“You’re the best judge, I expect,” Aunt Em said, frowning at her hands with an air of faint regret, “though I can’t believe a mother would not welcome her child back, regardless—”
“Regardless covers a great deal,” Catherine said quietly. Aunt Em looked at her silently, then turned her attention back to the corn. Catherine closed her eyes. She knew Aunt Em was right. The uncomplicated, undemanding days had been balm while she was contending with the weakness and lassitude following on her illness. How soon before they palled, now that she was fit again? The simple life required an uncomplicated mind. Considering some of the longings she had felt surfacing within herself of late, Catherine was far from certain that hers was suited.
Jonathan, however, could not be expected to understand. The sun was setting, touching the ripples of the river current with pink fire, when he found her leaning against one of the posts of the rear porch of the cabin.
“Grannie tells me you are to leave us at Natchez,” he said, resting his hand above her head.
Catherine turned to smile, the soft light shining on her face with a pearl-like gleam.
“Yes,” she answered. “Will you wish me well?”
“If that is what you want.”
There was such a baffled look on his face that Catherine swung away quickly, the breath catching in her throat. “That is what I want.”
“Why?” he asked in a low voice. “Tell me why.”
“Because I must.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You know it’s not. You — you were like something out of a dream. I thought it was meant for me to find you, to save you.”
“I am grateful for that. I haven’t thanked you enough—”
“It’s not thanks I want!”
It was a moment before Catherine could trust herself to answer. “I — I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he asked, disconcerted. “For what?”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, sorry I don’t have it to give.”
It was such a long time before he spoke that she thought he had accepted defeat. Instead he had only shifted ground in his search for a reason. “If it’s because of the way we live, Grannie and I, we can change. I know you’re used to something different.”
“No, no. That isn’t it, Jonathan, believe me, it isn’t. But — you must have known I was married.”
“I — saw the ring.” He paused. “But only a dead man would let you get away from him.”
Catherine felt the pressure of tears at that simple declaration. It reminded her fleetingly of another time, another man. “I’ll never let you go,” Rafael had whispered then. Words, empty words.
“My husband is very much alive,” she said stiffly. “We — we had a misunderstanding.”
“You’re sure that’s all.”
Catherine nodded. Why trouble him with her story. It would be kinder in the end if she did not give him any reason for hope.
“You can’t care all that much for him then.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, swinging sharply around.
“If you did you would be more anxious to get back to him.”
That was so indisputably true that she could not argue with it. She took refuge in a return to her silent contemplation of the river.
“Well?”
“Forgive me, Jonathan,” she said in gentle but distant tones, “but I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“You don’t think you owe me that much?”
“Has it come to that, then? A debt?”
Abruptly he pushed away from the wall. “No. Forget I said it. Forget everything.”
“Jonathan — don’t be angry,” she said as he flung away from her. “I don’t belong here, I promise you I don’t.”
“Don’t you think I know,” he muttered, his voice a harsh rasp in his throat. “Don’t you think I’ve always known.”
His step on the bridging plank was so violent it was jarred loose, falling into the water. He strode along the track, his shoulders hunched and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Catherine watched until he was lost to sight among the deepening shadows of the woods.
~ ~ ~
Natchez-Under-The-Hill was a dirty sprawl of canvas shelters, lean-to shacks, and unpainted buildings cut through by muddy, rutted streets. A stench rose above it, mingling with the sounds of fiddle, mouth harp, and squeeze-box, laughter and screams, blows and brawling. Above the squalor, on the pure, windswept heights of Natchez-On-The-Bluff, the homes of the gentry, built of bricks and mortar and columns and arches, sat upon their elevations like the villas of the patricians around ancient Rome. Citizens of the town often promenaded of an evening past the ruins of old Fort Panmure, along the bluff edge and through the Village Green. From that vantage point they could catch glimpses of the plebeians disporting themselves below in the manner for which they were famous up and down the river — with murder, maiming, theft, and rapine.
Jonathan, having a healthy respect for the nature of the town, asked to be put ashore on a low stretch of land downriver from Natchez. Once he found his buyer, he would bring his merchandise into town, but until then he was reluctant to expose the inhabitants of Natchez-Under-The-Hill to the temptation of a skiff weighted down with corn whiskey.
The trip up had been uneventful. Aunt Em had been selective in the keelboat she would allow to tow their skiff. She knew many of the crafts that plied up and down regularly by sight, and refused to trust more than a handful. The boat she chose was run by a man and his wife, a huge woman named Annie who not only dressed like a man but had muscles like one. Several of the crew members were sons of the couple, and a daughter served as cook. They were big, boisterous people with a hearty sense of humor as well as hearty appetites. Company on their journey seemed as important to them as the victuals Grannie had packed and brought along as partial payment of their fare. For the rest, Jonathan worked their way with his shoulder to a push pole. By the time they reached their disembarking point, Catherine was of the opinion that the daughter of the keelboat family, at least, would have been glad to let them ride up and down forever without fare for the sake of Jonathan’s presence. And Aunt Em’s grandson, though not strongly attracted, did not appear, immune to the soothing, if unsubtle, flattery of having his plate piled high with choice food.
As she helped Aunt Em pile brush over the lean-to shelter of their encampment, Catherine had to smile. What would her mother say if she could see her? Or Rafael, for that matter? Rafael, who had not wanted her to tire herself supervising the stitching of servants’ clothes. He had had his reasons for wanting her fresh and rested—
Shivering a little, she dragged her thoughts back from completing that mental sojourn. She must be depraved to find such memories increasingly pleasurable. How her husband would laugh to know her most potent image of him contained not the cruelty for which she had condemned him, but tenderness.
Jonathan, leaving his musket with them, went off on foot to arrange the sale of the liquor. Catherine could have gone with him, but she preferred to stay behind with Aunt Em. She was under no illusions that she would be any added protection. In fact, the old woman would probably have to defend her as well as the liquor if they were discovered, but she did not care to see her left alone.
They stopped work at noon for a cup of coffee and a piece of venison wrapped in a cold biscuit. Afterward Aunt Em brought out her snuff box and took a soothing dip.
“Nasty habit,” she commented. “I don’t know why I do it.”
“It doesn’t hurt anybody,” Catherine observed mildly, staring at the grounds in the bottom of her coffee cup.
“Doesn’t help anybody, either,” the old woman snapped, then sighed. “There, I didn’t mean to be so tetchy. My conscience paining me, I don’t doubt. You’ve been on my mind, child. I’m worried about you.”
Catherine glanced up. “There’s no need.”
“Yes, there is. I’m a selfis
h old woman, looking after my own, forgetting everything else. I was hard on you, and I know it.”
“Nonsense.”
“No. It’s Jonathan, you see. He’s young, easy hurt. Right now I don’t think his heart was too set on you, but in time it would be. And I could see you was like the sweet pears at the top of the tree — out of his reach.”
“Oh no — that is—”
“You see? You can’t deny it. Even if it wasn’t so I wouldn’t like it. You’re too different, you and him. I’ve already seen with my son how that ends. I couldn’t bear it to happen again. Two people always pretending nothing matters but love. I could see tragedy waiting down that road. Again. I couldn’t let that happen. But I wish I knew what was going to happen to you. I wish I could be easy in my mind.”
“Don’t fret,” Catherine tried to console her. “I’ll be fine. My mother is too much the Creole, too steeped in the importance of family, to turn me away.”
“A woman like you should have a home of her own, children.”
A curious hurting made itself felt in the region of Catherine’s heart. “That’s in God’s hands, isn’t it?”
“Then I’ll pray he knows what he’s about—” Aunt Em said with a flash of dry humor. “I mean it. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”
More touched than she liked to admit, Catherine could only whisper, “Thank you.”
A short while later Jonathan returned with his buyer, a rotund man wearing the apron of a tavern keeper. They rode at the head of a mule caravan. So it came about that Catherine entered Natchez perched upon the back of a mule with her legs hanging sidesaddle over a cask of corn whiskey.
Catherine wore the gown she had been wearing when she was rescued from the river. Much the worse for its dunking despite careful washing and pressing, with the bodice held together by a thousand tiny stitches, it still had more style than anything Aunt Em possessed. Her slippers had been lost, probably far out to sea. She had no choice but to wear moccasins, and she had no bonnet, no gloves, no calling cards. It would not be surprising if her friend from convent days failed to recognize her, much less admit her.
One of Catherine’s fears had not materialized. There had been no trouble in finding Helene. Jonathan had insisted on making inquiries for her, but it seemed everyone knew the planter and jewel merchant, Mr. Wesley Martin, and most could point out his house.
It had to be conceded that Helene had done well for herself. The house, set down at the end of a curving drive which led through grounds and gardens covering several acres, was a Georgian mansion of red brick with a double gallery supported by four massive white columns. A white railing connected the columns and provided bannisters on either side of the steps leading up to the fan-lighted door. There was a distinction about the place, and, if it seemed austere to Catherine’s eyes, that could be put down to her unfamiliarity with that style of architecture.
Catherine had expected it to be hard to say good-bye to Jonathan. He made it easy for her. Lifting her down, he took her hand.
“I’ll wait until I see you go inside,” he said. “Aunt Em and I will be camped for a few days while we round up winter supplies. If there’s anything you don’t like you can always come back to us.” He gave her a quick smile, leaned to press a kiss to her brow, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary, then he dropped her hand and moved away leading the mules. He did not look back.
Clenching her teeth together to subdue an absurd desire to cry, Catherine climbed the steps. The doorknocker was, in her opinion, a trifle ostentatious, a large snarling lion’s head in bronze, but it was possible to take a firm grip upon it. To relieve her feelings she beat a vicious tattoo upon the panel, then stepped back in confusion as it immediately opened beneath her hand.
Like most of his breed, the butler before her was capable of taking in her attire from head to toe in the flicker of an eyelid. What he saw left him unmoved. His voice was distinctly cool as he asked, “Yes?”
Catherine drew herself up. In a soft, yet distant tone she replied, “Inform your mistress, if you please, that Madame Rafael Navarro née Mayfield is calling.”
It was easy to see that the man’s first inclination was to shut the door in her face. Failing that, he was certain she should be left standing on the doorstep while he inquired Madame Martin’s pleasure. Doubt stayed his hand. The voice, the manner were correct, but the appearance — It was, perhaps, the inflection of the French tongue so like that of his mistress which swayed him. He made Catherine a stiff bow and indicated that she should enter. As a compromise, however, he left her to sit or stand as she pleased in the entrance hall while he mounted the stairs to the floor above.
Frowning, Catherine stared about her, up and down the hall and through the open door of a salon. The house was beautifully clean, delightfully new, but nothing she saw reminded her of the sweet, rather quiet, girl she had known at convent. The furnishings, English in design, stood about in stiff self-consciousness, paired with angular tables upon which were laid passable, but totally lifeless, ornaments. The colors at the windows, dark greens and reds, were garish to her eyes, used as she was to the pastels beloved of the French cabinetmakers. The paintings on the walls were correctly dull children, animals, and landscapes, no shepherds and nymphs, Venuses, bathers, or classic angels au naturel. It was as if every piece of furniture, every ornament and painting, had been bought at the same time and place with no concession to personal likes or dislikes. Such a tasteless display of wealth left her with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. It did not speak well for her friend’s intelligence or perception.
A high scream jerked her attention toward the stairs. At the top a woman stood poised with her plump hands clapped to her mouth, her small brown eyes wide and staring. As Catherine turned she let out another little cry and started down the stairs in a flutter of lace and pink muslin.
“Catherine! It is you. It is! And they said you were dead!”
19
She might have guessed. She might have, that is, if she had allowed herself to recall the events of those few terrible days. She had not. The violent events had been a raw, unfading bruise at the back of her mind. She had not been able to bear touching upon it.
Helene Martin had no such inhibitions.
“My poor, dear Catherine, I can’t tell you how relieved — how thrilled I am to see you. Come and sit down. I must hear at once what has occurred to bring you to me.”
Pausing only to issue orders for refreshment to be served to them, she ushered Catherine into the stiff newness of the salon and shut the door.
“You will think it odd for me to appear on your doorstep,” Catherine began with a wry smile as she seated herself upon the unwelcoming surface of a horsehair sofa.
“Perhaps,” her friend agreed on a trill of laughter, “but I can’t begin to tell you how gratified I am that you have. I am right, aren’t I, in thinking that you have not contacted your mother — or — or anyone else?”
The vapid look in the eyes of the woman before her was something Catherine had not remembered. Always round of face and figure Helene had also grown rounder, with the beginnings of a double chin and an overabundance of bosom. The glittering rings she wore drew attention to the stubbiness of her fingers and the dimpled backs of her hands.
“That is right,” Catherine said gravely.
“Then I am among the first to know you are still alive. How marvelous! I will astonish all those in New Orleans — my mother and my sisters — who think I am out of everything here in Natchez. But tell me how this comes about. Marcus Fitzgerald arrived in New Orleans some weeks ago with a most affecting tale of tragic romance, according to my correspondents. He said that you and he — were in flight from your husband when you were set upon by a gang of cutthroat river boatmen. He was beaten and left for dead while you — you threw yourself into the river to escape that most dire fate which can overtake a woman. I think it the most romantic thing imaginable, if there is any truth in it. Is there?”
Unconsciously Catherine stiffened. Her voice was cool as she answered, “Very little, I’m afraid!”
“Oh—” Helene’s face fell in a ludicrous disappointment. The avid look faded from her rather small eyes to be replaced by a furtive skepticism as she flicked a glance over Catherine’s odd ensemble.
Bitter humor curved Catherine’s mouth and she had to force her words through the constriction in her throat. “Oh, it’s true enough, in part. I was leaving my husband. Marcus, however, was merely escorting me to New Orleans. Whether he was injured by the river boatmen, I don’t know, but I did choose the river to escape them when his — protection proved — inadequate.”
“I don’t understand. Marcus hinted it was your husband who caused the attack on you. Are you denying it?”
“Certainly. Rafael would not descend to such a petty revenge — even if he had felt strongly enough to instigate such a thing, or had had the time to arrange it.”
“You are defending your husband against your — against Marcus.”
“Yes,” Catherine said with emphasis, “since there was never any special relationship between us to incline me to favor him.”
“Then — why would he hint at it?” the other woman asked, leaning forward, her hands clasped in her lap and her fat, glossy sausage curls bobbing above each ear.
“I can only suppose,” Catherine said slowly, “that he wished to wound Rafael. He might have saved himself the trouble.”
Helene Martin opened her rosebud-shaped mouth, then something in Catherine’s face caused her to close it again. A look of crafty patience in her eyes, she said, “Maybe later, between us, we can thrash out his reasons. For now I will expire if you do not tell me how you cheated the river, and where you have been and what you have been doing.”
Catherine complied. It was easier than speaking of Rafael. Helene’s interest was natural, and she could hardly expect to enlist her aid without explanation. Yet resentment coursed along her nerves all the same. That Marcus had tried to exonerate himself came as no surprise. Still, why had he attempted to implicate Rafael? And why must everyone be so quick to believe him?
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 75