You Belong to My Heart

by Nan Ryan

  The money hadn’t gone toward building a home for Anna, as the admiral had intended. The hedonistic Jackson Knight had squandered the entire sum in less than a year, with nothing to show for it. Anna never saw a penny of the money.

  The love she’d had for Jackson Knight had waned and died in the long, lonely hours she’d spent waiting alone in the darkness for him to come staggering home, the scent of another woman’s cheap perfume on his clothes and on his lean body.

  For the disillusioned Anna, her precious baby son, Clayton, was the only good thing to come out of the unhappy union with his handsome, worthless father. It didn’t matter, she told herself, that her son’s father was of the lower classes and considered white trash by the gentry. Clayton could boast of at least one distinguished forebear, his maternal grandfather.

  One morning just before dawn, when Clay was still an infant, word came that Jackson Knight had been knifed to death in a saloon brawl.

  For young Anna Knight, it was no great shock or loss. The only real change his death would make in her hard life would be the extra money she’d now have to buy food and necessities. No longer would Jackson Knight be there to take her meager earnings to fritter away on liquor, gambling, and women.

  After her husband’s death, Anna Knight was able to save enough to move with her baby son into a modest frame house in Germantown less a mile from the city. Proud of the new place, Anna fixed it up happily, transforming the plain house into a warm, cozy home. The finishing touches were added when she carefully hung a framed picture of her father, the commodore, directly above the fireplace in the parlor.

  With freedom from constant worry, Anna had a chance to catch her breath. She had the time and the energy to develop her innate talent for designing and making beautiful women’s clothing.

  Her reputation started to build. Word of mouth began to spread, reaching all the way to Memphis’s wealthy elite. In time, Anna’s flair for fashion caused her services to be vied for by the upper crust of the river city. She supported herself and her son by making elegant clothes for the city’s gentry.

  It was Anna’s abundant talent that brought her to the attention of the young, wealthy mistress of Longwood. At a society ball honoring a visiting European count, Julie Preble’s discerning eye fell upon one of Anna Knight’s gorgeous creations. It was worn by a thin, graying Memphis matron who was more than happy to share the name and address of its maker.

  Anna Knight was summoned to Longwood and her services engaged. Soon she had completed the first of what would be many exquisite ball gowns for her distinguished young client. With orders for her work growing rapidly and many more gowns to be made, Anna Knight was pressed for time.

  So she was forced to call on her young son to help out.

  A bright, dependable child, Clayton acted older than his six years. Of necessity he’d had to grow up quickly, to accept responsibilities other children his age never faced.

  Anna Knight was a very smart and sensitive woman. Never had she said a derogatory word about Clayton’s dead father. She had, in fact, bent over backward to tell the son who’d never known his father what a charming, likable man Jackson Knight had been.

  At the same time, she cleverly guided the impressionable little boy toward a path in life never sought by his father. In subtle, simple ways she demonstrated to Clayton the value of honesty and commitment and honest work. She taught him the meaning of respect, showed him the satisfaction that came from seeing a job well done.

  She pointed often to the portrait of the white-haired, grim-faced admiral above the fireplace. She told Clayton of his grandfather’s valor and how he should be proud to be the grandson of the commodore.

  A shy, sweet-natured little boy, Clayton was happy, healthy, and well adjusted. Eagerly he said yes—just as always—when his busy mother asked if would run a very important errand for her.

  Clayton listened attentively as Anna Knight gave him clear, easy-to-understand instructions on how to get to Longwood. Cautioning him—just as always—not to speak to strangers or to stray off the path she had laid out for him, she sent her only child to the stately white mansion on the bluffs of the Mississippi to deliver a ball gown she’d just completed.

  Pale gray eyes alert in his tanned face, short arms wrapped around the big flat box, Clayton obediently walked straight to Longwood. Once there he climbed the front steps of the mansion. Before he reached the tall front doors, a little girl with white-blond hair dashed onto the shaded gallery.

  She smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  His was a snaggle-toothed smile. His two front teeth were missing. The little girl thought that was very funny, so she laughed. He laughed, too.

  Clayton Knight had just met Mary Ellen Preble.

  3

  MARY ELLEN AND CLAY instantly became friends.

  As the years went by they spent many an hour playing together and no one paid much attention. They were, after all, only children. Their close friendship went mostly unheeded by the grownups. No one saw any reason to worry about their childish devotion to each other.

  Clay was frequently at Longwood, as was his mother. Anna Knight now sewed for only a handful of lucky ladies. One of those privileged few was Julie Preble, so it was necessary for Anna to spend a great deal of time with the mistress of Longwood for consultations and fittings.

  Julie Preble was so delighted to be one of Anna’s select clients, she treated the gifted seamstress more like an honored guest than a hired dressmaker. At Longwood Anna was not expected to use the servants’ entrance as she was at the mansions of her other clients. Julie Preble had instructed the servants that Anna Knight was always to be admitted through the fan-lighted front doors and ushered into the opulent front parlor.

  Both John Thomas and Julie Preble liked the uncomplaining Anna Knight and felt sorry for her, that though she’d been born a respectable Tigart, with her marriage she had sunk to a much lower station in life.

  The Prebles also liked Anna’s well-behaved, mannerly young son. No one objected as the energetic youngsters romped freely about, unchaperoned and unwatched. The pair, everyone agreed, got along famously, and wasn’t that wonderful? The Prebles knew they needn’t worry when their only daughter was with Clay. Clayton Knight was a responsible young boy; he’d look out for Mary Ellen.

  Mary Ellen was, from the minute she learned how to walk, a spirited tomboy. She liked to run and shout and play chase and climb trees as much as any boy. She liked to roam the lush Tennessee countryside, to venture deep into the woods with Clay and pretend that they were bold adventurers exploring a new, uncharted land.

  Mary Ellen loved the river and was allowed to go down to the levee as long as she was with Clay. It was such fun to see the mighty steamers ferry passengers up and down the waterway and to watch the giant bales of cotton being loaded onto huge cargo craft. Enchanted by all the activity going on at the landing, Mary Ellen once asked Clay if he’d like to work on the river when he finished school. Maybe be a riverboat pilot?

  “No,” he was quick to set her straight. His silvergray eyes flashing with excitement, he said, “You know very well that I want go to the Naval Academy.”

  She did know. Clay talked incessantly of going to the Naval Academy. He collected sea charts and atlases and books about faraway places. He pored over maps and books for hours at a time. He talked often of his grandfather, repeating to Mary Ellen the stories his mother had told him of Admiral Tigart’s bravery. His aging grandfather was one of his heroes; the other was a young naval officer who’d been born right there in Tennessee, over in Knoxville. David Glasgow Farragut was, Clay believed, destined for greatness. He hoped that the day might come when he would serve under the brilliant Farragut.

  “Yes, sir, it’s the deep-water navy for me,” Clay said. “Brave the Cape of Good Hope and then on to sail the seven seas.” He paused, sighed dreamily, then added, “You can be the riverboat pilot.”

  “Me?” Mary Ellen made a face. “I can’t. I�
�m a girl, silly.”

  “Really?” Dark eyebrows shot up as if he were surprised. He looked pointedly at her dirty face, her tangled blond hair. “You could sure have fooled me.”

  He laughed and threw shielding arms up before his face when she stuck out her tongue and slapped at him. Clay never really thought of Mary as a girl; she was his friend. It was the same for her. Clay was her pal, her playmate, her confidant.

  Through the years they attended school together, they studied together, they played together as if they were the same sex. Finally, however, the day came—first for Clay, later for Mary Ellen—when they realized fully that they were indeed of opposite sexes.

  The revelation came unexpectedly for Clay one bitter New Year’s Day when he’d walked from his house in the cold to welcome Mary Ellen back from a long holiday trip she’d taken with her parents.

  The Prebles had gone to South Carolina to spend the Christmas season with Julie Preble’s family. They were to arrive back at Longwood sometime that Monday afternoon, the first day of the brand-new year, 1845.

  When their carriage rolled up the pebbled drive before Longwood, Clay rushed out to meet it.

  Mary Ellen, her blond curls gleaming in the weak winter sunshine, was the first one out of the big brougham. She bounced eagerly from the carriage, rushed the few short steps to him, and, as she’d done a thousand times before, threw her arms around Clay’s neck and gave his tanned jaw a big kiss.

  She squeezed him tightly and said, “Miss me?”

  Outwardly Clay reacted just as he always had when the impulsive Mary Ellen displayed affection for him. He pulled a sour face, raised his hand, and made a big show of wiping her kiss from his cheek.

  “Not really,” he told her. “Been pretty busy myself.”

  But his heart misbehaved, skipping a couple of beats.

  Mary Ellen giggled happily, wrapped both her arms around his right one, and drew him with her toward the house, saying, “No use pretending, Clay. I know very well that you missed me just as I missed you. Tell me you did. Say it or I’ll pinch you.”

  He finally grinned. “A little, maybe.”

  That night, long after he had left Longwood and Mary Ellen, Clay couldn’t get the memory of that unsettling moment out of his mind. He was puzzled by what had happened to him. Mary had kissed and hugged him a jillion times and he’d never been the least bit affected. Now here he was, wide awake in his bed long past midnight, remembering the touch of her soft warm lips against his cold cheek, recalling the fresh, clean scent of her glorious golden-white hair.

  By the time Clay turned fifteen, he was already head over heels in love with Mary. But he didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell anyone. He carefully kept it to himself—would keep it to himself until Mary was older and came to realize she loved him, too. If she ever did.

  If not, then he’d keep it to himself forever.

  The days and weeks that followed were sweet agony for Clay. He and Mary were still together all the time—but it was different now.

  At least for him.

  Each time she smiled at him, said his name, touched him, he felt weak in the knees and it was all he could do not to gather her into his frightened arms and hold her close against his wildly beating heart.

  Summertime came and with it new torture.

  “Let’s go swimming,” Mary Ellen said the first really warm day Clay visited Longwood.

  “Ahhh, no, I…I don’t think we should, Mary.”

  “Why, Clayton Terrell Knight, why ever not?” Mary Ellen asked. She couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Her lovely, childlike face turned up to his, she said, “Don’t we go swimming every year as soon as it’s warm enough?”

  “Well, sure, but…” He fell silent.

  “But what?”

  He looked into her dark, arresting eyes, shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m no dunce. Try me.”

  He laughed nervously. He wasn’t about to admit the real reason. He said, “Look, Mary, I don’t want to go swimming and that’s that.”

  “Then be a big sissy,” she said flippantly. “I am going down to the river for a refreshing swim.”

  She started to flounce away. He caught her arm, drew her back. “You know very well you’re not allowed to go swimming alone.”

  “I know”—she flashed him her most persuasive smile—“so you’ll have to come with me. Please. Please, Clay.”

  They went swimming.

  They went down to their favorite spot on the river. Five summers before, they had discovered the secluded inlet around a bend in the winding waterway, three-quarters of a mile downstream from the busy Memphis port. They looked on it as their own private, tree-shaded lagoon, the secret cove that was theirs alone. It was shielded by a narrow, jutting rise of the Chickasaw Cliffs marching almost entirely across its entrance, so that once inside its narrow, underbrush-concealed opening, they could neither see nor be seen from the main Mississippi riverbed.

  Her fair face flushed with rising excitement, Mary was kicking off her shoes the minute they got inside the bay. Unselfconsciously she yanked her dress over her head, stepped out of her lacy petticoats, and stood on the narrow banks in her camisole and pantalets.

  “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” she shouted, and, pinching her nose together with thumb and forefinger, eagerly leapt into the cool, clear water.

  Clay didn’t move a muscle to get undressed. He stood on the banks, hip cocked, weight supported on his right foot, reluctant to strip down to his white linen underwear. Even more reluctant to get too close to the beautiful girl who had stripped down to her underwear.

  He knew Mary too well. If he jumped in, she’d want to play, to duck him and ride on his back and horse around just as they’d always done. He wasn’t sure he could stand it.

  Slowly he sank to a crouching position on his heels. “I believe I’ll pass this time.”

  “Whew, it’s soooo cold!” Mary Ellen shouted, teeth chattering as she dreaded water anxiously. “Why did you have to go and force me to jump in?” she teased him. “It’s not hot enough yet for swimming!”

  Clay grinned, said nothing.

  “Cl…Clay, I’m fr…freezing.”

  Clay picked up one of the big bath towels they’d brought from the house, rose to his feet, stepped down to the very edge of the water. “Maybe you ought to get out now.”

  “Ooooh, I think you’re right,” she said, and swam toward him.

  He leaned over, reached for her hand. Mary Ellen took it and allowed him to pull her onto the bank. Even with the sun directly overhead, she was shivering from head to toe. Clay looked at her, and suddenly he was as hot as she was cold.

  His sweet, beautiful Mary stood there directly before him in her childish innocence, thoughtlessly displaying her budding feminine charms. Her arms raised above her head, hands twisting the long rope of white-blond hair to wring out the excess water, she was totally oblivious of the fact that her wet white underwear clung seductively to her slender body.

  But Clay wasn’t.

  His dark face burned like fire while he stared helplessly at the tight nipples of her small breasts pushing against the soggy, clinging fabric. He could no longer breathe when his treacherous silver gaze slid downward to the hint of downy blond growth between her pale, slim thighs.

  He stared openly only for a split second, then hastily swirled the large, covering towel around Mary Ellen’s shivering shoulders, shielding her from the hot eyes that longed to stay on her forever.

  “Dry me off,” she said, snuggling into the warmth of the towel.

  “Dry yourself off,” he said, sounding unfamiliarly gruff.

  He turned around quickly, stepped away from her.

  To his back Mary Ellen said, “Is something wrong? Are you mad at me about something?”

  His eyes now closed in misery, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides, he managed, “No. No, nothing’s wrong, Mary. Please…get dressed and let’s go.”

>   Mary Ellen was more impetuous and impulsive than Clay. So when the day came she realized she loved him, she felt compelled to tell him the minute it dawned on her. Only trouble was, it happened at school one morning during English class.

  The teacher, Miss Zachary, a thin, bookish woman who wore wire-rimmed spectacles and drab, shapeless dresses, taught English literature to two classes at once. Although Mary Ellen was a year behind Clay in school, they shared the same class for this particular subject.

  It was the middle of the morning on a cold bleak February day, and Mary Ellen was beginning to feel very sleepy in the stuffy, overheated classroom. Miss Zachary had been calling on students to take turns getting up before the class to read aloud their favorite short essay or poem or sonnet. Too drowsy to pay close attention, Mary Ellen was glad she sat in the last row at the very back of the room.

  Vaguely she heard Miss Zachary call Clay’s name. But she put her chin in her hand and allowed her heavy eyelids to shut fully before he stood up.

  Half asleep, she heard Clay’s calm, familiar voice as he began to read one of his favorite poems, a sonnet about the sea. His enunciation flawless, his inflection dramatic, he was spellbinding. The whispering among the restless students stopped immediately. The rustling of clothes ceased as pupils quit squirming on the seats. There was no sound in the room save the soft, yet clear, commanding voice of Clay Knight.

  Mary Ellen’s eyes opened in wonder. She stared fixedly at Clay. He stood at the front of the room, framed by the powdery blackboard. His face was deeply tanned even in the cold of this Tennessee winter. His hair, slightly rumpled, was as black as the darkest moonless midnight. His eyes, beneath the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a boy, were a startling silver gray, almost opaque. He was tall—taller than the other boys his age—and he was slim, almost too thin, but his shoulders were quite wide.

  He wore a neatly pressed shirt of freshly laundered white cotton and trousers of dark brown corduroy. He stood with his feet slightly apart, his right arm bent, hand raised, long tapered fingers holding the dog-eared, well-worn book as if it were a priceless first edition. As he spoke the words, he glanced up frequently, as though he knew the Lord Byron work by heart.