by Day Taylor
The sympathy in the room almost overwhelmed her, but she would not cry. Not here. She wouldn't break down, not until she knew.
"I gave my word that I would tell you anything I might find out, but Mrs. Tremain, I beg you, don't call me upon my honor to keep that promise. Let it be enough that I have, verified that Captain Tremain is dead."
"He didn't die in the shipwreck—did he?"
Edmund looked at the others, appealing to them. Mad snorted. "Really, sir, you are drawin' this out into a three-act tragedy."
"I am loath to speak, Mrs. Raymer. I was hoping to spare your niece, for whom I have the greatest esteem, the sordid details of the death of a man who was patently not good enough for her."
"You are mistaken, Mr. Revanche. Either you have been misinformed or we speak of different men. No one was finer, kinder, or more honorable than Adam. I should like to hear your story. I think you have located information about the wrong man."
"I am seldom in error, Mrs. Rayner. Information is my
business. Were I not most precise and capable, the South would not wish my services."
Jem said impatiently, "Get to the point, Mr. Revanche."
Edmund breathed deeply, letting out a great sigh of resignation. "I bow to your wishes, sir. Mrs. Tremain, as you surmised, your husband did not die at sea. In fact, he died only last month."
Dulcie's head swam. Through dry lips she said, "Yes?"
"It was the talk of Wilmington. The respected, shall we even say idolized, blockade runner Captain Tremain met his end in a sordid brawl."
"If you please, sir," said Oliver angrily. "Where was this event said to have taken place?" He had greatly admired Captain Tremain, and his heart ached for Dulcie sitting so white and proud.
Edmund said sorrowfully, "In the Green Swamp, Mr. Raymer. A salt patrol was searching for him. It was reported that his men, led by him, had destroyed and disrupted several camps. There were rumors that Captain Tremain sold the stolen salt back to the Confederacy at tremendous profit to himself."
"I don't believe that!" Dulcie cried.
"Nor do I!" Mad agreed emphatically. "Adam Tremain would have nothin' to do with traitorous white trash. Stealing salt! The very idea!"
Edmund shrugged. "I am not making this up, Madame. Nor am I in a position to discern what is true or not true about Captain Tremain, not having known him myself. But, perhaps you did not know him as well as you thought."
Dulcie sat in stunned silence. Tom lived in the Green Swamp.
"Go on, Mr. Revanche," Jem said. "Painful as it may be, I think my daughter should hear it all. Perhaps then she will see what I saw from the beginnin'. This man was never right for her."
"The patrol found Captain Tremain with two women. They tried to arrest him, and he fought them. I was told he died of his wounds. The white woman, evidently a swamp creature, escaped."
Dulcie shook uncontrollably. "The other woman— T
"She was killed, trying to save the captain. She was known to be his . . . companion." Edmund paused for the
full effect of his words to hit Dulcie. "She was a nigger wench. Claudine, I believe they said."
Dulcie's vision dimmed. The room grew black, disappearing while she watched. Sounds dimmed. The shelf clock that ticked so loudly softened to nothing.
Dulcie put up one hand pushing away the acrid smell stinging her nostrils. She moved her head from side to side. "Stop. Don't."
Mad chafed her wrists. "Dulcie honey, can you hear me? It's your Aunt Mad. Sit still, dear. You'll be all right in a-few minutes."
"A terrible, terrible blow," Edmund said mournfully. "I feel responsible. Mrs. Tremain insisted. I did not want to tell her."
"We understand, Mr. Revanche," Jem's face was red with anger. "Dulcie had to know. I told her he'd break her heart. An adventurer, that's all he was—"
Mad said, "Jem, you hush. This is gossip!"
"He was a good man, a fine man," Oliver declared. "Pity he had to come to such an unfortunate end."
"At least it won't be known here in New York for a while," Jem said. "Dulcie won't have to face our friends and defend the rascal."
Dulcie stood up, though her arms and legs were jelly. "I don't want you talkin' about Adam. If ... if Mr. Revanche is correct, then Daddy is right, and I made a mistake in marryin' him. But—" She looked at them all, seeing none of them. "Can't you understand? I love him."
Oliver, without comment, handed her a glass of straight whiskey.
"Ollie Raymer! Dulcie, don't you take—"
Dulcie sipped the whiskey defiantly, wanting it to take hold as it had that one night—with him—^when they had watched the sua-come up over Eleuthera.
Had he gone to other women on each trip away from Nassau? Was it carousing and wenching that gave his face such a haggard look when he came back to her? And Claudine—with him at the last.
Beneath the doubts was a deeper hurt. Adam had never really tried to find her. He knew Oliver was in New York, and he had not sought him. He knew her father lived at Mossrose, and he had not sought Jem.
She held out her glass for more. Yet, she still loved him.
The longing didn't ease. Knowing he was dead didn't change it. Knowing he was not the shining kniglit siie had believed didn't lessen it.
It seemed to her that she spoke very clearly. "Mr. Revanche, I realize this will be hard to keep secret, but I'd be grateful if you said nothin' to anyone else. I will need time to—"
Edmund was at her side, bringing her hand to his lips. *Td protect your reputation with my life. Not all men are—-"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"No, no, we won't talk about it. Forget. Begin anew, Mrs. Tremain."
"Oh, yes," Dulcie sighed. "Tomorrows are made for be-ginnin', aren't they? My tomorrows used to be so . . ." She shook her head. Her tongue felt thick. "No, no, I mustn't think that. Did you deliver my letters?"
"Mrs. Tremain's letter I delivered myself. The lady was not at home, so I gave it to a servant girl. The other I wasn't able to deliver." He reached into his pocket. "Captain West is not known in Charleston." He handed Dulcie the worn-looking letter.
She stared at it, dizzily speculating on the source of the travel stains on it. She tore it slowly across and put the pieces in the fire. She laughed, a low mirthless chuckle. "Tomorrows are for beginnin', and yesterdays are for burnin'. Bum, yesterday, burn!"
She noted with surprise that her legs were misbehaving. "I—don't think I feel quite well. Excuse me, Mr. Revanche, I must ..." She looked around stupidly, wondering what it was she must do.
"Mrs. Tremain—forgive my boldness—may I tell you that never in my life have I met a woman braver or more poised than yourself? Will you permit me to call on you tomorrow? I should like to offer you whatever small crumbs of comfort my presence will provide."
"Certainly." Holding Jem's arm. Dulcie mounted the stairs. The maid undressed her, and she lay in bed feeling unpleasantly close to the rawness of life. Her mother came in. "I don't feel like talkin' Mama."
Patricia bent dovm and kissed her daughter fondly. "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Remem-bah that, dahlin'."
"I'll remember. Good night. Mama."
"Theah's nothin' we can do fo' you now, but dahlin*, woman have always found strength in theah Makuh. It's moah than a platitude, Dulcie."
After Patricia tiptoed out, Dulcie shut her eyes. Vignettes of Adam . . . Adam . . . Adam drifted before her like a magic lantern-show. Adam cruel yet desiring her in Tom's bayou house. Adam comforting her on board the Tun-bridge, talking with her in the storm, entering the tournament because she wanted him to, catching Andrew Whit-aker kissing her. The night of the terrible fire at the plantation. Adam and herself laughing like two fools running from their pursuers in New York. Adam making love to her under the canopy of the broken bed. Making love, making a child together, dying together—all of them. And only herself left—dead. Tomorrows with no beginnings.
Edmund Revanche
came calling the next afternoon. He provided her a deliberately pleasant respite, speaking charmingly but not vivaciously of his travels. Some things, he said piously, he could not reveal for his own safety. "There is a large group of Southern citizens usually called the Peace Society. This seditious organization wants to overthrow the Confederacy and restore all states to the Union."
"Surely someone in authority would heah of theah meet-m*s an' arrest them all." said Patricia.
"They have no meetin's. Men known as 'eminents' travel the South, conferring the degree on others. Each member is an independent. They have passwords, secret codes, every shady means of operation."
"It doesn't sound like much of an organization to me," said Mad.
"It is highly organized," Edmund smiled. "They work alone, encouragin' desertion, askin' families to refuse to serve on the home front. Some of our soldiers are bone fide members of these Peace Societies."
"What is ouah world comin' to, when loyal Southunuhs can't be trusted anymoah?" Patricia asked.
"There are always misguided souls who cannot see the common good, Madame. But there are many women like yourself who nurse the sick, who never sit down without their knittin' so that our gallant men in gray may have socks and scarves. One woman hke you is a credit to the entire Confederacy." Edmund's eyes rested on Dulcie,
who had said little. "You are looking much improved today, Mrs. Tremain."
"Do go on talkin'. I am content just to listen."
"It is such a bright and pleasant afternoon, may I take you ladies for a carriage ride through Central Park?"
"Thank you, Mr. Revanche, but Patricia and I have obligated ourselves to finish several pairs of those socks you spoke of."
"I will go with you, Mr. Revanche," Dulcie said.
Though the mid-November day was chilly, it was warm under the plaid lap robe Dulcie shared with Edmund. The cool wind was invigorating.
"Will you be in New York long this time, Mr. Revanche?"
"Until the New Year, Mrs. Tremain. May I call you Miss Dulcie?"
"Why?"
"Iknow how you must feel about the man whose name you use.*'
"I'm sure you don't, Mr. Revanche. Do you have business in the city, or will you be takin' a holiday?"
"If you must be so prickly, why did you come?"
"Because it's better than knittin' socks,"
Edmund laughed. "How refreshingly honest you are, my dear."
"Mr. Revanche." She chose her words carefully, allowing them to reflect her bitter emptiness. "When I first met you, I thought I might learn to like you very much. Now that I know you better, I discover I am totally indifferent."
"You are hardly being fair, my dear. It was you who extracted my promise to tell you whatever I discovered. If you recall, I tried to dissuade you from listening. I might remind you that no matter how despicable the captain's behavior toward you, I had no part in it. Shall you punish me for what he did? And shall you end what might have been a pleasant friendship between us?"
"How could you possibly want a friendship with me when you know ... I really don't care to continue this conversation, Mr. Revanche."
"Come now, Dulcie, even v^dows have friends. You have had a grave shock, but I tell you, the best way to recover is to go on with your life. Fill it v^dth new things, new people, new ideas."
"Mr. Revanche, truly, I don't care."
"That must change. Immediately . . . Dulcie. My name is Edmund. I'll expect you to use it. As a matter of fact, I shan't answer to anything but Edmund coming from your lips."
Dulcie smiled in spite of herself. "Does nothin' put you off?"
"Very little. I am a man of select tastes and of great determination. I seldom forget a woman of beauty, or an enemy, and I pay proper homage to each." He laughed, pleased with himself, confident of her.
"No wonder you're such a success. They say you are a spy. Are you?"
"Where did you get that romantic notion?"
"One of your lady admirers whispered it to an avid audience. If you're not, you'll disappoint at least two dozen loyal Southerners."
"Ahhh. Then by all means well foster the idea. I always find it best to be whatever is wished by one's admirers. It makes them so much more ready to support my causes."
Dulcie looked at him from the comer of her eye. "Mr. Revanche—Edmund, sometimes you seem far more the cynic than the idealist."
He laughed, flicking the buggy whip. "You're a perceptive woman."
"I didn't pay you a compliment."
"As I said before, your honesty is refreshing."
"And yours is disconcertin'."
"Why? My life is such that cynicism comes readily. Except when I am in New York lecturing and raising money, I see little that bolsters one's idealism. But I seldom have the opportunity to speak with an intelligent and beautiful woman capable of understanding my temporary disillusion-ments."
"Are they temporary?"
"Of course. Once this cursed war is over. I have dreams . . . and home."
Dulcie smiled, glad she had come, glad to hear a man speaking in such a fashion about his future.
Unobtrusively, Edmund moved closer. "Have you ever roller-skated?"
"Ever what?"
"It's like ice-skating, except it's done on wheels. It's the latest craze. The social leaders of New York are trying
to confine it to the educated and refined classes and so are making it fashionable.'*
"Fd like to try that."
On Friday evening Dulcie went skating with Edmund, falling down several times before she learned to glide on wheels. He was fairly expert, skating either forward or backward. Relaxed and enjoying himself, he was at his most charming. Though he seemed always aware of his effect on people, superficially he was an uncomplicated, pleasant, attractive man who drew women's eyes. Dulcie found herself smiling, having fun almost against her wilL
"You are lovely tonight, little one," said Edmund.
/ love you, little one, Adam had said. Dulcie forced a smile. "I am enjoyin' myself, Edmund."
"Tell me, have we been fashionable long enough? Surely everyone has noticed us by now. Shall we have a late supper at the Astor House?" ,
In the following weeks Dulcie went out often with Edmund. At Wallack's a stage presentation creaked with old castles, titled lords and ladies, and missing heirs. During one scene, when Lady Upsnoot still lay on the floor from her suicide, someone threw her a corsage. The dead lady aiose and bowed, clutching the flowers, as was the custom. Then she lay back down and continued to be dead. Dulcie laughed and laughed.
At Thanksgiving (oflScially proclaimed by Mr. Lincoln as the fourth Thursday'of November) the family, with Edmund as guest, dined at the New York Hotel.
"Ah don't s'pose, if we wuh in Georgia, we'd be eatin' this well, Jem."
Jem laid a small bone in the bone dish and licked his fingers. "Possibly not, Patsy love. But Mossrose quail are sweeter than these."
"One thing I miss in the North," said Edmund, "is genuine Southern salt-cured ham. What we get here is but a pallid substitute."
"If what you said about salt is true, Edmund, they aren't havin' too much of your favorite ham in the South, either," said Dulcie.
He smiled at her. "Your memory is very accurate, my dear, especially when one recalls how the subject came up."
"Do you visit your home when you go South, Mr. Revanche?" asked Mad.
His eyes kindled briefly. "I lost my home by fire."
"How dreadful!" said Patricia.
"What will you do after the war, sir?" asked Oliver.
Edmund proferred cigars from a gold case, selected one, clipped the end, and lit it. "Politics. In essence I want to build up the country again. Win or lose, the Confederate States will be in need of repair."
Dulcie was thoughtful. Adam had such an idea. It was incredible that two such different men would seize upon the same idealistic notion.
From Thanksgiving until New Year's Day Revanche came almost daily to see Dulcie
or to take her out. When he was lecturing, he liked to have Dulcie with him. He always had Josiah Whinburn along at lectures as well. Dulcie wondered sourly if Edmund wanted to assure himself of a sympathetic audience. She found no redeeming qualities in Josiah, who seemed driven and unsure of himself.
Edmund was famous in expatriate Southern circles, for his oratory was compelling, his fund of heart-wrenching stories bottomless. His ability to wring yet another dollar for the collection was ingenious.
On the way home late one night Dulie said, "Edmund who really gets the money you collect?"
"Why, the South, of course."
"Humbug. Those letters you show are false. I'd bet my teeth on it."
He was amused. "How did such a dishonest notion enter your head?"
"What you say and what you do don't add up. Somehow you are cheatin' people."
"And as a loyal Southerner you are protesting?"
"I want to know what you are up to.*'
"I am concealing nothing. Every penny goes into Confederate funds."
"After your expenses, of course?"
"My dear Dulcie, your late husband's perfidy has made you hard and cynical. With such an unwomanly character developing, how can you hope to attract suitors?"
"Edmund, you always make remarks as if a widow is in a position of beggary or not allowed to think unkind thoughts about men. My . . . late husband had his short-comin's, but he treated me as an equal. I don't like bein* patronized by creatures in britches."
Edmund laughed. "I'll add stubborn and sharp-spoken to your charms."
"You're evadin' the issue.' Josiah pockets part of the collection money. Is that helpin' starvin' Confederates?"
His face darkened. "What will you do about these suspicions? Whisper them about? Or are you asking for your share?"
"If I wanted a share, I'd say so in plain words."
"If my assistant is stealing, I must put a stop to it. The piddling contributions are too small to interest me. I turn them over to Confederate agents. I don't know how the money is spent."
Dulcie stared at him. "If you don't care, why do you lecture? Why go to all this trouble? For you do work hard at it, Edmund."
"I wish to make friends, a great many friends, among Southerners and Yankees alike. There is one error many of our people make, Dulcie, that I shall not. The South will need not only the best of its Southern people after the war, it will require the good will and financing of the North. I shall be in a position to call upon that good will when it is needed."
