She’d never heard of such a thing and had difficulty imagining the luxury of gaslights that would flare at the touch of a finger.
“Oh, Scott, it sounds wonderful.”
“There’s a chandelier in the middle o’ the entry hall that hangs all the way from the cupola roof above.” He looked up at the stars as if they supported the chandelier. “And over seven hundred walnut spindles outlinin’ the stairway and cantilevered balconies. And Venetian glass sidelights around the front door, and plaster moldings on the ceilings, and brass cornices on all the windows and mirrors in the ballroom.”
“It has a ballroom?”
“The main floor o’ the rotunda. It’s made o’ the heart o’ virgin pine, and the twin stairs come sweepin’ down on either side. Delia and I had our weddin’ ball there, and I remember many others when I was growin’ up.”
“Tell me about Delia.”
He pondered for several seconds, then began: “Delia was like Jube. Always happy, never askin’ for more than what she had. I never quite understood what it was about me that made her so happy, but I was grateful that both of us felt the same way about each other. She had blond hair and hazel eyes and this teasin’ lilt of a laugh that could lift a man’s spirits faster than a chameleon slitherin’ up a post. And when Justine was born, she looked exactly like Delia. Except she had my black hair.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Justine was baptized in the weddin’ alcove, just like my mama planned. That was right about the time Lincoln was sworn into office. I saw her and Delia one time after I joined the Columbus regiment and marched north. I made it back for my daddy’s funeral in ‘64. But by the time I made it back for good, they were all gone.”
Now it was Agatha’s turn to console. She laid her hand on his arm. “Ruby told me about them shortly after she came here. You don’t know how they died?”
“No. Robbers, probably. The South was so poor then, people were desperate. Soldiers returned to find poverty where there’d been wealth before. Who knows? It could’ve been one of our own soldiers. They said it appeared as if Delia’s wagon had been waylaid on the road.” He chuckled bitterly. “Whoever it was didn’t get much, ‘cause Delia was no richer than anybody else by that time.” He swallowed hard. “But why they had t’ kill the baby, too... What kinda person would do a thing like that?”
Agatha could only rub his arm while his grief brought bitter words he’d been holding in so long.
“Do you know what it’s like to go back and find everything changed? The people you loved, gone. The house empty, but everything inside lookin’ just like it did before, as if it were waitin’ for ghosts t’ come and inhabit it again. Everything else was there, too—the gin, the tannery, the gasworks, everything. But the slaves had scattered, some o’ them killed in the war, maybe on the same battlefield like my brothers. Others were gone to who knows where. A handful stayed, hoeing collard greens and livin’ in the old quarters.”
She searched for consoling words, but the picture he’d drawn was too bleak to be erased by mere words, so she remained silent and merely stroked his arm.
“I stayed there three nights, but that’s all I could take. You know what, Gussie?” He shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t sleep in the bedroom Delia and I shared. I just couldn’t make myself do it. So I slept in Justine’s room, and I thought I heard her voice callin’ for help durin’ the night. Now how can that be when she’s been dead all these years?”
Her heart ached for him and she wished once again for the right words to help him. “Perhaps it was your own voice you heard, Scott.”
He shook his head as if to rid it of the memory. He drove his fingers through his hair and clasped his skull. “I couldn’t stand it there. I had t’ get out.”
“And you haven’t been back since?”
Again he shook his head.
“Do you think you should go?”
He stared straight ahead and after a long silence answered, “I don’t know.”
“Your wounds were fresh then. It might be easier now.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever be easier.”
“Perhaps not. But going back might lay your ghosts to rest. And Waverley is your heritage.”
He gave a single harsh laugh. “Some heritage. With vines growin’ up over the front porch and the fields lyin’ empty. I’d rather not see it that way.”
“Isn’t anybody there you used to know?”
“Ruby says old Leatrice is still there.”
“But the house—you said it’s just as you left it. Vines can be trimmed away and fields can be replanted. Isn’t there some way you could make it thrive again?”
“It’d take twelve hundred people t’ make Waverley what it was.”
Twelve hundred, she thought glumly. Yes, she saw his point.
They sat silent for a long time, going over all they’d shared tonight. The coyotes had given up their night chorus as dawn drew near. In the cattle pens east of town the first restless shifting and lowing could be heard. The big dipper began dimming overhead.
“Isn’t it funny?” Agatha mused. “When I first saw you, 1 looked at you and thought: There’s a man with no troubles, no conscience, no morals. You came to Proffitt wearing tailored clothes, with enough money to buy this building and open up a business that was destined to make you a rich man quickly, and I looked at your perfect, healthy body and your handsome face and thought how you had the world by the tail. And I hated you for it.”
Her summary brought him back from the past. He turned to study her as she looked up at the brightening sky, her wrists crossed on her good knee, while the other leg stretched along the steps in front of her.
He’d never before realized that she saw him as handsome or perfect in any way. To hear her say so gave his heart a tiny surge of weightlessness.
“And now?” he asked.
She shrugged, held the pose, and turned her chin onto her shoulder. It was a motion he recalled Delia making countless times, only when Agatha did it, it was thoughtful instead of coy.
“Now,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely, “I see I was wrong.”
Abruptly, she dropped the pose, breaking the momentary sense of intimacy. “You should think about going back, Scott. Whether or not the prohibition amendment is ratified you owe it to yourself. Waverley is your home. Nobody loves it as you do, and it seems to me it’s waiting there for you. So many of the mansions like Waverley were burned in the war. It’s a real treasure now. I think it deserves its rightful master back again.”
She sighed and braced herself as if to rise. “Well!” She stretched, pressing her palms against the floor of the landing. “I’ve been sitting on this step until I’m not sure my one good hip will work anymore. I think it’s time we go in and try to get some sleep before the sun comes up and catches us perched here like a pair of cats waiting for the morning cream.”
She faltered, trying to rise, and he grasped her elbow to help her. Her limp was more pronounced as she crossed the landing toward her door. She stepped inside, then turned back.
“Scott?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you, too, for telling me all that. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
“It wasn’t easy for you either, was it?”
“No.”
He crossed his arms and tucked his hands against his ribs, then came toward her slowly, stopping only a foot away. Even in the shadows, she sensed his distraction.
“What do you suppose that means, Gussie?”
She was struck by the realization that more and more often lately he said things like that—leading questions intimating a change in his feelings toward her. But she caught, too, the hint of confusion each time those feelings surfaced, and she realized the hopelessness of their situation. They were nothing whatever alike. If, even for a fleeting hour, he thought he felt something more than friendship toward her, what could ever come of it? He ran a saloon and she wore a white temperance banner on her sleeve. He taught a little boy to p
lay five-card stud on Saturday, while she took the same boy to church on Sunday. He slept with a woman to whom he wasn’t even married, while her morals could not abide such an arrangement. He was as physically flawless a man as she had ever met, while her own body left much to be desired. And he was handsome enough to land any woman to whom he gave a second look, while she had never landed even a first one.
But most important, if the prohibition amendment was adopted by the people, he’d soon be leaving Kansas for good.
What end would it serve if she acceded to the hesitant invitation in his words? She was a woman with a broken body; she didn’t need a broken heart, too.
“Good night, Scott,” she said quietly, withdrawing into the shadows.
“Gussie, wait.”
“Go to bed. Jube is probably wondering what happened to you.”
When she had quietly closed the door, he stood staring at it, with his palms still tucked beneath his arms. What the hell was he trying to prove? She was right—Jube was sleeping in his bed right now, while he stood at Agatha’s door thinking about kissing her.
He swung around angrily.
She’s not the kind to take a kiss lightly, Gandy, so make damned sure before you do it that you mean it.
CHAPTER
14
If people thought it strange that one of the local saloon owners went to the railway station to see the local milliner off to a temperance tea at the governor’s mansion, nobody said a word. After all, the newly orphaned Collinson boy was with them, and everyone knew they had taken him under their wing.
Willy was wearing his proudest possession: a pair of brand-new indigo-blue Levi Strauss britches with orange stitching and copper rivets—“just like the cowboys wear!”—as Willy had pointed out proudly when he came running into the store to model them for Agatha. “An’, no suspenders, neither!”
“No suspenders!” She had turned him in a circle and duly admired him.
“Nope! Cuz they’re choke-barreled.”
Agatha and Violet had both laughed. “They’re what?”
“Choke-barreled. That’s what Scotty says the cowboys call ‘em. Skinny-legged... see?”
He stood now at the station, seeing Agatha off in his choke-barreled blue denim pants, looking healthy and robust. His brown boots already had hundreds of scuffs, but his nails were clean, he had gained weight, and he no longer scratched.
Agatha, too, looked stunning. She had made herself a brand-new dress for the occasion, a gorgeous creation of tangerine faille. The jacket sported dolman sleeves, with a collar and trimmings of brown velvet. This summer’s Godey’s dictated that no dress should be made of only one material, so she’d chosen a deeper melon-colored taffeta for the underskirt, and a stiffer silk faille for the sheath-fronted overskirt: handkerchief-styled—pointed in the front, with cascading rear draperies. At her throat billowed an ivory lace jabot of silk stockinet. Her outfit was completed by a tilted gable bonnet of melon and russet, forming a pointed arch over her face.
Watching her bid good-bye to Willy, Scott Gandy admired not only her dress, but the way its colors complemented the red highlights of her hair, which was coiled into a French twist up the back of her head. He admired, too, her pale green eyes with their mink-dark lashes, her apricot skin, and her fine-turned jawline, which he had liked from the moment he saw it. And her attractive mouth, smiling gamely, though he suspected she wasn’t so anxious to go, now that the last minute had come.
“How long’ll you be gone, Gussie?” Willy held both her hands and looked up angelically. Scott had combed the boy’s hair with extra care that morning—and, for the first time, used a tad of Macassar oil. It gleamed brightly in the sun.
“Just overnight. Now you do as I said and help Violet sweep up before closing.”
“I will.”
Gandy watched her gloved hands adjust Willy’s shirt collar, then brush something off his cheek. “And teeth, nails, and ears tonight at bedtime—promise?”
Willy’s face skewed in disgust and he scuffled his feet. “Aw... I promise.”
“I’ll ask Scott when I get back.” She touched the tip of Willy’s nose to soften the warning. “Now you be a good boy and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Bye, Gussie.” He came at her with open arms.
“Good-bye, sweetheart.” She bent forward in the constricting skirts and Willy kissed her flush on the mouth. She held him to her breast as best she could, while he balanced on tiptoes, stretched full-length. For a moment her eyelashes fanned her cheeks and Gandy saw clearly how she’d grown to love the boy. He thought of where she was going, and for what reason, and admired her for the kind of commitment it took to go. If the law passed, one of them would eventually have to bid Willy a final good-bye. She realized that as well as he.
Agatha straightened. Willy backed up and slipped his hand into Scott’s. She looked up into the man’s dark eyes. They appeared momentarily troubled and she wondered what had brought on the disturbed look.
“Good-bye, Scott.”
He summoned a quarter grin, as if consciously shaking off whatever had been bothering him. “Take care of yourself. And I’ll take care of Willy.” He looked down and waggled Willy’s hand. “We’re plannin’ t’ go over to Emma’s for supper tonight, aren’t we, sprout?”
“Yeah... chicken and dumplin’s.”
Agatha watched the two of them smile at each other.
“Well, I’d best be boarding.”
Scott reached down to pick up her small carpetbag and hand it to her.
“Don’t worry about a thing back here.”
“I won’t.”
For a moment his thumb pressed her gloved knuckles, then slipped away. They stood locked in a moment of uncertainty, a good-bye hug hovering on both their minds. Through her memory flashed the image of him greeting Jubilee on the day of her arrival—his bold caress on her buttocks, the kiss they’d shared while half the town looked on. But now he stepped back and Agatha realized how foolish she’d been even to think it. The hugging that night on the steps was one thing—that had been sympathetic sharing. To do it in broad daylight at the depot was quite another thing, she chided herself. She turned away quickly before either of them could give in to the urge.
From the window of her coach she watched Scott and Willy. Scott was wearing a trim suit of fawn-brown and a matching flat-crowned Stetson. His brown string tie lifted in the breeze, then settled back against his white shirtfront. He said something to Willy and Willy nodded enthusiastically. Then Scott reached into his ticket pocket and withdrew a cheroot. He patted his jacket searchingly and she could tell he was teasing Willy about something. Willy began searching, too, and came up with a wooden match. Scott clamped the cheroot between his teeth and leaned over while Willy lifted one knee and struck the match against the thigh of his new stiff denim britches. Three times he tried it; three times he failed. Then Scott adjusted the match in Willy’s fingers and demonstrated for him. The next time the match caught and Willy held it gingerly while Scott leaned down and lit his cheroot.
Next he’ll have the boy smoking, she thought. But instead of frowning at the possibility, her lips tipped up in a melancholy smile. Watching them together—the tall, uncondescending man and the happy blond boy—she saw a growing love flourishing between them. The train began moving and they both lifted their heads, waving—the two most important people in her life. Yet she stood to lose one, and maybe both of them, soon. In less than two months the decision about prohibition would be put to the voters of Kansas.
She rested her head against the seat and let her eyes slowly close. Her eyelids stung and a lump came to her throat. She almost wished the prohibitionists would fail.
The formal garden of the gubernatorial mansion was laid out in a diamond parterre design. Meticulously pruned privet hedges outlined the graveled paths between the profusely blossoming roses. Red, salmon, white, and pink, they scented the air with their inimitable fragrance. Chrysanthemums formed cushions of y
ellow and bronze at the junctures of paths. Stately yews stood as erect and uniform as a green picket fence around the boundaries, while scattered horse chestnut trees provided lakes of shade at strategic points within the formal design. Upon white iron benches, bustled women sipped tea from demitasse cups while bearded dignitaries in formal attire crossed their hands behind their back and discussed the political situation in harrumphing voices, their moustaches bobbing.
It was all very pompous, very elite. Dressed in her crisp, up-to-date finery, carrying herself with regal bearing and impeccable manners, Agatha fit right in. But all the while she discussed the format adopted by her W.C.T.U. local in combating demon rum, all the while she learned new methods of reaching voters and spreading antialcohol propaganda, she felt traitorous to the two who’d waved her off at the depot.
The governor was especially decorous, cinched tightly into a winged white collar and black Oxford tie. He bowed over the hand of each lady present, huddling solicitously with Baptist ministers, conferring with well-known illuminaries of the temperance movement.
Drusilla Wilson was there, and Amanda Way, and other notable leaders whose photographs Agatha had seen in the Banner. Meeting and visiting with them, Agatha again felt misplaced. Their ardor for the temperance cause ran hot in their veins, while hers had cooled considerably. Recalling her excitement the day she’d received the invitation to this event, Agatha wished some of it still bubbled within her. Instead, she thought about November 2 as the day the guillotine might very well fall—not on Scott Gandy, but on her.
She hired a carriage and driver to take her back to her hotel, ate dinner in the elegant dining room, and wished she were at Cyrus and Emma Paulie’s restaurant eating chicken and dumplings with Willy and Scott. She settled into her tastefully decorated room with its screen-printed wallpaper and tasseled draperies and wished she were in her own narrow apartment with the piano and banjo thumping through the floor. She lay back in a bed lined with fat goose-down ticks and wished she were sitting on a hard wooden step looking up at the stars, listening to the coyotes howl and enjoying the scent of a man’s cigar.
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