But if Jarvis Ledbetter wanted his money before the last boll was picked, she’d have to turn him down. She couldn’t risk their cash reserve for any reason. Nonetheless, it was worth putting work aside for a while to hear what he had to say.
Two hours later, having heard it, Mary sat staring at the plantation owner, shocked beyond speech in her chair. They were seated in the study of the small plantation home, having after-luncheon coffee. “The First Bank of Boston, you said?” Mary repeated. “The First Bank of Boston wants to buy Fair Acres?”
“That’s what I said, Mary. Every square inch of it. However…” The master of Fair Acres, still a reputed womanizer at seventy, tapped his fingertips together playfully. “I haven’t said yes yet. I’m giving you first chance to buy it and unite your acreage.”
Mary resisted the urge to wail aloud. The First Bank of Boston was the lending institution that held the mortgage to Somerset. Like an undertaker waiting close at hand for a dying man’s last breath, they expected her to default on the mortgage. By buying Fair Acres, if Somerset failed, they would be in possession of a plantation on a major waterway, making it the most valuable plantation in East Texas, worth triple their investment. Why else would they be interested in buying that particular stretch when there were other cotton farms vulnerable for the snatching? Mary thought she would choke on the insult.
She had come to look upon the financial body as a personal enemy bent on destroying families such as hers and the system that went with them. One by one, all across the Cotton Belt, planters like Jarvis Ledbetter were selling out to eastern bidders, selling out the tenants who depended upon them for their livelihoods, selling out the land to be diverted to other, more profitable crops than the cultivation of cotton. She couldn’t blame them, she supposed. It was getting harder and harder to maintain the plantation way of life. Inclement weather, maintenance costs, diminishing markets, pests, and the disinclination of heirs to carry on in the rural tradition—they all represented reasons for getting out from under the constant struggle to survive.
Still, Mary felt a surge of resentment toward the toadlike man whose pale blue eyes observed her with rheumy delight over his fingertips. She made up her mind at once. “If you’re willing to wait until after the harvest, I will certainly buy it,” she said.
The silver-haired old planter shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear. I can’t wait until after the harvest, which may or may not come in, as we are all too painfully aware. I’m selling everything—lock, stock, and barrel—and moving to Europe. Plan to live in Paris for a while. I’ve always wanted to go there, see a little of the world before I die, and I can’t think of a better place to start than the Moulin Rouge. Miles still in Paris?”
“He was the last we heard. Mr. Ledbetter…” Mary’s mouth went dry as she heard herself ask, “Exactly what are you asking for Fair Acres?”
When he quoted the sum, she sucked in her breath. It was far less than she had expected. “But that—that’s most reasonable,” she stammered, her mind working, going over the figures in her ledger back home.
“Far more reasonable than I intend to be with the bunch back in Boston,” Jarvis said, his pale eyes glittering.
“Why are you making me such a generous offer?” Mary was suddenly wary. All through the meal, she’d half expected the old man to make an inappropriate advance toward her.
Her host sighed and reached inside his black wool jacket for a cigar. After biting off the tip, he studied the end of it. “To ease my conscience a bit, perhaps. If I sell to them, I’m opening the back door in this part of Texas for the jackals to move in. I know it, and I’m sorry about it, but if I don’t, my girls and those worthless husbands of theirs will. I figure that by offering you the chance to buy Fair Acres, I’ll have done something to save the old way of life. I figure if anybody can last out here, you will. They don’t make offspring—heirs—of your kind anymore, Mary. You’re the last of the breed. I can take a little less and still be happy. Besides…” The old planter lit up. “I figure it’s all you can afford.”
“You’re right,” Mary said. She was more relaxed with him now. He offered an opportunity she’d be a fool to pass up. Never again would she be able to buy that land as cheaply, and certainly not if the First Bank of Boston purchased it. She said quickly, “Mr. Ledbetter, I do believe I see a way to buy those sections. When do you have to know?”
“I’m hoping to close out the deal by the end of the week. I know that’s short notice, Mary, but I want to be out of here by the last of the month. If you buy it, I’ll see that the fields get tilled, but my responsibility ends with that. And you’ll have to give me cash. Mind, I’m sorry about it, but I’m in no position to carry you on a note. I need my money now, and I don’t want to leave anything on the books before I sail. A man’s affairs are too hard to handle from across the water.”
Rising, Mary extended her hand to her host. “I’ll let you know something by the end of the week. As you know, I must consult with Emmitt Waithe, who’s the trustee of Somerset.”
Jarvis Ledbetter set aside his cigar, got to his feet, and shook her hand. “My dear, if you can get past Emmitt with this, then you’re even more of a crackerjack than I thought. Good luck.”
She needed more than luck, Mary thought as she clucked Shawnee down the dirt road on the way into town. She needed at least twenty good reasons to convince Emmitt to release the last of their security to buy Fair Acres, and the chances of that were very slim. Not once since Miles had named him trustee had he given her a moment’s argument concerning expenditures, but he would dig in his heels at this one. As much as he thought of her personally, and admired her ability and leadership, his allegiance was first and foremost to her father. They had been best friends. No other man in the county had respected and liked her father more. Mary would have to get around Emmitt’s fiduciary responsibility to the memory of his late friend, and that would be no mean task. In no way would he risk losing Vernon Toliver’s Somerset on what he most certainly would consider a whim of his daughter’s.
Yet the more she thought about it, the more she was persuaded that buying Fair Acres was a prudent move. First of all, she would own Fair Acres outright. She must convince Emmitt that she’d simply be exchanging one form of asset in the trust for another. She would be exchanging cash for land that would actually have a greater monetary value than its asking price. Should the harvest come in short or fail, she could borrow against Fair Acres and manage both mortgages for the brief time left to repair the debt on Somerset. She would not let herself think of what that would mean for the household, when they were already scraping the marrow from the bone.
As she flew along the road into town, she thought of other important considerations as well. She prayed—begged—for the power to make Emmitt see them as clearly as she did.
She found him in, relieving her worry that she’d find the CLOSED FOR DINNER sign in his window.
“Mary, my dear,” the lawyer said in quiet astonishment when she explained the reason for her visit, “I can’t believe that level head of yours would ever entertain such an idea. That reserve you have in the trust is your only source of security. I can’t possibly let you have it to purchase additional property that would compromise the land you have.”
“But, Mr. Waithe,” Mary implored, standing before his desk, too wrought up to sit, “you don’t know these people. Why would they want to buy Fair Acres if not in hope they’ll foreclose on Somerset?”
Emmitt parted his hands in a reasonable gesture. “I don’t deny they have done exactly that for the reason you cite, but, my dear, why not? It’s their prerogative, and actually it makes good business sense.”
“All the same, they could make very unpleasant neighbors. There are all kinds of ways they can inflict damage to Somerset from Fair Acres with the intention of making me go under.”
Emmitt hiked a skeptical brow. “Like what?”
“Well, they can sabotage irrigation from the Sabine, for one. Th
e Tolivers and Ledbetters have always worked together in keeping the canals open across our properties. Think of all the ways that flow could be diverted or even stopped, and nothing could be done about it. Without irrigation, Somerset is doomed. And the Bank of Boston can refuse to work with us to eradicate pests. Mr. Ledbetter and I have always treated our fields simultaneously. If we didn’t, the other’s efforts would be futile. I’m sure they have other means to wipe me out that I haven’t conceived. Fire, for instance.”
Emmitt made an agitated sound in his throat, obviously loath to argue with her. “Mary, that would be cutting off their nose to spite their face. The Bank of Boston wants that land as an investment, not as a means to drive you out. The location of it is an advantage because of the irrigation from the Sabine. They’re buying it to sell for a profit.”
“They can afford to wait, Mr. Waithe. They can let that land go to seed for a year, then sell it as part of Somerset and still make a fortune.”
“Only if the Bank of Boston’s motive in buying the land is as nefarious as you suspect, which I wholeheartedly doubt,” Emmitt said.
But Mary saw that she had given him cause to reconsider his objections. He frowned, tilting back in his chair. She leaned forward to press her argument. “By adding Fair Acres to the trust, it becomes more valuable,” she contended. “And remember, I’m only in trouble if the harvest fails. But isn’t that an improbable if? We’re looking for a bumper crop this year. If we get it, I’ll have more than enough money to put something in reserve for next year. But if the year after that is good… oh, Mr. Waithe…” Mary stood back and clasped her hands, her eyes shining. “Think of it! Somerset united, a sweep of white from one boundary to the other, clear down to the Sabine! It would be a dream come true.”
Emmitt shook his head sorrowfully. “No, Mary. Not a dream come true, but pride gratified. This is not about vision. This is about blind desire that falls short of greed only because you love the land. Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but I owe it to your father to do so. It’s your pride pushing you to buy Fair Acres. You will then own one of the biggest plantations in Texas and prove that your father was right in writing his will as he did. It’s pride at work in you, not the hope of a dream fulfilled, and it’s blinding you to the harsh realities of your situation.”
Hurt by his words, disbelieving that he could so mistake her motives, Mary cried, “No, Mr. Waithe, it’s you who are blind to the harsh realities of my situation. If the Bank of Boston buys those sections, they will destroy Somerset. Are you willing to bet they won’t?”
“Are you willing to bet everything you own that they will?” Emmitt countered. “You’re gambling on what you think the Bank of Boston will do. You’re gambling on the next two years’ harvests. If they fail, you’re gambling that you can borrow against Fair Acres. What if you can’t? Remember that you’ll only be twenty. You have to be twenty-one before you can borrow on your own signature. A cosigner will be required, and who will that be?” Emmitt’s expression told her to rule him out as a possible candidate. He didn’t have the money to cover her losses should disaster fall.
“In that case, I have to hope the Toliver name will be enough.” Mary’s chin lifted confidently. “Everybody knows that we Tolivers are good for our promises.”
Emmitt sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Oh, dear child… Another point I don’t think you’ve considered. How can you run Fair Acres and Somerset without an overseer? You’re stretched to the limit as it is. Can you afford to keep Ledbetter’s man? Think of all the extra duties you’ll be taking on, the exaction in time and effort and money and, I might add”—Emmitt gave her a look of fatherly concern—“your youth.”
“Mr. Ledbetter said he’d see to the tilling before he leaves,” Mary said, but her tone was subdued. She finally drew up a chair and slumped in it. No, she hadn’t thought of the extra work or what to do about the overseer. She never swam a current until she had to, and as far as her youth was concerned… it had been a long while since she’d felt young. She gazed across the desk at Emmitt Waithe, obstinate in his conscientious duty. “I know you’re looking out for my best interests, Mr. Waithe, but how are you going to feel if I’m right about my best interests and you’re wrong?”
“Terrible.” Emmitt sighed. “But not nearly as terrible as I’ll feel if I’m right and you’re wrong. If you’re right, at least I can plead that my better judgment caused me to refuse you the last of your funds. I won’t have that refuge if I’m right.”
“Papa would agree with me,” Mary said evenly, her gaze steady on the lawyer. “He always foresaw this danger. Papa would take the gamble. And I must tell you, dear friend, that if the Bank of Boston buys that land and my fears come to pass, I’ll have a very hard time forgiving you.”
Emmitt pursed his mouth. His mulling expression made her think that she had said the magic words: Papa would take the gamble.
After a few seconds, the lawyer gave her a pensive smile. “You are so like him, Mary Toliver. Did you know that? Sometimes, for all the obvious evidence of your gender, I honestly think I’m talking to him sitting in that chair. Yes, your father would have taken the gamble. And, as with you, I’d have tried to talk him out of it.”
“Would you have succeeded?”
“No.” The lawyer pulled forward in his chair as if he’d made a decision. “You have until the end of the week to get back to Jarvis, you say? Let’s both think on this. I’ll let you know my decision by Friday, and then you can contact Mr. Ledbetter.” Emmitt peered at her long over his glasses. “And I must tell you, Miss Mary Toliver, that if my answer is yes and my fears come to pass, I shall have a very difficult time forgiving me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Striking off to the study to rework her figures when she’d returned home, Mary came to a halt when she heard her mother call from the parlor, “Mary? Is that you? Come in here.”
Incredulously, she approached the open door of the room to find her mother sitting in her favorite rocker before the French windows, fully dressed, and Sassie holding watch from the couch. The look of consternation Sassie gave her reminded Mary that it was four o’clock, long past the time she’d promised to be home to relieve her to do the marketing, a chore she looked forward to as her only means of getting out of the house for a change of scene.
“Sassie has been waiting to fix supper,” Darla scolded, her scowl and tone recalling to Mary the many times she’d received such reproofs as a child. In those days, they had bothered her. Now she welcomed her mother’s reproach as a sign that she was returning to normal. Darla flicked a critical eye over the blouse and riding skirt that she’d chosen to wear to Fair Acres before heading to the plantation. “I’m assuming those are not your usual work clothes. Where in the world have you been?”
“I… had some business to attend to in town. I’m sorry I’m late. Sassie, I’ll make it up to you. You can go to town in the morning. I’ll see to the noon meal, and you can take your time. Mama, it’s so good to see you downstairs.”
“You can go now, Sassie,” Darla said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And see that you don’t burn the cornbread.”
“Yes’m,” the housekeeper said, giving Mary a long-suffering look as she left the room.
Mary pulled a chair close to her mother’s rocker. She was wearing her spectacles, and the Howbutker Gazette lay in her lap. It had been over four years since she had read a newspaper. In the fading glow of the afternoon, Mary was struck once again by the tragic depletion of her mother’s once blooming beauty. She’d been among the first of her contemporaries to use rouge, but now it only accentuated her sunken cheeks. Her hair, formerly thick and lustrous, had lost its shine and fullness. It lay in a dull, brushed-out mass as fine as down on shoulders so fleshless that Mary could see the sharp outline of her bones beneath her shawl.
“I imagine you’ve found that a lot has changed in town since you last read the Gazette,” Mary offered gently.
“Why, it’s l
ike entering a new world!” Darla turned to a page and showed it to Mary. “Would you look at these fashions Abel is featuring in his advertisements? Skirts up to the calf! And you mean to tell me that Howbutker has a moving picture theater?”
“Well attended, so they say,” Mary said, smiling. “I haven’t been yet. Would you like to go one evening?”
“Not for a while. I must save my energy.” Her mother laid aside the newspaper and removed her glasses. “Did you speak with Beatrice?”
Mary grimaced. “Mama, I’m sorry. I completely forgot. I’ll do so tonight.”
“Don’t bother.” Darla drew her shawl closer around her thin shoulders. “I’ve changed my mind about seeing her. I don’t need her help in planning the party. I want it to be as much a surprise to her and everybody else as it will be to you. But I have an objective before that.”
Mary felt a prickle of apprehension. “Are you still thinking of helping Toby in the garden?”
“Well, yes, there’s that. Toby can indeed use an extra hand. The grounds and garden are a mess. I took a brief tour of them today. I’ll have to get out my old garden bonnet and coverall. I don’t want to get as brown as you. I’m sure you’re still not protecting yourself from the sun. You don’t deserve your complexion, the little care you take of it—” She broke off, seeing Mary grin. “What’s so amusing?”
“You.” Mary’s grin widened. “It’s good to have you fussing at me again.”
“You never listened. I don’t know why I bothered.”
“Because you loved me, I guess,” Mary said.
Her mother appeared to have heard the hopeful inflection in her voice. Her face softened, and she patted Mary’s hand. “Yes, because I loved you,” she said. “You must never forget that. Now, this is my objective. I want to knit you something for your birthday, and I must get started immediately. I’ll need every second to work on it, so you’ll have to take me to town to buy the yarn. There is sufficient money for me to afford a few skeins of yarn, isn’t there?”
Roses Page 16
