by John Jakes
“Pretty severe punishment for horsewhipping,” one of the onlookers said to Charles.
“The man jumped me.” He stared until the onlooker muttered something and turned away.
To someone inside the theater, the woman said, “Arthur, please come help unload the lumber.” Charles turned to her, completely unprepared for what he saw: a woman perhaps twenty years old, a picture-pretty thing, slim but well formed, with blue eyes and blond hair so pale it had silver glints. Her dress was a plain yellow lawn, dusty in places. She held the black cat in her arms.
“That stray cat spooked the horse. That’s what started everything.” Charles remembered his manners and dragged off his old straw hat.
“Prosperity isn’t a stray. She belongs to the theater.” The young woman indicated the signboard on the building. “I’m Mrs. Parker.”
“Charles Main, ma’am. Believe me, I don’t always blow up like that, though it does happen if I catch somebody mistreating a horse.”
A broad-shouldered black man helped the teamster carry the boards inside. It was hard to say whether the teamster was more sullen over the beating or working with a Negro.
Mrs. Parker said, “Well, if that’s a failing, it’s in a good cause.”
Charles acknowledged the remark with a nod and put on his hat, ready to go. The young woman added, “There’s water in our green room if you’d like to clean your hands.”
Reaching down to pick up his revolver, he saw that they were bloodstained. Something in him shied from accepting even casual kindness from any woman, but in spite of it he said, “All right. Thanks.”
They stepped into a gloomy area backstage. From the stage, brilliant under calcium lights, a portly man approached with a queer sidestep gait. He walked bent over, a large pillow roped to his back like a hump. His tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. His dangling hands swung to and fro, pendulumlike. All at once he straightened up.
“Willa, how can I concentrate on the winter of my discontent when a hundred idlers are rioting on my doorstep?”
“It wasn’t a riot, Sam, just a small dispute. Mr. Main, my partner, Mr. Samuel Trump.” She pointed to the pillow. “We’re rehearsing Richard the Third.” Charles thought that was Shakespeare but didn’t want to show his ignorance by asking.
Trump said, “Have I the honor of addressing a fellow thespian, sir?”
“No, sir, afraid not. I’m a trader.” It surprised him a little to say it for the first time.
“Do you trade with the Indians?” the young woman asked. He said yes. “You sound Southern,” she continued. “Did you serve in what they call ‘the late unpleasantness’?”
“I did. I’m from South Carolina. I rode with General Wade Hampton’s cavalry all four years.”
“Lucky you came out unscathed,” Trump declared. Charles thought it pointless to contradict so foolish a statement.
Mrs. Parker told Trump what had happened outside, in words that flattered Charles and minimized his brutal rage. “I invited Mr. Main to clean up in the green room.”
“By all means,” Trump said. “If you wish to view a performance of our new production, sir, I recommend booking a seat early. I anticipate capacity business, perhaps even an offer to transfer to New York.”
Willa gave him a rueful smile. “Sam, you know that’s bad luck.”
Trump paid no attention. “Adieu, good friends. My art summons me.” Dangling his hands again, he sidled toward the stage, bellowing, “Grim-visaged war has smooth’d his wrinkled front …”
“This way,” Willa said to Charles.
She closed the door of the spacious, untidy green room to confine Prosperity for a while. On a love seat with one leg missing, a gentleman snored, his handwritten part covering his face. Prosperity jumped on his stomach and began to wash herself. The actor didn’t stir.
Willa showed Charles to a basin of clean water on a table strewn with make-up pots, brushes, jars of powder. She found a clean towel for him.
“Thank you.” He was conscious of great awkwardness. After Gus Barclay’s death, he’d withdrawn from the company of women. His visit to the tent-town whore had passed with almost no conversation.
Using the damp towel, he cleaned the blood from his hands. Willa folded her arms, taking his measure. “What do you call that garment you’re wearing? A cape? A poncho?”
“I call it my gypsy robe. I sewed it together a piece at a time when uniforms started to wear out and Richmond couldn’t send any new ones.
“I know little about the war except what I’ve read. I was only fifteen when the fighting began.”
That young. He dropped the towel beside the basin; the water had turned red. “Before you ask, I’ll tell you. I wasn’t fighting for slavery and I didn’t give a hang for secession. I left the U.S. Army to fight for my state and my family’s home.”
“Yes, Mr. Main, but the war’s over. There’s no need to be belligerent.”
He apologized; he hadn’t realized he sounded angry. There was a certain irony there. To how many men had he said the war was over?
“It was a bad time, Mrs. Parker. Hard to forget.”
“Perhaps something pleasant would help. You performed a humane deed outside. You deserve a reward. I should like to buy you supper, if I may.”
His jaw dropped. She laughed. “I shocked you. I didn’t intend it. You must understand the theater, Mr. Main. It’s a lonely business. So theater people cling to one another for company. And there’s very little conventional formality. If an actress wants an hour’s friendly conversation, there’s no shame in her asking a fellow actor. I suppose it doesn’t look so innocent from outside. No wonder preachers think us loose and dangerous people. I assure you”—she kept it light but it was pointed—“I’m neither.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine so, you being married.”
“Ah—Mrs. Parker. That’s only a convenience. It keeps some of the stage door crowd at bay. I’m not married. I just like to choose my friends.” Her smile was warm and winning. “I repeat my offer. Can you join me for supper? Say, tomorrow evening? We’re rehearsing tonight.”
He almost said no. Yet something prompted him the other way. “That would be very enjoyable.”
“And no quibbling over a mere female paying the bill?”
He smiled. “No quibbling.”
“Seven o’clock, then? The New Planter’s House on Fourth Street?”
“Fine. I’ll try to look more respectable.”
“You look splendid. The very picture of a gallant cavalryman.” She shocked him with that easy frankness, and then again with the forthright way she shook hands. “Until tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, no, please. Let it be Willa and Charles.”
He nodded and got out of there.
As he went from store to store, buying what he needed, he tried to figure out why he’d entangled himself with the supper engagement. Was it simple hunger for a woman’s company? Or the way she had approached him, with unexpected candor and a reversal of the usual roles? He didn’t know. He did know the young actress fascinated him, and that bothered him on two counts. He felt guilty because of Gus Barclay, and he was wary of the potential for pain that existed even in a friendship.
“She did the askin’?” Wooden Foot exclaimed when Charles told him about it.
“Yes. She isn’t, well, conventional. She’s an actress.”
“Oh, I get it now. Well, take advantage, Charlie. They say actresses are always good for a fast romp on the sheets.”
“Not this one,” he said. It was one of the few things about Willa Parker he could state with any certainty.
10
TO SAY THE BLUE cutaway was old was to say the Atlantic was a pond. The coat had cost Charles four dollars, secondhand. “This yere’s strictly a loan,” Wooden Foot had said. “I approve of romance but it ain’t my habit to finance it.” The haberdasher threw in a used cravat, and with another dollar borrowed from his new partner, Charles
bought some Macassar oil. Dressed up and with his long hair slicked down, he felt foolish and foppish.
That opinion seemed to be shared by two black men in green velvet livery who received guests at the entrance of the elegant New Planter’s House, the second hotel in St. Louis to bear that name. Charles handed his saddle horse to a groom and stalked between the doormen. His sharp stare and vaguely sinister appearance forestalled any comment about his looks.
Willa rose from one of the plush seats in the spacious lobby. Her quick smile relieved his nervousness a little. “My,” she said, “for an Indian trader you’re certainly elegant.”
“Special occasion. I don’t have many. I’d say you’re the elegant one.”
“Thank you, sir.” She took his arm and guided him toward the dining room. By some feminine magic he didn’t begin to understand, she fairly sparkled with youthful prettiness, even though her outfit was nearly all black: her hooped skirt, her trim silk sacque, her small hat with a single black-dyed feather. White lace spilled at her throat and fringed her cuffs—just enough for dramatic contrast.
The haughty headwaiter tried to seat them behind a potted fern next to the kitchen entrance. “No, thank you,” Willa said pleasantly. “I’m Mrs. Parker, of Trump’s Playhouse. I send many of our patrons here to enjoy your cuisine, and I won’t take your worst table. That one in the center, please.”
It was a table for four, but the man was defeated by her charm. He thanked her effusively.
Soft gaslight and candles on the tables combined to create a civilized, intimate atmosphere in the busy room. Several gentlemen interrupted conversations to cast admiring looks at Willa. The black dress and her vivid blue eyes produced a lovely effect as she sat across from Charles, a swath of pink tablecloth between them. Napkins in the wine goblets resembled pink flowers.
“I’m out of place here—” he began.
“Nonsense. You’re the handsomest chap in sight. No more begging for compliments, if you please.”
He started to protest and saw she was teasing. The waiter delivered leatherbound menus. Charles blanched when he opened the one for wine.
“It’s in French. I think it’s French.”
“It is. Shall I order for us?”
“You’d better. Do they serve any grits or corn bread?”
It made her giggle, as he’d intended. He began to enjoy himself. She said, “I doubt it. The veal medallions are always fine. And escargots first, I think.” Charles examined his silver to conceal his ignorance about the nature of escargots.
“Do you like red wine?” she asked. “They have a Bordeaux from the little village of Pomerol, and it’s reasonable.”
“Fine.” The waiter retired. “You know a lot about food and wine.”
“Actors spend a great deal of time in hotels. Ask me to plant a garden or catch a fish, I’d be helpless.” Her smile put him wonderfully at ease. He warned himself to be careful, remembering Gus and how it felt when he lost her.
“So you’re ready to leave for the Indian Territory. Perhaps this year it will be peaceful out there.” He pulled a cigar halfway out of his pocket; put it back. “No, go ahead. I don’t mind cigars.”
He lit it, then said, “You keep up on the Indians?”
He meant it facetiously. Her reply, “Oh, yes,” was serious. “In New York I belonged to a group called the Indian Friendship Society. We circulated memorials to be sent to Congress asking the government to repudiate the massacre at Sand Creek. You’re familiar with that?” He said he was. “Well, the blame for it lies entirely with the white man. We steal land belonging to the Indians, then slaughter them if they resist or object. The white man’s relationship with the native tribes is a shameful history of deceit, injustice, broken promises, violated treaties, and unspeakable cruelty.”
Charles found himself in awe of her crusader’s passion. “My partner would agree with you,” he said. “He likes the Southern Cheyennes. Most of them, anyway.”
“And you?”
“I’ve only had experience with a few Comanches, in Texas—all of them mad enough to shoot at me.”
“I know it’s impossible to stop westward expansion. But it mustn’t come at the price of extermination of the original inhabitants of this country. Thank heaven there are signs of a movement toward peace. That bloodthirsty General Dodge wanted to unleash a thousand men to kill any Indians found along the Santa Fe wagon road, but he was blocked. And yesterday I read in the Missouri Gazette that Colonel Jesse Leavenworth, the Indian agent, has managed to get a truce with some of the Indians he oversees through his Upper Arkansas Agency. Do you realize what that means?”
She leaned forward, vivid color in her cheeks. “It means that William Bent and Kit Carson and Senator Doolittle of Wisconsin have a real chance to arrange a peace conference soon. Perhaps for once we’ll have a treaty both sides will honor.”
The waiter brought small silver forks and curious shell-like things arranged in a semicircle on each plate. Charles lifted the little fork, baffled.
“Escargots,” she said. “Snails.”
He coughed and groped for his cigar, resting in a crystal dish. Several deep puffs pulled him through his first encounter with snails that were eaten rather than observed in a motionless journey across a rock or a leaf.
After the waiter decanted the rich, heavy Pomerol, and Charles drank some, conversation became easier. He told Willa something of his war experiences, and of his closest friend, Billy Hazard, whom he’d rescued from Libby Prison. He described the officer named Bent who held an inexplicable grudge against both his family and Billy’s. “He disappeared in the war. A casualty, I suppose. I can’t say I’m sorry.”
More wine, then the veal, appealingly garnished with bright yellow rounds of squash and large whole pea pods. He spoke of other matters with obvious emotion. He described his abiding love for Mont Royal—burned, but rebuilding—and his affection for his cousin Orry, who’d saved him from self-destruction.
Presently he said, “What about you? Is this your home?”
She concentrated on lifting a bit of veal with the fork in her left hand, something Charles had seen only among people of great refinement. “No. I answered an appeal from Sam Trump to help him put his theater on a profitable basis. He’s an old friend of my father. Whose name was not Parker, by the way. It was Potts.” She crossed her eyes and made a face, and he laughed.
They talked on, Charles forgetting how bizarre his slicked-down hair must look, or how ill at ease he felt in the frayed cutaway. The wine slipped down quickly, muting the candlelight, enhancing her prettiness. A violinist and cellist, solemn whiskered fellows in white ties and tail coats, began to play semi-classical airs from seats in a corner.
“What brought you to St. Louis as a trader, Charles?”
“Actually—” Did he dare trust her? He searched her blue eyes. Yes. “I’ve never gone out before. I graduated from West Point, you see. After the war I went back in the Army, but someone at Jefferson Barracks—a man who went to the Academy when I did—recognized me. They booted me out. Literally. Well, I needed a way to support my son—”
She dropped her spoon. It hit the edge of her dish of blueberries in cream and fell to the floor. Charles saw her anger. “Oh, no, wait.” Without a thought, he shot his hand over to clasp hers. “I didn’t trick you. I do have a son, eight months old. His mother died in Virginia when he was born.”
“Oh. I’m truly sorry.” Relaxed again, she picked up the new spoon the waiter had silently laid beside her gold-rimmed dish. With her eyes on the dessert, she murmured, “We both have a past out of the ordinary, it would seem.”
He wondered about the undertone of pain in those words. A man tipped the musicians to play “Lorena.” Charles and Willa exchanged looks, letting the sweet sad music speak for them.
The night smelled of wood smoke and approaching autumn. Willa suggested they walk on the levee, and they linked arms. This time she wasn’t quite so careful; the silken thrust of her bo
som rested easily, moved lightly against his sleeve. He experienced a strong physical reaction.
They turned right on the levee, a wide esplanade between the piers and a row of wood and stone warehouses and commercial buildings. A sickle moon hid the dirt and Utter, and softened the silhouettes of great crates and casks piled up awaiting shipment. A cargo watchman resting on a keg took his cob pipe from his mouth. “Evening.” His left hand remained on his shotgun.
“It’s been a delicious evening,” Willa said, sighing. “Since you already know I’m forward, I might as well tell you that I’d love to repeat it.”
Now, Charles thought. Cut it off. Leave it there. But he’d drunk too much of the rich red fruit of the village of Pomerol.
“So would I.”
“Good. How long must I wait?”
“Till spring, I suppose. That’s when Jackson comes back with the horses he gathers during the winter.”
“All right.” The black feather bobbed on her hat as she nodded. “Starting the first of next April, I’ll leave a standing order at the ticket window. You’ll have a box seat for any performance. When I see you in the audience, I’ll know it’s time for another supper.”
“That’s a bargain. You’re very confident the theater will prosper.”
“I’ll make it prosper.” She wasn’t bragging, merely stating what she believed. “Like so many actors, Sam’s a lovely, charming man, vanity and all. But he has a weakness for drink. If I can keep him away from it, and we can mount three or four new shows in repertory, a Molière comedy, perhaps, and another of those melodramas Sam writes under the name Samuels—they’re dreadful, really, but audiences love them, because he does know how to write stirring lines for himself—if we can accomplish that much by the time you return, we’ll make it. Time then to think of adding actors for a touring troupe.”
“For someone so young, you’re very determined.”
She watched the river. A great white side-wheeler churned upriver toward the Missouri, a necklace of amber lights gleaming along her cabin deck. From the channel drifted the slushing of her paddles and the bleating and squawking of sheep and chickens in crates stacked among new farm wagons lashed to the decks.
