They call her Dana (71 page)

"You're going to be strong," he said.

Oh yes, I thought, I'm going to be strong. I always am. I'm very good at it. I've had a great deal of experience. I'm going to be strong. That's all I can do.

chapter Twenty-Two

MAUDIE HOVERED OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE with hCF amiS folded across her bosom and a stem expression on her face. I could feel my dander rising. She had been marvelous these past two weeks and I didn't know how I could have gotten through them without her, but there were times when I longed to drive a knife through her heart. Like now. Care and concern were one thing. Being a bossy, overbearing tyrant was another. Enough was enough. I had dutifully eaten two pieces of toast, one with jam, and I had drunk three cups of black coffee, but I would be damned if I was going to eat eggs, grits and fried ham as well. The mere thought of it was disgusting. I set my mouth in a resolute line, shoved the plate away from me and folded my arms across my bosom, looking at her with icy defiance.

"You'se as stubborn as a mule," she accused.

"I don't deny it."

"You still ain't strong an' you still looks puny. You needs dat food to gib you strength. How'se you gonna get better if you keeps on starvin' yourself? Dat ham is sugar-cured, an'—"

"You can take the ham, and the grits, and the eggs, and shove—"

"Don't you get lippy with me, missy! Don't you start talkin' ugly. You might be mistress here now an' you might be rich as dat guy Crow-shus, but Mister Robert done left me some money, too. I done went an' bought myself a new purple taffta petticoat an' some gold earbobs, an' Mister Len says I'se still a well-to-do woman. I'se free an' I'se rich, an' I don't hafta take no guff from AK? one."

"Then don't," I snapped.

"What's dat supposed to mean?'' 494

"It means you can leave any time you choose."

"Leave! Ain't likely, missy!" Maudie placed her hands on her hips, her expression as defiant as my own. ' 'My job's to take care-a dis house an' take care-a you, an' dat's what I 'tends to do. Now you eats dat dere food before I really gibs you what for."

"Damn you, Maudie."

"Don't you go damnin' me," she warned. "Eat dat food."

The eggs were fluffy and delicious, scrambled with herbs and cream. The ham was tender and tasty. I turned down the grits, but I had another piece of toast with guava jelly and another cup of coffee as well. Maudie was beaming when I finished. I still longed to stab her.

"Dere," she said. "Feels better, don't-ja?"

"Maybe." I was noncommittal.

"I knows you'se gettin' better 'cause you'se gettin' spunky. Rather see you dat way dan see you mopin' around all pale an' lis'less. You're gettin' de color back in your cheeks."

I sighed and stood up and started toward the door.

"Where's you goin?"

' 'I 'm going for a walk.''

' 'It done be rainin' for de past three days!'' Maudie protested. "It's still damp out dere, all misty, too."

"I'm going for a walk," I said firmly.

"Not without your shawl, you ain't!"

I left the room and started down the side corridor to the French windows that opened onto the verandah. They were closed. I opened them and stepped outside. The air was indeed damp, but wonderfully clean and refreshing, and the gardens were wet and half-concealed by thin tendrils of mist that swirled lightly in the air. Overhead the sky was watery and gray, but a pale yellow ball was faintly visible. The sun might well come out after all, I thought. If I had to spend another day closed up in the house I would surely go out of my mind.

Maudie came charging down the corridor after me, her heavy tread seeming to shake the house. She burst out onto the verandah and gave a sigh of relief when she saw me standing beside one of the hanging plants. She was carrying a soft, lovely white shawl, and she wrapped it around my shoulders as tenderly as she might swaddle an infant. Bossy and overbearing she might be, but it was difficult to stay angry with her.

"Now you don't stay out dere too long! Dem steps're probably slippery, so watch 'em, an' don't you go gettin' your skirts wet on dem bushes. If you ain't back soon, I'se comin' out after you!"

Not that difficult, I thought.

"If anyone calls, Maudie, I—please tell them I'm out. I don't want to see any more journalists, and—"

"Ain't no one else likely to call dis momin'. Dem 'ristocrats dat've been callin' don't never get outta bed 'fore noon, an' Mister Len ain't gonna be here till dis afternoon."

Wrapping the shawl around my arms like a stole, I started down the steps and crossed the patio, Maudie watching anxiously from the verandah. The tiles were wet, and I lifted the skirt of my deep pink frock a couple of inches, as well as the layers of white petticoat beneath. The thin tendrils of mist continued to swirl, lightiy veiling the multicolored flower beds and creating an impression of blurry unreality that was both delicate and lovely. The blooms were damp, too, with dew, and tiny trickles of water dripped from the trellises. I sauntered slowly through the gardens down toward the river walk, and I tried not to think about my father and the funeral that had been so beautifully conducted and attended by over a dozen journalists and all the landed gentry for miles around.

Len had been right. I was a famous woman, and there was no way we could hold the journalists at bay. Sniffing blood, sniffing scandal, they had converged on Natchez in a rowdy pack, prepared to outdo themselves in sensational dispatches. I could imagine the headlines: Millionaire Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances, Leaves Entire Fortune to Actress-Mistress. I knew I had a decision to make. I didn't want my father's memory besmirched with sordid speculations. I knew journalists. I knew how to handle them. After a brief discussion with Len, I decided to give them a story far more interesting than any they could invent. I decided to give them the true story of Dana O'Malley and her parents and how my father and I had found each other after twenty years. With Len at my side, I invited them all to Belle Mead and served food and wine and told them the whole truth, omitting only my mother's maiden name to spare her folk embarrassment and implying that Robert and I had discovered our relationship before he backed The Quadroon.

I left holes, of course. I did not tell them about Clem's bru-

I

tality, and I did not tell them about my time in New Orleans with the Etiennes. I simply said I left the swamps after my mother's death and eventually made my way into the theater, and they were so busy scribbling they didn't bother to ask any awkward questions. My father had planned to publicly acknowledge our kinship, I told them, and then the tragic accident had occurred. I was illegitimate, I concluded, but I had loved both my parents and was proud to be their child. The world could say what they liked about me, but I would always hold my head high. The journalists were intrigued. They were fascinated. They were, to a man, completely sympathetic, and the stories they filed created a sensation on front pages all over the South. I was the heroine of a star-crossed love story, and the journalists did everything but deify me.

The public response was overwhelming. They praised my honesty, my bravery, my indomitable spirit. How they loved the poor little girl who had left the swamp in rags, became a celebrated actress and was reunited with her long lost father, ultimately inheriting one of the greatest fortunes in the South. They clamored for more details, and more and more journalists appeared to interview me. Unlike the Creole aristocracy, who would surely have shunned me, the elite of Natchez and its environs were ready to accept me with open arms. Dowagers and their daughters came to call to express their sympathy and bring fiowers, each and every one of them, it seemed, extremely close to my dear departed father. They issued invitations to parties and teas, and a number of them seemed to have perfectly marvelous sons who were quite eager to meet me. They were all eager to take me under their wings, and the fact that I was now the wealthiest woman in the South did not, I assured myself, have anything to do with it.

I moved down the three marble steps to the last terrace of gardens, surrounded by mist that swirled like thin, transparent white veils, now concealing, now revealing great patches of multicolored blooms. The mist was heavier down here, and I could barely see the tall line of shrubbery that hid the river walk. I moved on toward the gate, thinking about the surprise visit I had had three days ago. Conrad Drummond had been visiting in New Orleans and he had seen the stories and he had come to Natchez to beg me to return to New York with him. The stories were appearing in all of the northern papers, too, he informed

me, and I could dictate my own terms. He would mount a fabulous production for me, any play I selected, and he would make me a legend in theatrical history. I thanked him politely. I took his address in New Orleans. I told him I would let him know.

The leaves of the shrubbery gleamed with moisture. The gate creaked as I opened it and left the gardens behind. I started up the river walk toward the gazebo, but the mist was so heavy here I couldn't see it. Clouds of mist drifted and danced, parting before me, and there was a strange silence broken only by the muted nish of the river. I had no desire to go to New York. I had no desire to become a theatrical legend. I longed to remm to the theater, yes, but. . .1 stubbornly closed my mind to that. I wasn't going to think about Atlanta. I wasn't going to think about Jason. I certainly didn't need him now. I was one of the richest women in the country, and I could do anything I wanted to do. Anything but what you really want to do, a voice inside said dryly, and I resolutely silenced it.

I walked through the drifting clouds of mist, and the gazebo was visible qow, looming ahead like something out of a dream. The honeysuckle was damp, and the bees were gone. When I stepped inside, I saw that the pink cushions were slightly damp, too, but they would dry quickly enough in the sun, if the sun ever shined through. The rush of the river was clearer now, like distant music without melody, muted, monotonous, and as the mist lifted and swirled, I caught occasional glimpses. It looked like a shiny blue-gray ribbon undulating between the banks. Although the air was cool and moist, it was still too warm for the shawl. I removed it and draped it on the table, knowing I would incur Maudie's wrath, not caring in the least. The air seemed to gently caress my bare arms and shoulders. There in the gazebo, completely surrounded by the dancing, drifting clouds, I felt alone and adrift, and the silness inside was almost more than I could bear.

You're rich, I told myself. You're rich, rich, rich. You can buy anything in the worid. You have this lovely house and more money than you could possibly ever spend. Isn't that what most people long for? The wealth was precious littie consolation. There were things I could do with it, yes, and I had already made arrangements with Len to dispose of some of it. Delia was going to receive a very large sum, enough to insure that she— and her family—would never again have to worry about losing

the house or the business. Mathilde and Solonge DuJardin were to receive a large sum, too, enough to enable them to leave that drab, pathetic house on Conti Street and live in comfort for the rest of their lives. I would never see them again, it was true, but they were blood kin and it seemed the right thing to do. It was what Ma would have wanted.

There were many other things I could do with the money as well. I could have the Jewel Theater completely refurbished and subsidize it and help OUie and Bart and all my friends and . . . and there would still be a fortune left for Len to manage. I could do a great many things with the money, yes, but I couldn't buy the camaraderie and excitement and sense of fulfillment I had received as part of that merry, unruly family, and I couldn't buy ... I couldn't buy ... I closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about him, but I did. I remembered his warmth and his wit, his boyish enthusiasm and zest, his vulnerability and sweetness, his quick temper and his thorny pride, and I remembered his arms, his mouth, his lean, strong body and those words he always murmured so tendeiiy into my ear as he became a part of me. The old familiar feelings began to stir inside, the tender ache, the honied warmth that spread so slowly, so sweedy in my veins. Denying them as best I could, I left the gazebo and started back up the river walk.

I heard his footsteps. I stopped. The mist swirled, and the great river was nearby, and I laiew it had all happened before, again and again, but in my dream. This was not a dream. It was real. I tried to tell myself it was real, but there was a shimmering quality of unreality and I still couldn't believe it was actually happening. He materialized out of the mist and he was wearing his most elegant attire and he stood there before me. Neither of us spoke. He took my hands and squeezed them and pulled me to him. I looked into those gray-green eyes and saw the love in them, and I knew he was the one. He wasn't perfect, he would never be that, but he was the one.

"It—it wasn't Charles," I whispered. "It was you—all along."

He let go of my hands and stepped back.

"Who the hell is Charles?" he asked.

"Someone—someone I once knew. I thought—in my dream, you see—"

"What are you talking about?"

How I loved that fascinating voice that was light, almost soft, but guttural and scratchy, too. How I had missed hearing it. I smiled. A flood of joy welled up inside, and it was all I could do to contain it. He was looking at me with one quirky eyebrow elevated, something very like a scowl forming on those wide lips.

"How did you get past Maudie?" I asked.

"The old dragon at the house? I told her I was a very close friend, and she said Miz Dana ain't seein' no one and I said is she in and she said maybe she is and maybe she ain't but you ain't seein' her, and I said look, lady, I've come all the way from Atlanta and if you don't tell me where she is I fully intend to wring your fat black neck."

"That sounds like something you'd say."

"She grinned then. She said I must be th' one Miz Dana done been pinin' for all dis time. She knowed dere was a man, she said, all along she knowed, an' she reckoned I must be th' one.''