They call her Dana (38 page)

"You're awful, Delia."

"Actually, dear, I am, rather," she agreed.

Delia went up to her room to change for her visit. Kayla and I were going to mend some curtains this morning, and I started down the back hall toward the sewing room. As I passed a narrow corridor branching off the hall, an arm flew out, seizing me. A hand clamped over my mouth, smothering my cry. I had a moment of sheer terror until I heard Charies's voice speaking quietly into my ear, telling me to be calm, there was nothing to fear. Slowly he removed his hand from my mouth and turned me around.

"You scared the life out of me!" I exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down."

"I thought you'd already gone."

"I waited. I wanted to speak to you."

"My heart is still pounding. Really, Charles, you—you're lucky I didn't stomp on your foot and drive my elbow into your stomach and—and then do some real damage."

A smile flickered on his lips. "It seems to me I've won all the wrestling matches we've had."

"That's because I wanted you to win."

He brushed a wave from my cheek and let his hand linger for a moment on my hair. Littie sunlight penetrated this part of the house, and the corridor was dim and hazy. His handsome face was softly brushed with shadow, his cheekbones prominent, a heavy wave dipping over his brow. His eyes glowed darkly. I saw desire smoldering in them, but I could not see love. There was a vast difference. I loved him with all my heart and soul, but after all our nights together, I still wasn't sure how he felt, about me. He never spoke of his feelings, was reserved and

rather withdrawn except in the actual act of love, and then he was splendidly abandoned.

"What—what did you want to speak to me about?" I asked.

"I wanted to warn you. We must be even more careful now."

"I—I realize that."

"You looked hurt when I left the breakfast table. I—don't want to hurt you, Dana, but no one must suspect. Delia is much shrewder and far more observant than anyone gives her credit for being."

"I know."

"If I had any sense at all, I would give you up," he said, and he seemed to be speaking to himself. "I'm not very happy with myself or with what's happened, but. . ."He hesitated, frowning.

"I—I'm glad it happened."

"You're eighteen years old, Dana. I don't expect you to understand what I feel."

We heard footsteps coming down the back hall. Charles stiffened and then quickly drew me into the shadowy recess of a doorway farther down the corridor, cupping a hand over my mouth again. We saw Pompey pass by a few moments later, and Charles didn't let me go until the sound of his footsteps had died away completely. I hated this furtiveness. I hated this deception. My heart was full of love, and I wanted the whole world to know, but I knew that wasn't possible. I knew we must keep it a secret, at least ... at least for the present.

"He—he didn't see us," I whispered.

"I must be out of my mind taking a risk like this," he said, and again he seemed to be speaking to himself. ' 'I must go now, Dana. Jasper is waiting out front. Remember what I said—we must be very careful."

I nodded. I hoped he would kiss me. He didn't.

Later on, in the small sunny sewing room in back of the house, I sat with Kay la, diligently trying to help her with the mending. A luscious yellow satin drape was spread over my knees and flowing over the floor like a glossy pool as I worked with needle and thread, tacking the hem. I wasn't very good at it, and my mind really wasn't on the task. Kayla hummed to herself as she mended a linen tablecloth, her stitches so tiny and neat you would hardly be able to tell it had been patched. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and there were a number

of potted green plants which created a pleasant atmosphere. The large worktable was piled high with various things that needed to be mended, a vivid magpie's nest of whites and colors.

I thought about Charles, and I thought about love. How little I had known of life before. How naive I had been. During these past months I had devoured dozens of romantic novels, but how little I had actually understood as I turned those turbulent pages. In a love affair, George Sand wrote, there was one who loved and one who is loved. I had thought that a clever, rather cynical observation when I read it, but now I knew the truth of it. I loved. Charies was loved. For a woman, Madame Sand continued, love is everything, her reason for being. For a man, love is but a pleasant diversion from his main concern, making a living. Charies certainly gave more thought to business matters than he did to me.

Madame Sand, I knew, was a notorious creature who elected to live her life with the freedom of a man, taking lovers as freely as men took mistresses, sometimes even donning trousers and top hat in order to gain entry to cafes open to her male friends but closed to women. Scandalous she might be, but no one knew the human heart so well, and no one wrote of it with such insight. The worldly wisdom in her books might give me guidelines and help me understand the mysteries of the heart, but nothing could still the doubts and fears that so frequently besieged me when I was not in his arms. Love was a glorious awakening, yes, but it almost made you extremely vulnerable.

"Damn!" I exclaimed.

"You'se pricked your finger, Miz Dana!"

"It's my own fault. I wasn't paying attention."

"It ain't easy, is it?"

"I never was good with needle and thread."

"That ain't what I mean. I mean it ain't easy bein' in love."

I looked at her. Kayla made another neat stitch, deftly drawing the needle through the fine white linen.

"You know," I said.

"Course I does. Them sheets you cleaned, Miz Dana—you didn't do a very good job on 'em. I had to use lye soap and lemon juice to get them bloodstains out completely. I ain't told no one, Miz Dana."

"I'm almost glad you know. At least now I can talk to someone about it."

*'rd a knovved even if I hadn't seen them sheets. You got that bloom lovin' brings. Your hair's all glossy an' shiny, your skin's as smooth as a magnolia petal, an' there's a new grace in th' way you move. Lovin' does that every time."

Kayla finished with the tablecloth and took the drape from me, yellow satin slipping and flowing over our knees.

*'You'd better let me finish this. You got th' will, but you ain't got th' skill. Guess I'll just pull them stitches you done out an' start all over. It ain't easy lovin' a man. Makes you all skittish an' jumpy. When you is with him you worry 'cause you \yanna please him and fear you ain't, and when you is away from him you worry even more 'cause you start thinkin' he don't love you as much as you loves him. Men don't," she added.

*'Are you in love with Jasper?" I asked.

Kayla laughed, shaking her head. *'Lawsy no, Miz Dana. I lets him pleasure me 'cause I like it, but I shore ain't in love with him. I'se only been in love once—'member that white boy I told you about, th' one who took my cherry? Him I loved, an' he broke my heart. Figured once was enough for me, an' I promised myself I wudn't gonna fall in love no more."

"But—you were only a child. You were barely thirteen."

''Reckon age don't mean all that much when it comes to lovin'. Your heart ain't keepin' track-a th' number of years you been on this earth. I was thirteen, yes'um, but th' hurtin' was grown-up hurtin'."

"It must have been—very bad," I said quietly.

Kayla had been tearing my stitches out of the yellow satin hem, and now she began to sew the hem up again with those neat, precise stitches she had used on the tablecloth.

"When you gives yourself to someone," she said, "gives yourself entirely an' with no holdin' back, you gives them the power to hurt you. Jest a glance, jest a word, jest a tone-a voice, can cause a stabbin' pain, can cause new doubt an' make you lie awake worry in' all night."

Her voice was soft and serene. Her lovely eyes were downcast, looking at the satin she continued to stitch but not seeing it, seeing instead a time gone by. She was not French nor a celebrated novelist, but there was wisdom in her words. I told her so.

"Reckon it ain't nothin' every woman don't learn eventu-

ally," she said in that soft voice. "You'se got it bad for Mister Charles, ain't you?"

"I'm afraid I do."

"Reckon he ain't an easy man to love, him bein' so moody an' all. With a man like that, you ain't never gonna know where you stand, Miz Dana. You jest has to hang on, hopin'."

"I don't know how it's going to end."

"A woman don't never know that," she told me. "It ain't no use thinkin' 'bout how it's gonna end—or when. You jest resigns yourself an' takes your pleasure an' takes your knocks an' thank th' Lawd you gotta fine-lookin' man in your bed."

"I wish it were that simple," I said.

Kayla finished hemming the drape and stood up, folding the yellow satin into a neat square.

"It is that simple," she said. "Leastways for us it is. White folks are always complicatin' things. Mister Charles is smitten an' he's tormentin' hisself 'cause he dudn't think he should be. You'se head over heels in love with him and worry in' yourself sick because he ain't talkin' tender to you an' tellin' you how much you mean to him."

"He—he does love me, Kayla."

"I'se sure he does, Miz Dana, in his way. Only his way ain't th' way you'd like. Man like Mister Charles ain't never gonna woo you with roses an' fine words. Man like that's gonna keep it to hisself 'cause that's his way. Either you accepts it or you drives yourself crazy.''

"You are wise," I said quietly.

"Reckon I knows th' ways of men. Lawd knows I'se had enough experience." Kayla put the folded drape on the work-table and took up a pale blue pillowcase with a small tear. "Me, I don't want nothin' more to do with love. I takes my pleasure an' takes my time, shoppin' around. One-a these days I'm gonna find a man I think worth marryin' an' he ain't gonna have a chance."

"Jasper, perhaps?"

"No way," she said, "but he sure is good at pleasurin'."

I felt much better after talking to Kayla. We spent the rest of the morning mending, Kayla doing most of the work, and then I went up to my room. The frock I was wearing was wrinkled and damp under the armpits. I removed it and, wearing only my thin white petticoat with its five ruffled skirts, poured water into

the ewer and sponged myself off. I brushed my hair until it shone and applied a little of my lilac perfume, examining myself in the mirror as I did so. Kayla was right. There was a new bloom. Lovin' caused that.

And it was wonderful lovin' indeed, I thought, turning to look at the bed. The golden headboard with its fancy darker gold and brown marquetry had a rich, glossy patina, and the heavy yellow satin counterpane gleamed lushly in the sunlight. It had been a virgin's bed before, the repository of dreams, but now it was the field of amorous combat. I had no basis for comparison, of course, but Charles was a magnificent lover, passionate, patient, demanding, fulfilling. I felt a flush of pleasure as I thought of those prolonged bouts between the linen sheets. He was quite masterful, and there was a carefully controlled brutality in his lovemaking, yet there was tenderness, too, and, always, concern that I experience bliss equal to his. At first I had worried that I might conceive a child, but Charles stilled that worry, assuring me he was taking precautions. Relieved on that score, I achieved even greater pleasure as our limbs entwined, as flesh welcomed flesh and we two became one.

Sometimes, afterward, he held me close and I nestled in the prison of his arms and he stroked my back, my arms, my hair, tenderly, so tenderiy, and I was sure that he loved me, even though he never spoke the words. As Kayla pointed out, that was not his way, and . . . and I would just have to be content with what I had. He was a complicated man, moody, often withdrawn, carrying a burden of responsibility that frequendy made him seem hard, even ruthless, but he could be wry and charming and, on occasion, almost boyish. A perfect lover he wasn't, but he was mine and I loved him passionately and longed for that magical hour when the house was dark and still and he crept into my room and I could melt into his arms once again.

I donned a pale yellow frock sprigged with small brown and dark gold flowers. I adjusted the ofl'-thc-shoulder puffed sleeves and smoothed down the snug bodice. It was a girlish garment, but little of the girl remained. My breasts strained full and proud against the low-cut neckline, the line of cleavage distinctly, if modestly, defined. I did feel older, felt wise and experienced and full of wonderftil secrets, and I reminded myself that I must continue to be the demure young lady for Delia and Julian and

the others. Our secret must remain a secret, and I must remain a dutiful ward.

Delia and I had a light but lavish lunch of chilled lobster soup and fresh green salad with artichoke hearts and tiny shrimp and Jezebel's wonderful dressing. There were popovers, too, as light and delicious as always. Delia told me all about her visit to Lavinia and Lavinia's envy and inward fury when Delia described her triumphs at Grande Villa. A bit tired after we finished eating, Delia said she thought she would go up to her room and rest for a while. I confessed that I needed to spend some time at math.

*'How dreary," she observed.

*'ril never get the hang of long division," I complained.

*7neverdid, dear."

I dutifully spent two hours at the desk in the library covering pages with numbers and trying to figure them out. T\vo into four went two times, sure, anyone could figure that out, but six into twenty-five was another matter altogether. I finally figured that it went four times and that made twenty-four, but I hadn't a clue what to do with the one left over. It was all a useless waste of time, I decided, perfectly silly. I had been a dutiftil schoolgirl all of these months, diligently doing all my lessons, striving hard to please my tutors, but I was ready to rebel.

Closing my math book and pushing the papers aside, I deserted the desk and stepped through the open French windows into the courtyard beyond. The sky was high overhead, a clear, hot blue, and aftemoon shadows were already spreading, making cool blue-gray pools on the tiles. Deep green fronds spread, and lighter green ferns were like cascades of frothy lace. Pink, purple and deep red blossoms filled the air with exotic perfume, and the mimosa trees were like two huge umbrellas, one dusty mauve, the other pale yellow-gold. How peaceftil and beautiful it was here, I thought, strolling toward the three-tiered fountain. The splash and splatter of water spilling from rim to rim made tinkling music.