There was business to attend to also. While the work crews continued, Scott drafted an advertisement to send to Northern newspapers, announcing the opening of Waverley Plantation to the public in March, the month of camellias. He made a trip to Memphis to secure a list of the country’s one hundred most wealthy industrialists and sent personal letters of invitation to each. His idea bore quick results. Within two weeks he received reservation money from several who claimed their wives would be exceedingly grateful to escape the rigorous Northern climate and shorten the winter by spending its last weeks in the mellow atmosphere described by Gandy’s advertisement.
It was a happy day when Scott purchased a reservations book bound in rich green leather, and along with it a ledger in which he logged the first income Waverley had made in well over eighteen years.
He’d taken as his office the same lower-level room his father had used for that purpose, the one just behind the front parlor. It was a bright, cheerful room with ceiling-to-floor jib windows that opened from the bottom up to provide a cool draft during the hot weather when the rotunda windows were opened high above. Now the jib windows remained closed, however, fronted by sea-green jacquard tiebacks that brought the color of verdant things into the room during this season when little grew. The walls were white plaster, as was the ceiling with its decorative sculptured work matching the moldings at the tops of the walls. No dominating bookshelves lined the wall; instead, the room was decorated with a set of mahogany shell-carved furniture: blockfront highboy, secretary, and flattop desk, and an assortment of upholstered wingchairs of rich taupe leather. The varnished pine floor held an Oriental rug with a pale pink dogwood design on a background of ice-green. The fireplace, with its decorative iron liner, kept the room cozy even when coals scarcely glowed.
Scott Gandy loved the office. He recalled his father sitting behind the mahogany desk, running the affairs of the plantation as he himself did now. Here, with pen and ledger in hand, he felt again a sense of continuity, but more—one of indomitable optimism.
The day he received the first advance deposits, he entered them in the books, stubbed out his cheroot, and went seeking Willy, determined to fulfill the promise he’d made to the boy before they’d left Kansas—to buy him a horse of his own. He charged through the house, calling, but it was a quiet afternoon, and if anybody was about, no one was answering. Scott took the stairs two at a time and charged into the children’s room, which he still shared with Willy. But the boy wasn’t napping, nor was he anywhere to be seen.
“Willy?” he called, stopping beside the bed with its ecru crocheted spread and matching tester.
It was then that he heard it—the soft whimpering of a child’s voice and the single word, more a sigh than a cry: “Heeelp.”
“Willy?” Scott spun about, but behind him the doorway was empty. The recently waxed floor gleamed, reflecting the unblinking eye of the rocking horse, the only one looking on.
“Heeelp.” The word came again, soft, pleading, from behind him. He whirled and stared at the bed. The coverlet was rumpled, where a moment ago it had been smooth. He stared at the impression of a small body.
“Willy? Are you there?”
But it wasn’t Willy’s voice; it wasn’t Willy’s imprint. It was Justine’s, Scott was certain. He waited, his eyes resting on the slight depression. The soft whimper sounded again, as if from the spot, but it brought no sense of fear or doom, only a strong wish to be able to ease whatever care it voiced.
The presence departed as suddenly as it had come, leaving Scott feeling certain he was again alone in the room. He felt helpless and guilty, as if he should have helped. But how?
He searched the other upstairs rooms, but all were empty, as were those on the lower level. At last he found Leatrice, out in the cookhouse in a rocking chair beside the fire with Clarice and Bertrissa, husking dried peas.
“Where’s Willy?” he asked perfunctorily.
“Gone wid d’ men.”
“Where?”
“Out to d’ woods someplace, puttin’ up cordwood.”
“How long have they been gone?”
“Lef’ right aftuh breffus,” she replied disinterestedly.
“Where are the women?”
“Down t’ d’ cabins, cleanin’.”
* * *
Scott told no one about his encounter with the ghost, but the following day, when he took Zach and Willy to a stock auction, at which he hoped to bid on carriage horses and a pony for the boy, his mind was often distracted from the business at hand.
“Willy,” he inquired in an offhanded manner while they strolled the barns, checking out horseflesh, “did y’all go out t’ the woods yesterday right after breakfast?”
“Yup.”
“And did ya come back t’ the house before dinner?”
“Nope.”
“Y’ didn’t take a nap in your room?”
“Nope.”
“Had Leatrice made up your bed before y’ left?”
“Nope.”
So it hadn’t been Willy’s imprint on the coverlet. Then whose?
“Oh, lookit that one! That’s the one I want. Can I have ‘im, Scotty? Can I?” Willy’s excitement and Zach’s examination of a one-year-old strawberry roan gelding ended Gandy’s speculation and forced him to turn his attention to the selection of Waverley’s horseflesh.
He trusted Zach’s judgment completely and when the day was over had bought the strawberry roan for the boy—“His name’s gonna be Major,” Willy declared—a team of skewbald carriage horses, and two full-grown riding horses—a stallion named Prince and a mare named Sheba.
It became a common sight after that to see Willy hanging around the stables, like a tick on Zach’s pantleg, watering the horses, bombarding him with questions, bringing sweets from the house for Major, then turning circles in the middle of the corral as Zach taught him how to work the horse on a longe line.
Scott had almost forgotten the incident in the children’s room until one day when he was heading up to the trunk room to check out the clothing he planned to disinter. As he passed the door of the bedroom, he heard Willy inside, talking to somebody. He backed up and glanced into the room. Willy sat on the floor, ankles out, building a tower of wood blocks, conversing with absolutely nobody.
“... and Gussie, she lives in Kansas, where I used t’ live. She gots my cat. His name is Moose. Gussie’s gonna come for Christmas an’ Zach says we’re gonna shoot us a wild turkey for Christmas dinner.”
“Willy, who are you talkin’ to?” Scott peered inside curiously.
“Oh, hey, Scotty,” Willy greeted, glancing over his shoulder before adding another block to his tower.
“Who were y’all talking to just now?”
“Justine,” the boy answered levelly, then hummed several notes of “Oh! Susanna.”
“Justine?”
“Uh-huh. She comes an’ plays with me sometimes when it’s rainin’ outside an’ I hafta stay in.”
Scott glanced at the windowpanes. A steady wash ran over them, obscuring everything beyond. He moved into the room and hunkered down beside Willy, bracing his elbows on his knees.
“My daughter, Justine?”
“Uh-huh. She’s nice, Scotty.”
Scott experienced his first moment of fear, not because the house might be haunted—after all, he was a reasonable man who didn’t believe in ghosts, did he?—but because Willy seemed to believe this ghost was mortal.
“Justine’s dead, Willy.”
“I know. But she likes it here. Sometimes she comes back for a visit.”
Scott glanced around uncertainly. Willy’s tower toppled and he started rebuilding it, all the while humming happily. “Y’ know the little cemetery across the road?” Scott inquired.
“Sure. I been there with Andrew and Abraham when they cut the grass and cleaned it up.”
This was news to Scott, though he disguised his surprise and went on. “Then you know Justine is buried there.”
“I know,” Willy replied blithely.
“If she’s buried there, she can’t come back here t’ play with you. It’s just your imagination, Willy.”
“She only comes t’ this room. It used t’ be hers.”
Scott had never before disclosed the fact to Willy, though the sprout was certainly bright enough to associate a rocking horse with a nursery.
“Have you told Leatrice you’ve talked t’ Justine?”
Willy laughed, a musical sound like the quick chatter of a tambourine. “Leatrice’d roll her eyes and run like a snake was loose, wouldn’t she?”
Scott smiled and laughed, too. But then he turned thoughtful. “If y’all don’t mind, son, let’s not tell Leatrice about it. She’s got enough on her mind, runnin’ the place.”
“All right,” Willy returned, apparently unconcerned about the credibility of his experience.
“And one more thing.” Scott stood and gazed at the top of Willy’s head. “Who told you Gussie was comin’ for Christmas?”
“You said I could see her sometime.”
“But she’s not comin’ for Christmas, son.”
“But, why not?” Willy lifted disappointed brown eyes and Scott groped for an answer.
“She just isn’t, that’s all.”
“But, why not?”
“Because the house is crowded now until the cabins are ready. And we’re all busy gettin’ tilings ready for guests. There’s a lot t’ be done yet.”
“But you said—”
“I’m sorry, Willy, the answer is no.”
Willy leveled his tower with one angry sweep. “You lied! You said she could come!”
“Willy, that’s enough!” Scott spun and stalked from the room, scowling, angered by the boy’s insistence. Why not, indeed! Because Agatha was a complication Scott didn’t need in his life right now. Because if he saw her again, saying good-bye would hurt worse than the first time. Because if Willy saw her again, there would be more tears and heartache when the two of them parted.
Besides, he had enough on his mind trying to reconcile himself to the fact that the house was being visited by a ghost. Common sense said it couldn’t be Justine.
* * *
But three nights later, Scott was roused from a restless sleep by the impression of a voice echoing through the dark. His eyes seemed at first sealed, as if with wax, as he tried to open them. Someone was whimpering. Sad, childish whimpering. He must help... must help... must drag himself from this nether state... this drifting, misty cloud world...
The whimpering grew louder. His eyes opened. The room was pitch black.
“Heeelp...” a sorrowful voice beseeched.
Scott came awake as if thunder had struck. He braced up and leaned over Willy. But the child lay on his side with both hands softly curled in sleep, his breathing as regular as the beat of a metronome.
Again came the whimper, closer.
Scott braced up on both hands, peering into the dark.
“Who’s there?”
The whimper approached and brought the soft brush of breath on his cheek while he sat stock-still. A scent filled the room, unidentifiable, floral.
He tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes. Nothing moved. No shadow or pale image. Only the sound, pitiful, pleading, a girlish whimper, and the plea again, “Heeelp.”
“Justine?” he whispered, glancing left and right.
A movement on the blanket over his chest, as if someone was running a hand over it, searching for the binding, as if to turn it down and get beneath the covers.
“Justine, is that you?”
The sound quieted but the scent remained.
“We’re in your bed... is that it?” The room grew hushed, the silence broken only by the sound of Willy’s regular breathing. Again Scott sensed no dire intentions from the presence, only a restlessness he longed to calm.
“Justine?”
It was winter, the windows and veranda door were closed, yet a soft breeze seemed to sigh through the room, whisking away the scent and the presence.
Scott sat up straighter, reached out a hand, and touched... nothing.
“Justine?”
Willy stirred beside him, snuffled, then rolled over. The presence was gone.
Scott fell back, lifting the covers to his armpits, running a hand over them, staring at the ceiling in the ink-black night. Who else could it have been? And if she’d meant them any harm, wouldn’t she have related it somehow? He closed his eyes, thinking of her as a beautiful, dark-haired baby. Justine, my daughter, how we wanted and loved you. You remember, don’t you?
He closed his eyes, but opened them momentarily to find himself restless and mystified, but no longer disbelieving.
As Christmas approached, Scott temporarily forgot about the ghostly visitations, while Willy began pressuring harder and harder to have Agatha at Waverley for the holiday or to go there. “But I miss her,” he whined, as if that was the only thing required to bring about the granting of his wishes.
“I know you do, Willy, but I don’t have time t’ take you t’ Kansas on the train, and you’re too young t’ go alone.”
“You said I could!” Willy became obstinate, stuck out his lip, and stamped his foot. “You said I’d be able t’ go see her whenever I wanted to.”
Scott grew impatient. “You’re twistin’ my words around, boy. I never said you could go whenever you wanted. Lord sakes, it’s only been a little over a month since you saw her.”
“I don’t care. I wanna see Gussie!” Willy put on his most repugnant face and enormous tears rolled over his eyelids. Scott had the distinct impression Willy had conjured them up on command. The damned little nuisance had never acted so demanding before.
“I don’t know what’s come over you, boy, that you think you can go around stampin’ your feet and pushin’ out your lip t’ try t’ get your way, but it won’t work with me, so let’s have an end to it, y’ hear?”
Willy stormed out of Scott’s office and slammed the door so hard the overhead light danced on its chain.
“What the hell’s got into him?” Scott muttered.
* * *
Four days before Christmas Willy received a gift from Gussie—a hand-made stuffed goose fashioned of soft white flannel with an orange felt beak and embroidered eyes. Willy again made demands, ending with another angry exchange between himself and Scott before the boy ran off crying. Scott glared at the door, then reached to the floor for Agatha’s note, which Willy had dropped. He read it glumly. It was exclusively for Willy, with the exception of the brief closing in which she’d added:
Tell everybody hello from me and wish them all the merriest Christmas. Scott, too.
Scott, too—as if he were nothing more to her than an afterthought. The idea raised a rage in him he didn’t quite understand and could not seem to quell.
Christmas of 1880 should have been one of the happiest of his life. After all, he was back at Waverley. The mansion was festooned with holly and mistletoe and every fireplace was ablaze. The place gleamed with beeswax and bustled with life. Zach had shot a wild turkey and Leatrice was preparing it with chestnut stuffing and all the trimmings, just as she had in the old days.
But Scott spent the holidays listless and bitter, slouched in a leather chair in the front parlor, sipping eggnog and staring despondently at the wedding alcove. He had everyone he loved around him, didn’t he? Yet his mind wandered back to a weatherbeaten clapboard building on a frozen mud street in Kansas where the wind howled and the snow flew and a woman without one soul to call her own spent the holiday alone in a narrow, dark, cheerless apartment.
In January, Willy grew more cantankerous and demanding each day. He cried almost every night for Agatha and spent more time talking to “Justine.” Scott thought a friend might help, so he took Willy into town to meet Mae Ellen Bayles’s grandson, A.J. But the two boys didn’t get along at all, and Scott’s impatience with Willy grew.
In February, Scott and the wo
men finally got around to sorting out the collection of clothing in the attic. They unearthed a veritable gold mine of dresses that the girls could wear to lend an air of authenticity when dancing in the ballroom with the paying guests. But none was generous enough for Jube’s breasts, and when she tried altering one, she ruined it completely.
Scott’s caustic remarks made everyone lay low for days afterward.
The stables were spotless, the stalls filled with enough horses to provide transit to and from the train depot and enough for the guests’ pleasure riding, too. The equipage had been oiled and, where necessary, replaced. The ice house was stocked with ice, which had been transported from town after arriving on a freight car packed in sawdust. The smokehouse spouted a slow stream of hickory smoke. Two dozen Rhode Island reds pecked about in a screened pen, and a pair of black-and-white cows kept the front meadow evenly groomed and the table supplied with milk and butter. Even the ancient, creaking ferry had been rejuvenated, the idea being to take the guests across the river to picnic on the other side. And, as a final touch, Scott had found a pair of peacocks to adorn the emerald lawn. Everything was perfect...
Everything but Scott. He was fractious and unbearable. Not a person in the house could look at him crosswise without getting snapped at. He stalked around with his heels clomping on the hardwood floors, as if to warn everybody to get out of his way. He snapped at the men and glared at the women and told Leatrice if she didn’t get rid of that “stinkin’ piss bag” her neck was going to rot off.
Scott blamed his sore temper on Willy.
Willy was turning into an obnoxious brat! Probably from hanging around Leatrice so much and picking up her officious ways. His grammar was deteriorating into a deplorable state and occasionally he let fly with an unconscious profanity, learned from the girls, who didn’t always guard their tongues around him as they should. Everybody spoiled him abominably, and when Scott crossed him he grew surly or mouthy or both. He had turned six in January and belonged in school, but short of taking him into town every day, there was no way to facilitate lessons, and nobody around the place was inclined to take up tutoring him or even to teach him to pick up after himself. When Scott ordered him to do so, Willy charged away and declared Leatrice would make up his bed or pick up his clothes.
The Gamble (I) Page 36