Nan Ryan (13 page)

“Sam. My Sam,” she gasped, and pushing the screen door open, she ran out onto the porch, down the steps, and across the soggy yard. “Sam!” she shouted jubilantly.

Sam hurried to meet her, sweeping her off her feet and whirling her around while she laughed and clung to his neck and thought she might surely burst with happiness. And when finally her nephew put her down, Miss Annabelle turned at once to the tall dark boy and said, “Forgive my rudeness, Lieutenant, but I’ve not seen my nephew for months. I’m Annabelle Delaney.”

The soldier took her wet hand. “Ma’am, John Roulette. I’m very pleased to meet you.” Then gallantly he swept from his wide shoulders the gray caped cloak and swirled it around her slender frame.

Johnny laughed when Sam again swept his aunt up into his arms and dashed madly for the house, with Miss Annabelle calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Lieutenant Roulette! Get inside, out of this rain.”

The boys—and they were boys, Sam not quite eighteen, Johnny Roulette a tender sixteen—spent three lazy pleasant days at the Delaney mansion with Miss Annabelle, and by the time they left she’d grown almost as fond of Johnny Roulette as she was of her beloved nephew. Johnny came home with Sam a couple more times during the war and was wonderfully entertaining company, although not once did he speak of his own home and family, and Miss Annabelle astutely surmised that the dark young man was a stranger to love. Still, he corresponded with Miss Annabelle from the front. And when Sam was killed in the war’s waning days outside Shreveport, the last capital of the Confederacy, it was Johnny Roulette who wrote her the sad news.

When the war ended, Johnny immediately came downriver to call on Miss Annabelle. Thin and haggard, the tall dark man held Miss Annabelle’s frail hands in his big ones and smiled down at her when she said, “Why, it’s Cap’n Roulette now, is it?” And tears glistened in her eyes.

Johnny answered all Miss Annabelle’s anguished questions about her lost nephew with the candor he knew she appreciated. When it was time for him to leave her, he offered her money, all that he had. She declined. She was, she reminded him, a Delaney. A Louisiana Delaney could not accept charity, not even from him.

“But please, Cap’n Roulette, keep in touch,” she had requested when he reluctantly left her there alone with only a handful of faithful old servants.

“Count on it, Miss Annabelle,” he said,, and meant it.

Johnny had kept his word. Although it was months between his much-read letters, Miss Annabelle knew he had never forgotten her. On a half-dozen occasions through the years he had come to see her. She looked forward to his letters and occasional visits and that kept her going.

It was enough.

Enough to make her feel as though she was not entirely abandoned in a world that no longer resembled the one in which she had been reared.

Loud laughter and shouting pulled Miss Annabelle from her reveries and instinctively she shuddered slightly. The distracting cacophony meant it was nearing eight o’clock and that the Morgan children—all eight of them—would be invading her private domain for the next five hours.

Miss Annabelle was allowed to live in the gatehouse and earn her keep by tutoring Carl and Betsy Morgan’s offspring. The bargain had been struck when the big burly ex-logger and his flamboyantly dressed wife had bought the Delaney mansion directly after the war and moved in.

There had been only three Morgan children at that time. Six-year-old Frank, five-year-old Cal, and three-year-old Mary. Now there were eight, ranging in age from four-year-old Patsy to Frank, now eighteen. And not a scholar in the bunch.

Carl and Betsy Morgan insisted that their children receive an education but refused to allow Miss Annabelle to discipline the unruly bunch, so teaching them anything was next to impossible. It did no good for Miss Annabelle to try and talk with their parents about the problem. Carl Morgan, more afternoons than not, could be found sound asleep on the veranda wearing nothing but his underwear. A coarse, loud man, Carl’s main interest was the bottle. He enjoyed drinking the mornings away, then sleeping through the long, still afternoons, rousing around supper-time to start drinking again.

Happy in the way only those can be who don’t waste one minute pondering life and its meaning, Betsy filled her time with the supreme pleasure of shopping for, buying, and wearing new clothes. She loved bright colors and flounces and ribbons and ruffles and laces. She choose youthful, fussy frocks with low, daring bodices and skirts skintight down to her dimpled knees. Every garment she picked emphasized her enormous bosom and broad bottom, but Betsy thought she looked voluptuous, because her drunken husband told her she did. The fact that his vision was usually whiskey-clouded never entered Betsy’s happy head.

No, Miss Annabelle couldn’t go to either parent with her problems regarding the children. She could only do her best to instruct and instill in the youngsters the values she felt were important.

Standing at the door where she waited for the children, Miss Annabelle saw Frank and Cal nearing the cottage and she drew a long, calming breath. The boys were already as tall as their father. And like their father they were surly, rude, and vulgar.

She had ordered them to wear shirts when they came down for their lessons, but they had paid her no mind. Again this morning they were naked to the waist. As they stepped past her into the gatehouse Frank gave her a sneering smile and pointedly scratched at his hairy belly, daring her to say something.

She didn’t.

In truth, Frank frightened her. So did Cal. They were headed for trouble and there was no mistake about it. She would, she mentally noted, again tell Betsy Morgan that in her opinion the two oldest boys had had enough schooling.

Johnny had no idea why Nevada was so quiet at breakfast the next morning. Or why she refused to eat He asked if she was sick.

She shook her head.

He asked if she was angry about something.

Again she shook her head.

He asked if she had changed her mind and didn’t want to go with him to Baton Rouge and then on to London.

She finally answered.

“I want to go with you, Johnny, but not if … if …”

“If what?”

Nevada’s delicate jaw hardened. “Just what went on in your cabin last night with Mrs. Harrison? Answer me that!” Her blue eyes flashed fire at him. “Don’t try denying it. I saw you take a man’s wife into your stateroom and I think it’s downright disgusting and if I were you I’d be ashamed and just what have you got to say for yourself, Mr. Johnny Roulette?”

Calmly, slowly, Johnny chewed his food, swallowed, picked up his cup, took a drink of black coffee, then patted his mouth with a napkin. Leaning forward, placing a forearm on the table’s edge, he said, “That’s it I’ve had enough. Get your things together.”

Fear instantly gripped Nevada’s heart “Get my … why … where are we going?”

“Not
we. You
. You’re the one who’s going. Back to Memphis. Back to the
Gambler
, if you like.”

“No! I want to stay with you.”

“That’s your hard luck.” His dark eyes were cold.

“I’m your good-luck charm, Johnny Roulette. You won’t win without me. You’ll be broke.”

“Yes, well, I’d rather be broke than have to account for my every move.”

“I won’t do it anymore.”

“You can’t help yourself, Nevada.”

“I can. I don’t care whose wife you take to … I mean …” She caught herself; her words trailed off.

Johnny lifted his hand to idly stroke the left side of his mustache. “Mrs. Harrison is a widow. But even if she were not I would have taken her to my stateroom if she wished to go. I’ve told you, Nevada, I’m not the kind of man a lady should love. I’m no gentleman.”

“And I’m no lady. You said so yourself. So I am going to love you.”

He said, “No, I won’t allow it” He added, “Besides, we are going to make you into a fine lady and then I won’t be good enough for you.” Johnny pushed back his chair. “So what’s it going to be? On to Baton Rouge with me and no more inquisitions? Or back to Memphis alone?”

“Baton Rouge with you.”

“Fine. We should touch there by noon.”

It was nearing noon and the end of another session of school at Miss Annabelle’s gatehouse on the river. The Morgan children had been more unmanageable than usual and Miss Annabelle had developed a frightful headache.

“Alex, stop that!” She dodged a spitball. “Benny, William, you boys sit back down!”

“Ma said we don’t have to mind you,” William shouted.

“William’s right,” said Frank, propping his feet on the cherrywood table and lacing his hands behind his head. “You’re too bossy for a woman. No wonder you never could get a man.” He laughed and Cal, seated beside him, laughed too.

Then Cal, rising, reached a big dirty hand out to the mantel where Miss Annabelle’s matched porcelain vases rested. He chuckled evilly when he saw her face turn white and she drew in her breath.

“What’s wrong, old maid? You afraid I might drop your fancy vase?” Cal picked the vase up and Miss Annabelle’s eyes closed when he said, “Hey, kids, catch!” He tossed the vase in the general direction of ten-year-old Alex, who had started toward the front door. Alex put out his hands but missed. The vase struck the floor and shattered on the worn carpet.

“Dear me, no!” Miss Annabelle said, and hurried forward, falling to her knees to gather up the shards of china.

Frank motioned to Cal to hand him the broken vase’s mate. Cal, sure his brother meant to break it, nodded eagerly and placed the vase in Frank’s big hand. Frank swung his long legs down from the table and stood up. He crossed the room to where the distraught Miss Annabelle was on her hands and knees.

He stopped right in front of her. His shadow fell across her face. Slowly she lifted her head to look up at him. He stood, his feet apart, grinning down at her, the vase gripped in his right hand.

“No,” she said softly, shaking her graying head, her eyes imploring him not to do it.

“No, what, teacher?”

“Don’t break it. Please, Frank.”

“Break it? Why, I wouldn’t do that to your precious vase,” he said. “No, sireee, I wouldn’t do that. Know what I
am
going to do with it, Miz Annabelle, ma’am?”

“N-no,” she said, looking up at him.

All the children grew deathly quiet. Frank’s free hand went to the buttons of his pants. He flipped the top one open, then the second. “I’m gonna piss right into your fine …”

The sentence was never finished. An expression of shock and fear came into Frank Morgan’s eyes as a strong, choking arm clamped around his neck and a brown hand reached out and helped Miss Annabelle to her feet and a deep, sure voice said, “Carefully hand the vase to Miss Annabelle. Then apologize for your crudeness.” The imprisoning arm slackened slightly.

“I—I … apologize for my crudeness, Miss Annabelle,” said Frank, handing her the vase and wondering who the big man standing behind him was.

“School’s dismissed,” said Johnny Roulette, his expression daring any of them to make a peep.

13

Smiling, Miss Annabelle watched Johnny admiringly. He was bigger, handsomer than she had remembered, and so overwhelmingly masculine. His tanned face, with its high cheekbones and strong, finely sculptured jaw and coal-black mustache, had lost its youthful innocence. His broad-shouldered lean frame was sleek and powerful. All traces of the boyish Johnny she had known during the war were gone.

He was a mature man.

Miss Annabelle’s eyes left Johnny and settled on the lovely young girl beside him. Extraordinarily beautiful, she had the blackest hair and the bluest eyes Miss Annabelle had ever seen. Dressed tastefully, her small, slender form revealed gentle feminine curves, but she was clearly still just a girl. Without the poise, the calm self-assurance, of a worldly woman.

An inexperienced girl.

As soon as the last Morgan child trooped past Johnny, his face softened and his firm mouth stretched into a wide, winning grin and he stepped forward, extending his big right hand. “Miss Annabelle, how are you, dear lady?”

Clutching the vase tightly to her breasts, she laid her trembling hand in his and felt the strong fingers close around her own.

“Wonderful, now that you are hare, Cap’n Roulette.” And she closed her eyes and blushed like a young girl when he bent and kissed her pale cheek, his thick silky mustache tickling her pleasantly.

Wrapping a long arm around her shoulders, Johnny pulled her close and said to the slender woman whose pale blond hair was beginning to turn gray, “Miss Annabelle, I’ve brought a friend with me.” He introduced the two, noted their immediate unspoken acceptance of each other, and thanked the fates for small favors.

Within half an hour of their arrival Johnny was leaning far back in his chair, his long body stretched out, smilingly watching while the excited Miss Annabelle rushed about, packing her meager belongings with Nevada’s help.

Johnny was amazed by the rapidity with which she had agreed to his proposal to accompany them to England as chaperon and tutor to Nevada. When he brought up the subject he had been quick to tell her he’d give her some time to make up her mind.