Magnolia (9 page)

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, CLAIRE NOTICED A
definite shift in her relationship with her taciturn husband. After his friend's visit and their shared adventure in the carriage, John seemed much more approachable—almost watchful. They had most meals together now. But the growing camaraderie vanished when she asked if they were going to the governor's ball at Christmas. He suddenly clammed up as if she'd asked him for state secrets.

She couldn't know that it was painful for him to consider that annual event, because his parents were always invited. He hadn't seen them since his abrupt departure from home two years before, and he was reluctant to resurrect old wounds in a public place. But his presence would be expected as an officer of the largest bank in the city—and the one, incidentally, favored by the governor himself.

Because Claire knew nothing of her husband's background, she had no idea how it affected him to be an outcast in his family—or even that he was an outcast. Her fears
were that he might be ashamed of her somehow, and that was why he didn't want to go to the ball. She wasn't really in his social class, and he'd never seen her properly dressed for an evening out. Perhaps after seeing her grimy from working on the automobile, and even in her comfortable day clothes, he might think she lacked proper dress sense.

Well, she had every certainty of showing him how carefully she could dress and groom herself, because she already had the design and the cloth for her own gown. She would make something that would raise eyebrows, something even more spectacular than the gowns she was sewing for Evelyn and the other society women. She'd show her husband, by hook or crook, that she could compete with his lovely Diane!

He hadn't mentioned the other woman recently. She knew that he occasionally saw her, because she often accompanied her husband to the bank. But he never mentioned either Diane or any dealings he had with her. As he'd promised at their wedding, he wasn't going to cheat on Claire.

The sad thing was that he didn't love her, Claire reflected. She'd married hoping for a miracle, but her marriage had only led to more heartache. And now that she knew how it felt to be kissed by her elusive husband, things were ever so much worse for her. He had only kindness and teasing affection to give her, while she hungered for him and loved him more fully than before. Life, she thought wistfully, could be so difficult.

 

S
ATURDAY ARRIVED, AND
C
LAIRE
steeled herself for an evening with the Calversons and the investment-firm owner whom Mr. Calverson was courting.

Claire hadn't had time to make herself a dress for the occasion because she was so involved sewing Evelyn's, Jane's, and Emma's dresses for the governor's ball, so she'd taken John's invitation to heart and bought one for herself at Rich's on Whitehall Street. The store's elegant black-and-gold interior had delighted Claire's sense of fashion and color, and the plate-glass windows that adorned it were filled with exciting displays.

Enchanted by her surroundings, she found the very dress she was looking for, a deep emerald green with jet beads and a lacy overlay on the low-cut bodice. The straps were velvet and satin, the trim around the bottom of the gown in the same jet beads as the bodice. The dress had been quite expensive, but it turned her gray eyes green and enhanced her complexion. She stared at herself in her long oval mirror with fascination. She didn't look so bad when she dressed up. She had her mother's marcasite-and-onyx necklace and earrings, too, which matched her gown beautifully. John was going to be surprised, she thought.

And he was. He stared at her in their parlor with narrow dark eyes that took in every line of her slender body in the well-fitted dress.

“Where did you get that?” he asked abruptly.

“Rich's. Do you like it?”

Like it! The silhouette of the gown enhanced her perfect hourglass figure, and the neckline drooped to show the soft
curves of her white breasts. Her arms were bare, as he'd never seen them, and they were round and white and soft above the white gloves she wore with her gown. She hadn't used lip rouge, but her pretty lips were red just the same, and her cheeks were pink with excitement. In her hair, she wore an egret, a heron plume on a jet-jeweled comb. She was breathtaking and very stylish, for a woman who'd been raised in the country, outside society.

“You look very nice,” he said formally.

She could have said the same about him. Dark clothes suited him. He was devastating in white tie, but she was too shy to tell him that.

“Thank you,” she said politely, gripping her small purse.

“Shall we go?”

He opened the door and escorted her down to the waiting carriage. She was very nervous and kept picking at her purse for something to keep her hands busy. She wasn't overly fond of Eli Calverson, and she had grave misgivings about John's reaction to Diane. Claire knew that she might look passable in a nice gown, but she was no match for the elegant and beautiful Diane. Only love would have given her the edge, and she didn't have John's.

“How many people will be there?” she asked after a long silence, broken only by the sound of the horses' hooves on the cobblestone street.

“Just the Calversons, Mr. Whitfield and his wife and son, and us.”

“Oh.”

“It's a small, intimate gathering, not a party,” he returned gently, flicking lint from his sleeve. He glanced at her approvingly. “Oh, and one other thing, Claire,” he added, leaning toward her with a wicked smile. “Please refrain from making remarks about the motorcar.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

“Because Calverson thinks they're inventions of the devil, that's why. Bankers have to bow to convention to get business. Speaking of which,” he said suddenly, “do you remember the dog whose leg I mended?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the lady who owns him withdrew every penny she had in old Wolford's bank and deposited it in ours.” He chuckled at Claire's delighted expression. “That will show him to take a little more care with his driving.”

“Indeed it will. How delightful for your bank!”

“Calverson thought so, as well. Although,” he added, “I would have stopped just as quickly had she been a poor woman.”

“I knew that already, John,” Claire said. Her soft eyes lingered on his face, and he had to forcibly tear his own away from that adoration. He found himself thinking less often of Diane lately, although his heart was still sore from her loss. Claire was a charming companion. At times, he wondered what it would be like to have a real marriage with her. He thought more about it when he didn't see Diane. He had been looking forward to tonight's dinner, in any case, because his heart fed on the mere sight of her.
But Claire's appearance made him feel a sense of pride in his young wife. She would turn heads tonight.

 

I
T DIDN'T TAKE LONG
to get to the huge Calverson mansion. It had gingerbread woodwork and turret rooms, and it looked like a castle. As Claire mounted the front steps on John's arm, she thought that it would never suit her; it was far too flashy. But Diane needed a showcase, and certainly this was it. Crystal chandeliers blazed through every long window, past exquisite white curtains. Even the staircase inside was hand-carved mahogany.

Diane came to meet them, barely managing a curt greeting for Claire before she went to John with her heart in her eyes and looked up at him with a hand on his sleeve.

“I'm so glad you could come,' she said in her soft, husky voice. “Both of you,” she added reluctantly, glancing at Claire. “Mr. Whitfield's business is so important to us right now. I hope you'll both do your best to make him feel at home in Atlanta, and with the bank.”

“Certainly we will, my dear,” John said. His tone of voice was different when he spoke to Diane. His eyes as he looked at her were suddenly hungry and hot and full of pain. He tensed, because he hadn't expected the feeling to rise in him so powerfully.

Diane saw it and her own eyes sparkled. She smiled coquettishly. “Why, John. You mustn't look at me that way,” she whispered quickly, glancing toward the parlor door and totally unconcerned with Claire's reaction to the byplay. “We must be careful. Eli already suspects—”

Before she could say another word, Eli Calverson came out into the hall to greet their guests, motioning impatiently for a hovering maid to take their coats. Diane took his arm and smiled up at him lovingly.

He flushed—and his good humor seemed to return. He patted Diane's small hand and smiled at her before he turned to greet John. “There you are, my boy. Glad you could come. And how nice to see you again, too, Claire. You're both looking well,” he said pleasantly, shaking John's hand before he turned to kiss Claire's. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly as he looked at her. “I do hope you don't plan any trips in that motorcar in the near future, Claire. It could play havoc with Mr. Whitfield's sensibilities. And we wouldn't want to do anything to upset him, would we? It wouldn't help John's position at all.”

It was a veiled threat. She wished she could tell this fat toad what she thought of him. She didn't dare. Her feathers were already ruffled from Diane's tragic-queen performance. She smiled instead. “I haven't much time for motorcars these days, Mr. Calverson,” she said, with quiet dignity.

“Glad to hear it,” he returned, and smiled more broadly. “Come in and meet our guests.”

He propelled them past Diane and into the parlor where a tall, silver-haired man was waiting. He looked bored and half out of humor. His wife, an insignificant little blonde woman dressed in pink, sat quietly on the velvet-covered couch, looking haunted. A tall, very good-looking young man about Claire's age lounged with one hand on the
mantel. He looked toward the newcomers and the boredom abruptly left his face. He smiled at Claire.

She was taken aback when he came forward as the introductions were made and possessed himself of Claire's hand.

“No one told me that Mr. Hawthorn had such a lovely daughter,” he said, oblivious to the sudden shocked silence around him. “I'm Ted Whitfield, and I certainly hope to see more of you while we're in Atlanta,” he added, kissing her hand.

A viselike hand on her arm pulled her back to John's side. He glared at the younger man, assailed by a surge of jealousy that shocked him. “I'm John Hawthorn. And this is Claire. My wife,” he added deliberately.

Ted wasn't the least perturbed. He only grinned. He looked rakish, with his blond hair and blue eyes and handsome face. “Is she, now? Well, well.”

“Ted, mind your manners,” Mr. Whitfield said abruptly.

“Sure, Daddy,” he drawled.

“John is our vice president,” Eli continued, a little shaken by Ted's unexpected behavior. “A worthy addition to the bank. He's a Harvard graduate, you know.”

“I'm a Princeton man, myself,” Ted said.

“Which class?” John asked, with a mocking smile.

Ted looked uncomfortable. “Well, I haven't actually graduated yet.”

“Oh?”

Amazing, Claire thought, listening, how easily John could
imbue that word with shades of contempt and hauteur. Her husband was still very much an unknown quantity. He intimidated the younger man without even trying.

“But Ted is at the top of his class, aren't you, my darling?” Mrs. Whitfield purred at her handsome son, glaring at John. “He's very intelligent,” she added for good measure, her face flushed with irritation.

“Obviously,” John drawled.

“Would you like a drink before dinner?” Eli asked abruptly, staring pointedly at John.

“I don't think so,” John replied, glancing with raised brow at the brandy snifter in Ted's hand. The look and the implication were enough to make everyone more uncomfortable, especially Diane.

Claire was surprised at the way John behaved toward Ted. The boy was young and harmless, but John seemed to find him offensive. Diane, on the other hand, was kindness itself to the young man, putting herself out to make him feel at home. Claire wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to chastise John for his rudeness to Ted on Claire's behalf.

The dinner was an ordeal for Claire. Noah Whitfield seemed very straitlaced, and his conversation was limited to financial talk that went right over Claire's head. Diane hung on every word, although Claire was certain that the woman didn't understand anything about money except the spending of it. Perhaps her fascination with Mr. Whitfield had more to do with his wealth than his conversation, Claire thought wickedly.

After the meal, the ladies retired to the living room for
conversation while the men closed the sliding doors into the parlor so that they could enjoy brandy and cigars.

“That was a lovely meal, Diane,” Mrs. Whitfield said. “You must have your cook share her broccoli soup recipe with mine.”

“I'll certainly ask her, Jennifer,” Diane replied graciously. “My, what a lovely gown you're wearing. Is it a Paris label?”

“Of course,” the older woman replied, with a smile. “Etienne Dupree. You must know of him.”

“Indeed.”

“And your gown certainly has the hallmark of Paris,” Jennifer added.

“How perceptive of you to notice! It's Charmonne.”

They were shutting Claire out, and doing a magnificent job of it. She was made to feel the little country girl supping with her betters.

She stood up.

“Oh, excuse me, Claire. I didn't mean to exclude you from our conversation,” Diane purred.

Claire gave her a level, unblinking look that made her color. “One of my mother's cousins was a Baptist minister,” she said quietly. “I remember her telling me that he walked everywhere to preach, and that sometimes his shoes were incredibly muddy. One Sunday, while he was preaching, a young man in the audience kept looking at his dirty shoes with a sort of contempt. My cousin stopped in the middle of his sermon to remind the young man that God was surely more interested in the condition of his soul than in the state
of his shoes.” She smiled as the message went home to the other two. “Sometimes it behooves us to remember that heaven has no social levels, and that beggars and queens will walk the same streets on that side of life.”