Violet Fire

by Brenda Joyce

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She didn’t move.

  He smiled, a flashing of white in the darkness. “Then I’ll come to you,” he whispered. He moved forward slowly, four easy strides, until he was standing an inch away from her. She looked up.

  Oh Gracie, he thought, if you relax you’ll like it.

  Oh dear Lord, she thought, I just cannot believe I’m doing this.

  Her eyes were dark liquid pools, at once anxious and angry. They glittered. He wanted to see them glaze with desire—with desire for him. “Don’t be mad at me,” he whispered. “It’s your charms that are at fault.” His voice was a soft, heavy caress. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “My charms?” she said sarcastically. “Oh no, Mr. Bragg, I think it’s your rutting proclivities that are entirely to blame.”

  His eyes widened with shock.

  Hers narrowed with triumph.

  “Grace,” he managed, “you do have a way with words.”

  “Is the truth too much to bear?” she asked, too sweetly.

  “Why don’t we test my rutting proclivities,” he said grimly.

  She stepped back.

  He stepped forward.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she gasped.

  “Too late.” His hands closed over her shoulders.

  “Then just get it over with,” she snapped. But a tremble swept over her.

  He winced at her reaction and with his fingers spread, began kneading her muscles softly. “I know you’re not cold,” he murmured, his blood thickening deliciously in his groin. He heard her breathe and felt her body stiffen. “Relax,” he whispered. “This is supposed to be pleasurable.” His voice was very husky. “Give me a chance. Let me show you just how good this can be.”

  “I detest you and what you stand for,” she said, choking on a sob.

  Rathe froze at that particularly female sound of anguish. For some insane reason, he thought of Lucilla, the fifteen-year-old he had deflowered when he was a boy. Unlike Grace, she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Grace was trembling beneath his touch. Rathe suddenly hated himself and his lust. He removed his hands. “I guess I’m more of a gentleman than either of us thought. You have my silence,” he said with heavy disappointment.

  He turned abruptly and left.

  Allen arrived promptly at nine as they had arranged. He swung down from the buggy, beaming, dressed in his Sunday suit. “Grace! I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”

  Grace hurried to him with a fond smile, genuinely glad to see him. Although her first week was shorter than normal because she had arrived on a Tuesday, she was already exhausted emotionally. The girls had begun to settle down and were improving both their literary skills and their manners, to her relief. But there was the constant strain of teaching Geoffrey on the sly and of worrying about that scoundrel, Rathe Bragg, knowing her past. He hadn’t appeared again since the night he had almost kissed her, which suited her just fine. So it came as something of a surprise, when Allen drew back after pressing his lips to her cheek, to see him sitting on his stallion, staring with what distinctly looked like a frown. Their gazes met, and Grace was angry with herself for blushing as if she were guilty of some trespass.

  She clearly remembered the promise in the tone of his voice when he had been about to kiss her—and the obvious disappointment when he had not. She herself had stood frozen, watching him disappear with long, hard strides, unable to believe that he had changed his mind, that he had actually done the right thing. She had felt a wave of triumph, but it was mingled with regret. The salute he had sent her as he rode away was somehow both mocking and bitter.

  “How are you, Allen?” she said, still clasping his hand, tearing her gaze from Rathe with difficulty.

  “Just fine, Grace. I’ve been counting the days like a schoolboy.” He grinned.

  Grace attempted a smile in return as he helped her into the buggy. Allen climbed in after her, spotting Rathe for the first time. “Hello, Rathe. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Rathe’s eyes had drifted from Grace, who looked fetching even with the silly spectacles, dressed in a green print gown, to Allen, puffed with pleasure, arranging a wicker basket and red checked tablecoth on the seat between them. He stared at the picnic basket a beat longer before managing a slight smile at Allen. “Allen, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Melrose’s new governess.” His drawl came out thicker than usual.

  Allen beamed, taking one of Grace’s hands in his. “Grace and I share a bit of history,” he explained cheerfully. “In fact,” he shot her a warm look, “one day I hope she’ll do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  A heavy silence, filled with the scent of magnolias, the whisper of the dining-room fan, and the drone of bees, descended. Then Rathe smiled. “Well,” he drawled, “the best of luck to you both.”

  “What’s wrong?” Allen asked as they departed. Grace silently watched Rathe swing down from the stallion, clad in his indecently tight doeskin breeches. She hastily averted her gaze from the sight of his hard buttocks and thighs, flushing. She had never before thought men’s breeches indecent.

  “How do you know Rathe Bragg?” she asked carefully.

  “Why, he’s an old friend of the woman I board with,” Allen replied. “A family friend, I believe. I’ve chatted with him a number of times. He’s an interesting man—but no progressive thinker, as far as I can make out.” He shifted his eyes from the Melrose driveway toward Grace. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she responded too quickly. “Allen, I wish you hadn’t said that—about marriage.”

  He looked at her. “But it’s how I feel; and I’m proud of it.”

  “Your wanting to marry me should be private, just between the two of us.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  They traveled without mishap down a long, shady thoroughfare, the elaborate planters’ homes giving way to more modest clapboard ones. Allen amused her with stories of his students and Grace found herself telling him about her own remarkable pupil, Geoffrey.

  The church service seemed interminable. Grace fidgeted, eager for it to end so she could get to work and begin organizing the ladies. She hadn’t mentioned her plans to Allen, but she was positive that she would have his support. As soon as the service was over she hurried outside and hovered by the exit.

  “Grace, what are you up to?” Allen demanded.

  She smiled at him. “I just want a chance to meet a few of the ladies.”

  He looked at her. “You told me you were going to stay out of trouble.”

  “Oh, Allen,” she cried. “I just can’t sit back and do nothing!”

  He sighed. He knew her so well.

  A middle-aged couple emerged. They smiled at Grace, and she beamed back. The congregation filed out and began milling about the churchyard sociably. Neighbors chatted with those they hadn’t seen all week. Grace waved at Martha Grimes, the woman she had met on the train, who was standing with another woman, undoubtedly her daughter. “Allen, mingle with the men,” she ordered, and he shook his head but went off to do her bidding. She went over to three women chatting animatedly in the shade of a huge magnolia tree. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” said a plump, matronly woman. “You’re new in Natchez, aren’t you? Are you the new governess at Melrose?”

  “Yes, I am,” Grace said, “My name is Grace O’Rourke.” She held out her hand, then wanted to kick herself, but it was too late to withdraw it.

  The women stared at her hand. Finally the plump woman took it. “So women shake hands up north? I’m Sarah Bellsley, and this is Mary Riordan and Suzanne Compton.”

  Grace shook the other women’s hands too. “I was wondering if we might have a women’s meeting one night this week.”

  “What kind of meeting?” Mary asked.

  “A meeting to discuss some issues that are very important to today’s modern woman,” Grace said, holding her breath.

  “Oh, I think
it’s a wonderful idea,” Suzanne said. “And that way we could introduce Miss O’Rourke around.”

  “Oh, I would so appreciate that,” Grace put in quickly. “And please, call me Grace. It’s so very hard to move to a new place where—”

  Sarah laughed and patted her arm. “I will organize a ladies’ social for Wednesday evening, dear.”

  “Oh, Sarah, thank you,” Grace cried, clasping her palm.

  When Grace climbed into the buggy forty minutes later she was flushed with exhilaration. Allen picked up the reins. “All ends accomplished, Grace?”

  She grinned at him. “So far, Allen, so far.”

  Allen chose a beautiful spot for their picnic. The meadow was green and fragrant with honeysuckle. Tall, stately oaks provided shade, and oleanders crept along a fresh white fence in a riot of pink. Nearby, a spotted cow chewed its cud and eyed them lazily. Grace leaned back on her elbows and laughed.

  Allen grinned. “You’re feeling mighty pleased with yourself, now aren’t you, Grace O’Rourke?”

  Laughter bubbled out of her. “You know me too well.”

  He raised his glass of lemonade. “Natchez will never be the same.”

  Grace lifted her glass. “Amen.”

  They sipped in companionable silence.

  Then Allen said, “You do realize the ladies here are more concerned with finding husbands for their daughters than attaining the vote.”

  “I realize.”

  “Natchez is especially conservative, Grace. I think it’s because there’s so much old money here. Even the War only put a dent in it. Why, there isn’t even a temperance union here.”

  “That’s sinful,” Grace said. “Is Silver Street as bad as they say?”

  Allen laughed. “Now how would you know about Silver Street?”

  “I have ears,” Grace said.

  “Yes, it is,” Allen said seriously. “And it’s no place for you to explore.”

  She smiled. “Plenty of saloons and gambling halls and dens of iniquity?”

  “What’s going on in that sharp mind of yours?”

  “Maybe the ladies will find temperance easier to swallow than suffrage.”

  Allen shook his head with a fond smile.

  At the sound of riders coming down the road, they looked up curiously. Two big chestnuts and a bay came into view. Grace saw Allen stiffen. “What’s wrong, Allen?”

  The riders veered off the road, toward them.

  Allen got to his feet.

  “Allen? Do you know them?”

  “They’re a pack of Southern riffraff,” Allen said, low, “even if they are the old planter class. Rawlins is one of their leaders. I want you to stay out of this, Grace.”

  She was on her feet. “Allen, you’re worrying me!”

  “Hey, look at this,” drawled a blond man. Clad in breeches, a fine linen shirt, and gleaming boots, astride a magnificent thoroughbred, he was every inch a Southern aristocrat. He was flanked by his companions, who were equally well-turned out. “If it isn’t the schoolteacher!”

  “Hello, Rawlins,” Allen said levelly.

  “What a surprise,” drawled Rawlins. “Hey, Johnny, Frankie, ain’t this a surprise?”

  “Hello, Johnson,” Allen said neutrally to the dark-haired man on Rawlins’ left. “Frank.”

  “Looks like he’s courtin’,” said Rawlins. “Another Yankee? Hey, Yank, you courtin’?”

  Grace clenched her hands, frightened by the man’s boisterous lack of courtesy. Allen gave her a warning look. “This is Miss O’Rourke, the new governess at Melrose.”

  The men looked at her and nodded, Frank even removing his hat. Then the brief moment of politeness was gone. Rawlins spurred his chestnut forward, as if to ride Allen down. Allen didn’t move, or even flinch, as the big horse knocked against him. Rawlins moved his gelding behind him. Frank moved his bay to the left, and Johnson came in on the right, encircling Allen with a ton of horseflesh.

  “You remember our conversation last week, Allen?” Rawlins drawled.

  “I believe so.”

  “Really?” Rawlins was incredulous, and looked at the others. “You sure aren’t acting like you remember.”

  “Maybe we should remind him,” Frank suggested.

  Rawlins laughed. “Let’s remind him,” he said, and spurred the chestnut into Allen.

  Allen stumbled into the bay. He stepped back to avoid getting hurt, right into Johnson’s chestnut. The young men laughed, using their horses to push him this way and that, while Allen grew first white and then red, sweat streaking down his face.

  “Stop it,” Grace cried out.

  “Hey, nigger-lover,” Rawlins snarled, hatred etched clearly on his handsome face, “you better pack your bags and go on home. Got that, nigger-teacher?”

  Allen didn’t answer. He was breathing hard.

  “We heard,” Rawlins spat, “you been talkin’ to them niggers about the election this fall, tellin’ them to make sure an’ vote. You keep out of our business, Yankee. ’Cause if you don’t, you’re gonna be real sorry.” He reached down and shoved Allen hard, so that he stumbled into Frank’s bay. Frank laughed, raised his crop and slashed it down on Allen’s face. Grace screamed.

  “You’re gettin’ off easy this time,” Rawlins shouted. “Remember this—we don’t like nigger-teachers down heah. An’ you stir them up to vote, we’ll break every bone in your body.”

  Rawlins whirled his mount abruptly around, and the three riders galloped away, raising a cloud of red dust.

  “Allen, oh God!” Grace cried, rushing to him.

  He touched his face where it was bleeding. “I’m all right, Grace.”

  “You’re hurt! Who are those men? We have to go to the sheriff.” She was dabbing frantically at his face with a napkin.

  Allen caught her hand. “I’m all right,” he said calmly.

  Grace took a deep breath. “Let me clean that cut.”

  He allowed her to do so, wincing slightly. “Is it bad?”

  “You need one or two stitches,” Grace said, furious. “Let’s get you to a doctor. Then we’re going to the sheriff. I thought that kind of behavior was outlawed with the Ku Klux Klan.” She began energetically gathering up their things.

  “Grace, every single man arrested and convicted for Klan activities was given a suspended sentence.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “Here in Mississippi,” Allen said, “there were over two hundred of them in ’72 alone—all let go.”

  Grace was stunned. She knew that a few years ago Congress had investigated reported acts of terrorism against the Negroes and the Republicans. Their findings had made headlines, shocking the North. A wave of arrests and prosecutions of Klan members throughout the South had followed—which was why Grace could not believe her ears now. More than two hundred Klansmen in Mississippi had been given suspended sentences? “You mean, they got off scott-free?”

  “Scott-free.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Most of the public is behind them. You saw them, Grace, young planters’ sons, well-educated, well-heeled. Most of Southern society refused to believe that these boys had committed the crimes they were accused of. They chose to believe that their confessions of guilt—and most of the defendants did plead guilty—were lies of convenience. You see, once they pled guilty, a deal could be made, resulting in a suspended sentence. So the defendants went home and resumed their activities. Those who knew that the defendants were actually guilty, who were against the Klan, were afraid to speak out, Grace.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  He shook his head sadly. “They don’t even bother to wear masks anymore.”

  Her eyes were wide. “You mean—they’re still hurting people for exercising their rights?”

  “For less, Grace. Not long ago a Negro was whipped for answering a question the wrong way. He was impertinent, not in what he said—it was his tone and the light in his eyes.”

  “Oh, God.”

 
Allen put their tablecoth and basket in the buggy, then guided her to it. “Come on, get in.”

  “What about the sheriff?” Grace demanded as Allen turned the buggy down the road.

  “Ford’s a joke. He’s not only a night rider, but proud enough of it to brag about it. He’s one of their leaders, one of the worst, Grace.”

  Grace sat stunned and appalled. “Will you be all right? Why were they warning you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

  She bit her knuckle. “Will they come after you again?”

  “No,” Allen said, too quickly.

  Grace did not believe him for a moment.

  Rathe moved away from Louisa’s hand, staring out of the window at the darkening sky.

  “Rathe, darling, what is it?” Louisa asked, gazing at his back. She was a vision in magenta silk. “First you disappear, then when you do appear, you’re moody as a cat.”

  Was Allen kissing her? He stared grimly out at the driveway, obsessed with the same thought that had tortured him all day. It didn’t seem likely, did it? Grace was prim and proper and a prude. If she had rejected him, she would certainly reject Allen, wouldn’t she? Or would she? Why, of all men, Allen Kennedy? He was nice enough, but—Rathe stopped his thoughts. Actually, he not only liked Kennedy, he respected him. He was a man of integrity. Was he kissing her right now?

  He had a fleeting image of Grace in Allen’s arms on the red and white cloth he’d seen tucked under their picnic basket. Would Grace marry him? Was he proposing right now? He found himself angry with the thought—for it was none of his business. In fact, Grace and Allen would make a perfect couple.

  “You are impossible,” Louisa cried furiously.

  Rathe didn’t even turn, although he heard her skirts whipping about as she rushed from the room in a temper. He wasn’t being very subtle, he realized, coming back here on the pretext of a visit, staying most of the day, enduring Louisa’s company when in truth he was waiting for Grace to return.