Deep Summer (10 page)

After she had kissed the children good night she told Philip what Gervaise had said about Dolores’ French. They were together in the dining-room over the wine and biscuits that served them for supper after a company dinner in the afternoon. Philip listened with an odd smile. For a moment he was silent, as he refilled her wineglass and his own, then he said:

“Judith, why are you so concerned about Dolores?”

“Oh, because she’s really a dear in her way, Philip, and she strikes me as the sort of person who’d be helpless in a disaster—”

“What sort of disaster?”

“The sort a pair of puritans like my father and Caleb could turn loose if they felt righteously indignant about anything.”

Philip moved the candlestick aside so he could look more directly at her. “Judith,” he said, “it’s none of my business. But if that girl’s the daughter of a Spanish grandee I’m a watermoccasin.”

“Philip! Are you sure?”

“I think I know trash when I see it,” said Philip.

Judith’s biscuit dropped out of her hand into the plate. Philip’s conviction crystallized everything she had feared.

“Who is she, then?” she ventured.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” After a moment he asked, “Haven’t you ever noticed how she sniffles when she dips snuff?”

Judith bit her lip. “I’ve noticed various things.”

“Dolores is clever,” said Philip, “and she’s picking up the ways of mannerly people. But I think she’s made an absolute fool out of your brother.”

“But Philip,” she exclaimed, “if you’re so sure, why don’t you tell him?”

“Why should I?”

“But for heaven’s sake—”

“For heaven’s sake what, Judith? He’s perfectly happy as long as he doesn’t know it, and she’s doing the best she can. Maybe they decided between them to say she came of great folk so as to make your father more reconciled to a foreign marriage.”

“Caleb wouldn’t be equal to that,” she objected. “He’s so honest it hardly ever occurs to him that people lie. But he’s dreadfully fond of her.”

“So he is. That’s why I tell you to leave them alone. Maybe Caleb enjoys deluding himself, maybe he’s not deluded, maybe on the other hand I’m mistaken and she’s genuine. At any rate it’s not my affair and don’t you try to make it yours.”

Judith pushed back from the table and went over to the window, where she stood a moment looking at a clump of banana trees, pale in the autumn moonlight. “But how could he have been so foolish, Philip?”

“Oh honey child, it’s so easy to be a fool when one falls in love.” He came up to her and put his arm across her shoulders. “Didn’t everybody say you were a fool when you fell in love with me?”

“Yes—but that was so different!”

“Was it? Thanks.” He drew her head back on his shoulder. “Anyway, as long as Caleb and Dolores seem content as they are you’re positively not to make any trouble. Understand?”

Judith promised not to make trouble, but she could not help feeling that trouble was made and ready to explode. So far Caleb seemed to have no suspicion that Dolores might not be all she professed. He adored her blindly. As for Mark, he rarely mentioned Dolores at all and Judith was never sure what he thought. When Dolores rode proudly over one day in March to tell them she was with child Judith found it hard to seem pleased. She had begun to hope Dolores was barren, since she had been married nearly a year without any expectation of motherhood. This new complication increased Judith’s foreboding.

The climax came when other concerns had thrust themselves to the front so forcefully that the problem of Dolores became subordinate. Governor Galvez had replaced Governor Unzaga in New Orleans, but though the new governor took pains to keep amicable relations with the Tories of West Florida his own interest in lessening the power of his British rivals prompted him to offer supplies to the rebellious Americans. Gunboats bearing the striped flag of the rebels passed the Dalroy docks more and more frequently on their way to New Orleans. Most of the West Floridians regarded the rebel boats with indignant disdain, and were prevented from molesting them only by fear of having their own passage to New Orleans blocked off, but Philip wanted to know what was going on. He had no quarrel with either the British or Americans, he told Judith, but if he had stayed in Carolina he’d probably be into the rebellion up to his neck by now; besides, having a rebel emissary to dinner now and then provided enlightening conversation. When Mr. Thistlethwaite stopped at Dalroy on his way up the river with a suspicious-looking boat from New Orleans, Philip met him on the wharf and brought him to Ardeith for dinner.

Mr. Thistlethwaite came from Delaware. He was a big fellow with an ample paunch, a face like a beefsteak and a vocabulary that sent Angelique running out to the gallery to grab the children and send them into the back yard to play.

The Sheramys had been invited to dinner that same day, and Mark and Caleb were in the parlor. Philip brought them out to the gallery and introduced Mr. Thistlethwaite. “Mrs. Larne will be here in a moment,” Philip told him. “She’s working her flowers.”

“Love to see a lady among the flowers,” boomed Mr. Thistlethwaite. “Something so sweet and suitable about a lady among flowers.”

Philip chuckled. So did Caleb.

“My wife used to be smart with a garden,” Mr. Thistlethwaite told them, his beefy face creasing with a reminiscent grin. “Grew foxgloves. Foxgloves all over the place. Not much chance for gardening these times, with the damn redcoats tearing up the earth. Quite a time we’re having, Mr. Larne, quite a time. All the men who want to fight want to be generals, and can’t nobody make ’em all generals, you understand.”

Mark Sheramy observed that he had been in the French war, and that the same rivalry had been noticeable then.

“Yes sir,” foghorned Mr. Thistlethwaite, “always the trouble. Want to be big fellows no matter what it does to the country. Unselfish patriotism rare thing these days. But we right-thinking Americans can keep our men in line. Tell you, sir, day of crowns is passing. All men free and equal—”

Indoors, Judith heard him as she went into the bedroom to change her dress. “Can’t Philip pick up the most astounding people?” she whispered to Dolores, who had been working in the garden with her.

“Who is he?” Dolores asked.

“One of those violent Americans you see sometimes on the wharfs. He’s probably going to drink the house dry. I wonder if he’d like orange wine? It’s awfully hot for whiskey.”

“Shall I tell them get out the orange wine?” Dolores asked. “I have made dressed.”

“Will you? Have one of the boys take it to the gallery.”

As Judith stepped into the hall she saw Dolores pass, followed by a servant with a tray of wineglasses. Dolores was prettier than ever in a gown of buttercup dimity that set off her dark coloring. Nobody would have guessed that she was carrying a child.

Dolores hesitated a moment in the doorway. Mr. Thistlethwaite was booming, and the other three men, laughing at his yarn, did not see her. But Mr. Thistlethwaite did, and he slapped his knee with hearty recognition.

“Well, well, bless my soul if it ain’t Dolores! What you doing up here?”

Dolores recoiled ever so slightly. Judith, who had come out after her, saw Philip and the others get to their feet as Philip said:

“Permit me—”

“Don’t need a bit of introduction!” cried Mr. Thistlethwaite. He took a glass off the tray. “Seems like old times, I swear it does, taking a drink with Dolores!”

“You know each other?” Caleb asked in astonishment.

Dolores found her voice. She spoke through tight lips. “I was never see this gentleman before in my life.”

Mr. Thistlethwaite’s beefy jowls got a shade redder. He cleared his throat. “Well—ahem—I guess—”

“I think you are mistaken, Mr. Thistlethwaite,” Philip said quietly. “The lady you are addressing is Mrs. Caleb Sheramy. And may I present my wife? Mr. Thistlethwaite.”

“Howdy do, ma’am.” Mr. Thistlethwaite gave an exaggerated bow and a chuckle. “Well now, ain’t that just the funniest thing! Mrs. Sheramy, ma’am, I beg your pardon, and yours too, Mr. Sheramy, but I’ll be damned—begging your pardon, ladies—if this lady don’t look enough like a girl I used to know in New Orleans to be her twin sister. Spittin’ image, I declare. Ain’t that the funniest thing, now!”

He slapped his thigh and laughed. Nobody laughed with him and nobody said anything. “Tell you, her name was Dolores Bondio, and she come up from Cuby to serve drinks at Miss Juanita’s place. Right pretty too, or would have been except she had a tooth out, but you could know her for a month and not see it, her having a funny little way of laughing out one side of her mouth. Mrs. Sheramy, I swear I beg your pardon for thinking it was you.”

Dolores’ mouth was quivering. Caleb’s face had gone as white as it was possible for the face of a sunburnt planter to be. His father was holding a chair so tight the muscles stood out on the backs of his hands. Philip said:

“Since you were mistaken, sir, I am sure Mrs. Sheramy accepts your apology. What was that you were telling us about the encounter at Bunker Hill?”

Dolores had been standing rigid, holding her wineglass tight. As Philip ceased speaking she threw the glass into Mr. Thistlethwaite’s face. “You goddamn bastard!” she cried, and before he could blink the wine out of his eyes she was hurling at him a volley of invective. Philip gripped her wrists with a swift, “Dolores, stop that!” but as he said it Caleb jerked her from him.

“Let me attend to this,” he said. He hardly seemed to move his lips when he said it. “I’ll take her home. Be good enough to order the horses.”

Chapter Eight

G
o on,” said Caleb. “What did your father do in Havana?”

“He worked in a livery stable,” said Dolores sullenly.

“How long were you in New Orleans?”

“Three or four years. I disremember exactly.”

“What did you do in that tavern besides serve drinks?”

“Oh, shut
up
!” cried Dolores. She held her hands to her temples. “I never meant to start any goings-on that morning you spoke to me on the levee! Always I tell men silly stories about me and they like it. Then you said you had a plantation up the river—”

He stood up. His eyes were narrowed. “And you saw I’d be easy to make a fool of, didn’t you?”

Dolores caught fire. “Oh, you were
such
a yokel! You were going to get trouble in that town anyway—you better thank God on your knees you got nothing worse than me!” She walked to the other end of the room and back again, beating her fists on each other. At last she held out her hands to him and began to plead. “Caleb, I did not think it was so awful. I did so bad want to be quality. Aunt Juanita beat me when she got drunk because she said I try to be too uppity. I had no place to go. I could not make a marriage with anybody except maybe some tipsy sailor that wanted a woman to cook for him. Then you came and it was so easy. You was believe everything I said—”

“Where did you get that nigger woman that went about with you?”

“I hired her. She was not speak English so it was all right. I was having fun even if you didn’t marry me. But when you said you were in love with me I was so happy I could die, and I swore on the cross I would make you a good wife. And I did, didn’t I? You liked me yesterday! I am the same as I was then!”

“Oh, go to bed,” said Caleb. He felt as if there were sand in his eyes and he ached all over. This had lasted hours and had got nowhere. He couldn’t bear any more of it.

“Yes,” said Dolores. She went to their bedroom, hesitated on the threshold a moment looking back at him, then shut the door. Caleb sent a servant in for what clothes he needed and slept in another chamber at the back.

The days after that were worse and worse. His father said, “I am very sorry, son. She’s not worth all this.” But Caleb could not keep from talking to her. Sometimes Dolores pled, almost meekly; at others she was a screaming little vixen, lashing him with profanity until he ordered her into her room. When she came to the table she rarely said anything at all, but sat in a stubborn silence that killed his appetite.

Philip sent over a brief note, saying only. “I deeply regret the unfortunate scene on the Ardeith gallery Monday. If you feel in need of counsel or assistance, pray let me be of service. I remain, sir, your obedient servant, Philip Larne.” Caleb blessed him for keeping away.

Philip would have kept away indefinitely, having an almost religious abhorrence for meddling in other people’s affairs, but Judith was not so impersonal. Ten days after Mr. Thistlethwaite’s unhappy visit Judith went to Silverwood with the avowed purpose of rescuing Dolores and bringing her to Ardeith. She did so over Philip’s protests. Not only did he feel that Caleb and Dolores should be let alone to solve a situation primarily concerning only themselves, but he reminded Judith that Dolores’ behavior had been pretty cheap and Caleb couldn’t be blamed if he felt aggrieved.

But Judith insisted, eloquent with pity. She knew the men of her family better than he did. The Sheramys were descendants of the old puritans who had had women put into stocks for laughing in the street on Sunday.

“Philip Larne,” she exclaimed finally, “you don’t know how cruel a good man can be.”

Philip shrugged.

“Anyway,” Judith persisted, “aren’t there any respectable barmaids?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I never heard of any.”

“Is that why you don’t want her here?”

“No, dearest, I’d like to be kind to her. But she’ll get in the way, you’ll wish you hadn’t done it, and Caleb won’t thank you for interfering. However, if you’ve got your mind made up, go ahead and don’t blame me if she brings trouble.”

Caleb and his father were in the fields when Judith got to Silverwood, and though Dolores was not cordial Judith was glad she had come. Dolores looked thinner and there were hollows under her eyes. Her dress was crumpled as if it had been worn yesterday and the day before, and for the first time it was apparent that she was going to have a child, for her usually erect little figure had slumped wearily. She listened without a sign of gratitude when Judith said she wanted to bring her to Ardeith until she felt stronger.

“I feel all right,” said Dolores coldly.

But she yielded and climbed to the pillion on Judith’s saddle as though it was easier to do what she was told than to initiate her own actions. They rode to Ardeith, Angelique riding behind with a box holding Dolores’ clothes. Judith took her into one of the spare bedrooms and gave her a girl named Christine to wait on her.

She drew Angelique into her room. “Get this riding skirt off me and put me into something fit to wear to dinner. Angelique, what am I going to do with Miss Dolores now she’s here?”

Angelique laughed confidingly. “Give her something to do. Let her help sew for the children, maybe.”

“With the servants? I can’t do that.”

“It will make her feel useful,” said Angelique. “If you let her sit with her hands in her lap she’ll just mope and be unhappy.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Judith said slowly, after a moment’s consideration.

Angelique was holding up a sprigged dimity dress Judith usually saved for church. “Why don’t you wear this pretty gown to dinner? You’ll want to look very nice when you tell Mr. Philip she’s here. And let me get some roses. He likes you with flowers in your hair.”

“Oh dear,” said Judith. “You’re so clever. Tell Josh to get out the English port too.”

Philip, however, heard the news with fairly good grace. He only said, “With two children and twenty servants you want to take on more responsibility! All right. But if she starts throwing things at any more of my guests—”

“She won’t. Anyhow, I don’t blame her for throwing wine at Mr. Thistlethwaite. We can tell people Dolores hasn’t been well since she got with child and we brought her here so I could look after her. Nobody will believe it, but it will sound passable.”

Philip chuckled indulgently.

The next day Caleb rode over on his way to the wharfs to supervise the loading of an indigo boat. Judith, who was on the gallery teaching David to build a house with a set of cypress blocks, went down the steps to meet him.

“Where is Dolores?” Caleb asked shortly, without dismounting.

“She’s indoors.” Judith added eagerly, “Won’t you let her stay here awhile?”

“How long does she plan to stay?”

“Till after her confinement.”

Caleb bent his riding whip in two. His face had a look of adamant self-control, like the expression years of disappointment had stamped on her father, but softened by none of Mark’s gentleness.

“How is she?” he asked finally.

“Well. May I keep her, Caleb?”

“Yes. See that she’s taken care of. And whatever she needs—clothes for the child, or anything for herself—get it and have the bills sent to me.”

“Very well. Caleb—” as he started to turn his horse—“don’t you want to see her?”

“No,” said Caleb. He rode away.

Judith wondered if she would have stiffened like him if she had not married Philip so young. David was pulling at her skirts, clamoring for completion of his block-house. She sat down on the step and drew him to her, glad he resembled his father. He had the Larne beauty and the Larne winsomeness; she could not imagine his growing up to be ruthless toward anybody.

She did her best to make Dolores feel welcome, but having her in the house proved to be not the pleasantest situation on earth. Though she evidently tried not to, Dolores did get in the way. When there was a stranger on the other side of the candle Judith and Philip couldn’t exchange scraps of loving nonsense as they used to, or talk over the thousand details of their life together that were too tender for anybody else’s ears. She was as cordial as she could be to Dolores, and told her how sweet it was of her to help with the children’s sewing, but she could not help wishing her gone. Dolores was very quiet except when she played with the children. Then she laughed merrily, teaching them folk-songs in gumbo Spanish and inventing funny little games. Judith asked her sometimes if they weren’t a bother. “Mammy can take care of them,” she urged. But Dolores shook her head eagerly. “Please let them play with me! I love children, Judith!” So Judith left them with her.

Except with the children, she rarely showed much of the sparkle that had attracted Judith when Dolores first came to Silverwood, and she hardly talked about herself at all. But Judith had no cause to be really irritated with her until an afternoon in November when she had a group of her women friends in to dinner and they played cards afterward. Gervaise was there and Sylvie Durham, and half a dozen others. Dolores was expecting her child in a week or two, but she insisted she felt well and that she liked cards. There had been no cards at Silverwood, and Judith recalled her own qualms when she discovered that in Louisiana everybody played for money, but she had found that she liked it.

Dolores was in good spirits, though at first she played badly and lost. But she laughed at herself, and kept everybody chuckling with her remarks. Judith had not seen her so jolly since she came to Ardeith, and she rebuked herself for not discovering sooner how much Dolores liked cards, for they could have done this often. Even Sylvie Durham, whom Judith had never liked very much because she was so arrogantly Creole and so vociferously convinced of the superiority of everything Creole to everything English, unbent and had a hilarious time. Dolores began to win, but she won as graciously as she had lost. It occurred to Judith that she might have been a social asset if Mr. Thistlethwaite had waited another year to put in an appearance, and she regretted his coming for her own sake, for society on the bluff was not so varied that one could afford to dispense with anybody who was entertaining in company. Maybe Caleb might be propitiated and in the course of time people would forget everything. By the time the others rose to go home Dolores had won all the stakes and everybody seemed to be glad of it. Sylvie Durham exclaimed as they left the table:

“My dear, I don’t know when I’ve had such an amusing time! Dolores, as soon as you’re going about again you must come to see us.”

“I will be most pleased,” said Dolores. “Shall I go with you to get your hat?”

“Yes, do. You know I’m Creole too—you speak French, don’t you?”

They drifted off, arm in arm. Judith walked out to Gervaise’s horse with her. Gervaise smiled down at her as she mounted.

“We had a lovely time, chère.” She glanced around and added in a lower voice, “Do you need any help?”

“No, thank you. She’s all right.”

“Yes, she is.” Gervaise pressed her hand. “I hope, chère, your brother stops being a fool, but it is easier to be a fool about marriage than anything else, isn’t it?”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. So few people seem to have judgment enough to accept what heaven sends.”

Dolores came out with Sylvie and they made affectionate farewells. As the guests rode away Dolores linked her arm in Judith’s and they went back up the steps. “It was nice, wasn’t it?” said Dolores.

“A lot of fun. Are you tired?”

“No, not a bit. I am not an invalid.” She glanced at the sky. “The sun is nearly going down. If they do not hurry they will be riding in the dark.”

Judith gave orders to light the candles and began gathering up the scattered cards. She glanced up as Philip came in. “Dolores won all the money,” she told him.

“Good. You like cards, Dolores?”

“I always did,” said Dolores. Mammy brought in David and Christopher to say good night. Dolores gathered up her winnings in both hands and ran to them.

“Good night, darlings.”

“Good night, Aunt Dolores,” they said together. They did not share grown folks’ prejudices and adored her.

“Here. I have something for you. Look. Tomorrow you make go to town with mammy, and you can buy something pretty. A present from Aunt Dolores. Half for you, David, and half for Christopher—”

“Dolores!” Philip exclaimed. “Don’t give it to the children!”

“Please don’t,” protested Judith.

“Oh, but that’s why I wanted to win. They are so sweet!”

She was so eager neither of them had the heart to stop her. David and Christopher, who hardly knew what money was, were nevertheless speechless with delight at the pretty coins.

“Ain’t you got no manners?” mammy was scolding them. “Li’l gennulmen says thanky when they gets presents.”

“Thanky, Aunt Dolores,” said David. “Chris, you say thanky too.”

Christopher mumbled his thanks. Though Judith still doubted the wisdom of their having so much money all at once she could not bring herself to spoil Dolores’ pleasure. She only said, as they went out, “That was very sweet of you, Dolores.”

“But I wanted to.” Dolores smiled at the moths fluttering about the candle on the table. “You have been most good to me—I like to do something for the children. I would like,” she added softly, “to do something for you.”

Philip, always embarrassed by gratitude of any sort, said, “I wish you could teach me to play cards as well as you do.”

“Oh.” Dolores took up the pack. “I show you. I do not know much. But look.”

She shuffled the cards and began to deal. Judith caught her breath and put her hand over her mouth. Philip came close and looked over her shoulder.

Dolores flipped the cards so fast one could hardly watch her fingers. She dealt hands all of one color and hands where the two colors alternated. She whisked the cards back together and dealt hands containing all high cards and other hands containing only low ones, giggling softly as she did so.

Philip said, “Christ, is that what you’ve been doing in my house?”

“But yes,” said Dolores. “I will show you. A gentleman who played on the boats taught me. Much of his tricks I cannot learn; I am too stupid. But these are simple. At first I had forgotten. Then I remembered—it is very easy if you know.”