A large, heavyset blond man seemed to be in charge of unloading the Royal Star. He stood back with his arms folded across his chest, watching the activity with a severe expression. He thundered at one of the workmen who lost control of a barrow and nearly dumped the lovely pink brick into the water. The offending man grimaced, steadied the barrow, and rolled it on down the gangplank and over to the wagon. The heavyset man frowned, highly displeased. I wondered if he was the captain of the ship. If so, he could probably arrange a berth for me. As I approached, he looked up, observing me with cold steel-blue eyes.
Something in those eyes made me hesitate. He was a formidable figure, exuding power and authority, easily dominating the scene even though he stood perfectly still. He had incredible presence, presence so strong it was alarming. Powerfully built, he was elegantly attired in highly polished black knee boots, snug gray trousers, and a loosely fitting white silk shirt. His features were blunt, the jaw square, cheekbones broad and flat, and there was a knot of flesh on his nose that made him look belligerent. His hair was a pale yellow-blond, cut short, a monk-like fringe falling across his jutting forehead. Probably in his mid-forties, I thought as I came closer to him.
"You want something, woman?"
His voice was deep, guttural, his manner definitely harsh. I realized I must look frightful, my hair all atangle, my dress streaked with dirt, my face probably dirty, too. I had come from Natchez-under-the-hill, and he probably thought I was a harlot come to ply my trade. A man like this would be utterly disdainful of such women, consider them dirt beneath his feet. He stared at me with those hard blue eyes, looking as though he'd just as soon knock me down as not, and it was a moment before I could bring myself to speak.
"I—I want to go to New Orleans," I stammered.
My accent surprised him. One of those heavy brown brows lifted.
"Where are you from?" He didn't ask. He demanded to know.
"I really don't... think that's any of your affair," I retorted.
"Answer me, woman!"
"Or what?" I asked defiantly.
"Or you'll wish you had," he threatened.
"I suggest you go straight to hell," I said calmly.
His brows drew together. His mouth tightened. He wasn't used to back talk, that was quite clear. He was used to snapping orders, having them obeyed immediately. His size, his strength made him a natural bully, and I sensed a streak of cruelty in the curl of his mouth, in the hard, steady glare of those intense blue eyes.
"You're new around here," he said. "I've never seen you before."
"I arrived in Natchez this morning, as a matter of fact."
"And you want to go to New Orleans. On this ship."
"I understand it's leaving soon."
"As soon as these incompetents finish unloading."
"Are—are you the captain?"
"I own the ship. The captain's my employee."
"Then you can arrange passage for me."
"If I wanted to, yes."
Although his manner was still sullen, that first angry disdain was missing now. Those eyes seemed to assess me, taking in every detail, and he was extremely interested. No longer intimidated, I could feel my cheeks begin to color. I wanted to shove him over backwards just as I had shoved the pathetic drunk who had run after me on the road a few minutes before. I knew that my eyes must be flashing as I spoke.
"I can pay," I snapped. "I can pay whatever you ask. I need to leave Natchez... as soon as possible."
"Before Rawlins finds you, you mean."
"How—"
"You're not one of the whores from under-the-hill, and you're damned sure not one of the good women from town. I heard Rawlins had arrived, heard he had a stunning wench with him."
"News travels fast," I said bitterly.
"In a community like this it does. So you want me to help you get away? Where did you get the money you're so eager to pay me? The women Rawlins bring down the Trace don't have money."
"I—"
"You stole it," he said. "Even if I were inclined to help you, it's too late now, I'm afraid."
He was peering over my shoulder. I turned to see Jeff strolling toward us, his manner as jaunty as ever. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me standing here on the docks with this surly giant. He acted as though it were perfectly natural, as though we had arranged to meet here. He gave me a friendly nod, nodded at the man with less warmth.
"Schnieder," he said.
"Rawlins. I was expecting you."
"Heard you were unloading building material. They say two shiploads of lumber arrived 'fore I started up the Trace to Carolina. Hear you brung in a fancy architect from New Orleans. Your house must be comin' along right well. Nice-lookin' brick, unusual pink."
"I'm going to call the place Roseclay."
"Nice name. Bit fancy, perhaps, but then I imagine the house is gonna be somethin' to behold."
Helmut Schnieder did not reply. The two men disliked each other intensely. That had been obvious from the first. Although Jeff's remarks had been spoken casually, there had been a suggestion of mockery. Schnieder seemed to be holding himself in tight control, looked as though he'd like nothing more than to knock Jeff flat with one mighty blow. The air seemed to seethe with animosity. Jeff turned to me ever so casually.
"You ready to go back to the inn now, Marietta?"
Schnieder spoke up before I could reply. "How much did you pay for her, Rawlins?"
"Plenty."
"I'll double it."
" 'Fraid she's not for sale, Schnieder."
"Name your price," the German said. "My money's as good as any whoremonger's. Better. I'll pay in cash, any price you name."
"That's mighty generous of you, Schnieder, but what I said still goes. 'Sides, what you need with another woman? I hear you got a whole house full of whores under-the-hill, hear you own the place."
"I want her, Rawlins." There was menace in his voice.
"That's too bad, fella."
There was a tense silence as the two men eyed each other. Schnieder was an inch or so taller than Jeff and much heavier. Beneath that civilized façade lurked the brute strength of a German peasant, and I was worried for Jeff's sake. Schnieder's facial muscles were taut, his eyes dark with hostility. Jeff appeared utterly relaxed, the suggestion of a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. He seemed to be inviting the larger man to start something. Several moments passed, and Schnieder finally backed down, scowling.
"If you ever change your mind—"
"I ain't plannin' to. Come along, Marietta."
He took my arm and led me away from the Royal Star, past the docks and up the gradually sloping road toward the town above. Neither of us spoke. He didn't seem to be at all angry or upset about my attempted escape. We might have been taking a pleasant stroll. Reaching the bluff, we turned, walking through the town toward the inn. Jeff nodded to several people, stopped once to exchange a few friendly words with a man in black, holding my arm all the while. It was only when we were on the front verandah of the inn that he released me. He grinned and held out his hand. I took the roll of money from the pocket of my skirt and placed it in his palm. He shook his head slowly in mock disappointment.
"Just outta curiosity—how'd you get down there? I kept my eye peeled every minute, never saw you pass."
"I climbed down the cliff in back of the inn."
"You did what?" he exclaimed.
"I climbed down the cliff."
"You coulda broken your bloody neck!"
He took hold of my arm again, tightly this time, his fingers squeezing viciously. He took me inside and through the main room and up the curving white staircase. By the time we reached our room his anger had dissipated. He let go of my arm and looked at me with perplexed brown eyes. I rubbed my arm.
"You knew I'd try it," I said.
"Hell, you practically drew me a picture—tellin' me goodbye like that, fightin' back the tears, holdin' on to me like you didn't wanna let go. I'd uv had t
o be blind not to know what you was plannin'."
"Then why did you leave?"
"I figured the exercise'd do you good, knew you wouldn't get no further than the docks. I didn't know you was gonna do anything as damnfool stupid as climbin' down a cliff or I'd uv left you tied to the bed. I could beat you for that."
"Go ahead. I—I just don't care."
"Christ! Look at you. You look like some kinda wretched waif. There's dirt all over your dress, all over your face. Your hair looks like—like you oughta be stirrin' a kettle full of frogs and cacklin'."
"Thanks!" I snapped.
Jeff grinned, delighted to see my spirit returning. He stepped over to the wardrobe and took out the pack. He peeled a few more bills off the roll and then put it back in the pack, slung the pack into the wardrobe, and kicked the door shut. As I looked around, I noticed the stack of boxes on the bed. There were three of them, all white, two extremely large, the other small. He must have brought them back here before coming after me. He was so insufferably sure of himself!
"I still got a lot of things to tend to," he told me. "I'll be back here around seven. You be ready to go down to dinner. Better yet, be waitin' for me downstairs. I'll tell 'em to arrange for a bath as I go out."
He sauntered out of the room then, leaving the door wide open. I slammed it shut, wondering why I wasn't really upset, wondering why I was almost glad he had come after me and found me so easily. I wasn't going to try to escape again. Both of us knew that. I resented his knowing it, resented his blithe, airy manner, putting the money back into the pack, leaving the door open like that. It was infuriating. It also gave me a poignant, aching feeling inside and made me want to dissolve into tears.
Stepping over to the bed, I opened the boxes. When I saw what was inside them I felt even more like crying. I was amazed that he had been able to buy such things in Natchez, for the undergarments were elegant and the gown one of the loveliest I had ever seen. The high-heeled slippers that matched were gorgeous, too, a perfect fit. I realized that he must have taken one of my old dresses and a pair of shoes from the pack that hadn't been brought up and carried them to the shop with him in order to make sure everything was the right size. Damn him, I thought. Damn him for doing it, for making me feel this way—happy, beholden, defenseless.
A few minutes later there was a brisk knock on the door. I opened it to discover an exceedingly plump young girl with tousled blond curls and jolly brown eyes. She wore a blue cotton dress, a starched white apron and, incongruously enough, a pair of dangling jet earrings. Merry, effusive, she identified herself as Lizzie, confessed that she was the proprietor's daughter, and added that she detested being a maid and longed to be an adventuress.
"My, you do need a bath, don't you? It's ready—that little room at the end of the hall. Here's the key. Don't dawdle now. The water's good and hot. There's a big fluffy towel and a bar of the sweetest smellin' soap! I wish I had hair that color."
"Your hair is lovely, Lizzie."
"Wish I had a figure like that, too. I'm giving up sweets, I swear it. That Mister Rawlins—I wish I had a man like him sleepin' in my room. He's ever so excitin'."
"I'll tell him you said so."
"Cripes! You wouldn't? He'd think I was awful!" And she scurried off down the hall, giggling merrily.
I felt marvelous after the long, hot bath in the huge white porcelain tub filled with steaming water. Later, wearing the lovely new petticoat with its billowing, lace-trimmed skirts, I spent over an hour working with my hair, using the brush and the pair of tongs Lizzie had brought to me with a brazier of burning coals. I was quite pleased with the results, hair pulled up sleekly and fastened in back, a mass of long, perfectly shaped sausage ringlets spilling down to my shoulders.
I was ready to go downstairs a few minutes before seven, and I took a final look at myself in the mirror. The gown was a rich brown satin with great puffed sleeves dropping off at the shoulder. My breasts were caught up in an inset of dark beige lace, a blue velvet bow centered beneath, and the skirt was composed of huge puffy brown flounces adorned with blue bows, parting in front to reveal the underskirt covered with row upon row of beige lace ruffles. It was the kind of gown the ladies in the French court were wearing, a magnificent creation that made me feel like a queen... or an extremely elegant courtesan. Du Barry herself would have been jealous, I thought, sweeping out of the room and moving down the curving staircase.
Jeff was nowhere in sight. The main room was empty but for a slender, nervous-looking girl with light-brown hair and violet-blue eyes and an unusually handsome young man who seemed to be upbraiding her about something. The girl, who wore a white silk gown sprigged with tiny blue and violet flowers, was obviously from a wealthy family. The young man had unruly black hair and angry brown eyes. His black boots were old, poorly polished, his brown suit beginning to grow shiny with age. He was an appealing figure, nevertheless, aglow with youth and vitality. The girl was pale and would have been plain but for those lovely, tormented eyes and the hair so light a brown it had a silvery sheen. She kept glancing over her shoulder toward the crowded dining room, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Immersed in their intense, intimate private drama, neither of them so much as looked up when I moved down the last steps and entered the room.
"I don't care what he says!" the man protested. "It's your life, Meg, your decision. I'm almost twenty years old! When Pa died I inherited everything. Oh, the plantation isn't much now, I grant that, but in a few years, with a lot of hard work—"
"James, you—you don't understand. He would—" The girl cut herself short, again glancing toward the dining room. "We'll have to wait. I'll be eighteen in two years, and then—"
"I want you now!"
How bold and impetuous he was, fiery with the passions of youth and eager to assert himself. The girl loved him, too, desperately. That was quite evident. Seeing them together made me feel a curious sadness. Although both were more or less my contemporaries, I felt immeasurably older, wiser, and it was not necessarily a pleasant feeling. The innocence, the wonder, the surging intensity of young love as they knew it had been denied me. How beautiful it was, how sad.
"After we're married there's not a thing he can do," the handsome youth continued. "You may be scared to death of him, but he doesn't frighten me one bit! I want you to come with me now, Meg, tonight, this minute! I don't intend to sneak around any longer!"
The girl looked up at him with anguished violet-blue eyes, and then she shook her head mournfully and hurried on into the dining room. The young man slammed his fist into his palm, emitted a colorful curse, and stalked out of the room and down the short hallway leading to the front door. He was just a few months younger than I, yet he seemed like a frisky pup compared to the men I had known. I wished I could be young and dewy-eyed again, wished there were still beautiful illusions to cling to.
"I see the gown fits," Jeff remarked. "Woman who sold it to me assured me it would. You look gorgeous."
"Jeff. I didn't hear you come in."
"Almost didn't make it. Young James Norman swept out the door just as I was about to enter—damned near knocked me down. Didn't even apologize. If I didn't like him so much I'da given him a good shakin'."
"Who is he?"
"Norman? Owns a plantation outside of town, right next to Schnieder's. His folks died of the fever a year or so ago, and Norman's runnin' the place all by himself, tryin' to make a go of it. Refused to sell out, even though Schnieder offered him a small fortune."
"He's very good-looking."
"Reckon he is," Jeff agreed.
He was silent. He seemed to be waiting for something. Finally he shook his head in exasperation, took several steps backward, and turned around slowly. I had been so immersed in thought that I hadn't even noticed his new clothes. No wonder he was exasperated. Gone were the dirty buckskins. He wore shiny new black boots, a splendid blue suit, and a blue-and-brown-striped waistcoat. His brown silk stock was impeccably folded, and for
once his hair was neatly brushed, not a lock out of place. I hardly recognized him. I told him so. He made a face.
"Took you long enough to notice! I coulda been stark naked for all the attention you paid. James Norman is handsome, but me—me, I'm an old shoe you don't even pay any mind to. These duds cost me a pretty penny, I don't mind tellin' you, and I had to wait hours while they took the breeches up."
"You look extremely dashing."
"Feel like a fool," he grumbled, "but I've worn buckskins for the last time. From now on, it's Jeffrey Rawlins, gentleman, at your service. Think you can stand me like this?"
"I think so."
"Then let's go on in to dinner. I'm starvin'."
The dining room was crowded, but Jeff had reserved a table. As we took our seats, I noticed the girl with light-brown hair sitting at a table across the way. I recognized the man with her immediately. Helmut Schnieder had donned a blue waistcoat and the gray jacket that went with the breeches he had been wearing on the docks. Catching sight of us, he stared openly, as though amazed at the transformation both of us had undergone.
"Who is that woman with Schnieder?" I asked.
Jeff glanced across the room. "His sister, Margaret. I mentioned her to you earlier."
"You said she was a mousy little thing. She's almost pretty. Lovely eyes, and that hair—"
"Look, Marietta, would you mind payin' just a little attention to me for a change?"
"I'm sorry. Have I hurt your feelings?"
"Don't be bitchy! I sold the mules this afternoon. Hated to part with 'em, I'll admit, but that phase of my life is over. Soon as I get to New Orleans I'm buyin' a place. It's kinda run down now, but after I spend a little money on it, it's gonna be plush as all get-out."
"What kind of place are you talking about?"
"Gamblin' hall," Jeff said. His voice was sharp with enthusiasm. "It's gonna be somethin'. There'll be all kinds of tables, a roulette wheel, a fancy bar, the works. There'll be a ballroom, too, for dancin'—this'll be the kinda place the ladies can come to—well, a certain kinda ladies. No whores, mind you, but the men can bring their lady friends. There'll be white marble and gold curtains and—"
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