She was smiling as he began, but when he’d finished, the last three words lingered as if they’d been repeated aloud.
“Does it really?” she commented quietly, dropping her gaze.
He came around the bed to stand before her. “Yes, really.” He lifted her chin with the tip of the key and forced her to look at him. “I thought it would be good for you, Gussie. And I wanted a chance t’ talk t’ you... alone. There’s no privacy around Waverley. People underfoot everywhere.”
His dark eyes refused to waver from hers. The key was cold and sharp. Her heartbeat was unsteady. Gazing into his eyes, she felt the unwanted weight of propriety pressing hard upon her vitals and knew if he’d brought her here to seduce her, she would have to say no. Now that she was here, in this private bower where they answered to no one but themselves, she realized she couldn’t settle for an illicit liaison, no matter how strong her feelings for Gandy. When he reached for her wrist, her heartbeats swelled to the point where they caused an actual pain in her chest. But he only placed the key within her gloved palm, then folded her fingers over it and stepped back, dropping her hand.
“And, anyway, Waverley is my territory. It strikes me that wherever we’ve been, any time we’ve been together, we’ve been in somebody’s territory. The millinery shop was yours. The saloon was mine. Waverley, too, would be mine. But White Springs is neutral, just as it was durin’ the War Between the States. I thought it seemed like the perfect place for two scrappers like us t’ meet.”
“Scrappers—us?”
“Well, aren’t we?”
“We used to be, but I thought we’d become friends.”
He knew now he wanted to be much more than her friend, but he saw her nervousness reappear every time the notion transmitted itself to her. So he kept the mood light.
“Friends it is. So...” He stepped farther back. “As a friend, I wanted t’ give you the waters of White Springs.” He tugged his waistcoat into place as if preparatory to leaving. “I’ve already taken the waters earlier this afternoon, but I thought you might enjoy a bath before dinner. There’s time yet and I’ll walk you down t’ the springhouse, or we can catch a hack if y’ rather. Ladies bathe on the even hours, men on the odd, no mixed bathin’ allowed, of course, except parents with children twice a day. Now, what do you say?”
“I have no bathing costume.”
“Available at the springhouse.”
She spread her palms, then joined them, her smile back in place. “Then what can I say?”
“Good. I’ll give you time t’ get unpacked, hang up your things. Then I’ll be back for you.” He checked his pocket watch. “Say in thirty minutes?”
“I’ll be ready.”
He crossed to the open door but stopped before leaving the room and turned to look back at her.
“It’s good t’ see you again, Gussie,” he said simply.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
When he was gone she pressed both hands to her cheeks. They were warm as sun-baked stones. She sat on the edge of the bed, then fell back, placing her fingertips to the underside of her left breast, where her heart thrust with a mighty insistence that was becoming harder and harder to fight.
Closing her door, Scott remained with his fingers on the knob for long seconds, staring absently at the scarlet runner in the hall, asking himself again why he’d brought her here since he’d known all along it wouldn’t work. A quick roll in a rented bed wasn’t at all what he wanted from her, nor she from him. But if not that, what?
He drew in a deep breath, proceeded along the hall, and decided to let time answer the question for him.
Thirty minutes later they descended the grand staircase together, with her hand formally grasping his elbow.
“By foot or hack?” he asked when they reached the deep hotel veranda.
It was such a beautiful afternoon she said, “Let’s walk. I’ve been riding for two days.”
After the dismal winter in Kansas, the balmy temperature felt glorious. Birds sang and blossoms billowed, and once again she was struck by the lush greenness of everything.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing to a bush laden with pink blooms that looked much like roses.
“You mean you’ve never seen a camellia before?”
“I’m beginning to think I’ve never seen much of anything before. This place is wonderful. How ever did you find it?”
“I was wounded during the war and sent here t’ recuperate.”
She flashed him a startled glance. “Wounded?”
“Nothin’ serious. A leg injury. But it got infected and the waters helped. There’s a legend about the springs that goes back to the Seminole Indians. They recognized the medicinal value of the waters and it’s said that the Indian wars were started when a papoose was shot off the back of a brave who was kneelin’ at the springs t’ drink. After that, Osceola declared that Indians from all tribes should be free t’ use the springs without fear for their lives, and he banned all fightin’ within a seven-mile radius. That tradition, as I said earlier, was carried on durin’ the War Between the States. White Springs was declared neutral territory and soldiers from both sides were allowed t’ come here t’ recuperate from their battle wounds without fear o’ retribution.” He slanted a dimpled grin down at her. “Rather an appropriate spot for a whiskey peddler and a temperance fighter t’ meet, wouldn’t you say?”
She smiled and felt proud holding his arm, while strolling women gave him a second, then a third, glance. She pretended they were courting and even smiled sympathetically at the other women whose escorts, no matter how handsome, were eclipsed as Scott Gandy passed. Sometimes his elbow bumped the side of her breast. She loved the feeling. It reverberated down to her toes.
Within minutes they approached an impressive eight-sided structure. Agatha inquired admiringly, “Oh, my, what’s that?”
“That’s the springhouse.”
“But it looks like a grand hotel.” The three-story pavilion of white clapboard with latticed foundation and black shingles rose majestically like an eight-sided doughnut whose hole held the bubbling white springs of the Suwannee River. Six facets of the octagon, three on each side, held changing rooms. These were connected by a promenade on the top level, where the continuous roof shaded white observation benches.
“One of the reasons I’ve always liked it,” remarked Scott, “is because it’s built in an octagon, like the rotunda at Waverley.”
The approach was landscaped with more camellias, azaleas, and banana trees between which a wooden boardwalk led to the main door. Just inside, Scott turned Agatha over to an attendant, a young white woman with coal-black hair and a nose like a gravy ladle.
“It’s her first time,” he told the girl. “Give her the entire treatment.”
“But—” Suddenly, Agatha hated being left in the hands of a stranger.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Enjoy yourself.”
Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t the royal treatment that she received.
“My name is Betsy,” the flat-nosed girl said when Scott was gone. “Follow me and I’ll take you to your changing room.” Betsy led her to the center of the building, where a wide opening gave a view of the actual waters within. But before Agatha had time for more than a glimpse, she was ushered in the opposite direction, into an elevator operated by a pulley and rope system to which Betsy applied herself. The way she strained upon the cables it appeared an enormous amount of work, but Agatha surmised that Betsy’s biceps were even broader than her nose. She took Agatha to the third floor with no visible breathlessness. There they emerged from the elevator onto an outside railed veranda overhanging the springs, and along it Betsy led the way to the changing room. Inside, Agatha was given a pair of woolen knit drawers, a blousy top banded at the thighs, and a white cotton mobcap. When she emerged, barefoot, Betsy led her back to the elevator and lowered them to the ground level and finally the springs themselves. “It’s icy year-round and it’ll
chill you to the marrow of your bones, but after several minutes you get used to it, and remember, when you’re done here there’ll be a hot bath waiting inside. Enjoy yourself, ma’am.”
The smell was ghastly in the confines of the octagonal bathhouse. But the gurgling water sounded inviting.
“Cold” scarcely did credit to the first shock Agatha felt as she stepped into the water. Shivers raced up the backs of her legs and seemed to raise the hair off her skull. It felt awkward to be walking into a pool fully dressed, but she did it. To the knees (hugging her arms). To the thighs (stretching as tall as possible). To the waist (gasping). To the neck (chattering).
Sweet Savior, this was madness!
But other women bobbed in the water with only their heads showing. One nearby smiled at Agatha. Nonplussed, she returned the smile with a far less decisive one.
“It can be wonderful once you get used to it,” the stranger remarked.
“I’m s... sure. B... but it’s s... so c... cold.”
“Revivifying,” the woman returned and seemed to lie back in the water, suspended.
Agatha glanced down. Tiny bubbles rose all around her. A chuckle formed in her throat as the bubbles, like inquisitive minnows, played along her limbs and slipped beneath her bathing costume to work along her skin. They touched her in all her private places, popping along like a series of unending explosions that brought her flesh alive.
It tickled. It soothed. It came very close to arousing. But at the same time it relaxed. How could it create all these feelings at once?
She brought her arm just beneath the surface and watched the bubbles climb over it and erupt on the surface with a sound like meat frying in the other room. She spread her fingers and watched the air pockets rise between them. She need not have seen champagne firsthand to imagine she was floating in it. The continuous bubbles created an uninterrupted effervescence. She felt as if she herself had become champagne—airy, delectable, even drinkable.
She closed her eyes and steeped herself in the sensation of movement along the insides of her thighs, up the center of her spine, and between her breasts. She breathed deeply and let the feeling supplant all worldly cares.
And in those moments she came to understand sensuality in a natural, yearning way.
Later, when she became accustomed to the novelty of the bubbles, she experimented with a tiny bounce and was surprised by the unexpected buoyancy of her body. Never in her life had she felt buoyant; the sensation was infectious. She bobbed again, using her arms, feeling wondrously free and weightless. She followed the example of the friendly woman, resting on her back, lifting her feet, and for several seconds floated free of the restraints of gravity. How perfectly glorious!
When her feet drifted down to the bottom again, she glanced around to find no one paying particular attention to her and realized with a pleasant shock that here, in the water, she was no different from anybody else. Its buoyant properties made everyone equal. Suddenly, she realized, too, that her teeth were no longer chattering, the hairs on her arms no longer standing on end.
All too soon Betsy came to summon her from the water and escort her to the private bathing room where there waited a tin tub of hot water along with thick white Turkish towels. She was allowed to bask in the warm mineral bath for ten minutes before Betsy knocked and ordered her to dry in preparation for her massage. When Betsy reentered the room she told Agatha to lie facedown on a slatted wood bench, with one Turkish towel beneath her, the other covering her from the waist down.
The mineral rubdown was more restorative than anything Agatha could imagine. She closed her eyes while deft hands worked her muscles in ways that made her feel as if she were floating on a magic carpet. Neck, shoulders, arms, buttocks, legs—all were attended with equal expertise.
When Agatha was dressed again and stepped off the elevator, some miracle seemed to have taken place in her body. She still limped—yes—but all vestiges of discomfort were gone. She felt limber, tensile, and utterly revivified. She felt as if she could walk miles and not tire, as if she could jump fences, race up stairs, skip rope! She couldn’t, of course, but feeling as if she could was nearly as good.
Scott was waiting at the main entry, smiling.
“How was it?” he asked as she approached.
“Oh, Scott, it was extraordinary! I feel reborn!”
He took her arm and chuckled in deep satisfaction at her exhilaration. She was usually so reserved, it was fun to see her bubbling like the spring water itself.
“Nothing hurts! And look! I feel like I could walk back to Kansas. But in the water—oh, it was heavenly—I floated! I actually floated! There was a woman there who smiled at me and said something friendly and I watched what she did and tried it. I bounced! I truly bounced! All it took was a nudge with one foot and there I was, just like everybody else around me, bobbing like a cork. Oh, Scott, it was glorious. I’ve never felt so unencumbered in my life.” She turned to look longingly over her shoulder at the bathhouse. “Can I come again tomorrow?”
He laughed and squeezed her elbow, then transferred her hand to the crook of his arm. “How can I refuse?”
“Oh, but...” Her brow curled in consternation. “Does it cost a lot?”
“You let me worry about that.”
“But—”
“Hungry?”
“But—”
“I am. And White Springs is famed for some of the best cuisine in the Deep South. Quail is a specialty. I’m gonna take you back t’ the hotel and stuff you with breast of quail sautéed in butter with black mushrooms and walnut sauce and steamin’ saffron rice.”
“But—”
“And afterward a wedge of Black Forest torte piled high with whipped cream. And plenty o’ mineral water t’ drink.”
“But—”
“I don’t mean t’ sound critical, Gussie, but you’re bein’ terribly repetitive. Do you know how many times you’ve said but? Now, I invited y’ here as my guest, and that’s how it’ll be. Not another word about it.”
The dining room of the Telford was elegant, the linens starched to perfection, the service real silver. It was a far cry from Cryus and Emma Paulie’s. Gandy was gratified to be able to treat Agatha to an elegant supper in such a place. He enjoyed watching her dine upon quail with black mushrooms and the other foods he’d suggested. She did so with great relish, as if her hour in the mineral baths had sharpened her appetite immensely. Somehow he’d expected her to eat with the picky affectation of most modern women. The fact that she didn’t charmed him more than any silly dissemblance she might have practiced.
Her hair was wet around the edges, and as it dried, strands shrank from their restraints and formed miniature coils behind her ears. The gaslights lit them and formed shadows upon her neck and on the shoulder of her emerald-green dress. Likewise, her eyelashes upon her cheeks, shading her pale eyes.
He thought once more about kissing her. Her lips gleamed as she bit into the buttered quail, but each time she looked up and caught him watching her she carefully applied the napkin and glanced down.
He took up pondering his motives for bringing her here. Yes, he’d wanted to give her the waters themselves and all they could do for her physically. But if he were honest with himself, there were other physical experiences he wanted to give her. He took a bite of tender, succulent quail and let his eyes drift down her full breasts to her trim ribs. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man compromised under the false pretenses of “taking the waters.” When and if he ever touched her in an intimate way, he would feel compelled to do the honest thing.
She took a bite of meat, looked up, and caught him in a deep study of her feminine attributes. She stopped chewing. He took a gulp of mineral water. Tension buzzed around them for the remainder of the meal.
She wiped her lips for the last time and lay her napkin aside. He pushed his dessert plate back, ordered a cup of coffee, and lit a cheroot, after snipping it with the pair of miniature gold scissors.
; “You’re still carrying them, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As he lit the cigar, she watched his lips and moustache conform to the shape of it. Then she became immersed in the pungent aroma, relishing it again. A memory came back, clear as a reflection in still water.
“I remember the day that oil painting of Dierdre was delivered to Proffitt. You paid for my supper at Paulie’s and I was so put out with you I wanted to... to ram your money down your throat.”
“And you were so prim and proper and I was embarrassed as hell about pushin’ you down in the mud.”
“Embarrassed? You?” Her eyebrows rose.
“I was.”
“I didn’t think you were capable of being embarrassed about anything. You always appeared so... so cocksure. And so aggravatingly adept at teasing. Oh, how I hated you.”
Scott leaned back casually in his chair and laughed. “I reckon y’ had good cause.”
“So tell me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “how is Willy?”
Scott’s eyebrows knit and he leaned forward, tapping the ashtray distractedly with his cheroot.
“Willy’s not the boy he was when he left Proffitt.”
Her happy mood vanished, replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s turnin’ into a brat, that’s what’s wrong. He’s hangin’ around with too many of the wrong people, if y’ ask me. A riverboat gambler, a bartender, a roustabout, three ex-prostitutes, and a black mammy with a mouth as sassy as a hissin’ goose. The only one he doesn’t seem to pick up bad habits from is Marcus. The girls spoil him terribly and he occasionally lapses into some of their gutter language. Leatrice gives him his way all the time, and when he goes off with the men into the woods it’s hard t’ tell what kind o’ talk he’s exposed to. He’s even gotten demandin’ with me. When I don’t give him his way, he pouts or gets mouthy. I tell you, Gussie, sometimes when he talks back to me...”—he made a fist in the air—“... I want t’ turn him over my knee and tan his backside.”
The Gamble (I) Page 40