His One Woman (19 page)

‘I'm not lying,' said Jack, desperately thinking of all those weeks when nothing had come back from Marietta. He remembered, with pain, all the loving words which he had written to her, the hopes which he had had, all shattered and lost in sleepless nights and unhappy days.

‘As God is my witness,' he said—and he rarely called upon the Deity— ‘I wrote to her again and again—and she never replied to me, not once.'

‘She could not reply to what she did not receive,' said Aunt Percival glacially. ‘She tried to write to you through Butler and Rutherfurd's and nary a word came back from them—not ever.'

‘No,' said Jack, his face suddenly ashen. The shock of what he was hearing overwhelmed him. ‘No, this cannot be true. At least tell me how to find her in Bethesda so that I may speak to her of this, for I cannot believe what you are telling me.'

‘No,' said Aunt Percival, ‘you may find your own
way there, but be sure that she will not receive you. She has no wish to have her heart broken again.'

He stepped back a little on hearing this, relinquishing his grasp on the door, something of which Aunt Percival took immediate advantage. ‘Good day, Mr Jack Dilhorne—and do not come here again,' she added, shutting it in his shocked face.

Jack stared blankly at the knocker and the shut door. Could he believe what Aunt Percival had just told him with such bitterness? What in the world could have happened to all his letters—and to hers? He half-moved to knock again, but he was sure that Aunt Percival would not help him, and he also had to believe that by her manner and her speech that she was telling him the truth as she knew it. Well, he would discover where Marietta was from others, and go to see her to try to plumb this dreadful mystery. His tortured mind rehearsed it and over again.

He was plodding along the sidewalk, his head down, lost in speculation, when he heard running feet behind him. He turned. It was Asia, breathless and panting.

‘Oh, Mr Jack, you was allus kind to me. I was watching from the window and I saw your poor face when she told you to go. Miz Marietta's at the old Hope Farm in Bethesda with the children. Mr Butler will tell you how to get there.'

Jack felt in his pocket, pulled out several dollars and offered them to her: it was little enough reward for her kindness. Asia put her hands behind her back. ‘No, thank you, Mr Jack. I liked you. I was sorry
when you went away. Keep your money. This is my kindness to you.'

‘And was it true that Miss Marietta never received my letters?'

Asia nodded her head. ‘Nary a one, Mr Jack. I saw her poor face when I took the mail up to her bed. She was ill after you had gone, and Miz Percival allowed as how it was disappointment made her worse. I never believed that you had left her like that, without a word, you being allus so kind. I promised Miz Percival I would say nothing to you about the letters, but you deserve the truth, that you do. I know she wrote to you, because I placed her letters on the table in the Senator's study, ready for the post. And then the Senator died and the Missises went into the country, leaving the staff behind, with orders to forward all the family's mail. They said that nothing came back from you while they was gone.'

‘I can only give you my most sincere thanks for your news—although it offers me no cheer,' Jack said.

‘Thanks is all I want,' Asia told him before running back to the house, arms flailing, and Jack walked back to Ezra Butler's home, still puzzling over what he had heard, and saddened by Aunt Percival's hostility.

It was now late afternoon, warm and pleasant: the day was too far gone for him to drive to Bethesda now; he could not badger her when she might be tired. The journey would have to be made on the morrow. Meantime, he would have to think most
carefully of what he should say to her when at last they met where he could speak freely—if she consented to see him, that was.

All that sustained him that evening when he dressed for the Reception at the White House to which Ezra was taking him, and which he was duty bound to attend, was the thought of seeing her again and, if possible, trying to convince her that they must both try to discover what had gone wrong.

The more he thought about his lost, loving, letters—and Marietta's—the worse he felt.

Back at the Grants' house, Aunt Percival was having similar thoughts. For the first time in her long life of looking after Marietta and her interests, the way before her was far from clear.

What troubled her most of all was Jack's horrified face when she had reproached him for deserting Marietta, and for lying about writing to her from New York. She remembered how much she had liked him, partly because he had seemed to care so deeply for her darling, had made her laugh, had made her happy, and had made her believe that she could enjoy herself like her pretty cousins, Sophie and Julie. Her subsequent hatred of him for his betrayal of her darling was the deeper for it.

She had not planned to leave Washington for Bethesda until the following morning, but she suddenly decided that she must waste no time before she told Marietta of what had happened. There were so many things to think of, among them the question of Cobie,
the little boy who had made up for Jack's desertion with his sweet good nature. Aunt Percival's face softened at the thought of him, their treasure, despite his irregular birth.

For surely when Jack arrived at the farm—as she was certain he would—he would discover the existence of his son, and what then? Avory had loved him, too, and had adopted him and given him his name, but Aunt Percival was hazy as to how legal this was in the face of Jack being his father. Suppose he tried to claim him? Yes, she must leave at once so that Marietta would have time to decide what to do for the best.

Once she would have thought such a decision easy to make, but Jack's evident distress when she had told him that Marietta had never received any letters from him had made her remember that she had once seen him as fundamentally decent and kind, not as an ogre who had treacherously betrayed a woman who had foolishly come to love him.

Seated in the carriage on the way to Bethesda, she began rehearsing again those lost days when Marietta had lived in the hope of a letter from Jack. The days when she had agonisedly realised that Marietta was pregnant and she had watched her, helpless to remedy matters.

One thing was certain: Marietta was sure to have known whether the letters were coming or not because it was she who always oversaw the Senator's
mail, who inspected it each morning—and the outgoing mail, too…

And then she remembered something else, something which brought her erect in her seat, her hand to her trembling mouth, her heart thudding, her face alternately white and scarlet. The something else which had been forgotten in the turmoil of the days after the Senator's sudden death and funeral.

She exclaimed, ‘No, oh, no,' and stared into the growing dusk. ‘No, it cannot be true,' and she tried not to think the unthinkable, of who had taken care of the post when Marietta had first fallen ill with morning sickness… Dear God, no, do not let it be true…

What she could not erase from her recovered memory was the sight of the Senator lying dead in front of the fire in his study, of Sophie screaming above him, of the mail lying scattered and neglected on the floor… She must speak to Marietta, she must, before Jack arrived to confront her.

‘Faster,' she called to the driver. ‘Faster,' but he could never drive as fast as she would wish. Her dreadful thoughts would always run before him.

M
arietta, alone at the farm that evening, waiting for Aunt Percival to join her on the morrow, was remembering again what she had long told herself to forget: her happy times with Jack.

She was once more on the banks of the Potomac, laughing with him in the sun; in the bazaar where he had first shown open distaste for Sophie and his preference for her; her head on his breast when they were fleeing from the battlefield at Manassas, and finally, on their last day together, locked in his arms, happy and secure in his love.

So what had gone wrong? Had he met someone else in New York? Did he regret having made love to a plain old maid in her late twenties? All those thoughts, which had plagued her nearly two years ago when his desertion of her had become evident, were revived.

Remembering their joyful days together had made her smile; remembering those other lonely ones,
when she had been awaiting Cobie's birth, made her sad again.

Susanna, happy to be at the farm, her favourite place, ran up to her and asked anxiously, ‘Why are you crying, Mama? Have Cobie and I done something wrong?'

Marietta looked across to where Cobie sat on the polished wood floor, patiently building a small tower of bricks.

‘No,' she told Susanna who, from the first moment she had met her, had been happy to accept Marietta as a replacement for the mother she had lost. ‘No, my darling. I was thinking sad thoughts about a time before I married your dear papa. You and Cobie are my treasures, and you are both so well-behaved that Aunt Percival thinks that there must be something wrong with you!'

This mild joke set Susanna laughing, and what amused Susanna always amused Cobie, too. He looked across at them, and joined in without any notion of what his mama and his dear sister found so funny. He looked so delighted with life that Marietta went over to him to take him on to her knee to play some of the games which she remembered enjoying with her own mother, long ago.

‘Bedtime soon,' she said, at which Cobie pulled a face: he thought bed a waste of time which could be better employed doing things.

Susanna said earnestly, ‘Not yet—one more game, dear Mama.'

Who could resist such a plea? Certainly Marietta
couldn't, and all three were soon enjoying themselves hugely when there was a bustle outside.

‘Now, who can that be, calling at this time of night?' asked Marietta, rising and replacing Cobie before his bricks.

It was, of all people, Aunt Percival, white-faced and agitated-looking.

‘Goodness, Aunt, what possessed you to travel at this late hour?' said Marietta. ‘I didn't expect you until tomorrow lunch at the earliest.'

‘I came because it was important that I saw you as soon as possible,' said her aunt, walking forward and taking Marietta's hands in hers. ‘Let their nurse put the children to bed tonight, my love. We have much to talk of.'

More than one person connected with Marietta Grant and Jack Dilhorne was in a state of distress that night.

Sophie Hope, dressing for the reception at the White House, stared at her face in the mirror and recognised an unfortunate truth. Once it had been her favourite occupation to admire herself there, but now what she could see reflected in its depths gave her no pleasure at all. Her delicate beauty was beginning to fade and, since she had started to eat to comfort herself for her lack of social success, she had begun to grow fat.

At least, though, Marietta would not be there. Her mother had told her that morning that she had gone back to Bethesda so she would be spared the sight
of people being sorry for her, and having to express herself a sympathy which she did not feel.

Carver Massingham would be waiting for her at the Reception. He might be a coarse brute, but at least he was attentive, she would say that for him, if nothing else, and since no one more attractive had lately shown any interest in her, he would have to do—for the time being, at least. How hateful, though, that she was reduced to depending on him! He was middle-aged and vulgar, a widower looking for a second wife, a man of no family, made wealthy by the war, and in the new world which Washington had become since 1861, all doors were open to him. He aspired to marry Sophie Hope, whom a few short years ago he would never have met.

She was beginning to regret having burned Jack and Marietta's letters. Not because it was wrong to have done so, since remorse did not exist in her world, but because, had they married, Jack would have taken Marietta away. Then she might have married Avory, and she would not feel so bad-tempered all the time. Of course, Avory's being killed would have been a nuisance: it would have left her a widow, and missing all the fun.

She picked up her fan, and went downstairs to where her parents were waiting for her. They didn't approve of Carver and had told her so, but pooh to all that, a girl must have her beaux and he would do until a better came along. Perhaps it might even be Jack! She had heard that he was back in Washington.
Who knows? She might even yet be Mrs Jack Dilhorne. That would be one in the eye for Plain Jane, and no mistake!

Carver Massingham was brooding, too, while he dressed for the reception at which he was determined that, one way or another, he would trap Sophie Hope into becoming his wife and so finally transcend his poor white origins. Marrying her would set the seal on his rise from ragged farm boy, and later minor storekeeper, to become one of the new moneyed class of robber barons which the Civil War was creating.

But that was the beauty of these United States. Only here could an able, ruthless man rise so rapidly if he were prepared to work hard and take his chances. He was certain that his rise had not yet ended—would not end, indeed, until he had reached the seats of power in the Capitol itself, and his wife, a member of one of the First Families, would be a trophy to sit beside him there.

He was as shrewd over women as he was over everything else. He had soon found out why pretty Sophie was still a spinster. She had a vicious tongue, and an uncertain temper and, as she grew older and more desperate, she increasingly betrayed them both to him and the rest of the world.

Oh, he knew that Sophie had no intention of marrying him. He was her bear, to be led and patronised, to carry her fan, to fetch her ices and lemonade until a better man came along to claim her. Alas, her reputation ran before her and better was unlikely to ar
rive. Give him half a chance and she would find herself married to a man whom she did not want. Then she would find out who was master and she would pay—both on her back and off it—for every careless insult she had offered to him.

He was patient and prepared to wait until an opportunity presented itself, and then this over-ripe fruit would fall into the bear's paw, and he would eat it, slowly, slowly, never mind that it had withered a little before it fell…

‘Aunt Percival, whatever is the matter?' Marietta asked, nay, demanded, when she had sent the children to bed and her aunt had been given some strong coffee to drink. ‘I have seldom seen you so distressed.'

She did not add that it was unlike her to treat both Susanna and Cobie with such indifference, preferring, instead of playing with them, to half-lie on the sofa. She drank her coffee as though her life depended on it, after assuring Marietta that, although she had not eaten anything since early morning, she wanted nothing in the way of a meal.

So although Cobie cried for his aunt to kiss him good-night in his bed, she refused, for once, and lay, blank-faced, in the comfortable parlour with its polished wood floor, hooked rugs, and simple furniture. Everything at the farm was quite unlike the elegant formality of Marietta's town house. It was a room for children to play in and enjoy, as Cobie and Susanna frequently did.

‘First of all, Marietta, let me remind you, although I don't think that you need reminding, that Jack Dilhorne has returned to Washington.'

‘Yes,' said Marietta simply, wondering what was coming next. ‘I saw him at the Van Deusens' reception, but I did not speak to him other than to make it plain that I wanted nothing to do with him. I came to Bethesda because I wished to avoid meeting him again, and also to prevent him from seeing Cobie.'

‘You know I sent him away with a flea in his ear, hoping that would be the last of him. Today, however, when I was readying myself to close the house before joining you here, he called again and compelled me to speak to him—which I had vowed I would never do.

‘He had the impudence to claim that he had never abandoned you, or betrayed you. That, on the contrary,
you
had abandoned
him
, had never answered his letters. Indeed, he said that he had never received one from you.'

‘How could he say such a thing?' exclaimed Marietta. ‘I would not have thought him capable of such a gross lie.'

‘Nor I,' said Aunt Percival, ‘but let me finish. On neither occasion did I inform him of Cobie's existence, but I expect he will find that out when he visits you, as he surely will.'

She paused and gazed steadily at Marietta's white, shocked face. ‘I fear that there is worse to come, for so you will think it. That is how matters stood to begin with. When I told him that he lied, and that
you had received no letters from him, I shut the door in his face. In the moment that I did so, I saw his expression change dramatically.

‘Marietta, I swear to you that I have seldom seen a man look so shocked. His look of shocked incomprehension has stayed with me all day, and made me regret that I was so short with him. I could not believe, on mature reflection, that such a look, such an expression of pain—and disbelief—could be anything other than genuine. I swear to you that from that moment on I began to consider that he might be telling the truth. And, if he were, what could the explanation be of such a strange event if you were
both
writing letters to one another and yet
neither
of you received any?'

‘A trick which might baffle a stage magician,' said Marietta drily.

‘Indeed, and all the way to the farm I tried to remember what exactly had happened after he left Washington two years ago. You see, it was always you who looked after the Senator's mail as it went in and out of the house, so if any letters had arrived from Jack you would have been sure to see them—and also to make sure that your letters went out with the post.

‘And then I remembered something else. You began to suffer from morning sickness almost from the moment of Cobie's conception. You were put to bed on the doctor's instructions, and Sophie, of all people, volunteered to look after the mail, did she not?
She continued to do so until the morning of your father's death.

‘So it follows that
she
would see your letters going out and Jack's coming in, does it not…?'

‘Aunt, what are you trying to tell me? That Sophie saw our letters, and destroyed them, out of spite? That she not only destroyed them, but destroyed our happiness, too—and made poor Cobie…'

Marietta could not go on. Her face crumpled and she gave a swift, stifled sob. The stoicism, which had had enabled her to carry on her life since Jack had apparently deserted her as though nothing untoward had happened, was under attack.

‘Oh, Aunt,' she finally achieved—Aunt Percival was looking at her, herself rendered silent by what she thought she might have discovered—‘can this possibly be true? Do you really believe what you are telling me? Could even Sophie be so wicked?'

‘Yes,' said Aunt Percival, pulling herself together. ‘If we believe that Jack is telling the truth, and I think we must, then what follows is that we know that your letters to him were placed with the outgoing mail in your father's study. There can be no doubt of that—and then they disappear, as do his incoming ones. Who else but Sophie could have handled them, and destroyed them?

‘But, Marietta, I fear that I have worse than that to tell you…'

‘There cannot be worse than that, Aunt. For she has destroyed Jack and me completely…'

‘Oh, but there is,' exclaimed Aunt Percival, recov
ering her usual trenchant manner which had disappeared when she was telling Marietta of her dreadful suspicions. ‘Do you remember the nature of your father's death? So sudden, when he was alone in his study with Sophie? Do you remember how extravagantly she behaved? Such screaming and such hysterics as were never seen before—and she did not even like your father, or he her. Such a how-do-you-do she made, as was never heard before.

‘And where did he fall? I shall never forget how we found him—on the rug, before the fire. His hand was stretched out towards it, the poker in his hand. I think now that he must have discovered Sophie burning one of Jack's letters, and the shock was too much for his poor, weak heart. You see, my darling, if we accept that Jack is telling the truth, then everything we thought we knew changes. Yes, I believe that the Senator found her at her wicked work. What was worse, I think that she might have destroyed his last letter to you. For when Sophie left and you took over the mail again, he must, in despair, have stopped writing—as you did.'

‘No,' said Marietta, ‘I don't want to believe it—even of Sophie…' And then she fell silent, remembering all the dreadful words Sophie had flung at her, often in front of others, and of what both Charles Stanton and Avory had told her—that she must be wary of her cousin. Avory, indeed, had refused to have her in the house.

‘Oh,' she finally said, the tears running down her face. ‘If you are right, think of my poor Jack and of
how much he must have suffered.' She was thinking that he must have felt exactly as she had done—betrayed and cheated, their love a lie.

‘Oh, the wasted, wasted years, and, oh, my poor little boy, left without his true father and with no real surname until Avory gave him one. Oh, what must Jack be feeling, have felt? What will he think when he discovers that he has been for the last seventeen months the father of a boy whom he has never met, of whose early years he has been deprived?'