by Nan Ryan
She was, in fact, a deceitful, cruel, incredibly cold woman who hadn’t thought twice about stepping on his heart. He was glad he would never see the beautiful bitch again.
19
IT WAS NEARING SUNSET when the glittering jewel of Brazil’s long Atlantic coast came up on the starboard bow of the Water Witch. Spectacular Rio de Janeiro seemed to have washed in with the tide. It was a stunning sight: the sandy beaches and graceful valleys and hillsides of tropical mountains.
To the sea-weary sailors of the Water Witch, Rio looked like a breathtakingly beautiful woman with arms outstretched, seductively beckoning them to come to her.
The Witch steamed into Guanabara Bay as the lights of the magical city twinkled on along the sugary white beaches and purple hills above. With a sure hand and a keen eye, the pilot guided the Witch cautiously toward its berth in the harbor where dozens of other ships, great and small, were moored.
She slid slowly in between a tacky brown tug and an impressive white-hulled clipper. When the yawl line was tossed to the wharf and the anchor lowered, the Witch was berthed at approximately the same site where the first Portuguese sailors had landed more than three hundred fifty years before.
There had been no one to welcome those Portuguese sailors of old, but down on the docks on this warm February evening, a swarm of smiling, waving Cariocas—mostly female—were eager to show the American sailors their beloved city. A city that throbbed with excitement and sensuality twenty-four hours a day.
The crew of the Witch, freshly shaven and neatly uniformed, shouted and waved madly to the pretty women below, so anxious to step onto Brazilian soil they could hardly contain themselves. Their blood up, they felt as if they couldn’t wait another minute to get off the ship and explore the many delights of the seaside tropical paradise.
One of their number would have to wait.
Captain Clay Knight was almost as eager as the others to enjoy the pleasures of Rio. Too long without a woman, he fully intended—before the evening ended—to lose himself for a few hours in the arms of a warm and willing Brazilian beauty.
But first he had a duty to perform.
He was to be one of the honored guests at a welcoming party given by retired naval Captain John D. Willingham, an old-timer who had served under Clay’s grandfather in the War of 1812. The aging Captain Willingham had married a wealthy Rio heiress and made Rio de Janeiro his home after leaving the service.
Clay was due at the Willinghams in an hour.
Presently he stood apart from the boisterous crew, a pair of field glasses swinging from his neck. His eyes and his interest were on the gleaming white clipper moored next to the Water Witch. Clay knew that the impressive white ship was not a naval vessel.
It was, he supposed, the private oceangoing craft of some incredibly rich Brazilian. A lover of beautiful ships, Clay was fascinated with the tall white clipper. He studied the magnificent vessel from stem to stern, raised his field glasses, and searched its teak deck for passengers. He saw no one. He smiled when he read the ship’s name painted boldly in big blue script letters on the pristine white bow: Açúcar.
Açúcar, Clay knew, meant sugar in Portuguese. He made a face. What kind of man would name his ship Sugar?
Starting to grin, he lowered the glasses but continued to examine the craft until the sun had totally disappeared behind Rio’s towering hills and he had to get dressed and go.
It was summertime in Rio de Janeiro, so Captain Clay Knight was in immaculate crisp summer whites and ceremonial sword when he stepped onto the ancient wharf. He walked wharfside beneath the bowsprits of giant ships lining the harbor, their bare spars towering into the rapidly darkening sky.
The long wooden levee was crowded on this warm early evening. Portuguese longshoremen were grouped together at various spots along the wharf, kneeling around dice games, waiting to be called to work.
Shifty-eyed men lounged against brick-fronted warehouses, eyeing passersby, procuring for the side street bagnios that catered to deep-water seamen.
Clay shook his head almost imperceptibly when they made a move to approach him. They backed away.
He soon left the wharf behind, crossed busy Avenida Presidente Vargas, and hailed a taxi. When he was settled comfortably on the worn leather seat, the open taxi began its ascent up the steep, winding hillside roads of Rio.
His long arm resting along the seat top, his dark head turning this way, then that, Clay admired the stunning combination of topography that was Rio: dark blue seas studded with rocky islands and tumbling wooded mountains and expanses of stark gray rock that surrounded the city.
Rio on a summer’s night such as this was powerfully seductive. The sights and sounds and smells stirred the senses, and Clay was anxious to leave Captain Willingham’s even before he arrived.
It was straight up eight when the smartly uniformed Captain Clay Knight, his billed cap tucked under his arm, rang the bell at a hilltop house with incredible vistas of the lighted city and harbor below.
The heavy carved door swung open, and a breathtakingly beautiful young girl with white-blond hair and huge dark eyes stood before him.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, smiling brightly. “You’re Captain Clay Knight.” She put out her hand. “I’m Jo Anna Willingham, John D. Willingham’s granddaughter. I’m here visiting from New Orleans, and I insist you sit by me at dinner!”
“I’d be honored,” Clay said when he was able to speak. His gray eyes darkened to a deep, warm charcoal.
“I told them you would be,” said the slender blond charmer. After taking his arm, she led him into the noisy drawing room, where guests stood about talking and sipping chilled wine.
The affair was an informal gathering of thirty people, of whom the majority of the gentlemen were either naval officers of the line or retired old salts. Clay was one of four bachelors present. An equal number of unattached young ladies were there to make sure the bachelors felt welcome.
The outgoing Jo Anna Willingham took her responsibility seriously. She meant to personally see to it that the darkly handsome Captain Clay Knight felt right at home.
In a roomful of military men the conversation turned naturally to the storm brewing back in the states. The aging Captain Willingham said, “If South Carolina seceded from the Union back on December twentieth, then other Southern states would have likely followed by now. Or they soon will. I see no way around it. The South will be fighting the North before summer, mark my words.”
At these words, Willingham’s wife of forty years spoke up and said, “Now, Captain, you promised you’d not get off on the subject of war until at least after dinner.”
“So I did, my dear.” He smiled sheepishly at her, then said, “We’ll continue this talk later, gentlemen.”
When the leisurely meal was finally finished, the silver-haired host suggested the ladies retire to the parlor while the gentlemen join him in his library for fine Havana cigars and Napoleon brandy and further discussion of the imminent war between the states.
His dauntless granddaughter said, “Sorry, Grandfather, but I promised Captain Knight I’d show him your famous flower gardens.” She cut her dark eyes at Clay flirtatiously and gave him a saucy smile.
“Why, child, it’s nighttime,” said John D. Willingham. “The Captain can’t appreciate my prize blooms in the darkness.”
“There’s a full moon,” Jo Anna reminded him. She took Clay’s arm and guided him from the dining room while the remaining three single ladies cast looks of envy after them.
Clay would have preferred not to go out into the moonlight with this irrepressible young beauty who so reminded him of the woman it had taken him a dozen years to get over. Her hair was the same white-blond shade, and she wore it loose and long as Mary had when she was a young girl. Her eyes were large and dark and expressive. Her nubile body was tall and slender, with gentle, tempting curves.
Just like Mary’s.
Clay wanted her instantly.
He wa
nted this beautiful replica of the young Mary as he’d not wanted a woman in years. He could hardly keep from drawing her into his arms and quieting her charming girlish chatter with his lips.
Her hand curled around his arm, Jo Anna Willingham strolled through the flower-filled grounds alongside Captain Knight, flirting with him, purposely pressing her breasts against his arm as she pointed out the varieties of sweetly blooming flowers her grandfather grew here in this exotic coastal Eden.
Abruptly Jo Anna stopped talking, stopped walking. From a heavily laden bush she plucked a perfect snow white orchid. She presented it to Clay.
“Take this to remember me by, Captain.” Clay smiled and took the orchid. Jo Anna stepped closer, put her arms around his neck. “And take this as well.”
She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Clay’s arms immediately went around her and he kissed her with a fierce urgency that instantly communicated itself to her. Flattered and thrilled, she eagerly pressed herself against his tall, hard frame and sighed her approval when his hands possessively clasped her hips to draw her closer, then slipped down to cup the twin cheeks of her bottom.
Jo Anna Willingham had never been kissed like this. Short of breath, hot and cold at once, she tingled from head to toe. She clung to Clay while he kissed her deeply, urgently, and she hoped he was feeling the same scary excitement she felt.
He was.
And then some.
But abruptly Clay tore his burning lips from hers, clasped her bare upper arms, and set her back from him so roughly her head rocked on her shoulders.
“Jesus Christ!” he muttered.
“What is it?” asked the baffled Jo Anna Willingham. “Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”
“No, I have,” he said in self-disgust. “You’re only a child and I shouldn’t…I’m sorry, I…You’d best go in.”
“I don’t want to go in, Captain. I’m no child. I’m eighteen, and I want to stay here with you.”
“You’re going in,” he said, and took her arm to lead her forcefully into the house.
No sooner were they back inside than Clay made his apologies to his host and hostess, explaining that he was tired from the long voyage and felt he had best make an early evening of it.
“You’ll come again, won’t you, Captain?” said his gregarious host. “Mrs. Willingham and I enjoy entertaining you young military men from the States.”
“Thank you, sir,” Clay said noncommittally.
He glanced at Jo Anna and saw the bright tears of confusion shining in her dark, questioning eyes. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had kissed her, wanted to make love to her, but only because she reminded him of Mary. He had no choice: He left her there wondering what she had done wrong.
Clay hurried down the stone steps of the steeply terraced lawn, taking them two at a time. When he reached the white wall bordering the Willingham property, he anxiously let himself out the gate. Then he turned to look back up at the house on the hill.
Exhaling heavily with relief, he opened his hand and let the perfect white orchid drop to the ground.
His earlier light mood gone, Captain Clay Knight put his billed naval hat on his head and headed down toward the string of brightly lighted saloons lining Ipanema Beach.
20
“…AND I DON’T FEEL it’s fair to subject my wife and daughter to the danger,” said Pres Templeton, the Prebles’ closest neighbor, whose mansion was less than a quarter mile down along the bluffs from Longwood. “I’ve sold the house to a nice young couple from Nashville. William and Leah Thompson. The wife’s a cousin of Andrew Johnson’s. Well-bred, genteel people. Fine folks, fine folks.”
“So you’ll be leaving Memphis, Pres?” said John Thomas.
The two men were in John Thomas’s book-lined study on a frigid afternoon in early January. Mary Ellen was delighted that her father had finally agreed to come down and visit with his old friend and neighbor.
For the past few weeks, John Thomas had begun coming downstairs occasionally. And when he did not, he requested that the Memphis Appeal be put on his breakfast tray. Mary Ellen knew the reason for the change. Rumors of impending war had piqued his interest as nothing had since Julie’s death.
But today was the first time he had agreed to entertain a visiting guest.
Hovering anxiously just outside the study door, Mary Ellen heard Pres Templeton say, “If war does come—and it looks to be inevitable—I can’t allow my womenfolk to stay here in harm’s way.”
“Well, why don’t you send them away and stay here yourself?” John Thomas’s voice had regained some of its former strength and authority.
Pres Templeton hemmed and hawed and finally said, “I wanted to do that, I surely did. But Mrs. Templeton wouldn’t hear of it. She insists I go to Europe with them. You know Brandy’s such a spirited handful, her mama can’t handle her alone.”
“For God’s sake, Pres,” said John Thomas, “your daughter is how old? Twenty-eight? Thirty?”
“Brandy’s thirty-two, but she—”
“And she’s been married twice, as I recall.”
“Yes, and both of her husbands were no-good scoundrels who treated her badly and made her unhappy,” said Pres Templeton. “Brandy’s…well…very vulnerable. She’s like a child, really. We have to keep a close protective eye on her.”
Eavesdropping, Mary Ellen smiled at such an absurd statement. Brandy Templeton was about as vulnerable as a serpent, and there was nothing childlike about her. She’d been a woman by the time she was thirteen or fourteen, and a cunning, dangerous one at that. Half the ladies in Memphis would heave a great sigh of relief if Brandy Templeton left town. The two “no-good” scoundrels her father spoke of had both been fine, fantastically wealthy gentlemen and had settled very generous sums on Brandy to free themselves from their miserable marriages.
There really was nothing like a parent’s love.
Pres Templeton left after a half hour, and Mary Ellen expected her father to go straight back upstairs. Instead he joined her in the parlor and said, “Mary Ellen, would you ask Titus to have the brougham brought around. I think I’ll go into town for a while, see what they’re saying on the streets.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear more Southern states are seceding from the Union.” His dark eyes shone with a hint of their old liveliness.
“Why don’t you ask Titus yourself,” Mary Ellen suggested, knowing how hurt old Titus was because his despondent master had hardly spoken to him in more than a year.
“I’ll do that,” John Thomas said, nodding. He went into the corridor and called out, “Titus, where are you? I need your help!”
Grinning from ear to ear, the graying Titus was there in the blink of an eye. “Yes, suh, Mast’ Preble. What you be needin’? I sho’ get it for you.”
John Thomas smiled at the devoted old servant, who, he suddenly realized, was beginning to shrink from his years-long battle with chronic arthritis. John Thomas put a hand on Titus’s thin, stooped shoulder and said, “Could you please see to it that the brougham is brought around. I’d like to go into town.”
Bobbing his gray head eagerly, Titus said, “I do that right now.” He turned to leave.
John Thomas stopped him. “Titus.”
“Yes, suh?” His eyes were big, questioning.
“I’m sorry for…I’ve been a…”John Thomas cleared his throat. “I honestly don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”
Titus chuckled happily. “You never gonna have to find out, Mast’ Preble.”
His silver-gray eyes cold, his dark face set in hard lines, Captain Clay Knight drank alone at the bar in a rowdy Rio outdoor cafe. He turned up the shot glass, drained it. It was the fifth one he’d downed.
He was attempting to get drunk. Very drunk. He had every intention of drinking himself into a stupor. Morose, his mood so black he was oblivious of what went on around him, Clay motioned for another drink. The smiling barkeep poured him t
he sixth shot of whiskey and started to move away. Clay reached out and caught the man’s arm.
“Leave the bottle,” he ordered.
The barkeep shrugged and left the half-full bottle. Clay wrapped his long fingers around it possessively.
Idly he wondered how many shots of straight bourbon whiskey it would take to make him so drunk that he would immediately fall into a dreamless sleep when he got back to the Witch. It would be an interesting experiment.
Pondering the subject, Clay looked around with indifference. The cafe was full of laughing, drinking people, and more than half were women. But he saw no one with whom he’d care to share a drink, much less a bed. He sighed and took another drink. His first night in Rio was proving to be very disappointing.
Clay spent another hour drinking at the bar. Then, finally, half drunk, totally bored, and bone tired, he left the noisy outdoor gin palace.
Alone.
Yawning, he made his way back toward the harbor and the Water Witch.
Head hung, hands in his white trousers pockets, he was not paying attention when he stepped into the wide Avenida Rio Branco—and was very nearly run down by a fast-moving white carriage pulled by a matched pair of huge sprinting whites.
The driver shouted a warning and hauled up on the reins. The terrified horses whinnied and reared; their forelegs pawed wildly at the air, their hind legs danced in the dirt a few short feet from the startled Clay. Clay whirled away seconds before the horses’ front hooves came down with deadly striking force.
“Beware, sailor!” the shaken driver shouted.
Before Clay could reply, the door of the covered carriage opened and from inside the darkened interior came a woman’s low, sultry voice.
“Won’t you allow me to drive you to your ship, Captain?” she said in unaccented English. “It’s the very least I can do after almost killing you.”
Unsmiling, Clay stooped and picked up his billed hat. He dusted the dirt from its flat crown and cast another look at the open door of the carriage. He was mildly curious about the woman inside, wondering if her looks fit her husky voice. Unhurriedly, he walked toward the carriage, asking the fates for only one favor: that she not have blond hair.
