and joking, playing pranks on his brother — and she laughed quietly as the memories passed.
Maybe she had finally started healing, was finally ready to start living again, but the future was still one blurry mess. She had no idea where she would be in the next five years or even tomorrow.
Hugging Jake’s picture to her chest, she closed her eyes, and though she hadn’t done it in a long time, she prayed. “Lord, if you’re out there and care to hear me at all, could you grant me strength? Help me take things one day at a time.”
With Jake’s picture gracing the top of the dresser, she changed into her nightclothes and heard a gentle tap on the door. Maybe Jonny had a nightmare or felt ill. Her heart sank at the mere thought of him being sick. She cracked open the door.
“Pardon me,” Lydia said, glancing over her shoulder toward the stairs. “May I have a word with you?”
“I suppose,” Portia said hesitantly. Lydia paying her a visit at that time of night couldn’t be a good thing. But since this wasn’t her house, she had to play nice. She opened the door wide, and Lydia sashayed into the room, leaving a trail of gardenia perfume in her wake.
“Would you close the door, please?” The perfectly primped blonde said. “We need to speak in private.”
“All right.” Portia did as is Lydia requested. With her back against the door, she smiled politely and asked, “What is it?”
Facing the window, Lydia took a deep, shaky breath. “Don’t take Beau from me.”
“What?” She had heard her clearly, but the statement took her by surprise nonetheless.
“I’ve been in love with him my whole life.” With a tremulous smile, Lydia turned to face her presumed rival. “Don’t you see? I loved my cousin Claire dearly. Yet not a day passed that I didn’t envy her — the way he looked at her — I wanted that for myself.”
Had this conversation been started by someone less… privileged, Portia would have felt more empathy. She tried to keep the irksome tone from her voice but failed. “Sorry if I misunderstood you, but I thought you had claimed him already. He seems plenty attracted to you.”
“Of course he is. He asked me to marry him last night.”
No… Portia’s heart felt like it might sink from her chest, plumb out her feet, and into the floor. But she forced herself to maintain some semblance of pride.
“Attraction is one thing, you see,” Lydia continued with an upturned hand, “but how long-lasting can it be if it doesn’t come from here?” She patted the top of her full bosom for emphasis.
Feeling a headache coming on, Portia rubbed the brow bone over her left eye. “You’re saying what, exactly? That Beau doesn’t love you? I don’t know what it’s like back in Philadelphia, but from what I know of love, it’s not something you can force. If you were so concerned about it, why not choose from a suitor in Philadelphia instead of gambling on Beau’s affections?”
Lydia drummed her fingers on her collarbone with a quiet thump, thump, thump. The tremulous smile disappeared, replaced with a tight-lipped frown. Take off a few years, and Portia would have been looking at a petulant toddler on the verge of a tantrum. Nothing she hadn’t dealt with before, but tonight she lacked the patience to contend with such behavior, especially from a twenty-one-year-old socialite. She expected Portia to concede in a heap of groveling humility, to play the part of timid mouse and servant under Her Majesty’s rule. Well, the queen was about to be terribly disappointed.
“You did have suitors in Philadelphia, I presume?” Portia prompted, hoping to send the brat stomping from her room in a huff. “I mean, to look at you, one would imagine…”
“Yes, yes, of course I had suitors,” Lydia blurted out. “I amassed so many calling cards, I couldn’t keep count. Some of those gentlemen, I even courted briefly, but none of them compared to Beau.”
“Then we are back to the question of how or why you think I might take him from you. Do I look like someone who has the resources to do such a thing?”
Oh how badly Lydia must have wanted to shout, “No!” to the rooftops. Rather disappointingly, she dropped her hands and lifted her chin, standing perfectly straight, as she’d most likely been taught in that finishing school she attended.
“Your resources have no bearing on this matter.” Her clipped words were as haughty as her upturned nose. “We all witnessed how he almost kissed you. He… noticed you long before that. A man like him — upstanding and unselfish — how can he not notice a woman who arrives with so much grief upon her? He feels guilty for leaving Claire here to die alone, so his protective nature is exaggerated when it comes to you.”
“Has he told you this?”
“No, but it’s obvious. I’ve known Beau much longer than you have. I can tell how he feels. Beau needs someone who can meet his needs, someone with an undamaged spirit. I know he takes pity on you now, but he’ll soon grow weary of your dependence. Normally, I wouldn’t confide these things to anyone, but I want you to be aware of what he’s like before you act on any… urges.”
Deciding the ridiculous exchange had gone on long enough, Portia opened the door with an impatient swish. She forced herself to remain civil, though her tongue longed to throw a few choice words at Madame Peacock. “How kind of you, Miss Clemons, to be concerned for my welfare, but unless you can read Beau’s mind, how can you presume to know what he needs or what guilt he bears if he has not shared this with you? And I don’t need protecting, nor do I act on any urges without careful thought, so your worry is misplaced. Now, it’s late, and I’m tired. Unless there’s anything else you’d like to discuss…”
Lydia glided toward the door, but instead of leaving, she twirled around and leaned against the door frame. Her pretty face wilted into a well-practiced pout.
“Please,” she whispered. “If I lose Beau, I lose everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I’ll have nothing left.”
Portia clung to the door to keep herself from slapping some reality into this girl. She couldn’t take any more of this nonsense.
Forcing herself to maintain her crumbling composure, she whispered harshly, “You have no idea what it means to have nothing or to lose everything. You cannot fathom the pain of true loss, what it feels like to wake up day after day just to wish you were dead. Furthermore, I don’t know how Beau feels about you, me, or anything else, nor do I care. Good night.”
Portia shut the door forcefully — some might have called it a slam. Lydia let out a little yelp, retracting her fingers just in time to keep them out of harm’s way.
The nerve of that woman! “Don’t take Beau from me,” Lydia had said. As if Portia were really capable of such a thing. They were engaged, for goodness sakes. Wasn’t that confirmation enough? She was too upset to sleep, but made herself settle under the covers, sitting up so she could read. Hopefully, a Longfellow poem or two would drown out the residual whine of Lydia’s pleas.
Hours passed until her head finally sank onto the pillow. She stared at the darkened ceiling. Lydia might have been right about a few things, after all. Were Beau’s feelings for her really based on the guilt he felt over losing his wife? She had no desire to be a charity case to anyone, especially him.
Her eyes closed on the memory of how Beau had jumped in front of that horse and how he had held her when she cried. Guilt could have accounted for that. But then she recalled their shared laughter, the
way his anger had melted away during those moments, and how warm his breath had felt when they had almost kissed. There had to be more to his feelings than that, even if nothing came of it. There had to be, because…
Don’t even think the words. Don’t even think…
~~~~
Beau woke to a horrific scream. He flew off the bed and grabbed his rifle. Running into the hall, he blinked the sleep from his eyes. It had come from Portia’s room. Jonny poked his head out of his door, eyes wide and fearful. Beau shooed him back into his room as he ran past him down the hall. He didn’t think to knock and charged inside.
The sun had halfway risen, and in the rose-gold light, Portia stood there in her nightgown, hair loose and feet bare. Her hands were clapped over her mouth, while she stared at the wardrobe and a dress.
Or what used to be a dress.
It now hung in shreds, like a bobcat took a shine to it and used it as a scratching post.
Without hesitation, he took two strides and wrapped her in his arms. “What happened?”
She trembled and shook her head against his bare chest. “I don’t know. I woke up and found my dress… like this. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Beau realized a little too late that everyone had gathered outside her door. Including Lydia, who arched one eyebrow and glared at Portia as though she’d like her to fall dead at his feet.
He let Portia go and stepped back. “We’ll find out what happened. Did anyone see or hear anything?”
Pa, Jonny, Lydia, and Polly all shook their heads.
“We should search the rooms and see if there’s an intruder. Beau, will you please come with me? I’m so scared,” Lydia said.
“I’ll look downstairs,” Pa said.
Beau spotted the rifle in his hands as the old man eased down the stairs. But his stomach turned somersaults. Had this been some warning from Oliver to ensure he carried out his end of the deal? Or something else entirely — with the rumors of retaliation against coloreds, he couldn’t be sure. Portia had been teaching Sallie Mae, after all.
Lydia wrapped her arm around his waist, led him out of the room and down the hall toward the two unused guest rooms and the attic stairs. Beau looked over his shoulder to see Jonny pale-faced and trembling outside Po’s room. Po wrapped her arms around Jonny’s shoulders. Beau couldn’t help a little smile at how wonderful she was with him. Whoever did this to her would pay dearly.
He held his rifle ready. Polly stood against the wall by her room, gray hair hanging in one thick braid over her shoulder. She had a quilt wrapped around her and scratched at a spot on her usually-covered neck. It looked plumb raw. Beau tore his eyes from her peeling skin and searched her room. Nothing except a laudanum bottle on her bedside table.
That explains the itching. He searched Oliver’s former room and another he and Claire had planned to use as a new nursery should they have been so lucky. He left Lydia in the hall briefly and climbed the stairs to the attic. Rifle first, he peered through the dusty, dim light, walking around forgotten crates and a few covered furnishings. Nothing.
With Lydia clutching his waist again, they went back down the hall and reached Jonny’s room. He wouldn’t hesitate to blow the brains out of an intruder lurking near his son. Beau peered under the bed and in the wardrobe.
“Beau, you should see this,” Lydia said.
He came to where she leaned over Jonny’s bedside table. A pair of scissors rested in her hands, and on their blades… white and green threads just like those on Portia’s dress. Beau lowered the rifle and looked at his son there in the hall. Jonny started shaking his head. Tears dripped from his eyes.
Beau took his son’s shoulder in a firm grip. “Did you do this?”
His answer consisted of more head shaking and more tears.
“Damn it, Jonny, answer me! I know you can talk. For God’s sake, open your mouth and talk!”
Portia pushed his arm away. “Beau, please…”
Jonny broke free and bolted down the stairs. The front door opened and slammed shut again. Portia’s bottom lip quivered. She quietly returned to her room and closed the door behind her.
Lydia pulled Beau into the hall. “I think I know what’s going on.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Really? Enlighten me, then.”
“He’s rebelling against authority. I saw it a few times at Hampton’s. He isn’t happy with the current situation, and I hate to say it…” She ran her hands soothingly over his bare chest. “But I don’t think Portia’s being strict enough with him. The boy needs structure, something beyond what a small town teacher can give.”
Beau started to ask what she meant by that when he realized they stood in front of Portia’s door. And Lydia hadn’t exactly been quiet.
“Come downstairs. “We need to have a talk,” he said.
Lydia backed away, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her, eyes averted from him. “Oh, um, of course.”
Beau went downstairs to the study. He poured a shot of whiskey and downed it in one gulp. It hit his empty stomach with a punch that made him groan. Either his son had gone mad or he was about to marry one crazy bitch. Neither of those was a comforting thought.
Lydia sashayed in, dressing gown hanging wide open, and closed the door. Her thin cotton nightgown left little to the imagination. He forced his attention to his desk. A little handwritten book lay there, bound by pink ribbon, with a note on the cover. To Sallie Mae, one of the best students I’ve ever had. Remember that you can do anything you put your mind to. Love, Po
He set the empty shot glass down, closed his eyes, and leaned over the desk. “Did you do it?”
“What?” Lydia walked to him and touched his arm.
He shrugged her off. “Did you destroy Portia’s dress?”
She put her hand to her chest and batted her eyelashes. “Why do you think I would do such a thing?”
“Don’t play games with me, Lydia.” He balled up his fist and slammed it down on the desk. “Tell me the goddamned truth!”
“I did not destroy her dress! I’d wring the neck off a chicken before I’d damage such a vintage garment.”
“Then your father did this, or had it done.”
“Daddy? Beau, darling, I know you two don’t see eye to eye, but he’s not that petty.”
“Isn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
Questions swirled in her tearful eyes. He swallowed down the temptation to tell her everything. In utter frustration, he snatched up his shot glass and hurled it at the wall. It shattered. Lydia recoiled, taking refuge by a bookshelf.
“I’m sorry,” he said, palms down on the desk, head hanging low between his shoulders.
After a moment’s hesitation, she approached him cautiously and gently touched his arm. Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “You know I would never hurt Jonny. But… is it so hard for you to consider that he might be unhappy with her? Bessie told Lucy about the snake incident.”
“What snake incident?”
She sighed. “Lucy and I, we talk now and then. We’re so close in age, after all, and I have no sisters.” He turned his head and looked at her. She smiled back. “I’m actually quite fond of her. She told me that Jonny put a snake in Portia’s bed not long after she arrived. Just a little garter snake, but enough to give her a scare.”
“Why didn’t Bessie say something to me when it happened?”
“Would you have listened or done anything about it?”
He wanted to defend himself and tell her how wrong she was, but was she? He said nothing as he stood up straight and ran a hand through his hair.
“This is what I mean. You’re so worried with everything that you can’t see how your son might be capable of such a crime.”
“Not Jonny. He loves her… and she loves him.”
“Maybe you’re right, and I hope you are, because you might soon have a troubled young man to deal with instead of a boy who can be redeemed.”
Harry
came to mind — God forbid Jonny become another Harry. But Jonny destroying something so special to Po? He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. Not his boy. He’d raised him right… or had he really raised him at all? Between Claire, Pa, and Bessie, he had never had to worry about Jonny. Then he’d left for war and missed so much of his son’s short life. And since his return, with Jonny’s complete silence and the long hours trying to turn this place around… how much did he really know about his son? He felt sick.
She turned him to face her and wrapped her arms around his neck. He didn’t stop her when she pulled him to her for a kiss. “I’m sorry, Beau. I don’t want to add anymore burdens to your conscience. Since Mama and I are moving out today, I’ll get dressed. We can discuss things later.” Her blue eyes had never shone with such sincerity as her hand slid down to his chest and rested over his thumping heart. “I love you. I want to be the kind of wife Claire was to you, and I will, if you’ll open your heart to me.”
He said nothing but wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. Maybe this marriage wouldn’t be what he had with Claire, but perhaps it could be better than he expected. But there was still the matter with Jonny and there was Portia. He could see himself comfortably married to Lydia, he could work things out with Jonny, but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Portia. For her sake, he had to figure out how.
But not yet. He owed her a new dress.
~~~~
Portia dressed quickly. She didn’t bother putting up her hair. Hurrying downstairs, she flung open the door and took off at a run. She had one destination in mind, and she didn’t stop until she got there.
Sure enough, Jonny was at the creek, still in his long johns. She stopped right at the big cedar tree, leaning on it and trying to catch her breath. He skipped rocks one after another, but it looked more like an assault on the water. An angry shout accompanied every throw. Portia eased down the bank and stopped just beside him.
He glanced her way and kept throwing.