She turned away and began to study the books again.
“Would you like to come out into the gardens with me?” I asked.
“I think not,” she replied, pulling a book from the shelf.
“I really would like to be your friend, Meg.”
The girl took another book, pulled down the volume beside it, and tucked all three under her arm. When she turned around to face me, her eyes were cool.
“I don’t think Helmut would like that,” she said.
“That—that’s absurd.”
“You think so? You don’t know him very well. He doesn’t want me to have friends. He doesn’t want me to have a lover. He likes to keep me to himself.”
“I know he thinks a great deal of you and is deeply concerned about your welfare, but—”
“I don’t care to discuss it,” she said tartly.
“Meg—”
“I’m sure you have very good intentions,” she interrupted, “but you really know nothing about it. You married him for your own reasons, and he married you for his. Let me give you a word of advice—don’t meddle, don’t probe. Leave things alone.”
“But—”
“I really must get back up to my room now. As you can see, I’m not a very friendly person. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s really much better this way.”
She left the room abruptly, the books clutched under her arm. I was sure that beneath that thorny facade Meg was a deeply sensitive and responsive person, but she hadn’t given an inch. If it wasn’t personal dislike that had caused that rigid defensiveness, I wondered what it could be. Somehow I felt certain that the cause went much deeper, and I suspected that the thwarted romance with James Norman was somehow involved.
Helmut always insisted that we dress for dinner and dine in the formal dining room, even when there were just the two of us. He enjoyed sitting at the head of the little table like some all-powerful monarch, being waited on by silent, apprehensive slaves fearful of displeasing him. It gave him a chance to savor his power and position. He was already waiting in the parlor adjoining the dining room when I came down that night. That surprised me, for he usually didn’t come down until the last moment.
“Good evening, Helmut,” I said.
“Good evening, my dear. You’re looking splendid.”
“Thank you.”
“New dress?”
“It arrived last week. You approve?”
“You look quite ravishing. Pity there isn’t an attractive young man to appreciate it. We must give another party soon, invite a few single men. I imagine you’d enjoy that.”
“I might,” I replied.
Helmut smiled. He seemed very pleased with himself, I thought. His sarcasm was delivered in an almost playful manner. Blond hair sleekly brushed, cheeks ruddy, he looked like an evil courtier who anticipated practicing a subtle form of devilment. Helmut loved to bully people, but my refusing to be cowed always took the edge off his pleasure.
“Did you get your problem at the plantation solved?” I inquired.
“Thoroughly. I rather imagine they’ll toe the line after today.”
“What happened?”
“One of the niggers was getting a bit surly, encouraging the others to follow his example. I took care of the situation. Personally. I doubt if you’d care to hear the details.”
“I don’t imagine I would.”
Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “You know, I suspect you have a very tender heart beneath that cool façade. I suspect you’re not nearly as hard and mercenary as you pretend to be.”
I ignored his remarks, and Helmut merecly curled his lips in a sarcastic smile. A few moments later Meg stepped into the room. She wore a loose-fitting dress of crushed brown velvet, and two spots of pink rouge glowed on her cheeks, enhancing her pallor. She hadn’t bothered with her hair. It was still worn in the tight bun, those wispy tendrils still brushing her temples.
“Ah,” Helmut said. “We’re honored. The invalid has decided to join the living at last.”
So Meg was to be his victim, I thought. The girl stared at him coldly, refusing to rise to the bait, yet I could sense a nervous tension in the way one hand clutched her skirt, wadding the velvet beneath her fingers. Helmut studied her with his head tilted slightly to one side.
“We must do something about you,” he remarked. “You look like a scarecrow in that dress, and that paint you’ve smeared on your cheeks hardly helps matters.”
“I don’t give a damn how I look, Helmut.”
He arched his brows, pretending to be shocked. “My little sister has grown up, it seems. She even uses curse words.”
“I know a few others, as well.”
“I’m certain you do, but you won’t be using them, will you?”
Meg didn’t reply. Her fingers clutched at the velvet, and I felt she was trembling inside. Helmut strolled toward her like a sleek cat toying with a mouse. Meg looked at him defiantly. He crooked his arm, indicating that she should take it, and after the slightest hesitation she did, bowing her head submissively. They led the way into the dining room.
“It’s nice having you with us,” Helmut said after the soup was served. “You’re quite over your illness?”
“I came down, Helmut. Just as you ordered.”
“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to give orders. I should think you’d be eager to take part in things.”
Meg kept her eyes lowered. Helmut sighed wearily.
“I rather imagine you were indulging yourself—staying in your room like that.”
“Think what you will,” she replied.
“I hope you’re through with such nonsense now. We must get you some new clothes. Marietta should be helpful there. She was a seamstress, you know. Among other things.”
“I’d love to help you get a new wardrobe, Meg,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm.
“I’ve no interest in clothes,” she said coldly.
“We can’t have you looking like a starved scarecrow,” her brother continued. “Granted you’re no great beauty, but you can at least look presentable.”
Meg lifted her eyes, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Presentable?” she said. “For whom?”
“Why, for society. There’ll be parties. People will be coming to Roseclay, and you’ll be visiting them.”
“Will I?”
“But of course.”
“You intend to launch me, it seems. Does that mean you intend selecting a husband for me?”
She seemed to be challenging him in some way, and Helmut wasn’t at all pleased. He glared at her.
“After all,” Meg continued, “you saw fit to marry. Under the circumstances, an unmarried sister should only be in the way. Particularly one so drab and unattractive.”
“That’ll be enough,” he said harshly.
“Oh dear, have I said something wrong?”
“I’d advise you to be careful what you say.”
Meg glanced at me, then looked back at Helmut. I had the feeling that they were discussing something else altogether. A disturbing undercurrent charged the air with tension. Helmut’s eyes fairly blazed, and Meg finally lowered her own, looking meek again, all the fight gone out of her. A footman took away the soup bowl. Another brought in the second course. Helmut’s eyes never once left his sister.
“I don’t like your attitude,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Helmut.”
“I should think you’d show a little gratitude.”
“I’m … very grateful.”
Thoroughly chastened, now, she looked on the verge of tears. That bright candle of defiance had flickered out, leaving her frail and defenseless. Helmut smiled a private smile, pleased with himself, and I detested him for what he had done. There were several minutes of silence, and when he spoke again his coarse, guttural voice was tempered with genuine compassion.
“Finish your meat, Margaret. You need to build up your strength.”
She nodded meekly, like a ch
ild.
“Perhaps you’ll play for us after dinner,” he said, still speaking in that curiously softened voice. “I bought the piano especially for you, knowing how you love music and how beautifully you play. It would give me great pleasure.”
“Very well,” she replied.
“Only if you want to, Meg. Only if it will give you pleasure, too.”
“I’ll play for you, Helmut. Just as I used to.”
“Fine,” he said.
His manner was amazingly gentle. The bully had vanished completely, and his blue eyes gleamed with an emotion that was unmistakably love. How complex it all was, I thought. Meg was very dear to him, the one person on earth he cared about, yet he treated her mercilessly, deliberately tormenting her. Why? Once again I had the feeling that James Norman was involved. Did the girl know he was back in Natchez? Did she love him still?
After the meal was finished, we went into the parlor, and Meg sat down at the piano with humble obedience. She stared at the keys for a moment, her shoulders hunched, and then she began to play a soft, sad melody. She did indeed play beautifully, coloring each note with subtlety. She poured out her soul in the music, I thought, as though she were expressing through music emotions too fragile and dear to risk exposing in any other way. Helmut sat with his chin propped on his fist, legs stretched out in front of him, gazing at his sister with hooded eyes. The brutish quality was still in evidence in the set of his jaw, in the curl of his lip, but his usual harshness was temporarily subdued.
Meg finished the piece and turned to look at him, her fingers resting on the keys. Helmut nodded, and she began to play again, this piece as lovely and melancholy as the last. It was hard to believe that the girl who was playing was the same person who had been so bitter and thorny in the library earlier. I wondered what she was thinking as she played. Was she lamenting her lost love? Was that why the music was suffused with such poignant sadness? The melody rippled and flowed, gradually slowing, eventually ceasing. Meg sat back, folding her hands in her lap, her head bowed. She gazed at the keys as though in a trance.
“That was lovely,” Helmut remarked.
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” she said in a hollow voice.
“You know how to please me, Meg. You always have.”
Meg stood up. She looked depleted. Her whole body seemed to droop, and her eyes were incredibly weary, deep shadows underlining them.
“I’ll go to my room now,” she said.
“You look worn out,” her brother replied, getting to his feet. “I’d better accompany you. Wouldn’t want you stumbling on the stairs. Here, take my arm.”
“Good night, Marietta,” Meg said softly.
“Good night.”
She took her brother’s arm, and they left the room. Meg moved slowly, as though she might indeed stumble were it not for his assistance. I heard their footsteps in the hall, heard Helmut speaking to her in a husky voice, although I couldn’t make out the words. The candles flickered, filling the room with a hazy gold light that reflected in the polished surfaces of wood. I sat there for a long time, thinking about the strange, complex young woman who somehow brought Greek tragedy to mind.
Several days later, while taking a stroll in the garden, I found myself again pondering the mystery of Meg. It had been a long day, taxing as well. Meg and I had been planning her new wardrobe, and her resigned, apathetic manner hadn’t made it easy. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to reach her. She was quiet and polite and acquiescent, never unfriendly, never really responsive.
I would almost have preferred a return of the defensive, bitter creature who had been so cool toward me, but that Meg seemed to have vanished entirely. She dined with us every night, and she no longer remained in her room all day. Instead, she wandered about the house like a wraith in her loose, unattractive clothes, avoiding me whenever possible, taking an interest in nothing. An aura of sadness hung over her, but Helmut didn’t seem to notice. He appeared to be quite satisfied with her “improvement” and treated her with gentle consideration, insisting only that she take care of herself and let me help her plan a wardrobe.
Helmut’s manner toward me had changed, too. He had made very few denigating remarks, rarely took the trouble to be sarcastic. He could never be friendly, of course, but his subtle antagonism had been replaced by a welcome indifference. He spent most of his time planning the downfall of Robert Page, the planter who had refused to accept a loan for improvements, and I knew the man was about to lose his plantation. At dinner each night Helmut gave us an account of the steps he was taking, describing his progress with gleaming eyes, a smile on his lips.
He seemed to have temporarily abandoned another of his favorite sports. During the past five days those nocturnal visits to Natchez-under-the-hill had ceased entirely. I hadn’t heard his carriage leaving Roseclay after midnight even once. This rather surprised me, for Helmut was an extremely sensual man with strong animal appetites, but I assumed he could go a few days without suffering unduly. So long as he didn’t come into my bedroom, I was quite content to let him work out his own sexual arrangements. How fortunate he found me too “patrician” to suit him. It was one time when being undesirable to a man was a distinct advantage.
I tried not to think about bedrooms too often. I had no desire to take a lover, for without deep feeling it would have meant nothing. I had been fond of Jack Reed, had loved Derek to the point of desperation, had felt a great tenderness for Jeff. Each had been superbly satisfying. There were times when I remembered sturdy limbs and warm skin and plunging sensations, times when I longed to fill the emptiness inside, but I always managed to reject both memory and need. Of late, I had allowed myself to think of Derek now and then, and I found that most of the bitterness was gone. I knew that I loved him still, but that love was locked tightly away inside, and it would remain there. I refused to allow the pain to take hold. Even if the love remained, its fury was under rigid control. Thinking of Derek was a luxury I allowed myself only in small doses.
Twilight settled heavily over the gardens now, filling the air with a soft haze, as the last golden-orange banners faded against the horizon. Standing at the foot of the gardens, I looked back at the house where lights already burned in the windows. I paused near the gazebo, touching a shrub, smelling damp soil and leaf mold and the perfumes of roses. Leaves rustled quietly. As I stood there, I had the feeling that someone was watching me, but I knew it must be my imagination. I was quite alone in the gardens.
The sensation of being watched persisted, but I refused to let it disturb me. Perhaps one of the slaves was hiding in the woods directly behind the gardens, waiting for me to leave so that he could slip back to his quarters. I strolled toward the gazebo. I had left a book on the cushion yesterday morning, and I decided to retrieve it and take it back to the library. I had been reading a great deal lately, mostly novels, romantic in nature, all of them unsatisfying. The gazebo was filled with shadows and, as I stepped inside and moved across to fetch the book, I heard a floorboard creak behind me. Before I could cry out, an arm grabbed me around my waist and a hand clamped over my mouth.
I was terrified. I struggled furiously. My captor tightened his grip around my waist, pressed his hand more firmly over my mouth, drawing my head back against his shoulders. He was very strong, and I realized that struggle was futile. My heart pounded violently. When I tried to break free, he tilted my head back even more, causing the muscles in my neck to strain painfully.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said urgently. “I just want to talk. Do you understand?”
Shaken and unnerved though I was, I recognized the voice. Some of the panic receded.
“Promise you won’t scream?”
I just managed to nod. He hesitated a few seconds, uncertain whether or not to trust me, and then he cautiously released me. Heart still pounding, I turned. James Norman looked at me with an expression that was half threatening, half beseeching. It was several moments before I could speak, and even then my
voice trembled.
“You—frightened me out of my wits!”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“Do you often do things like this?”
“Only when I’m desperate,” he replied.
“I ought to call my husband—”
“Please … That day on the river road, you were sympathetic. I felt it immediately. Your husband’s conduct appalled you. Surprised you, too. I had the feeling you’d never seen him act that way.”
“You didn’t seem surprised.”
“I knew what to expect,” Norman told me.
“You’ve come about Meg, haven’t you?”
He nodded, his handsome face grave, his dark-brown eyes glowing with determination. He must have come directly from the fields, boots and breeches dusty, shirt damp with sweat. I could feel his urgency.
“I’ve been coming every evening for the past two weeks, hoping I’d see her, hoping she’d come out for a walk in the gardens.”
“That was extremely risky.”
“To hell with the risk!”
“You must love her very much.”
Norman ignored the remark. “I’ve hidden here in this gazebo for hours every night, waiting, hoping, but I’ve never had so much as a glimpse of her. I must see her, must talk to her.”
He paused, consumed with emotion. He looked as if he wanted to strike out at something with his fist, but he also looked as if he wanted to cry. I was touched. Norman took a deep breath and continued.
“I want you to take a letter to her. I’ve been carrying it around with me. I figured if Meg didn’t appear, you might. At last, you did.”
“What makes you think I won’t take the letter straight to my husband?”
“I know very little about you, Mrs. Schnieder, but I fancy myself a pretty good judge of character. You’ll help me because you’ve listened to me this far. You’ll do it for Meg’s sake, won’t you? She’s very unhappy.”
“If you haven’t seen her, how could you possibly know that?”
“She’s with her brother. She must be unhappy.”
He said it as though that were a perfectly rational explanation, and I suspected it was. I looked toward the house. The sky was growing darker by the minute, the gardens rapidly filling with shadows. I would have to get back immediately if I was to have time to change for dinner.
Love's Tender Fury Page 48
