Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “When he recovered from his wounds, Hawke assumed you were dead, and he had one thing and one thing only on his mind—revenge. He tracked down Roger Hawke. He shot him. He returned to England to take over his inheritance, and—”

  “He thought I was dead. He almost died himself. He—”

  “He made no effort to verify it. He made no effort to find you.”

  “I’m not going to listen to—”

  “If he had loved you the way you claim, he would have moved heaven and earth until he found you. I did.”

  “I’m grateful for what you did,” I said coldly.

  “I don’t want your gratitude!”

  “And I intend to see that you are well paid for any inconvenience.”

  “God damn!” he exclaimed. “Why I didn’t strangle you to death a long time ago I’ll never know!”

  He fell silent then, and that suited me perfectly. I smoothed down my skirt, stared at the dusty brown road and the ghostly gray strands of Spanish moss and the slanting rays of sunlight. We would be in New Orleans soon. I would pay him off, and it would all be over. I wasn’t going to let him upset me again, not at this point. I would stoically endure his presence as long as it was necessary, and then I would start my journey to England and never give Jeremy Bond another single thought.

  Half an hour passed, perhaps more, the horses plodding patiently, the wagon creaking, bouncing, the flat wooden bed shaking from side to side as the wheels bumped over potholes. The pungent smell of the river was ever present, mud and moss and water blending to form a strong, not unpleasant, odor. I was beginning to grow weary again, already, and it seemed I had spent half my life on this damnably uncomfortable wooden seat. How wonderful it was going to be to have a room in the city, a proper bed, a proper bath, a hot meal prepared by an excellent chef. Jeremy Bond sighed. He was weary, too.

  “Would you like for me to take the reins?” I asked, prepared to be civil.

  “No need for that,” he snapped, and then he looked at me and frowned. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

  “That’s quite all right,” I said coldly.

  “Look, I said I’m sorry. I have a lot of things on my mind. I’ve got the feeling something’s wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re the only wagon on the road, have been for hours. We can’t be more than a few miles from the city, and there’s absolutely no traffic. No one’s leaving New Orleans.”

  “That family a while back—”

  “Something wrong there, too. The man looked ill. The woman looked scared to death. There might be a perfectly logical explanation, of course, but somehow I doubt it. We’ll soon find out, at any rate.”

  His voice was grave. His expression was grave, too, and I felt a dreadful sinking sensation inside. Something was wrong. I had sensed it much earlier in the day. We had been away from civilization so long, had been completely out of touch with what was going on. Had the terrible conflict raging up north finally reached this part of the world? Was there fighting in New Orleans? Had the city been taken over by troops, a blockade set up? Try though I might to banish it, my apprehension grew, and when, a short while later, I saw the barricade ahead, I knew my worst fears had been realized.

  It was a very crude barricade, flimsy wooden boxes and old sawhorses piled untidily across the road, three mothy-looking mattresses heaped on top. Two men paraded back and forth, ancient muskets resting on their shoulders. One of them was a shambling giant with tattered, dirty gold locks. His nose was broken, his brown eyes fierce, his demeanor extremely menacing. He must have been at least six-foot-seven. The other man was thin and bony, almost emaciated, his face pitted with pockmarks. His black hair was clipped close to his skull, and, as the wagon drew nearer, he glared at us with cold gray-blue eyes as hard and lifeless as marbles.

  “They look like pirates,” I whispered. “Surely they’re not soldiers.”

  “They’re not soldiers,” Jeremy said tersely. “Keep calm, Marietta. Let me handle this.”

  “Halt!” the blond giant bellowed.

  The man with the pockmarked face leveled his musket at us. Jeremy calmly tugged on the reins, bringing the horses to a full stop a few feet away from the barricade. I gripped the edge of the seat, curling my fingers tightly around the wood, trying to still my alarm. Jeremy seemed to be completely unperturbed, even when the bony man thrust his musket forward.

  “You want to be careful with that,” Jeremy remarked. “It might go off.”

  “Turn that wagon around, mister,” the man ordered. “Ain’t no one gettin’ past us. Ain’t no one enterin’ New Orleans, ain’t no one leavin’ either.”

  “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Th’ fevah,” the giant growled. “Fevah’s been ragin’ over a week now an’ folks’re droppin’ like, flics. llogan an’ me, we got orders. We got orders to shoot anyone who tries to get past us.”

  “Yeah,” Hogan agreed in a sepulchral voice. “Me an’ Flint, we shoot first an’ then ask questions. I told ja to turn that wagon around, mister, an’ you better get movin’, lessen ya wanna get your guts blown out.”

  Jeremy arched one brow. I couldn’t tell if he were angry or amused. The blond, Flint, stepped over to the wagon, his mouth twisting in a sullen curl. Both men were obviously illiterate, dregs of humanity hired for a paltry sum to do a job no one else would take. Both were obviously vicious, too, and, invested with a small amount of authority, full of self-importance. Neither of them had bathed for several weeks, that was painfully evident, and their clothes were filthy. Flint’s brown and yellow striped jersey looked ready to disintegrate, and his brown cord breeches were caked with dried mud, as were his boots.

  “Ya better do as Hogan tells ya,” he said. “Hogan, he gets impatient, gets real ugly.”

  Jeremy ignored this remark and turned to face me. “The fever,” he said. “You know what that means?”

  I nodded. Although I had never been through an epidemic during my years in New Orleans, I had heard chilling tales about the dreaded fever that turned the whole city into a charnel house, with thousands dying, particularly those in the congested slum areas. It struck without warning, picking its victims at random. Men in the bloom of health died in a matter of days, while others remained completely unscathed. I had heard of the white crosses painted across the doors of houses where there was illness, of wagons rattling through the city piled high with corpses to be deposited in trenches that served as community graves. I had heard of the looting and lawlessness that always prevailed during times of crisis, the criminal element taking full advantage.

  “I know what it means,” I said.

  “We’ll have to turn back. We can go to Natchez, stay there until the worst is over.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Marietta—”

  “We’d lose weeks, and I don’t intend to lose a single day. I feel quite sure these—these gentlemen are not incorruptible. The other wagon got past the barricade. It probably cost them every penny they had, but they got past. We have money.”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Ain’t no one gettin’ past me an’ Hogan,” Flint snarled. “You two keep chattin’, you’re gonna find yourselves in trouble. Turn that wagon around!”

  Jeremy glanced at the man with a complete lack of interest, as he might have glanced at a mildly worrisome insect. Flint scowled, mouth twisted beneath the broken nose, brown eyes filled with a savage gleam. Hogan, however, had lowered his musket. At the mention of money his whole demeanor had changed.

  “Let’s not be too hasty, Flint,” he drawled. “These folks might have important reasons for gettin’ into the city. We don’t wanna be unreasonable about it. Might be an emergency or somethin’.”

  “Think they can bribe us!” Flint bellowed. “Think we’re gonna let ’em get past us for a handful a pennies!”

  “’Magine they’re thinkin’ bigger ’n that. ‘Magine they�
�d be willin’ to pay a lot.”

  “We’re turning back,” Jeremy told me. “I don’t mind taking the risk myself, but I’m not going to expose you to danger. We’ll lose a few weeks, yes, but in the long run—”

  “You go to Natchez if you want to,” I said calmly. “I’m going on into the city.”

  “No you’re not. I can’t let you expose yourself to—”

  “It’s not your decision!” I snapped.

  “Listen, goddamnit, you have no idea what it’s like when there’s an epidemic. It’s too risky!”

  “How much do you gentlemen want?” I inquired.

  “Well, now,” Hogan began, “a fine lady like you, you oughta be able to pay a nice sum iffen we wuz amind to let ya through.”

  “We’re turning around, Marietta!”

  “You go right ahead,” I said airily. “I’ll take my things out of the back and walk the rest of the way.”

  “Fifty pounds,” Hogan said. “Yeah, fifty pounds. That oughta do it.”

  “Very well,” I replied.

  “Goddamn!” Jeremy thundered.

  I started to climb down from the wagon. He seized my arm, holding it in a bruising grip. His jaw was thrust out. His vivid blue eyes were flashing. He glared at me, and I gazed at him with a cool serenity that infuriated him even more. Several moments passed before he released my arm. He took a deep breath and slowly expelled it.

  “Okay,” he said. “You win.”

  “You needn’t accompany me, Mr. Bond. I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “Shut up! Ten pounds,” he told Hogan. “That’s all you’re getting.”

  “Ain’t enough. The lady here’s willing to pay—”

  “Ten pounds. Take it or leave it.”

  Hogan and Flint exchanged looks and then looked back at Jeremy and saw the expression on his face, saw it would be futile to haggle. Ten pounds was a great deal of money to men like these, and as Jeremy clearly didn’t want to go into the city to begin with, they decided to take what they could get while they had the chance. Jeremy took out the ten pounds, and Flint began to shove boxes and saw horses and mattresses aside. In a few minutes we were on our way again. Jeremy was remote, silent, still seething with anger he found difficult to contain. I had won. I was quite pleased with myself, yet as the wagon approached the city doubts began to creep in. I hoped I hadn’t made a terrible error.

  Thirty

  Sunlight slanted through the louvered wooden shutters, making bright yellow stripes across the floor as I stepped into the shadowy pantry in back of the large, bottom-floor apartment I had been sharing with Jeremy Bond these past four days. As I had expected, the shelves were almost empty. He had bought food three mornings ago, but those scant provisions were gone now. I would have to go to the market, there was no getting out of it, and as I left the pantry I was almost relieved to have an excuse to get out of the apartment. I had grown to loathe it already.

  I hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place, but he hadn’t given me any choice in the matter. I couldn’t check into a room, not with an epidemic raging, the inns were all closed tight, taking no new guests, and so I had reluctantly agreed to come here. He had maintained the apartment for years. It had been in a shambles when we arrived, the furniture covered with sheets, dust everywhere, and I had been scandalized to find a pile of dirty dishes on the drainboard. He blithely explained that he had been in a bit of a hurry when he departed the city and had had far more urgent matters on his mind than a stack of dishes.

  Everything was spotless now. I had scrubbed and cleaned and dusted and aired, not because I was fond of housework but simply because there was nothing else to do. He had sternly forbidden me to leave the house except to fetch water from the cistern in the backyard. He had been gone for hours every day, attending to “urgent” business about which he was extremly mysterious. He had sold the horses and wagon and, his own business attended to at last, had left this morning with all my jewelry, assuring me he had connections and would be able to get the best available price for each piece.

  It was well after two o’clock in the afternoon now. I should never have let him have the jewelry, I thought, moving down the hall to the front parlor. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the rogue skipped town with them, leaving me flat broke. It was an unkind thought and, I admitted, grossly unfair. For all his faults, and they were legion, Jeremy Bond was honest and in his way he had as much integrity as any man I had ever known. He’d be back, all right, and God only knew how much longer we’d be cooped up in this wretched apartment, windows and shutters tightly shut to keep out the air.

  I couldn’t stay inside any longer, not without losing my mind. The lack of food gave me a perfect excuse. I’d as soon risk the fever as risk insanity, I told myself. I was extremely familiar with this neighborhood. The market was only a short walk from here. With luck, I could go and get back with ample provisions before he returned. I hesitated nevertheless. Jeremy would be livid when he found out. and much as I longed to go I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of apprehension. I would be taking a risk, yes, there was no doubt about it, but then he had been jaunting around the city every day and hadn’t been affected in the least.

  Squaring my shoulders, I moved resolutely into the bedroom. We needed food. I needed to get out of the apartment, if only for a little while. If he didn’t like it. that was just too bad. I stepped over to the mirror and removed the apron I had been wearing and smoothed down the skirt of the violet-blue cotton dress. It was beginning to look the worst for wear, but I saw no reason to change just to go to the market. I brushed my hair back, peering at my reflection in the dim light. I looked a little pale and drawn, but that was to be expected. Who wouldn’t be pale after being confined like this for so long?

  I fetched my reticule, checked to see that I had enough money and then, as an afterthought, stepped over to the chest beside the bed and took out the small pistol he kept in the top drawer. After verifying that it was loaded, I dropped it into the reticule, pulled the drawstring tight and moved into the foyer, praying he wouldn’t choose this moment to return and catch me in the act of leaving. I unlocked the door and stepped outside. The sunlight seemed blinding, and I paused, blinking my eyes. Four days inside with all the shutters closed had left me unprepared for the radiant light, and it took me a moment to adjust.

  The courtyard was deserted. Most of the flowers were dead, and the shrubbery was beginning to wilt and turn brown. The sulphur fumes were responsible for that. Great iron vats of sulphur were kept burning night and day on almost every corner as a preventative measure against the fever, and I wondered if the noxious fumes really helped. As I moved across the courtyard and opened the ornate iron gate the smell seemed overpowering, growing stronger as I walked down the street toward the corner. A vat was burning there, great yellow-gray clouds of smoke filling the air. Ardently wishing I’d thought to bring along a scented handkerchief, I put my hand over my nose and mouth and hurried around the corner.

  The smell seemed less potent as I continued toward the market, but perhaps I was merely getting used to it. I seemed to be the only pedestrian. It was just as well, I thought. The fewer people I encountered, the better. As I passed a row of houses, I couldn’t help but notice the large white crosses slashed across three of the doors in white paint. Up ahead, a woman in brown, with a heavy brown veil, stepped out of a courtyard and started walking toward me. When she saw me she stopped, hesitated a moment and then scurried across the street so she wouldn’t have to pass me. I could understand her precaution and was relieved myself.

  It was really foolhardy of me to come out like this. I realized that now, but I stubbornly refused to turn back. I moved on resolutely, passing another burning vat, coughing. A wagon passed on the street, rumbling noisily over the cobblestones. The man driving it had a scarf tied around the lower half of his face. He glanced at me suspiciously and kept a firm grip on his whip, almost as though he expected me to leap at him. The whole city was obviously in a
state of terror. Jeremy had told me about the looting, the fighting, the murders. Thank goodness I had brought the pistol. I wouldn’t hesitate to use it if the need arose.

  When I finally reached the market, I wasn’t at all surprised to see that most of the stalls were shut tight, a gray, ghostly atmosphere supplanting the bustle and color and vitality that usually prevailed. The few people who were shopping cautiously avoided each other whenever possible. Most of the men had scarves covering their noses and mouths, as had the driver of the wagon, while the women kept heavily scented handkerchiefs over their nostrils. Several of them carried oranges poked full of cloves as well. The air was filled with a thick, billowing fog from the dozens of sulphur vats.

  “You gonna buy, lady, or are you gonna stand there thinkin’ about it?”

  The proprietor of the stall I had stopped in front of was a big, burly man in blue shirt and black leather apron. His manner was gruff, suspicious, and with the scarf over his face he looked exactly like a bandit. There was a pistol on the shelf behind him, deliberately kept in plain sight. I purchased three plucked chickens, four pounds of beef, a roll of hard sausage, and when he told me how much it was going to cost I was appalled. He was indeed a bandit, charging five times what the meat would have cost under ordinary circumstances.

  “But that’s absurd!” I protested. “You can’t charge—”

  “I can charge anything I wanna charge, lady! I’m riskin’ my life bein’ here. Pay up or move on! I don’t fancy bein’ contaminated.”

  “It seems I have no choice,” I said acidly.

  “Ain’t no one gotta choice. You wanna eat, you gotta pay.”

  I placed the money on the countertop. He took it gingerly and thrust it into his pocket.

  “You gotta basket?”

  “I forgot to bring one.”

  “I gotta basket here under the counter. It’ll cost ya a pound.”

  “A pound!”

  “You gonna buy food, you gotta have a basket to carry it in.”

  I slapped another pound note down, livid. He placed the meat into the basket and shoved it toward me. I moved on angrily, my anger growing as I was forced to pay exorbitant prices for bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables. When I left the market I had only a few coins remaining, and the basket was so heavy I could barely carry it. I walked slowly, frequently stopping to shift the basket from one hand to the other, gripping the handle tightly and feeling as though my arm were being pulled from its socket.