Wilde, Jennifer

by Love's Tender Fury

  We reached Natchez three hours later. It was indeed a bustling, growing settlement with dozens of sturdy, squared-timber houses, a number of shops, new ones going up. Perched on a bluff overlooking a river, it was impressive, and I found it difficult to believe that, just a few years ago, it had been a wilderness with only a few rusty French cannon and the ruins of the fort. As we rode toward the inn, I could see the docks down below, crowded with boats, dozens of men busily unloading crates and barrels. There seemed to be another small town down there, too, the buildings ramshackle, already run down. When I inquired about it, Jeff shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue.

  "Natchez-under-the-hill," he said. "It's already got the reputation of bein' the wickedest spot in this whole territory. Settlers come, decent, hard-workin' folks who wanna establish homes, open businesses, get a new start in life —they're the ones who're makin' Natchez an important town that's gonna rival New Orleans one of these days. Other folks come, too—riff-raff, men fleein' the law, thieves, murderers, whores. The decent folk want nothin' to do with 'em, so they settle down there."

  "I see."

  "Man can indulge any kinda vice down there—drinkin', whorin', gamblin', you name it. A lot of the so-called 'respectable' men help keep it goin'. Some claim Helmut Schnieder owns half the property, includin' the biggest whorehouse. Wouldn't surprise me none if he did."

  "You keep mentioning him. He must be an important figure."

  "I suppose he is, if by important you mean powerful. I don't like the man, not many folks do, but he's rich— gettin' richer every day, it seems. There's somethin' about him..." Jeff hesitated, frowning.

  "Yes?" I prompted.

  "He's cold, grim, likes to intimidate people. He never smiles, and you never know what he's thinkin'. You get the idea he's plottin' something all the time, and whatever it is he's plottin' ain't healthy."

  We reached the inn a few minutes later. It was a large, two-story building with a gray slate roof. The verandah in front was supported by a row of slender white columns in an attempt at New England elegance. A neatly clad black man hurried to take the mules around to the stables in back, agreeing to bring in the packs Jeff indicated he wanted. Jeff led me up the steps and onto the cool verandah, proudly opening the front door.

  Inside, it was even cooler, dim. A small hallway led into the main room where the proprietor stood behind a long mahogany counter. The walls were off-white and brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A blue carpet covered the floor, and there was a tapestry sofa, matching chairs, and a low table with blue and lilac flowers in a large white bowl. A curving staircase led to the rooms above, and an archway opened into the large dining room adjoining. Though it might have been considered pitifully second-rate in the large cities up east, the inn was like a haven of luxury after so many weeks trekking through the wilderness.

  The proprietor greeted Jeff effusively and personally conducted us to our room. There was a large mahogany four-poster with a rather worn violet satin counterpane, a matching dresser with tall oval mirror, and a roomy mahogany wardrobe as well. A carpet with faded gray and rose patterns covered most of the polished hardwood floor, and soft violet curtains hung at the windows. The furniture was all old and looked as though it had been over many a rough trail, but everything was neat and clean, and the room had an undeniable charm. When the packs arrived, Jeff stowed them away in the wardrobe, and then he eyed the bed and beamed happily.

  "Sure beats sleepin' on blankets under the stars, don't it?"

  "It certainly does."

  "You tired?" he asked.

  "A little. I'd like to rest a while."

  "Tell you what, why don't you take a nice long nap? I gotta take care of some business, like I said, and when I get back—" He paused, grinning that sheepish grin I had grown so fond of. "When I get back, we'll celebrate in style."

  "That'll be nice. How long will you be gone?"

  "Oh, maybe three hours, maybe four. Long enough for you to have a good rest."

  He stepped over to the wardrobe and took out one of the packs, opening it on the bed. I moved to the window and pretended to gaze out at the gardens back of the inn, but by turning my head slightly to one side I could see him in the mirror. I was surprised to see him taking a roll of bills out of the pack. I hadn't known he had any money, had thought he gave it all to Derek. Jeff peeled off several bills, thrust them into his pocket, and put the rest back in the pack, stowing it away in the wardrobe again. I turned around to face him. If things went well this might be the last time I ever saw him. The sadness welled up again, try though I might to control it. Jeff cocked his head to one side, peering at me.

  "Somethin' botherin' you?" he asked.

  "No, I'm just tired."

  "You look like you just lost a loved one."

  "That's silly."

  His fringed buckskins were incredibly dirty, and there was a streak of dirt on his jaw. His sandy hair was dirty, too, and he smelled of sweat and leather and woods, and he had never looked more endearing, those warm brown eyes gazing at me with affection, those wide lips ready to spread into another grin. I wanted to rush to him, wanted him to hold me close, wanted him to stroke my hair and croon to me and banish the nervous tremors inside. I hated what I was going to do to him. I actually felt guilty.

  "Everything's gonna be all right, Marietta," he said.

  "Is it?"

  "I got a big surprise planned for tonight."

  And I have one for you, I thought.

  "You go on and get some rest," he said. "Tonight's gonna be a night you'll never forget."

  He turned to leave. As he moved toward the door, my heart seemed to be pulled with every step he took. I called his name. He turned, puzzled. I hurried over to him. He grinned, slipping an arm around my waist, drawing me to him. The lips curled at the corners. The eyes were filled with pleasure.

  "Just can't let me go, can you?" he teased. "Can't stand for me to be out of your sight."

  "I... I just wanted to say... goodbye."

  "I'm only gonna be gone a few hours, wench."

  "I know, but..."

  "You'll miss me?"

  I nodded, and he put his other arm around me, lowering his mouth over mine. He kissed me, firm, moist lips caressing mine, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, savoring each second, sad, hating myself, sorry when he drew back and released me.

  "There'll be more when I get back," he promised.

  "Goodbye, Jeff." The words were barely audible.

  He left then, and I stood there staring at the door he had closed behind him, bracing myself, trying to hold back the tears. I finally sat down on the bed, leaning against one of the heavy posts, too weak to do anything just yet. I kept remembering. I remembered the waterfall and our riotous bath together and the explosive bout that followed, the achingly tender lovemaking that followed that. I remembered the cave and my fear and the way he had held me, so very gently, stroking my hair, his lips brushing my temple every now and then. There had been so many good moments, and against my will I had grown very fond of him, fond of him in a special way that had nothing to do with real love, the kind I still felt for Derek, even after all that had happened.

  It was nothing short of incredible. Jeff was a rogue, however amiable, and he planned to sell me to a brothel, however reluctantly, and I was the one who felt guilty because I was planning to flee while I had the chance. Where was my spirit? Where was the will to survive and succeed? I stood up, thrusting all tender thoughts out of my mind. He was in love with me, but he still intended to take me to New Orleans, and I was fond of him, but I couldn't let that prevent my doing what I had to do. He would be disappointed and angry and hurt, but... but to hell with him! The man was a white slaver. He probably didn't love me at all. I had probably imagined the whole thing. How could he love me and still plan to take me to New Orleans?

  I was filled with determination now, that hard core tightening inside, all tender feeling and emotions vanished. He said
there were boats leaving every day for New Orleans. There would probably be one leaving this afternoon, and I would be on it. I had planned to stow away at first, but now I could pay my fare. He had lied about the money, had told Derek eighteen hundred pounds was all he had to his name, and just a few minutes ago he had peeled bills off a large wad. How many other things had he lied about? It served him right to lose me. I would go to New Orleans, and then I would take another boat as soon as I could. Perhaps I would go to Paris or... or Spain. Great ships left New Orleans all the time, I knew, and I would take the first one available and leave this raw, sprawling land full of hazard and unrest. If there wasn't enough money to pay my fare, I could earn it easily enough. New Orleans was full of wealthy men.

  I took the pack out. I didn't bother to count the money. I placed the whole roll in my skirt pocket, slung the pack back into the wardrobe, and slammed the door shut. Resolution gave way to anger, and that was good. It strengthened my resolve, made this all the easier. How dare he treat me with such affection when he planned to deposit me in a brothel! He was sly and deceitful and I had allowed myself to be taken in by his charm. It had made the journey much easier, but the journey was over now and it was time to face reality.

  How to get down to the docks without him seeing me? I didn't dare step out the front door and walk through town. He might be anywhere, just down the street, in one of the shops, anywhere. I stepped to the window again and looked down at the gardens. They stretched to the very edge of the bluff, and a steep, rocky incline would spill down to the stretch of land below. Perhaps I could climb down the incline. It might be dangerous, but I couldn't possibly risk getting down to the docks any other way. If the incline were too steep here, I would simply walk along the bluff until I found a spot where descent would be possible.

  I left the room. Coming up, I had noticed a flight of stairs at the end of the hall, obviously backstairs used by the servants. I moved down them and found myself in a small back foyer, one door leading into the kitchens, another leading out into the gardens in back. My anger had dissolved. I was nervous now, and there was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. I stepped outside and strolled as calmly as possible to the foot of the gardens and peered down. Directly below, there was a grassy strip, then a narrow dirt road, then more grass leading to the muddy bank of the river. The incline was steep but not impossibly so. It was perhaps a hundred feet down to the land below, and there were heavy vines growing down over the rocks. It wouldn't be pleasant, but I felt sure I could make it down without too great a risk.

  I took a deep breath, frightened, trying to quell my fear. There were bound to be a lot of footholds, and I could hold on to the vines. I had to do it. I simply couldn't risk going through town, not knowing where Jeff might be. I sat down, dangling my legs over the edge, and then I turned, inching my way down, grabbing hold of one of the vines as my feet touched a narrow ledge of rock. I was over now, clinging to the face of the cliff, and it was insanity, sheer insanity. I realized that immediately. The wind whipped at my hair and tossed my skirts about my legs. I was terrified, but I forced myself to move down, finding another ledge, holding to the vine. I made the mistake of looking down. The land seemed far, far below, and I knew I would be killed if I fell. Insanity! I closed my eyes, leaning against the rock as my heart pounded away.

  Several moments passed before I was able to ease myself down further. My right foot found a root jutting out of the rock. My left foot dangled out in space, but I had a firm grip on the vine. As I lowered myself, the weight of my body caused the root to tear loose. I slipped a good ten feet, would have fallen had I not been clinging to the vine. My feet banged down on another ledge, not a foot wide, and I paused, catching my breath. Staring out, I could see the river. A large boat moved slowly past and I could barely make out the tiny figures standing on deck. They must have been startled to see a woman in a red dress flattened against the face of the rock, clinging desperately to a vine as the wind ripped at hair and, skirts.

  I peered down, saw another foothold a few feet below, to my left. I let go of the vine I had been holding and caught hold of another, moving down slowly, touching the jutting rock with my right foot. Little by little I descended, and when I paused again I saw that I was halfway down. It wasn't so difficult, I told myself. I was lying, but I didn't dare give way to the sheer panic that threatened to demolish me. Gripping the root with both hands, I started to move down some more, and suddenly there was a ripping noise, a shower of dirt, and the vine swung out into space and sailed to the ground. I tottered for a moment. This was it! I was going to fall! Then a great gust of wind struck me, flattening me against the rock. My fingers gripped the rock, but there was nothing to hold on to. I was poised on a tiny ridge or rock no more than eight inches wide, and as soon as the wind died down I was going to tumble over backwards.

  Wild, disconnected images flashed through my mind, the kind a drowning man is supposed to see just before he goes under for the last time. My mother was laughing, serving ale, basking in the admiration of the men at the inn, and I reached for a mug, which turned into a wineglass, and then I was sitting before the fireplace, elegantly clad, demure, smiling as my father told me about the wonderful plans he had for me. The image blurred, dissolved, and I saw the house on Montagu Square, saw Lord Mallory leering at me, handsome, demonic, destructive, and his face disappeared and I was in that dank, dreadful cell, in shackles. Angie grinned, perky, defiant, showing me how to pick the lock on the shackles, and then Derek was in bed, delirious with fever after the snakebite, and I touched his cheek and he was storming across the yard toward me and I was holding a basket of apricots and they spilled and Jeff and I were riding through the dense green and brown forest.

  The wind died down. Abruptly. The images had flashed and flickered in a matter of seconds. The wind was gone and I hadn't fallen. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another thick vine spilling down perhaps two yards to my right. If I could gradually edge over, catch hold of the vine... I prayed for strength, and after a while it came and I began to inch over toward the vine, cautiously, and then the ridge gave out and I could move no farther. I reached for the vine. My fingers were inches away from it. I would have to swing over and catch hold of it. I couldn't. If I missed, if I failed to get a firm purchase, I would fall. Panic swept over me, and there was one dreadful moment when I didn't care, when I knew I was going to fall crashing to the ground and simply didn't care. Not caring, I lunged for the vine and caught hold of it with both hands. I swung out into space and my hands slipped down the vine and then I swung back toward the rock and landed on a wide ridge several feet below.

  The vine held. It was strong, sturdy. I moved on down, finding footholds to my left, to my right, and I was calm now, concentrating, fear gone at last. My feet touched the ground. I let go of the vine and stepped back and looked up at the cliff looming in front of me. I had to tilt my head back in order to see the top. I knew I was mad to have attempted to climb down it in the first place. I was down now. That was all that mattered. I shoved long, tangled locks of auburn hair away from my cheeks, brushed the dirt and dust from my red skirt. It must have taken me almost half an hour, but I had made it. I had an impulse to burst into gales of laughter, an impulse I curbed immediately. There was no time for hysterics, no time to dwell on what I had done. I turned and started walking up the road in the direction of the docks.

  The ramshackle buildings up ahead were all clustered together as though for support, and they looked even more sordid close up. I heard riotous laughter and bawdy music. Someone was banging on a piano. Someone was singing, off key. Even now, in the middle of the afternoon, Natchez-under-the-hill was alive with activity. I could imagine what it must be like when nighttime came. I passed three taverns and a two-story brown frame building with a wide verandah in front. Brightly clad women were sitting on the verandah, drinking, laughing, and more women leaned out of the windows upstairs. They called out to me. I hurried on, trying to ignore the lascivious
remarks, the lewd suggestions.

  A man staggered out of a tavern, clutching a half-empty bottle. He saw me and let out a great whoop, staggering down the steps, stumbling toward me, waving the bottle. He was big and burly, his brown hair growing down to his shoulders. I quickened my step, but he soon caught up with me, grabbing my shoulder, whirling me around. I was furious, hot flashes of anger preempting the alarm I might have felt otherwise. The man chuckled, his breath reeking of alcohol, and as he tried to pull me toward him I gave him a mighty shove. Drunk, already finding it difficult to maintain his balance, he toppled over backwards with a cry of dismay.

  The girls on the verandah cheered. Amazed at what I had done, I moved on, shaken now, feeling the alarm I hadn't felt before. Keeping my eyes in front of me, I passed the rest of the buildings, ignoring the catcalls, the boisterous hoots, and a few moments later Natchez-under-the-hill was behind me, the docks ahead. Three huge ships and at least a dozen smaller craft were bobbing on the water, brawny men moving up and down gangplanks, loading and unloading. The docks were crowded with boxes, barrels, coils of rope, men scurrying about, others barking orders. So brisk was the activity that no one paid me the least attention. The men were much too busy to greet my arrival with any show of interest.

  I paused beside a stack of boxes, wondering how I should go about getting a berth. I finally stopped one of the men hurrying past and asked him if one of the ships would be leaving for New Orleans this afternoon. He nodded, pointing to the largest ship, the Royal Star. Men were pushing barrows down the gangplank filled with what looked like pink brick. As I drew nearer, I saw that it was indeed brick, a soft, delicate pink like faded roses. Other men were loading the brick into a large wagon, and as I watched, another wagon, already loaded, pulled away from the docks and started up the gradually sloping road that led to the town above. The four horses strained mightily as the driver cracked his whip in the air.