Morning Song (13 page)

"And I told you that Graydon's handled everything at Bascomb Hall for the past six years. He's experienced, for God's sake. You're just being difficult to get back at me."

"I think this discussion would be better finished in private, don't you?" Stuart's tone was still pleasant, but his eyes were suddenly as hard as steel. Celia flashed him an almost hating look.

"I'm going to go lie down. My head hurts. If you had any sensitivity at all, you wouldn't have asked me to travel in such heat."

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Without waiting for a reply, Celia walked into the house, removing her hat and calling in a fretful voice for Minna as she went.

Jessie looked at Stuart with a combination of surprise and heightened respect. She didn't know how he'd managed it, but there was already no doubt about who was running that marriage. As hell-bent on having her own way as she knew Celia to be, to get the upper hand so quickly must have required some doing on his part.

"Hello, Jessie." Stuart watched Celia go, then turned to smile rather wearily at Jessie.

"Hello." Her answering smile was shy. Then, feeling she had to say something to ease the tension that still lingered in Celia's wake, she offered: "Celia's always been a poor traveler."

"Many ladies are, I believe." His answer was perfectly bland, but it couldn't have been more plain that he didn't care to discuss the subject. Then his eyes moved to Tudi. "And you're ....'?"

"Tudi, Mr. Edwards, sir." Tudi had stood up respectfully as her new master had climbed the steps. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the mending she had been working on bright against the white of her apron. Her eyes had been discreetly lowered during his exchange with Celia. She lifted them now to look him full in the face. Her tone was respectful, but no more. Tudi was a slave, but she was also a force to be reckoned with at Mimosa.

"Tudi. I'll remember in future." His faint smile acknowledged her importance. Then his eyes swung back to Jessie. "Jessie, this is Graydon Bradshaw. He's Celia's cousin, and Mimosa's new overseer. Graydon, this is Miss Jessica Lindsay, Celia's stepdaughter." 108

"How d'ya do, Miss Lindsay?" Graydon Bradshaw bowed in Jessie's direction. Jessie, instinctively wary of any cousin of Celia's, merely nodded by way of reply.

Stuart looked at Tudi again. "Is there someone who can take Mr. Bradshaw to the overseer's house and help him settle in?" If he was hoping to get on Tudi's good side, then he was going about it the right way, Jessie thought, faintly amused. His tone was almost deferential.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Edwards. I'll have Charity do it. She used to see to Mr. Brantley." Tudi's eyes widened as this last slipped out. From her suddenly self-conscious look, it was clear she felt that she might have said the wrong thing.

But if he noticed anything amiss, Stuart gave no sign of it.

"That'll be fine." He nodded. Dropping her mending in the basket by the chair, Tudi turned to Graydon Bradshaw.

"If you'll follow me, Mr. Bradshaw."

"It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," Bradshaw said as he left, and Jessie nodded again.

Left alone with Stuart, Jessie felt suddenly awkward. After all, it was possible that their newborn friendship had not survived what had obviously been a rigorous honeymoon.

"God, it's hot," he said, dropping into a chair. "Hell couldn't be hotter than Mississippi in the summer."

He took off his elegant hat and fanned himself, his eyes on the baggage which Thomas and Fred, the other yard boy, were hauling out of the buggy and piling on the grass near the drive.

"It's not nearly as hot as it will be in August."

"God forbid," he said piously, and they both laughed. Then, still smiling, he looked up at her where she perched on the porch rail.

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"And what have you been doing with yourself these past weeks?"

"Nothing much. Riding. And playing with Jasper, mostly."

"Jasper?"

"My dog."

"You don't mean that that enormous, flea-bitten hound I've seen hanging around the stable belongs to you, do you?"

'He's not flea-bitten!" In defense of her pet, her tone was indignant. Stuart grinned.

"But you admit to everything else. Don't look so het up. I like dogs."

"Oh." For a minute there, she had been afraid he was an animal hater like Celia. Of course, she should have known that he wouldn't be. The friend whose acquaintance she had made that night in the garden at Tulip Hill couldn't dislike dogs.

"I brought you a present." He tossed the words at her casually, but his eyes were smiling as they watched for her reaction.

"You—what?" To say that his words were unexpected was an understatement. Not since her father died had anyone but the servants thought to give Jessie a present. Her eyes went wide.

"Did you really?"

"Cross my heart."

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "Wouldn't you rather wait and see it? It's in with the baggage. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, it's in the box those boys just lifted out from under the seat."

"Oh, can I go look?" She practically clapped her hands with excitement. Stuart regarded her indulgently.

"Go get the box, and open it up here where I can watch." 110

Jessie didn't need any second telling. She flew down the stairs, practically running despite the heat, and hovered over the box for a delicious instant before lifting it into her arms. It was a large box, and flat, but not particularly heavy.

What could it be?

Her steps were slower as she climbed back up to the gallery, where he waited, smiling. Anticipation was a sensation that was as new as it was pleasant.

"Well, go on, open it," Stuart directed impatiently as Jessie set the box on the floor and knelt beside it, admiring its gay silver ribbon.

She looked up at him then, a shy smiling look, and slid the ribbon off one end of the box.

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Jessie lifted the lid off the box, then sat motionless for a moment staring at the contents. What lay within was folded, so that she couldn't be sure, but it appeared to be an afternoon dress. She touched it almost hesitantly. The material was the finest India muslin, and the color was a soft primrose yellow.

"Take it out and look at it," Stuart said. He was rocking a little in the chair, smiling as he watched her hover over her present. Jessie lifted the dress from its box and stood with it, holding it out at arm's length so that she could see it better. It had a simple, fitted bodice with short puffed sleeves and a modest neckline that nevertheless would leave most of the wearer's shoulders bare. The waist was fitted, and below the waist the skirt formed a bell 111

shape that ended in a single flounce of cream-colored lace. More lace edged the sleeves.

"The sash is in the box," Stuart said. Jessie looked down to behold a cream satin sash that must have been six feet long still folded into the box. She looked from the sash to the dress and then over at Stuart.

"Well?" he asked, though from the grin that lurked around his mouth he already knew the answer.

"It's beautiful. Thank you. I never expected—you didn't have to bring me a present." This last was almost gruff.

"I know I didn't have to. I wanted to. After all, we're family now. Besides, the dress is as much from Celia as from me." Jessie knew that wasn't true. Celia went on trips several times a year and had never yet brought her back so much as a hair ribbon. The idea that Celia would remember her unloved stepdaughter on her honeymoon was ludicrous. But she didn't say so. Hard as it was to remember, Celia was now Stuart's wife. If he had not liked hearing the unpleasant truth about her before, he would undoubtedly resent it more now. And she didn't want to make Stuart mad at her. More and more, Jessie was beginning to realize how starved she had been these past years for a friend.

"Wherever did you get it?" Jessie didn't reply to his last statement directly. Instead she looked at the dress again. It really was gorgeous. If only it looked half as lovely on her as it did by itself. . . .

"In Jackson. Celia took me through so many shops that I couldn't tell you which one."

"How did you know how—how big to tell them?" The awful suspicion that the garment would be too small occurred to Jessie. If Celia had really had any say in its ordering, it certainly would 112

be. Giving Jessie a lovely present that she couldn't possibly wear was just the kind of thing Celia would do. Of course, unless the fit was impossible, Sissie could always let it out.

"I told the dressmaker that you were yea big—" Stuart demonstrated a certain height and girth with his hands, grinning widely as Jessie, watching, turned pink. "No, I didn't. Actually, though I hesitate to admit it to a young lady of your tender years, I'm a pretty fair judge of female sizes."

"From experience, I take it?" Jessie responded with spirit, refusing to surrender to his teasing despite her blush. Stuart leaned back in his chair without answering, but his knowing look was all the answer Jessie needed. Her straight little nose lifted reprovingly, and she turned her attention back to the dress. Reversing it, she held it close to her body with her arm pressed against its waist to approximate the manner in which it would be worn. In length, if in nothing else, it looked as if it would fit. Perhaps if Tudi put insets in the sides . . .

" 'Scuse me, Massah Edwards, but where you wantin' me to be puttin' your things?" The speaker was Thomas. He stood at the top of the stairs, a valise in each hand. More luggage was piled at the bottom. Fred had vanished with the carriage. Jessie wondered, amused, how Thomas had managed to get the coveted task of carrying in the bags. She was pretty sure that Thomas would find his way to the cookhouse before the job was done, where Rosa would reward him for his hard work with a slice of whatever pie she had on hand. Both boys had notorious sweet tooths, and once Fred had even gone so far as to steal and eat a whole pound of sugar. He'd been punished, of course, but the bellyache he'd suffered as a result of his misdeed had been far worse than the whipping Rosa had given him.

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"In Miss Celia's room. Get somebody to show you if you don't know where it is."

"Oh, I know." Thomas grinned. "I know every-thin' about this here house. I was born down in the front hall."

"Were you really?" Stuart sounded suitably impressed.

"Yes, he really was. Rosa—she's our cook—is his mother, and she couldn't make it to the infirmary in time. This is Thomas." Jessie performed the introduction as an afterthought. Thomas bobbed his head.

"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Thomas. Since you know where to put the bags, you can take them on in."

"Yes, suh. In Miss Celia's room." Thomas, his slight body bearing up manfully under his load, maneuvered through the door to the house and disappeared. Stuart's attention turned back to Jessie. "Go try it on."

"Oh, I . . ." she demurred, suddenly afraid that the dress would be too small and she would have to admit as much to him. She would die of embarrassment.

"Go on. Scat. Or you'll make me think you don't like my present."

"I do! Of course I do!"

Jessie knew when she was defeated. Gathering up the box and the sash, with about as much pleasure as she might have a rope with which to hang herself, she turned toward the door.

"Come back here and let me see it when you get it on," he called after her as she went inside. Jessie didn't answer. If the dress looked dreadful, wild horses couldn't drag her out where he could see her.

Despite Jessie's fears, the dress turned out to be a reasonable fit. Apparently Stuart really had a great deal of experience in judging 114

women's sizes. Oh, it was a trifle snug through the waist, but Sissie, whom Jessie had summoned to assist her, assured her that that was because it was designed to be worn with stays. Jessie hated the only pair of stays she possessed worse than she hated poison ivy, but under the circumstances . . . She struggled out of the dress and let Sissie lace her into the stays.

"Take a deep breath," Sissie instructed, her fingers twined in the laces. Jessie did. Sissie jerked so hard that Jessie thought her ribs might break.

"I can't breathe!" Jessie moaned, but Sissie was having none of that. She yanked on the laces again, then tied them in a knot so tight that Jessie feared she'd suffocate if she wore the stays for longer than a few minutes.

"Now let's put on that dress," Sissie said mili-tantly, gathering it up. Flinging it over Jessie's head, she pulled the skirt down and twitched the bodice into place. Then she did up the hooks that fastened the back. Finally she came around in front of Jessie to adjust the neckline, and tied the sash in a big bow in the back. Only then was Jessie permitted to stand in front of the cheval glass.

The young lady she saw looking back at her was a revelation. She was certainly tall, but not by any stretch of the imagination could she be described as fat. She was full-bosomed, yes, and round of hip, but with the constriction of her waist the effect was nothing short of femininely voluptuous. Instead of digging into her flesh around the edge of sleeves and neckline, as most of her too-small summer dresses did, the sleeves and neckline of this dress gently hugged her curves. Without the little rolls caused by too-tight sleeves, her arms looked enticingly firm. And her bosom—in every other dress she possessed it was either smashed 115

flat or pushed up so that it spilled over. Neither effect was particularly attractive. But in this dress her bosom looked soft and shapely, full but not overfull.

"Sissie—Sissie, what do you think?" Jessie croaked, staring at herself as if she were afraid that the young lady in the mirror might turn out to be a mirage, and vanish as soon as she looked away.

"Why, Miss Jessie, who woulda thought it? You look real pretty," Sissie breathed, staring at Jessie's reflection with the same wide-eyed awe that was on Jessie's face. "Real pretty." There was no mistaking Sissie's sincerity. Jessie ran her eyes over the young lady in the mirror again, still not quite convinced that what she saw was not some trick of wishful thinking—or of the light.