All for Love
Authors: Jane Aiken Hodge
Copyright © Jane Aiken Hodge 1971
The right of Jane Aiken Hodge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1971 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd, as
Savannah Purchase
.
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To Savannah, beautiful city, and all my friends there.
THE wind came first, out of a black sky. Standing on the edge of the bluff, Juliet watched the foaming water of the Savannah river rise steadily higher. The tide would not change for some hours yet. Had she moored her ramshackle boat securely, and on a long enough rope? Too late now, if not. It would be madness to venture down over the sliding sand of the bluff in this wind. The Minister had thought her mad anyway, not to go back to Ruffton with him after her father’s funeral, but how could she, when her cousin would look for her here?
If Josephine would only come! No more hope today. The first scattering of huge raindrops sent her hurrying back to the house to light the temperamental old lamp before it was full dark. ‘Not a soul for miles.’ The Minister had been at once disapproving, and, she knew, relieved to be clear of her so easily. Her last few dollars, paid for the pitifully brief funeral, had, quite obviously, not been enough. Her shabby grey dress had shocked him as much as her solitary state. Their one servant had run, of course, after her father died. Just as well: she could not have paid her.
The wind was still rising, its voice hardly distinguishable from the roar of the river; rain beat savagely against the windows. Thank God, they were cracked, not broken. The vine outside tapped at them with desperate fingers. Lost souls trying to get in? Father? Ridiculous. She rose to trim the lamp, then stood, stock-still, petrified, at a new sound from outside. This was the wail of a lost soul indeed, an inhuman ululation, the voice of a devil in torment. It paused, rose to a further shriek, paused again. Sweat was running down her cold face. Her hand, as she made herself adjust the lamp, trembled so much that she was afraid she would put it out.
An interval of comparative silence, with only the roaring of wind and water gave her time to collect herself. Someone had told her about this, back in New Orleans. It was the bamboo canes rubbing against each other in the wind. It terrified the slaves, the man had said, laughing, and moving his quid of tobacco to the other cheek.
It terrified her. Nerves exacerbated by the long, wretched months since they left France screamed for relief, for hysteria, for a great letting go of all the tension that had built up in her since her mother died. Suppose she started to scream like that banshee voice outside, would she ever stop?
‘Juliette!’ Sun shone from a cloudless sky as Josephine came up over the edge of the bluff, full muslin skirts carelessly sweeping the sand.
‘Josephine!’ A week’s terrors gone in an instant, she hurried forward across the desolation that had once been a garden. Then, ‘I call myself Juliet now. It’s easier.’
‘Yes.’ After the first quick, warm kiss, they stood for a moment, handfast, gazing at each other as at a mirror. Then Josephine stepped back, still gazing at her cousin, and gave a little sigh of relief. ‘We’re alike as ever.’
‘Except in fortune.’ Juliet’s voice was dry, her English perhaps a little purer than that of her cousin, who spoke still with a marked, delightful French accent.
‘I know. Poor Uncle Charles; I am so sorry.’ She spoke mechanically, her eyes leaving the other girl now to dart this way and that about the bluff. ‘You’re all alone here?’
‘Yes. I told you in my letter. The servant left when father died. Well,’ her shrug was gallic, ‘there was no money. I can tell you, Jo, I was at my wits’ end when I saw the notice of your arrival in that old copy of the
Savannah
Georgian
.’ And then, quickly. ‘Mind, I won’t be a charge on you a moment longer than I can help. If you’ll but find me some decent employment ... It should be easy enough with your connections.’
‘A charge!’ Josephine interrupted her. ‘You, child? What lunacy is this? We were to be better than sisters, remember? We vowed it the day we parted. Lord, what an age ago, and what a monstrous deal we have to say to each other. But, Ju —’ Her eyes came back from that anxious scanning of the sun-browned bluff, and more distant view of autumn-golden reeds beyond the dark water. ‘The sun’s killing me. May we not go in?’ She moved a little towards the house that stood behind them on the bluff. Surprisingly large, it must once have been a planter’s mansion, but was now so old, so tumble-down, so neglected that it was hard to tell whether it supported its crown of green and golden vine, or the vine it.
Again that gallic shrug. ‘If you wish. I’m beyond being ashamed of it. And it’s clean at least. But why not the shade, over there?’ She pointed to the garden’s one large tree, a huge magnolia, richly green against the surrounding reds and golds of autumn.
‘I’d rather go in.’ When she spoke this, definitely, it was apparent that Josephine was somewhat the senior of the two girls. Already, she was re-establishing an old domination.
‘I only wish I had anything to offer you.’ Juliet turned to lead the way towards the vine-covered house.
‘Nothing? What a fool I am. Wait!’ She turned with a swish of muslin and called an order down to where her boat waited below the bluff. ‘We’ll have a picnic,’ she told Juliet. ‘If you’ve the table, I’ve the food. It will be like the old days, at Fontainebleau.’ And then, as two Negroes came up over the bluff, carrying a large basket. ‘That’s right, boys, bring it in here, and then back to the boat, and, if you see anyone, pretend you don’t.’
‘Reckon we won’t.’ The older of the two stopped for a moment to gaze from one girl to the other. ‘Man, did you ever see the like! Your sister, ma’am?’
‘My cousin.’ Impatiently. ‘Now, hurry, Satan! Leave the basket; find yourselves some shade and eat your own. I won’t be needing you this hour or more. Ah, that’s better.’ She looked round the gloomy little room into which Juliet had ushered them. Its windows had long since been covered by the all-invading vine, and the light, such as it was, filtered in, coolly green, through leaves. As Juliet had said, the place was scrupulously clean, and pitifully bare, but a battered table stood ready to receive the picnic basket.
‘Slaves!’ Juliet had waited till the men had withdrawn to voice her distaste.
‘Nothing of the kind.’ Josephine was busy opening the basket. ‘My husband won’t have them,’ she explained over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he managed, but he contrived to get on the shady side of the law, and free them. Only of course then they said they were better off with him than anywhere else. Which they are.
Mon
lieu
, when you think what he pays them! And schooling for the children, too, but don’t for God’s sake, mention that!’ She had finished her unpacking. ‘Here, pet! Our own cherry bounce.’ She filled a glass. ‘And cold game pie to eat with it. Now I come to think of it, I’m hungry too.’ Tactfully, she made a little business of settling herself on one of the room’s two stools while her cousin cleaned her first plateful with a kind of elegant desperation.
At last Juliet looked up. ‘I finished the last of the food yesterday,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to be afraid you were away, Jo.’
‘We were.’ Josephine had quietly refilled the plate. ‘At Winchelsea — Hyde’s plantation down river,’ she explained.
‘Mr. Purchis.’ Juliet was eating more slowly now. ‘Your husband. Just think of your having a husband, Jo! Do you remember how we used to talk? But, quick, tell me all about him. He won’t have slaves! I like him already.’
‘You’ll like him better still when you meet him.’ Something odd about Josephine’s voice. ‘Everyone adores him. I was lucky not to get my eyes scratched out by the Georgia —’ she hesitated for a word ‘— ladies, when he brought me back from France.’
‘France!’ Juliet’s colour was rising. Her dark eyes sparkled and she threw unruly auburn curls impatiently back over her shoulder. ‘Tell me of France! When did you come away?’
‘This spring. And not before it was time! Even Hyde, who is patience itself, could bear no more of the Bourbon tyranny. Yes!’ she went on angrily, as if arguing with an invisible opponent, ‘I said tyranny. Napoleon was a force for freedom, for progress! What is it they say of Louise the Undesirable? He’s learned nothing and forgotten nothing. It’s true!’
‘I expect so.’ Juliet had finished her third plate of game pie and did not sound much interested. ‘But tell me, Jo, what of your parents? How are they? And how did you come to marry Mr. Purchis?’
‘
Maman
et
papa
?’ Josephine lapsed momentarily into French. Then, in her pretty English, ‘Father was killed at Waterloo. No, don’t cry, pet. It’s what he’d have wanted. And mother — I think she died of grief. And of hiding.’
‘Hiding?’
‘You don’t know, do you? Your father was wise; he saw trouble coming when Napoleon escaped from Elba. He got out quick.’
‘Yes,’ Juliet looked back sombrely over the years. ‘It killed my mother.’
‘To part from her twin. I know. Well,’ her shrug was the image of her cousin’s. ‘Poor darlings, they should have thought of that, your mamma and mine, when they married one a Frenchman and one an American. It was sure to end in tears. Your mother died of the voyage, and mine of grieving. And your father?’
‘Of failure, I think. He had learned to care for the wrong things, all those years in France. Poor father. There was to have been a fortune in Spanish Florida, then one in New Orleans — And here I am.’
‘Yes, but why here? And how?’ There was unexpected force, now, behind Josephine’s questions.
‘Oh, because of a friend.’ Juliet spoke wearily. ‘Papa always had friends, you know. When New Orleans was a disaster, too, this latest friend said we could use his house here, you see? So — we came here.’
‘But how?’ Again that odd intensity. ‘By way of Savannah?’
‘Oh, no. We had to get out so fast because of papa’s debts. There was a boat leaving for Charleston. We came there, then overland.’ She shivered a little. ‘Papa was ill already. I think the journey killed him. Or started him dying.’
‘Poor Uncle Charles.’ Again, it sounded mechanical. ‘So you’ve never been to Savannah?’
‘I’ve never crossed the river. Never been anywhere in Georgia. And I never want to!’
‘Oh, my poor pet! But we’re going to change all that.’ She refilled her cousin’s glass. ‘You’ve no idea how happily you’ve arrived for me! I’ve work for you, Ju, if you’ll but do it.’
‘Work?’ Eagerly. ‘Already! Oh, bless you, Jo, I was right. I knew my luck would change when I found you. But what is it? When do I start?’
‘Now. This minute.’ Josephine had risen and was looking about the room. ‘Have you such a thing as a looking-glass in this palace of yours, pet? We must be sure, before we start.’
‘Sure? What do you mean? But, yes, there’s an old glass in my bedroom. It’s about all there is. I’m ashamed to have you find me thus.’
‘Fiddlestick,’ said her cousin. ‘You should have seen me when Mr. Purchis found me.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘He’s been wonderfully good to me.’ She answered Juliet’s look of surprise.
‘Who wouldn’t be!’ Even on the day they parted, Juliet had never seen Josephine cry before. The tears, at once touching and surprising, washed away the last hint of reserve, she had felt at the contrast between their positions. What matter if she was shabby almost beyond respectability, while everything about Josephine, from exquisite ringlets to tiny kid slippers, showed the most expensive kind of imported elegance? They were cousins, had always felt like sisters in those happy days before Waterloo when they lived with their twin mothers at Fontainebleau, while Josephine’s French father followed Napoleon’s fortunes and Juliet’s American one followed the will-o’-the-wisp that was to be his own.
‘Three years.’ She finished the plum cake Josephine had handed her. ‘It’s a long time.’
‘And makes no difference at all. Thank God.’ Josephine meant it. ‘But, come, pet, where’s this looking-glass of yours?’
‘Here.’ Juliet led the way into a tiny room at the back of the house. ‘I suppose it was so old, and so cumbersome, the last people couldn’t be bothered to take it away.’
‘I don’t wonder.’ It was lighter in here, since some effort had been made to remove the vine-leaves from outside the window, and gold-green afternoon sunshine angled in to show up the faded gilding and mildewed patches of a huge standing-glass that took up the greater part of one wall. ‘It must have been magnificent when it was new. A bridegift, do you think?’ She said it, Juliet thought, almost wistfully, and again she felt an unfamiliar surge of sympathy for the older cousin who had been apt, in that vanished past, to domineer over her somewhat on the strength of her three years’ seniority. Now, she submitted without demur as Josephine took her hand and pulled her forward to face the glass. ‘Yes,’ it was almost a purr of satisfaction. ‘As like as ever. Amazing, isn’t it? I hardly dared hope —’
‘Hope? But why? Take me with you, Jo. I don’t understand.’
‘Of course not, pet. But you will, soon enough. Your hair’s all wrong of course, and you’ve a most unladylike tan, but apart from that, could you tell the difference?’
‘And a small matter of the clothes.’ Juliet made a little face as she studied the two reflections.
‘Yes. You may need a little lacing to get into mine. You always were disgustingly healthy, weren’t you, pet? But never mind; we’ve plenty of time. You’ll just have to stay here, that’s all.’
‘Stay here!’ Horrified. ‘But Jo, you said you had work for me!’
‘And so I have. I told you. It begins right here, today.’ A quick look at the jewelled watch she wore pinned to her dress. ‘Yes, there’s time. You won’t mind being left alone just a little while? It’s not an hour’s row from here to Winchelsea. We’ll be back long before dusk. With everything you need. And Anne to keep you company. Lord, how she’ll cry! She never did like me above half so well as you. She drizzled like a fountain after you left for America.’
‘Anne! She’s with you still!’
‘Well, I should think so. I’m not quite a fool. A faithful nurse, and French at that! She was about all that made my plight respectable, when Hyde found me. But I’ll tell you about that some other time. Along with a million other things you’ll need to know.’ Her dark eyes flashed. ‘What a game it’s going to be! Just like old times. Do you remember? At the Convent. They never could tell, those poor, kind sisters. You’ll do it, won’t you, Ju? For me? And, of course, for money. As if that mattered. What’s mine is yours anyway, but you’ll like to feel you’ve earned it. You see, I remember what a stiff-necked little idiot you were.’ There was a faint note of anxiety in her voice now. ‘You’ll do it for me, won’t you?’ Again, pleadingly. ‘I can’t tell you how badly I need you.’
‘To act your part? As we used to? But why, Josephine?’ The use of the full name was a bad sign. ‘And who am I supposed to deceive?’
‘Why, everyone! That’s the cream of it. All those worthy Savannahians who look at me askance. “Mr. Purchis’s French wife. Such a surprise!”’ Her mimicry of the southern accent was perfect. ‘It’ll be childs’ play, too,’ she hurried on. ‘We’ve only been here a few weeks, after all. Of course, it will be a little longer by the time you are ready to take over, but in the meantime I’ll make a point of absent-mindedness. After all, why should I trouble to tell one of them from the other? I know I find each one more tedious than the last. And their idea of entertainment! Well, you must know from New Orleans, though in fact I’ve always heard that the French influence there was such that life is almost civilised.’
‘Gaming hells and brothels,’ said Juliet succinctly. ‘It suited my father to a nicety.’ And then, ‘Shame on me! Poor father …’
But her cousin had dissolved into laughter. ‘You were always a dark horse, Ju. Gaming hells and brothels indeed. Don’t let old Anne hear you talk like that, or she’ll wash your mouth out with soap and water.’ She kissed her, suddenly and warmly. ‘It’s so
good
to see you, Miss Graveairs. And to find you’ve your old sharp tongue, too. Don’t tell me you won’t enjoy fooling the worthy merchants of Savannah, for I won’t believe you.’
