by Day Taylor
"And that does not make you feel disloyal?"
He frowned at her. "Of course not! It is for the South I will make use of their influence and their money."
Dulcie fell silent. He seemed to make good sense, but still there was something terribly calculating in Edmund.
She looked up to see him smiling at her, his eyes warm and admiring. "You^re a beautiful decoration to any man whose arm you hold, Dulcie. Especially now that you have left off wearing that ludicrous black armband."
"Why do you bring that up again and again? I believe you mention it more than I do. You teU me to forget, and then you remind me."
Edmund's voice was cold. "Forget and forgive. I no longer believe you can or should do either. How can you, when he deceived you so cruelly, deserted you for a skinny little nigger wench—"
"Skinny? How do you know if she was skinny, Edmund? Is there more you haven't told me? Were you—there— when he was—^killed?"
"Rumor has a long tongue. For all I know, she was quite plump. What is the difference? She remains a nigger, fat or thin.'*
"Possibly, but what is the purpose in mentionin' Adam?"
"Must I have a purpose for everythmg? Very well, I have one. I am merely pointing out that love, so called, is a useless commodity. Having similar goals is a far more valid reason for marrying."
"I don't believe I need such instruction."
"I think you do. You will marry again. Women like you need that relationship."
"Oh, you are infuriatin'! Puttin' me in a box labeled Vife.' Why not label me 'broom'? I sweep. Or ... or washboard? I scrub."
"I am happy you find me infuriating. Not long ago you claimed indifference. I am making admirable progress."
"Take me home. I have had enough of your egotism."
"As you wish, my dear." They drove on in silence, Dulcie annoyed, Edmund smugly satisfied.
At Oliver's home Edmund helped Dulcie down from the carriage. Before she knew it, he had embraced her, his lips pressed against hers, softly, then compelling. After an instant's startlement, Dulcie found herself responding. It was so long since she had been kissed.
Yet, why should she be unsettled because a man had kissed her? Compared to the greater liberties she had endured, a kiss was^—should be—^nothing. She was a free woman, out in society to have a good time, and if a man's idea of a good time included a kiss, why not?*
She knew why not. Never again woiild she be subservient in love, yielding to the man's need while denying her own. Justin had taken her—no, made her beg him, for what she didn't want. What Edmund felt she didn't know, but what she felt for him was not love. In Edmund's kiss there was no fire, just a vague reminder of what once was. One man had fed her fires with his own, counting her desires and their fulfillment as important as his—but that man had never belonged totally to her and had died unfaithful after abandoning her.
Edmund said she needed marriage. He was wrong. She would never marry again, never lie with another man. She was done with all that.
She did not see or hear of Edmund for several days. Her family never mentioned him. Aunt Mad had a gala party on the Saturday before Christmas, mviting several young people. As Dulcie's table partner she chose Oliver's
assistant, Parley Tobin. Oliver, beaming, introduced him as a very bright young gentleman, rising fast.
Parley was soft-spoken, a loyal admirer of Oliver. "That man is my ideal, Mrs. Tremain," Parley confessed. "He has taught me so much. He can attend to several things at once, yet remain perfectly calm and efficient."
Dulcie giggled. "You should have seen him dealin' with a bandit while we were in France. He was so calm, he even snored!"
Parley's pleasant face fell. "Surely you are joking. A gentleman would not . . . you must be teasing!"
"Yes, I'm teasin'. Uncle Oliver is a bulwark, a man without fear."
Suddenly Dulcie realized why she was attracted to Parley. His gentle manner reminded her of Beau, sure of himself yet having that endearing vulnerability that tore at the heartstrings. "Call me Dulcie? I'd like that."
He blushed, glancing at Oliver, far down the table from him. "I—I'd like to—Dulcie—it's a beautiful name."
They smiled at each other. After a moment Parley said, "I don't want to seem forward, D-Dulcie, but your uncle tells me you're out of mourning now—"
Dulcie smiled. "Yes. I am."
"And I wonder if you'd enjoy seeing a minstrel show? Next Wednesday night? The Bijou Theater is specially presenting Christmas on the Old Plantation. Since you're from Savannah-^"
"Oh, yes! They're such fun!"
Later, when they grouped around Mad's grand piano to sing, Dulcie kept seeking Parley's smiling eyes. She never caught him looking elsewhere but at herself. And Oliver, watching, beamed.
Parley was the last one to say good night. When they were alone in the parlor, with the gaslights low and the coals burning rose-gray in the grate, he said, "I won't embarrass you by lingering, Dulcie. But—I just want you to know—^you're the most beautiful woman I ever met, and the sweetest, and I—"
Dulcie looked at him raptly, her eyes wide, her lips parted. She guessed his next words and was disappointed when he did not say them. Once, a lifetime ago, she would have asked him coquettishly. Now the hunger for endearments drove her beyond coquetry. She whispered, "Go on ..."
"Dulcie—forgive me. I've been forward."
Dulcie said lightly, "You may kiss me if you'd like."
His blushes left, and his face became pale. "I wouldn't dream—" But Dulcie continued to look at him with a half-smile, her eyes soft. Parley gingerly touched her arms, gently found her lips with his. His mouth was warm; his breath smelled not unpleasantly of the spirituous punch that had been the good-night toast. He was moustached, clean, and attractive, with Beau's apparent unworldliness.
Dulcie put her arms around Parley's neck. She wanted this gentle man to kiss her out of her mind, make her forget the man she could never forget, wanted him to be tender and harsh with her at the same time, take her, touch her, use her, make her fall in love with him.
But Parley Tobin, assistant to Uncle Oliver, had better sense than she. He wanted what she did—it had been in his eyes all evening—but he was aware of his position. Parley's kiss was tender, yearning—and brief.
"Dulcie—I'm sorry," he gasped, holding her away from him. "I forgot myself. I won't do it again. Will I see you Wednesday night? I wouldn't blame you if you—"
She said softly, "I'll be ready at seven."
After he had gone, she tried not to think of herself as the fool she must be for throwing herself at the first appealing man she met. What must he think of her? Bold? Brassy?
He liked me, she argued with herself. And I liked him. I want to see him again. I want to have a good time with him.
Mondays and Tuesdays she worked at the soup kitchen. Wednesdays she joined Patricia and Mad at their sewing circle. Loyal Southern women did these things, but Dulcie's heart wasn't in them. After the war, whoever won, what would there be in the South for her? She loved her nation, but how could a widow work to restore its crumpled grandeur? A woman alone was suspect. A lady was expected to live in the shadow of a husband, or of a father. A lady was not supposed to earn her living or be independent Only men had that option.
Well, she'd manage it somehow. She'd start learning about business as soon as she could. When her opportunity came to be of real help to the South, she'd recognize it. She would be ready.
The minstrel show was enjoyable; the evening with
Parley was not. Dukie had not forgotten how to coquette, but now it seemed silly and pointless to pretend lack of interest or to wait months before he dared kiss the back of her hand. She kept wanting to move their relationship along faster.
After the show they talked of the war over hot mince pie and coffee at Delmonico's. "What are your chances of being drafted now, Parley?"
"Oh, none at all. I never wanted to serve in the first place. When my call came, I simply
went down and paid for a substitute. Let someone else fight this war. I don't believe in it."
Dulcie said carefully, "What don't you believe in?"
"Any of it. I don't believe the Rebels had to secede. The North would have compromised. And it's silly for a slave owner to say he has to have a hundred niggers to pick his cotton. If they weren't so lazy, they could get along with fewer."
"Have you ever seen cotton fields. Parley?"
"No, but—"
"Cotton raising is hard, backbreaking work. It's not a matter of droppin' a seed on the ground and pickin' a boxful of handkerchiefs off the bush a few months later. The plants must be cared for. The little cotton bolls, about this big, must be picked, one or two at a time, by hand from mid-summer until after New Year's. The best pickers can pick three hundred pounds a day. That's a bale if it's not compressed. That's thousands of times bendin' and stoopin'. It's at least as hard as factory work."
"I take your point." He smiled. "But if the Rebs would use modern methods, this idiotic war would never have started."
"And if the North had been fair with the South, instead of tryin' to impose Northern methods on a country that's entirely different, we wouldn't have had to secede."
"It's all the same country, Dulcie."
"But it isn't. We don't have snow and ice, we have a constant growin' season, and we're a hundred years later in developin' our section than you are yours. When North-em lawmakers try to legislate the way we shall live in our section, we don't like it very well."
"I—^you're taking this personally, Dulcie, and you needn't. It's the whole South, not yourself, that I'm angry about."
"Well, it's my nation that's bein' torn up because yours butted in. If I take it personally, it's because I love my nation."
His fingertips touched the back of her hand lightly. "Don't let's argue, please? We're each entitled to our own opinions."
"I took that for granted." '
He smiled at her, his blue eyes sparkling. "For a lady, Dulcie, you're a mighty independent person."
"My—my late husband taught me I was the equal of any man. And someday I'll prove it."
"For what purpose? As a wife you won't be needing any—any such manly ambitions."
Dulcie looked at him stonily. She had thought him more broad-minded, but he was ordinary, respectable, unimaginative. "You think just like every other man I've met but one. The little woman's place is in the home—and she's to keep her mouth closed even there." She grinned. "So much for educatin' the female."
"There are so many things we agree on, I feel sure."
Dulcie continued to smile. "Yes, many.".
"I-I thought Mr. Bones was very amusing, didn't you?"
"Shuffles was my favorite. He reminded me of 'Simmon, a little old man I knew."
"Is it true that Southerners consider their darkies family?"
"Some of them. Wouldn't you if your servants lived in the house with you and served you all their lives?"
"I-I never could. I was reared to feel that servants were servants. All ours were white. Father wouldn't let a darkie on the place. The freed ones are totally worthless. They don't know how to work, and they don't want to learn."
Dulcie smiled faintly but said nothing. The gulf between herself and Parley was uncrossable.
On Christmas Eve Edmund came calling. Behind him, staggering under a load of gaily wrapped packages, was Josiah, his gaze sliding away from Dulcie's as she greeted him. It's almost as if he's ashamed, she thought. She smiled warmly, wanting him to feel happy.
"Dulcie, my dear, you are more beautiful than I had remembered," said Edmund, taking her hand and admir-
ing her gown of green silk. "I hoped, in my absence, you'd grow pale and poetically wan."
Dulcie laughed. "Did you expect me to pine away for you, Edmund?" She eyed the gaily wrapped packages. "Are these for me? Shall I beware of Greeks bearing gifts?"
"Perhaps not Greeks, but of gentlemen of French extraction."
The evening passed gaily, with friends dropping in to bring gifts of fruitcake and homemade dainties, staying to visit and accept a highball, or, if they were ladies, a glass of blackberry cordial. At times the discussion got lively, as when Jem, the rabid Southerner, met an equally rabid Northerner head on.
It was long after midnight when Dulcie and Edmund were left alone. Dulcie sat daintily on a chair, weary to the bone, wishing she could sprawl with her knees apart and her hands hanging down. Edmund stalked around, still excited from the evening, smoking his cigar. His eyes sparkled. "I've brought you a small gift, a token of my esteem. I'd like you to open it now."
"I have nothin' for you, I'm sorry to say. I really didn't expect to see you again. You haven't been here for some time."
"Did you miss me?"
She grinned, playfully slapping at his hand. "Don*t be so in love with yourself, Edmund. I hardly knew you were away."
"Sometimes, my dear Dulcie, you are so insouciant I could shake you."
"Violence will get you nowhere," she said lightly. "I grew up fist-fightin' with all my best friends. The knack stays with—"
"Open the package, and tell me if I must return it."
Dulcie slid the bow off the gold-foil-wrapped box. Inside a satin case, nestled on a white velvet cloth, was a bib necklace of teardrop emeralds, each surrounded by small diamonds. There were earbobs to match. Dulcie stared at the lavish display, her heart thudding.
"Put them on, so we can see if they become you."
"I-I can't. They're too expensive. I don't want them."
"Poppycock. Most women would leap at the chance."
She had been holding the box in her hands; now it seemed heavy, and she rested it on her lap. "You're . . . trying to buy me."
"Is the price insufficient? You haven't heard my terms yet."
Dulcie closed the box and held it out to him. When he did not offer to take it, she put it on the floor. "I don't want your jewelry or your terms. Just—^just take them back."
He sat across from her, watching her keenly, enjoying her distress and bewilderment He smiled lazily. "It's an honorable offer. I'd advise you to take it."
Dulcie glanced at the box. "It can't be."
He withdrew a smaller case from his pocket, snapped it open, and held it out to her. An emerald and diamond ring glittered there, beside a wide gold wedding band. "Are you convinced of my intentions now?"
Dulcie felt hypnotized, as though the glittering rings were swaying in front of her. She blinked and looked elsewhere, her head light.
He smiled. "After this war is finished, there will be opportunities to make staggering amounts of money in the South. Perfectly honest money."
"What has that to do with . . . those?" She gestured.
"Patience, my dear, I shair explain. Railroads are going to have to be rebuilt. New lines will be established. Now, someone will have to furnish materials. There will be plantations upon which taxes are overdue. I propose to pay those taxes and make the owner a decent offer. The South is going to change, become more industrialized like the North. Many Yankees will go South to make their permanent homes. I will have lumberyards and sawmills, and laborers who will be grateful to get work at my wages. I'll be rebuilding the South. No> Dulcie, I'll be leading it. Perhaps as governor."
"Buyin' low, sellin' high, and takin' advantage of people's ignorance."
Edmund shrugged. "Ignorant people have always been taken advantage of. But I am kinder than most and will offer a better bargain."
"You don't need a wife for that."
"But I do. A Southern woman, one who is so strikingly beautiful that men won't suspect her intelligence. One who is clever enough to listen, to feign ignorance while obtaining information to further our aims. Once established, I will go into politics, where your talents as hostess and private informer will benefit us handsomely."
"You do mean a legal marriage?"
"Of course."
"But still a . . . business arrangement."
&n
bsp; Edmund lit a fresh cigar. "I think you have made it abundantly clear you want no more than that. So I shall abide by your restrictions. If you choose to cling to your romantic ghost, I'll accept that."
"But why? Why should you want a wife under those circumstances? You know I don't love you—I never could."
"I don't need a bedmate if that's what concerns you. I ... am not that way inclined toward women." His eyes seemed veiled by the hooded lids.
Dulcie's mind whirled. "Edmund, I could never consider such a ... a thing."
"Don't be hasty, Dulcie. I am offering you exactly what you want. A home, jewelry, an opulent life, no husbandly demands. All I ask in return is that you use your excellent mind of which you are so proud. I want you to look beautiful for me. I want you to help me in rebuilding the South, creating an empire of our own. And I do not ask that you give up your memories of Adam Tremain, although I think them foolish."
"I couldn't. It's so . . . calculatin'.'*
"It is honest. Our desires are well matched, our goals similar. We needn't pretend to love to have a fulfilling life."
"I can't believe that you would want such an arrangement or be long satisfied with it."
Edmund sighed, his patience deliberate and forced. "I have told you I have . . . select tastes in women. I don't believe you wish me to be more explicit. I have also an abhorrence of children. I would never permit my wife to have a child. If that does not assure you, my dear, I don't know of anything that would. For yourself, you would have complete freedom, so long as you did not interfere with my plans or my need of your services as hostess and helpmeet. And so long as you are discreet, a lover would pass my eyes unnoticed."
Dulcie swallowed. "Never permit a child." Edmund's first wife, dead, leaving no children. How had she died? Trying to rid herself of Edmund's child? Or of another man's child? Dulcie blinked. "I would be your employee. In public I would be your devoted wife—but with separate bedrooms? I would be helpin' you make yourself wealthy—'*
