The Flame

by Jane Toombs

  Horrified, Mary cried, “No, you mustn't!” and tried to free herself. “I can't go in there. I'm a servant. I'm not dressed right. I don't even have shoes on."

  "You're lovelier than any of those begowned and bejewelled women inside,” Philippe told her, still pulling her with him, despite her struggles. “On the stoke of midnight your nondescript dress will be transformed into a magnificent gown, your dainty feet will be encased in the smallest slippers to be found in all the state of Alabama, and diamonds will appear to crown your magnificent black hair."

  "No, no, no. None of that will happen. I'll get into trouble."

  "Wait, you'll see. Philippe Manigault is seldom mistaken when it comes to matters of this sort. He may lose at cards, be outshot by duelists, be beaten and robbed by thugs, but—"

  He stopped so abruptly that Mary was jolted into his back. Looking around Philippe, she saw one of the Randolph twins standing in the doorway with his arms folded.

  "If you would be so kind as to stand aside, sir,” Philippe said, “I've asked this young lady to dance."

  "She can't come into the house,” young Randolph said.

  Was it Micah or Esau? Mary couldn't be sure, but she thought it might be Micah.

  "Not even at the invitation of your father's houseguest?"

  Micah, if that's who it was, looked from Philippe to Mary, his gaze lingering on her, his full lips twisting into a smile as his gazed roved up and down her slim body. She stared back at him, unflinching, and wondered how Dillie could stand to lie with him.

  "No, sir,” Micah said, “she may not come in. Not only is she a hired servant in Cyrus Jarvis’ employ, she ain't as white as she looks. If you were a Manigault from Charleston, you'd never presume to bring her inside, much less dance with her."

  Philippe drew himself up. “Are you questioning my veracity as to my antecedents? After all, sir, I might question yours with quite disastrous results."

  "No, sir, I ain't. I'm stating a fact."

  As the two men glared at each other, Mary expected the charged air to kindle, but no, Philippe looked away.

  "As you wish,” he said. “This house, after all, is your father's."

  Mary, relieved yet disappointed, scowled at Micah as his gaze lingered on her for a moment before he nodded and went inside, shutting the door behind him.

  "The man's a boor,” Philippe said. “It's unfortunate and unexplainable that the good Lord saw fit to create him in duplicate.” He sighed. “You don't doubt me, do you, Mary?"

  Despite his bantering tone, she realized he was serious. Suddenly she felt much older than Philippe, as though he was a child who needed her to reassure him.

  "No,” she said firmly. “I don't doubt you."

  She spoke the truth. Although she hadn't followed much of what he'd said, and though his frivolous manner made her suspect many of his statements were nothing more than flights of fancy, she believed him. She believed in him.

  "Shall we dance?” Philippe asked.

  She nodded, came into his arms, and he whirled her around the verandah, dipping and gliding to the rise and fall of the music. Mary, her head back, closed her eyes, forgetting everything except the gay whirl of the dance. All too soon the music stopped. Philippe released her, he bowed and she curtsied to him.

  Hearing clapping, she started, turning to see the tall stranger watching them from the shadows.

  "It's time we were saying our good-byes,” he told Philippe, stepping into the light. The brown of his eyes, Mary noticed, was interspersed with strange wedges of yellow. She stared up at him, mesmerized all over again.

  "This always happens,” Philippe complained, glancing from Mary to his companion. “It's my fate to discover lovely women and have you snatch them away without raising your hand."

  "We'll be late getting back to the Longstreets’ as it is,” the stranger said. He looked at Mary, seeming to really see her for the first time, and his eyebrows raised slightly as he took in her well-worn dress and bare feet.

  "This is Mary Vere, a princess in disguise,” Philippe said. “At midnight, I'd intended to turn her pumpkin into a coach-and-four.” His voice sounded dispirited, as though his friend's appearance had been a barb of reality that punctured his balloon of fancy and caused it to fall to earth in a limp heap.

  "My heartfelt apologies,” Philippe said to Mary. “Duty calls, and I must answer. The demands of the world are too much with us, I'm afraid."

  Mary didn't take her gaze from his friend. “You have the advantage,” she summoned the courage to say.

  "Bravo,” Philippe said. “You learn quickly."

  "Jeremy Johnston,” the stranger said. With a nod, he swung about and made for the house.

  Philippe followed, glancing back over his shoulder at Mary. In the open doorway, he turned, swept off an imaginary hat and bowed, saying, “Au revoir. You see, I saved Jeremy's life once many years ago, so now he's beholden to me."

  The door closed behind him, leaving Mary alone. Not only was she alone, she felt alone, more so than she ever remembered feeling before, as a street seems especially empty after a parade has passed by.

  She ran from the verandah into the night, ignoring the music from the Randolph house. There was no sign of Dillie in the shadows and, uncertain, she paused by the first of the slave cabins, wondering whether to seek out her friend. After a moment she turned away, aware she didn't want to share what had happened with anyone. As she walked rapidly toward the road to Jarvis', she savored her meeting with Philippe Manigault and Jeremy Johnston, repeating every word she could remember to herself so she wouldn't forget them.

  The sound of low voices roused her from her reverie. Looking around, she saw the glow of a cigar where a group of coachmen stood talking near the stables. She recognized the high-pitched voice of Caesar, the Longstreets’ slave, recounting an involved tale of an overnight journey to Montgomery.

  Mary hastened away from the shed-like stable buildings, skirted the empty carriages, and reached the road leading home. Ahead of her she heard a horse, the thrum of its hooves receding into the night. Suddenly she stopped. Was it midnight? Near it, certainly. At midnight, Philippe had said, a pumpkin would turn into a coach-and-four. Retracing her steps, she approached the carriages until their silhouettes were high and dark against the lights of the house. Not that one, nor this. Yes, here, this was the carriage that had brought the two strangers here and would soon return them to the Longstreets’ home.

  Going to the rear of the carriage, Mary ran her hands along the side of the boot. Careful to make no noise, she climbed onto a spoke of the wheel, lifted the cover and felt inside. The boot was empty. Hope surged through her, and she smiled. Caesar hadn't yet harnessed the horses so she had time if she hurried.

  This was her chance, she told herself, perhaps her only chance. She'd seen too many other servants and slave girls become big with child, and watched as they married, or not, into a life of drudgery in either case. That wasn't for her. Not for Mary Vere. She wasn't meant to be a servant for the rest of her life. The world beckoned to her. Somewhere in that world she would find her father.

  Mary hurried down the road away from the Randolph house, heedless of the noise she made as she ran, not caring whether or not she was seen. She passed no one. Panting as she ran into the Jarvis yard, she looked up at the three-story house looming darkly over her, a weak light shining through two of the rear windows. She was sure no one had yet returned from the ball.

  Still hurrying, though careful not to disturb any of the house slaves who might be asleep in the west wing, she entered the house through the back door, made her way to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. At the foot of the narrow steps leading to the tower, she hesitated, shivering slightly without knowing why.

  As she climbed the winding staircase, she murmured reassuringly to herself. She'd retrieve her small savings from its hiding place, pack her carpetbag, take her cat and be ready to leave this house forever. Mary felt no regrets. She'd never been
happy here as a servant and, besides, she was no longer a child. She could do as she pleased. No matter what some men might think. Remembering the cursory glance of Jeremy Johnston, she frowned. He'll not look at me like that the next time he sees me, she vowed.

  Opening her door, she stepped into darkness. Again she felt a chill. Shaking her head, she walked to a small table and felt inside a drawer for a match. After lighting it, she reached for the candle on the tabletop as the cat curled itself around her ankles.

  Startled by a sound behind her, she whirled around and heard a click as the door of her room closed. By the light of her match she saw Micah Randolph grinning at her. Or was it Esau?

  "I've been waiting for you,” he said.

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  CHAPTER 2

  Mary's hand went to her breast as she backed away, the cat scuttling under the bed. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  "You know damn well what I want. I want you—and I mean to have you."

  The match burnt her fingers and went out as she dropped it. Micah swore. Aware there was no one to hear her if she screamed, Mary tiptoed toward the door in the darkness, skirting the spot where she'd last seen Micah, holding her breath, afraid he'd realized what she was doing.

  Finally she touched the rough wood of the wall and knew she was past him. Her fingers glided to the right, finding the frame of the door. If only she could escape into the darkened house, he'd never find her.

  As she felt for the latch, behind her she heard the scratch of a match being lit. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Micah lighting the candle on the table. Grasping the latch, she pulled. The door refused to open—he'd slid home the bolt. Desperately, she grabbed the bolt's knob and shoved it one side, but before she could open the door, he was on her, his arm circling her waist, lifting her into the air.

  After pausing to rebolt the door, Micah carried her across the room and held her over the bed. Without warning, he threw her forward so she sprawled face down on the quilted coverlet. Twisting to look up at him, she saw him smirking down at her, his brawny body seeming to fill the room.

  "You got a choice,” he said. “You can let me pleasure you and we can be friends, or you can fight me so I'll have to take you forcefully. Tell me which way it's to be."

  Stunned by her predicament, Mary shook her head, her thoughts racing. She knew the twins feared their father—he'd beaten them unmercifully when they were expelled from the Citadel. She'd have to discover which of the two boys was threatening her.

  "Your pa'll whip you when he finds out, Micah.” She watched closely to see his reaction to the name.

  "Micah? What makes you think I'm Micah? Maybe I'm Esau. Don't I look like Esau?"

  "You're Micah,” she said, trying to convince herself that he was. It'd be likely because he'd always been the leader of the twins.

  He smiled. “Call me Micah if you like. You're not finding out which I am. It'd be just like you to go running to Pa about some tale about me, but he's not going to listen when you don't know who it was. ‘Fair's fair,’ my pa always says. Besides, whoever you say it was, me and my brother will deny it. Who's going to believe a common servant, especially one with a touch of the tar brush?"

  Mary stared up at him, desperate, weighing her chance of darting past him to the door. No, he'd be on her before she took two steps. Wait. The knife. Months ago, after the twins were sent home in disgrace from the Citadel, she'd heard stories of their wild womanizing in Charleston. When they'd begun disrobing her with their gaze, she'd taken a knife from the Jarvis kitchen and concealed it behind the books on the shelf under her bedroom window.

  "I can be real nice to them that's nice to me,” Micah said. “Ask your friend Dillie. Did Dillie tell you about the presents me and my brother brought her from Montgomery?"

  Mary nodded. If she could only distract him long enough to get the knife. That'd scare him off.

  "Well?” Micah asked. “Are we going to be friends, me and you? It makes no never-mind to me. I like the feisty kind as well as the other. Better, maybe."

  Mary was suddenly calm. She felt as though she was standing outside herself, watching an act in a play. “You won't hurt me?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “You're so big. I'm scared ‘cause you're so big."

  Micah drew himself up to his full height and put his hands on his hips, seeming to swagger, even though he was standing still. “I ain't never had no complaints."

  Mary pushed herself up until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Snuff the candle,” she told him.

  Micah shook his head. “I'm not letting you out of my sight again. Besides, I like to see the merchandise."

  With what she hoped sounded like a quavering sigh, Mary stood and faced him. Micah reached for her, but she put her hands on his chest to hold him away. “I thought you wanted to see what you were getting,” she whispered.

  Bringing her hands to her throat, she twisted the top button of her dress free and it fell slightly open. “Let me take off my dress first. All right, Micah?"

  He smiled and stepped back, watching raptly as Mary undid the rest of the buttons, the bodice of her dress dropping down to reveal the tops of her full breasts above her camisole.

  Mary, noting his wide-eyed stare, had, for the first time in her life, a glimmering of a woman's power over men. Of her power over men. Not that she wanted it at the moment. Not with Micah.

  She reached down, crossed her arms and gathered up her skirts. After she raised them a few inches above the floor, she glanced at Micah, who was avidly following her every move.

  Smiling, more to herself than at him, she drew the dress up over her body until she was free of its folds, raised it over her head, and in one continuous motion, hurled it at Micah. The dress wrapped around his head. He swore, wildly reaching for her with one hand, while trying to pull the dress from his face with the other.

  Mary slipped past him to the window, pushed the books aside and grasped the handle of the hidden knife. Whirling, she faced Micah who'd freed himself from the clinging dress. He flung it to the floor and lunged at her.

  "No!” she shouted. The knife blade glittered in the candlelight.

  Micah stopped an arm's length from her, staring at the knife.

  "I'll kill you,” she warned him. “If you touch me, I'll kill you. I swear to God I will."

  "Bitch!” he spat at her. “Whore!"

  "Get out of my room,” she said.

  As he looked from the knife to her face, he appeared to relax. Though his face was shadowed, she could tell he was smiling.

  "You're not going to kill nobody.” He spread his arms as a bear might when he rises onto his hind legs before falling on his prey. “I'm going to have you and you ain't going to stop me.” He took a step toward her.

  "I warn you,” she told him.

  With his gaze fixed on the knife, he stepped forward again. “You ain't got the guts to—"

  Mary thrust the knife at him, aiming for his belly. Micah twisted to one side, but the knife cut through his shirt into his flesh. He grunted in pain, clutching at his side with one hand. When he drew the hand away and held it up, his fingertips were red with blood.

  "I'll be goddamned,” he muttered.

  Mary held the knife in front of her, watching a drop of blood fall from its tip to the floor. Though she trembled, her voice was firm. “I meant it when I told you I'd kill you. Don't touch me, Micah."

  "You would kill me, you bitch, you really would.” He edged to one side, stalking her, his gaze on the knife. She turned to keep him in front of her. “Wait till I get a hold of you,” he said. “You'll pay for what you done. I'll make you pay.” The side of his shirt was dark with blood.

  Micah's feet tangled in the dress on the floor. He swore, reaching down to snatch it up. He was about to toss the dress behind him when he hesitated, his face flushed with anger. Holding the dress in both hands in front of him, he advanced on her.

  From behind her, through the partly open wind
ow, Mary heard the drum of hoof beats and the creaking clatter of a carriage approaching from the Randolphs'. The horses pounded past the house and the sound faded. Despair washed over her. That must have been the Longstreet coach. Philippe Manigault and Jeremy Johnston were gone, and she'd been left behind.

  At that moment, Micah threw the dress at her. She sprang aside quickly enough to avoid the folds of cloth, but Micah kicked at her and his boot knocked the knife from her hand. It flew into the air to clatter to the floor halfway across the room. Mary gasped in pain, clutching her throbbing hand to her.

  She backed away, searching the floor for her knife, but not finding it. Micah's triumphant laugh as she came smack up against the window made her shiver. When she felt the shelves pressing against her hips, she reached behind her, grabbed a book and hurled it at him. He dodged and the book thudded against the wall. A grimace of pain contorted his face and his hand went momentarily to the wound in his side.

  "You bitch!” he shouted. “You Goddamned bitch!” His face mottled with fury, he sprang forward and grasped her shoulders, his fingers digging in, and shook her so hard her head bobbed back and forth. With his right hand, he gripped the top of her camisole and yanked down, tearing the thin fabric and exposing her breasts. He ripped the garment until the camisole gaped open down the length of her body. Taking hold of the shreds of fabric still clinging to her shoulders, he tore the camisole from her arms, pulling until she stood naked before him.

  He stared at the candlelit curves of her body. “My God,” he whispered hoarsely, “you're a real beauty."

  Mary struck out at him, her nails raking his cheeks, bringing blood in two jagged lines from his nose to his chin. Swearing, Micah grasped her wrists and backed away, yanking her with him, his hands gripping her like twin vises. He threw her down on the bed, face-first. She twisted onto her back, scrambling to the far side of the bed to get as far from him as possible, even though that put her against the wall.