Nan Ryan (52 page)

“No, you’re not. You know what I did?” He started laughing at himself.

“Oh, what, Dawson? Tell me,” she sat up and drew her legs under her so she could see him better.

He laughed harder, the tears coming to his dark eyes. “I’m almost ashamed to tell you. You’ll think I’m really a fool.”

“I won’t, honest, tell me.”

“Well,” he said, drawing on his cigar, “when I planned to marry you, I bought you a lovely three-carat diamond engagement ring and I …”

“Oh, Dawson, how sweet. And you’ve kept it for me all these years!”

“Hold on, that’s not it. You haven’t heard the best part. The night you came to the boat, I grabbed it and ran up on deck to watch you leave. Then I had Sam take the boat out on the water and I threw the ring into the Mississippi River!”

Kathleen’s hand flew to her mouth, “Dawson, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Do you think we could find it?”

He pulled her back down to him, “Don’t be silly. We were out on the river, Lord knows where. Besides, I’ll buy you a handful of jewels if you want them. I just thought you’d think it was funny.”

“It isn’t at all! It’s sweet and I don’t want a handful of diamonds. I want one exactly like the one you threw in the river.”

“You shall have it, my girl” he said and kissed her. “Tell you what, tomorrow I’ll go buy it. Then at precisely 3
P.M.,
I’ll come to Sans Souci with it. I’ll be there when Scott gets home from school and together we’ll tell him we are getting married. How does that sound to you?”

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Dawson.” She lay snuggled against his chest, silent for a few minutes, then said, “Dawson, may I ask you a question?”

He laughed and said, “Could I stop you?”

“No,” she laughed, “I know it really isn’t any of my business, but … well, I can’t help but wonder. When we were apart, were there … did you … have lots of other women?”

Dawson laughed and said, “You’re right, it isn’t any of your business. But I’ll tell you anyhow.” He turned serious and said, “Darling, I won’t lie to you, of course there were other women, lots of them, you could hardly expect me to remain celibate for ten years. But, Kathleen, my heart remained yours alone. I never loved anyone else,” and he kissed her tenderly.

She sighed, “Dear, much as I hate to, I have to go.”

“No,” he objected, his arms tightening around her. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to go, but I told you, Scott will be home by nine and he’ll expect me. He’ll worry if I’m not there.”

“Say, isn’t it about time that boy got out on his own?” he kidded.

“Dawson!”

“I’m teasing,” he said, releasing her.

She got up and said, “Don’t just lay there, get up.”

“Oh, Kathleen, don’t make me,” he begged.

“And I was never going to have to dress myself again. How quickly they forget,” she laughed.

Dawson bounded off the bed, slipped into his trousers, and ran to pick up her dress from a chair. “What are you waiting for?”

Thirty-eight

Dawson stepped from the door of Burton’s Jewelers. The afternoon sun greeting him was almost blinding. An early morning spring shower had passed quickly, leaving behind a brilliantly blue, cloudless sky and a sweet, clean smell in the May air. Dawson breathed deeply and squinted up at the bright sun overhead. Sighing contentedly, he strode to his fancy carriage waiting in front of the store. Patting his upper waistcoat pocket, feeling the reassuring bulge of the newly bought treasure resting close to his heart, he smiled, put his black hat jauntily on his head, and walked to his carriage.

Jim sat, whip and reins in hand, ready to whisk Dawson to Sans Souci and his three o’clock meeting with Kathleen. The festiveness of the occasion had caused Dawson to instruct Jim to bring out the never-used, ostentatious enclosed brougham with its gleaming leather interior. In front of the grand carriage, two high-spirited, perfectly matched black steeds pawed at the ground and snorted eagerly, ready to be off on their journey. Dawson had owned the carriage and horses for over a year, but had used it only once when he had taken a melancholy ride to Natchez Under the Bluffs one dark night last winter. It had been one of the many sleepless nights he’d spent, knowing Kathleen was now a widow, free to marry, alone at Sans Souci, but unwilling to be courted by him or any other man. It had almost been easier for him when her husband had been alive. Then, at least he knew it was impossible for him to have her and he accepted the dreary facts and went about seeking other pleasures, though all of a temporary nature, meaningless though pleasant, serving only to assuage the hollow loneliness he carried inside for an hour or two at a time.

Then she was widowed and he could no longer find even the briefest distraction in the arms of another woman. He longed for Kathleen and no other and the never-forgotten fact that she was a free woman, alone and uncared for, made the never-quenched flame inside him burst into raging fire. He told himself that at last she belonged to no other, was his and his alone. Though he’d never made advances toward her, he spent long hours daydreaming of the time when she at last would capitulate, would send for him, would agree the bond between them had never been completely severed, that she was no longer restrained by the marriage vows, that she had decided to marry him at last, after all the wasted, never to be regained, years.

She had not done it. Dawson had waited, hardly leaving his mansion except for dinner with Crawford or an occasional game of cards with old friends. So sure he was the day would come when she would send for him, would profess a deep affection, if not love, would bid him come to Sans Souci. His hopes rose so high, he had the fancy carriage ordered built in New Orleans, secretly relishing the fateful day when he would indeed go to Sans Souci, riding grandly in his new vehicle, a huge bouquet of roses in his hand, ready to help her inside and take her for a ride like a young, newly met beau coming to call for the first time on the blushing young maiden, who was ready to rush down the steps and into the covered carriage of her nervous new suitor.

She hadn’t summoned him at all. He had hardly seen her and when he did, it was usually no more than a glance at her slim back climbing the steep stone steps of St. Mary’s Cathedral for Sunday morning church services. Dawson often stole to a well-hidden viewing place so he could watch her while she remained unaware of his perusal. It was after one of those sightings that he’d felt particularly low and lonely for the rest of the cold winter’s day, for on that morning she had turned when she got almost to the top of the steps and he was presented with an unobstructed look at her beautiful face, smiling to a friend coming up to join her. She was wearing a heavy brown cape, completely hiding her slim, well-proportioned frame, but the delicately-featured, sweet face, with its shining azure eyes, was enough to make the heart pound in his chest. The pale blond hair was drawn tightly up on her head, but a few rebellious strands escaped and blew around her cheeks and neck in the cold wind. She turned abruptly, taking with her the light from Dawson’s world, and he sighed and stole away, unnoticed.

He spent the rest of that dreary Sunday shut up in his huge library, savoring alone the vision of her lovely face, the picture image of it so indelibly stamped in his mind. It brought, by turns, a warming smile to his face to be followed almost immediately by a furrowed brow and a look of pain. By sundown, he could stand his anguish no longer and summoned Jim.

I want you to get the new carriage out of the carriage-house. Hitch up the black horses and come to the front to wait. I’ll be down in half an hour.” That done, he rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, shouting orders to the startled servants as he went. Five minutes later, he lowered himself into an oversized marble tub of steaming hot water and sang off key in a loud baritone voice that boomed throughout the house. Dressed impeccably in a pearl gray waistcoat with a doublebreasted brocade vest, tight trousers, and a snow white shirt, he grabbed a black cashmere cloak and hurried down the steps of his mansion. Jim stood beside the grand carriage, waiting for his master. “To Sans Souci,” Dawson said cheerily, and swung up inside the brougham.

“But, suh, I …”

“Sans Souci, Jim, and be quick about it,” Dawson shouted and his obedient servant took his place and coaxed the horses away.

Elation filled Dawson’s being as he sat back inside the covered carriage, a large fur wrapper over his knees. He was imagining Kathleen’s reaction when he rushed up the steps of her home, seeing the surprise written plainly on her lovely face, further shocked when he swept her into his arms and stated his reason for being there. While he whirled her around, lifting her easily over his head, he would look up at her and tell her in no uncertain terms that he had come to claim her. Then happiness would flood over her face and, resting her small hands atop his shoulders, she would throw back her head and laugh in utter delight while she gleefully said, “My darling, why have you waited so long?”

With the happy scene vivid in his mind, Dawson wore a broad smile as the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves took him nearer to Sans Souci and the realization of his storybook dreams. As they neared the big mansion, the smile on his dark, handsome face began to fade slightly, as fear of rejection suddenly reared its ugly, unwanted head. From out of nowhere, doubt had bounded and the closer the carriage got to the big house, the more frightened Dawson became. If she wanted him there, she would have invited him long ago. She had never done it. She would think him a madman if he burst into her home on this cold Sunday evening, tossing her over his head and vowing she was his. What could have possessed him that he could have imagined she would willingly accept his presence, much less offer herself to him with no qualms, like some prize he’d won and had come to claim. He was an idiot, a complete fool. She’d be horrified at such a ridiculous idea, would be repulsed by his brashness, by his total lack of regard for her feelings. Convinced he’d almost made a terrible blunder, he shouted to Jim, “Turn the coach around immediately, don’t go another step!”

“But, suh, we’s almost there now, we …”

“Please, Jim, before anyone in that house sees the carriage, drive off.”

“Yes, suh,” Jim quickly responded to Dawson’s orders. Where does you wants to go, Mistah Dawson, back home?”

“No, I don’t. Take me down to the river. To Natchez Under.”

The carriage now retreating, Dawson looked over his shoulder as Sans Souci grew smaller and the occupant inside farther from his reach. The grand new carriage carrying the nattily dressed, lovesick suitor made its way down to the river and the squalor and bawdiness contained on the muddy shores of the Mississippi. Instead of spending a quiet, gracious evening in the drawing room of Sans Souci, holding the tiny, soft hand of the lady soon to be his wife, Dawson Blakely, sans the elegant waistcoat, his white silk shirt unbuttoned, its sleeves rolled up over his brown arms, spent the night at a dirty green felt table, playing poker with an assortment of dandies and river rats, drinking whiskey straight, blotting from his brain the ridiculous plans that had made so much sense earlier in the evening.

That cold night was the one and only time the grand carriage had been out of its shelter. Now, as he rode to his destination, it was at last to be used for its original purpose. To court his lady love, to woo and win back her affection, even if it meant after they were man and wife. Dawson smiled and took out the pink velvet box from his breast pocket. He popped the top open and held the box outside the carriage so that the perfect, brilliant stone could catch and reflect all the light from the glaring afternoon sun. Exactly like the one he’d bought for Kathleen over a decade ago, the beautiful gem caught the sun’s rays and cast colored prisms of light into the bright, happy eyes of her fiancé. It was a flawless stone and soon it would rest on the third finger of Kathleen’s flawless left hand, to stay there forever, a constant reminder to her of his love for her, a constant reminder to him that at long last she was his.

He drew the ring back inside the carriage, replaced it in its velvet box, and slipped it inside his pocket. He relaxed against the leather seat and felt a great peace settling over his entire body, a feeling of relaxed easiness he’d never known before. The quiet desperation he’d carried with him for years had been replaced with a quiet contentment.

Dawson looked at his gold pocket watch. Only 2:30. He had told Kathleen he would be there at three o’clock. If he arrived early, she might not be ready. Not wishing to disturb her last minutes of preparation for his arrival, he explained to Jim it was a little premature to be heading for Sans Souci, but since it was such a breathtakingly beautiful day, he could just drive around, it made no difference where, he’d just enjoy the ride. The two matched steeds pranced proudly through the streets of Natchez and people turned to look at the grand carriage pulled by such quality beasts. Realizing no one recognized the vehicle as belonging to him, Dawson decided to let the identity of its owner remain a mystery.

Leaving the city behind, Jim headed out to a country lane. He, too, was enjoying the spring day and the ride atop the new brougham and he smiled to himself that no one recognized him since Dawson had insisted he wear the brand new gun metal gray coachman’s livery with its fringed shoulder plates. He felt like royalty himself and handling the high-spirited, black horses was a pleasurable challenge to the old servant.

They had hardly left the buildings of Natchez behind when Dawson saw a young boy and a man, walking along beside the road, not more than a hundred yards ahead. They were walking in the direction of town, away from a lane that turned just behind them, leading to the small cemetery. Dawson squinted at the strange pair. The boy had a small arm around the man’s waist and the man rested his arm along the top of the boy’s slim shoulders. They walked very slowly, the man limping badly, favoring his left leg. Their progress was slow, as the child seemed to be laboriously supporting the man’s weight. As the carriage drew nearer to the strange pair, Dawson could see the dark hair of the boy. The man bending over him had gray hair and, though slumped over, Dawson could see he was a tall man. His body was painfully thin.