Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  The Imperial Hotel was not, in point of fact, imperial in any way. A two-story frame building squeezed in between a row of small businesses on one side and an office building on the other, it was a refuge for those who could not afford to stay in the fine hotels in the center of town, but who were too proud to stay in the shabby rooming houses inhabited by Richmond’s working class. In earlier days, the Imperial had held a more exalted status, having housed in one of its rooms no less a guest than George Washington—a fact that was attested to by a large bronze plaque in the lobby.

  The paint was freshened at regular intervals, and the carpets changed before the floors showed through. However, the tawdry atmosphere of Simon Duvall’s rooms on the second floor kept him grimly aware of his position in Richmond society. He was putting on his second-best coat at ten o’clock in the morning, noting with displeasure that the elbow of one sleeve was noticeably worn. It was a small matter, but he cursed as he pulled it off and threw it with a violent gesture across the room.

  Rose Duvall had been asleep, but the sound of his voice awakened her. Poking her head out from under the covers on the heavy mahogany bed, she peered at her husband owlishly, then asked, “Where are you going?”

  Duvall gave her an angry glance, then yanked another coat from the wardrobe. “To borrow money,” he said shortly. He said no more, and there was a look on his face that brooked no further questions. He pulled the coat on, a fine blue wool model that fit him well. He remembered buying it after a big night at poker. How good it had been, that time! Going into the finest shop in Richmond, picking out the coat, and buying it without even asking the price!

  But there had been no purchases like that lately, and the pinch of hard times had soured Duvall. He adjusted his tie and looked at his image in the mirror critically. He saw a lean, olive-skinned man with a fine head of black hair and a set of piercing dark eyes. He touched his moustache with a hand that was almost delicate—a hand he took pride in, for it had done no hard labor and was obviously the hand of a man of circumstance.

  He picked up his hat, settled it on his head, then donned his overcoat. As he turned to the door, Rose demanded, “Simon, I’ve got to have some money. I don’t have a penny, even to eat on.”

  Fishing in his pocket, he came up with a bill and tossed it to her. “Better make it last,” he said. “If I don’t get a loan, we’ll be out of this place on our ear.”

  “I don’t see why you don’t enlist in the army,” Rose reproached. She was an attractive woman with a full figure, with large brown eyes set off by a beautiful complexion. She had been a dance-hall girl in St. Louis when Simon had met her. He had been intoxicated with her beauty and was still possessive about her, but she was tiresome to him now—especially when she reminded him that he had promised her greater things than a sorry hotel room. Now she gave him a sudden suspicious glance. “You’d better not be going to see some woman!”

  Duvall laughed, for he liked to torment her. “That comes ill from you, Rose, after your fling with Vince Franklin.”

  “I told you there was nothing between us!”

  “Yes, you did—and you always tell the truth, don’t you, sweetheart?” He studied her with a slight contempt, then left the room. Going down the stairs, he felt a twinge of uneasiness lest the clerk should call him and ask him to pay his bill. But the clerk was busy, and his back was turned as he put up mail. Duvall stepped quickly through the lobby, turning to his left. The air was cold, and he scowled. He hated cold weather. But he had no money for a cab, so he walked quickly until he came to his first stop. He entered the red brick building where a friend of his had an office on the third floor. As he went up the stairs, he went over the speech he planned to make, hating himself for becoming a beggar. But he had reached the end of his rope, possessing only his clothes and a few pieces of jewelry. His gambling losses had been high of late, and now he felt a tinge of fear as the thought of a future with no money rose to his mind.

  Pausing before the door of his friend’s business office, he straightened his back, put a confident smile on his face, and entered. But fifteen minutes later when he came out, the smile was gone and his back was no longer straight. Though it was cold, he pulled a fine silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead with a hand that was not quite steady, then left the building quickly.

  Two hours later, at noon, he was going up the stairs to the room of Ellen Rocklin. She answered his knock at once, and her eyes brightened as she saw him. Pulling him into the room, she threw her arms around him, kissing him. He responded as always, with fervor and excitement.

  “Now no more of that—not for now, anyway,” she said, pulling away but with a promise in her eyes. “Sit down. Can I fix you a drink?”

  “Have one with me, Ellen.” He took off his coat and hat, tossing them over a chair, then took a seat. He watched her as she poured two drinks, thinking of how he’d come to need her. They had become lovers weeks ago, and though she was no longer young, there was a hunger in her that he had never found in another woman.

  Duvall, however, was a realist. He well knew that his relationship with Ellen was only physical. She would cast him off in a flash if she found another man who pleased her better—and he would do the same with her if circumstances required it. As he took the drink she offered him, he grasped her hand and kissed it, bringing a pleased look into her eyes. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he said, glad that he could stir her with so little effort.

  Ellen laughed, saying, “You must want something, Simon, coming around at noon telling me how beautiful I am.” She sat down, sipping her drink and waiting for him to speak.

  “I always want something when I come to you,” Duvall said with a smile. He continued to flatter her, and she sat back, enjoying it. She had to have the admiration of men, and Duvall was somewhat of an aristocrat, though not much of one. Yet he knew how to say the right things, and even more important, he was discreet. No matter what else she might do, Ellen would never let her standing as Mrs. Clay Rocklin be endangered.

  She did not love Clay, and she was sure that her husband had never loved her—that he was, in fact, in love with Melora Yancy—but the life she led was easy enough. She kept her rooms in Richmond, and she was welcome in many homes due to her marriage into the Rocklin family. From time to time she would go to Gracefield, the family plantation, where she would play the role of wife and mother—fooling nobody at all but fulfilling what she saw as her role.

  Finally she said, “Let’s go have lunch, Simon.”

  Hesitating, he looked confused. Finally he gave a rueful laugh. “Nothing I’d like better, Ellen, but—I’ve had a bad run of cards.”

  “Broke? Well, this will be on me.” She smiled, then got up and went over to the vanity, where she began arranging her hair carefully. “Let’s go to Elliot’s.”

  “Elliot’s? That’s pretty expensive.”

  “Just about good enough for us.” She laughed. There was an excitement in her that Duvall didn’t understand. He felt he knew her well by now and sensed that something was stirring in her. “You have a rich uncle die and leave you a million?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Not quite, but—” She broke off, casting a look at him over her shoulder.

  He waited, but she merely shrugged and turned back to the mirror. When he pressed her, she refused to say more—but when they were ready to leave, she kissed him and, stroking his hair, said, “I’m going to buy you a new suit, Simon—a fine one!”

  He looked at her, then smiled. “You’re different today, Ellen. Something’s going on in that head of yours. What is it?”

  She shook her head, saying, “Let’s go eat. But don’t let me drink too much. You might get my secret out of me!”

  They left, and all through the meal and afterward at her rooms, Duvall said nothing more about it. However, a new anticipation was rising in him.

  She’s up to something, he thought. Something big! I’ll have to be careful—but I’ll find out what she’s
onto. If I play my cards right, I can get enough to turn things around.

  He stayed with her most of the day, and when he got back to his hotel, he found Rose waiting for him. “Well, did you get the loan?” she demanded.

  He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket, enjoying the surprise that came to her eyes. “Not exactly,” he admitted, “but things are going to be better. I’m onto something big this time, and I have a feeling it’s going to change everything!”

  CHAPTER 15

  RACHEL’S PUPIL

  All right … hold as still as you can, please ….”

  A brilliant light exploded from the elongated pan the photographer held in his left hand, blinding the eyes of the house of Rocklin.

  As a mutter of dismay went around, Raimey suddenly giggled, saying, “It didn’t bother me a bit.”

  Dent grinned and hugged her, for he had learned that she was not at all sensitive about her handicap. “Come on, let’s go see if there’s anything left to eat.”

  The photographer, a thin man named Allen with highly nervous mannerisms, had come to take his pictures at noon, rousting them all away from the table, saying, “We have to get the best light, and with all this snow as a reflector, now is an excellent time.” They had risen from the table and followed him outside, where they arranged chairs on a porch that caught the full power of the midday sun. Dent and Clay had picked up Amy’s chair and carried her outside, where the older Rocklins joined her sitting in chairs. There was a shuffle when the others were grouped around them, with Amy giving instructions: “Clay, you and Ellen get closer together! And you children, move in closer to them!” She watched as Dent, holding fast to Raimey, was joined by his twin, David; then Lowell and Rena moved in beside them.

  “Now,” Amy said, “Marianne, you and Claude sit down here with me. Paul and Austin and Marie, stand beside them—get all the Bristols together. Yes, that’s nice.”

  Brad smiled as he came to sit down beside his wife, and she patted his arm, saying, “Now, Grant, you stand there, and, Les, you stand next to him.” She waited until they pleased her, then said, “All right, Rachel, you and Vince get beside them.” When the pair obeyed, she turned and faced the photographer, saying firmly, “Very well, sir, here are your subjects. Now do your job!”

  Allen had fussed with his equipment briefly, then had taken several pictures. When the whole group was captured on his plates, Amy said, “Now get a picture of each family.”

  “Amy, I’m almost frozen!” Ellen said. She had come only that morning, unannounced and unexpected, and had complained of the weather ever since.

  Amy gave her a brief glance. “You can be first,” she said evenly. She sat there and watched, fascinated by the processes, pestering Allen with questions until it was time for her own family to be photographed. Then the photographer said with some asperity, “You’ll have to stop talking now, Mrs. Franklin. Your lips must be absolutely still.”

  “I think he’s telling you to shut up, my dear,” Brad said with a straight face and a teasing look in his blue eyes. He winked at Allen, who at once disappeared under the black cloth that draped him and the camera, then presently surfaced crying, “Hold still, please!” The powder exploded, and then he drew a sigh of relief. “Is that all, Mrs. Franklin?”

  “No. I want pictures of all the servants. They’re waiting, as you can see.” She motioned to a large group of the slaves, who were drawn up all dressed in their best, adding, “See you do a good job of them.” Then she said, “Let’s get inside. My nose is frozen.”

  The group retired, leaving the poor photographer to deal with his new subjects. When the family was inside, Dent and Clay set Amy down carefully in the dining room. Melora came in from the kitchen, asking, “All through? I took the food off so I could reheat it.”

  She turned to go, but Clay said quickly, “Melora, I promised your brother Bob I’d have a picture made of you. Come along and I’ll have the photographer take yours before he gets started on the servants.”

  Melora hesitated, obviously reluctant, then said, “Let me get my coat.” Clay walked from the room with her, and a small, awkward silence fell on the room.

  Ellen glared after the pair, then burst out, “I thought this was a family affair. What’s she doing here?”

  Amy said instantly, “I asked her to come when I broke my leg, Ellen. I needed help, and you weren’t here.”

  It was a cutting reply, a sharper one than Brad had ever heard his wife give to anyone. But he understood how close Amy had gotten to Melora, and he knew better than anyone else how she resented Ellen’s treatment of Clay. He tried to think of something to say to take the sudden chill out of the air, but could not.

  Ellen sat there, her face flushed with anger, well aware that she dared not lash out at Amy. She had never been close to any of the family, and though that had been her own choice, she resented the bond the others shared. She glanced at her children—Dent, David, Lowell, and Rena—and saw only embarrassment on their faces. It had been years since they had shared much with their mother, and she knew that they all were ashamed of her. She had tried to keep her affairs with men a secret, but in a society as intimate as the one in which she moved, that was impossible. Now, seeing the shame on their faces, she suddenly wished that she had lived a different sort of life. But it was too late, and she could only bite her lip, determining that if she could not strike out at these people, she certainly could do so at Clay!

  And she did exactly that the first time she was alone with him. She sought him in his room, lashing out at him as she came in, “Well, did you and your lover have a good time, Clay?” Her face was stiff with anger as she stood there in the middle of the room, cursing him and watching his face. She was hoping that he would show anger, even that he would strike her, for that would show that she still had the power to stir him. But Clay said nothing as he stood there waiting, his face impassive.

  When she finally ran out of words, he said, “Ellen, you know better than that. I’ve had nothing to do with Melora in that way—ever! She’s a fine woman and would not do such a thing.”

  “Oh, she’s a saint, is that it?” Ellen’s words jabbed at him like knives, and she was infuriated even more because she knew that what Clay said was true. She herself had no more morality than an alley cat, but she somehow sensed that there was a goodness in Melora Yancy—a goodness she herself lacked—and this made her frantic with rage.

  Clay stood there studying his wife as if she were an unusual specimen of animal. She had been a beautiful girl when he had married her, and though she had tricked him into marriage, he had tried for years to love her. Unfortunately, she had done all she could to prevent that.

  Now he sighed and broke into her tirade. “Ellen, you’re making a fool of yourself. Now leave it alone. Let’s try to keep at least the appearance of a marriage, for the sake of the children.”

  “Clay, I’ll never divorce you!”

  “I know that, Ellen. It doesn’t matter. Melora would never marry a divorced man.” He hesitated, then added, “I can’t say for certain, but I believe Melora is going to be married.”

  “Married?” Ellen asked, startled. “To whom?”

  “That isn’t for me to say, but whether she gets married or not, I want no more of your outbursts in front of my family—especially in front of the children.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do, Clay!”

  He gave her a considered glance, then said quietly, “I can cut off the money you live on, Ellen. I ought to do it anyway. Do you think I don’t know the way you live? The men you run around with?” Anger began to burn in him, and he fought it down. “Do you think I don’t know about you and Simon Duvall?”

  “You can’t prove anything!”

  “Can’t I? You’ve been seen in public with him more than once. I might just call him out. He might not find it so easy to deal with me as he did with poor Vince!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Ellen gasped. She knew that Clay was deadly with a wea
pon, that he could probably kill Duvall. Then she was suddenly struck with a frightening thought: If Simon killed Clay, the Rocklins would throw me out! It was more than a guess, for she knew that Clay’s father was disgusted with her and had said that if it was his decision, he’d lock Clay’s wife up at home and cut her off without a penny!

  The thought of such a thing brought a stab of fear, and she quickly lost her nerve. “Why, Clay,” she said in a milder tone than she had been using. “I guess I’m just afraid of losing you.”

  “You lost me a long time ago, Ellen,” he said quietly. “But we can at least try not to bring pain to others with the mess we’ve made of our own lives. Now go back to the others and try to act decently.”

  Ellen glared at him but left his room. Downstairs, she entered the large parlor and saw Jake standing at the window, staring out. Going to stand beside him, she whispered, “Hello, Vince.” His expression of distaste amused her, and she added, “Thinking about all the coin we’re going to get out of the real Vince?” She laughed at the anger that leaped into his eyes, saying, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you—at least, not if you’re good to me.”

  Clay waited for half an hour after Ellen left, then left the house and walked through the snow. The sunlight striking the crystals sent off flashes that made him blink his eyes, but soon he grew accustomed to it. The scene with Ellen had depressed him, and he walked for nearly an hour, slowly letting the bitterness that she had stirred in him fade. He loved the snow, and he paused once to make a snowball, throwing it with all his force toward a rabbit that dashed frantically away. Clay grinned at the sight and said softly, “Run, you son of a gun! Wish I could run away from my problems as easily as you run away from yours!”

  Finally he turned back, taking an old path that led to the brook north of the house. The field was smooth as a carpet, and he enjoyed leaving his tracks, marring the flawless surface. The brook was lined with large trees, all bare now. As he walked along the bank, a movement caught his eye. He stopped and was surprised to see Melora walking toward him. Her head was down, and she seemed unaware of his presence.