Roses

by Leila Meacham

  Mary then went to Lucy huddled in the corner and put her arms around her as if she were a child. Through the flannel of her robe, her sturdy little body felt unnaturally moist and warm. It gave off a faint, offensive odor, as if the bitterness of her rage were seeping out through her pores. Still, Mary held her until she felt the last shuddering sobs leave her body.

  “Wh-why didn’t he ta-take a deferment?” Lucy hiccuped between snatches of breath. “H-he’s entitled to—to a deferment.”

  “Why didn’t any of them?” Mary answered, smoothing Lucy’s damp bangs away from her forehead. “It’s not their way.”

  Lucy clutched Mary’s hand. “He won’t be killed!” she cried, her blue eyes bright and feverish. “I know he’ll come home. I know it! I’ll make a pact with God. I’ll promise to be good. I know I can be good. I’ll give up—”

  “Cursing?” Mary suggested with a grin, and was relieved to see a sheepish smile crawl across her roommate’s face.

  “That, too, by God, if I have to.”

  The next morning, Mary awakened to find Lucy gone, her bed unmade. She had left a note: “Gone to mass. Lucy.”

  Still awed by the depth of the emotion she had witnessed, frightened by its sincerity, Mary made the bed and exchanged fresh pillowcases for those sodden with the tears Lucy had continued to shed through the night. She was deeply disturbed for her roommate. How was it possible to have such feelings for a man she barely knew and to cling to hope that he might care for her?

  Lucy Gentry hadn’t a chance with Percy Warwick. The woman he chose would be beautiful, intelligent, and cultured, a lady through and through. He would never settle for less, and Lucy, as captivating as she was in her unexpected way, struck Mary as definitely very much less. There was a coarseness about her in speech and manner that Percy would find offensive. She made good marks and was considered an adroit student, but what others perceived as intelligence, Mary pegged as sheer craft. It was her observation that Lucy had perfected the impression of being lettered. She was a book skimmer, a headline reader who had an amazing ability to suggest, with a few crumbs of information, that she possessed the whole loaf. Also, Mary suspected that Lucy’s high academic rating was a result of cheating. As a staff aide, she had access to examinations and test schedules that Mary believed accounted for her uncanny ability to know what and when to study for exams.

  Even her impoverishment was a sham. True, Lucy was a “scholarship girl,” a student who had the credentials, but not the means, to attend Bellington Hall. However, she had a small trust fund left by her mother that would have updated the hopelessly outmoded clothes that hung in sparse number in her dormitory closet. The clothes were a banner of some sort. If Lucy could not flaunt the finest, she would the shabbiest. Mary could not quite understand the point of the statement or believe in its sincerity. It was a ridiculous rebellion, more of a pose than a stand, although Lucy’s Victorian wardrobe endeared her to the girls and staff alike.

  Mary shrugged off these small imperfections as minor blights on an apple. She could eat around them, but not Percy. Percy would pick the finest from the barrel.

  One day, in exasperation, Mary had informed Lucy that she was aware of her futile infatuation with Percy and that she was a nitwit to allow it to influence a decision about her future. It was then that Lucy had reacted with her absurd claim: “You want him for yourself!”

  Mary had been so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “What?” she’d squeaked.

  “You heard me,” Lucy said, sulking. “Don’t try to deny it. You’ve had your eye on him all your life.”

  Mary heard her roommate’s voice as if it had come from a deep well. She—set her cap for Percy Warwick? Why, Lucy would have better luck with him. “That’s ridiculous,” she disputed. “In the first place, I’m not interested in Percy, but even if I were”—she held up a hand to check Lucy’s immediate contradiction—“he isn’t the least interested in me. He doesn’t even like me.”

  “Doesn’t like you?” Lucy looked puzzled. “Why not?”

  “It has to do with the way we look at our families, who we are, what we’re about.”

  “You mean the Tolivers and the Warwicks?”

  “Yes. Percy and I differ on the importance we put on our heritage, our… duties. I think one way and Percy thinks another. It’s too complicated to go into, but believe me, we are not high in each other’s affections. As far as I’m concerned, you have a clear field with Percy. It’s… just that…”

  “Just what?” Lucy urged, blue eyes narrowing.

  Mary pulled in her lip and held her tongue. She longed to say: It’s just that you’re not the kind of woman he could care for. You haven’t the beauty, or the brains, or the delicacy of feeling that would appeal to Percy.

  Lucy observed her closely, then threw back her head with a bark of a laugh. “It’s just that I’m not good enough for him, is that it?”

  Mary considered her words. Since she’d opened the door, now was the opportunity to deliver the blunt truth, but she hadn’t the heart to do it. “Being good enough isn’t the question, Lucy. You’re good enough for any man, for heaven’s sake. I happen to know Percy’s type, that’s all.”

  “And I’m not it.”

  “Well… no, you’re not.”

  “What is, then?”

  “Dresden. Porcelain. Sweetness. Kindness. Not a drop of vinegar in the blood.”

  “What an utter bore!” Lucy exclaimed. “What about passion? Sex?”

  Mary’s jaw dropped. How did the girl know of such things? If Miss Peabody were to hear her, she’d have a stroke. She said equably enough, “I would imagine Percy finds feminine sweetness, if it’s genuine, sexually stimulating.”

  “Mary Toliver!” Lucy stamped her small foot. “You mean to tell me you’ve lived practically side by side to Percy Warwick all your life and never realized what kind of woman he likes? Why, Percy requires spirit and fire in a woman. Dresden and porcelain be damned. He likes a woman he doesn’t have to worry about breaking, that he can grab hold of, that can match him thrust for thrust—”

  “Lucy!” Mary was on her feet, two spots burning on her cheeks and her heart racing as it had three summers ago when Percy had held her gaze across the courthouse common. “I can’t understand how you know so much about Percy’s sexual preferences since you’ve barely met him, but keep the subject to yourself. You may be right, but if you are, you’re out of luck.”

  “Why?” Lucy demanded.

  “Because you’re too… you’re too short.”

  Lucy laughed again. “Well, we’ll see. There are ways around that little problem, and I’ll bet Percy knows all about them.”

  That discussion cleared the air between them, and they were seen together so frequently, they were thought of as best friends. They were nothing of the sort, and they both knew it. Mary would never entrust her private thoughts to someone of Lucy’s doubtful ability to keep confidences, and Lucy was well aware of Mary’s frank disapproval of her pursuit of Percy, an objection she met with her usual unflappable good nature.

  “I may not be good enough for him in your eyes, Mary Toliver, but I’ll be good enough in his. My love for him will blind him.”

  “He has known the love of many, Lucy. None has succeeded in blinding him.”

  “Ah, but he’s never known a love like mine. It will so dazzle him that by the time his eyes clear, I will be the woman he deserves. Loving him will make me so.”

  In the train, grateful for the sound of its wheels chugging her home, Mary laid her head back and closed her eyes. Poor, poor Lucy. She had as much hope of Percy falling in love with her as a ship had of plying dry land.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Mary was ready for the first call to breakfast at six o’clock. It had been a dreadful night. She’d thrashed about, dreaming that she was doomed to ride the Southern Pacific forever, glimpsing the far-off landmarks of Howbutker only through her Pullman window as the train whistled through the
station without stopping. She awoke shaken, her heart thumping in the sultry, close air of the compartment. No sooner would she doze off again than the nightmarish scene was back, this time with Lucy Gentry smiling and waving from the station platform as the train whizzed by.

  A large breakfast and three cups of coffee, unusual for her, dispelled the aftertaste of her disturbing night, and Mary returned to her compartment to await the final leg into Howbutker. She would delay pinning on her hat until she saw the whitewashed outskirts of the Hollows, the Warrick-built company town where mill workers lived in trim pine houses with wraparound porches, white picket fences, and bricked streets. Only then would she know that the long journey was soon to be over.

  She had not been home since Miles saw her off on the train last August. He had looked uncomfortable when she mentioned returning for Christmas.

  “Wait until I send for you, Mary. In case things don’t work out for you to come home, try to arrange for an invitation to spend the holidays with a friend.”

  “But, Miles, Christmas…”

  Shamefaced, he’d taken her into a clumsy embrace. “Mary, Mama’s in a bad way. You saw that for yourself when she wouldn’t see you before you left. You can only help by going away and… staying away until she gets better. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  A strange terror had shaken her. She’d fastened her arms around her brother’s waist and asked in a small, beseeching voice, “Miles, Mama doesn’t hate me, does she?”

  She had heard his answer in his silent reply. “Miles, no….”

  “Shush, don’t tear up now. You’ll mar your pretty face. Try to make the best of this year. Do us proud.”

  “I truly have lost her, haven’t I?” Her stricken look begged him to contradict her.

  “You’ll adjust to it, Mary. You’ll adjust to all the losses in your life because you care only for the one thing that cannot leave you.” One side of his mouth had ridden up mirthlessly. “Betray you? Most certainly. Let you down, suck you dry… absolutely, but it will never leave you. In a way, you’re luckier than any of us. You’re sure as hell luckier than Mama.”

  “I could lose Somerset,” she reminded him. “If those mortgage payments aren’t made, I could lose the plantation, too.”

  Miles playfully touched the tip of her nose and eased himself from her arms. “See how quickly the pain of one loss is forgotten at the possibility of one more important to you?” he half joked, wounding her with his stranger’s smile. Once she was seated by her window, he’d waved briefly but had turned and walked away even before the train pulled out of the station.

  She’d gone with Amanda to Charleston for the Christmas holiday, during which her darkly handsome older brother, Richard, had given her the experience of her first kiss upon the lips. It happened under the mistletoe. He’d tilted up her chin to meet his intent, and she’d been too surprised to step away. After a moment, she’d found herself responding to the pressure of his mouth and the clasp of her body to his male form. “Oh,” she’d said breathlessly when they parted, amazed and embarrassed at herself, more so because of the spark in Richard’s eye and his small, knowing smile. They seemed to say he’d discovered an untapped vein that he intended to mine for himself. Immediately, her defenses had gone up. She’d stepped away from the danger zone of the overhanging greenery. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I don’t think I could have refrained from it,” he’d said. “You are very beautiful. Surely that’s reason to forgive me.”

  “Only if you promise never to let it happen again.”

  “I’m afraid I never make promises I am powerless to keep.”

  She’d accepted his hand to lead her into the dining room, but the experience had shaken her. Instinctively, she’d known she must keep this… new self-discovery sealed from men who could use it against her. I will not let him kiss me again, she had vowed—a promise that she, too, had found herself powerless to keep.

  Mary shook herself from the recollections of their mutually enjoyed passion. Through the pine trees, the first white gleam of the Hollows had come into view. Mary scarcely noticed the increased number of houses as the train, slowing and blowing its whistle, skirted its periphery. She saw the flash of a handsome modern structure with its sign, WARWICK LUMBER COMPANY, written in fresh bold letters. She remembered that Miles had written of the expansion of the company’s facilities and the building of a new office complex on landscaped grounds. The brief sight of it barely registered. She had her mind on other things.

  Miles was to meet the train, but there had been no reply to a note she’d written weeks ago to alert him of the time and date of her arrival. In the days that had followed, she’d worried how she’d get the money for her ticket if Miles did not send her the sum. Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she’d sent a collect telegram to Miles, an extravagance the Toliver budget could ill afford, pleading her urgent need. Within the week, he’d wired her the correct amount with no message attached. Stung, she had thought the absence of a few lines from her brother to welcome her home unforgivably rude, and she’d lived in a state of apprehension about the kind of reception she’d receive.

  The train whistle blew again, and Mary, her heart beating uncontrollably, adjusted her hat in the small mirror above the lavatory. It was as out of fashion as her other clothes, though not as much as Lucy’s. The fashion silhouette of women’s styles seemed to change every season, and she’d had only a few new things in her wardrobe since her father had died.

  The Tolivers’ fiscal reverses were apparently well known in Howbutker. Shortly after she’d arrived at Bellington, Abel DuMont had written to ask if Mary would consider wearing his clothes as advertisement for the DuMont Department Store. “Your figure and bearing are superb for the new style of women’s wear,” he’d explained, “and I can’t tell you what a service you would render if you would agree to model our line. You would, of course, keep all garments and accessories as a small token of my appreciation.”

  Mary had run a hand over the exquisite garments mailed along with the letter, then reluctantly boxed and returned the collection. “Thank you so much for your kind proposal,” she had written, “but you and I both know that your clothes do not need advertisement here in fashion-knowledgeable Bellington Hall. Everyone is aware of your establishment and the beauty and quality of your merchandise. However, be assured that as my fortunes allow, I will never purchase my clothes anywhere but from the DuMont Department Store.”

  It had caused her pain to deny Abel the opportunity to show her kindness, but she was certain he would understand that she’d look upon the gesture as a breach of the agreement the families had followed since the founding of Howbutker.

  Studying her face in the compartment mirror, she wondered if it had changed in the year she’d been away. Richard had brought to her attention the perfect symmetry of her features. With his forefinger the last night they were together, he’d drawn a line straight down from the V of her hairline to the dimple in the center of her chin. “See? Everything over here”—he’d kissed her left cheek—“parallels everything over here….” And he’d kissed the right. Then with both hands cradling her face, he’d drawn her forward to kiss her mouth, but she had stiffened and pulled away.

  “No, Richard.”

  Chagrin had flashed in his fine dark eyes. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s… pointless, that’s why.”

  He’d frowned. “Why is it pointless?”

  “You know why. I’ve told you many times.”

  “Somerset?” The name seemed to curl his tongue, like something rancid. “I thought I was wooing you away from that rival.”

  “You were mistaken. I’m sorry, Richard.”

  “Not as sorry as I fear you may be someday, my dear.”

  The train finally drew to a stop. Mary stepped off and inhaled deeply of the hot, sultry air of her hometown, scanning the platform for Miles. It was Saturday, and the station was bustling. She inclin
ed her head at the stationmaster and several farmers and townspeople she knew, including the mother of a former classmate. Had it been only a year ago since she’d greeted the woman, wearing the same hat, as she’d waited to board for her annual trip to California to visit her daughter? She herself had been waiting to collect Miles on his return from Princeton because their father was ill at home and their mother was tending him. Even so, back at the house, all was in readiness for his homecoming, the table set, the champagne chilling, and the house vibrant with arrangements of spring flowers. In less than a month her father was dead, and none of their lives had been the same.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Draper,” she said. “You’re off for your June visit with Sylvie again, I expect.” Where in the world is Miles?

  With a gloved hand, Mrs. Draper touched the cameo at the high neck of her blouse in a gesture of demure surprise. Mary had always thought her pretenses a way to project an image of good breeding. “Why, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Mary Toliver. You’re home from that school they sent you off to, I reckon. I would never have known you, you’ve changed so. Become older, I guess would be the best word.”

  Mary smiled faintly. “It will do as well as any other,” she said. “You, however, do not seem to have changed a bit, and I’m certain Sylvie hasn’t, either.”

  “You’re too kind for words.” Behind the simpering smile, Mary could easily read the woman’s thoughts, overheard one time when she’d expressed them aloud to a shopkeeper. Her Sylvie and the uppity Mary Toliver had never gotten on as well as one would expect, the two of them having grown up together and all, and her Andrew making as good a living as he did from the saddle-and-boot shop. There was nothing wrong in earning a livelihood from a shop. Didn’t Abel DuMont do it every day, only on a grander scale? No, Mary’s snootiness came from being a landowning Toliver. Everybody knew the Tolivers considered themselves treetops above everyone else in town, except for the Warwicks and DuMonts. Never mind that those they looked down on could pay their bills while the high-and-mighty Tolivers could not.