Beginner's Luck (7 page)

In New York City, Petigru would be considered well-off, but in Titusville, he was the leading citizen, with the mayor and deputy sheriff in his pocket, along with nearly everyone else in town. I can have anything I want, except the one thing I need most, he thought wistfully. He gazed at the daguerreotype on the table beside him, and it showed Vanessa Fontaine posing on a chair, legs crossed, a smile on her face. Before she'd arrived, with her old rebel ball gowns and broken-down luggage, Edgar had slept with a succession of dance hall girls, and had come to enjoy their company. But Vanessa could play the piano and sing, and wanted to know if he could use an entertainer. He asked if she'd mind taking her clothes off for the boys, and she'd slapped his face royally.

At the moment of contact, he'd realized that she was an exceptional woman. Gradually he drew the story out of her. She'd been the daughter of a wealthy South Carolina planter, and they'd lost everything in the war. Her father committed suicide, her brother was killed at the front, so was her fiancé, while her mother died shortly thereafter. The spoiled belle was forced to earn her living in the cruel postwar South during
Reconstruction, where a former slave could become lieutenant governor.

She'd told Edgar that prior to the war, she'd taken piano lessons from a German professor who'd known Franz Liszt, and had sung in church choirs since she was little. All her life, people had been telling her that she had musical talent, and when the war ended, it was all that she had to sell. So she'd drifted West, singing old Confederate war songs in taverns, hotel drawing rooms, and saloons.

Petigru considered himself a connoisseur of women, and was surprised by such rare beauty on the frontier, where women aged quickly due to hard work and blistering sunlight. Back in New York, he'd seen actresses and heiresses from all over the world, and even had the pleasure of witnessing one of Jenny Lind's historic performances at the Castle Garden. He considered Vanessa Fontaine the equal of any woman he'd ever admired.

Their relationship had begun as employer and employee, but it wasn't long before he was madly and hopelessly in love with her. He paid her far more than the going rate, provided the coach, and even signed over the house to her, so she wouldn't have to feel insecure about having a roof over her head.

Everyone in town thought she was his women, but no one knew the truth. He loved her, but she didn't love him. He felt certain that one day she'd appreciate him, for he was a cultured person from the upper classes, like her. What else was there for her to choose? A rowdy, drunken cowboy?

Duane lay in the tub, warm water washing over him. He felt soothed, his belly full, and a gorgeous woman sat in the next room.

Her voice came to him. “Have you fallen asleep?”

He dried himself and wrapped the sheet around him. Holding it like a robe, he walked barefooted to the dining room. She sat at the table, with slices of cold meat, cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. “Have something to eat,” she said.

He proceeded to consume sandwiches hungrily, as she observed him through guarded eyes. Not fully grown, probably a six-footer in another year or two. His skin is smoother than mine, his nose straighter, and his face is flawless, except for the bruises, she observe.

“You've been in a fight?” she asked.

He nodded, chewing a mouthful of food. “I lost, but a fellow said I could've won if I stayed after my man.”

“What'd you fight about?”

“Somebody pushed me.”

She reached under her skirt, pulled out the derringer, and dropped it onto the table. “You should carry one of these.”

He picked it up, and it was warm with her body heat, exuding her flowery fragrance. “I've never smelled ladies' perfume before.”

“Get used to it, because I wear it all the time.”

This toy can kill a man, he mused. The over-and-under barrels were gold-plated, and the grip inlaid with dark wood. He aimed it at a blue and white porcelain vase full of flowers.

“Don't pull the trigger,” she warned.

He tested its weight in his hand, as she continued to observe him carefully. A typical man, they all love guns, and give them half a chance, they'll start a war on you, she thought. She leaned forward, took the gun out of his hand, raised the side of her dress, and deposited the weapon into its black leather holster.

I can't have a boy like this around here, she realized. Sooner or later we'll end in bed, and God only knows where that'll lead. He needs a momma, so I guess that's what I'll have to be for a while. “If you're going to find a job,” she said, “you've got to start early in the morning.

He stood at attention, thrust out his chest, and intoned, “I'd like to thank you, Miss Fontaine, for helping me out, and not calling the deputy. You can be sure that I'll—”

She interrupted him. “If there's anything I can't stand, it's a lecture. Go to bed, because I've got things to think about.”

Like a mummy in a white sheet, Duane moved down the dark corridor, came to the guest room, lit the lamp, and saw a bed four times as wide as his cot in the monastery, covered with a striped Indian blanket. He puffed up the pillow, turned off the lamp, dropped to his knees, and clasped his hands together.

“Dear Jesus, please shower your blessings upon that woman out there, and please help me keep my hands off her, so that I won't violate any of your commandments. And thank you for sending such a wonderful person into my life, to save me from starvation.” Then he mumbled an Our Father, Hail
Mary, and Glory Be, crossed himself, and crawled into the bed.

It was filled with the heady aroma of her perfume, almost as though she were under the covers with him, but when he reached for her, he was alone. The bed was softer than his straw cot at the monastery, as though he were floating on air. The guest bedroom seemed incredibly luxurious, unlike his plain cell, his only adornment a crucifix nailed to the wall.

I thought I was going to sleep outdoors, but now I'm living like a rich person. In the secular world, you can be robbed, see a killing, get the hell beat out you, and end up living with the most beautiful woman in the world, all in the same day, he told himself.

In the living room, Vanessa sat in her rocking chair, a glass of wine in her hand. It was silent down the hall, and she supposed that her guest had fallen asleep. I wonder what he'd do if I took off my clothes and crawled into bed with him?

He'd probably jump three feet into the air, she thought, and her lips creased in a smile. He wants to be a man, but looks like he's uncomfortable in his skin. She shook her head ruefully, because she knew that she couldn't seduce a mere boy. I've done some bad things in my day, but not that, she mused.

She turned toward the stand, and looked at a daguerreotype in a silver frame. It showed a young man with the twin bars of a captain on his shoulder, a faint blond mustache, and deep-set burning eyes. They'd been engaged to marry, but he'd died at Gettysburg, in the biggest cavalry battle of the war.
And now I'm living on the charity of a Yankee businessman. I've fallen a long way, she thought sadly.

Often, in the dark of night, she recalled the old family plantation, gala balls, hunts, dashing young men on their splendid horses. Now most of those laughing cavaliers were reposing beneath the soil of Virginia, while she was a high-class prostitute in the eyes of the world.

She'd slept with a man here or there, to fill her belly and move onto the next rung of the ladder. It was either that or put a bullet through her brain, and many times she'd given that special consideration, because the price of life had seemed awfully high.

She'd slept with a gambler, a banker twice her age, and a man who claimed to own a railroad, but she found out three days later that he'd lied. Once, out of loneliness, she'd slept with a piano player who was more friend than lover, and it wasn't something that she was proud of.

She'd shown up in Titusville on her last legs, but fortunately Edgar Petigru had helped her, and thus far she'd been able to keep him at bay. But he'd fallen in love with her, had asked her to marry him, and she was planning to go ahead with it. It was better than worrying about what would happen when she lost her looks and voice.

Vanessa fully intended to submit to Petigru, so that she'd never have to worry about money again. He was a smart businessman, and shared her love for music and art. She felt nothing for him, but had decided long ago, after Beauregard had been killed, that she could never love another man.

Although she'd slept with others, it hadn't been
like Beau. That was love, and Edgar Petigru something else entirely. She hadn't been with a man for pure fun since 1863, but now toyed lazily with the idea. I guess I'm not dead inside after all, she reflected. I should never've let that boy stay here, but it's too late now.

She felt sleepy from so much worry and concern. Leaving the dirty glasses for the maid, she picked up the lantern, headed down the corridor, as rays of moonlight fell like spears all around her. She slowed as she approached the guest room, blew out the lantern, tiptoed to the door, and opened it silently.

The room was dark, but she could perceive Duane's outline against the white sheets, sprawled on his back, his arms like Jesus on the cross. The covers had fallen off him, and she felt a mad urge to bury her teeth in his shoulder. A shiver passed through her, and she stepped back quickly. I don't need this complication, on top of my other complications, she chided herself.

Vanessa entered her bedroom, closed the door, and drew the drapes together. A town like this, a face like that—everyone'll be talking about him spending the night here. She relit the lamp, undressed in front of the mirror, and viewed herself critically. Every night she noticed a new wrinkle, sag, or bulge. If I don't get married soon, I may never be able to attract a man, she reminded herself.

She blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and hugged her pillow, thinking of the young man in the guest room.
Somebody's
got to look out for him, she tried to tell herself. Southern hospitality didn't end the night they burned Old Dixie down. I'm not Petigru's
slave, or anybody else's. If I can't help a young man in need, what kind of world is this?

But she knew that she was lying. If he were a hunchback or midget she would've sent him away with a loaf of bread and a few dollars. I've got to stop thinking about him, she said silently, as she wrapped her long legs around her bedclothes. I'm going to get myself into deep trouble, if I don't settle down.

D
UANE OPENED HIS EYES, AND DIDN'T
know whether he was in his cell at the monastery, a stagecoach stop, or a hotel room? French perfume arose from the pillow, and he visualized Vanessa Fontaine sipping wine in the darkness of her parlor. He felt electrified, as he contemplated her long, lean body, and breasts that could fill a man's hands.

Sunlight leaked through the drapes of the guest room. He had no idea of the time, but was mildly hungry. Somehow he couldn't get out of the warm comfortable bed. He bounced languidly a few times, and smiled at the continuing motion.

Now he understood thin straw mattresses in the monastery. A soft feather bed tempted a man to indolence and sins of the flesh. He thought of Vanessa
sleeping beneath the same roof, entwined in her nightgown and Civil War dreams. I've got to move out of here, he prompted himself, otherwise I'm liable to do something unbelievably bad.

He exerted his remaining willpower, and sat up. Unfamiliar clothing was draped over the chair beside him. Black jeans, red shirt, yellow bandanna, and black leather belt with big brass buckle. Quickly, he dressed before the mirror, anxious to see how he looked. Everything fit too big, but he gave the general appearance of a cowboy, except he'd never seen a cowboy wearing sandals.

The house was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee. In the kitchen, a large-busted, middle-aged Negro woman worked at the stove.

“I guess you're the new house guest,” she said. “Have a seat in the dining room. Are the clothes all right?”

“Best clothes I ever had,” he admitted.

“I picked them out myself. My name's Annabelle.”

“Duane Braddock.”

“You're so pretty, you should've been born a girl.”

Duane pondered her remark, as he padded toward the dining room. I should've been born a girl? He found
The Titusville Tribune
on the kitchen table, and the headline said:

SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD

SELECTS TITUSVILLE FOR NEW TERMINAL

Duane read the story with mounting interest. According to unnamed authoritative sources, a major
railroad would be coming to Titusville soon, bringing prosperity to everyone in the region. Potential investors were advised to buy land and build businesses without delay, before prices soared. There were statements from the mayor, president of the town council, and numerous civic leaders. This sounds like a city on the move, Duane thought. I'm in the right place at the right time. If only I had money to invest.