Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  “It’s lovely,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts, and he looked up into the captivating eyes of Kate Fisher. “Franz Liszt is one of my favorite composers,” she said with a smile.

  “You know of Liszt?” John Henry asked in surprise, quickly standing to offer her a chair.

  “Liszt is from Hungary, like me,” she replied. “You’re surprised I’d recognize fine music? Did you think I was so common?”

  But as she settled herself across the table from him, John Henry couldn’t help thinking that there was nothing at all common about her. Though he’d expected that she would seem somehow coarse here in the elegance of the Planter’s Hotel, an actress only playing the part of a lady, Kate Fisher seemed surprisingly at home, as though she were bred to such places. She seemed, indeed, an altogether different creature from the one he’d tried to rescue on the night of the storm a week before.

  Now, instead of a mane of damp hair and a bedraggled boy’s costume, she wore a gown of wine-colored silk trimmed in wine velvet at the high collar and tightly-fitted cuffs, and fastened modestly from neck to waist with buttons carved with tiny flowers. From her earlobes hung golden earrings that caught the lamp light, swaying and sparkling as she spoke. Her skin was the color of golden honey, her eyes a startling blue beneath dusky brows, her dark hair swept up at the back of her head and balancing a nose as proud as the Roman goddesses he’d read about in school. But if her looks made him think of Latin verses and Greek dramas, her voice was even more intriguing, rich and seductive with a trace of something foreign.

  “It’s the Hungarian,” she explained as they ordered and ate the expensive fare of the Planter’s House dining room: brook trout and oysters, asparagus soup and sweet breads, fancy sugar cakes. “But I’ve lost most of my accent, traveling around on the theater circuit. You pick up a little accent here and a little there, and soon you sound like everyone—or no one, depending on the role.”

  “Fisher doesn’t sound Hungarian to me,” he commented, though he wasn’t sure just what a Hungarian name would sound like.

  “I was born Mary Katharina Haroney. Americans couldn’t pronounce it properly, so I took Fisher as my stage name. A serious actress needs a name people can remember.”

  “And is that what you aim to be, a legitimate theater actress?” He was well aware that the varieties theater was not the same as serious stage acting, though it was wildly more popular.

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted, ever since I was a child in Budapest. The theater was the center of the cultural world there and actors were considered the elite. Not like here. America is so puritanical still. Theater people are scorned in polite society. My own family are Magyars, the ruling class of Hungary before the Austrian invasion. We were the privileged people, my father one of the leading doctors in the city. I grew up visiting the theaters and the art museums, walking through the gardens of the old royal palace . . .”

  “A palace,” John Henry said, imagining the wealth and power of royalty. That accounted for what he’d taken as haughtiness, no doubt.

  “But things changed when the Austrians came. My father decided the American frontier would have better opportunities for him so he bought land up the Mississippi, in Davenport. The city was just being settled then, and booming in spite of the War.”

  “And does he come to visit you here when you’re performing?”

  “He doesn’t know anything of it,” she said quickly. “But why talk about me? Tell me of yourself, Dr. Holliday.”

  The swift change in her caught him off-guard, and he found himself telling her more than he might otherwise have done, recounting his life growing up as the son of a Confederate officer.

  “A little Rebel!” Kate said with a laugh that made her golden earbobs dance in the gaslight. “And what of your mother?”

  His words came out in measured tones. “My mother died when I was just turned fifteen.”

  And again there was a sudden change in her, as though she had dropped her acting mask, and a look of pity—or sympathy—came into her eyes. “I am so very sorry . . .” she said softly, and reached out across the table to lay her hand on his.

  It was such a simple, human gesture, that he almost told her more—about how lonely he’d been when his mother had died, about how his father’s sudden remarriage had shattered his childish faith. But before he could bring himself to speak, the actress in her returned and so did the laugh. Quicksilver she was, mercurial. “And now here we both are, on our own in this wonderful, dirty city! Tell me, what brought you to St. Louis? Did you tire of the fallen South?”

  “I had a classmate in dental school from St. Louis; he invited me to visit him here for the spring. I’ve been helpin’ him in his dental office.”

  “And how do you find St. Louis?”

  “I find it very entertaining,” he said honestly. “Horse races, melodramas, cyclones—women who masquerade as men. I reckon I don’t know when I’ve been so entertained.”

  “And are you being entertained now?” she asked, leaning her chin on her hand and staring at him with dazzling blue eyes. And again her gaze struck him as it had when they first met, like a jolt of something electric that seemed to pass across the table between them.

  “I am indeed, Miss Fisher.”

  He was so entertained, in fact, that the evening seemed to slip away too soon, as they talked and laughed and shared stories of her travels and his life in Philadelphia, of her dreams of fame and fortune, of his plans for a brilliant professional career. And before he was ready for it to end, the evening was over.

  “Well then, Dr. Holliday,” she said, gathering her beaded purse and her gloves, “I do thank you for a most enjoyable supper. I’ll see myself home, if you don’t mind. I’ll be out riding most of the day tomorrow, training with my horse, and I’ll need my rest.”

  It was such a ladylike statement, and so out of character with the taunting way she’d parted with him at their last meeting, that he almost laughed. Instead, he gave a polite bow from waist and said:

  “I hope you’ll do me the honor of allowin’ me to call a cab for you?” Then he offered her his arm as they walked from the dining room to the door of the hotel, looking like as fine a couple as ever graced the Planter’s Hotel.

  He hailed a horse-drawn buggy, paid the driver, and gave instructions on where the lady should be delivered, then stood and watched her ride away. It had all been so proper—polite conversation over a perfectly served supper, the lady dressed like one of society’s best, and himself acting the gentleman at all times. Yet there had been a sense of something between them that went past politeness, and left him feeling unsettled and unsatisfied—and hungry for more.

  He didn’t have to do much sleuthing to discover when she went riding, and where. A tip to the livery man at the Ninth Street stable where she boarded her horse got him all the information he needed, as well as a hired horse for himself. So on the next fine afternoon, he rode out to the empty fields a mile past town where the stable boy said she liked to ride. The place was called Forest Park, a tall stand of trees around a natural spring that watered hundreds of acres of grass. There was talk around town of turning the undeveloped tract into a fancy new neighborhood, but for now it was just empty, rolling countryside perfect for riding.

  He saw her as soon as he came through the tree line, running her horse in the clearing ahead. And though he should have called to her as soon as he dismounted to let her know she was no longer alone, he couldn’t bring himself to break the magic of the moment. For the proper Victorian woman with whom he’d shared supper was gone and the wild gypsy-girl he’d met in the storm had returned. This was no dainty gentlewoman, riding sidesaddle with dainty fingers on the reins. Kate Fisher rode astride like a man, her skirts pulled up to show shapely legs, her strong hands guiding the horse through its paces. And as she rode, she laughed, throwing back her head until her raven hair came loose around her.

  As she finished the exercise, leading her horse to water at the
spring, John Henry stepped out of the shadows and applauded.

  “Bravo, Miss Fisher! A fine show, indeed. And a fine day for a ride, as well.”

  He had thought only fleetingly of what her reaction might be to his sudden appearance at her training session: surprise, perhaps, or even pleasure at seeing him again. But as always, her response was unexpected.

  “Is it?” she asked lightly. “I thought you liked riding in the rain.”

  Her flippant reply put him off for a moment, but having gone to all the trouble to hire a horse and follow her here, he would not be so easily dissuaded.

  “I like watchin’ you ride,” he replied honestly, as he led his horse to the spring beside hers.

  “And where did you get this one?” she said, nodding to his hired horse. “Is he stolen like the last one?” Again the sarcastic tone, but he was equal to it.

  “Unfortunately not. I had to pay good money to hire him for the day. I figured it was worth it, for the show.”

  She raised her dark brows. “And you paid this good money just to come watch me ride?”

  “Actually, I was hopin’ we might ride out together. Borrowin’ Silas’ horse reminded me how much I’ve missed ridin’. I didn’t get the opportunity very often in Philadelphia.”

  “And you think you can keep up with me? Wonder is no hired horse, you know.”

  “And you’re no Tartar Prince,” he said, letting his gaze travel down to her immodestly bared legs. “I’m surprised your audiences ever believe you’re a man.”

  “They know I’m not a man. They don’t come for the prince. It’s the naked lady they want to see. I’m not naked though, the costume just makes me look that way—it’s flesh colored skin tights. But the audience wants to believe that I’ve left my clothes off, so that’s what they see.”

  “Well, I can’t blame them for wantin’ to believe, but it’s a shame that’s all they see. For my own self, I find the equestrienne even more interestin’ than the actress. I never did see a woman ride the way you do.”

  Kate smiled at that, and he had the feeling that he had again passed some sort of unspoken test. She was challenging all right, and not just when she was outrunning him on a horse. Even talking to her seemed like a horse race of sorts, the way she made him jump through hoops.

  “Well?” she said as she slung the reins over her animal’s head and stepped up into the stirrups. “Shall we give that hired nag of yours a try? I’ll give you a run for your money.”

  “I reckon you will, Miss Fisher.”

  She took off like something was on fire again, and it was all John Henry could do to keep up with her. And once again, she had the clear advantage over him. She knew these green fields well—where the hills fell away unexpectedly, where the spring broke through the grass into rivulets that the horses had to take at a jump. But though she could surely have outrun him and lost herself in the trees, she gave him enough slack to let him stay close behind. And when she finally crested a last hill and reined up near the tree line, she was breathless and laughing.

  “You’re not bad, for a horse thief!” she said, taunting him.

  “I told you, I’m no horse thief. But if I had somethin’ worth runnin’ for, I’d make this mount put your Wonder to shame.”

  “Is that so?” she asked as their horses drew close, saddle leather creaking together. Then unexpectedly, she leaned across her saddle, smiled, and kissed him quickly on the lips. “That’s something to run for,” she said, “if you can catch me!”

  And with that she was off again, her dark hair streaming down her back, her riding crop slicing the air as she whipped her horse to a run with John Henry fast after her. There was no slack in her race this time. She ran full-out, as she had that night of the storm. But John Henry wasn’t about to lose to a woman—especially this woman. He leaned down into his horse, one hand on the reins and one slapping at its haunches. And hired mount that it was, it rode well.

  He caught up to her at the far reach of the meadows where the grass gave way to trees again. And maybe it was the way she slid gracefully from her horse and gazed up at him with that gypsy fire in her eyes, or maybe it was just the exhilaration of the race, but before he could even think what he was doing he had swept her into his arms.

  “I am no horse thief . . .” he said, bending his head to hers.

  “Yes, you are a thief,” she whispered as his kisses found her lips, “for you are stealing my heart . . .”

  And though he had never meant for it to happen, the flirtation had become a romance.

  They met together often in the weeks that followed, sometimes riding out in the park, sometimes sharing a late supper after her rehearsals at the theater ended, though Jameson quietly disapproved of the relationship. Seeing a variety show had been daring enough; courting a varieties actress would be scandalous in his close-knit German community. But John Henry wasn’t German and didn’t much care what Jameson’s neighbors might think, for he found Kate Fisher to be good company, more world-wise than her twenty-two years, and full of interesting conversation. Besides, their romance would be fleeting, for come the month of May she’d be leaving on tour with Mazeppa and he’d be heading back home to Georgia—and Mattie. Kate Fisher was, after all, nothing more than a diversion along his way.

  Truth was, he couldn’t afford a long-term romance, with the hotel suppers he had to buy and the horses he had to hire and what was left of his school allowance and his money from Jameson’s office running out fast. So before long he found himself back down at the levee and Hyram Neil’s Alligator Saloon where he was certain to find a Faro game going. It would be a brace game, of course, but he figured he could beat the dealer as he had his first night there, and wager his small savings into something more.

  Hyram Neil had other plans for him, however, as John Henry discovered when he stepped into the saloon and found the gambler holding court at a corner table. As before, Neil was elegant in a snow-white shirt and brocade vest, a gaudy stickpin in his silk tie and even gaudier gold rings on his well-manicured fingers. It was the classic sporting man’s garb, fancy duds that could be put in soak at the pawnbrokers if the gambling ran thin.

  “Ah, the gentleman returns!” Hyram Neil said with a smile. “Back so soon? I thought you made out pretty well last time—long enough to hold you for a while, at least.”

  The voice was sarcastic, though the white-toothed smile looked welcoming enough.

  “I’ve had some expenses lately,” John Henry said with a shrug. “I thought I’d try my hand at pickin’ up a little cash if there’s room at the Faro layout.”

  “There’s always room at Faro, for the dupes. But a gent like yourself shouldn’t waste his time playing children’s games.”

  “So what do you suggest?” John Henry replied warily, though his pride was already rising to the gambler’s challenge.

  “Poker,” Hyram Neil said. “And not penny ante. It’ll take twenty dollars to get into the game tonight. Are you good for it?”

  Again the feeling of wariness came over him. Anteing up twenty dollars would mean dipping into his ticket home money, but he was sure to win that back and more once the game got started. It was only poker, after all, a game he’d been playing for years. So he pushed the wariness away and answered easily, “I’m good for the twenty.”

  And with no more thought of caution, he reached into his money purse and pulled out two gold eagles, dropping them easily onto the green baize of the poker table.

  “And you’re in,” Neil said with that same slick smile. “Gentlemen?” he said to the crowd of rivermen and drunkards who inhabited the place—other than John Henry, hardly gentlemen at all—“shall we begin?”

  And so started the most profitable evening of cards that John Henry had ever played, with a dealer playing for the house and Hyram Neil sitting off to the side, watching with casual interest while he fingered the rings on his bejeweled hands. Jewels won in other profitable games, perhaps, when his own luck was running.

&
nbsp; But luck was against Hyram Neil and his Alligator Saloon on this night, as his dealer gave up winning hand after winning hand to John Henry, the draws bringing him ever better cards. He opened with a small pair that became three of a kind and brought him the first pot, then went on to a straight and then a full house, as the other players wagered and raised, then raised again, bluffing until they had to show or fold, leaving him the winnings. And when he picked up his cards and found the beginnings of a royal straight and only two players besides himself left in the game, he went all in and won the biggest pot of all.

  “Well played!” Hyram Neil said admiringly as John Henry reached out to gather his winnings, enough to wine and dine Kate Fisher and her whole theater company along with her. “It’s a pleasure to watch a man who knows his cards the way you do, driving all the other players out of the game, very nearly breaking the bank.”

  “Nearly?” John Henry said, pausing over the pile of poker chips and coins and looking up at Neil. If he’d nearly broken the bank, how hard would it be to break the bank entirely?

  “We have to keep something back to reinvest, of course. That’s the business, and a good thing you’re out of partners. We couldn’t afford you much longer. But maybe, just this once . . .” He leaned closer, his black eyes glittering in the lamplight.

  “Just this once, what?” John Henry asked warily.

  Neil smiled. “Because you are such a fine player and such a pleasure to watch, not like these stupid rivermen, I believe I’ll sweeten that pot with something of my own and let you keep playing a little longer, going against the house.” Then he pulled off two of his finger rings and dropped them onto the pile of John Henry’s winnings, shining like pirate booty in the lamplight.

  He had no reason to believe the jewels weren’t real, and if they were—he was suddenly facing the possibility of winning more money than he had ever had at one time. Enough money to entertain Kate Fisher for as long as he’d like, and to outfit his own dental office as well. Enough money to be a man of means, independent of his father or anyone else. And all he had to do was play a few more lucky hands of cards. How could he resist such an offer?