Nothing is going to go wrong, not with these twins. That’s why Belladonna is so anxious about this birth, and is pacing near the Baineses’ house, where the other tenants can’t see her. They wouldn’t be able to understand why she’s so caught up in this birth, and I’m certainly not going to start explaining.
Templeton arrives with Auntie Ruby, who calmly clucks and fusses. Belladonna paces amid the trees while Bryony and Susannah sit quietly near the house, playing with their dolls. When the babies are born after only a few hours of labor, Bryony comes to find me, beaming. “Twin boys,” she announces. “Ezra and Ezekiel. Susannah named them. They’re perfect.”
“Let’s go and see them. Twin boys, like me and my brother,” I say, and she slips her hand into mine, singing a nonsense song as we walk down the path.
At the sight of Dionne lying in bed with a sleepy smile and the perfect swaddled little boys at her side, I get all choked up. “Lovely names,” I say. “Very biblical.” I smile and try to compose myself. “The Contessa is very happy for you and your entire family.” Sometimes I am such a trooper I deserve a medal for valor. “And she’s decided we should have a christening party.” It is a command, not a question. “A nice private party for everyone here to welcome the first babies born since the Contessa’s arrival. Then we’ll have an awful, overcrowded party for all the nosy neighbors, to shut them up for a while.”
Jebediah and Dionne laugh.
“Take good care of your beautiful babies,” I say as I take Bryony by the hand once more and bid everyone good night.
Dionne, with a mother’s instincts, is too perceptive not to know there’s something going on, but she’ll never ask. It wouldn’t matter if she did. Tristan’s name has not been mentioned since that long-ago conversation with Leandro.
It’s not about to be mentioned now.
We mail out the invitations and the neighborhood is instantly agog with excitement. Finally, they shall meet the mysterious Contessa! Snoop in the big house and explore the vast property! Drink her juleps and gossip! Welcome her to the wonders of King Henry!
Honestly, I’ll never understand how the slightest stand-offishness can create such a fuss. Perhaps it’s that really stinking-rich people are not used to being shunned by one of their own. Or that they can’t conceive of not getting their own way. We’ve already heard stories about some of these people, claiming to be descendants of Jamestown settlers. Descendants of English convicts is more like it I’d like to throw them all in the dungeons for a splendid evening of meditation, but that’s too easy. It doesn’t matter how their families first procured their fortunes and social standing" fraud, thievery, slave labor, and cunning, I suspect played a large part"as long as the money keeps flowing now. How very convenient is a memory ravaged by bourbon!
There’s Osbourne Robertson, the mayor of King Henry"he’s best known for his holiday parties, the eggnog at Christmas, the grog on Boxing Day, the champagne on New Year’s, the Bordeaux (like our Lord’s, he says) at Easter" and his wife, Dippy, as in just dipping into the snuff. There’s Justin Blackwater, heir to a great cotton fortune, and his wife, Letitia, famous for her hunt parties and detours into local barns for some refreshment of a most unusual sort; Hubert and Muffy Leighton, the “steel people,” with hearts allegedly made out of the same material; Col. Wade Robey and his wife Claudette, whose brother, Reginald Marriner, is the erstwhile police chief, who never seems to be found in his office unless it’s to pick up his paycheck and the secretary’s skirts. Reggie’s sister Constance is married to one Rory Chesterfield, famous for shooting birds off telephone poles when in the passenger’s seat of his Packard convertible, and not much else.
I would go on, but I find this list such a chore. Not that we’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting any of these charming folk. They can wait. Mother Hubbard and his brood in Tantalus House keep us apprised, and they have already made some wonderful suggestions about local investments in neglected businesses. It seems we already own a lot more of King Henry than our plantation. Belladonna merely nods her approval when we tell her what we’re up to.
Which is why I’m so surprised when she says she wants to drive into town. She’s been getting driving lessons from Templeton and is often found with him drag-racing down our long expanse of runway. So far, though, she’s only ventured out onto real roads at dawn, when there’s even less traffic than usual. Templeton is as pleased with his pupil here as Dino had once been with her at Ca’ d’Oro, smiling at her near-immediate dexterity with the clutch and the gearshift.
I need to go into town with Jebediah to check on some rare woods that have come in to the lumberyard, owned by Reggie Marriner’s son, Cooper. The shipments had been dribbling in for weeks, and we told Cooper to hold on to them until the entire pile was there; we didn’t want constant deliveries from inquisitive drivers corning up to the house. Baines didn’t really want to go, but I nagged him so much he finally relented. Now, he looks even more uncomfortable when he sees “the nanny” getting ready to hop into the driver’s seat of one of our more dilapidated old Chevy pickups.
I don’t ask Belladonna what’s going on. Maybe she wants to see some faces other than our own before having a big party. Maybe she wants to practice her driving in the daytime. I’ve no idea. Trying to deal with the capriciousness of her moods is becoming a nearly impossible task, even for one as perspicacious as yours truly. So when Orlando, who’s insisted on coming with us just in case, bursts out laughing at the sight of her, I relax and figure we’re okay. She’s clad in her gardening outfit of dirt-stained denim overalls, grubby sneakers, and a red-checked seersucker shirt and shapeless sweater. With her hair tucked into an old bandanna and cheap wide plastic sunglasses, she looks like a poor cousin of Judy Garland in Summer Stock.
It is a bright sunny day, smelling of springtime. We bounce along in the Chevy, Baines and I in the back, and I feel like singing, the wind soft in my face, the dark nights of the Club Belladonna a seeming lifetime ago. My delicious mood evaporates instantly as we hit Main Street and the avidly curious stares of the locals. Belladonna ignores them. I jump out of the truck as gracefully as I can and signal to Baines. I want us to check the wood, then go right back home.
“I can’t go in there,” Baines says.
“Why ever not?” I ask, frowning.
“Colored folk don’t go in there,” he replies.
Botheration. How stupidly thoughtless I am. No wonder he didn’t want to come with us on this expedition, yet was too polite to remind me of reality. No wonder people are staring. We forget about things like this, locked in our own world. There, we don’t judge people by the color of their skin. Only by the blackness of their hearts.
“Do forgive me, Jebediah,” I say quickly. “I’m an idiot. I’ll bring the wood out for you to look at here. You can see the grain better in the sunshine anyway.”
Cooper is all but fawning when he sees me. He knows I’m from the Contessa’s property, but not what my exact role is, so he’s playing the southern gentleman role to the hilt. He’s still all affability when I ask to take the wood out to the light but his smile fades when he sees me conferring with Jebediah. In fact his face undergoes a rather instantaneous transformation.
“I’ll have to ask y’all to step back inside, sir,” Cooper says to me. He’s a blond, with pale white eyelashes that make him look vaguely gerbillike, and his cheeks are suddenly very pink. So is his bald spot, which he’s tried in vain to cover up with long wisps of hair.
“Why?” I ask, smiling broadly. Two can play this little charmer game, and I know I’m better at it than he’ll ever be.
“Y’all can’t parade around town with his sort,” he says.
“What sort is that?” I ask, all innocence. “You mean Mr. Baines here? Why, he is a valued member of the Contessa’s staff. Her favorite sculptor, as a matter of fact. She depends on his judgment for all matters pertaining to wood.”
“I don’t rightly care what y’all say he’s a valued member of
,” Cooper says. “He knows better than to show his face with white folk. Don ‘tcha, Baines? Y’all don’t belong here, and I want y’all out of my sight. Every one, before I lose my temper.” Two of his employees have come up beside him, and one of them hands him a two-by-four that he starts smacking menacingly in his palm. So much for southern hospitality, or any thoughts of sucking up to the Contessa’s hired help. I look around, noticing that most of the shopkeepers on Main Street have come out to gawk, smelling blood.
“I beg your pardon,” Belladonna says.
“I’m not talking to you, ma’am,” Coper tells her. “Mind your own business.”
“But I, sir, am talking to you,” she says, opening her door. “And this is my business. I don’t take kindly to being ordered around. Certainly not from the likes of you.”
“Well, aren’t we the high-and-mighty princess,” Cooper says with a sneer. “Don’t y’all know what we do to nigger-loving princesses around here?”
“No, I don’t,” she says, taking off her sunglasses. Her eyes are practically spitting fire. “Why don’t you illuminate me.”
If he had a cell left in his brain that wasn’t sozzled, he might have figured out who she is. But he hasn’t. He’s not used to uppity northerners telling him to stuff it.
“We put them in their place,” he says.
“And what place is that?” she asks. “A place like the jail cell you may as well call your home due to your rather constant bouts of public intoxication? A place like the courtroom where your daddy’s always bailing you out? A place of honor like the moose head you have over your fireplace?”
“How do y’all know about my moose?” He is furious. I’d be, too, if I were the moose. “Who the hell do y’all think y’all are?” Then he steps a bit closer, along with his good-ol’-boy employees, trying to look menacing. “Get out of my sight before I lose my temper. If I do, y’all’ll be sorry.”
“It appears you already have lost your temper,” I reply. His constant y’alls are really getting on my nerves. “And we do as we bloody well please. Besides, we haven’t chosen which piece of wood we like best.” Decisions can be so annoying.
“Y’all just hush your mouth,” he says, and whacks our Chevy with his two-by-four. Baines cowers and covers his head with his hands. Orlando slowly walks over to examine the dent. The look on his face is not a happy one.
“Y’all’re asking for it, boy,” Cooper says.
“Non é un’ ragazzo,” Orlando replies.
“What did y’all say? Is that some Guido bull? Well, y’all go on now and take that Guido bull right back on the boat to Guidoland,” Coper says. His blood is really boiling, and I think his cheeks are going to burst.
Orlando looks at me and I look back at him, then at Belladonna. Before they know what hit them, all three of the South’s finest have landed flat on their backs on the street.
Belladonna crouches down next to Cooper, who still doesn’t know what hit him, and pulls the two-by-four out of his grip. She pushes her sunglasses back down so he can’t see her eyes; she’s not used to in-your-face confrontations without a mask on. “I thought you southern boys were full of grace and hospitality,” she tells him very softly. “I guess I was wrong about y’all. Are you going to make me sorry, or are you going to go right back in your nice little store and get me the money to pay for this dent? Should I have a nice chat with your daddy about your public assault on my truck and your appalling lack of manners?” Her voice becomes more menacing. “Should I?” He tries to get up, and she puts one of her grubby sneakers on his neck. “I’m talking to you, and I haven’t given you leave either to insult anyone in my company or to get up. No, I wouldn’t try to get up now if I were you,” she says. “I am going to warn you once, and only this once. If I ever, ever, hear language like that in front of any man, woman, or child, I am personally going to cut your tongue out and feed it to my pigs. And if you try to harm me or any of mine, I will come for you in the dark of night and slit your throat and leave you to bleed and feed you to the pigs and then bury your bones where no one will ever find them.” She smiles sweetly. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
He can barely nod, he’s so dumbstruck. He still doesn’t know what hit him"a judo throw or a crazy lady, or both. All he can think about is the look on the crazy lady’s face, and the calmly threatening tone of the crazy lady’s voice. Spitfire anger he understands. Softly spoken intimidation he does not.
She neatly breaks the two-by-four over her knee and drops it near his face.
“I’ve so enjoyed doing business with you,” she says.
The Contessa has arrived. Welcome to the neighborhood!
13
A Romp in the Hay
“I‘ve written something wonderful. Do you want to hear it?”
“No,” Belladonna says. “Leave me alone.”
Botheration. Looks like it’s going to be one of those days. We’ve been having a lot of those days lately, ever since Cooper was left lying in the dust. Unfortunately, that charming scene with him barely diffused the rage Belladonna hasn’t acknowledged since our encounter with Sir Patty. This anger is percolating so madly"like the coffee in our newfangled electric pots"that I fear something larger than Krakatau is soon to erupt.
“’Dear Laura,’” I plow on, undeterred, “’I wish to thank you for all your letters, and ask your forgiveness for my silence. I’ve been"’”
“Enough,” she interrupts, her teeth clenched. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Writing to Laura, of course,” I reply. “It’s long overdue, I might add.”
“No one asked you to add anything.”
“I thought it might be a goodluck charm. First Laura came to the club, then June, then Sir"”
“Don’t you dare mention his name to me,” she says fiercely. “I only want to hear his name when you tell me he’s dead.”
“All right,” I say. “Sorry.” I suppose this isn’t an especially propitious moment to tell her about June, the silly cow. She and her family have fled Kansas City in bankruptcy and disgrace, exactly as we’d planned. Back up to the frigid landscape of Minnesota, to the sheltering embrace of mommy and daddy, who don’t know what to do about their daughter babbling about kidnappers and torture. Nor do they realize that most of their holdings are about to disappear as well. Can’t imagine what’ll happen to their fragile health then. I’m certainly not losing any sleep over it. It’s a small price to pay for what they did to Belladonna, for negligence and disdain. For not ever trying to find her. For leaving her to"
No no no, we’re not quite there yet.
“Tear that letter up immediately. I don’t want Laura here, or anyone else,” Belladonna is saying. “I want to get this stupid party over with and be left alone.”
So I dramatically tear up the letter in front of her and go away. Except I forgot to tell her it was only a copy. After discussing the situation with Matteo and Jack, I’d taken the plunge and mailed the real letter a few weeks before"forging signatures is still one of my favorite pastimes"and had just gotten a reply, Laura thanking Leandro’s wife for her kind invitation to come on an extended visit to Virginia. That she was filled with gratitude to have heard from her after all this time. That she would be bringing a friend or two with whom she’d been planning to travel, since the Contessa was kind enough to extend her hospitality to them.
She’s arriving with them next week, and I know there’s going to be a lot of screaming when Belladonna finds out.
I shall spare you the unpleasantness that ensued, because you don’t need to hear the details. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of Belladonna’s hostility; nor do I want to return to that place ever again. It took me several days to come out of my room and stop sulking. I often wish I could be more ruthless, as she is; it would simplify my life. But no, I am condemned to be what I am by the sweetness of my nature.
Belladonna finally sends Bryony up with a peace offering of an Utrillo snowsc
ape I’d been coveting for my bedroom, so I relent. Besides, she needs me to sort out the details for our party. We thought at first to have a masked costume ball, but that is too reminiscent of the Club Belladonna, even though thousands of parties around the globe are still being based on our infamous theme nights. People are simply too lazy to think of their own ideas for entertaining.
Flattery from bores is like selling ice in the winter: useless.
So we’re having a casual afternoon barbecue for the tenants after the Baineses get back from the christening. Later that night will be the grand, more formal buffet for all the neighbors and whatever assorted hangers-on they can try in vain to sneak past the additional security guards we’re bringing in, colleagues of our regular employees, a few friends of Jack’s who happen to be in the neighborhood. Mingling as guests in their trim white dinner jackets, frosted silver julep beakers in their hands, they’ll blend in seamlessly.
“What should I call her?”
“You mean the Contessa?”
Laura nods. “I never really have talked to her, you know.”
“I think Contessa is best for now. If she wishes something else, she’ll tell you. She is a bit peculiar about names,” I say, leaning forward to whisper that bit confidentially.
“I see,” Laura replies with a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
She is thrilled to be here; I can tell from the glow of her eyes, the same color as the cornflower blue sundress she’s wearing as she comes down after unpacking to have a drink with us on the veranda. I swear, this woman is made for sundresses with tight-fitting bodices and full sweeping skirts over rustling crinoline slips. And I see that she still likes espadrilles, laced around her ankles. I open a bottle of vinsanto we’d had shipped over from Tuscany, and she smiles at the sight of it.
“This reminds me of Leandro,” she tells me.
“The wine, or the view?”
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