Morning Song (20 page)

"I'd like a word with you, if you please," he said quietly.

"I'm tired." Jessie tried to pull her arm from his grip as Sissie and Minna, each clutching parcels containing the afternoon's finery, slipped by.

"Nevertheless."

He was courteous, perfectly so, but the fingers circling her arm could have been forged from iron. Clearly he meant to have his own way. Jessie scowled, then capitulated with a jerky nod. If he 169

thought to rake her over the coals, then he was in for a surprise!

Her blood was up, and she meant to give as good as she got.

XXIII

The
library was a small room toward the back of the first floor, little used until Stuart had taken up residence at Mimosa. He had claimed the book-lined room for his own, had it dusted and aired and furnished with a massive mahogany desk and comfortable leather chairs. It was to the library that he led Jessie, standing back courteously to allow her to precede him into the room, then closing the door behind him as he followed her in. With the candle he had taken from a stand near the front door, he lit the tapers on either side of his desk. The flickering light that resulted sent dancing shadows into every corner of the room and, as he turned to face Jessie, also hid his expression.

"Have a seat." He indicated the chair closest to where Jessie stood in the center of the room.

"Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I'm assuming that this won't take long?"

She faced him defiantly, chin up, eyes bright. He looked her over for a moment without saying anything more, moving to sit on a corner of his desk with one long, booted leg swinging idly. The highly polished black leather gleamed as it moved. Jessie's eyes were caught by that gleam. Swiftly they traveled from that swinging boot up over the formidable length of the man wearing it. As always, he was

immaculately turned out. Despite the vicissitudes of his day, his breeches were creaseless, the biscuit-colored knit clinging to the 170

powerful muscles of his legs as if they'd been painted on. His brocade waistcoat fitted his wide chest and slim midriff without a wrinkle. His long-tailed coat of blue superfine hugged his broad shoulders lovingly. Nary a spot marred his impeccably tied neckcloth, and his shirt points were as crisp as they had been when he'd donned the garment that morning. If his hair was a trifle disordered by the wind, the disorder was highly becoming. A tousle of blue-black waves fell over his forehead, framing the classically handsome face. In the candlelight his eyes glinted very blue.

Conscious of her own disorder—despite Madame Fleur's promise, the wind in her hair on the drive home had contrived to loosen long curls that now straggled down her back, and the front of her lovely gown bore a definite spot—Jessie viewed his sartorial perfection with something less than pleasure. In fact, she scowled at him.

"Since you've brought me in here to scold me, you might as well get it over with so that I can go to bed." Something, either her words or her snappish tone, amused him. The resulting wry twist of his lips maddened her.

"You must not drink spirits at parties, you know. The good folks hereabouts will say you're fast."

If he had been angry with her at the Chandlers', his anger seemed to have faded. His voice was no more than gently chiding. In fact, he sounded very much like a fond but weary parent scolding a wayward child. But she was no child, not anymore, and he was definitely not her parent!

"Don't you dare criticize me! I wouldn't even have gone to the stupid party if you hadn't insisted. And it seems to me that your 171

behavior tonight was far more reprehensible than mine. After all, I didn't knock my host down—or kiss my stepdaughter!" She hadn't meant to say it, but her anger was such that it had just bubbled out. The words lay between them like a gauntlet. Stuart's hps tightened fractionally. It was clear that her unexpected counterattack both surprised and displeased him.

' No, you didn't, did you? You merely flirted madly with all the halfway eligible men present, and got yourself royally tipsy in the bargain. Pretty behavior, for a wet-behind-the-ears miss!"

"No worse than yours! Or Celia's! And don't you call me a wetbehind-the-ears miss in that patronizing tone!"

"Certainly no worse than Celia's—and I'll call you what I please," he said, sounding placid enough, although his eyes belied his tone. They were beginning to show a decided glint, and Jessie realized that she was making him angry. Good! She wanted him angry! As angry as she was!

"What business is it of yours what I do, anyway? You'd do better putting all this effort into keeping track of your wandering wife! She's the one you found in the greenhouse, remember, not me!"

"I didn't bring you in here to discuss Celia." Jessie laughed. The glint in his eyes flared.

"You take entirely too much upon yourself, Stuart. I neither want nor need you to tell me how to behave!"

"Really? From the way you were making eyes at that Todd boy, I half expected to find the two of you sneaking off into the dark together. Just like your stepmother would do."

"You're vile."

He smiled then, unpleasantly, and stood up. He looked very large suddenly in the small room. "Not nearly as vile as I can be, 172

I assure you. Nor as vile as I will be if I find you in a situation remotely like the one in which we discovered Celia—or if I hear of you drinking spirits again."

"Don't you dare threaten me!"

"You're trying my patience, Jessie." "Good!" His lips tightened. Crossing his arms over his chest, he cocked his head to one side and surveyed her narrowly. Jessie could see that he had got control of his temper again and was trying very hard to retain it.

"This little tantrum of yours is all because I kissed you, isn't it?"

"Certainly not! And I am not having a tantrum!"

"Aren't you? You've been having one all night. The flirting, the spirits—it was all to get back at me, wasn't it?" Jessie felt her face grow red, but whether it was from rage or embarrassment or some combination of the two, she was too upset to guess. He stood there, leaning back against the desk, looking oh-so-superior, while she gibbered like an idiot and he probed unfeelingly at the darkest secrets of her heart. Her teeth clenched, and in that moment she came close to hating him.

"You flatter yourself!"

"Do I?"

Then he smiled, kindly, and that pitying smile was his undoing. With an inarticulate cry of rage she rushed toward him, meaning to claw the smile from his face.

"Hey!"

He caught her flailing wrists, holding her off from him while she squirmed and kicked and called him every bad name she had ever heard. But her kicks did no more than scuff his boots, and 173

her insults made him laugh. His laughter maddened her, and finally he had to pin her back against his body to subdue her.

"Let me go!"

"Behave yourself and I will." He was grinning still.

"I hate you!" "Temper, temper."

"Maw-worm! Clod!"

"My mother always told me to beware of redheaded women. Hotheaded, she said." "I am not redheaded!"

"Yes, you are. And you've got the temper to prove it. Calm down, Jessie, and I'll let you go."

Jessie took a deep breath and stood very still. She stood with her back to him, her posterior pressed against his thighs, her arms crisscrossed over her bosom while he held fast to her wrists. From the corner of her eye she could see his wide grin.

"I don't think one tiny little kiss is worth all this, do you?" His tone was almost teasing. Mentally Jessie called him a word so bad that ordinarily she would blush to hear it. But aloud she said, sweetly, "Will you please let go of my wrists? You're hurting me."

"Behave yourself, now."

He gave her wrists a warning squeeze, then slowly released his hold on them. Jessie was no sooner free than she whirled on her heel and slapped him hard across his smirking face.

"That's what I think your kiss is worth!"

"Ow!"

He stepped back a pace, clapping a hand to his cheek. His eyes widened with astonishment. For a moment he merely looked at her, his expression so comical that she forgot to be afraid. She smiled at him in malicious triumph. And in so doing made her own grievous mistake.

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"You—little—brat!" he said through clenched teeth, and reached for her.

"Oh!" His hands clamped over her upper arms, dragged her close. For a frozen moment Jessie glared up into eyes that blazed as cold and bright as diamonds. Then with a sound that might have been a growl or a curse Stuart bent his head.

This time when he kissed her, it bore no resemblance at all to the soft sweetness of his previous effort. This kiss was fierce, and rough, designed both to vent his anger and teach her a lesson. Eyes wide, Jessie tried to jerk her head free, but he thwarted her movement by twisting her in his arms so that her head was imprisoned against the unyielding hardness of his shoulder. His mouth clamped down on hers, crushing her lips against her teeth until her mouth was forced open. Then, incredibly, his tongue thrust its way inside. It staked bold possession, stroking the roof of her mouth, the insides of her cheeks, her tongue.

The hot, wet invasion frightened her, made her whimper and squirm in protest. To her unutterable relief, Stuart stiffened suddenly and lifted his head. For a moment they stared at each other, Jessie's eyes wide and fearful, Stuart's clouded with emotions she couldn't name.

Then, all at once, he released her and stepped back.

"Now
you slap my face," he said quietly. Acting blindly, more out of instinct than because he told her to, Jessie drew back her hand and dealt him a blow that resounded through the small room and rocked his head. Then she stepped quickly out of reach.

He stood looking at her, just looking at her, for countless seconds as long fingers rose to probe experimentally at his face. 175

Dark blood rushed to fill in the mark she had left; the imprint of her hand was clearly visible on his cheek. Jessie's fingers rose to her mouth. Lips trembling, she watched him without speaking. Finally he broke the silence. "Go to bed, Jessie." His voice was devoid of emotion. His face looked empty, too, as he met her eyes. His fingers still rested against the reddened cheek. Jessie guessed that it had begun to throb and sting. Every instinct she possessed urged her to go to him, to apologize, to find some way to make up for the blow she had dealt him.

Then she remembered that hateful kiss.

Without a word Jessie turned on her heel and fled.

XXIV

Over the next ten days the domestic situation at Mimosa deteriorated badly. Jessie spent most of her time avoiding Stuart, whom she suspected of also doing his utmost to avoid her. Celia alternated between bouts of bitter sarcasm and sullen silence, lines of discontent springing up almost overnight to age her once youthful face. Though Jessie's bedroom was in the original structure at the front of the house, and Celia and Stuart had separate but adjoining rooms in the newer rear wing, they quarreled so violently late at night that Jessie could not help but hear them. Or at least, she heard Celia, screeching furiously at her husband. Stuart's replies she usually didn't hear, although once he shouted, "I said get the hell out of here, you bitch!" loudly enough to startle Jessie out of a near sleep. On another occasion she heard a resounding thud as though something heavy had fallen or been thrown, followed by Celia's scream.

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The sounds both upset and frightened Jessie, so she buried her head beneath her pillow and pretended not to hear them. Because the slaves all slept with their families in the quarters, Jessie was the only witness to this almost nightly violence. With the coming of the sun, and the servants, things went on pretty much as they always had, except for the tension that lay over the house. It was so thick that Jessie could feel its weight like a blanket whenever she was indoors. The servants felt it, too. Tudi, Rosa, Sissie, and the rest went about their duties in unaccustomed silence. All of them, Jessie included, had a tendency to start when Celia appeared.

On the brighter side, Jessie now had a positive surfeit of beaux. In the days following the Chandlers' party Oscar Kastel, Billy Cummings, Mac Wilder, Evan Williams, and Mitch Todd all came to call more than once. Jessie sat with them on the veranda, or walked with them along the drive, or went riding in their buggies, with Tudi or Sissie along for propriety's sake. There was a time when Jessie would have been deliriously happy to have Mitch, in particular, paying court to her. But she was so distracted over the general unhappiness at Mimosa, and the state of her relationship with Stuart in particular, that the realization of a dream she'd held close for years—having Mitch Todd as her beau—did not give her the pleasure she'd always thought it would. To her dismay, Jessie found herself smiling at his quips and lowering her eyes at his compliments, while all the while she had to make a conscious effort to keep her thoughts from wandering.

And that, she knew, could be laid squarely at Stuart's door. If Stuart was aware of her newfound popularity, Jessie couldn't say. He spent each day in the cotton fields as the hands labored 177

to get the rest of the crop picked before the first of the autumn frosts. The cotton flowers had long since turned from pink to purple. When the blooms withered, signaling that the plants were mature, every available man, woman, child, and mule at Mimosa took to the fields, where they swarmed over the acres of whitespeckled plants like an army of ants. The distant hum of rich spirituals floating in from the fields joined with the rush of the nearby river to form a background sound so familiar that Jessie scarcely heard it anymore.

Only she, Celia, and the house servants were exempt from laboring in the fields.

When not occupied with her callers (who soon grew to be as much nuisance as pleasure, since their arrival meant that Jessie had to entertain them), she spent most of her time in the saddle. Twice she rode to Tulip Hill to spend the afternoon with Miss Flora and Miss Laurel, to whom she was growing steadily more attached. Almost always, she took care to return long after supper, which Celia and Stuart still ate together in grim silence. One place she no longer rode to was the fields to join Stuart. Chaney Dart finally asked Nell Bidswell to marry him, and the Bidswells hosted a dinner party to make the gala announcement. To Jessie's surprise, Celia turned down the invitation. Stuart also declined to attend on the grounds that he had too much work to do getting in the cotton. On her own initiative, sparked by a desire to show him that she was not as backward socially as he thought, Jessie went alone, attended by Tudi and Progress, and to her surprise she had a good time. She suspected that Celia's unaccustomed refusal to take part in a neighborhood gathering had been engineered by Stuart, who she guessed was bent on avoiding a repetition of Celia's indiscretion with Seth Chandler. 178