Midnight Rose

by Patricia Hagan

  Arlene glanced up sharply, surprised by the lilt in her voice. She was even more baffled by her expression—eyes shining, lips curved in a smile that was sanguine. “You…you sound almost happy, Rosa,” she said hesitantly. “Is there something I don’t know?”

  A shadow passed as Rosa checked herself. She realized she was arousing suspicion by letting her pleasure show. She trusted her mistress. Lordy, yes. But there was no way she was going to let her know about the Free Soilers, or let her become involved in any of it, not with her poor health. “No ma’am,” she responded, lowering her head as she began to clasp and twist her hands, as though nervous, worried. “There’s nothin’. I just leave it all to the Lord, put it in His hands, and I know He’s got to be lookin’ out for my little girl. After all, it was His will she was able to escape.”

  Arlene bit down on her lip thoughtfully. There was just something about the way Rosa was acting that made her feel she was hiding something. “Have you heard from her, Rosa?” she asked softly. “Has she got a message to you, telling you where she is?” She reached to cover her folded hands in assurance. “You know you can trust me. If there’s anything I can do to help—”

  “No, ma’am,” Rosa repeated, raising her head to look her straight in the eye and say, “I ain’t heard from her, and it’s not likely I’m goin’ to, and there’s nothin’ you can do. And if I never hear from her again, I’ll still have a feelin’ in my heart that she’s better off wherever she is, than if the mastah had sold her on the block.”

  Arlene turned to pour herself a cup of tea. “It’s not right, Rosa. Any of it. And you know you’ve got my sympathy. I’ve tried through the years to make things easier for you and the others, but I’m afraid I haven’t been very successful. Mr. Tremayne is a stubborn, willful man. I was never able to persuade him to my way of thinking, though Lord knows, I tried.”

  “I know that, and so do all the others. We all love you, Miz Arlene, and we think you’re a fine, Christian woman. We know the way the mastah treats us ain’t none of your fault.”

  “If I had my way, Rosa, every one of you would be set free.”

  “We know that, too, and forgive me if it hurts you for me to say so”—she dared to add—“but there ain’t a one of us what don’t pray every night of our lives that the mastah will die befo’ mornin’, so you’d set us free by sunset.”

  Arlene closed her eyes, drew in her breath, and let it out slowly, washed with guilt over the inability to voice loyalty to her husband. All she could do was remain silent, lest her own loathing be revealed. Finally, she looked at Rosa and said, “Maybe it’s best we don’t talk about this anymore.”

  Stiffly, Rosa nodded but ventured to ask, “Aren’t you glad the mastah ain’t here right now? Aren’t you hopin’ he don’t come back before the weddin’ is over?”

  “Oh, yes. As selfish as it might sound, Letty escaping when she did made things a lot easier for me right now. All I want is to get Erin safely married and out of the house before he comes back.”

  “I hope…” Rosa began, then hesitated, but finally decided to come right out and say it, “I hope you move off with her, Miz Arlene.”

  Arlene had been tipsy on champagne when Erin had mentioned the same thing at the engagement party, but she had not forgotten and dared to hope such a possibility might become reality…if she lived long enough. Ryan Youngblood was a fine man, she believed, as well as strong and powerful and rich. Although he didn’t realize it yet, he was going to fall desperately in love with Erin and become absolutely devoted to her. And if she wanted her mother to move in and live with them, he not only wouldn’t protest, he would also, Arlene felt sure, stand up to Zachary should he try to prevent it. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” she told Rosa. “We’ll just have to take one day at a time.

  “But,” she hastened to add, “if that happens, you’re going with me. I’d never leave you here. Remember that.”

  “He wouldn’t let me go, but don’t worry, I wouldn’t stay after you was gone, Miz Arlene. I’d run away and try to find my girl.”

  Arlene gave her a probing look as she lightly accused, “I think you’d know where to look, too, Rosa. I think you know more than you’re telling me, and—” She was struck by a coughing spell.

  Rosa leaped to pat her on the back, try to get her to sip some tea. Arlene gestured wildly, desperately, to the bottle of green horehound syrup on the bedside table.

  Even after she took a deep swallow, it was a few moments before the coughing subsided. As she gasped, trying to fill her lungs with air once more, there was a shrill, wheezing sound. Rosa watched her with wide, frightened eyes, saw the blood on the linen handkerchief she’d used to cover her mouth during the spasm. It was getting worse, Rosa realized sadly. Gently, she related that Tulwah had told her only the day before that the potion he was brewing was almost ready.

  “He’s been coming almost regularly since Mr. Tremayne has been away,” Arlene warily pointed out, still struggling to get her breath. “You need to warn him that Mr. Tremayne could come back anytime, and if he catches him here, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “Tulwah ain’t afraid.” Rosa lifted her chin in a sudden flash of defiance. “If it won’t fo’ him, none of us would have no doctorin’. The mastah won’t never let no doctor come for a sick slave. And he ought to be grateful, ’cause Tulwah has sho’ kept some of his slaves from dyin’.”

  “Another plantation owner might care if their slaves die,” Arlene said, more to herself than to Rosa. “Other men value their slaves and consider it a loss of property when one of them dies, but he doesn’t care. He just goes out and gets another one.”

  “I think he’s scared of Tulwah.”

  “I don’t know about that, but he does feel Tulwah is a bad influence, that he teaches witchcraft and voodoo. The last time he caught him around the compound, he was in a rage for days, and I overheard him tell one of the overseers to shoot him if he came back.”

  Rosa shivered with instinctive fright. “I’ll tell him to be careful. I knows where he lives, and I’ll slip down there and get the potion myself, soon as it’s ready.”

  Wearily, weakly, Arlene shook her head. Rosa was the only person in whom she dared confide. “It won’t help any more than this juice the doctor gave me. The attacks are coming closer together, lasting longer, and it takes more juice to ease them. I have good days and bad days, but the bad days seem to be getting closer together. All I pray for is to have the strength to get me through this wedding, and then I think I can curl up and die happy.” She smiled wanly.

  “Mastah Youngblood, he’s takin’ care of everything?”

  “That’s what he said. And I’m grateful, to be sure. I couldn’t chance having anything here. What if Mr. Tremayne walked in right in the middle of the reception?” She shuddered at the thought. “Believe me, Rosa, I am very grateful Mr. Youngblood took charge.”

  “Were you surprised he didn’t want to have it at the church? I thought most white folks got married in the church.”

  Arlene had to laugh at that notion where Ryan Youngblood was concerned. She might not be a member of the elite inner circle of Richmond society, but she prided herself in keeping up with what went on. It was said that Ryan Youngblood was a nonconformist, a rebel. So like Erin, she mused with private delight. And Arlene was not at all surprised he did not want to have a church wedding. “It’s to be in the formal gardens at Jasmine Hill, quite lovely this time of year.

  “You’ll see it all,” she went on brightly to assure her. “I want you to go with us, so you can help Erin with her dress and her hair.”

  That made Rosa remember. “There were two wagons here, first thing this morning, to deliver lots of packages.”

  “Two?” Arlene’s brows shot up in bewilderment. “That’s strange. I was only expecting a delivery from Madame Cherise’s shop. Not only is she the best couturiere in the state, but she also happens to have Erin’s measurements from her fitting for the Rose Ball.
Erin isn’t exactly cooperating in all of this, you know.”

  Rosa nodded in agreement. She had overheard Miss Erin say she saw no need in spending a lot of money on fancy clothes before the wedding. She’d just let Master Youngblood pay for them afterward. Rosa also knew Miss Erin’s reasoning was, no doubt, to get her hands on shopping money and then slip part of it out to Mahalia, but she wasn’t about to say so.

  Rosa described the boxes that had arrived, spelling out the few letters she knew that were marked on each. Arlene stared at her incredulously and asked, “Are you sure? It sounds like you’re spelling out Fine Things, and I’d never shop there. It’s run by Madam Estelle, and it’s not just a boutique for intimate apparel, it’s…” Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to speak to Rosa of such things.

  Just then, however, Erin walked into the bedroom to finish the sentence angrily for her. “It’s a whorehouse!”

  Arlene and Rosa both whipped their heads about to stare at her; her face was livid with rage. She was carrying several pink boxes, all trailing lavender-colored tissue and red satin ribbons. She crossed the room to dump all on the bed as though they were garbage. Turning to Rosa, she went on to explain, “Fine Things is a shop where very revealing lingerie is sold. Things like this.” She reached among the boxes to pluck out a red lace gown with holes for nipples to protrude. Flinging it down in disgust, she extracted other items with equal exclamations of disrelish, then curtly said, “Madam Estelle runs a house of prostitution on the second floor.”

  Arlene’s hand went to her throat, aghast that such garments had inadvertently been sent to her home and also surprised Erin knew so much about the place.

  Erin guessed what she was thinking and snapped, “Don’t look at me like that, Mother. I do hear gossip, you know, and I don’t think there’s a girl over the age of ten in all of Richmond who doesn’t know what goes on upstairs over Estelle’s boutique. They eavesdrop on grownups every chance they get, just like I did, because they’re curious, and that’s how they find out.”

  “Well, I wonder why they made a mistake and sent those things here,” Arlene said.

  “It was no mistake.”

  Arlene blinked, confused. “It wasn’t?”

  “No! Don’t you see? Those things were sent by that—that reprobate”—she sputtered indignantly—“that you insist I marry, and, oh!” She whirled around, threw up her arms, and began to pace furiously about the room. “I just can’t believe he had the nerve to do such a thing.”

  Arlene and Rosa glanced at each other nervously. Finally, Arlene endeavored to change the subject. “Well, did you see your wedding gown, dear? I liked it when Madame Cherise showed it to me in her shop, and she said she could alter it to fit you. There wasn’t time to design one, and—”

  “It’s fine.” Erin ground out the words icily. She couldn’t care less what she got married in, could hardly think straight, anyway, past the blinding rage over Ryan being so audacious as to pick out lingerie and have it sent to her, as if she were some kind of whore herself! Damn him, she inwardly cursed.

  Arlene pressed on to divert her anger. “Rosa said there were two boxes from Cherise. What was in the other one, dear?”

  “Don’t tell me he ordered that, too!” She stopped pacing to stare at her mother. “It’s a dove silk suit. Quite lovely. Quite tasteful. Modest. Not like anything he would choose. Now that, I would say, is accurate to call a mistake. I’ll check on that, too.” She started gathering up the boxes.

  Rosa did not know what was going on but quickly moved to help her repack the lingerie in the boxes and retie them with the satin ribbons.

  Arlene watched, bemused, for a moment, then cautiously asked, “What are you doing, dear?”

  “I’m taking everything back.”

  “To Ryan? He had it delivered, and—”

  “Oh, I’m returning it to the store. I want him to feel like a fool when Madam Estelle has to tell him that his fiancée was insulted that he’d pick out such naughty things.” She held out a black lace gown and laughed, but inside, she had to admit she felt a warm tremor to think of wearing it for him. Still, she had to put him in his place. After all, selecting and sending such personal things was not something a man did for his fiancée. That was something he did for his mistress, and—

  She froze, washed with fresh rage, for suddenly it dawned on her exactly what his motive had been.

  This was his way of reminding her she was no more to him than what he’d intended when he set out to pursue her in the first place.

  Well, by God, she would show him.

  “Tell Ben to saddle my horse,” she snapped to Rosa as she hurried out of the room to change into riding clothes.

  Arlene, stunned, called, “But why aren’t you taking one of the carriages? If you ride into town with all those boxes strapped on the back of a horse, people will see, and they’ll know where they came from, and they’ll wonder what’s going on.”

  “Fine!” Erin was quick to shout over her shoulder as she went down the hall toward her room. “I hope they follow me like they did Lady Godiva, and if Ryan Youngblood is watching, I hope he’s struck blind or dead like the ones that dared look at her!”

  Arlene shook her head and told Rosa, “Heaven help us when those two get together!”

  Many heads did turn as Erin rode straight through the heart of Richmond. She had purposely turned the pink boxes so that the name Fine Things, emblazoned in red, shown brightly for all to see. They were also staring at her, for few women were ever seen riding astraddle a horse and wearing men’s riding breeches.

  Madam Estelle’s place had been constructed in a space that had once been a very wide alley between two buildings. Cozy and intimate, it was set back from a busy street, the short way paved in cobblestones. A red-and-pink-striped canopy sheltered the steps leading up to a porch hidden behind a thick cascade of lilacs and honeysuckle vines. There were several small tables with chairs and a few empty wine bottles, which evidenced waiting clientele from the evening before.

  There was no hint that it was a house of prostitution, or even a shop for ladies lingerie. Such unmentionables were certainly not advertised, so there was only a small pink-and-white plaque beside the door that simply stated, “Fine Things.”

  There were two windows on each side of the curtained door, but the pink velvet drapes were closed, and Erin could not see inside. Not about to just walk right in, she lifted the brass knocker and let it drop loudly.

  Almost at once the door opened, and a woman with bright red hair peered out at her. She had orange splotches of rouge oh her cheeks, and her eyelids were dusted with a gaudy shade of purple. Her lips were painted blood red, and she was wearing a yellow satin robe with some kind of fluffs’ feathers all around the collar that made Erin want to sneeze.

  The woman looked Erin up and down curiously, noticed she was carrying several of her pink boxes, and said, “Yeah? What do you want?” She did not recognize Erin as anyone who had ever shopped there, and Estelle prided herself in knowing, and catering to, every rich man’s mistress in Richmond.

  Erin gave her an equally thorough once over. Actually, she was dying to peek inside. She had no idea what such a place would look like, and curiosity burned. She gave herself a mental shake. There was no time for wondering. She wanted to get her business over with as quickly as possible. Crisply, she said, “I believe Mr. Ryan Youngblood did some shopping with you recently.”

  Estelle continued to stare blankly, even though it suddenly dawned on her who this woman was.

  Erin was growing impatient. People passing by on the main street, just a short distance away, could glance in and see her standing there on the porch, and she didn’t want that. “Well?” She drew a ragged breath, struggling to hold all the boxes in her arms. “You do know Mr. Youngblood, don’t you? And these things did come from your shop, didn’t they?”

  Estelle was also losing patience. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, girlie, and I do
n’t have time to stand here and—”

  “Neither do I!” Erin released her hold, let the boxes fall to the porch. With a wave of dismissal, she stepped back to declare icily, “Just tell Mr. Youngblood that his fiancée is very indignant that he would send her such insulting and degrading garments, and that your delivery person undoubtedly made a mistake in not taking them to his mistress.”

  With that, she turned and walked down the steps as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

  Estelle opened the door all the way and furiously began to pick up the parcels. Behind her, Corrisa Buckner, dressed to go out, watched. She had been on her way down the stairs but paused to witness the scene, curious when she had heard Ryan’s name mentioned.

  “Arrogant little chit!” Estelle fumed as she began to gather the filmy lingerie that had spilled out of the boxes. “Ryan must have rocks in his head to get himself involved with a cold fish like her. He sure ain’t gonna find no warmth in her bed. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to tell him that, either. He’s going to be madder than drawin’ from a deck with five aces when he finds out what she’s done. I’ll just stack these things in the back room, and the next time he comes in, he can do whatever he wants to with ’em.”

  Corrisa couldn’t help laughing as she stooped to help her. “He’s going to be mad, all right.”

  “Maybe you’ll wind up with ’em,” Estelle offered, then couldn’t resist adding tartly, “I haven’t seen him around here lately. Maybe you need something new to entice him.”

  At that, Corrisa bristled. She was not at all happy over the way Ryan had stopped coming around. Straightening, she continued on her way and snapped, “Pick it up yourself.”

  She saw that Erin was heading across the street in the direction of Madame Cherise’s shop.

  So that was Ryan’s future wife, she mused, the woman everyone was talking about as they tried to figure out just how she had managed to make him forget all about his betrothal to Ermine Coley. It was said she was quite beautiful, though Corrisa had not had a good look. She could see she had long, sable-black hair that fell silkily all the way to her incredibly tiny waist. And she was tall, with a well-rounded bottom that was presently swishing furiously from side to side in the tight men’s breeches she was wearing.