Elsbeth was upset, pointing out that Kit could have any of a dozen eligible men who were both richer than Bertrand Mayhew and less distasteful. But Elsbeth understood. To get Risen Glory back, Kit needed power from her marriage, not riches, and a husband who expected her to behave like a properly submissive wife was of no use to her at all.
Kit knew it wouldn't be difficult to persuade Bertrand to use the money in her trust fund to buy back Risen Glory, nor would she have trouble convincing him to live there permanently. Because of that, she suppressed the part of her that wished she could have found a husband who was less repugnant. After the midnight supper, she would take him to the reception room to see the newest collection of stereoscopic views of Niagara Falls, and then she would lead him to the question. It wouldn't be difficult. Dealing with men had proved to be surprisingly easy. Within a month she would be on her way to Risen Glory. Unfortunately, she'd be married to Bertrand Mayhew.
She wasted no thought on the letter she'd received from Baron Cain the day before. She seldom heard from him, and then only to reprimand her over one of the quarterly reports he received from Mrs. Templeton. His letters were always formal and so dictatorial that she couldn't risk reading them in front of Elsbeth because they made her fall back on her old habits of profanity.
After three years, the mental ledger of her grievances against him had grown thick with entries. His latest letter ordered her without explanation to remain in New York until further notice. She intended to ignore it. Her life was about to become her own, and she'd never again let him stand in her way.
The music ended with a flourish, and instantly Bertrand Mayhew appeared at her side. "Miss-Miss Weston? I was wondering-that is to say, did you remember-"
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Mayhew." Kit tilted her head and gazed at him through her lashes, a gesture she had practiced for so long under Elsbeth's tutelage that it had become second nature. "My dear, dear Mr. Mayhew. I was afraid-terrified, in fact-that you'd forgotten me and gone off with one of the other young ladies."
"Oh, my, no! Oh, Miss Weston, how could you ever imagine I would do something so ungentlemanly? Oh, my stars, no. My dear mother would never have-"
"I'm sure she wouldn't." She excused herself prettily from Hobart Cheney, then linked her arm through Mr. Mayhew's, well aware that the gesture was overly familiar. "Now, now. No long face, you hear? I was only teasing."
"Teasing?" He looked as baffled as if she'd just announced she was going to ride naked down Fifth Avenue.
Kit repressed a sigh. The orchestra began to play a lively gallop, and she let him lead her into the dance. At the same time, she tried to shake off her depression, but a glimpse of Elsbeth's father made that difficult.
What a pompous fool! Over Easter, one of the lawyers at Hamilton Woodward's firm had drunk too much and accosted Kit in the Woodwards' music room. One touch of those slobbery lips, and she'd planted her fist in his belly. That would have been the end of it, but Mr. Woodward happened to come into the room just then. His business partner had lied and said Kit had been the aggressor. Kit had angrily denied it, but Mr. Woodward hadn't believed her. Ever since, he'd tried unsuccessfully to break up her friendship with Elsbeth, and all evening he'd been shooting her scalding glances.
She forgot about Mr. Woodward as she spotted a new couple entering the ballroom. Something familiar about the man caught her attention, and as the couple made their way to Mrs. Templeton to pay their respects, she recognized him. Oh, my…
"Mr. Mayhew, would you escort me over to Mrs. Templeton? She's speaking with someone I know. Someone I haven't seen for years."
The gentlemen from New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore noticed that Miss Weston had stopped dancing and looked to see what had caught her attention. With no small amount of envy, they studied the man who'd just entered the ballroom. What was it about the pale, thin stranger that had brought such an attractive flush to the cheeks of the elusive Miss Weston?
Brandon Parsell, former cavalry officer in South Carolina's famous "Hampton's Legion," had something of the look of an artist about him, even though he was a planter by birth and knew nothing about art beyond the fact that he liked that fellow who painted horses. His hair was brown and straight, combed from a side part over a fine, well-molded brow. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and conservative side whiskers.
It wasn't the kind of face that inspired easy camaraderie with members of his own sex. It was, instead, a face that women liked, as it brought to mind novels about chivalry and called up memories of sonnets, nightingales, and Grecian urns.
The woman at his side was Eleanora Baird, the plain, somewhat overdressed daughter of his employer. He acknowledged her introduction to Mrs. Templeton with a courtly bow and a well-chosen compliment. Listening to his easy Southern drawl, no one would have guessed the loathing he felt for all of them: the glittering guests, the imposing hostess, even the Northern spinster whom duty required he escort that evening.
And then-from nowhere, it seemed-he felt a sharp pang of homesickness, a longing for the walled gardens of Charleston on a Sunday afternoon, a yearning for the quiet night air of Holly Grove, his family's former home. There was no reason for the crush of emotion that tightened his chest, no reason beyond the faint, sweet scent of Carolina jasmine borne on a rustle of white satin.
"Ah, Katharine, my dear," Mrs. Templeton called out in that strident Northern accent that jangled Brandon's ears. "I have someone I'd like you to meet. A countryman of yours."
Slowly he turned toward the evocative jasmine perfume and, as quickly as a missed heartbeat, lost himself in the beautiful, willful face that met his gaze.
The young woman smiled. "Mr. Parsell and I are already acquainted, although I see by his expression that he doesn't remember me. Shame, Mr. Parsell. You've forgotten one of your most faithful admirers."
Although Brandon Parsell didn't recognize the face, he knew the voice. He knew those gently blurred vowels and soft consonants as well as he knew the sound of his own breathing. It was the voice of his mother, his aunts, and his sisters. The voice that, for four long years, had soothed the dying and defied the Yankees and sent the gentlemen out to fight again. It was the voice that had gladly offered up husbands, brothers, and sons to the Glorious Cause.
The voice of all the gently bred women of the South.
It was the voice that had cheered them on at Bull Run and Fredericksburg, the voice that had steadied them in those long weeks on the bluffs at Vicksburg, the voice that had cried bitter tears into lavender-scented handkerchiefs, then whispered "Never mind" when they lost Stonewall Jackson at Chancellorsville.
It was the voice that had spurred on Pickett's men in their desperate charge at Gettysburg, the voice they'd heard as they lay dying in the mud at Chickamauga, and the voice they would not let themselves hear on that Virginia Palm Sunday when they'd surrendered their dreams at Appomattox Court House.
Yet, despite the voice, there was a difference in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. The white satin ball gown she wore rustled with newness. No brooch had been artfully placed to conceal a darn that was almost, but not quite, invisible. There were no signs that a skirt originally designed to accommodate a hoop had been taken apart and reassembled to give a smaller, more fashionable silhouette. There was another difference, too, in the woman who stood before him from the women who waited at home. Her violet eyes did not contain any secret, unspoken reproach.
When he finally found his own voice, it seemed to come from a place far away. "I'm afraid you have the advantage, ma'am. It's hard for me to believe I could have forgotten such a memorable face, but if you say it's so, I'm not disputing it, just begging your forgiveness for my poor memory. Perhaps you'll enlighten me?"
Elvira Templeton, accustomed to the plainer speech of Yankee businessmen, blinked twice before she remembered her manners. "Mr. Parsed, may I present Miss Katharine Louise Weston."
Brandon Parsell was too much a gentleman to let
his shock show, but even so, he couldn't find the words to frame a proper response. Mrs. Templeton continued with the amenities, introducing Miss Baird and, of course, Mr. Mayhew. Miss Weston seemed amused.
The orchestra began to play the first strains of The Blue Danube waltz. Mr. Parsell came out of his stupor and turned to Mr. Mayhew. "Would you very much mind fetching a cup of punch for Miss Baird, sir? She was just remarking on her thirst. Miss Weston, can an old friend claim the honor of this waltz?" It was an uncharacteristic breach of etiquette, but Parsell couldn't bring himself to care.
Kit smiled and presented her gloved hand. They moved out onto the ballroom floor and into the steps of the dance. Brandon finally broke the silence. "You've changed, Kit Weston I don't believe your own mammy would recognize you."
"I never had a mammy, Brandon Parsell, as you very well know."
He laughed aloud at her feistiness. He hadn't realized how much he missed talking to a woman whose spirit hadn't been broken. "Wait until I tell my mother and my sisters I've seen you. We heard Cain had shipped you to a school up North, but none of us speaks to him, and Sophronia hasn't said much to anybody."
Kit didn't want to talk about Cain. "How are your mother and sisters?"
"As well as can be expected. Losing Holly Grove's been hard on them. I'm working at the bank in Rutherford." His laugh was self-deprecating. "A Parsell working in a bank. Times do change, don't they, Miss Kit Weston?"
Kit took in the clean, sensitive lines of his face and observed the way his neatly trimmed mustache brushed the upper curve of his lip. She didn't let her pity show as she breathed in the faint smells of tobacco and bay rum that clung so pleasantly to him.
Brandon and his sisters had been at the center of a carefree group of young people some five or six years older than she. When the war started, she remembered standing at the side of the road and watching him ride toward Charleston. He'd sat his horse as if he'd been born in a saddle, and he'd worn the gray uniform and plumed hat so proudly that her throat had congealed with fierce, proud tears. To her, he'd symbolized the spirit of the Confederate soldier, and she'd yearned for nothing more than to follow him into battle and fight at his side. Now Holly Grove lay in ruins and Brandon Parsell worked in a bank.
"What are you doing in New York, Mr. Parsell?" she asked, trying to steady herself against the faint giddiness attacking her knees.
"My employer sent me here to attend to some family business for him. I'm returning home tomorrow."
"Your employer must think highly of you if he's willing to trust you with family affairs."
Again the self-deprecating sound that was nearly, but not quite, a laugh. "If you listen to my mother, she'll tell you that I'm running the Planters and Citizens Bank, but the truth is, I'm little more than an errand boy."
"I'm sure that's not so."
"The South has been raised on self-delusion. It's like mother's milk to us, this belief in our invincibility. But I, for one, have given up self-delusion. The South isn't invincible, and neither am I."
"Is it so very bad?"
He moved her toward the edge of the ballroom. "You haven't been to Rutherford for years. Everything's different. Carpetbaggers and scalawags are running the state. Even though South Carolina's about to be readmitted to the Union, Yankee soldiers still patrol the streets and look the other way when respectable citizens are accosted by riffraff. The state legislature's a joke." He spat out the last word as if it were venomous. "Living here, you can't have any idea what it's like."
She felt guilty, as if she had somehow shirked her duty by deserting the South to go to school in New York. The music ended, but she wasn't ready for the dance to be over. And maybe Brandon wasn't, either, because he made no move to release her. "I imagine you already have a partner for the supper dance."
She nodded, then heard herself saying, "But since you're a neighbor and leaving New York tomorrow, I'm certain Mr. Mayhew won't object to stepping aside."
He lifted her hand and brushed the back of it with his lips. "Then he's a fool."
Elsbeth swooped down on her the moment he took his leave and dragged her to the sitting room that had been set aside for the ladies to tidy themselves.
"Who is he, Kit? All the girls are talking about him. He looks like a poet. Oh, my! Your bows are coming untied, and you already have a spot on your skirt. And your hair…" She pushed Kit down in front of the mirror and snatched out the filigreed silver combs she'd given her last year as a birthday present. "I don't know why you wouldn't let me put it up for tonight. It looks so wild like this."
"For the same reason I wouldn't let you lace me into a corset. I don't like anything that takes away my freedom."
Elsbeth gave her an impish smile. "You're a woman. You're not supposed to have any freedom."
Kit laughed. "Oh, Elsbeth, what would I have done without you these last three years?"
"Gotten expelled."
Kit reached up and squeezed her hand. "Have I ever said thank you?"
"A hundred times. And I'm the one who should thank you. If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have learned to stand up for myself. I'm sorry Father's being so beastly. I'll never forgive him for not believing you."
"I don't want to come between you and your father."
"I know you don't." Elsbeth renewed her attack on Kit's hair. "Why do I bother to scold you for being so untidy? You hardly do anything the way a young lady is supposed to, yet half the men in New York are in love with you."
Kit made a face in the mirror. "Sometimes I don't like the way they look at me. As if I'm not wearing any clothes."
"I'm sure you're imagining it." Elsbeth finished securing the combs and wound her arms around Kit's shoulders. "It's just that you're so beautiful, they can't help looking at you."
"Silly." Kit laughed and jumped up from her chair. "His name is Brandon Parsell, and he's taking me in to supper."
"Supper? I thought Mr. Mayhew…"
But it was too late. Kit had already left.
A waiter came by with a third tray of petits fours. Kit started to reach for one, then caught herself just in time. She'd already had two, and she'd eaten every bite of the food she'd piled onto her plate. If Elsbeth had noticed-as most assuredly she had-Kit would receive another lecture. Templeton Girls ate sparingly at social occasions.
Brandon took the accusingly empty plate from her and set it aside. "I confess to enjoying a pipe after dinner. Would you be agreeable to showing me the garden? That is, if you don't mind the smell of tobacco."
Kit knew she should be with Bertrand Mayhew now, showing him stereoptic views of Niagara Falls and leading him to a marriage proposal, but she couldn't summon the will to excuse herself. "I don't mind at all. When I was younger, I smoked tobacco myself."
Brandon frowned. "As I recall, your childhood was unfortunate and best forgotten." He led her toward the doors that opened into the school's garden. "It's amazing how well you've managed to overcome the adversity of your upbringing, not to mention being able to live for so long with these Yankees."
She smiles as he led her along a brick path hung with paper lanterns. She thought of Elsbeth, Fanny Jennings, Margaret Stockton, and even Mrs. Templeton. "They're not all bad."
"What about the Yankee gentlemen? How do you feel about them?"
"Some are pleasant, others not."
He hesitated. "Have you received any proposals of marriage?"
"None that I've accepted."
"I'm glad."
He smiled, and without quite knowing how it happened, they were standing still. She felt the whisper of a breeze ruffling her hair. His hands settled on her shoulders. Gently he drew her toward him.
He was going to kiss her. She knew it would happen, just as she knew she would let him.
Her first real kiss.
A frown creased his forehead. He released her abruptly. "Forgive me. I nearly forgot myself."
"You were going to kiss me."
"I'm ashamed to admit it's all I'v
e been able to think about since I first set eyes on you. A man who presses his attentions on a lady is no gentleman."
"What if the lady's willing?"
His expression grew tender. "You're an innocent. Kisses lead to greater liberties."
She thought of Eve's Shame and the lecture on marital relations that all the senior girls had to endure before they graduated. Mrs. Templeton spoke of pain and duty, of obligation and endurance. She advised them to let their husbands have their way, no matter how shocking and horrible it might seem. She suggested they recite verses from the Bible or a bit of poetry while it was going on. But never once did she tell them exactly what Eve's Shame involved. It was left to their fertile imaginations.
Lilith Shelton reported that her mother had an aunt who'd gone insane on her wedding night. Margaret said she'd heard there was blood. And Kit had exchanged anxious glances with Fanny Jennings, whose father raised Thoroughbreds on a farm near Saratoga. Only Kit and Fanny had seen the shuddering of a reluctant mare as she was covered by a trumpeting stallion.
Brandon reached inside his pocket for a pipe and a worn leather tobacco pouch. "I don't know how you've been able to stand living in this city. It's not much like Risen Glory, is it?"
"Sometimes I thought I'd die of homesickness."
"Poor Kit. You've had a rough time of it, haven't you?"
"Not as bad as you. At least Risen Glory is still standing."
He wandered toward the garden wall. "It's a fine plantation. Always has been. Your daddy might not have had much sense where womenfolk were concerned, but he knew how to grow cotton." There was a hollow, hissing sound as he drew on his pipe. He relit it and gazed over at her. "Can I tell you something I've never confided to another livin' soul?"
A little thrill went through her. "What's that?"
"I used to have a secret hankering for Risen Glory. It's always been a better plantation than Holly Grove. It's a cruel twist of fate that the best plantation in the country is in the hands of a Yankee."
Just Imagine aka Risen Glory Page 9
