The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  "Mr, Courtland—'*

  He looked sincerely ashamed. "I know, I'm as bold as brass and as objectionable as—^the devil. But I know when I've met the woman for me."

  "Mr. Courtland, really, I don't like this conversation."

  "But your eyes are shining, Zoe, and your cheeks are flushed, and— **

  Zoe pulled her hand from his warm one and scooted to the far edge of her chair to look up and see amused faces watching the play between herself and Rod.

  After that evening it seemed there was a party every night, or perhaps it was just those nights she remembered, because Rod was always there. Zoe lived for those nights. He always spotted her the moment she walked through the door. When his eyes sought hers, she knew she was the loveliest woman in Boston. Rod's eyes told her so.

  Then on a hot night in July he told her he loved her. Zoe had never known what it was like to be in love. She had thought of, and been taught, only what to expect of marriage. She knew how to be a hostess, to sew fancy-work, to play the piano and the harpsichord, to sing passably well, to organize servants and run a house. Of her

  blood racing and her heart performing magical feats of rhythm, of her eyes seeing only one man's face in a crowded room, of longing for the sound of one voice, of being satisfied by the touch of one hand, she knew nothing until now. Rod began to fill her whole life, awake and asleep. Paul Tremain no longer existed for her. There was only one man, and she was in his arms, and he loved her.

  All Zoe remembered of the ball that July night was that it was given in General Denker's honor, and the lovely flower-filled ballroom opened onto a great veranda. Below the veranda were the gardens. Endless pathways of sculptured privet hedge wound around the grounds. She and Rod had walked through those dark arched tunnels of green and had finally come to a Greek temple built at the edge of a pond.

  They had sat in the temple for a long time, hearing the music softly in the background, and the closer sounds of nightbirds and crickets. One minute became another, one kiss became so many they never ended, one caress and Rod telling her he loved her and needed her.

  Zoe felt no shame as he undressed her and touched the moonlit contours of her body. She felt nothing but happiness. Even the sharp initiating pain of his joining with her had been lost in the strange, pulsing feelings of delight. She was aware of nothing and no one but him. And later, after he had helped her to dress and fix her hair, she reentered the flower-filled ballroom and the presence of her scowling older sister, aware of nothing but Rod at her side, his hand gently caressing her waist at every step.

  Now she knew that that evening Faith had seen and understood things Zoe had not yet come to grips with. Already her days with Rod had been numbered, but at seventeen and in love Zoe had known none of that. Faith had been cool toward her, making acid comments about both Zoe's exit and her reentry to the ball. And Mammy had taken but one look and known what had happened.

  "Lawd, Miss Zoe, Mastah Horace gwine th'ow hisself into a fit! He gwine lock you up fo'evah effen he fin' out what you done. An' what Mastah Paul gwine think when he fin' out his bride be used goods?"

  Zoe had only smiled. Paul and her father were far away. From then on she had tempted fate beyond recall. Faith knew Zoe was religious. Thre6, sometimes four times a

  week, she told Faith she was going to a church meeting. Escorted by Mammy, Zoe went to meet Rod.

  Halfheartedly Mammy scolded, prayed, harangued, and nagged. She approved of Rod. And Zoe had never been happier. To Mammy that was justification for nearly anything—so long as they didn't get caught.

  "Oh, you is bad!" she chided each time before she disappeared into the kitchen of Rod's apartment, leaving Zoe and Rod alone. Mammy believed as did Zoe, that Rod would marry her, and soon. Soon enough to forestall the trouble that was bound to come when they returned to Wilmington in the fall.

  Rod often spoke of marriage. He had only one more year of school, and he was certain he could study and work at the same time, thus being able to support a young wife who promised to eat very little.

  On the fifth of August Zoe returned from her "church meeting" to find Faith and Walter waiting for her.

  "I've already notified Papa of your behavior, Zoe. You*ll be sent home as soon as Walter can arrange it. Mammy, I want her packed tonight,"

  "Faith ... I don't want to go home. Papa said I was to stay until—"

  "Stay!? And have you completely ruin our reputation? Walter is a very important man, Zoe. How do you think it has been these last weeks with you acting like—like a— with that Mr. Courtland? I can hardly look my friends in the eye. They think perhaps I am like you!"

  Zoe had tried to plead with Faith to let her see Rod before they left or to write him a note. But pleading was fruitless. Faith was as single-minded and adamant as their father. When Zoe arrived home, her father was at the depot. She was never free to write to Rod. Even Mammy's attempts to sneak out with Zoe's letters had ended in failure and greater bouts of rage from Horace McCloud.

  In desperation she told her father she couldn't marry Paul. She was in love with another man. Horace took a strap to his daughter, threatening her. Forbidden to see him, even to speak his name, Zoe retreated into old habits of obedience and meekness, no longer daring to think of Rod somewhere in Boston.

  By the end of September Zoe knew she was pregnant.

  She married Paul Tremain in October. She tried to be a

  good wife and thought she had succeeded until she told him she was pregnant. He showed no sign of pleasure in the coming child. Soon after, when he was drunk with courage enough and animosity enough, he told her he had known she was no virgin and had suspected she was pregnant. He wanted to know who the man was.

  Zoe endured his verbal and physical abuse, but she never mentioned Rod's name again. From then on, Paul drank more and more. He first resented the thought of the baby, then the baby himself. The older Adam grew, the more Paul hated him. For all the years of their marriage he made their lives a hell.

  Zoe had clung to the memory of that summer until she could no longer separate facts from imagination. Her love she poured onto Adam as much as she dared without calling down Paul's wrath on the boy. Except for that one summer, Zoe knew nothing but fear and abuse from a man. She wasn't sure there was anything more. Paul had claimed to love her. Rod had claimed to love her. She knew about Paul. But she knew nothing of Rod.

  And now he was back. She had called him back into her life.

  She didn't sleep all that night and was in the kitchen at first light. She had dressed with care, and now, nervously, she prepared his breakfast, her mind whirling, testing the sound of phrases she might say to him. When Rod came sleepily into the kitchen, drawn by the odors of bacon and coffee, Zoe was almost beside herself with tension.

  He grinned and slouched into a chair. "Smells awfully good."

  Zoe's eyes were wide, her face pale. "Rod—^Rod, I didn't run away," she said breathlessly. "Faith—Faith sent me, and Papa. I didn't want to marry Paul! I tried. I—"

  Rod got up, hurrying to take her by the shoulders. "I had no right to talk to you as I did last night. It was unfair and foohsh of me. As you said, k was a long time ago and better forgotten."

  "No, please. I should have tpld you. And Adam too. After I was married, I didn't know how. I thought Paul would—I never believed Paul would hate him so, and by then Adam thought he was Paul's son and I didn't know where you were after you left schooh Oh, Rod, I didn't want to leave you!"

  "Why didn't you come to me while you were still in Boston?"

  "I couldn't! Faith kept me locked in my room, and the next morning Walter put me on a train. Then Papa was at the depot when I got off. Faith—no one would even let me write to you."

  "In all that time you couldn't write just once?"

  "No! Papa ... I just gave in. I was so weak and stupid!"

  "Not half so stupid as I was."

  "But it wasn't your fault. It was mine. I—"

  He put his hand to
her lips, shushing her. "We were both very young and not very astute, Zoe. I went to your sister's house when you didn't come to the apartment the next night. She told me you'd gone home because you didn't want to see me again. I wasn't hard to convince, not with my hurt pride, too much youth, and too little sense. She told me you'd been engaged the whole time we'd been seeing one another. That was all it took to make me swallow the whole story. Like a fool, I believed her."

  "How could you? You knew—"

  He shook his head. "No more than you."

  She looked into his eyes. "Rod, would you really have come for me?"

  "Yes."

  "Even after what Faith told you?"

  "Even then."

  Slow tears rolled down her face. Rod smiled slightly and wiped them away. "Twenty-seven years, Zoe, and I swear you're no older than when I met you." , "I just wish I had done everything differently."

  He shrugged. "I don't believe in trying to recapture the past. Neither of us is free of blame or guilty of all of it. But what remains is the present. So, shall we do with it what we can?"

  "Rod ..."

  "We can begin with breakfast. It smells good, and Tm hungry. After that I want to see Adam. I don't suppose you've told him about me?"

  "No. He hasn't been sensible enough to understand anything since—since it happened. And I haven't known how to tell him. What do I say?"

  Rod ate slowly, nibbling on a piece of toasted bread. "You needn't tell him at all. I know. That's enough. Adam

  and I have become good friends. He has my respect, and I believe I have his."

  "Rod, it isn't enough. Tom knows, and of course Mammy. How could I decently keep it from Adam? I want him to know you, Rod, as his father. Every time he'd return from New York and talk about you, I wanted to tell him. I used to ask questions. Sometimes when I hadn't the courage to ask, I'd sit and pray, hoping he'd talk about you so I could hear what he thought of you. And then I'd feel so guilty for what I had done. Adam might have been spared so much if I had been less of a coward."

  Impatiently Rod shoved his plate away. "It's done, Zoe, I don't want—"

  "Good morning. Aunt Zoe."

  Zoe started, and Rod turned to see an attractive young woman leaning against the door.

  "Angela—^you startled me," Zoe said uncomfortably, her eyes sliding away from Angela's. "I've told you not to come up so silently on people."

  "I wasn't so silent. You were just so busy talking you didn't hear."

  "Were you listening to a private conversation? Angela— **

  "The food smelled so good, I just followed my nose. I wasn't trying to listen to anything. I'm not interrupting, am I?"

  "Certainly not," Rod said, "We were talking of kingdoms lost for want of a nail."

  Angela wrinkled her nose prettily. "What?"

  Rod laughed. "All that means is that it's nothing of interest to someone as young and pretty as you. You're Tom's daughter, aren't you?"

  Angela listened to him with her head cocked to one side, her ^face alight with amusement. "Why, you're a Yankee! Aunt Zoe, I never thought you*d let a Yankee in your house."

  "Your breakfast is ready, Angela."

  Angela pouted. "Why are you so angry?'*

  "I'm not angry, and there is no need to start that up again."

  Angela sat down, her eyes narrowing. "Are you still holding it against me because I didn't die out there too?"

  "Angela! Don't be ridiculous!"

  "I'm not .being ridiculous. That's what you're really say-

  ing. I should have done what Claudine did, and then I'd be dead too."

  Zoe removed her apron, tossing it on a chair. "If I felt that way, you wouldn't be in my house, and you are. That's enough."

  "I did nothing wrong. What makes you think you'd have done differently?"

  "He took care of you—watched after you." Zoe's voice rose. "You wouldn't be alive if not for him. And the one time he needed you—"

  "Well, I needed him plenty of other times, and he didn*t care then!"

  "Whoa! Ladies—quiet. What is all this?" Rod raised his arms, pretending to separate two pugilists.

  Zoe walked hastily to the washstand. "Nothing. Just a family argument."

  "She hates me because I didn't die trying to save Adam like Claudine. That's what they all think. That's what they aU want!"

  "You've said enough, young lady! As long as you're Mrs. Tremain's guest, you'll keep a civil tongue."

  "I'm not a guest! I live here—or I did. Do I live here, Aunt Zoe?"

  Zoe walked angrily from the kitchen. Rod followed her. "Zoe, what is this about?"

  "It's too long a story, and I want to see Adam."

  "Your whole life seems wrapped up in long stories and secrets. Pardon me. I thought I could help. you. Wasn't that why you asked me to come?"

  Zoe looked at him tearfully, then ran up the stairs.

  Adam moved restlessly on the bed, his voice hoarse and all but unintelligible, an undercurrent that mumbled of limbless monsters and chickcharnies and Satan. When Zoe came in, he opened his puffy-lidded eyes and seemed to see her. "There was a . . . shipwreck."

  "Yes, dear, I know," Zoe said shakily.

  "Red hair—she had red hair. See her? Wife . . . red hair . . ." He drifted off, then his gaze found Rod's. "May-maybe you saw Dus-Dussie? Dussly? Wrecked. In'pend-pendas. But not Dussie . . . find her."

  "We'll do that," Rod said heartily.

  "Red—like fire. All 'roun' . . ." Adam's eyelids swung shut.

  Biting her lip, Zoe forced herself not to go to Adam to try to make him recognize her. Mammy sat listlessly in her chair, her face gray with fatigue, her clouded eyes sunken deep in her head. "Mammy, I want you to go to your room. You're not getting any rest."

  Mammy didn't move for so long, Zoe thought she hadn't heard. Then the old woman took a deep breath. "Ah resses when he resses. You jes' leave me set wheah Ah is, Miz Zoe. Dis wheah Ah b'long."

  "Mammy, I want you to do as I ask!" Zoe said shrilly.

  Rod come up behind her, moving her toward the door. "Let her do as she wants, Zoe. She wouldn't sleep if you made her go to her room."

  Zoe pulled away from him, nerves raw. "Don't meddle, Rod. I know what's best."

  "Damn it, Zoe, if anyone should go to her room and rest, it's you!"

  "Don't raise your voice to me in here!"

  "Then get out in the hall because I am going to raise my voice to you!"

  Mammy's tired eyes lit briefly. "Y'all bettah do what he say, Miz Zoe.'*

  "Zoe!"

  She whirled to face him.

  "You and I are going to get a few things cleared up. If you want my help, I'll give it willingly, but I sure as hell will not be shoved into the background to watch a woman scream at every member in the household. I'm accustomed to running things—and running them smoothly."

  "Well, I'm not accustomed to being run!"

  Rod's eyes bored into her. "Maybe it's time you learned to be."

  "I should never have sent for you! Never! You're just as pushy and crude as any Yankee. If Paul Tremain taught me nothing else, he taught me never to trust any man, and certainly no dirty Yankee!"

  Rod grabbed her arm. "Don't you ever confuse me with Paul Tremain—or any other man, Zoe!"

  "Let me go!"

  "Not this time." Rod walked quickly to her sitting room.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was an anxious six weeks for Dulcie before Mr. Revanche returned. While he was gone, General Lee had attacked the Army of the Potomac near Bristoe Station, Virginia. Union Major General Thomas, called "The Rock of Chickamauga" for his bravery there, replaced General Rosecrans as commander of the Army of the Cumberland. General Grant became supreme commander of the western forces and within ten days had opened a supply line to Chattanooga still under siege by Bragg.

  "Look at this, Patsy," said Jem, shaking his newspaper. "Lee has been fightin' without a decisive battle for the past month, so now he's withdrawn his troops to winte
r quarters on the Rapidan River. Can't our generals do anythin' but skirmish and retreat?"

  "And die of disease." Oliver shifted his gold toothpick. *Twice as many men die of disease as of wounds. The Union has its Sanitary Commission to minister to the sick and wounded and Its Christian Commission to look after their spiritual welfare. But the South hasn't got money for that."

  "I heard a good one about a chaplain at Chickamauga," said Jem. "This so-named man of the cloth says, 'Remember, boys, he who is killed will sup tonight in Paradise.' One soldier yelled back, 'Well, Parson, you come along and take supper with us.' Then the shelling began, and the chaplain spurred his horse to the rear. The soldier says, 'Parson ain't hungry, an' he never eats supper.'"

  The others laughed, but Patricia said, "That chaplain had to be a dirty Yankee. No Southuhnuh would—" She stopped, reddening. "Oh, Oliver, Ah beg you to forgive me. Ah don't mean all Yankees—an' heah you an' Mad are bein' so kind."

  Jem patted her as she sat stiff in her chair, tears flowing in mortification. "There, there. Patsy love, Oliver knows you don't mean him."

  "Of course not," Oliver declared heartily.

  The front door knocker sounded.

  Dulcie's heart jumped and began to beat with slow, heavy thuds.

  Edmund entered the room, as impeccably dressed and at ease as always. He exchanged pleasantries with each one. Jem was too willing to talk about the war, and Oliver expounded on economic matters. Edmund accommodated them, graciously accepting a drink.

  Dulcie could not stand it any longer. "Mr. Revanche, is there . . . did you learn anything of my husband?"

  Edmund set his glass down. His voice was soft and regretful. "You are all hoping for good tidings, but none of you wish more than I that I could bring them. Unfortunately, I am not able to do so." His eyes remained on Dulcie.

  She became pale, holding her breath.

  Mad bristled. She was one of the few upon whom Edmund Revanche's charm had no positive effect. "As you have nothin' encouragin' to tell us, Mr. Revanche, perhaps it would be as well if you refrained from tellin' us any-thin'."

  "No, Aunt Mad," said Dulcie tensely. "I want to know. I . . . must know."