“So you see,” Catherine finished, choking out the final words, “I have come to you for the simple reason that I know no one else in Natchez and I am uncertain of my welcome in my mother’s house.”
Those halting words should have been enough to bring forth instant words of welcome, but Helene did not speak. She sat frowning with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Something like determination hardened within Catherine’s breast, and she continued. “I thought, Helene, since we had been such dear friends not so long ago, and you have often enjoyed the hospitality of my home, you might allow me to trespass upon yours. It will only be for a few days, until I can send a message to my mother and receive her answer.”
Helene moved uncomfortably, avoiding Catherine’s eyes. “Oh, Catherine, I wish I could tell you at once that I would be in transports to have you stay — you must know it is so. But you realize that a married woman must consult her husband. Wesley is a wonderful man, but — straitlaced, if you take my meaning. I am not certain he would wish me to — to—”
“To extend the hospitality of his house to a woman of such notoriety? I do take your meaning, you see, Helene. And I will bid you good-day.”
“No, no, don’t go,” Helene cried, rising hastily to put her hands on Catherine’s wrist as she got to her feet. “You must give me time to approach Wesley. He — he is unpredictable — that is, I may be able to persuade him.”
“Don’t disturb yourself, it’s no great matter,” Catherine replied with more pride than truth. “I shall manage.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Certainly not,” Catherine said. Her smile was brilliant as she turned away.
At that moment the salon door swung open and a short, stout man strode into the room.
“W-Wesley,” Helene said with a definite start, her grip tightening on Catherine’s arm.
“Helene, my dear, they told me you had company.”
“Yes. Yes, this is Catherine Mayfield Navarro, a friend, an old friend, from New Orleans.”
“I’ve heard my wife speak of you, Madame Navarro,” Helene’s husband acknowledged the introduction, moving forward to take Catherine’s hand in a tight, damp-fingered grip and bend his head over it.
Wesley Martin was considerably older than Helene, perhaps in his early forties, a husky man with thick shoulders and a slight tendency to overweight. His fine yellow hair was receding in front, exposing a bulging forehead covered with brown sun splotches. He was dressed in dark clothes of a somber exactitude that told Catherine at once who had chosen the furnishings for the house. The expression in his pale blue eyes, seen from between a fringe of yellow lashes, left her in no doubt that he had recognized her name and neatly categorized her in his mind.
“Catherine and I were just having tea. If you will join us in our second cup, I will ring for a fresh pot,” Helene offered.
“None for me,” Catherine said firmly. “I really must be going.”
“Nonsense. We haven’t visited at all. Stay only a little longer, and I’m sure Wesley will drive you back into town.”
When Catherine glanced involuntarily at Helene’s husband she found his gaze upon her, resting in speculation in the region of her breasts. Becoming aware of her attention, he glanced up then away. “Most happy to be of service,” he muttered.
Helene, reaching for the bell, cried, “That’s settled then. Do sit back down, Catherine. Wesley, you wouldn’t believe the adventure Catherine has had. I vow I am pea-green with envy. Let me tell you—”
“Forgive me, my dear, but I would prefer to hear it from Catherine, if you don’t mind.”
A frown creased the skin between Helene’s brows for a fluttering second. She said only, “Yes, perhaps that would be best.”
Catherine did not agree, still her version would, no doubt, be shorter and less embarrassing than Helene’s.
When she had finished he sat frowning, a hand on each knee. “Then, as I understand it, you are without friends, other than my wife, in Natchez.”
“That’s right, Wesley,” Helene answered before Catherine could form a noncommittal reply, “but she is so proud she prefers the discomforts of a tavern to our poor house.”
Wesley Martin frowned, his eyes narrowed. “A tavern is no place for an unattended female, especially a female of quality, as I’m sure you must have guessed after your experience, Catherine — I may call you Catherine?”
With an inclination of her head, Catherine gave her permission. “I am sure I can depend on the company of my rescuers.”
“That old woman and her grandson?”
“They protected me for quite a few weeks,” Catherine said, her voice stiff with distaste for this argument in support of the false position in which Helene had placed her.
“You were not in Natchez,” Helene’s husband said unanswerably. “You expect a prompt reply to this letter to your mother?”
“I’m not certain. Naturally I hope for one.”
“I suspected as much. It stands to reason that if you were positive you would be welcome at home there would be no necessity for writing in advance of your corning.”
“Very true,” Catherine said, the only possible answer to such devastating logic.
“Yes. I suspect also that your funds are limited. It only stands to reason. Therefore a protracted stay in a tavern would not only be unwise, but needlessly expensive.”
A small break in the conversation was provided by the arrival at last of fresh tea. Immediately after it had been poured, Wesley Martin resumed. “I believe under the circumstances that both Helene and I would feel that we had failed you if we did not insist that you stay with us. Your presence would be a joy to Helene, and I assure you no man ever regrets the addition of an attractive face at his table.”
Helene sent her husband a look of brimming gratitude before turning to Catherine. “There,” she said in suppressed triumph. “Now will you consent to stay?”
Agreeing was a formality. Catherine found herself caught in the vortex of a storm of furious energy. She was whisked above stairs and installed in a guest chamber of formidable proportions and excruciating formality. When asked if there was anything she would like, Catherine had asked unhesitatingly for a bath. This was brought to her, along with a supply of soap, scented with attar of roses, and soft linen towels.
Helene’s maid, when she first entered the room at her mistress’s command, was sullen of face. She was hardly reassured by the sight of the small but wickedly sharp knife in its porcupine quill decorated leather sheath which Catherine removed from her thigh before stepping into the tub. After a moment, however, she was absorbed by the challenge Catherine presented. Before long the maid was up to her elbows in the task of shampooing Catherine’s long honey-gold hair, and applying goose grease and buttermilk, witch hazel and vinegar, to restore her complexion to its customary paleness.
In the midst of the operation Helene arrived with a half-dozen gowns over her arm. She thrust them upon Catherine with a lavish gesture. “There should be something among these which you can wear, chèrie, with only the tiniest bit of taking in here and there. They are like new, I promise. I’ve done no more than try them on. Wesley buys all my clothes in New Orleans. These he refuses to let me wear. He says they make me look too old, a thing he abhors. I don’t see it myself, but I try to please him. It was his suggestion that I bring them along. He thought you would shrink, just now, from going out to the local modiste.”
Catherine accepted the gowns with a real and proper gratitude since they were beautifully simple, with a becoming sophistication. They were in dark colors, gray, plum, and mulberry, but that suited her mood. A pair of slippers were included in the bounty. They were a bit large but Helene quickly offered the services of one of their servants who had a cobbler’s skill. And if Catherine, as a result of all this thoughtfulness, began to suspect that it did not suit Wesley Martin to have his wife seen in public with their houseguest, she kept the idea to herself.
Dinner was a quiet meal. Immediately afterward Catherine retired to her room to write her note to her mother. Its composition was time-consuming since she had to keep in mind the misapprehensions her mother was under concerning her disappearance. She might have waited a day or two in the hope of improving on the wording, but there was a boat going downstream the next day and Helene’s husband had promised to have her missive on it. It was always possible that her mother might prefer to continue wearing mourning rather than face the resurrection of a daughter involved in scandal. However, Catherine could not let her learn of it from anyone else.
The days which followed stretched long and empty. Helene’s company soon ceased to be a novelty. Her conversation consisted of gossip — all prefaced by her husband’s views — and the discussion of patterns for needlework, her sole diversion. In between these two subjects she made constant probing reference to Catherine’s ordeal in an effort to prise further details out of her. Her frustration at Catherine’s refusal to be drawn left her pettish.
Catherine also discovered in her friend a tendency to jealousy. Wesley Martin could not address a half-dozen words to Catherine without Helene joining the conversation, her eyes sparkling with determined cheerfulness. In order to placate her hostess Catherine found herself withdrawing into herself, spending much time alone in her room on the plea of weakness and infirmity she did not feel. She also encouraged Helene to keep up her usual activities, her morning calls and sewing circle, as if she herself were not there. At first Helene refused, but as Catherine persisted in withholding her confidence, she grew miffed enough to ignore the obligations of hospitality. On an afternoon when Catherine had been particularly adept at evading her questions, Helene placed a bonnet trimmed under the brim with coquettish tufts of tulle upon her head and sailed out of the house in a huff.
Watching her go from her bedroom window, Catherine wondered if Helene would regale the ladies of her circle with the tale of her visitor. It was more than likely, and it would be in keeping if she also embellished the tale. Nothing too slanderous, of course; a questioning inflection of the voice, the lift of an eyebrow, would be enough to rip what little character she still possessed to shreds.
It was with surprise then that she heard a carriage returning a short time later. It was unlikely that the early homecoming had anything to do with her; it almost certainly was too early for a message to have been dispatched from New Orleans, but Catherine could not prevent herself from going out onto the stair landing.
Wesley Martin stood in the lower hall. As he caught sight of Catherine at the head of the stairs his colorless lips moved in a smile. He stuffed a letter he had been reading into his pocket, and handed the waiting butler his hat and cane.
“They tell me Helene has gone out and left you alone,” he called.
Descending the stairs, Catherine replied, “Yes, I insisted.”
“It’s such a pretty day, our first cool spell this fall. I thought you two might enjoy a drive in the phaeton. I have a couple of calls to make in the city and then we could have a turn in the country.”
“How thoughtful.” Catherine meant what she said. She had been inside longer than she liked. An outing would have been an antidote to the anxiety of waiting.
“If I know my wife, it will be hours before she can drag herself away from her friends. By then it will be too late. Could I, by any chance, prevail upon your good nature, Catherine, and persuade you to bear me company?”
Such a drive would be unexceptional in normal circumstances. Catherine knew a moment’s doubt concerning the present ones, but if staid Wesley Martin was inclined to brave propriety, why should she worry? She had little to lose.
“I would enjoy it immensely, if you think I might borrow a bonnet from Helene.”
A pair of matched bays drew the phaeton at a smart clip along the road into town. In that bustling center they stopped before a squat brick building that carried a sign advertising a jeweler over the door. Catherine was not surprised when Wesley Martin got down and went inside, remembering that one of his many interests was in gemstones. Their next halt was outside the ornamental fence surrounding a small planter’s style house with overhanging galleries and neat green jalousies. Explaining that he was thinking of purchasing it as an investment, Wesley asked Catherine for her opinion on a number of improvements. Then at last they headed south, out along the bluff road, winding up through forests of huge oaks hung with grape and muscadine vines. Wesley took the whip from the socket and touched up the team, laughing deep in his throat as he saw the exhilaration shining in Catherine’s amber-gold eyes.
It was such a pleasure to be free of the confining walls of the house and of Helene’s prying, to feel the vigor of the wind in her face and the joy of life pulsing in her veins. She wanted to drive on forever — or she would if the man beside her was—
The sudden swinging of the vehicle made her glance sharply at Wesley. The reins were still firmly in his hands, but he was taking a turn. The rutted and rocky track lead finally to the edge of the bluff overlooking the river.
“The view from here is said to be outstanding,” Helene’s husband said, setting the brakes and wrapping the reins around the whip handle before he climbed down.
Catherine, following his example, was forced to agree. Beneath the bluff ran the wide Mississippi, a muddy brown nearer in, but blue as midnight where it spread to the distance-hazed Louisiana shore. The height brought a majestic sweep of gray-blue sky and green tree-line into view, more than Catherine, hedged in all her life by a tree-crowded, flat land, had seen in her life. Unconsciously she moved closer to the overlook.
A quick step brought Wesley close to her side. He placed a hand under her elbow. “Take care, the edge may crumble,” he cautioned, then pointed across the river. “Look over there, straight across. That’s my land, my plantation.”
“Really?”
“Ten thousand acres.”
Catherine had to smile at the swelling pride in his voice. “Do you plan to build there?”
“No, no. It’s too low, swampy, fine for crops, but it’s unhealthy. Most planters with Louisiana delta land live on this side of the river, in Natchez. But I don’t want to get started on that. You see, Catherine, I brought you up here for a special reason. I — have something to tell you.”
The grave, faintly portentous tone of his voice was no longer amusing. It sent a shiver of apprehension along Catherine’s nerves. “Yes? What is it?”
“When I sent your message to New Orleans I gave strict instructions that a man was to wait for an answer and return here with all speed. He — he returned this morning.”
When Wesley did not go on Catherine forced a smile. “He was certainly swift.”
“Yes, but — I don’t know how to tell you.” Wesley looked down. “There was no answer.”
“No answer?” Catherine repeated.
Wesley Martin looked back at her. “Your note-of-hand was taken in to your mother. He waited outside for hours, then when he asked at the door, he was told there would be no reply.”
Catherine turned her face away, grateful for the concealing frame of Helene’s bonnet. She had thought she was ready for whatever her mother decided, but she had been wrong. She knew at that moment that she had never expected her mother to reject her plea for help.
Helene’s husband moved nearer, his hand moving up her arm to cup her shoulder.
“I know what a blow this must be,” he said. “You will be wondering what you will do now. I think — I believe — I have a solution.”
Catherine wanted nothing so much as to be alone. Still, she raised her head, bringing herself to some semblance of attention.
“I am a wealthy man. I can give you almost anything you want, clothes, the house we looked at in town, jewels — I have a bracelet I chose for you just now—”
“And in return?” Catherine interrupted, her revulsion masked by sheer disbelief.
“In return you will give me what I have wanted
since I walked into my house and saw you standing in my parlor in your rags — yourself!”
The grip on her shoulder tightened abruptly. Wesley swung her around, dragging her up against the roundness of his paunch. She was engulfed in the smell of stale sweat, made too aware of the hard urgency of his desire for her. With a sharp effort she pushed him away to arm’s length.
“No!” she cried. “I will not be your kept woman!”
“What else can you do?” he asked, his smile unpleasant.
“I’ll walk the streets first,” Catherine declared, throwing her head back.
Anger suffused his face. He jerked her back, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper arms. “Will you?” he muttered. “Will you? Then you can start with me.”
His hot, thick lips slid wetly across Catherine’s face searching for her mouth. She felt herself drawn nearer, his arms closing tightly around her, subduing her struggles. That too familiar feeling of helpless outrage screamed within her head. And then she remembered Aunt Em in a wood clearing, her voice quiet, dispassionate, pointing out a woman’s strengths, a man’s weaknesses.
Shifting her weight, Catherine brought her knee up in Wesley’s groin. The instant his hold loosened, she twisted away, trying to get out of reach.
But he was not done. With a bull’s roar he lunged, his closing fingers clutching at Catherine’s limbs. Together they fell, rolling in the grass. His weight was heavy upon her. She felt his hand pushing up beneath her skirts. Curling her hand into a fist, she beat at his unprotected face, but he did not seem to feel it. He heaved himself higher and his forearm came down across her throat.
She could not breathe. The air was cool on her flesh as her skirts rode higher. His knee was between her legs, forcing them apart.
And then her groping fingers touched the handle of the knife fastened to her thigh. She gripped it convulsively, tugging it free. Her back arched, and in that unsettled instant she slashed upward, driving the blade through cloth and skin and muscle to the bone. She ended the thrust as she had been taught, with a quick, tearing twist of the wrist.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 76