Windswept (31 page)

She stacked the pages they had put in order and rose to start entering them into the inventory. The claims and invective they’d been reading reminded her of something. “Davis,” she asked as she turned on the computer, “do you think there could be any validity to Lloyd’s or his mother’s claims?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffed. “What made you think there could be?”

“Just looking at these letters, I guess. Passions could run high, as you can see. Men still fought duels over statements like we’ve seen here.”

“As far as I know, no Jamison ever fought a duel, or killed anybody, unless it was in a war. Now, I’m not going to say, ‘Don’t bother your pretty little head about it’ . . .”

“Thank you.”

“. . . but I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.” He looked outside and then back at her. “I have an idea. Let’s get through this box and then take a swim. The Gonzaleses have gone to her sister’s, and nobody’s here but us, so we can go skinny dipping. What do you say?” His waggling eyebrows and the grin under his mustache encouraged her to agree.

She stared at him for a moment and wondered where her work ethic had gone. But it was a hot summer day, and the pool beckoned, and here was Davis . . . “Okay,” she said, with a smirk of her own.

They finished the carton in record time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

August 4, 1850

A blistering hot day, a horrible day, devastating, painful, and revelatory

I don’t know if I can write this down, but I must. Perhaps seeing the black ink on the white page will help me come to grips with the situation.

Cleopatra gave birth to a baby girl this morning. Although I usually do not go out to the quarters unless there is a dire emergency, Heeba was at a neighbor’s helping with a difficult birth, so I brought the mother and new babe some fortifying nostrums. The baby is a healthy, very light-skinned girl. At first this surprised me, and I wondered who the father could be as all of our male Negroes are medium to very dark and Cleopatra is a medium brown herself. Then I looked at Cleopatra’s 2-year-old son, whom I had never seen. He is the exact likeness of Edgar Jr. at that age.

I was struck dumb. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that Edgar is not only this boy’s father, but also the father of the little girl. I don’t know if any of the servants noticed my reaction, but Cleopatra had a fearful look on her face. I returned to the house as soon as possible. By the time I arrived, I was in a state I can only describe as distraught. I hurried here to my room, hoping to calm myself by writing my fears away.

It isn’t working.

Thank God, Edgar is off at one of his political meetings. I must get hold of myself, as I rage between devastation and anger. How could he do such a thing? How could he come to my bed and then go to hers? How could he profess to love me while he ruts with her?

Is this what has been bothering me for so long? Some premonition we were not right between us? How can I share the same bed with him now? What am I going to do?

Windswept Plantation

August 7, 1850

Another terrible day, after an even more terrible night.

It is all true and worse than I thought. Yesterday, after much pleading on my part, Heeba confirmed my fears and made them worse. Edgar has lain with not only Cleopatra, but Salome as well. Salome also has a child by my loving husband.

I feel like such an idiot, such a fool. All these years, I have listened to ladies gossiping about the husbands of the neighboring plantations, how Mr. X had fathered numerous children, and Mr. Y had three mistresses in the quarters. I thought, I believed, I swore my husband remained true to me. I was above all the gossip.

I must confess, I was proud to assume I alone among all these married women had held my husband’s interest. I was more perfect, more virtuous than those whose husbands wandered. The women themselves were, must be, at fault for their husbands’ adultery.

I was blind to what was right before my eyes.

Yesterday I would not countenance even the suggestion of my husband’s infidelity. I simply refused to consider reality. Despite Heeba’s testimony, I had almost convinced myself I was wrong, and Cleopatra’s son does not look like Edgar Jr. But the idea ate at me, fear gnawed at my stomach like a wild animal trying to escape a trap. By last night, I could stand the uncertainty no longer.

I confronted Edgar, and our marriage came crashing down. Not only did he admit his philandering, but blamed me. He claims my fear of childbirth has dampened my ardor and his, made our lovemaking a ‘chore’ for him. He had to turn to others to ‘assuage his animal passions.’ After all, he is a lusty man and needs an outlet. It’s not as if the women meant anything to him. Oh, no. He was trying ‘to save me.’

I could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. God gave us free will and the ability to reason, and Jesus taught us about resisting temptation. Has Edgar no sense of my honor or feelings? How dare he besmirch our name, our marriage, our home?

I have borne his children, made him a home, and gone willingly, eagerly to his bed. I have loved him with all my heart and my body. And yet . . . and yet . . . he has trampled on all that and me for momentary pleasure.

At times, his revelations caused me to almost double over with pain, but I resisted such weakness. I am a strong, capable woman. I will not accept this catastrophe as a defeat. I did not accept what he was telling me.

We talked long into the night. At first, he did not understand my upset until I brought up the concept of honor and our marriage vows to forsake all others. How would he feel if I had a lover? The question incensed him at first and he made comments like: “You could not do that,” and “I’d kill the bastard,” and “You belong to me.” As I was no less angry than he, I refused to back down from my position or accept his “arguments” as “the way of the world.” After many words, he finally seemed to realize the humiliation his actions had caused me, and he became very contrite, begging my forgiveness for his misdeeds.

He swore never to turn to another woman again as long as he lives and he trod as on eggshells all day, solicitous to the extreme. I have sworn to forgive him. As a Christian, I must, but it will not be easy.

He offered to sell the two Negroes and the children, but I told him not to, as the children are innocent victims, and his blood, after all is said and done. But they must be kept out of my sight.

What will I tell our children if they notice the resemblance? Edgar Jr. is already fifteen. Does he have any inkling of his father’s actions?

I am determined to do nothing in haste. Marriage is forever. We can work this out over time.

But how can I share the bed with him now?

***

Present Day

Monday, June 18

Davis went to his office Monday morning in high spirits. Making love with Barrett was all he had anticipated and more. He could hardly wait to get home that evening. He was standing in front of Peggy’s desk going over everyone’s assignments when his brother walked in. Bill never showed up this early. Davis felt his good mood start to evaporate.

“What do you want?” Davis asked as Bill followed him back to his office.

“Just thought I’d stop by and see if anything else happened with Sandra or the professor.”

Standing while he unpacked his briefcase, Davis looked at his brother suspiciously. He was up to something. Had to be. “No, nothing.”

“I was at a barbeque yesterday and somebody brought up Sandra’s name. The real story’s coming out of Dallas. Reed caught her in bed with another man, but he didn’t have the sense to have her sign a prenuptial agreement, and he got burned in the divorce. She’s on the prowl again, for sure.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You, nothing. But I got to thinking about Milt. You know how lonely he’s been since his wife passed away, and he did bring Sandra to your party. Milt seemed to be disgusted with her mischief, but you know how persistent, not to mention devious and convincing, she can be.”

Davis thought about possibilities for a minute. He didn’t like any of his conclusions. “You have a point. I’ll give him a call this afternoon.”

Bill hovered.

“Anything else?” Davis asked, putting an edge on the words.

“Well . . .” Bill assumed the falsely serious expression he always used when about to make a pitch for money.

“I’ve said all I’m going to say about your financial situation,” Davis interrupted and sat down at his desk. “I refuse to listen to another fool scheme you’ve heard about at a party.”

Bill swallowed whatever he had been about to say, but recovered from his disappointment enough to ask, “How’s Barrett?”

“She’s fine. Now, get out of here and let me get to work.”

Instead of arguing, Bill suddenly brightened like he’d thought of a good idea, said good-bye, and left.

“Good riddance,” Davis muttered and studied his follow-up list from the party. Who should he call first?

He had made only three calls when Peggy announced Mr. Walker on line one. He picked up the receiver and said, “What now, Lloyd?”

“This is your last chance, Davis.” Lloyd sounded like he was in control of himself, but his tone was venomous. “Give me access to those papers, or you and Barrett Browning will be sorry. She’ll drag our good name through the mud. If she publishes any false stories, I’ll have the law on you, and that poor excuse for a historian will never get another job as long as she lives.”

“If I were you, I’d be careful what lies I spread about her. Barrett Browning could give you lessons in honesty and certainly in integrity,” Davis growled through gritted teeth. “You may find yourself on the receiving end of one of those lawsuits.”

 “You’re mighty protective of her, Davis,” Lloyd came back in a snide snarl. “Hellfire and damnation. You’ve got her in bed, haven’t you? That’s why you’re letting the little slut ruin our family’s heritage and good name.”

“Lloyd, I won’t dignify your statement with an answer. If you want legal action, contact my attorneys. But stay away from Houston, me, Barrett, and my house.” Davis slammed down the phone.

“Peggy!” he called through the open door. When she appeared, he said, “I am not in to my cousin. Refuse all his calls. You have my whole-hearted permission to hang up on him. If you see him in the building, call Security and have him thrown out.”

“Yes, sir! It will be a pleasure,” Peggy answered with a grin as she closed his office door.

A little later she buzzed him again. “Taylor Jamison is on line two. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” Davis grumbled. Taylor was another cousin, the grandson of Edgar’s youngest brother. He had always liked and respected this cousin, and they shared the same low opinion of Lloyd. “Hello, Taylor,” he said into the phone.

“How’re you, Davis?”

“I’m fine. How are Corinne and the kids?”

“The family’s fine, at least most of my branch of it. I called about another member of our more extended relations.” Taylor’s raspy drawl sounded disgusted.

“Lloyd, right? What’s he done now?”

“He called me yesterday, complaining about your having those plantation records. He wanted my help to get them away from you. He went on and on about some sort of dire happenings if they were left to your loving care. What the hell’s going on with him, Davis?”

Davis leaned back in his chair and threw his pen on the desk. Here we go again, he thought and said, “You know about as much as I do. So far neither Aunt Cecilia nor Lloyd has offered me any detailed information. Did he say anything specific to you? Did he tell you your mother agreed with them?”

“No and yes. I talked to my mother, and all she really remembers is a vague rumor and admits it could have been started by another suitor of hers. Lloyd’s just blowing smoke, as usual hearing what he wants to. I tried to tell him if anybody had committed a crime, it certainly couldn’t have been kept a secret this long. Not from all those gossips in St. Gregoryville, where they’re still talking about Emma Louise Miller running off with the Yankee carpetbagger in 1869. I never understood why anyone was surprised since her family had been Yankee collaborators for years.” Taylor sighed. “Anyway, to come back to the point, Lloyd sounded really mad, and he made some threats against you and the female professor you’ve got going through the papers.”

“What sort of threats?” Davis began to get angry all over again.

“Vague sort of things, like law suits at first. Then he talked about teaching you and her a lesson, but he didn’t get explicit about it. Now, I always thought Lloyd had a few holes in the top of his screen door, if you take my meaning, but something about the way he was talking made me think he might try violence. You know how he gets red in the face? Well, he sounded just about purple. When we were kids, he’d always swing at someone after that.” Taylor’s worry came through the phone lines in his tone of voice. “I’d hate to see anybody get hurt.”

“I appreciate your concern and this call, Taylor,” David said. He decided not to alarm his cousin further with tales of the car vandalism or the break-in. “I think we have things covered here.”

“Well, if you’re certain . . . Look, you let me know if I can do something. My branch of the family, including my mother, thinks you’re doing right by Edgar and the papers. I went over to visit him last year and he was raving about how great this Dr. Browning was. I hadn’t seen the old man so interested in living in years. I told Lloyd about my visit and also told him not to bother any of us with his ideas, we’re all on your side. I’ll keep an eye on him though, just to be on the safe side.”