Marna

by Norah Hess

  "My father certainly has a preference for blue," Marna remarked, stroking the soft velvet cover.

  "Yes, miss," Mrs. Brown said, smiling. "He explained to me once that it was your mother's favorite color. When he furnished this place, he had her in mind."

  Marna wished that her little mother had known of her husband's gesture. Mrs. Brown directed her attention to a draped-off area.

  "Your toilet table and other necessities are behind here, Miss Marna," she said.

  Marna smiled back at her, having no idea what a toilet table was. When the woman bade her good night and left the room, Marna whipped the blue drapes aside. She gazed in wonder at a small table, its surface covered with bottles of perfume, small pots of cream, and little jars of red and pink ingredients.

  Her gaze went to a corner shelf where big heavy towels were stacked along with bars of scented soap. On a shelf alongside the oval mirror above the table was a china pitcher and matching basin. She smiled sadly, remembering her beloved water pail, battered washbasin, and scrap of broken mirror. Uncapping bottles and sniffing at lovely scents, opening jars and touching the creams inside, she longed for her cold water and fustian towels.

  She gave a tiny sigh. That was all behind her now, and she must work at accepting her new world.

  Filling the basin with warm water from the pitcher, Marna washed her face with the perfumed soap and changed into her homespun gown. In the downy smoothness of the feather bed and the silky feel of the sheets, she fell asleep to the low hum of voices below in the gambling rooms and the rumble of coaches on the cobbled streets.

  The winter days dragged on, each one colder than the last. Matt was as gaunt as Caleb now. Every day they hunted or chopped wood. And though the men kept warm enough, the steady diet of nothing but wild meat was gradually killing them off. Each day there were more sick to tend to.

  Matt frowned at his reflection in the small scrap of mirror as he scraped off a week's growth of whiskers.

  Caleb, watching him from his seat on the hearth, jokingly remarked, "I don't know why you go to the bother of shaving, Matt. You plannin' on runnin' into some good-lookin' woman?"

  Matt grinned. "You never can tell. I sure as hell wish I could. I'm randier than an old goat. How long have I been here, anyway?"

  "Around two months, I think. One of the boys has been _cuttin a notch in a stick every day so's we can keep track of time."

  Caleb started to say something else but was interrupted by a sudden sound coming from a bunk in a corner. He jerked erect and cocked his head to listen. In just a second it came again. A deep chest rattle, sifting eerily through the silence. He was on his feet immediately, rushing to the man's side. The others sat quietly, staring gloomily into the flames. Would one of them be next?

  Matt watched Caleb and marveled at his tenderness in handling the soldier who struggled for a breath of air. He was as gentle as a woman as he supported the man against his chest and shoulder.

  At last the rack of bones gave a shuddering sigh and grew still. Silently laying the body back down, Caleb closed the staring eyes. His eyes were wet as he pulled the ragged blanket up over the shaggy head. He returned to the fire and rasped out, "Dammit, Matt, if we don't get hold of some medicine and proper food pretty soon, we're all gonna die."

  He kicked angrily at a burning log. "I'd give everything I own to have some of old Hertha's herbs and roots. If she was here with that bag of hers, she'd have these men on their feet in no time."

  "Old Hertha," Matt mused with acute lonesomeness. What a fine woman. At one time or the other she must have doctored every man, woman, and child in the hills. He was sorry he hadn't gone to tell her good-bye before rushing off to the war.

  Caleb stood up and stretched. "We'd better get to bed, men. We gotta get up early in the mornin'. Gotta bury our comrade before we leave on the hunt."

  The soldier Jimspoke up. "We barely got them last graves dug, the ground was so hard. We only went three feet as it is."

  "Damn, I forgot about that," Caleb said, scratching his head. He turned to Matt. "What are gonna do with the poor devil?"

  "We could do what the Indians do," Matt answered.

  "What's that?" they all chorused.

  "Wrap him tight in a blanket and put him up in a tree. When the weather warms and the ground thaws out, we can give him a Christian burial."

  Caleb's eyes were skeptical. "I don't know, Matt. It don't hardly seem decent."

  "Why not? The Indians have done it that way all their lives. Anyway, I don't know what else you can do. We can't keep him in here. And if you put him outside, the wolves will get him."

  "I guess you're right," Caleb relented weakly. Moving to his bunk, he said wearily, "Come on men, let's get some sleep."

  The next morning, after sharing their usual fare, they turned to the dead man. Caleb tended to wrapping the body, then turned the rest of the operation over to Matt. Outside, Matt climbed midway up a sturdy cedar, and Caleb and Jim hoisted the body up to him. Wedging it between two heavy limbs, he secured it safely with strips of rawhide.

  Returning to the ground, he brushed the snow off his shoulders and stood with bowed head while Caleb said a short prayer.

  "Just in case none of us get back here in the spring," Caleb said sheepishly as they walked toward the stable.

  The men were gone four days before returning with three large bucks. Bone tired, and eyes red from the glare of the snow, the hunters slept for twelve straight hours. After they awakened and had eaten sparingly of the meat they had brought back from the hunt, Jim informed them that the wood supply was low. "I hate to ask, but if you men feel up to it and don't have anything important planned-" He lets his words trail away, unable to finish his request.

  Caleb glanced over at Matt and remarked cynically, "Did you have somethin' important to do, Matt? Like goin' to the tavern for a few drinks, or maybe visitin' Betsy's place?"

  Matt grinned and reached for his coat. "I sure as hell could stand a night at Betsy's."

  As the weeks dragged on, it seemed to Matt that all he did was chop wood and scrounge the forest for food. In between he helped Caleb with the sick, doing what he could to make them more comfortable. Each day new ones came down, and soon the body in the cedar had been joined by four more.

  One night as Matt sat staring vacantly into the fire, an idea crept into his mind. He was still mulling the thought around when Caleb came stamping in and plopped down beside him.

  "I just came from number ten cabin. Four more sick ones. Seems like every time we come back from a hunt, the sick have doubled." He leaned back on his elbows and said wearily, "Half the camp is down, Matt, and I'm so damn tired I could sleep for a week."

  Matt rose and stood with his back to the fire. "Caleb, I've come to a decision. After I've rested up a bit and caught a few hours' sleep, I'm goin' back to the hills and get some medicine from Hertha. Do you think you could keep the men hangin' on until I get back?"

  Caleb had jerked himself off his spine. "I don't know, Matt. It would take some doin'. It will take you at least two weeks to go there and return."

  "Well, do you have any other ideas? It's plain we're not gonna get any help from the army. Jim's been up to talk to Washington, and he just keeps sayin', `You men gotta hang in there until spring.'"

  Caleb had been jabbing at the fire absentmindedly, his brow furrowed. He straightened then and returned the poker to the hearth. "I been wonderin', Matt, if you could sneak into Philadelphia and see if you could scrounge up some medicine there." Before Matt could answer, he added, "You'd have to be awfully careful. The streets are full of British soldiers."

  Matt began unlacing his moccasins. "I could get around that. I'd just say I was a hunter down from Canada. But I have my doubts about finding an apothecary that would let me have the amount of medicine we need. They'll be wantin' a high price even if I find one that's willin'."

  "I think it's worth a try, Matt. You could always blow out his brains and just take what we need." />
  "I could that." Matt grinned, then asked, "How far do you think it is to Philadelphia?"

  "Not far. Just a couple days' ride."

  Matt stretched his long frame out before the fire. Pillowing his head on his arms, he said, "It's settled, then. I'll leave early in the morning."

  Two months had passed since Marna's arrival in Philadelphia. To her it seemed more like two years.

  Although it was well past noon, she still lay in bed this winter day, lingering over a cup of black coffee. The delicate china cup rattled slightly in its saucer as she set it back on the tray. Untasted eggs and muffins lay cooling on a plate.

  She leaned back in the pillows, rubbing her brow. She had a headache that was blinding. If only she dared ask Grandma for a powder.

  She sighed. It wouldn't be worth the scolding she would receive in exchange for her request. Grandma wasn't happy with her these days. And rightly so, she had to admit. For the fourth evening this week she had drunk too much wine.

  It had been almost daylight when her escort brought her home, and they had laughed too loudly as they made their uncertain way up the steps to the front door. Windows had banged open up and down the street, and she had giggled. The high-nosed bitches would have new stories to tell about her as they sipped their breakfast tea.

  Marna grimaced at the thought and placed her tray on the floor. Stretching down into the covers, she continued to rub her throbbing temples gently. She would never drink wine again, she vowed.

  But staring up at the ceiling, she commented to herself that she had made these vows before, only to break them by the next evening. Bored and lonesome, she would give in to some man's plea that she attend some ball or party with him. Wine would be pressed into her hand, and to defy the sly watching eyes of Philadelphia's best, she would deliberately drink too much. Before the evening was out she would flirt too openly and laugh too loudly.

  In Philadelphia's high society, she was the talk of the city. Everything she did or said was discussed by the scandal carriers. These gossip mongers included the worn-out dowager, the haughty single girl looking for a husband, and even the male members who haunted the Traver's door.

  It had been so since her first appearance in society. At first, bewildered by the gossip and hurt by the cool reception she received from Philadelphia's high society, Marna had withdrawn and refused to go out. But the vicious gossip about her had continued, and after a while she had grown tired to being called a trollop for no reason. She had finally reached the point where she had turned on the great ladies of rank and position. She now went forward to meet her adversaries. Adopting an insolent, patrician bearing, she would sweep into a ballroom or gathering and deliberately lure the men to her side. She was always careful that her escort was high enough up the ladder that he wouldn't be asked to leave on her account. In that endeavor she had no problems. They were always underfoot.

  But her laughing, uncaring manner hid a trembling and uncertainty in her young and unhappy breast. She was so lonely and miserable. Some days she thought she could not bear it.

  Marna sighed and sat up, thinking that it all seemed so long ago. She turned her head to the noise going on next door. Betsy was stirring around in her room. She was surprised to hear her up so early. Betsy's bed had still been bouncing early that morning. And her pa wasn't discreet in his lovemaking, either. His grunts and groans could be heard all over the apartment.

  Hearing these sounds all the time and seeing the contented glow that Betsy's face always wore had turned Marna's thoughts more and more to her one night of love with Matt. She awakened often in the middle of the night, her loins and breasts aching. She yearned with a fierce eagerness to have the ache stroked away by caressing fingers and lips. To have her body flattened by a hard, muscular body bearing down heavier and heavier.

  Lately she had had recurring dreams the intensity of which would remain with her for hours. They would always begin with Matt making love to her. But then, when she reached for that unbelievable crest that Matt had brought her to, another face would hang over her. She would utter a small, distressed sound, wanting Matt back in her arms. But a pair of black eyes would bore into her own, and a husky voice would murmur, "Don't fight me, my lovely."

  Unable to help herself then, she would relax, and a slim, hard body would come down on her.

  Marna stretched herself in the warm glow of remembering. She knew this man who made such wild love to her in her dreams. His name was Aaron Laker, Her father's best and most trusted dealer.

  From the beginning, when she first met the man, she had been drawn to the dark, handsome gambler. Every night he sat quietly at his table, his slim fingers flashing expertly as he dealt the cards. His table was always crowded with beautiful women, their jaded eyes fastened hungrily on his thin, almost melancholy face.

  Marna tried to conceal her interest in the man by scarcely ever looking at him. But one evening as she passed through the doorway of the gambling parlor her trailing gown had caught on a thick splinter sticking out of the wood. She had given an exasperated cry and jerked at it impatiently. The material held, and she bent to unfasten it. But the gambler had quit his table and knelt at her feet, his nimble fingers releasing the dress. When he stood up, his black eyes had caused confusion to sweep over her. She had stammered, "Thank you," and hurried on. But before ascending the stairs to the apartment, she had glanced back in his direction. He stood leaning against "the doorframe, his hooded dark eyes watching her. He caught her glance, and his lips had curled in a sensuous feline smile.

  Since that day, every time she looked his way, his eyes were upon her, probing and undressing her. She had the feeling that he waited patiently for her to come to him some night.

  Marna flipped over on her stomach and gave the pillow a sharp whack. "I wish I weren't so attracted to him," she wailed inwardly. He was the type of man who would be so easy to fall in love with. And she had promised herself never to be so foolish again.

  As Matt closed the door behind him, the other cabins were barely visible in the early gray dawn. The wind coming down from the hills was sharp and cold. He pulled his collar up around his ears as he crunched to the stables.

  Sam stood hunched in a corner, away from the draft coming through the flimsy door. As Matt had predicted, the heavy blanket had been pulled off the animal's neck the very first night. He gave the big rump an affectionate whack and filled a pail with some oats.

  He had scraped the bottom of the feed bin and made a mental note that his first priority on returning was to scout up some hay for Sam.

  The saddle creaked in the frosty silence as Matt swung into it and headed out of the valley.

  The second day out Matt came across a fresh set of wagon tracks, and he followed them. If Caleb's instructions were right, the road should lead him right into Philadelphia.

  On the widely cut trail the stallion was eager to run, and Matt let him have his way. The sooner he arrived in Philadelphia, the sooner he'd get back to the desperately ill men.

  It had been dark a couple of hours when he saw the dim lights of the city. Pulling Sam down to a walk, he approached the outskirts cautiously.

  As Caleb had stated, there were many British soldiers on the streets. Few civilians were about, and those were mostly confined within fancy coaches that rumbled back and forth on the ice-rutted pavement.

  Keeping his eyes straight ahead and his hands firm on the rifle, Matt moved slowly down the main thoroughfare. On each corner a lantern hung from a post, dimly lighting a small area. This, and the scatterings of wavering candlelight from store windows, was the only illumination in the solid blackness. The moon had struggled for a time to peer through the black clouds that raced before the wind but had finally given up. Matt looked up at the sky, and not one star winked back at him. He swore disgustedly under his breath, "More snow comin'." He covered the length of the street without a trace of what he sought. His shoulders drooped dispiritedly as he turned Sam onto a shorter, narrower street. He doubted t
hat he'd find an _apothecary shop in this hellhole of a street.

  He drew Sam in and studied the alleylike street before entering it. Canting and crumbling buildings loomed gray against the black skyline, ominous with their peeling paint and broken windows. Drunken men and women staggered back and forth on the wooden sidewalk, the painted women openly advertising their vocation. As he watched, a man stumbled out of a tavern and was immediately seized by two harpies. While the man stared at them owlishly, they hustled him into a dilapidated building.

  Matt grinned ruefully. The drunk would be pulled down onto a dirty pallet and, after getting little for his money, would be pushed out onto the street again.

  A quick glance told him there was no apothecary on this street. He turned in the saddle and gazed down the street behind him. It appeared that street was better lighted and the buildings more sound. However, from what he could make out, it too consisted mainly of taverns and gambling halls. Loud music and laughter floated out to the street every time a door was swung open. "It won't hurt to try," he muttered, and turned Sam around.

  He was in the middle of the crosswalk when a bright red coach careened around a corner. He jerked the reins, trying to pull the mount out of the way. But one of the large wheels grazed the stallion on the flank and slender leg. He gave a frightened scream and reared straight up. Almost unseated, Matt swore loudly and clutched at the saddle horn. Fighting the animal back to the ground and patting the quivering neck, he stared after the swaying vehicle as it bumped crazily down the street.

  The driver, sitting forward on the high seat, brought the team to a plunging halt in front of a large brick building. Hundreds of candles twinkled from its many windows, proclaiming that only fun and laughter abounded in its confines. As the coach rocked violently upon its springs, Matt jabbed the stallion sharply with his heel. He would have a few words with that crazy driver.

  The man sprang to the ground and stood at the horses' heads, trying to quiet them. Matt was almost upon him when the coach door opened and a familiar figure stepped out. His body went rigid. Jake South! What was he doing here? Was Marna with him?