They call her Dana (67 page)

new books had arrived in the mail each week, mostly novels from England and France, forwarded by the bookstore in Atlanta where Robert had placed a standing order. How considerate he was. How thoughtful. I eageriy looked forward to seeing him again when he returned from his most recent business trip.

Moving on beneath one of the trellis arches festooned with fragrant yellow summer roses, I followed the walk past beds seemingly overgrown with multicolored blooms of varying heights, like Anne Hathaway's garden, I had learned from studying notes the Englishman had made. The flower beds were deliberately rather shaggy, and the shrubs were allowed to retain their natural shapes instead of being clipped into neat uniformity. A shoulder-high row of shrubs bordered the lowest level of gardens, a gateway leading to the river walk beyond. I opened the gate and strolled leisurely along the walk to the octagon-shaped white gazebo where I spent so much of my time. There were seats with plump pink cushions around each side, and lazing there one could look over honeysuckle-draped railings and see the grassy green slope of the levee and the mighty river beyond, a silvery brown this afternoon, ashimmer with sunlight. A large cotton barge and two fishing boats were passing by as I sank onto one of the cushioned seats and picked up the novel I had left there earlier in the day.

Bees buzzed quietly in the honeysuckle, and the light breeze caused leaves to rustle. It was cool and shady here in the gazebo, though idle rays of sunlight slanted across the railing and made flickering patterns on the floor. I could hear the muted rush of the river and the distant hoot of a horn. I dutifully turned the pages of the book, but the travails of Balzac's amorous and amoral comtesses held no interest for me this afternoon. I was tired of reading, and, although I was loath to admit it, I was tired of peace and quiet as well. Putting the book aside, I stood up and gazed at the river, thinking of the past weeks.

True to his word, Robert had spent very little time at Belle Mead this summer: three days in June, four days in July, a weekend early this month. During these brief visits, he had been utteriy circumspect, treating me with courtesy, respect and unfailing kindness. A proper gentleman at all times, he was nevertheless unable to keep his feelings for me completely hidden. Several times as we lingered over the dinner table or sat on the verandah, watching the sunset, I had seen the adoration in his

I

\eymifer ^ilde 463

eyes. He had taken my hand several times and had squeezed my arm one evening as he told me good night at my bedroom door, but he had made no move that could even remotely be called forward.

I wondered why. I knew he was in love with me, knew he found me desirable and wanted to sleep with me, and I knew as well that he had a great deal of experience with women—potent sensuality clearly smoldered behind that proper facade. Why, then, did he continue to bide his time? He treated me like a demure young virgin, knowing full well I wasn't. When was he going to make that move both of us knew must be inevitable? I wondered and I wondered how I would react when he finally made it. That curious bond I felt was ever present, like a silent current of communication flowing between us, and I felt wonderfully secure in his presence. I found him sexually appealing, too—there was no question about that—but did I want an affair with him? The best way to get over a man is to get another man, Laura had said. I had taken her advice and I had indeed gotten over Charles Etienne, only to be hurt again just as badly. Robert would never hurt me, I sensed, and no, I wasn't a demure young virgin. I would probably sleep with him when he made that long-delayed move, but . . . was it what I wanted? A wide range of conflicting emotions assailed me when I thought about it.

But Robert had not made his move. A warm and genial host, he had taken me for several pleasant drives in the open carriage, showing me Natchez and its environs, the gracious homes, the gardens, the town itself with its shops and air of sunny indolence. There had also been a memorable meal in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, an infamous area crowded with brothels and taverns where brawls and stabbings were a common occurrence. Robert had been hesitant about taking me there, but, amidst the squalor, there was a dilapidated eating establishment that just happened to serve the best seafood in the South. He had kept his arm around my shoulders as we alighted from the carriage and went in. I was intrigued by the colorful surroundings and agreed that the seafood was indeed wonderful, even if it was served on chipped platters by a scowling waiter who looked like he would slit a throat without blinking. I longed to see some more of the area, but Robert hurried me out to the waiting carriage as soon as he had paid the bill. As he handed me into the carriage, his frock coat flapped open for an instant and I saw he had a pistol

thrust into the waistband of his breeches. I had no doubt he knew how to use it—and with deadly accuracy. I enjoyed the outing immensely, and Robert was amused by my enthusiasm, saying he really shouldn't have taken me to the notorious district. I told him I wasn't quite the fragile flower he seemed to think I was. He chuckled and patted my hand, saying no more as we remmed to the respectable part of town.

One evening in June we had gone to dine with Len Meredith and his wife Arlene in their modest but charming home. In his midthirties, Len was Robert's lawyer and business manager, with offices here in town. Tough, efficient, extremely cool-headed, he handled all of Robert's business and financial affiairs, and I pitied anyone who tried to outsmart him. Formidable though he might be in business, he was quite engaging socially, witty, good-humored and exceexiingly hospitable. Arlene, alas, was a sweet and timid young woman so intimidated by Robert's wealth and my fame that she could scarcely open her mouth. At Robert's request, Len called on me at Belle Mead once or twice a week to see how I was and ask if I needed anything. I enjoyed his calls a great deal, for he was as attractive as he was personable and clearly approved of me, claiming I had a very good influence on his employer.

Plucking one of the honeysuckle blossoms, I pulled the end off and put the blossom to my lips, tasting the sweet honey taste that enrapmred the bees, and as I did so I saw a steamboat in the distance cruising slowly up the river like a miniamre wedding cake. I wondered if it would dock at Natchez like the one I had been on two years ago. I remembered that morning so cleariy, remembered seeing Robert standing there on the dock and the long, searching look we had exchanged and the curious force that seemed to draw us together and bind us. Had it been a premonition of things to come? Even though I had never laid eyes on Robert before, I had somehow sensed that he was going to play an important part in my life, and it had come to pass. Just how important a part was he going to play? As important a part as you allow him to play, a voice inside said, and I left the gazebo in a quandary.

I moved along the neat, well-kept river walk, the breeze lifting my skirt, toying with my hair, and then I mmed back into the gardens and headed back up toward the house. Hollyhocks, iris, phlox, a dazzling variety of flowers grew all around in wild

patchworks of color, but I was immune to the beauty now as I moved up another level and passed under one of the trellises. I saw his face, the slightly twisted nose, the dark, quirkily slanted eyebrows, the moody gray-green eyes and, try though I might to banish the image, it persisted as always. During these past weeks I had made a valiant effort not to think about him, had tried to forget the past and ignore the pain inside and, to a certain extent, I had succeeded. You must go on, I told myself. You must go on. You must forget him. I did forget, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for several hours at a time, but then it would catch me unawares, like now, and I would see that handsome face and feel the jabbing pain that was every bit as strong as it had been the night he told me good-bye and stepped out of my dressing room.

I loved him. I couldn't deny that. I loved the son of a bitch, son of a bitch though he was. He was volatile, temperamental, unreasonable, demanding, bossy, stubborn, impossible, but. . . he could be so vulnerable, he could be so warm and funny, he could be so loving. He was in Atlanta now, mounting Lady Caroline, and I felt another sharp jab of pain as I thought of the play opening with someone else in the lead. You don't need him, I told myself. You're better off without him. Forget him. It's over, and you've got to go on, just as you did before. "My, you look very thoughtful this afternoon." The voice startled me, and I looked up to see Len Meredith approaching me, tall and sturdy with sunlight burnishing his thick dark blond hair. Impeccably attired in gray breeches and frock coat, sky-blue waistcoat and white silk neckcloth, he had strong, clean-cut features and somber blue eyes that I knew could glow with warmth, as they did now. A smile curled on his wide lips. Many people found Len formidable, even intimidating, and there was no doubt he could be tough and unrelenting in business dealings, but I knew his other side and liked him very much.

"Len," I said. "I—didn't see you coming." "Is that sadness I spy in your eyes?" he inquired. "I was—was reading a novel. It had a very sad ending." "How sensitive you women are. Ariene's the same way. She actually weeps over a sad book, weeps, sobs, wipes her eyes and then vows it's the most wonderful story she's ever read." "How is Arlene?" I asked.

"She's fine. Looking forward to seeing you again."

We both knew that wasn't true, but Len was invariably polite. We moved up three flat white marble steps to another level. There was something very reassuring about his presence. I felt better already.

"Maudie told me you were out here. I just thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing."

'*rm doing fine, Len. Maudie and the others are taking marvelous care of me. I'm deplorably pampered, waited upon hand and foot. If you want to know the truth, I long to put on an apron and help Tilda with the chandeliers."

'*She'd be horrified," Len assured me. "You don't enjoy being a lady of leisure?"

"It was lovely for the first couple of weeks but—one gets into the habit of working. I'm not the lady of leisure type, I fear. I'd rather be cleaning the windows than lolling on a sofa with a cool drink."

Len chuckled. "You're quite a remarkable young woman," he said. "I can see why Robert is so taken with you. By the way, I have a message. He's going to be back tomorrow. Just for one day and night, alas, but after the next trip, he'll be back for several weeks.''

"Just for one day and night?"

I was terribly disappointed. Len heard it in my voice.

"You're extremely fond of him, aren't you?" he said.

"Extremely," I replied.

"I'm glad, Dana. He needs someone like you."

The great house cast cool blue-gray shadows over the back patio. We moved across it to the back verandah, shadier still. A lazy gray cat snoozed contentedly on the banister near one of the graceful white columns. Baskets of fern and ivy were suspended from the ceiling, their leaves moist from a recent watering. Wide French doors stood open, leading into the hallway. I could hear one of the servants humming inside as she leisurely did her chores. Robert had given all his "house Negroes" their freedom years ago, and they were all devoted to him, none more so than Maudie, who ran Belle Mead like a bossy but cheerful sergeant major.

"Robert has worked hard all his adult life," Len continued. "He's devoted his life to making a success, becoming someone of note, and he has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Now

he has everything he's ever dreamed of having—wealth, power, position—and I fear he finds it's not enough."

"He needs someone to share it with, you mean?"

Len nodded. His blue eyes were somber again. I could see that he was devoted to Robert, too, and fiercely loyal. Len, I knew, was a native of Natchez who had shocked and disappointed the local folk by going off to a Yankee university. After taking his degree from Harvard law school, he had had rough going when he remmed to start a practice in his hometown. He had become "Yankeefied," the locals felt, was too hard, too bright, too ambitious, but Robert had been impressed by the young man's zeal and determination and had turned some of his minor business transactions over to him. In less than a year Len was handling all Robert's business, working for him exclusively and making a very handsome living.

"He's in love with you, you know," Len told me.

"I—know," I said.

"There have been a lot of women in his life," he said, "as I am sure you know, but—you're special. I have never seen him treat a woman like he treats you. Usually he—"

Len hesitated, afraid that he might have gone too far.

"Usually he puts them up in some fancy apartment and sleeps with them. Is that what you meant to say?"

"More or less. You—he respects you, Dana. He wants to do right by you. I think—" Again he hesitated. "I think he might even want to marry you. I'd like to see that."

"You'd like to see your esteemed employer marry a notorious actress and be ostracized by all the local gentry?''

"I'd like to see him marry one of the finest young women I have ever met," he said, "and as for the local gentry—they're not nearly as stiff-necked and snobbish as your New Orleans breed. Most of their ancestors were pioneers who sweated and toiled and lived in log cabins as they hacked away with axes, turning overgrown wilderness and mud flats into the Natchez you see today. They're consumed with curiosity about you and dying to meet you—can't wait for Robert to give a ball and introduce you. I have no doubts they will take you to their hearts immediately."

I made no reply, and Len smoothed a palm over his thick blond hair, clearly still worried that he may have gone too far.

I gave him a reassuring smile and asked if he had time to come in for refreshments. Len shook his head, looking relieved.

"Afraid I can't, though I appreciate the invitation. I have mounds of papers to go through and a cutthroat cotton broker to best. Are you sure there's nothing you need?"

"Quite sure," I told him, smiling again. "I enjoyed seeing you, Len. Do give my best to Arlene."