Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “Well, I assure you I do not,” Grey countered.

  “Well, I assure you,” his mother broke in, her face a mask of open resentment, “that had the worst happened and Grey had been … I can barely say the word … killed, I would have suspected you, young lady—” Now everyone protested. Grey’s mother faced them, undaunted. “Well, I would have. After all, she’s nothing more than a—than a stranger among us.”

  Taylor’s expression hardened. The woman had obviously been thinking a word other than stranger. Savage? Redskin? Animal?

  “That is absolutely enough, Mother.” Grey’s voice was raised and cold with anger. A grimace followed his outburst. He put a hand to his head. Obviously the effort had cost him. Taylor nearly came out of her seat, so badly did she want to go to him. But her uncertainty around those in this room kept her in place.

  “Don’t upset yourself so, Grey,” his mother fussed, putting a hand over his. “You’ll only make the hurt worse.” She turned to Taylor and wagged a finger at her. “You’re just lucky you thought to drag that dead man back here through the dirt behind your horse.” She gave a delicate shudder to show her revulsion at such a barbaric act.

  “I did not drag him as you say. I made a travois out of the blanket we had and put him in it. Thus did I get him back here. It was the only way. Your son was my first concern.” And luck had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Talbott’s statement was exactly why Taylor had made certain she hadn’t come back without the dead man, whose body Grey had turned over to the police for their investigation of him and possible identification.

  “Well, I for one believe you did a fine and resourceful job of it, my dear.”

  That was her father. His proud and smiling face made Taylor suddenly shy. She lowered her gaze, but not before noting the tiny white lines to either side of Grey’s mouth and the tired look in his eyes. He was in pain and needed to lie down. She was suddenly impatient with everyone here, friend or foe. She wanted them gone so she could attend to Grey. No sooner had the thought presented itself than Taylor questioned it—was that her sounding so protective and loving?

  “And I don’t know how you can sit there, Augusta,” her father had continued on, again capturing Taylor’s attention as he directed his angry remarks to Grey’s mother, “and disparage Taylor for saving Grey’s life. I marvel that you’re not singing her praises. And we”—He now included everyone in the room—“should be concerning ourselves with whoever that man was and why he would shoot at them.”

  Stanley James made a scoffing sound, drawing attention his way. “For God’s sake, Charles. The man was obviously some sort of lowlife ruffian merely intent on robbing them, and nothing more. Must you see a conspiracy behind every act? It happened, and now it’s over. Drop it.”

  “A pretty theory, Stanley,” Grey cut in, “but it doesn’t hold up. A petty thief would not have shot at us from the cover of the woods. This man meant to kill us.” He looked Taylor’s way, his heart in his eyes. “Or one of us.”

  “Hear, hear, Grey. I’m with you,” Charles James offered. “This was an out-and-out attempt at murder.” He then turned his angry gaze on Grey’s mother. “And I will take into account, Augusta, your shock and fear for your son when I consider your remarks to Taylor. But understand this: I will not hear from you—or anyone else present—another disparaging word about my daughter.”

  “Oh, please, Charles,” Augusta Talbott said dramatically. “A paternal note from you at this late date?”

  “Mother,” Grey snapped, his voice a low growl. “I would remind you that this is my house and these are my guests—you included.”

  Augusta Talbott turned to her son. She sat on a rose-damask-upholstered chair she’d pulled up next to the settee where he was reclining against piled-up pillows. “Now, Grey, what bad thing could I say about a girl who wears men’s clothing and goes about with a gun holstered to her hip? A girl who rides a horse astride and parades a wounded man and a dead man through all of St. Louis for everyone to see? Why, I don’t need to say anything. She brought the scandal down on all of us by her own behavior. The gossips and the newspapers will have a field day with this.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Talbott.” Amanda came quickly to Taylor’s side and to her defense. “Listen to yourself. You should be grateful, like Uncle Charles says. What did you expect Taylor to do—leave your wounded and bleeding son out there so you wouldn’t be embarrassed?”

  “So I wouldn’t be? I was thinking of you, my dear, as my future daughter-in-law.” Augusta Talbott’s uncertain expression said she knew she’d gone too far. Her voice became wheedling. “Your wedding is upcoming, dear. And Franklin’s campaign for mayor—”

  “Oh, hogwash, Mother.” This was Franklin. Everyone looked surprised. “I don’t give a fig for any scandal. My brother’s well-being comes first. I should think you’d feel the same way about your firstborn.”

  Augusta Talbott was under seige from all sides now. She looked Stanley James’s way. Taylor noted that his expression had hardened, like stone, as he stared Augusta’s way. But at whom or at what was he angry? An instant pout claimed Grey’s mother’s face. “Franklin, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak in such a sharp tone to me.”

  Taylor glanced up at Amanda, who now held one of Taylor’s hands and was absently patting it. Amanda’s expression was loving and proud as she stared Franklin’s way. Perhaps she was seeing a decisive side of him she’d never seen before.

  “I am sorry, Mother. But I felt it necessary. As Charles is willing to do, I am going to attribute your outburst at Taylor to your heightened emotion over Grey’s nearly being killed.”

  Amanda immediately spoke up, again to her future mother-in-law and in an obvious effort to smooth things over. “I assure you, Mrs. Talbott, that once you get to know my dear cousin—”

  “Your cousin, Amanda?” The older woman’s eyes slanted like a cat’s and her voice was a nasty purr. “Are you sure about that?”

  Over the gasps and protests of Grey and Charles James, Taylor’s Uncle Stanley spoke through gritted teeth. “That’s quite enough, Augusta. Not another word.”

  Taylor riveted her gaze on her uncle. His heightened color and the cruel twist to his mouth spoke of a rage barely controlled. Taylor had the distinct impression it wasn’t Mrs. Talbott so much as what she’d just said that was the source of his anger. Figuring that, Taylor considered what Mrs. Talbott had said about her and Amanda being cousins but could find nothing sinister there. Everyone in this room knew they were cousins. So it had to be something other than that … something she wasn’t aware of. Or it could just be that she was wrong and Uncle Stanley was angry with Mrs. Talbott for speaking so to his daughter.

  At that moment, with everyone in the room at an angry impasse, the parlor door opened and in walked Bentley, pushing a silver-inlaid wheeled cart. An elaborate silver tea set reposed atop it. On its second shelf and perched on a lace doily sat a china plate piled high with small cakes. “Pardon me, but Cook thought you might enjoy a bit of refreshment while you celebrate Mr. Talbott’s good fortune.” He cut his gaze to Taylor and—she would swear—winked at her.

  “Good fortune?” Uncle Stanley huffed. “Here now, you call a man getting shot in the head ‘good fortune’?”

  In what even Taylor recognized as a rare show of mettle for a domestic, Bentley faced the tall, blond, and powerful Stanley James and eyed him pointedly. “It depends on who the man was who got shot, sir. In this instance, I was referring to Mr. Talbott’s and Miss James’s good fortune in escaping death.”

  Taylor fought a grin, hiding it behind her hand and a gentle cough. Her man-bird would ever protect her.

  As Stanley James made an abrupt gesture of dismissal and turned away, staring out a window, Grey smiled at Bentley. “Thank you. That will be all.” Grey sat up from his sprawl on the settee. He, too, was all cleaned up, in fresh clothes, and had a more suitable bandage wrapped around his head, thanks to Mrs. Scott’s efficient efforts. “An
d thank Cook for me,” he added to Bentley. “She’s outdone herself.” He then turned to his mother. “Will you do us the honor of pouring? Thank you.”

  With everyone else thus distracted, Amanda bent over Taylor from beside her chair and whispered, “Did you get to tell Grey my suspicions about the poisonings … and the other?”

  Taylor nodded. Amanda had already wrung the entire story of the shooting that afternoon out of Taylor … and had hugged Taylor and cried until Taylor had become impatient. It was only natural they would now speak of other issues. “I did. He did not want to believe it about his mother and your father or the poisonings we fear, but I think he does.”

  Amanda arrowed a glance her father’s way. He stood possessively behind Mrs. Talbott’s chair now, his hand all but on her shoulder. A sudden stricken expression overtook Amanda’s features, and she turned her back on the sight. She perched a hip on the chair’s arm where Taylor sat. Amanda’s back was now to the room as she faced Taylor, but still she kept her voice low. “Look at them, Taylor. What are we going to do? I am so frightened for Mother. My own father. What could be more awful?”

  Taylor put a cautionary hand on Amanda’s arm as she checked the positions of those in the room. They’d converged congenially enough around the tea cart and were conversing in low tones as Mrs. Talbott served them. No one appeared to be paying any attention to the two girls. Satisfied that they had a few private moments before their behavior aroused notice or suspicion, Taylor put her head together with Amanda’s, noting that she looked as if she were about to cry. Taylor understood Amanda’s emotion all too well. To have to consider treachery on the part of a parent was an awful thing. “Hear me, Amanda. First of all, you do not know your father is responsible. Or even if your mother is being poisoned.”

  “Is that what you think, Taylor? That she’s not and my father isn’t behind it all?”

  Taylor exhaled on a sigh. “No. I fear it is as you say. And so, you must protect her. Do not allow her to eat or drink anything that your father gives her.”

  “But that’s impossible. I’m not home all the time. Neither are they. And I … I don’t go into their bedrooms, Taylor. It’s impossible for me to watch her all the time.”

  Exasperation ate at Taylor. “Amanda, why do you not just tell your mother what the doctor told you? It would be better. She could protect herself.”

  Amanda’s brown eyes were wide with emotion. “Oh, no, it wouldn’t be better. Not at all. My mother may or may not believe me. Either way, I fear she would say something to my father. God alone knows what he’d do in that case.”

  “Do you mean to you? Would he harm you, Amanda?” A protective love of her cousin jumped to the fore in Taylor.

  Amanda hung her head. “No.”

  “Then he is a good father to you?” Taylor asked this out of wistful curiosity. She had no idea how a good father, or any kind of father, behaved.

  Amanda clasped her hands together tightly. “That’s just it, Taylor. He’s wonderful. Loving and giving. It’s Mother I’m concerned about. If my father is”—Amanda took a deep ragged breath—“poisoning my mother and she confronts him with my suspicions and they’re true … well, you can see what could happen. It would be even worse if I was wrong, the trouble it would cause in my family.”

  Amanda was right. In an effort to better gauge the likelihood of Uncle Stanley’s guilt, Taylor asked, “How do your parents appear to you to get along?”

  Amanda shrugged her shoulders. “It’s hard to put a finger on. I’ve never seen them argue or even heard a fuss between them. But they’re not affectionate, really. More like formal. Distant. There’s a tension there when they’re together. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  “You just did. And very well.” Taylor’s heart thumped woodenly—with fear for her aunt’s life.

  Just then, Amanda put a hand to her temple and grimaced as if she had a headache. “He’s my father, Taylor. This is so awful. Sometimes I simply refuse to believe that he could have two so very different sides to his personality. How could he be so loving to me and so evil to my mother—his own wife?”

  Knowing firsthand how Uncle Stanley could be one minute threatening and the next loving, and knowing that Amanda was not aware of that incident, Taylor grabbed her cousin’s hand and stared pointedly into her eyes. “Listen to me. I want you to invite me to stay with you. Just do it without asking permission. That way I can help you watch over Aunt Camilla.”

  Confusion had Amanda looking from Taylor, over to Grey, and then back to Taylor. “But I thought Grey—”

  “He asked me to leave, just before he was shot.”

  Amanda clutched at Taylor’s hand. “Oh, Taylor, he can’t have meant it. Tell me, had you two argued?”

  Taylor’s smile, an expression coming more often to her, was this time a rueful one. “We argue all the time. But this one was because of the poisonings and because he believes my life to be in danger.”

  Amanda made a scoffing sound. “Of course he does. Look what happened today. Even you said you believed yourself to be the target.” She now shook her head slowly, her expression conveying sadness and a lack of understanding. “Why would anyone want to harm you, Taylor?”

  Thinking of the way she led her life, Taylor chuckled. “There are many who would do so. I have many enemies.”

  “But not here, certainly? Not in St. Louis? Why, in the whole city you only know us, the people in this room, Taylor. And we are all—” Amanda gasped, her eyes rounded. She put a hand to her mouth and stared in horror at Taylor.

  “Exactly. We’re all family. But someone in this room hates me very much, Amanda. I don’t know why. But I do mean to find out.”

  Amanda grabbed Taylor’s hands. “I’ll help you, Taylor, in any way I can. Give me a few days—no matter what he says, Grey needs you here with him for now—to set up your visit. I’ll tell my father you’re coming. Of course, Mother will know, too. But I want to see if she suddenly gets better since he’ll know someone else will be in the home.”

  Taylor didn’t like adding to Amanda’s concerns but felt she had to speak her mind. “Amanda, what if she suddenly gets worse?”

  Taylor’s blond cousin, her expression pinched, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Then, she looked at Taylor, whose breath caught at the wintry bleakness that shone in Amanda’s eyes. “Then I will have no choice but to call the police to my father and tell them of my suspicions.”

  “You’ll need more than suspicions. Is there no chance you could search their rooms for the vial of poison? That would be proof enough.”

  Letting go of Taylor’s hands, Amanda gestured helplessness. “Yes, it would, but proof only that someone was trying to kill her. It wouldn’t prove who was doing it.”

  “It depends on where you find the poison.”

  Amanda was silent for a moment as she stared at Taylor. “Do you hear us? I cannot believe I am even capable of having this conversation. We sound like police detectives. This is all so far-fetched. I mean, they’re my parents and your aunt and uncle. We love these people. I don’t know which would be worse—if I’m wrong or if I’m right. And then there’s you. With all this other going on, now someone’s trying to kill you. I don’t know which way to turn, what to worry about first.”

  Taylor frowned. Hearing the two events paired together again brought a belated realization to her mind. She hadn’t latched onto this before now, a connection between her aunt’s poisoning and the attempt on her own life. But earlier today, before the shooting began, Grey had also paired the two. Were they related? Certainly Uncle Stanley was the figure in common here. He’d confronted her at her father’s and had been threatening. And he was the one Amanda suspected of poisoning her mother. But beyond that, Taylor had no clue as to how the two events could be related. It just didn’t make any sense … unless Uncle Stanley had two very different reasons for wanting her and Aunt Camilla dead. That was certainly possible. Suddenly Taylor realized that Amanda was still spe
aking.

  “Sometimes I wonder, Taylor,” she said, “if I shouldn’t just bundle Mother up and take her and myself to Uncle Charles’s. You could join us there. After all, he’s your father. And it would put a stop to all the idle gossip about your being here with Grey without benefit of a chaperone.”

  Taylor shook her head. “I cannot do that. There are too many things left unsaid between my father and me. Things perhaps best left unsaid. I don’t—”

  “Oh, dear, Taylor, you have to know I do not give a fig for the gossips. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

  “You did not. It’s just that it would be … wrong. For me. For you. And especially for your mother. Besides, your father would not allow it.”

  “You’re right.” Amanda glanced Mrs. Talbott’s way and then looked down at Taylor. “I really do not like that woman.”

  “She is not very likable, I agree. But she may have a point. I mean for your and Franklin’s sake. Your wedding. His running for mayor. The further scandal of you and your mother moving out right now would be too much. I have already done enough to bring unwanted attention to us all.”

  “Oh, Taylor—as my dear Franklin so eloquently put it—hogwash on the scandal. People will talk, no matter what. All I know is no one had better say one word against you in my hearing. I love you like a sister and would defend you to the death.”

  A sudden evil premonition, like a great dark bird with mighty wings, swept over Taylor, shadowing her thoughts and shivering her with cold dread. Somehow, in some awful way, she knew beyond a doubt Amanda’s words would come back to haunt them all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The bruised-purple twilight faded into darkness. Stars winked on in the heavens. Finally. They were in Grey’s retreat, the library, two nights following the ill-fated picnic and shoot-out. The days were exhausting with their steady stream of dignitaries, luminaries, and social gadflies coming to express their concern and outrage—but mostly to indulge their curiosity regarding Taylor’s position in the Talbott household, Grey knew. But now, the sun having set, all was quiet. He and Taylor were alone together and partaking of after-dinner cigars and brandy. The very picture of lackadaisical adversaries, they sprawled in two facing leather-upholstered chairs. They’d propped their feet up on a common ottoman in the space between them.