Megan looked around as if the trees might denounce her, rolled her eyes and mouthed the words, "Other men!”
Charity was taken aback. Marie was much admired, she knew, but where were other men who could equal Alan? His stalwart strength, his charming manners, his bluff good humor? That Alan’s wife might not view him in the same exalted light did not at the moment occur to her. “It can’t be true,” she said slowly.
“Can’t it now?” Megan’s voice was tart. “Well, just you come out and sit in the garden o’ nights and you’ll be after seein’ who slips out the side door with a hood over her head and walks down the road where, I’m told, a coach picks her up! So now you know why she locks the master out! Tells him she has a bleedin’ migraine! And with her pretty face, I guess he’ll believe anything she tells him, eh?” She shook her head and went on hanging up the clothes.
Charity thought about that. Two nights ago, rebelling against the insufferable heat, she had slipped into the attractive room that was right over Marie’s head. Carefully she had spread a sheet over the bed, replaced the pillow with her own, and then stretched out with a sigh of relief to enjoy the cooler room.
She had heard footsteps moving about below and had been surprised. Marie up at this hour? No, she told herself—more likely the new maid, Lally, scurrying around at Marie’s bidding, for Marie had absolutely no regard for the servants and called them at all hours if she wanted the least thing. The night was so warm that Charity was afraid she would perspire through the sheet and dampen the coverlet. Getting up, she stood in the window to let the rising breeze cool her, and saw below her a hooded figure run from the house, fly like a wraith across the lawn and into the shadow of the trees.
So swiftly did the figure appear and disappear that she could almost believe she had not seen it. Charity waited but it did not return. With a shrug she went back to bed, telling herself the hooded figure was Lally gone to meet some swain. But that figure could easily have been Marie.
“Why do they have separate bedrooms anyway?” She asked Megan. “I’d have thought—”
“You’d have thought being brought out here as a bride, and him buildin’ this house for her, that she’d at least sleep with him, wouldn’t you?” Wearily Megan straightened up and pushed back a strand of gray hair that kept falling into her eyes. “Well, she did—at first. Then she told him he snored and kept her awake. Tell me, when you’ve walked past his room, have you ever heard him snore? No more have I. Then she took to having sick headaches—”
“Marie must be mad,” Charity said slowly. “Alan Bellingham is all that a man should be.”
Megan gave her a sharp look. “Don’t tell me you too are smitten by the landgrave? Twas why m’lady sent her last maid Flossie away—couldn’t stand her mooning over her husband.”
Charity flushed. “Of course Tm not,” she protested staunchly. “I just think he’s too good for her, that’s all.”
“They all think that,” said Megan, giving the sheet in her hands a vicious slap. They were silent, working rapidly. Then Megan added in a confidential tone, “I’m thinking that’s why she goes to Barbadoes so much.”
“You mean—to get away from him?”
Megan nodded. “She’s got a sister married to a rich planter there. They’ve three little children and one or the other is always sick—especially the sister. M’lady gets letters from her and it’s off to Barbadoes she goes and stays a long time. Twice in the past year she’s gone. And I’m thinkin’ the reason she goes is not so much her sister’s problems as that her husband’s sniffing around her bedroom door more than she likes. You mark it, when he starts getting restless and too attentive, she’ll get a letter from Barbadoes that says her sister needs her. Easy for her to say—her sister writes all the time. M’lady reads the letters aloud and then burns them. Hates clutter, she says.” Megan snorted.
Charity’s gaze grew somber. Let Marie go to Barbadoes! She adored Alan as his wife never had, and if he came into her bedroom, she would never put him out!
Last night she had dreamed that dream again, and now she told herself that the face was—must be—Alan’s. But stubbornly her unconscious self dreamed as it pleased. And when in that oft-recurring dream she walked naked into her lover’s arms, his face was still hidden from her.
Perhaps, she told herself honestly, that face deserved to be Tom Blade’s. Or Ben’s. But somehow she knew that it was not. No, it had to be Alan, whom she was sure she loved with all her heart
The long oppressive summer days drifted by. In September, Marie went to Barbadoes. She had received a letter from her sister saying the youngest daughter had fallen ill, and Marie went about the house looking quite distrait. Charity decided she had been wrong—selfish Marie did love her family. It was only her husband she did not love.
Alan drove Marie in the carriage to Charles Towne where she embarked. With sparkling eyes Charity watched the carriage and the baggage cart disappear down the rutted track, and that night did her hair with especial care. She managed to be in the hallway when Alan came in to dinner. He saw her standing there bright-eyed in her newly-ironed green calico dress and, after a moment’s hesitation, smiled and suggested she dine with him. Happily Charity preceded him into the handsome dining room, feeling every inch the lady of the manor. Firmly she seated herself in Marie’s chair. And, across the clear green bayberry tapers that burned so smokelessly in their silver holders, she smiled into Alan’s eyes and they talked about plantation matters.
Through the kitchen door, when it opened for the servants to bring in the big silver trenchers of meat. Charity saw Megan’s skeptical face, an eyebrow cocked at her. She returned a demure smile and turned once more to bask in Alan’s attention.
Marie was gone a month. It was a month of bittersweet happiness for Charity, spent adoringly at Alan’s side—she only wished it could have been a year.
For Charity was young, though thrust by hard circumstance into maturity. And in her heart still lurked a dreaming child who sought a lover—pure, unsullied, lofty, the White Knight of her childhood, a man half father, half lover, strong yet gentle. In Alan, she felt she had found that man, and all her girlish dreams rushed up unbidden to make her body tremble and her eyes be cast down suddenly in shyness.
Had she but thought about it, she would have cursed her folly. Who should know better than she not to trust a man—men had taught her that much, hadn’t they?
But as the days wore on in his company and he did nothing to destroy the illusion she had first had of him, her first willful attraction deepened into devotion, so that she began to regard him almost as divine, a creature above human fears and doubts, a rock to lean against and turn to.
Had Alan come to her room in the night, she would have suffered him to do so, but the dream she carried of him in her heart would have been broken, because she began to view him in a rather pure virginal way as being without stain—a man who would not stoop to offer her less than marriage, and who was unable to do that in honor. Her feeling for Alan had definitely suffered a sea change. Like the sultry weather, it had blown hot all summer, but now with the coming of September it was lightened by cool breezes, a floating feeling. She had come to realize in Marie’s absence how she really felt about him. He was to her an almost godlike being. In fact, she loved him now because he was unattainable.
A rather simple man of steady proven tastes, Alan would have been astonished to know that he had inspired this reaction in the tempestuous beauty be had rescued from the deck of the Marybella.
Charity’s eyes dreamed more now, and Megan watched her narrowly. Charity walked along humming pensively, and when the slaves sang at night she stopped to listen, and once she found her cheeks were wet with tears at the sadness in their mellow voices. On those sultry September nights their songs reached out to her . . . songs that spoke to her of the lost, of worlds forgotten.
At those moments, Charity wondered sadly if Alan would ever be hers.
Marie returned with an ever s
o slight dusting of tan deepening the pink of her cheeks and emphasizing the brilliance of her amethyst eyes. Her sister’s child was recovered now, she said; she had stayed until the crisis was over. When Alan asked point-blank what had been the matter with the infant, Marie shrugged helplessly and said, “One of those terrible tropical fevers—who knows why they strike? But she’s well now.” She put both hands on Alan’s shoulders and looked up into his face. “It’s all right now, darling,” she murmured, stroking the back of his neck. “I’m back.”
That day Charity returned to eating in the kitchen with Megan and the dour McNabb. Through the dining room door, as it swung open for the dishes to be carried away, Charity heard Marie’s low seductive laugh, heard her indolent voice say, “I know it’s early, Alan, but . . . could we retire early tonight?” and his enthusiastic reply.
Jealousy struck like a knife turning in her heart. And now she knew it had been lurking there all the time, waiting for Marie to return—like a tooth that had stopped aching for a while. She had had a respite—a dreaming respite—with Marie in Barbadoes, but now Marie was back and her life was blasted apart.
Lally, who had been abruptly dismissed by Marie just before her departure (“That girl has stolen my best chemise—I’m sure of it!”) had not been replaced and Charity found herself spending more and more time dressing and combing Marie and less and less time sitting on the high stool working on the books and accounts. Alan, Charity realized bitterly, was putty in his wife’s hands. Though he saw Charity’s distress, he turned away. When she complained that the accounts were getting behind, he mumbled something about Marie needing her. It was as if their wonderful September had never been. She was back where she started—little better than a ladies’ maid to arrogant Marie.
CHAPTER 30
In mid-November Marie suddenly decided to give a huge ball at Magnolia Barony. It would be held at the end of the month and everyone who was anyone would come. The servants sighed, Megan cursed under her breath. Alan, as expected, acquiesced and slaves were dispatched with invitations to upriver planters, some of whom would glide down to the party on pirogues, while the others would stay as house-guests at Magnolia Barony or go on into Charles Towne and stay with friends there.
Still deeply in love with Alan, Charity felt resentful at this further squandering of his money in view of his precarious financial situation. She watched as the meats were brought in—great hams and sides of beef and venison, turkeys and other wild game. At Magnolia Barony, like so many of the other plantations, an Indian servant was kept whose sole duty it was to hunt and bring back game for the plantation table. Their Indian was overworked these days. In the plantation kitchen, Megan and the house slaves toiled to concoct delicacies for the impending event.
Remembering the great ball at Daarkenwyck—and with a wild thrill the insolent Roger Derwent—Charity wondered if she would be invited to this one. Just in case, she went in to Charles Towne and with her small wages purchased ribbons and new white lace for her chemise sleeves and neck, and a length of pumpkin-colored cotton satin. She would have preferred a length of rich gold brocade but could not afford it, since she had but recently bought new shoes and a chemise. Borrowing a needle and thread from Megan, who helped pin her up, she managed—with many pin prickings and stabbed fingers—to complete the dress two days before the ball. The dress was copied from one of the little fashion dolls that had been sent over from London. Megan, who liked Charity, contributed a gay yellow silk embroidered petticoat and made bawdy comments about the low-cut neckline that displayed the top of Charity’s white breasts. But when the left sleeve didn’t quite match the right, Megan said, “Here, let me,” and corrected it. Charity thanked Megan gratefully. If she was ever to catch Alan’s eye, surely this ball would be the place to do it.
It was a blow to learn the following day that she was not to come downstairs for the dancing, but was to “help the ladies arrange their hair and put on their ball gowns above stairs, and remain on call with smelling salts and so on.” This decree of Marie’s was handed down casually in front of Alan, who never turned a hair but continued his preoccupied study of some papers. Charity forgave him for not seeing her disappointment and taking her part. She told herself that a ball to Alan was a thing beneath his notice, and went back to her room and rocked with misery. She could hardly bear to look at her new dress, for she would not be wearing it.
The day of the ball Marie still had not decided which of several handsome new dresses she would wear. At teatime, she told Charity in a peremptory voice that she would require her help while she tried on the dresses and studied her reflection in the mirror to decide which gown was most becoming. Still smarting from the fact that she would not be in attendance at the dance, Charity made her way silently upstairs after breakfast and stood looking out the window of her room. Clear and sunny. Lucky Marie had been blessed with perfect weather for her party. Although Marie had not specified a time for her “trying on,” Charity decided bitterly that she had better get it over with. Soon guests would be arriving and she would have other work to do.
In her soft house slippers, which she had fashioned from a piece of old velvet in order to save her new shoes, she walked downstairs not making a sound on the thick oak flooring. The door of Marie’s bedroom stood slightly ajar and, without bothering to knock, she pushed it open.
Across the room from her Marie was studying her jewels and the sight of them took Charity’s breath away. A lower drawer of a tall cherry chest stood open and Marie was bent over a handsomely carved coffer that sparkled with diamonds and rubies and emeralds. As Charity watched, Marie lifted a diamond necklace lovingly, letting it flow like sparkling water through her fingers. Charity assumed that Marie was trying to decide which pieces to wear. But when she became aware of Charity’s interested gaze, Marie swung around and, for a moment, looked trapped.
“You did not knock!” Marie accused.
“The door was ajar,” protested the bewildered Charity.
Marie flung the jewels back into the coffer, slammed shut the lid and almost hurled it into the lower drawer which she kicked shut with her foot. “Insolent!” she cried. “Always insolent! I don’t know why I put up with such insolence!”
Charity, her own nerves rubbed raw, was about to tell Marie there’d be no need to put up with it any longer, she was leaving, when Alan came in and she bit back the words.
Suddenly Marie changed her tack. “I have a terrible headache,” she moaned. “Oh, Alan—all these people coming and I have to have a headache.” She sank down, pressing her fingers against her temple. Charity watched as Alan, moving toward Marie, asked in a solicitous voice if he could do anything to help. Marie was already acting out a little charade which would end up with a sick headache that night, Charity assumed, and gave Marie a scornful glance.
Still meek, Marie said, “Alan, I have decided to wear my amethysts. And the chemise trimmed in silver lace. It should look well spilling out of the sleeves of the mauve brocade with silver threads, don’t you think? I really have not the strength to try on more than one dress.”
“Charity will help you,” soothed Alan, and at his beseeching glance, Charity came forward, unable to do otherwise under the circumstances. In silence she went to the big wardrobe, took out the mauve brocade and brought it to Marie. She helped her dress and skillfully arranged her hair. Marie’s beautiful face pouted at her. “It isn’t right,” she said fretfully. “Comb it out and do it again.”
With difficulty Charity controlled her rage and redid Marie’s hair, then left silently and went upstairs to her room. Once again she had been reminded how far she sat below the salt. For a moment she cursed her clever fingers that could arrange other women’s hair, then realized that her skill could be even better employed on herself and with shaking fingers arranged her own coiffure, enjoying the reflection in the mirror of her sweet rebellious mouth and snapping topaz eyes.
Though she was not going to the dance, Charity decided she would wear her
new dress anyway. She had just finished dressing as the first guests were beginning to arrive. She looked out to see them strolling across the lawns from their pirogues, alighting from carriages; the women’s big-skirted dresses bright splashes of color like huge tropical flowers swaying on the lawn, the men almost as colorful with their gold and silver braid and glittering satins and brocades. As Charity went downstairs, she met Marie coming out of the dining room after making a last inspection of the silver before she went to greet her guests. At sight of Charity, Marie paused and frowned.
“That dress is hardly suitable for a servant,” she muttered. “It’s cut much too low.”
Charity’s low-cut bodice rose and fell with rage. She was well aware that whenever an attractive man appeared, Marie had always sent her on some errand away from the house. It was clear to her that Marie intended to occupy the center of the stage—always. Without competition.
Squarely Charity faced her tormentor. “It’s too late to do anything about it,” she said with studied insolence, “Unless you’d prefer me not to help the ladies with their dressing. My other clothes are badly worn.”
Marie bit her lip. “Then you must assist as you are,” she snapped. “But for God’s sake, pull up that bodice. You’re near coming out!”
Pretending to pull up the bodice, Charity sailed past her toward the door.
“Upstairs,” ordered Marie brusquely. “You can help the guests who have already arrived to unpack.”
“I feel faint.” Charity paused and gave Marie a studied look. “I must get a breath of air first.”
Having thus crossed swords with her employer’s wife, Charity went on out the front door and strolled pensively about the long verandah, watching the guests arrive. She was happily aware of Marie’s murderous glance as the eyes of the approaching gentlemen wandered alertly to the girl whose pale gold hair was highlighted by her yellow silk petticoat and pumpkin gown.
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