In my nightgown, I folded the clothes I had been wearing and packed them in the valise along with my toilet articles. I blew out the candle and climbed into bed, knowing I would toss and turn for hours, just as I had done every night for the past three weeks.
I was up at five o’clock, dressing. Angie came in with a cup of steaming coffee she’d made down in the deserted kitchen. I could tell that she hadn’t slept well, either. She was fully dressed, ready to leave, and she stayed with me, trying valiantly to be cheerful. We heard the carriage coming down the street. I picked up the valise, and we went downstairs where Kyle was waiting. In a matter of minutes the trunks were strapped on top of the carriage and we were on our way. A sleepy Teddy Blake drove us down the still dark streets toward the docks.
Kyle handled everything once we arrived. He saw to my berth, saw that my trunks were safely stored on board. The sun was just beginning to come up, staining the sky with orange. The ship was brown, as were the docks, the great Mississippi a dark, dark blue spangled with flecks of gold as the sun touched it. There was very little fog. It was going to be a clear day. Angie and I stood watching passengers going up the gangplank. She held my hand in a crushing grip, and just before Kyle joined us, she pulled me to her and gave me a mighty hug. There were tears in her eyes.
“Goodbye, luv,” she whispered.
“Goodbye, Angie.”
“I’ll never forget you, Marietta.”
“Nor I you. Be happy with Kyle.”
She sobbed and turned me loose. I was thankful for Kyle’s arrival, afraid I might break down myself. I kissed her cheek and shook his hand. Then, tearing myself from them, I climbed the wooden gangplank just before they raised it. I stood on deck, holding onto the railing as the ship pulled slowly away. Kyle’s arm was around Angie’s shoulder again, and she was still crying. The sunlight was brighter now. I could see her tears glistening. She took out her handkerchief and waved it as greater and greater distance separated us. I waved back, filled with tremulous emotions I could no longer contain.
I waved goodbye to Angie, and to Jeff, and to all that had been. Tears welled up in my eyes, spilled down my cheeks despite my efforts to stem the flow. It was the first time I had cried since the day Jeff had died. It would be the last. Angie and Kyle were small specks on the dock now as the ponderous ship started slowly up the river. Angie waved her handkerchief one last time. I returned the wave, and then I brushed the tears from my eyes and turned away. That part of my life was over for good. I wondered what the future held in store.
PART FOUR: Natchez 1775
XXIII
It was Sunday afternoon. I sat downstairs in the tiny office back of the shop, the heavy ledger opened on the desk in front of me. Going over the columns of figures slowly and carefully, I knew it was no longer possible to deny the obvious. The facts were there, neatly recorded on the pages in black ink. The expenditures had been heavy, the profits small. I had done little more than break even.
I closed the ledger with a sense of finality and put it away. I wasn’t in debt, but almost all the money was gone, and I knew there would be very little coming in. Oh, I could make a living from the shop. If I went on working my fingers to the bone six days a week, I would continue to come out each month with some small profit, enough to live on. But after six long months I had to admit to myself that the shop was never going to be the success I had envisioned.
I knew that, and I knew why.
A ray of sunlight streamed through the window gilding the grainy leather pad and making a tiny silver sunburst on the black ink pot. I could go on sewing gaudy gowns for the prostitutes of Natchez-under-the-hill and sensible, serviceable garments for those friendly, hard-working women who were trying to establish roots for their families here in the unofficial fourteenth colony. But those affluent women who provided the very life blood for a business such as mine would continue to stay away.
Natchez wasn’t New Orleans. It was a thriving, bustling British colony with carefully structured social levels. Thousands of people had poured into the isolated frontier settlement as the turmoil between rebels and Royalists took on impetus. Staunchly loyal families left the thirteen colonies bag and baggage to establish homes far away from the tense conflict that everyone predicted would soon erupt into an all-out revolution. A number of the families were quite wealthy, many with aristocratic connections back in England. They brought their wealth with them, and their rigid class consciousness. The women who could have made the shop a success had their own seamstresses, dowdy, aging spinsters who made a precarious living trotting from fine house to fine house in a desperate effort to please the grand dames and their spoiled, pampered daughters. They would have nothing to do with the scarlet woman from New Orleans.
My reputation had proceeded me. Somehow or other, these snobbish, self-satisfied women had learned that I had been hostess of a gambling house. It might as well have been a brothel as far as they were concerned. Morals in Natchez were as lax as anywhere else, illicit affairs rampant, but it was all concealed behind a solid wall of hypocrisy. There was no demimonde society in Natchez. There were the good citizens who lived on the hill and the dreadful social lepers who caroused in the taverns and brothels under-the-hill. Class distinctions were sharp, and the upper-class ladies had decided not to patronize my shop.
I smiled bitterly, remembering the early enthusiasm that had caused me to pour all my time, energy, and money into the place. My shop was in a small white frame building at the end of one of the main business streets, almost on the outskirts of town. A white picket fence enclosed the small yard, and three tall elm trees grew in front. My living quarters were on the second floor, above the shop, and I could see the Mississippi River from my bedroom windows. Convinced smart ladies would soon be pouring in, I had hired two young assistants, bright, merry girls who had been as eager as I to make the place a success. One of them had to be let go after the first two months, and I was forced to dismiss the second last month. There simply wasn’t enough business to justify full-time assistants.
Though my lease on the place was for a year, I seriously doubted that I would be able to survive another six months. I could make a living, but merely making a living wasn’t enough. It was time to admit defeat and move on to something else. I didn’t plan to grow old making inexpensive, durable garments for middle-class matrons and spectacular gowns for prostitutes. Even if the shop was a failure, it had served its purpose. It had helped me over a very difficult period, and it had taught me a lesson about social power.
The sunlight wavered on the desktop. Outside, the elm trees stirred in the breeze. The shop was silent. The bitter smile still played on my lips. I had come to Natchez to make a new start, to put my past behind me. I was going to become a respectable business woman. My shop would be the best of its kind in the whole territory, my conduct above reproach. I was going to make my own way, using the ability I knew I had. But the fine ladies of Natchez wouldn’t allow me to make a new start. They had labeled me a scarlet woman from the beginning and had wrecked any chance of my success.
I tried not to resent it, but I did. I wanted to strike back at those self-satisfied, hypocritical dames. I wanted to show them. I would, too. Somehow or other I would make them come around. The shop was a failure, but they hadn’t defeated me. I was going to fight back. A plan had already begun to take shape in my mind. It was utterly mercenary, and I didn’t know whether I could go through with it or not. One thing was certain: I no longer intended to be a victim, passive, acted upon. I was going to take matters into my own hands.
Leaving the office, I went up the back stairs to my bedroom. It was after two o’clock. Bruce Trevelyan would be coming to take me for a ride in his carriage shortly before three. We had gone for a ride almost every Sunday for the past two months. Bruce was twenty-two years old, a tall, slender young man with wavy brown hair and serious blue eyes. The Trevelyans had been among the first Royalist families to move to Natchez. Bruce’s father was the second son o
f a duke, his plantation already one of the largest in the territory. His background, wealth and clean-cut good looks made Bruce easily the most eligible bachelor around. He was polite and formal and rather grave, and I feared that he was very much in love with me.
Apparently unaware that it was off limits to the respectable upper class, he had come into the shop two months ago to purchase a birthday present for his sister Cynthia. His elegant clothes and reserved manner immediately identified him as a member of the gentry. He looked bewildered by all the frills and fripperies surrounding him. Clearly at a loss, he smiled politely and silently beseeched me for assistance. I was touched by his youth, his vulnerability, the warmth of that polite smile. After suggesting a number of gifts, I sold him a lovely shawl. He thanked me and left, and I forgot about him. So, when he returned the following Sunday to inquire if I would care to go for a ride in his new carriage, I was completely taken by surprise.
I had hesitated, of course. Although he really wasn’t a great deal younger than I, he was a mere youth by my standards. I thanked him for the invitation, intending to refuse, but in the end I hadn’t the heart. I found his nervous uncertainty and youthful gravity quite endearing. Bruce proved to be a charming companion, and while I realized our weekly drives were causing a furor of gossip, I also realized that such gossip couldn’t matter less to me at this point. Bruce was determined. He had told his parents that he was twenty-two years old and could see whomever he chose, adding that he didn’t give a hang what people said. My reputation as an adventuress was considerably enhanced, but, while I firmly refused to see Bruce during the week, I saw no reason to give up these innocent Sunday drives.
The white curtains in my bedroom billowed inward with the breeze, and I stared glumly at the worn gray carpet with its blue and rose patterns. The room was small and inexpensively furnished, as was the sitting room adjoining it. At first these rooms had been a snug haven, comforting me in my grief, but recently, as my loneliness and dissatisfaction grew, I had found them confining, almost prison-like. They seemed to symbolize my failure. I had never spent a happy night in that large brass bed with its dark rose coverlet. The first two or three months I had been unable to sleep peacefully because of my grief, and then, when that was finally under control, I began to worry about the shop. Nights of angry frustration followed the nights of grief, and always there was the loneliness that grew stronger, more tormenting, as the weeks passed. Had I not been so lonely, had I not been starved for some kind of social contact, I would never have accepted Bruce’s invitation in the first place.
Still, I enjoyed the rides tremendously, enjoyed the fresh air, the gentle rock of the carriage as the horses moved along at a leasurely pace. It soothed me seeing the countryside, so lovely and verdant. And I could forget my problems for a while, in the company of the grave, polite young man who was so serious and earnest and endearing, who talked about his childhood in England, about books and music and life and what he hoped to accomplish. It was casual and relaxing and innocent, until I realized that Bruce was falling in love with me. I had not encouraged him, yet last time, when he stopped the carriage on the river road and pulled me into his arms, I hadn’t protested, nor had I pulled away.
His kiss had been long and tender and surprisingly experienced. Bruce had the quiet, understated virility of the well-bred English gentleman, and I suspected his years at Harvard College in Massachusetts had not been spent entirely poring over books. Though carefully controlled, the kiss had communicated a passionate urgency. When he finally released me, he hadn’t said a word, had simply looked at me with those serious blue eyes that expressed his feelings far more eloquently than words could have. His wasn’t a boyish infatuation, nor was Bruce a randy young buck with seduction in mind. It seemed the wealthy, handsome only son of one of the town’s most prominent families was in love with me.
Sitting down at the dressing table, I began to brush my hair vigorously. What superb irony, I though, not without a certain satisfaction. Bruce was the prize catch in the society that had so successfully thwarted all my plans. Those haughty, self-righteous matrons would give anything to nab him for their daughters, and, I knew, the daughters vied for his attention, constantly visiting his sister in hopes he would be on hand. Bruce wanted none of them. He wanted me, and I intended to use him to achieve my goals. I only hoped I could do it without hurting him too badly.
It was important that I look especially attractive today, and I chose my dress with care, finally selecting a soft beige muslin sprigged with tiny brown and blue flowers. The dress made me look younger and emphasized my full breasts and slender waist. It was a provocative garment, one I wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing for Bruce before. Today, it suited my purpose ideally.
Giving a final pat to my hair, I went into the hall and moved down the stairs. Stepping outside, I locked the shop door behind me. It was a lovely spring day. There was a subtle perfume in the air that blended with the smells of mud and moss and river that were ever present. I felt strong and purposeful as I moved toward the gate. I had finally admitted defeat and was ready to give up the shop. Another chapter of my life had closed, a brief and frustrating chapter, and a new one was about to begin. I was going to be in control this time, I vowed. Marietta Danver was no longer to be a pawn of fate.
A light, elegant open carriage came bowling down the road a few minutes later, pulled by two sleek gray horses with silky manes that waved in the breeze. Bruce drove with practiced skill, handling the reins firmly without apparent effort. I smiled as he halted the horses and climbed down. I was genuinely glad to see him, and I wished I weren’t so fond of him. It would be so much easier if he weren’t such a serious, admirable youth. I didn’t look forward to hurting him. Had there been someone like Bruce in my life six years ago, I mused, none of this would be necessary.
Although his generous pink mouth shaped a smile, I could tell that he was preoccupied, as though there were some very important decision he must make. I fancied it concerned me in some way. Not much taller than I, Bruce had the lean, finely muscled build of a young athlete, shown off to advantage by his superbly tailored pearl-gray breeches and frock coat.
The preoccupied look gave way to one of appreciation as he took in the details of my appearance. Manipulating him was going to be absurdly simple, I knew. He was so young and malleable that he’d be defenseless against my wiles. I wasn’t particularly proud of myself, but what must be done must be done. As he handed me into the carriage, I wished I were an innocent eighteen-year-old girl whose only desire in life was to please him.
“It’s a lovely day,” I remarked.
Bruce nodded, taking up the reins. “You’re lovely, too.”
“Why—thank you, sir.”
“You’ve never looked so fetching.”
“I imagine it’s the dress. I wanted to wear something appropriate for such a glorious spring day. You approve, I take it?”
“Very much.”
Bruce drove us through the heart of the city on his way to the river road. I was still amazed at the changes that had occurred since the time Jeff and I stopped here on our way to New Orleans. Natchez was little more than a frontier settlement then, and in just four years it had become an impressive town with many fine buildings and an increasing number of elegant homes. It had a clean and graceful beauty quite unlike that of New Orleans. Perched high on the bluff overlooking the river, it had a spacious, airy charm all its own, and there was an aura of prosperity. Fortunately the bluff concealed that second city huddled under the hill. Bruce was silent, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“You seem preoccupied,” I said.
“Sorry. It’s Schnieder’s ball.”
What a stroke of luck, I thought. Bruce had brought the subject up himself. I knew he was referring to the ball Helmut Schnieder was giving at Roseclay the following week.
“I’m expected to attend,” he replied.
“I understand it’s to be the event of the season. Everyone in Natchez seems
to be talking about it. Schnieder’s never entertained at Roseclay before, they say, and this will be the first time anyone’s had an opportunity to see the place properly.”
“I don’t like the man,” Bruce said, “and I haven’t the least desire to see the interior of his house.”
“It’s supposed to be magnificent,” I said casually.
“It is,” Bruce admitted. “It took him over three years to finish it to his satisfaction. He had a whole crew of foreign artisans working on the interior, and he spent a fortune having the gardens laid out. He just finished the place a few months ago, and then he took off to Europe to buy furniture. A whole shipload arrived last month.”
“I heard about that. Mr. Schnieder must be very wealthy.”
“He is. His plantation is the largest in the territory, and the most productive. They say he owns half the land in Natchez. He came here years ago, when it was a tiny settlement, and he was already a wealthy man. When the place started booming, he seemed to have his hand in everything. He’s helped finance a lot of the building, helped get businesses started, made loans left and right.”
“He sounds quite the philanthropist.”
“Not at all. Schneider never does anything without a reason. He’s been open-handed, yes, and as a result he’s got a tight hold on the entire town. Everyone’s intimidated by him—with a good reason, I should imagine. Even my parents. That’s why I’m expected to go to this damned ball. Can’t risk offending the mighty Helmut Schnieder.”
Bruce scowled, lapsing into silence, while I thought about the encounter I had had with the German almost four years ago on the waterfront. He had been supervising the unloading of pink brick for the mansion he’d recently finished. That day he had wanted to buy me from Jeff. I remembered the way he had looked at me, remembered his incredible presence, his strong, blunt features. One wasn’t likely to forget a man who exuded such power. I hadn’t. Only last week I had seen him driving past the shop, his large, heavyset body impressively clad in expensively tailored clothes.
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