She stood up. Stepped close to him, close enough to breathe in her light, sweet aroma of jessamine. Her eyes were huge now, and her face peered down somber with want. Her hands went to the small of her back and the retiring gown fell away like mist before a morning wind!
Hands on his shoulders, her knees outside his. Long golden tresses teasing across his shoulders. Large pink nipples brushing at his cheeks! The musky aroma of a woman’s breath as she bent down for him, as she raised his face to hers, as he reached for her to seize her flanks, stroke her round bottom, to bring her forward against his aching tumescence. And at her elbow, suddenly, a silver tray with a pair of fine German crystal wineglasses, shimmering amber with sherry held by a servant in livery.
But it hadn’t been livery. It had been Colonial Militia blue-and-buff And with the illogic of dreams, Livesey had dreamt that he reached for a glass, looked up to dismiss the servant…
And had come awake, thrashing, chilled to his marrow, with an inarticulate shout of pure terror for his loathsome betrayal. And, with his flannel bedgown sodden with the proof of it.
Matthew Livesey had never known another woman except his dear, departed Charlotte. Nor had ever wanted to, while she was alive. And no matter how Wilmington’s “buttock-brokers” and matchmakers connived since his year of mourning had officially ended, he had saved his energies for work. Sore as he’d been tempted, he’d avoided those fewjades who sold their pleasures. With iron will, he’d retained his essences, knowing, as any educated man did, that too much spending of a body’s vitality sapped one’s force, shortened the breath and weakened will. So that nocturnal emission left him feeling betrayed by his own weak body, just as much as he felt he’d betrayed Harry and Georgina.
Re-marriage was just as much out of the picture. He sorely missed his Charlotte, truly the closest and most wonderful friend he’d ever known. He had a business to save, first and foremost. And he had his and Charlotte’s children to care for, in the second instance. It was a father’s duty to do his best for them. And it seemed fitting to Livesey to deny himself and provide for their futures so that some part of Charlotte, of him, and of their marvelous life together, would continue down the generations as a living memorial to that good woman. So he had inured himself to a sober life which honored her memory, a life which allowed no improprieties which harmed the Livesey name. He saw his own pleasure, his own wants, as distractions he’d outlived. He had no wish to sully the times they’d shared. Still, he was a man, a widower. Georgina was now a widow. After a year of mourning, since they’d been close as cater-cousins before … there was Tuscarora, and security, and she was so…!
He shook himself, like a bear just leaving a winter den. It was a damnable fantasy! A whole host of mortal sins to even imagine! Thank God, he thought, that Georgina had not attended Divine Services at St James’s that morning, else he’d have ended staring at her, or greeting her in the churchyard, wearing that dream, and she would have seen his rapacious designs for what they were, and recoiled in utter disgust from his pecuniary lust to gain all that Harry had, and shunned him forevermore after. Or if she laughed such hopeless pretentions to scorn …!
Matthew Livesey wondered how he would face Georgina Tresmayne in future, as long as that brief, uncontrolled instant of desire was in him, tamped down though it was, buried in remorse. He had the sad notion it would arise every time he saw her, forevermore.
“Ahem? Another dish ofblueberryjumble?” Bess asked louder.
“Uhmmph?” he grunted, surfacing at last from pustulent musings. “No no, I’ve eat sufficient, thankee, Bess. Wool-gathering. Have I missed some brilliant conversation whilst I was away? I didn’t give either of you permission to do something foolish in my stupor, hey?”
“No, you didn’t, Father,” Bess grinned.
“More’s the pity,” Samuel muttered.
“Should have struck while the iron was hot, me lad,” Matthew Livesey replied, trying to shed his gloominess. “Too late now.”
“I would ask your permission for something, Father,” Bess bid him. “The Burgwyns have invited me to a tea this afternoon. May I be allowed to attend?”
“The Burgwyns?” Livesey brightened. “Hah hah, that’s moving up in Wilmington Society, ain’t it?” They’d had little dealings with John Burgwyn so far, even though he owned five ships that traded as far away as Barbados, London and Amsterdam. “Are they scenting about for an arrangement, with the business? Or, is it reward for the way you took that Ramseur oaf to task the other day?”
“The reward, I should expect.” Bess grinned. “I leave agreements over trade to you, Father.”
“And they didn’t invite me. Oh, well.” Livesey shrugged. “Of course you may attend, Bess. ’tis little enough diversion you get.”
“Tea with the Burgwyns!” Samuel said, almost singing. “Lick on the cream cakes, cat-lap with the latest gossip. Meow, Bess! Sweet puss! And will Andrew Hewlett be there, too, hmm? Hmm? Meow?”
“Oh, don’t be so tiresome, Sam’l,” Bess replied in an arch tone just snippy enough to arouse her father’s curiosity, and raise a paternal brow in query. “Well, what ifhe maybe? /mean …” she said, exasperated.
“Hmm!” Liveseyjaped her, stroking his clean-shaven chin.
“Meow-meow! Lap-lap!” Samuel reiterated. “Purrrr! Will our sweet puss come home with her fur aw wuffled, hmm?”
“Now you are being tiresome,” Livesey corrected. “And lewd.”
“Sorry, Father,” Samuel coughed, though he didn’t seem a least bit abashed, too intent on cocking a jeering eye at Bess, to nettle her even more with a silent “Meow” in her direction, and a licked “paw.”
“And you, Sam’l?” Livesey asked.
“Ah, ahum?” Samuel answered, caught in mid “lick,” and turning cutty-eyed and cautious. “Well, some of the lads, d’ye know … we had the mind to go birding on the far banks. Bag some ducks? Go birding, with the double gun? I know how you and Bess like a good duck …”
“Some of the lads,” Livesey posed slowly, dubious. “Might one of those ‘lads’ be Jemmy Bowlegs? Is that why you don’t name them?”
“Jemmy’s all right, Father.” Samuel blushed, defending carefully.
Jemmy Bowlegs was an “all-nations,” his heritage as varied as a dramshop: English, Irish, part Lumbee or Cherokee—part Negro, some said. And a lanky, swaggering lay-about. Hunter, fisherman, trapper, guide, idler … and slave-catcher, when he cared for real work. Pig-ignorant of letters, of grooming, of…
“Hmm … I’ve a thought, Sam’l,” Livesey senior mused. “Let’s go riding. Hire us three horses from Taneyhill’s livery. Bess and I will fetch down our saddles whilst you do that. We’ll take Jemmy with us. As our guide, as it were.”
“Really?” Samuel perked up with surprise, then deflated, then perked up once more. It was rare the last two years for them to spend much idle time together, at fishing, hunting or sailing, as they had before their comedown. Work, eat together, some brief, glorious son-to-father talks, but … It should have been a festive rarity, elating to his starved heart. But Samuel had also been looking forward to a bachelors’ holiday with friends, where he could curse, smoke, spit and share a stone crock of corn whiskey, away from disapproving eyes. Andjemmy had sworn he knew of a poor-white settler’s daughter across the river, near Belleville Plantation, of the “most obligin sort.” And a tumbledown shack where he and the other lads could, for half a crown … ! Samuel shivered, torn most horrid. And picturing spending close-binding time with his righteous father on that sort o’ hunt!
“Thought we’d ride out east,” Livesey commented as he rose from the table with a grunt of effort. “The three of us.”
“Oh, well, yes we could,” Samuel quickly agreed, thankful that he hadn’t chosen the far bank of the river, where they might come across his other friends, indulging, and how would he ever explain that? “East, d’ye say, Father? Of course! Though, I doubt there’s much sport left in those woods, these days.”
>
“Bring along the double, anyway,” his father suggested, almost smirking as ifhe knew all from the outset; but it wasjust his fertile mind which gave him that probing look. “You never can tell what we may bag, Sam’l.”
Chapter 8
A HARPSICHORD was being tortured by clumsy fingers, while a violin “squawrked” now and then on an awkward bowing. The flautist was the best of the three young girls who were grimacing their way through Cultured Attainments in the salon. And that was being charitable.
Bess stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windowed doorways that led to the front porch, trying to avoid wincing in public at the sounds, since the mothers of those struggling daughters were peering about the salon to see if everybody else was enjoying the music with as much outwardly-rapt pleasure as they were. And those mothers had husbands so well off they could buy out Livesey & Son half a dozen times over if they felt slighted. Bess caught the eye of one, and widened her frozen but polite half-smile a notch more.
“Bloody Hell,” Mrs Barbara Yadkin whispered sotto voce at her side, “but they’re giving that pig a rare cobbing!”
Bessjerked with a sudden snort of thankfully inaudible amusement, almost upsetting her tea cup on its saucer. She flushed with embarrassment and had to turn away toward Mrs Yadkin, thinking she’d never get another invitation if she broke one of the Burgwyn’s precious Meissen china cups brought all the way from Hamburg!
She stepped out onto the wide veranda where there was a bit of a breeze. Mrs Yadkin followed her, eyes blared and brows higher than most people’s hairlines. “And how is your dear father bearing up after the loss of his compatriot, my dear?” she asked.
“Main-well, considering, ma’am,” Bess answered, doomed to more of Mrs Yadkin’s love-struck grilling. “He and Sam’l went riding.”
“Bless me, he’s a wonder, to get about so!” Mrs Yadkin gushed. “To take his mind offhis cruelloss, I’m bound.”
“I would imagine, ma’am,” Bess replied, opening her fan to beat some coolness on her face. There were others who had no ear for music (or who did, and had escaped) seated under the trees, or walking in the shade on the small front lawn and veranda. Bess felt dawkish and dowdy.
The women wore fine gowns of the costliest imported silks and satins, velvets and cambrics. They had the latest hats, and richer women had bound up their long hair over bracings, topped them with convoluted wigs and floured them pale white. Bess was one of those few present who “wore her own hair,” regretting her choice of bonnet. It was humble straw, drop-brimmed and much too wide for fashion, but with no gaudy profusion of wide (and expensive) ribands, no plumage or costly lace-work or cloth-of-silver trim to make it acceptable.
Her gown was modest pale blue taffeta, unrelieved by lace or silk ruch-ings. The neckline was round, higher than most, and bound from each shoulder to the bodice with pleats and folds, while other girls more daring were almost bare-shouldered, with necklines low and square-cut. She had a simple gingham apron, trimmed with scrap taffeta, while others’ were so lacy and gaudy, so intricate, so … it was her long winter’s best effort, and it seemed so… dowdy.
“… so gladsome that night, with a rare night out,” Barbara Yadkin was rattling on. “Three bottles they shared, and the best my house could boast, they were, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Bess said, coming back to reality from envious and useless perusal of the fashion parade. “You were saying, ma’am?”
“La, don’t ‘ma’am’ me, Bess,” Mrs Yadkin simpered. “I feel I may address you as ‘Bess,’ not ‘Elisabeth,’ your father’s talked so much about you, and rare ’tis when he says Elisabeth. Him and poor Harry Tresmayne, you know. Their last night at my establishment.”
Establishment sounded more refined than “ordinary.” Her “establishment” was a log-framed cabin set back on a half-acre town lot to make room for water trough, hitching posts and mounting blocks—and horse droppings—with a few crude shacks out back which served as kitchens, scullery, smokehouse, storerooms, stables and bed spaces for weary (and none too picky) travelers. After her husband had died, Barbara Yadkin had kept his tavern license, and it was so close to the courthouse that she still had a decent trade, but the work of running an ordinary, keeping the drunks orderly,
serving and cooking, were too much for a woman beyond a couple of years at best. Most went under, found a rough man to run their businesses for a share of profit, or remarried and let the new husbands have them.
“Yes, he did come home a bit light-headed,” Bess agreed.
“Chirping gay as larks, they were.” Mrs Yadkin sighed dramatically, lifting a mended handkerchief to touch her nose. “And who could know that that very night… ah, me!”
“But they parted, they said their good-byes?” Bess wondered.
“Never knowing ‘twould be their last, alas,” Yadkin mourned, though dry-eyed and peering with a blank stare at the middle-distance.
“They left together, ma’am?” Bess asked suddenly.
“Dear me, no, Bess,” Mrs Yadkin said, turning away from pondering the aether. “Your father left first. Had to get home, he said. And the talk was getting a touch loud and raucous.”
“Politics,” Bess supposed.
“And horse racing,” Mrs Yadkin supplied. “I would have shushed them, but they were in high form, all of them, and you know men when they’re ‘cherry-merry’ in drink. God help me, ’tis all I may dojust to maintain the slightest bit of decorum, and will a pack of tipplers heed a publican’s warnings …?
“Uhm …” Bess posed, frowning until the crease between her brows appeared. “How long was it after, that Uncle Harry … Mr Tresmayne departed?”
“Not a candle’s inch later,” she informed her. “He saw your dear father to the street. The door was open, so I could see them embrace and shake hands in parting … so they did say proper good-byes, praise God! Then he came back in, had a brandy and stingoe with it, and paid his reckoning. Paid for your father, too. It was his treat, I suppose. Mr Harry was ever the generous soul. Hejoshed me some, as he paid …” BarbaraYadkin got misty-eyed at this revelation and had to dab with her handkerchief. “He went to his horse and rode off.”
“Down the Sound Road.” Bess nodded.
“Why no, he headed up Third Street, like he was going home, my dear,” Barbara Yadkin told her. “I recall it clear as day. I had to follow that scamp Pocock … he owed me five pence for ale and supper he hadn’t paid for … and I saw poor Mr Harry turn his horse over to Second, down toward his house, at the corner. I thought it odd, him living so close, not to be walking, but…”
“Ah, Mistress Livesey,” Thomas Lakey called from the corner of the veranda as he approached, with his nephew Andrew Hewlett in train. “How elegant you appear, my dear. Compared to the peacocks, I vow you’re the epitome of simple, understated elegance and grace.”
“Mr Lakey, good afternoon, sir.” Bess smiled at the high-flown compliment, and under the shy gaze of the young man who stood a little behind his uncle’s shoulder. “Though I fear your position in Society will suffer should you deem the other young ladies ‘peacocks.’”
“That’s why I didn’t say it that loud, my dear.” Lakey smiled, as he took her hands briefly. He had been close enough so his comment didn’t carry. “They’ve done with the Purcell piece. I expect you know it so well, you didn’t need to hear it again, hmm? Or, was it simply their … erm … rendition, ha!”
“What could I say, sir?” Bess smiled in reply at his droll wit.
“That wouldn’t gttyou in trouble, hey?” Lakey snickered with a wicked glee. “You remember my nephew Andrew?”
“H … hello, Mistress Livesey.” The boy blushed, doffing his hat and making a clumsy leg. “Your servant, ma’am.”
“Good day to you, Mr Hewlett. Your servant, sir,” Bess replied, dropping him a graceful curtsy. At least she tried. She had forgotten the cup and saucer and almost came a cropper, within an inch of tipping the cup out to smash on the floor of
the veranda.
Dear God, open the ground and let me drop straight through, she groaned, mortified and red-faced with chagrin!
“Done with that, are we?” Thomas Lakey interposed, taking it from her. “Gone cold, I’m bound, anyway.” He set it on the nearest table for her without missing a beat, allaying her mortification with a sly, man-of-the-world grin.
“Thankee, Mr Lakey,” Bess replied with gratitude.
“Your father is well?” Lakey asked. “Devilish doin’s, for our community. Bearin’ up, is he?”
“He is, sir. He went riding today with my brother.”
“Ah, that scamp,” Lakey breezed on. “Your brother, I mean, ha! Best thing, to go about one’s business. Grief shouldn’t be fed, else it only waxes fatter. And goes, in time, the more it’s fended off.”
“I would suppose that is true, Mr Lakey,” Bess told him. Thomas Lakey was an elegant gentleman, an emigre from more-worldly Charleston, one who always knew the right words to say, the proper social airs that seemed so far beyond even the best of Wilmington Society. He was garbed in a burgundy velvet coat with a fashionable stand-and-fall collar ofblue broadcloth, edged in black silk, silk-shirted, awash in lace at cuffs and front, with a pale-tan satin waistcoat sprigged with embroidered vines and flowers, “ditto” velvet breeches with white silk stockings, and wine-dark leather shoes with coin-silver buckles. He sported a long, thin, walking stick, now held under a crooked elbow. His wig was a short, side-curled peruke with a be-ribboned queue at the nape of his neck, under a fine beaver tricorne hat edged with gold lace at the brims.
“For a platitude.” Lakey frowned suddenly, making a face at his own statement. “And a deuced old’un, at that. In all seriousness, please express to your father my highest respects, and my deepest sympathies. ’tis only words, an’ words fail us when we try saying somethin’ heartfelt. They all come out soundin’ like old saws.”
What Lies Buried: A Novel of Old Cape Fear Page 7