by Jane Toombs
"All I wanted was to be someone I wasn't—a lady—if only for one night, to help Philippe win a bet. Is that so wrong? Have you ever been a nobody, Colonel Chestnut? And a female nobody to boot? Do you know what it's like not to be able to call your life your own?"
He regarded her gravely for a second or two. “I admit I haven't been a nobody, as you call it, and I do not believe anyone should think of herself as a nobody. Obviously I've not been a female, though my wife has informed me often enough of the so-called plight of the fairer sex. According to Mrs. Chestnut, the female of our species is, next to the slaves, the most oppressed of creatures."
"So they are,” Mary agreed, her anger ebbing. Looking at the colonel shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, she sighed. “I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I had no business coming here where I'm not welcome. Where I'm not wanted."
"Tell me precisely how you did come to be here, Miss Vere, you and Manigault. I'm intrigued."
She told him of Philippe's wager with Jeremy, of their lessons in the pergola behind the Addison House, of her fear of being found out, and of Philippe's counsel and support.
"The man should call himself Pygmalion rather than Manigault,” the colonel said when she finished.
"Pygmalion? I never heard of him. Is he from Charleston, too?"
"No, we South Carolinians can't claim him.” The colonel smiled. “He was a Greek, a sculptor in a Greek myth, rather. A very demanding gentleman. So demanding, in fact, that there was not a Greek woman created who possessed the feminine virtues he desired. He solved his problem by carving a statue of the perfect woman.
"This still left something to be desired, since flesh-and-blood woman have obvious advantages over the marble variety. The gods took pity on him and brought the statue to life."
Fascinated by the tale, Mary asked, “What happened then?"
"The myth doesn't say, though I suspect Pygmalion often wished he had his statue back again. Women have much sharper tongues than statues. At least that's been my experience."
"I'm sorry if anything I said offended you, sir,” she said.
"I wasn't referring to you, Miss Vere. I had someone else in mind."
"I'll find Philippe, and we'll leave,” Mary told him. “I never should've thought I could be someone I'm not."
"Wait. You mustn't leave the ball on my account. As long as Manigault makes no attempt to take advantage of his little deception, I'll not expose you."
She stared at him in disbelief. “You won't?"
"I'd be less than a gentleman if I caused embarrassment to—” he paused—"a lady. If I were twenty years younger and not married, of course, you'd find me in the forefront of your admirers. I like women with spirit. I have difficulty living with them, but I like them."
"Oh, Colonel Chestnut.” Impulsively, Mary leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. His face reddened.
"Miss Vere,” he said, “you've just established my reputation as a ladies’ man. Now I'm the one who must leave, before I forget my age and my marital responsibilities.” He bowed. “I see your friend Manigault hovering about, waiting for you. Let me offer a word of advice from a man old enough to be your father. Don't trust that particular gentleman too far."
With another bow, Colonel Chestnut was gone.
Philippe strode to her side. “What happened? Was he suspicious? What did he say?"
"Why, Philippe,” Mary said, exaggerating her drawl, “I just fluttered my little old eyelashes at the colonel and he remembered meeting me in Charleston."
"Are you telling the truth? Did he really say that?"
Mary laughed. “No, he didn't,” she said, turning serious. “He found me out within the space of two minutes. Did you know Fort Sumter was on a island? I didn't. But he doesn't intend to expose us.” She told Philippe what had happened, leaving out the colonel's last words of warning.
"Well, I'll be damned,” Philippe said when she finished. “Good for him."
"How about me?"
"Of course, good for you as well. You never cease to amaze me, Mary Vere. You're a credit to my acuity in recognizing a true lady. Come, this is our dance, the last one before supper. When it's over, I'll bring you a glass of champagne to celebrate our triumph."
He led her onto the floor, took her in his arms, and they joined the other waltzing couples. Never before had she been so light on her feet. She swooped, she was flying. Elated, she circled the room in Philippe's arms, as exultant as a bird released from its cage. She didn't need champagne. She was intoxicated with happiness. She could be whatever she wanted to be, whatever she set her mind on becoming. Not only tonight, but for the rest of her life, not only here in Montgomery, but wherever she might go.
The sound of music rose and fell, the gaslights glowed warmly, and the other couples whirled past in a glittering array of colors. She heard laughter and the clink of glasses raised in toasts and smelled the delicate scents of French colognes and the muskier ones of perfumes.
This is what I want, she thought. This is where I belong. If only Jeremy dances with me again, my happiness will be complete.
Looking about the room to see if he'd returned from his meeting, she noticed that there appeared to be fewer dancers on the floor. Were the others going upstairs to supper already? She glanced at Philippe, but he seemed to be unaware anything had changed.
Mary closed her eyes, letting Philippe's light touch guide her around and around. Much as she wished Jeremy would appear and ask her to dance, much as she wanted to be held in his arms, actually no worrisome thoughts plagued her when Philippe was her partner, so she could simply relax and enjoy the music and the dance. What did it matter when they ate supper?
She felt Philippe stiffen and opened her eyes. He was glancing from right to left. Now they were, she saw, among the very few couples on the floor. As she watched, another couple retreated to the side of the room. Young men walked from group to group, murmuring a few words before moving on.
"What is it?” she asked Philippe. “What's happening? Is something wrong?"
"I don't know, but I don't like it. We're now one of only three couples."
Mary realized the ballroom had quieted, the talk and laughter stilled, the music the only sound. Onlookers stood along the sides of the room in silence, watching the few dancers. Another couple left the floor.
"Could your Colonel Chestnut, your great admirer, have betrayed us?” Philippe asked.
"No, he wouldn't do that.” Somehow she was positive he would not.
The last remaining couple stopped dancing. The women, Mary saw, with dismay were slipping from the ballroom, leaving the men gathered around the floor. Men with set, grim faces.
"Shall we rest?” Philippe asked. “Perhaps stroll the gardens?” The tremor in his voice betrayed his worry. “I don't think we—” He broke off. “Oh, my God."
"What, what?” she asked.
"You were right. It's him."
She followed his gaze to the shadowed entrance to the conservatory where a stocky blond man stood watching them. Shocked, she hesitated in mid-step, almost causing Philippe to stumble before they danced on.
"It's Micah, isn't it?” he asked.
She nodded, seeing the healing scabs her fingernails had left on Micah's cheeks. Her heart raced, her thoughts in a jumble. What should they do?
At that instant the waltz ended and they were left standing alone in the center of the ballroom.
"Bow to me,” Mary whispered urgently.
He did, and she curtsied. They turned to find Micah and a short but burly, freckled young man advancing toward them. The room, now that the music had stopped, was hushed. All the women except Mary were gone. Refusing to give in to her mounting fear, she stood erect, chin up.
"We've found you out,” the shorter man told Philippe. “Our friend, Micah Randolph here, has told us all about you."
Micah smiled.
Philippe didn't so much as glance at Micah, keeping his gaze on the speaker. “I don't know what you
mean, sir."
"You know damn well,” Micah snarled. “You brought her"—the word was a sneer—"here tonight."
"You've insulted the fair ladies of Montgomery,” the other man said, “and you've mocked us."
"I'm sure you'll be satisfied when I explain,” Philippe began.
"No more talk,” the stocky man said. “We mean to teach you a lesson you'll not soon forget."
Micah and the other man stepped to either side of Philippe and grasped his arms above the elbows. Though he struggled, he couldn't break free. They half-pulled, half-carried him toward the men clustered at the side of the room.
Anger banished Mary's fear and she ran after them.
"Cowards!” she shouted. “What kind of men are you? Forty against one!"
A hand grasped her arm, stopping her. Paul Rowe.
"Leave while there's yet time,” he said under his breath. “Don't wait until they turn on you."
"I can't leave Philippe. Help me. You've got to help me."
"I can't. After all, you did deceive us, didn't you? I have no quarrel with you. You're a woman. He must have put you up to it. We'll see he gets his just desserts."
"You're as bad as the rest of them,” she accused, shaking off his hand and hurrying toward the archway through which Micah and the other man had dragged Philippe. She found the room beyond the archway empty. Turning to look back she saw that Paul Rowe, too, had disappeared. Except for the musicians on the balcony, the ballroom was deserted.
Impeded by her hoop skirt, she hurried across the entry hall to the front door. The liveried servant was gone. Pulling open the door, she saw the women at the bottom of the steps, some waiting, some entering carriages and driving off. Mary ran down the steps.
"You've got to help me!” she cried. “They'll hurt him. They might kill him."
The women turned away from her to stare at the dark buildings across the street, doing their best to ignore her as she hurried from one group to the next, pleading with them. Finally, realizing the futility of expecting help from any of them, Mary held up her skirts and ran up the Wheaton Hotel steps. Pausing at the top, she looked down at another carriage, stopped while a footman helped two women climb inside.
"God damn you all!” she shouted. She had to be satisfied with the startled gasps she heard, because not one of the women so much as glanced at her.
Pushing open the hotel door, she crossed the entry hall. The room seemed darker and she saw several of the candles in the great chandelier had guttered out. Jeremy. Where was he? She had to find him.
Mary raced down a corridor past a succession of closed rooms, shouting his name. Her only answer was the echo of her own voice.
She pushed open a door and found herself once more in the deserted ballroom. Whirling away, she ran along another corridor, where she almost collided with a Negro slave in red-and-gold livery, the whites of his eyes prominent.
"Where are they?” she demanded. “Where did they take him?"
Fear flickered across the Negro's face. He hesitated, then nodded at a door farther along the corridor. She rushed to it, pulled the door open and saw, through the high windows at the end of a hall, the ghostly white light of torches.
Panting, she sped to the windows where she stopped, staring in horror across the lawn sloping away from the hotel.
A double row of men stood outlined in the flare of torches thrust into the ground. At the head of the row Micah and another man held Philippe between them. He was naked. As she watched, Micah shoved him forward between the rows. The men raised they weapons—canes, clubs, the flat sides of swords—and viciously flailed Philippe as he stumbled past them. The knobbed head of a cane hit the side of his head and he pitched forward onto his knees. The men crowed round to beat his bare back.
Mary screamed. She darted back along the corridor, pushing open doors until she found one that led outside. She plunged though and across the lawn, where she hurled herself at the first man she came to, pummeling his back with her fists. He turned, snarling, recognized her and shoved her away. She staggered back.
Philippe was on his feet again, stumbling ahead under a rain of blows. “Get the tar ready,” a man shouted. “Bring the feathers."
She started forward again, but a hand caught her arm. She struck out wildly before she recognized the man. “Jeremy!” she gasped.
"Find a carriage,” he ordered. “Bring it here. Hurry!"
He let her go and advanced toward the men, the pistol in his hand glinting in the torchlight.
Mary rushed across the grass toward the rear of the hotel, coming onto a gravel road where she saw a group of Negro men huddled together, keeping a safe distance from the vengeance-minded mob. She slowed, keeping to the shadows as she edged past them. A buggy, the horse tethered to a hitching post, stood in front of a low building. Untying the reins, she found a handhold and, hampered by her skirts, pulled herself up into the driver's seat. She yanked the whip from its socket.
"What you doing there?” One of the Negroes approached her, his lantern raised in the darkness.
She whipped the horse, calling out to it, and the animal lunged forward, scattering gravel behind him. She guided the horse from the road onto the lawn.
Ahead of her, Jeremy, pistol in hand, supported Philippe as the two men retreated from the angry, shouting mob. Mary reined in behind them.
"Jeremy!” she called.
He looked over his shoulder and saw her. Pulling Philippe, whose pale skin was bruised and bloodstained, he turned and ran to the buggy. Shoving Philippe up ahead of him, he climbed in behind Mary as she wielded the whip. The horse charged ahead. A man ran beside the buggy, cursing at her. Micah. She lashed at him with the whip, saw his hand go to his face, and then he was gone. She hoped she'd given him another scar to add to ones from her fingernails.
The buggy clattered onto the road. “Where to?” she called back to Jeremy. He didn't hear her as he leaned from buggy and fired over the heads of their pursuers.
"Bastards,” he shouted. “Damn bastards."
The buggy careened from the driveway onto a cobbled street.
"Where are we going?” she asked once more.
"I've had enough of the genteel South,” Jeremy said. “Damn them and their money. We're heading west to California."
The money her father had sent her mother had come from a bank in San Francisco. If she went there, maybe she'd be able to find him. “I'm going with you,” she told Jeremy, turning to look at him.
He stared at her. At last he nodded. “You can't stay here, that's for damn sure. The three of us then. First New Orleans, then California.” She smiled. No longer hearing sounds of pursuit, she slowed the buggy. “The three of us,” she repeated under her breath.
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CHAPTER 5
The square-rigger Columbia, two days out of Panama City, sped north before a freshening breeze. The Central American coast, visible all during the first day, had disappeared beneath the eastern horizon late in the afternoon of the second.
The sun was down and the sky was darkening when Jeremy came to stand beside Philippe at the rail. Neither spoke as Jeremy lit a cigarillo, and Philippe continued to stare across the waters of the Pacific.
"What are your intentions?” Jeremy asked as he leaned on the rail.
"My intentions? I plan to head for the Sierra gold fields as soon as I raise a new stake."
"Don't pay the innocent with me. I mean as far as the girl is concerned."
Philippe glanced at him. “Mary? What do you take me for? I intend to protect her as best I can until we arrive. She'll have no problem finding a husband in California. As you know, the proportion of men to women there is on the order of ten to one."
Jeremy gripped the other man's arm.
Philippe winced with pain. “That arm's still sore from being hit by one of those Alabama bastards with a knobbed cane."
Jeremy released him. “Tell me the unvarnished truth. We've been together too long f
or you to lie to me. Why do you do it, Philippe? Why do you take the crooked path, even when there's no profit in it?"
"I don't lie, sir, I entertain. Merely because you've twice saved my life doesn't give you the right to try to change my nature. Well, perhaps the right to try, but if you make the attempt, you'll find it's too late. Here you have Philippe Manigault, for better or worse. Take me or leave me, Jeremy. Not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. I do. I suspect you lecture me on my failings because, in some strange way, you feel responsible for me. After all, I'd be dead and buried if not for you."
"They wouldn't have killed you in Montgomery. A coat of tar and a few feathers for decoration was more what those so-called southern gentlemen had in mind. It wasn't like Albany.” Jeremy leaned over the rail and stared down at the dark sea. From behind them came the sound of a man singing, “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton."
"Albany's over and done with.” Philippe's voice softened. “No one remembers what happened in Albany. It's forgotten."
"Not by me. I can't forget I killed a man."
"The bastard had it coming to him."
"Still. Thank God it didn't happen all over again in Montgomery. Maybe it was because the girl was there.” Jeremy flicked ash from his cigarillo over the side. “You're a crafty one. I see you've led me off on a wild goose chase again. But it's the girl I'm worried about, not me. I want no harm to come to her."
"She's an attractive wench. Lively, too. With more up here than most men can boast of.” Philippe tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “More on other parts of her anatomy as well, as you've no doubt observed. Perhaps I should ask you what your intentions are toward my ward."
"Your ward? My God, now she's your ward!"
"You'll wake the ship.” Philippe glanced aft along the desk to where two fishermen tended lines thrown over the side.
"I like the girl, nothing more,” Jeremy said.
"Ah, it we could recruit one more tale-teller we'd be able to hold a convention of liars. ‘I like the girl, nothing more.’ Good God, I've seen the way you look at her. I've seen the glint in your eye. You lust after her, so don't try to deceive me."