Destiny's Daughter (7 page)

"Mama. Oh, Mama." As her arms opened wide, Annalisa fell into her embrace and buried her lips against her mother’s neck.

"How terrible it’s been without you," the woman murmured, stroking the wild tangle of curls.

"Then why did you . . . ?" Annalisa bit off the harsh question. It was too soon. Her mother was too weak. They would sort it all out later. Now it was enough to be here, to be holding each other. "I’ve missed you," she whispered, and felt her mother’s wrenching sobs. Stunned at the depth of feeling for this stranger who was her mother, she stroked the pale cheek and fumbled in her pocket for a lace handkerchief to wipe the tears. "Don’t cry, Mama. We’re together now. And nothing will ever separate us again."

Her mother shuddered and choked back another sob that threatened. Reaching for Annalisa’s hand, she clung to it fiercely, all the while staring at the extraordinarily beautiful young woman who was watching her with such tenderness.

"Were they good to you in the convent?"

Annalisa glanced down at their hands intertwined on the pale spread. "Yes. But I missed my home terribly."

"And we missed you. You were the sunshine, the laughter, the delight of our lives here."

Annalisa bit her lip, refusing to ask the questions that had been building inside her all those long, lonely days and nights. How could a mother who claimed to love her child send her away? Why would she turn off the sunshine, the laughter, the love? Swallowing back the haunting questions, she said softly, "I met your doctor. He thinks you’re looking better today."

Cool amber eyes appraised her daughter for a moment. Her voice was barely a sigh. "You don’t lie as well as you used to, Annalisa. I suppose that’s the good sisters’ influence on you."

A flush stole across the young cheeks. "You have to get well. Mama. We have so much to learn about each other."

Her mother’s lids fluttered, then blinked open. "I did the best I could, Annalisa. I hope it was enough." Then her lids closed again, casting dark shadows on pale cheeks. With her eyes closed, she whispered, "I have no right to ask for more. My prayers have already been answered. My beautiful daughter has grown up to be a fine lady. And I was given the chance to see her again before I die."

"Stop that, Mama. You’re not going to die," Annalisa interrupted.

"But I do need to ask you ..." Sara began.

"Anything," Annalisa responded before she could finish. At last she would have a chance to be Sara’s daughter.

"These women, take care of—" Sara licked her dry lips. "My friends . . ."

A long sigh escaped the lips that seemed to grow waxen as she watched her mother’s eyes close. Bringing a hand to her mother’s cheek, she felt the pasty flesh. Cool. Too cool. There seemed to be no warmth, no life in her. She watched the uneven rise and fall of her mother’s chest. Breathe, she prayed. Breathe for me. Live, she willed. Live so that we can know each other, and make up for all the years apart.

While the sun climbed high overhead, and the shadows lengthened, Annalisa sat beside her mother, holding her hands, determined to keep her alive.

At lunchtime, a young serving girl asked if Annalisa would care for a meal. She refused and continued her vigil.

Throughout the afternoon, the door was opened silently, and just as silently, several beautiful women looked in, smiled gently at the stranger, then tiptoed away, leaving her to her private grief. Though none of the women looked familiar, Annalisa noted their exquisite robes, their quiet camaraderie. Like the sisters in the convent, she thought, feeling oddly comforted and touched by their concern.

Once, as the bedroom door closed softly, Sara’s lids flickered, then opened. Staring intently at her daughter, she ran a tongue over dry, cracked lips and whispered, "The ledgers ..." Her fingers closed over Annalisa’s arm. "Take care . . ."

"Hush, Mama. Save your strength. We’ll talk tomorrow."

The fragile mouth twisted into an imitation of a smile. The eyes closed. Her fingers went slack.

Annalisa refused dinner, and could hear the occupants of the house moving about the hallway. The air grew heavy with their perfume. The swish of silks and satins could be heard beyond the door. From downstairs, in the grand sitting room, the sounds of music and tinkling crystal filtered up to the silent bedroom but Annalisa took no notice. Shifting to a more comfortable position, Annalisa clung to her mother’s hands, as if convinced that her mother’s life was held in that firm grip.

In the early evening, Hattie Lee opened the door and held a candle aloft as she crossed the room. In the big feather bed she found the young woman sound asleep, embracing the mother she had so long been denied. Beside her, the figure in her arms no longer breathed, no longer moved, no longer had to endure the pain of a spent heart.

For Annalisa the morning was a blur of tears and pain and a sense of loss that left her numb. The women who had shared this house with her mother wept openly, and spoke in whispers, and offered their sympathy to the young woman who, though a stranger, was now treated like a member of their family.

All day the maids were kept busy answering the door, accepting the condolences of the businessmen who brought flowers and left their cards in a small silver bowl on an entrance table. Seeing the steady stream of callers, Annalisa was impressed by the position of importance her mother obviously held in the community.

Dr. Lynch and Hattie Lee planned the funeral, which they insisted had to take place the following day. A traveling preacher was invited to preside over the graveside ceremony.

Sifting through the calling cards, Annalisa asked, "Why not ask the judge who left his card this morning?"

Hattie Lee glanced at the doctor before replying. "Justice Cheviot regrets that he will be unable to attend."

"Then what about the Reverend Sebastian Culpepper?" Annalisa asked, reading the neatly lettered card.

"Damnation! The Reverend Culpepper has his congregation to think about," Dr. Lynch said quickly.

"But surely he has time to attend to my mother’s funeral."

"There are so many duties required of these good gentlemen." Hattie Lee deftly changed the subject. "Have you a proper veil for the funeral?"

Annalisa shrugged. They were evading her questions. But why? "I hadn’t thought about it."

"Come, child. I’ll have you fitted for a black gown and veil right now." With a last glance at the doctor, Hattie Lee nudged Annalisa up the stairs. Even in her grief the woman was a whirlwind of nervous energy.

*  *  *

The weather was as somber as the occasion. Oppressive heat seemed to roll in waves, leaving the mourners wilted and lethargic. Black clouds rolled and boiled across the heavens, obliterating the sky. Although it had yet to rain, the air was heavy with moisture. Not a breath of air fanned a leaf or twig. Clothes clung damply to clammy flesh.

Annalisa’s dress was black voile, with a high ruffled neckline and long tapered sleeves. A double layer of black netting fell from the top of her head to below her shoulders, completely veiling her face. She stood at the open grave and wept, grateful that no one could see her trembling lips and reddened eyes.

The minister spoke about life and death, about the immortal soul and ashes and dust. When he was through, Annalisa found no comfort in his words. He hadn’t known her mother; just as she had not and never would. And although Sara Montgomery’s grave was surrounded by the women who shared her home, few of the townspeople or the important businessmen who had called and left their cards had attended the funeral. The strangers who peered at their small, somber procession seemed more curious than sympathetic.

In the dreary morning pall, Annalisa watched as the workmen lowered the simple pine box. Lifting a rose to her lips, Annalisa kissed it before she tossed it into the open grave. While the men shoveled, she allowed the tears to flow.

Oh, Mama. Who were you? And who was my father? Am I like you? Like him? I had so many questions. You’ve died a stranger to me. I’m a stranger to myself.

She cried for the mother she never knew. She cried for the child who had been so lonely and afraid. And she cried for the fragile flicker of a dream she had kept locked away in her heart; the dream of a future here in this old house with the woman who had sent her away so long ago. That dream had been smothered before it even had a chance to grow. Now there was nothing here for her. She would go back to the convent, where Sister Marie Therese and the others were waiting. Back to the simple cell, the hard bunk, the sound of bells, the life of routine. It was all as she had planned, was it not? She would allow herself no time to think.

The firm hands of Hattie Lee and Dr. Lynch propelled her away from the grave and to the carriage that took them back home. After a light lunch, Annalisa was ensconced in the sitting room to receive the condolences of still more businessmen who stopped by. Leaving the dark veil firmly in place to hide her tear-stained face, she quietly accepted their condolences and offered her hand to be pressed, or occasionally kissed. When at last she was led to her mother’s room to rest, she could remember none of the names and few of the faces. Too drained even to undress, she fell across the bed and slept until morning.

*  *  *

"Wake up, child," Hattie Lee’s musical voice called. A hand shook her. "Your mama’s solicitor will be here in an hour. He intends to read her will in the parlor."

Annalisa sat up, disheveled, disoriented. Slowly she gazed around her mother’s room, noting the fresh gardenias in a crystal vase on the desk top, giving off their perfumed fragrance. In front of a marble fireplace was a horsehair sofa and two gilt chairs upholstered in lush red velvet. On a low round table between them was a book of poetry, and surprisingly, the works of Walt Whitman, a poet and popular political writer whom Annalisa herself admired, despite his Union leanings. As always, it had been Yvette who had smuggled the forbidden books to their room. And the words had touched a cord and opened up new thoughts to the repressed young women. Had her mother been interested in politics, she wondered, or simply in the beauty of his words?

Everywhere she looked she saw evidence of the woman she had longed to know; her perfume, her clothes, even her jewelry positioned neatly in a silver box on the dresser top.

"I must write to Sister Marie Therese and inform her when I will be returning," she mumbled, struggling to clear away the last clouds of sleep.

"That can wait, child. Right now you’d best bathe and dress. I’ll have Thelma send you a tray."

While Hattie Lee spoke she directed a maid to fill the tub which stood in a little dressing alcove. Beside it were a chest, holding a basin and pitcher, and a small chair draped with a bath sheet. When she was alone, Annalisa undressed and settled into the warm scented water. There had never been such luxuries in the convent. She had learned to wash quickly in cold water, and to dress in the drab uniform of black homespun and stiff white collar and cuffs.

At a knock on the door, she reached for the sheet to cover herself. When the maid entered, she seemed surprised at Annalisa’s modesty. Recovering her composure, she said timidly, "Miss Hattie Lee sent me to wash your hair."

Noting the basin of warm water in her hands, Annalisa nodded shyly. What, she wondered, would she do about her nakedness?

The problem was settled for her. The maid set the basin on a small table and took the sheet from Annalisa’s hands. Draping it casually across a chair, she unpinned the dark tresses and brushed them vigorously. With her hands on Annalisa’s shoulders, she urged her lower into the tub, until her head was resting against the rim. Rubbing lilac-scented soap into her hair, she lathered gently, then rinsed. Annalisa released a sigh and allowed the tension to drain from her neck and shoulders. Such elegance. She had never known anything as soothing as this. When the maid began lathering her hair again, she gave in to the relaxing comfort, allowing the ministrations to ease her stiffness. Though she was certain Sister Marie Therese would condemn such decadence, Annalisa decided to savor it, if only for the moment. This afternoon she would write to the sisters, telling them when to expect her return. But for the brief time she had left, she would enjoy the comforts of her mother’s home.

When she was once more alone, she dried herself with the soft bath sheet and dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for her by the maid. At a knock on the door, she admitted another maid with a breakfast tray. While she nibbled a freshly baked croissant and sipped rich strong coffee laced with cream, she arranged her thick hair into a prim knot at her nape. By the time she descended the stairs and entered the pallor, she felt ready to face the rigors of the day.

The first to greet her was Gabrielle, the stunning Creole woman she had met on her arrival. Placing a comforting arm around Annalisa’s shoulders, she murmured words of sympathy, then led her toward a small cluster of women.

"In your grief, chérie, you have probably forgotten the introductions made earlier." Indicating a fair-skinned Negress, she said, "This is Eulalie."

"My sympathy on the death of Mrs. Sara," the young woman said in the warmest voice Annalisa had ever heard. It was lilting, musical, and it suited the delicate woman whose kinky, marigold-colored hair had been cropped very close to her head. Her eyes were large and dark, with long spiky lashes. Her gamine face was open and friendly. Though her skin was much paler than Annalisa’s, her nose was small and flat, her lower lip wide, sensual. Her somber gown revealed a tiny, perfectly sculpted figure, with high, firm breasts and clearly defined hips that needed no bustle for emphasis.

"I, too, would like to offer my condolences on the death of your mother," said a young woman who stepped forward.

"This is Francine," Gabrielle said.

As Annalisa took her proffered hand, she was astonished at the firm handshake. The woman was tall, nearly a foot taller than Annalisa’s tiny frame, and shapely, with the regal bearing of a queen. Pale yellow hair was piled atop her head with jet combs. A blue black feather draped elegantly across one brow. Her dark gown was trimmed with an elaborate feather boa. Even in mourning clothes, she was stunning and fashionable.

"And this is Delia," Gabrielle said, turning toward a small, waif like girl wearing a high-necked gown of black watered silk. Her sable brown hair had been cut very short, like a cap of curls that bounced with each movement of her head. Her eyes were the color of spring violets. In her hand was an ornate fan which she continually waved to ward off the heat. Or was she hiding behind it, Annalisa wondered? Perched on her shoulder was an ugly gray and white cat. One ear was missing. Its sparse coat was lackluster. The girl nuzzled its face with her cheek in a gesture of affection.

"I loved Sara," the childish, breathless voice intoned. Her voice was so soft, Annalisa found herself straining to hear her. "I feel as if I’ve lost a mother as well," she added, touching Annalisa’s hand gently. With one shy glance, her gaze fell away, settling on the floor.

"Thank you." Annalisa turned to include all of the women in the room. "Thank you for your expressions of sympathy, and especially for your support. It gives me comfort to know that my mother was loved. My greatest regret is that I never had the chance to know her better."

Choking back the sob that threatened, she took a seat with the other women as Hattie Lee escorted a dour, mustached gentleman to a desk. Befitting his occupation, he was dressed all in black, with stiffly starched collar and silk cravat. Opening a briefcase, he lifted out a document, then seated himself, before allowing his gaze to sweep the occupants of the room.

Reading in a monotone, he began with the smallest bequest to a maid who had been working in this house since she was nine years old. The woman held a handkerchief to her eyes, sobbing softly, as she learned of her employer’s kindness.

"To Dr. James Lynch, who has brought aid and comfort to all who live here, and who has pulled me from the brink of death more times than I can count, I leave the sum of five thousand dollars. Though this money cannot compensate him for the hours he has labored on our behalf, I hope it can bring him some comfort."

The doctor coughed and stared at his hands. A slight flush on his neck was the only sign of his emotional state.

"To Hattie Lee, a free woman of color, who has been here for over twenty years, I leave the land adjacent to this house, some ten acres, to dispose of as she sees fit."

The black woman seemed stunned by the bequest. Dark eyes widened, then stared at a spot on the carpet as they filled with tears.

"To my beloved daughter, Annalisa, I leave this house and business. I trust that she will act responsibly toward those who look to her for employment, health, and security. I am entrusting the futures, the very lives of the good women who dwell herein."

As the lawyer continued to read the bequests of money, gowns and jewelry to the others, Annalisa sat in silence, trying to digest what had just been said. This house, her mother’s house, was now hers. And her mother’s business, whatever it was, would now be operated by her. She clapped a hand to her mouth. What did she know about running her own home? All her needs had been taken care of by the sisters. How could she possibly be expected to operate a business? She had no business sense.

What of her plans to return to the convent? She thought of dear Sister Marie Therese. Her gaze swung to the black woman, who was now watching her. On Hattie Lee’s face was a look of deep concern. Was she already questioning Sara’s wisdom in leaving everything in the hands of an ignorant girl?

The voice had stopped. Annalisa looked up to see the lawyer neatly folding the papers before replacing them in his briefcase. Strolling forward, he offered her his hand, staring deeply into her eyes.

"My condolences, Miss Montgomery. Your mother was a remarkable woman. I hope you prove her equal."

"Thank you, Mr. Forester." She watched as Hattie Lee led the lawyer toward the front door, their heads bent in whispered conversation.

As the others drifted from the parlor, Annalisa wandered to the wide windows overlooking a lovely rose garden. Throwing open the French doors, she walked to a wrought- iron table and ornate chairs, set amidst the fragrant blooms. A few minutes later, Hattie Lee found her there, lost in silent meditation. Annalisa never even noticed when first one woman, then another, ambled outside and sat, some at the ornate table, others in the grass, with their colorful skirts billowing about them like a field of wildflowers.

"It’s time we talked, child," Hattie Lee said, seating herself across the table.

Annalisa looked up, her thoughts scattered. "I’m confused, Hattie Lee. I came here to tell my mother that I planned to enter the convent; to make my home with the good women who educated me all these years."

The black woman waited shrewdly, watching the play of emotions on Annalisa’s lovely face.

"But first, I wanted this one final chance to know my mother." Annalisa’s fingers nervously played with the petals of a rose. "And now everything seems to be getting mixed up in my life. Mama has died." Tears welled and she angrily brushed them with the back of her hand, reminding Hattie Lee of the child she had once rocked in her arms. "What of my promise to the Reverend Mother? How could I possibly stay and run this fine house and my mother’s business?"

"Give yourself time to sort it out, child. Maybe by getting to know the people your mama knew, you’ll get to know her better. And as for this fine house, the maids and I can keep it just the way it’s always been kept."

"But I don’t even know what I want done. Don’t you see, Hattie Lee? I don’t know the first thing about owning my own home."

"I’ll help you. Your mother knew I’d stay on here with you, the same way I stayed with her."

Annalisa felt a rush of gratitude at the woman’s words. "But what of your own life?"

For the first time, Annalisa heard the rich musical laughter that she remembered from her childhood. "Sweet Lord almighty. This house is my life."

"What about my mother’s business, Hattie Lee? I don’t even know what she did to earn her keep."

The smile fled. Serious dark eyes contemplated the innocent young woman for long moments. When at last she spoke, her tone was intense.

"Miss Hannah Elliott, the original owner of this house, was known far and wide as a generous woman who took in young ladies who had no place to go. She trained them, educated them, and allowed them to work for their room and board. Many of them took up with fine gentlemen and left, with Miss Hannah’s blessing. Some, like Corinna here," Hattie Lee said, indicating the orange-haired woman, "stayed on after their productive years were over and helped out by assisting the seamstresses or cooks."

"Yes, but . . ."

Hattie Lee held a finger to her lips. "Let me finish, child. Your mama came to our doorstep, beaten, stabbed, and near death."

A stunned look came into Annalisa’s eyes.

"Miss Hannah Elliott took her in, nursed her back to health, and when Miss Hannah died, she left the house and business to your mama because she was the only one smart enough to keep it all together." Hattie Lee’s eyes misted, then cleared. "Sara Montgomery repaid our loyalty in kind. Because of her we are still able to extend the hand of friendship to women who have no place else to go." Before Annalisa could speak, Hattie Lee pressed on. "And now your mama has seen fit to leave our future in your hands, child. She saw that you were educated, and she trusts that you will stay on here and make this your home."

Wiping her tears with a lace handkerchief, Annalisa whispered, "Thank you. All of you. For the kindness you extended to my mother. But I’ve pledged my future to the sisters who educated me."

One of the women gasped, and Hattie Lee shot her a dark look to stifle her exclamation.

"That’s a fine thing, child. And one your mama would be proud of. But we have no one here to do the ledgers and keep the business going."

Annalisa recalled her mother’s whispered words before she died. The ledgers. Even in her illness, she worried about them.

"If you leave," Hattie Lee said firmly, "our futures will be doubtful at best. There’s no way we can handle the figures and banking and pay all the bills on this place. In no time, we’ll find ourselves out on the street, standing around looking for day work like all those people in town."

Annalisa stood. Glancing around at the assembled women, she said, "I want to help you. I really do. I’ll need time to think about this. I hadn’t planned to own a home or run a business. But if you think I can manage, I’m willing to think it over. What is the business, Hattie Lee?"