Wilde, Jennifer (44 page)

The
ramshackle buildings up ahead were all clustered together as though for
support, and they looked even more sordid close up. I heard riotous laughter
and bawdy music. Someone was banging on a piano. Someone was singing, off key.
Even now, in the middle of the afternoon, Natchez-under-the-hill was alive with
activity. I could imagine what it must be like when nighttime came. I passed
three taverns and a two-story brown frame building with a wide verandah in
front. Brightly clad women were sitting on the verandah, drinking, laughing,
and more women leaned out of the windows upstairs. They called out to me. I
hurried on, trying to ignore the lascivious remarks, the lewd suggestions.

A
man staggered out of a tavern, clutching a half-empty bottle. He saw me and let
out a great whoop, staggering down the steps, stumbling toward me, waving the
bottle. He was big and burly, his brown hair growing down to his shoulders. I
quickened my step, but he soon caught up with me, grabbing my shoulder,
whirling me around. I was furious, hot flashes of anger preempting the alarm I
might have felt otherwise. The man chuckled, his breath reeking of alcohol, and
as he tried to pull me toward him I gave him a mighty shove. Drunk, already
finding it difficult to maintain his balance, he toppled over backwards with a
cry of dismay.

The
girls on the verandah cheered. Amazed at what I had done, I moved on, shaken
now, feeling the alarm I hadn't felt before. Keeping my eyes in front of me, I
passed the rest of the buildings, ignoring the catcalls, the boisterous hoots,
and a few moments later Natchez-under-the-hill was behind me, the docks ahead.
Three huge ships and at least a dozen smaller craft were bobbing on the water,
brawny men moving up and down gangplanks, loading and unloading. The docks were
crowded with boxes, barrels, coils of rope, men scurrying about, others barking
orders. So brisk was the activity that no one paid me the least attention. The
men were much too busy to greet my arrival with any show of interest.

I
paused beside a stack of boxes, wondering how I should go about getting a
berth. I finally stopped one of the men hurrying past and asked him if one of
the ships would be leaving for New Orleans this afternoon. He nodded, pointing
to the largest ship, the
Royal Star.
Men were pushing barrows down the
gangplank filled with what looked like pink brick. As I drew nearer, I saw that
it was indeed brick, a soft, delicate pink like faded roses. Other men were
loading the brick into a large wagon, and as I watched, another wagon, already
loaded, pulled away from the docks and started up the gradually sloping road
that led to the town above. The four horses strained mightily as the driver cracked
his whip in the air.

A
large, heavyset blond man seemed to be in charge of unloading the
Royal
Star.
He stood back with his arms folded across his chest, watching the
activity with a severe expression. He thundered at one of the workmen who lost
control of a barrow and nearly dumped the lovely pink brick into the water. The
offending man grimaced, steadied the barrow, and rolled it on down the
gangplank and over to the wagon. The heavyset man frowned, highly displeased. I
wondered if he was the captain of the ship. If so, he could probably arrange a
berth for me. As I approached, he looked up, observing me with cold steel-blue
eyes.

Something
in those eyes made me hesitate. He was a formidable figure, exuding power and
authority, easily dominating the scene even though he stood perfectly still. He
had incredible presence, presence so strong it was alarming. Powerfully built,
he was elegantly attired in highly polished black knee boots, snug gray
trousers, and a loosely fitting white silk shirt. His features were blunt, the
jaw square, cheekbones broad and flat, and there was a knot of flesh on his
nose that made him look belligerent. His hair was a pale yellow-blond, cut
short, a monk-like fringe falling across his jutting forehead. Probably in his
mid-forties, I thought as I came closer to him.

"You
want something, woman?"

His
voice was deep, guttural, his manner definitely harsh. I realized I must look
frightful, my hair all atangle, my dress streaked with dirt, my face probably
dirty, too. I had come from Natchez-under-the-hill, and he probably thought I
was a harlot come to ply my trade. A man like this would be utterly disdainful
of such women, consider them dirt beneath his feet. He stared at me with those
hard blue eyes, looking as though he'd just as soon knock me down as not, and
it was a moment before I could bring myself to speak.

"I—I
want to go to New Orleans," I stammered.

My
accent surprised him. One of those heavy brown brows lifted.

"Where
are you from?" He didn't ask. He demanded to know.

"I
really don't... think that's any of your affair," I retorted.

"Answer
me, woman!"

"Or
what?" I asked defiantly.

"Or
you'll wish you had," he threatened.

"I
suggest you go straight to hell," I said calmly.

His
brows drew together. His mouth tightened. He wasn't used to back talk, that was
quite clear. He was used to snapping orders, having them obeyed immediately.
His size, his strength made him a natural bully, and I sensed a streak of
cruelty in the curl of his mouth, in the hard, steady glare of those intense
blue eyes.

"You're
new around here," he said. "I've never seen you before."

"I
arrived in Natchez this morning, as a matter of fact."

"And
you want to go to New Orleans. On this ship."

"I
understand it's leaving soon."

"As
soon as these incompetents finish unloading."

"Are—are
you the captain?"

"I
own the ship. The captain's my employee."

"Then
you can arrange passage for me."

"If
I wanted to, yes."

Although
his manner was still sullen, that first angry disdain was missing now. Those
eyes seemed to assess me, taking in every detail, and he was extremely
interested. No longer intimidated, I could feel my cheeks begin to color. I
wanted to shove him over backwards just as I had shoved the pathetic drunk who
had run after me on the road a few minutes before. I knew that my eyes must be
flashing as I spoke.

"I
can pay," I snapped. "I can pay whatever you ask. I need to leave
Natchez... as soon as possible."

"Before
Rawlins finds you, you mean."

"How—"

"You're
not one of the whores from under-the-hill, and you're damned sure not one of
the good women from town. I heard Rawlins had arrived, heard he had a stunning
wench with him."

"News
travels fast," I said bitterly.

"In
a community like this it does. So you want me to help you get away? Where did
you get the money you're so eager to pay me? The women Rawlins bring down the
Trace don't have money."

"I—"

"You
stole it," he said. "Even if I were inclined to help you, it's too
late now, I'm afraid."

He
was peering over my shoulder. I turned to see Jeff strolling toward us, his
manner as jaunty as ever. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me standing
here on the docks with this surly giant. He acted as though it were perfectly
natural, as though we had arranged to meet here. He gave me a friendly nod,
nodded at the man with less warmth.

"Schnieder,"
he said.

"Rawlins.
I was expecting you."

"Heard
you were unloading building material. They say two shiploads of lumber arrived
'fore I started up the Trace to Carolina. Hear you brung in a fancy architect from
New Orleans. Your house must be comin' along right well. Nice-lookin' brick,
unusual pink."

"I'm
going to call the place Roseclay."

"Nice
name. Bit fancy, perhaps, but then I imagine the house is gonna be somethin' to
behold."

Helmut
Schnieder did not reply. The two men disliked each other intensely. That had
been obvious from the first. Although Jeff's remarks had been spoken casually,
there had been a suggestion of mockery. Schnieder seemed to be holding himself
in tight control, looked as though he'd like nothing more than to knock Jeff
flat with one mighty blow. The air seemed to seethe with animosity. Jeff turned
to me ever so casually.

"You
ready to go back to the inn now, Marietta?"

Schnieder
spoke up before I could reply. "How much did you pay for her, Rawlins?"

"Plenty."

"I'll
double it."

"
'Fraid she's not for sale, Schnieder."

"Name
your price," the German said. "My money's as good as any
whoremonger's. Better. I'll pay in cash, any price you name."

"That's
mighty generous of you, Schnieder, but what I said still goes. 'Sides, what you
need with another woman? I hear you got a whole house full of whores
under-the-hill, hear you own the place."

"I
want her, Rawlins." There was menace in his voice.

"That's
too bad, fella."

There
was a tense silence as the two men eyed each other. Schnieder was an inch or so
taller than Jeff and much heavier. Beneath that civilized façade lurked the
brute strength of a German peasant, and I was worried for Jeff's sake.
Schnieder's facial muscles were taut, his eyes dark with hostility. Jeff
appeared utterly relaxed, the suggestion of a grin playing at the corner of his
mouth. He seemed to be inviting the larger man to start something. Several
moments passed, and Schnieder finally backed down, scowling.

"If
you ever change your mind—"

"I
ain't
plannin' to. Come along, Marietta."

He
took my arm and led me away from the
Royal Star,
past the docks and up
the gradually sloping road toward the town above. Neither of us spoke. He
didn't seem to be at all angry or upset about my attempted escape. We might
have been taking a pleasant stroll. Reaching the bluff, we turned, walking
through the town toward the inn. Jeff nodded to several people, stopped once to
exchange a few friendly words with a man in black, holding my arm all the while.
It was only when we were on the front verandah of the inn that he released me.
He grinned and held out his hand. I took the roll of money from the pocket of
my skirt and placed it in his palm. He shook his head slowly in mock
disappointment.

"Just
outta curiosity—how'd you get down there? I kept my eye peeled every minute,
never saw you pass."

"I
climbed down the cliff in back of the inn."

"You
did
what?"
he exclaimed.

"I
climbed down the cliff."

"You
coulda broken your bloody neck!"

He
took hold of my arm again, tightly this time, his fingers squeezing viciously.
He took me inside and through the main room and up the curving white staircase.
By the time we reached our room his anger had dissipated. He let go of my arm
and looked at me with perplexed brown eyes. I rubbed my arm.

"You
knew I'd try it," I said.

"Hell,
you practically drew me a picture—tellin' me goodbye like that, fightin' back
the tears, holdin' on to me like you didn't wanna let go. I'd uv had to be
blind not to know what you was plannin'."

"Then
why did you leave?"

"I
figured the exercise'd do you good, knew you wouldn't get no further than the
docks. I
didn't
know you was gonna do anything as damnfool stupid as
climbin' down a cliff or I'd uv left you tied to the bed. I could
beat
you
for that."

"Go
ahead. I—I just don't care."

"Christ!
Look at you. You look like some kinda wretched waif. There's dirt all over your
dress, all over your face. Your hair looks like—like you oughta be stirrin' a
kettle full of frogs and cacklin'."

"Thanks!"
I snapped.

Jeff
grinned, delighted to see my spirit returning. He stepped over to the wardrobe
and took out the pack. He peeled a few more bills off the roll and then put it
back in the pack, slung the pack into the wardrobe, and kicked the door shut.
As I looked around, I noticed the stack of boxes on the bed. There were three
of them, all white, two extremely large, the other small. He must have brought
them back here before coming after me. He was so insufferably sure of himself!

"I
still got a lot of things to tend to," he told me. "I'll be back here
around seven. You be ready to go down to dinner. Better yet, be waitin' for me
downstairs. I'll tell 'em to arrange for a bath as I go out."

He
sauntered out of the room then, leaving the door wide open. I slammed it shut,
wondering why I wasn't really upset, wondering why I was almost glad he had
come after me and found me so easily. I wasn't going to try to escape again.
Both of us knew that. I resented his knowing it, resented his blithe, airy
manner, putting the money back into the pack, leaving the door open like that.
It was infuriating. It also gave me a poignant, aching feeling inside and made
me want to dissolve into tears.

Stepping
over to the bed, I opened the boxes. When I saw what was inside them I felt
even more like crying. I was amazed that he had been able to buy such things in
Natchez, for the undergarments were elegant and the gown one of the loveliest I
had ever seen. The high-heeled slippers that matched were gorgeous, too, a
perfect fit. I realized that he must have taken one of my old dresses and a
pair of shoes from the pack that hadn't been brought up and carried them to the
shop with him in order to make sure everything was the right size. Damn him, I
thought. Damn him for doing it, for making me feel this way—happy, beholden,
defenseless.