Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  And then Camilla James came forward. Taylor’s breath caught, her chest felt tight. She hadn’t expected this rush of emotion for her aunt. She certainly had for Amanda and, yes, her father … but not her aunt, her father’s sister-in-law, wife to his older brother. Still, Taylor had a dim recollection of having to be torn from this woman’s grip when she’d left the Nation for good. Taylor remembered being frightened by the woman’s cries and her struggling in her husband’s arms. She had been begging for Taylor as she’d been dragged off with Amanda holding onto her skirt and sobbing, too. But all that was in the past.

  This was today. And this woman was still beautiful. Slender, elegant, she had a high forehead and black, shiny hair. Her eyes were brown, and she was smiling at Taylor with all the love in her eyes that Taylor was used to seeing from her own mother. “Aunt Camilla,” Taylor said, offering a tentative smile. “It has been many years. I have come a long way to see you. You are looking well. And my mother sends you her greetings.”

  Camilla James’s chin trembled. Tears streaked down her high cheekbones. She made no move to wipe them away. “And I send mine to her. You are looking well, Taylor Christie James. It has been so long … too long. Many times have I cried for you.” She lightly tapped her fisted hand over her heart. “Many times has my heart ached for the sight of you, my child.”

  Taylor blinked in surprise. Her aunt had spoken in flawless Cherokee. Only then did Taylor realize that she first had spoken in her native tongue to Amanda’s mother. She had no idea why she had, but a laugh escaped her and the awkwardness was gone. Camilla James opened her arms to Taylor. Taylor stepped into her embrace. And it was like coming home.… finally.

  * * *

  With a shoulder slanted against the doorjamb, Grey stood with Charles James by the opened French doors of the drawing room. On the other side of the room resided a bank of windows, also opened. A wonderful spring breeze whispered about them and sensuously lifted gauzy curtains away from cream-colored walls. The men faced a terrace that overlooked neat and colorful flower beds. Several gardeners roved over the lawn, planting, weeding, and digging. Sunlight pouring into the room struck Charles James and threw shadows behind him. It seemed to Grey that the beam should have shone right through Charles. The man had the same luminous quality that his daughter possessed.

  “I’m sorry, Grey, but can you tell me again why your butler is paying social calls with you today?” Charles James’s high forehead was creased with his confusion. “It’s highly irregular. Even for you.”

  Grey chuckled and tore his gaze away from the three women who sat across the room from him and Charles with their heads together and talking incessantly. At least, Amanda and her mother were talking. Taylor looked as if a gun had gone off close to her head and was merely nodding or shaking her head as she saw appropriate. Meanwhile, the butler in question sat in a far corner with his knees together and his hat perched on his lap. He stared straight ahead and made not a sound.

  “His being here has nothing to do with me, Charles, I assure you. His presence is because your daughter—”

  “By God, that has a nice ring to it. My daughter.” Charles was grinning like the proud papa of a newborn.

  “Yes,” Grey agreed, “it does. And I couldn’t be happier for you all, Charles. I mean that.”

  Charles gripped Grey’s arm and squeezed, a tight-lipped grin lighting his face. Grey acknowledged it and continued. “At any rate, your daughter decided, upon first laying eyes on the poor old fellow the other night, that he is her spirit guide sent to her in her time of need. She says he was a bird and now he is a man, he’s magic, and she will go nowhere without him. We all agree it’s much simpler to allow her to have her way in this. For his part, Bentley is terrified of her. She presented to us fully armed, in buckskin britches, and atop an Indian paint pony, mind you. But he’s of two minds with this man-bird business. While he loves the adoration, he’s terrified he’ll say the wrong thing and get himself scalped.”

  Charles’s eyebrows rose with his amusement. “That’s quite the story. But still … poor Bentley. I can see where he would be appalled—at least as much as is my Estes.”

  At that moment, the James butler, Estes, made another dour pass by the open door of the elegant drawing room. He had no business to conduct in here, but he made no attempt to disguise his sniffing contempt of a servant hobnobbing with his betters. Charles sighed. “I suppose I should go call him off before Bentley dies of mortification.”

  Grey put a detaining hand on Charles’s arm. “Even better, Charles, have Estes take Bentley around to the kitchen or to the butler’s pantry, if you would. Perhaps the two can … talk about butler duties or something.”

  Charles gave Grey a look that told him he thought this a singularly odd request. Grey nodded that he understood. “I have my reasons, Charles. Let me just say that I’m not sure we can speak freely in front of him. Or if we even should, the proprieties and Taylor’s belief aside.”

  Charles sobered, shooting a look in the direction of the women. “Is something wrong? Do you suspect him of something?”

  Grey released Charles and absently ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, feigning nonchalance should any of the women be looking their way, and said quietly, “I suspect everyone, Charles. Because something is very wrong. And I believe you are aware of it.”

  Clearly insulted, Charles drew back. “If you suppose for one minute that I pose any threat to my own child—”

  “She’s no longer a child. But I am not supposing a thing, Charles. You misunderstand.” Grey hoped he was right, that Charles wasn’t behind the web of lies and intrigue that surrounded Taylor’s life. But he had no way of knowing yet, warm receptions to the contrary. So he hedged a bit, casting guilt onto Bentley: “It’s actually Bentley I have doubts about.”

  “Bentley?” Charles automatically looked in the direction of the man. Grey did, too. Bentley cut his gaze over to them but never moved, as much a stick of furniture as the upholstered chair he sat bravely perched atop.

  As if catching the tension, the women quieted and stared the way of Charles and Grey. “Is anything wrong?” Camilla asked, a worried expression on her face. The two girls, Taylor and Amanda, sat to either side of her on a plush sofa. They were sipping tea from delicate china cups and saucers. Never had Taylor looked more out of place, Grey decided. The pained expression she sent him confirmed how awkward she felt. Grey suppressed a betraying grin.

  “No, dear heart. I’m sorry,” Charles answered Camilla. He then turned back to Grey and lowered his voice. “Sweet Camilla. She acts as if someone will come out of the woodwork and carry Taylor away.”

  “Someone could,” Grey said levelly. “And as I said, I think you know it. Isn’t that why you sent me your note today? I need to speak with you regarding it and how you knew Taylor was alive and here in St. Louis.”

  Charles again sent Grey a sharp look. “Will you join me on the terrace a moment, Grey?” He held a hand out as if to usher Grey in that direction. Then he turned to the women. “Feel free to roam the grounds or give Taylor a tour of the house. Grey and I are going to step outside for a bit of fresh air.”

  “But you’re standing in the fresh air,” Camilla James protested. To Grey, her drawn eyebrows betrayed deeper concerns. Did she not want to be alone with Taylor?

  Charles sent Grey a look and then set himself in motion. “I’ll just call Estes and have him and Bentley escort the ladies on a promenade through the gardens. Excuse me.” Charles walked away from Grey with his arms spread as if he meant to gather the women up and carry them out bodily. “Come along, Bentley; let’s put you to work,” Charles said cheerfully.

  Taylor shot Grey a look, one that showed her evident exasperation. He had no doubt she was determined to ask the hard questions of her aunt today. Grey wondered, though, just how many of them Camilla James could or would answer. Was it the fear of what Taylor could ask that lay behind her frowning countenance? Damnation. Grey’s teeth gritte
d with frustration. He wanted to shout. All this subterfuge, the unspoken words, the implied threats, the undercurrents, the lies … it was all too much. A sudden and intense urge to strike something solid and inanimate seized Grey.

  Damn this creeping subterfuge. But the truth was he was as stuck as Taylor was at the moment. He could do nothing but nod his chin in her direction to encourage her to go with her aunt and cousin for now. She sent him a blistering glare that adequately expressed her opinion of a civilized promenade through a flower garden when there were so many questions of utter importance to be answered. A grimace on his face, Grey watched her go. Frustration gnawed at him. For one thing, danger swirled around her, danger he could not pin down for the life of him. But for another—and he admitted this to himself with a sinking feeling in the area of his heart—Taylor would never be happy in his world, that of a staid and manner-riddled society.

  Her spirit was that of the soaring eagle. Her scent was that of the earth and the blue sky. Just to look at her suggested open vistas, a warm wind, and the quiet of the prairie. She needed a wilder civilization, a freedom she could never have here. She needed a people whose heritage and language she knew and loved. She belonged to traditions and a religion and beliefs that would be nothing but ridiculed in Grey’s world. The terrible truth was … he could not keep her. She would not stay here and she could not go back to the Cherokee Nation. A sudden sympathy for her plight ate at Grey. He had never felt so sorry for someone in his life. She was like a caged bird, one that would die if someone kept it in the cage, and one that would get itself killed if it was set free.

  * * *

  The sky was blue. The sun shone. The breeze was gentle. Grey was with her father inside somewhere. But outside in the gardens that girded the Charles Edward James estate, and with a bewildered Estes and Bentley following at a discreet distance, Taylor strolled with Amanda and Aunt Camilla. Their route carried them along gravel pathways laid out between new beds of greening shrubs and rosebushes alive with buds. Taylor sighed, pronouncing herself tired of tea and promenades and polite conversation. She was now caught up on the lives of the Jameses, and they on hers.

  She knew about Amanda’s schooling, who her friends were, and about her upcoming marriage to Franklin James. She’d heard all about the plans for the wedding and about Franklin’s bid for the mayoralty. She knew about Aunt Camilla’s strange sickness that periodically left her weak and bedridden. Thankfully, she hadn’t had an episode recently. She knew that Uncle Stanley, who was off conducting some sort of business, didn’t yet know she was here but would be delighted to learn she was. She also knew about Aunt Camilla’s work with the various charities, what her hopes were for her daughter, and how happy she was to see Taylor.

  In turn, Taylor had told them as much as she’d dared about her growing-up years in the Nation. They of course knew of her conviction on murder charges and her subsequent escape from jail, so she’d been spared going into details about those. Instead, Aunt Camilla had asked Taylor about her mother and had spoken fondly of the years she’d spent with her. And this was all good. But still, Taylor could make no sense of this conversation, which was more significant for what was not being said. She wanted answers to the real questions, the ones that had her here and possibly in danger. The moment was quiet between the women. Perhaps now was the time to begin.

  “Who told you I was here, Aunt Camilla?”

  Her aunt stopped, standing there in a path that led to a structure Amanda had said was called a gazebo. Perhaps it was Taylor’s imagination, but her aunt appeared to have paled somewhat with Taylor’s question. “Why don’t we go sit inside there in the shade, girls? What do you think?”

  She pointed to the round white-painted open-air structure ringed inside with benches. Along with Amanda, who supported her mother with a hand on her arm, Taylor nodded and headed for the gazebo. As they approached the shelter, Aunt Camilla turned to the two older men strolling behind them. “Estes, Bentley, you may go back inside, really. I’m sure we’ll be perfectly safe out here in full sight of the house. We won’t be long. Go on, now.”

  The butlers looked at each other, then over their shoulders toward the house—as if they thought guidance would come from that direction—but then they again faced the women. Bentley focused on Taylor, his expression sincere. “Is that as you wish, Miss James?”

  Taylor’s heart warmed for the little man-bird who behaved as if he thought he could defend her—she who had fearlessly killed men—in a time of trouble. “Yes. I will be fine. I carry your spirit with me.”

  Bentley shot the other butler, Estes, a smug look, no doubt to make sure the man understood Bentley’s importance as a man-bird. Estes studiously ignored him. The two men bowed, finally taking their wordless leave of the women. Despite her brave words, Taylor watched Bentley’s departure with a sense of foreboding. It was as if with each step of his, the farther away he got, the less sure of herself she felt. But those were the fears of an old woman. Taylor drew herself up and assured herself she was strong in her own right.

  She entered the gazebo behind Amanda and sat on the bench built against a wall. Sitting there, Taylor had to admit that the setting was serene and innocent. With a sudden sense of well-being assailing her, she smiled at Amanda, whose heart full of love for Taylor shone in her brown eyes. Taylor then glanced at Aunt Camilla. The dark-haired woman was arranging her skirts as she sat opposite Taylor in the small structure. This was nice, Taylor decided, just the three of them. Perhaps all would be well and the answers would be simple.

  “Taylor,” her Aunt Camilla began, breaking the companionable silence. To Taylor, the older woman’s voice sounded strained. She kept glancing at Amanda as she spoke, giving Taylor the impression that Amanda knew nothing about what was about to be said. “Coming here—and I mean to St. Louis—was not a good thing for you to do.”

  “Mother!” This was Amanda, who’d come to her feet. “How can you say such an awful thing? We love Taylor. We—”

  “Be still, Amanda. And sit down. No one loves Taylor more than I do. No one.” Camilla’s voice broke on her last words.

  Taken aback, all Taylor could do was watch Amanda sit down abruptly and Aunt Camilla struggle for composure. “Forgive me, Taylor. But it’s true. You should not be here. I cannot imagine why your”—she took a deep breath—“mother sent you here. She and I have worked for years to keep you away from here and safe. I have money I want to give you. I want you to take it and go far, far away from here. Please. Today. Before it’s too late. You must do it—for yourself and for Amanda’s sake.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Amanda? What does Amanda have to do with this?” Taylor exchanged a glance with her cousin, who looked as if she’d just seen a ghost. Nervy excitement mixed with fear and ate at Taylor. She felt she was at last on the verge of answers, only now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear them and the awful truths that lay at their roots. A nagging voice inside her head said hearts would be broken and people would be dead before her life was finally sorted out. Again, her Cherokee prison guard’s warnings and his curse came to Taylor, leaving her breathless … and helpless to stop what she’d put into motion simply by being here and being alive.

  Camilla James didn’t answer Taylor’s question. She simply sat there, staring at the wooden flooring of the gazebo and shaking her head slowly. “It’s all coming undone,” she murmured, speaking more to herself than to her daughter and Taylor.

  Amanda sent Taylor a look of fearful confusion and then got up, going to her mother and kneeling in front of her, taking her hands in hers. “Mother, what is coming all undone? And why is Taylor not safe? Or me? Who would harm us?”

  Aunt Camilla shook her head and cupped Amanda’s cheek in her hand. “No one will harm you, Amanda. It’s just that … well, I don’t want you to hear what I have to say. It doesn’t concern you. Not directly. Just … please, allow me to speak with Taylor. In private.”

  Taylor squelched the urge to jump up a
nd retrieve Amanda and tell her to leave them be, as her mother had asked. But such interference on her part between mother and daughter would be considered inconceivably rude by Cherokee standards of behavior. And so Taylor sat, her heart pounding dully, her eyes wide … and waited.

  Amanda had stilled, staring up at her mother. Silence passed like heartbeats. Suddenly she sprang to her feet. Her hands were balled into fists. “No. I won’t, Mother. I can’t. From what you just said I gather that you’ve always known Taylor was alive. And you’ve kept her away from me. How could you? You know how I love her. All those times I wanted to see her—and you told me she was dead. How awful of you. Tell me—and tell Taylor—what is going on.”

  “I cannot.” Sounding strong and angry, Camilla James jumped up, advancing on her daughter as Amanda backed up. Taylor sat silent and stricken. Mother and daughter behaved as if she weren’t there. “We all love Taylor. Me. You. Her Indian mother. Your Uncle Charles. It’s just that … you don’t understand.”

  Amanda’s soft pink face contorted into a reddening mask of pain and anger. “Of course I don’t. So tell me. Make me understand. Make me see why I’ve been separated all these years from Taylor. Tell me why you told me she’d died as a child, Mother. Tell me. What reason could be good enough?”

  The low bench seat hit the back of Amanda’s knees. She sat down abruptly, this time right next to Taylor, and clutched at her hands. Taylor intertwined her fingers with Amanda’s. Her hands were every bit as cold as Taylor’s were. With Amanda, she stared up at her Aunt Camilla. The dark-haired woman covered her face with her hands and took deep breaths. When she lowered them, she was dry-eyed. She sought Taylor’s gaze. A soft smile claimed Camilla’s face as she reached out to stroke Taylor’s cheek. “You are indeed beautiful, Taylor. I never wanted to leave you.”

  Her aunt’s hand was warm against her face. Taylor smiled. “I thank you and would have you know that I do not have feelings against you for going. You are my aunt. You had to go with your husband and your daughter. That is as it should be.”