Wild Flower

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Taylor’s heart thumped painfully. How could this be, what her aunt was saying? She stared down into the dying woman’s imploring eyes. In a voice made high by rising emotion, Taylor asked, “What do you mean?”

  Camilla James squeezed Taylor’s hand. “Taylor, I am your mother.”

  Utter and profound silence fell like a heavy curtain over the room.

  “No.” The whispered word came from Amanda.

  For Taylor, the room began to whirl. She felt sick, weak, as if her bones had melted and she could no longer stand. She clutched at the covers on the bed and pressed her thighs against the bed’s solid frame. She stared at the woman on the bed … but couldn’t speak. Her mind whirled with denials. It’s not true. She’s talking out of her head. She is sick and dying. She does not know what she is saying. It’s not true. It can’t be true. How can it be true?

  “Please believe me, Taylor. I know it is difficult,” Camilla added, cutting into Taylor’s shocked thoughts. “I never wanted to leave you. Never. But I had to. It was weak of me—and wrong—I know. I was a coward. But I was young and scared. I did what I had to do to keep you safe.”

  Amanda remained stone silent, but Taylor found her voice. “But my father…? Is he—?” She could not bear to think it might be Stanley James.

  “Charles is your father. We sinned, Taylor, in the eyes of the Lord. But I have always loved him, and him me. I could not help myself. Nor could he. We both knew it was wrong, our love.” She turned to her daughter … her other daughter. “Forgive me, Amanda. I know this isn’t easy for you, either.”

  As if horrified, Amanda drew in a deep breath and slowly breathed out her words in a whisper. “But we’re the same age, Taylor and me. Mother, this cannot be. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I do, my darling. I know what I’m saying. Taylor is younger than you … by two years. You’re twenty-two, Amanda, not twenty like Taylor. I am so sorry I have allowed you to live a lie. Both of you.”

  Amanda’s voice rose to an anguished pitch. “Oh God, Mother, what have you done?”

  “I have done many wrong things. And I have paid in my heart for every one of them, I promise you. But now, I want somehow, by telling you the truth, to make them right.”

  “Nothing’s right here, Mother,” Amanda accused. “Nothing.” She then caught Taylor’s gaze and held it. “We’re sisters, Taylor. Half-sisters. Our fathers are … brothers.” She pulled her hand out of her mother’s and stepped back from the bed. She clasped both hands over her mouth and stared in horror at her mother, repeating, “What have you done?” And then she sobbed, a wrenching sound from the heart—and ran for the door.

  “Amanda!” Taylor called out, wanting to follow her. But Camilla, showing surprising strength, gripped her hand tightly. Taylor could not get loose. She looked down at her aunt—her mother. “I must go to her.”

  Camilla shook her head no. “Let her be. She will come round. She loves you very much. That is not what is upsetting her. It’s me and what I have done, as she said. Maybe I was wrong to say anything. But I wanted to … I can’t … can you forgive me, Taylor?”

  Taylor shook her head, not in denial of forgiveness but because she wasn’t sure she could speak. She looked down on the woman in the bed but didn’t really see her. Instead, she fought a battle in her head. She wanted to understand, to believe, to find forgiveness in her heart. But ugly truths, like little pitchfork-wielding demons, leaped from the corners of her mind and jabbed painfully at Taylor’s consciousness. If Camilla James was telling the truth—and why would she lie, on her deathbed?—then Taylor was not who or what she’d believed herself to be all her life. Her entire life, how she thought of herself … it wasn’t true. Then, a face popped into Taylor’s mind … her knees stiffened, and she stared blankly at the opposite wall.

  “My mother!” The two words were a cry. She was thinking of Tennie Nell Christie out in the Cherokee Nation.

  “Yes,” Camilla James said. Taylor blinked, seeing again the woman whose cold hand she held. “I am your mother, Taylor. And I love you. I always loved you. Tell Amanda that I’m sorry.…” Her last words were said on a deep exhalation of breath, followed by a lingering rattle … that slowly faded to nothingness.

  Taylor watched helplessly. She alone knew the very moment that Camilla James no longer lived.

  My mother is dead.

  Taylor’s strength, her will, her very soul seemed to leave her. “Mama?”

  Her voice was that of a child, but there was no one to answer her. Slowly, as if dying herself, Taylor sank down beside the bed, clutching at the covers, inadvertently pulling them after her. She sat folded up on the hardwood floor, breathing hard yet unable to catch her breath. Sightlessly she stared at a dresser across the way. A hot sweat glazed her skin. Her bones and muscles ached.

  Then, and finally, a wail from the depths of her being rose up inside her and tore loose. A piercing cry of too much anguish to bear filled the room and emptied Taylor’s heart. She screamed and tore at her clothes and beat her fists against the mattress. And cried for all that she’d never known … and had lost.

  * * *

  From the street, all appeared to be in order. No screaming servants were fleeing down the street. The front door was innocently closed. No blood ran down the concrete steps of the sun-dappled landing. In fact, all was quiet and normal-appearing. Except for the sleek and muscled roan—Stanley James’s prized mount—tethered outside to a brass ring attached to an iron hitching post.

  Grey shook his head, disgusted and distraught. “Why, Mother?” he quietly asked as if she could hear him. “What did you do?”

  His brougham came to a stop. Not waiting for assistance, and with an order to his driver, Edward, to stay put, Grey opened the door and jumped out onto the hard-packed dirt of the street. In only seconds he was charging up the stone steps to the red front door of his mother’s home. But with his hand on the latch, he stopped, remaining on the wrought-iron-railed landing. He wanted a moment to steel himself for what he might find on the other side of this door. But he also had to decide if he should go in shouting his presence and calling out for his mother or sneak in quietly. He had no idea. And the truth was, either choice could be a fatal one—for her or for him. Or for both of them.

  His heart was in his throat. Breathing was painful. What should he do? Grey weighed his options. For one thing, he feared walking into a chaotic scene of bloodshed. If that’s what greeted him, then … as evidenced by Stanley James’s horse behind him … a killer was still on the premises and could be hiding in wait for Grey to walk into his trap. Or Stanley could now, at this moment, be involved in his hideous deeds and Grey needed to rush in. He decided the first scenario was the more likely one, since he heard no gunfire or shouts coming from inside.

  Still, Grey told himself to be prepared for anything. Even gunplay. He felt for his pistol in its holster at his hip. As he did, a great anger seized him. His mother might be a cold woman capable of serious wrongdoing—witness his father’s poisoning—but Grey wasn’t about to tolerate anyone killing her, either. Especially not her adulterous lover, whose wife was at that very moment perhaps dying.

  Grey never knocked when visiting here and didn’t now. Telling himself he was ready, he opened the door and stepped inside, looking and listening. Nothing. Absolute stillness and quiet greeted him. The place appeared to be in order—and abandoned. Grey quietly closed the door behind him. A fleeting and horrific scene popped into his head. Had Stanley James gone berserk and killed everyone present? Grey feared he would find the rooms littered with dead servants.

  Oh, surely not, man. Surely your heightened emotions are playing havoc with your reason. That’s what he wanted to believe, but the truth was no one had met him yet. Where was Caldwell? The jovial butler never allowed Grey to walk ten steps into the house before he was Johnny-on-the-spot. It was a game between them. Grey never announced himself—and the butler always knew he had arrived. But not this time.
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br />   On edge, his pulse racing, Grey walked farther into the fifteen-room city estate shared by his mother and Franklin. Feeling like an intruder, he peeked into the closest rooms … a drawing room, library, dining room … and looked around, searching for people, alive or dead, and evidence of a crime. Anything but this entombing order and silence. He then stalked purposefully through each room on the first two floors of the richly appointed Federal-style mansion his mother had bought after her husband—his and Franklin’s father—had died.

  His search only confirmed for him what he had already guessed. No one was in evidence. Not even in the bedrooms, for which he was infinitely thankful. The sight of his mother and Stanley rolling around in each other’s arms would, at this particular moment, have put him over an edge and had him shooting them himself. In his search, Grey neglected the kitchen and the staff’s quarters on the third floor. There was no reason to go search them—the two he sought would not venture into either of those places.

  Giving up the search, trying to think what to do next, Grey stood at a window in the music room, which was at the back of the mansion. His mind whirling with possibilities and mysteries, he stared outside onto the manicured lawn and gardens that belonged to the house. With his attention turned inward, he rubbed absently at his stubbled jaw. Where could they be? All he wanted was to make certain that Stanley James hadn’t killed his mother, or her him, and then he wanted to get the hell back to Taylor before Bentley’s frightening vision came true. No one had to tell Grey who the great swooping bird with sharp talons was. It was Stanley James. And he was out for revenge today—against more than one woman.

  Stanley’s rage against Taylor Grey could understand—in a twisted sort of way and in light of what Charles had told him about his and Camilla’s betrayal of Stanley. Taylor was the result of that betrayal so many years ago. But what Grey couldn’t figure out was Stanley’s apparent intent to harm his lover … who was, Grey now knew, his own mother, Augusta. Why would Stanley want to hurt her? Apparently, the two of them, from what Amanda had told Taylor, had been in love since their youth. Grey knew what had kept them apart back then—lack of money and social status. But their separate marriages had remedied that. So now, with Camilla dying and with Grey’s father dead, the two of them would be free to be together … barring their being charged with the murders of their spouses. Still, all Stanley had to do was, grisly as it sounded, wait out Camilla’s death, play the grief-stricken widower, and allow Augusta Talbott to comfort him.

  So with such a perfect plan—perfect if one was insane—coming to fruition, why was Stanley James here? Why had he left his dying wife’s bedside to come here with the expressed intent to kill his lover? Why? They were equally guilty, both in on the poisonings, so it just didn’t make any sense. Grey mulled this thought for a moment, continuing to reflect on Stanley’s behavior. It made no sense … unless—Grey’s heart sank. He felt ill—unless both of them were not in on the treachery that surrounded Camilla and Grey’s father. Unless only one of them was. His mother.

  “Dear sweet God.” The realization was staggering. His mother apparently was capable not only of ruining someone’s life with her sharp tongue and her gossip … but she could also end a life, possibly two lives, by poisoning. Murder. That’s what it was—if what he was thinking was true. He could be wrong. He prayed he was … but he didn’t think he was. Grey said a brief and silent prayer for Camilla James’s well-being—and for Taylor’s. And yes, for his mother, too. But of them all, his heart and mind would not even allow him to think something could happen to Taylor.

  Just then, Grey tensed, blinking, only now seeing the scene being played out before him in the garden. His heart picked up its pace, racing his pulse. Horror-struck, he clung to the window, his palms flat against the sun-warmed glass, and stared stupidly. Surely they hadn’t been there all along. Maybe they’d been hidden by the ornamental trees or had been on the other side of the high hedges or around a corner of the house. Not that it mattered now … because Stanley James had just caught up to Grey’s mother, who’d appeared to be fleeing from the man. And he was now choking Augusta Talbott out among her prized flowers.

  “No!” Grey bellowed, beating on the glass with his open palm.

  A rational part of his brain reminded him that they couldn’t hear him and, even if they could, he posed no threat to Stanley James this far away and inside … and that if he wished to save his mother, whether she deserved it or not, he needed to go outside. Right now.

  Thus galvanized into action, Grey jerked around, hurrying, skirting the piano and the settee. He jerked open the double French doors that led to a half-moon stone-paved terrace and tore across it, bellowing out as he ran. Handily he jumped over the low balusters and went sailing out onto the grass. The drop wasn’t a big one, but still he staggered and had to fight to keep his feet. Every second was another one his mother was being choked.

  Even as he ran, Grey could see that Stanley James still had his hands around her neck … but he was now, as if in a frozen tableau, staring Grey’s way. It was then that Grey remembered he had a gun and he knew how to use it. He ripped his weapon out of its holster and slowed down, aiming it at Stanley James as he now walked stiff-legged toward the man. Practically out of breath, he was almost upon them. Without warning, Stanley turned Grey’s mother in his arms and wrapped an arm around her neck. He pulled a gun from somewhere and stuck it against Augusta Talbott’s temple. “One more step, Grey, and I’ll pull the trigger.”

  Grey stopped, his gun still aimed their way as he held out a placating hand to Stanley. “Don’t do it, Stanley.”

  “Then throw your gun down.” Grey did. “Now kick it away from you.” Again, Grey did. “That’s good. Now turn around and leave. This has nothing to do with you. Get out of here.”

  Grey shook his head. “I can’t do that, Stanley. You know I can’t. She’s my mother and so this has everything to do with me. Let her go, and we’ll talk.”

  “It’s too late for talking.” Stanley’s voice cracked. “Too late. Do you know what she did?” He tensed his arm around Augusta’s neck. She cried out.

  “I think I do,” Grey said quickly. “And it’s awful, I know. But just try to stay calm, Stanley. We can work this out.”

  “No, Grey, we can’t. Why do you defend her? She killed your father, you know. And now she’s killed Camilla. So I’m going to kill her. It’s the only way.”

  There it was—confirmation of his worst fears. An angry side of Grey said, Let him do it. But Grey couldn’t, not the part of him that was decent. “Don’t, Stanley, I beg of you. She may deserve it, I agree with you. But … don’t. Camilla is not dead. I was just there. She lives.”

  “Not for long—and because of her.” Tears streamed down Stanley’s face.

  Grey was close enough to see that his mother’s dress was ripped, her hair was undone, and she had bruising on her tear-dampened cheeks. Her widened eyes silently pleaded with Grey to save her. Grey swallowed, realized his throat was dry. Terror covered his body with the sheen of perspiration. He focused again on the insane and anguished face of his mother’s lover-turned-assailant. “Just let her go. I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of this and deal with it appropriately.”

  “How?” Stanley sobbed. “How, Grey? Can you bring Camilla back?”

  “She’s not dead, Stanley, I told you. Amanda and Taylor are with her now.” He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say. His heart sank.

  Stanley’s face reddened. It seemed to swell and change, to bloat, become unrecognizable. His expression was a snarling mask of hatred. “Don’t you say that name to me. She’s next. I swear to God she is. This is all her fault. I told her to leave. Did you know that? Weeks ago. I told her to leave. I saw her outside my sneaking bastard of a brother’s house—and I told her to leave. She’s a sin, Grey. A walking sin. And I can’t allow her to live. She’s next.”

  Somehow Grey knew the moment was here. Stanley James was ready to pull the trigger. H
is mother must have sensed it as well. In a flash, with everything happening at once, Grey saw his mother’s bent knee poke against her morning gown, saw Stanley tense to fire his gun into her temple, and saw his mother’s leg straighten sharply. Stanley James cried out—his mother had stomped Stanley’s foot with the heel of her slipper. Stanley grimaced evilly, totally focused on his victim.

  Grey flexed his wrist and had his wrist-holstered two-shot pistol in his hand. Cold as steel now inside, he aimed steadily at Stanley James’s head and fired. And missed.

  But the bullet had come sufficiently close to startle Stanley James into losing his grip on Grey’s mother. She fell to the ground in a crying, shrieking heap. Grey fired again. The bullet maddeningly went wide. Stanley, now crouching, fired back, also missing … but not by much. Grey tossed the empty gun down and hit the ground himself, rolling in the direction of his six-shooter that Stanley had forced him to drop and kick away. He expected a bullet to take his life at any moment, but no shots were fired. All Grey heard was an anguished, pain-filled cry from his mother.

  In only a second or two, Grey came up with his other weapon and rolled onto his belly in the grass. With both arms straight out in front of him and his hands fisted around his pistol, Grey looked for his target … who was disappearing around a corner of the house. He was getting away. Grey surged to his feet and looked to his mother. She lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Dark red stained her silvery hair in a widening pool. It took Grey a moment to realize what he was seeing. It was blood … seeping from a wound to her head.

  “Oh, God,” Grey murmured, his voice ragged as he stared at her body. His gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. “Oh, God, what has he done?”

  But Grey knew. Stanley had hit Augusta Talbott with the butt of his pistol before he’d run away. Had he killed her? “No.” The one word seemed to unlock Grey’s muscles. He ran to her and dropped to his knees beside her. He turned her over and gently gathered her in his arms. She was warm … and breathing. Grey’s heart began to beat again. “Mother?” He brushed away grass and dirt and, using her skirt’s hem, wiped away the blood from her face. He glimpsed her wound … wounds. There were two. He gently probed them with his fingers. And felt sick. An agonized groan escaped him. One of the wounds had caused a depression in her skull. He pulled his linen handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it against the worst wound.