Somerset (41 page)

A
fter the funeral, early one morning, Thomas rode out to Somerset and dismounted on the rise of land where his father was buried. The red oak leaves were turning, as were those of the sumac, black gum, and hickory buried among the pines lining the road to the plantation. He knew that he would not live enough years for orange-and-gold October mornings not to bring the memory of the day before the sun fully rose when his youngest child met the instrument of his death. Thomas removed his hat and squatted before the headstone. He stared at it, remembering in particular a part of the conversation he'd overheard between his mother and father twenty-two years ago. He recalled fragments of his father's words.

My mother prophesied a curse would fall upon Somerset for the sacrifice I made to fulfill my ambition of having a plantation of my own.…
I paid no attention to it.
…
But then, our first child miscarried, and there was another miscarriage after the birth of Thomas
…
and after that
…
you
…
seemed unable to conceive. And then when we lost Joshua
…

Thomas had never forgotten the sound of his father's anguish in his confession to his mother.
The possibility possessed me like a demon that perhaps we
were
cursed…
a
nd being punished for…
the selfish and willful trades I made for the sake of the land.
…

Thomas shook his head to dislodge any thought of believing his son's death was the fault of a curse, but his mind would not let go. He had come here today where he'd often brought concerns, anxieties, hopes, triumphs, most often seeking guidance and answers, as if his father could counsel him from the grave. He rarely left without an easier heart, a firmer resolve, a clearer sense of direction. Today he came to seek release from the ridiculous notion that had bedeviled him unmercifully since his little boy was brought home already in the throes of death from a morning of baseball practice, but as he stared at the headstone, Thomas had the awful feeling he'd come to the wrong place.

In his mind's eye, he could see his father as he best remembered him: tall, straight, in command, the wisdom of the ages etched in his handsome, strong face, the eyes direct and steady. Today, though, the memory of that clear green gaze held no affirmation of Thomas's opinion that the Toliver curse was an absurdity. On the contrary, he believed his father may have argued the point with him.

It was a fact that he, too, like his father, had sacrificed another person's happiness for his own self-interest, and he had lived to regret it, which had been curse enough. Thomas often wondered, especially now when sometimes he thought Priscilla hated him, how much happier she would have been if she'd married a man who loved her. He had robbed her of that happiness, and for that theft he had paid with his own personal happiness, which had been a sacrifice of his own. But had the “selfish and willful trades” he'd made for the sake of the land resulted in David's death? Of course not. Men married women for less reason than love all the time, and their children died. No hex was involved. Henri and Bess had lost a daughter; Jeremy and Camellia Warwick a son. Were they under a curse, too?

Thomas stood, replaced his hat, and looked out over the infinite rows of cotton where his real solace lay. The workers were making the second pass at the still-abundant fields. It was a beautiful sight. The width, expanse—the
power
—of all that whiteness stretching farther than it was possible for the eye to see filled his soul, he could not deny it. He remembered his father explaining to Priscilla when they were first engaged: “Tolivers are not seamen. We were not born to ply oceans and sail ships. For better or worse, we are men controlled by some inherited need to master the land—great parcels of it—and make it our own as our ancestors did in England and South Carolina.”

How could a man deny who and what he was, what he'd been born to do, what he needed to survive, what he believed with all his heart he must pass on to his progeny? If his grief swelled at the sight of the legacy his younger son had not lived to share with his brother, it was due to an irony of fate, not a curse. He'd been robbed of an heir he'd married a woman he did not love to produce, but his loss had nothing to do with the sacrifices he or his father had made on behalf of Somerset. Thomas vowed to continue to remember that.

T
he last day of 1883, Jessica removed a notepad from the stack of journals in the upper cabinet of her secretary, adjusted the wick of her kerosene lamp against the gathering twilight, and headed her final entry of the year.

Jessica laid down her pen and stared unseeing out the dusk-filled window. Like the sudden lunge of the snake that had killed her grandson, an unthinkable possibility leaped into her mind. Dear God! Had Priscilla read her diaries? From what other source could she have learned about the curse? The knowledge could not have come through Thomas. He had been kept ignorant of the foolishness that had haunted his father. But would the girl be that unprincipled, that ignoble? Was Jessica imagining things? Was she misjudging her daughter-in-law?

Another cause could account for Priscilla's animosity toward her husband. The night of Regina's birthday party his wife had seen the attraction between Thomas and Jacqueline Chastain. To Jessica's knowledge—and it would not have escaped her—Thomas had not acted upon his fascination, but ever since, Jessica was convinced that Priscilla had become the milliner's enemy. The situation had not appeared so at first. Priscilla began buying all her hats from the Millinery Shop, so many that Thomas had remarked on her extravagance at supper one night.

“I'm delighted you are giving Mrs. Chastain the business, Priscilla, but must you support it as if you're the only customer in Howbutker?” he'd said.

“I'm trying to be a pied piper by leading all my friends to her door,” Priscilla had replied.

But Jessica noticed that Priscilla never wore the hats, and word had come to her by way of Bess that someone had written letters circulating around the county that defamed the morals of the widow who owned the millinery shop. They claimed Jacqueline had seduced her husband and warned women that as long as “the wanton” was in town, their husbands were in jeopardy of her wiles.

“Who would do such a thing?” Bess said. “One wonders, of course, if there is truth to the letters even though Mrs. Chastain does not seem the sort, but who knows? She is very beautiful and unattached.”

Jessica had had an idea who. A letter had not come to her, a further implication that Priscilla's hand had held the pen. Her daughter-in-law had bought the hats to throw suspicion off herself. Bess had destroyed her copy of the malicious swill, so Jessica could not compare the writer's signature to Priscilla's. Jessica had been in a quandary of indecision. If her daughter-in-law was innocent of such evil, confronting her could drive a wedge between them that would never be removed. And if the girl was guilty, Thomas would be unable to live under the same roof with her, and what would that alienation do to the children? Jessica believed she had no choice but to remain silent and hope the perpetrator's scheme would have no effect on the prosperity of Mrs. Chastain's shop.

But if Priscilla
were
guilty of that sort of skullduggery, how far a leap was it to steal into her mother-in-law's room, unlock the cabinet in her secretary, and read her private journals? The idea of it was so chilling that Jessica rose abruptly and began to pace. Good Lord, the buried secrets the girl would have unearthed! And why had she read them in the first place? Surely her interest in her husband's lineage was not
that
strong!

In her mind, Jessica sorted through the information her daughter-in-law was now privy to if she'd read the diaries. The sum and private nature of the content appalled her to the bone, not the least of which was Jessica's suspicion that the girl had had relations with Andrew Duncan and believed him to be the father of Regina.

Jessica forced herself to remain calm. She could still be imagining demons that didn't exist. Priscilla had never hinted of the information she'd learned by so much as a sidelong glance. She'd never used it to her advantage against Jessica, whom she'd come to dislike, but then, why would she and risk discovery? What had led her to embark on such a perilous mission as reading her mother-in-law's diaries? She would have known that discovery would lead to her disgrace—and Thomas's complete rejection—if caught. What
had
caused her to put her marriage, and her zealously enjoyed position, in jeopardy?

Jessica strolled to the window overlooking the drive leading to the carriage house. Sometimes in the early hours, she thought she could still hear the clip-clop of Major Duncan's horse carrying him to his quarters late at night. Suddenly the answer to the puzzle popped into her head. Of course. The major! Red-haired, freckle-faced Andrew Duncan was the reason Priscilla had read her diaries.

Jessica wondered why it had taken so long for the light to dawn. Somehow, she had given Priscilla cause to wonder if her mother-in-law suspected her affair with the major, so she had gone to the only logical source for confirmation and found it.

Jessica plopped down in a chair, her mind spinning. Now what? Exposing the woman to Thomas was out of the question. Merciful heavens, the devastation that would unleash! There would be the scandal of Priscilla's adultery, the question of Regina's paternity, marital estrangement—all on top of David's death. Besides, Jessica had no proof her son's wife had read her diaries. Priscilla could—and would—deny everything, and Jessica must consider the children. Once again, she would have to let these particular sleeping dogs lie. There were other dogs Jessica feared her grandson's death may have roused since Priscilla had now learned of the Toliver curse.

One by one Jessica began removing the journals from her secretary and placing them in chronological order in pillowcases. When they were filled, she locked the bundles in her wardrobe and concealed the key in the finial of her bed post. If Priscilla came visiting and found them gone, she would know soon enough that her unforgivable deed had been discovered.

I
t was spring again. The white dogwood and spirea, redbud and purple wisteria were blooming. As Thomas rode into town from Houston Avenue, he wondered if he would ever feel the way he had last year at this time when his daughter turned sixteen. Then, he had felt in the bloom of a full life with perhaps the exception of his marriage, but a man couldn't have it all. But that had been a year ago, and then the darkness came with David's death that had left the surviving members of his family feeling as though they'd been buried in the black core of the earth. They had emerged after a time, but none of them was the same as before.

It will just take more distance from that dark place, Thomas thought to himself. Then perhaps life would return as it had been, or at least a semblance of it. For now, he had little enthusiasm for things the way they were then: his marriage, civic obligations—even, sometimes, Somerset. He went through the motions, but his heart wasn't in those occupations that had given him purpose and enjoyment. A carpetbagger was running for his spot on the city council and Thomas was of a mind to let him have it without a fight. Vernon had practically taken over the running of the plantation, and as for his marriage, he simply hadn't the energy to stoke a flame from the dying embers any more than Priscilla seemed to want its warmth. It was still a surprise to him that she'd rebuffed his attempts to console her after David died. She'd turn away from him, and sometimes he'd catch her staring at him accusingly—as if she blamed him for their son's death. After a while, Thomas attributed her coldness as coming from the sobering realization he'd endured for some time. They were losing their firstborn to manhood, and their daughter's vital presence would be gone from the house when she married next year. Priscilla would be stuck with her dull husband and his aging mother.

This morning he was on his way to have luncheon with Armand. Another black cloud was descending. Henri DuMont was terminally ill, and Armand was going through the throes Thomas had suffered when his own father was facing death. Like then, when Armand had offered the solace of his friendship, Thomas was going to tender his.

First, he had business with the man running his cottonseed mill located the other side of Howbutker. Thomas had established the mill in 1879 when cottonseed was in high demand for every use from food fodder for animals to stuffing for mattresses. Cottonseed oil had overtaken flaxseed as the chief source of vegetable oil in the United States, and a market had opened up with the new invention of oleomargarine that called for the oil as a substitute for animal fat in its production. Today he was to confer with his foreman about expanding the mill's capacity to meet its increasing avalanche of orders. Thomas felt he should be happy to discuss plans to enlarge this lucrative source of income, but the mood was not there.

Automatically when Thomas entered the town circle, he glanced down the spoke street leading to Jacqueline Chastain's shop. He had never dared turn his horse in its direction for fear that a mere glimpse of her through the mullioned panes might give him cause to stop. It had been a year since he'd last seen the back of her dark head outlined in the eisenglassed window of his carriage. She had sent a note of condolence after David's death, and he'd resisted the insane impulse to go to her and cry out his grief on her lovely bosom.

This morning he gave in to the urge to ride by her place of business. What the blazes did it matter, anyway? Perhaps he would not feel the same when he saw her a year later. He was not the same man. She might not be the same woman. Besides, he would not stop and go in. He would simply allow himself a brief look and keep riding.

Moments later, Thomas reined his horse before the shop. He stared in disbelief at the sign in the window:
CLOSED
. The display windows gaped vacant of the luring frippery of women's hats, umbrellas, gloves, and purses exhibited there last spring. An air of desertion hung about the place as if it had been closed for some time. Thomas dismounted and tried the door. Locked. He peered inside at the empty shelves and bare counter. What in hell? He backed away from the entrance and cast his eyes upward to the second floor, relieved to see an array of perky geraniums in the window box. Someone was living there.

Thomas secured his horse at the hitching post and walked around to the side of the building, where a flight of stairs gave access to the apartment above. He listened and looked for signs of life, a movement behind a curtain, a domestic sound, but heard and saw nothing to indicate anyone was home. Something brushed his leg. A cat. It leaped to the bottom step and flew up the stairs to the landing, where it began to mew demandingly at the closed door. Thomas held his breath as it opened, and Jacqueline Chastain stood framed in the doorway.

Thomas called softly, “Jacqueline?”

She stepped out onto the landing and peered down. “Thomas? What are you doing here?”

“I…I saw the sign in the window. I had no idea that…your shop had closed.”

“Yes, for four months now. My business…fell off.”

Dismayed, he placed a foot on the bottom rung. She wore a look of defeat, despite her straight posture and beauty that was unadorned this morning. She wore a dressing gown and her dark hair loose about her shoulders.

“But it looked as if you were doing so well,” he said.

“I was…for a while.”

They stared at each other. Thomas said, “Will you be staying in Howbutker?”

“Only a little longer until I can make other arrangements. Armand DuMont has been so kind to allow me to stay in the apartment, but I can't impose on him much longer. I'm sure I'm preventing him from renting the space.”

“Armand DuMont?”

“He owns the property. I'm so sorry to hear his father is ill.”

Only Armand, God bless his generous heart, would rent property to a competitor, Thomas thought. He'd had no idea. He said on impulse, “May I come up for a cup of coffee?”

After a small hesitation, she said, “You may.”

She served him steaming coffee in delicate china cups. They sat in the small room facing the street that served as a parlor. Thomas noticed packed crates tucked here and there, crowding the limited space. “Where will you go?” he asked.

“Back home, to Richmond, Virginia. I've a sister there. She and her husband have agreed to take me in. I'm hoping to find work in a millinery shop in town.”

“When…will that be?”

“In a few weeks when I can dispose of the rest of my inventory.” She gestured toward the wooden boxes. “A general store in Marshall has agreed to take them, and then I'll have the money for my fare.”

His heart felt squeezed. “I'm so sorry things didn't work out. You are so talented. I would have thought you'd have plenty of business.”

She smiled at him sadly. “I did, too, but…” She shrugged her shoulders. “It was not meant to be. How have you been getting along since…the tragedy?”

“I'm…managing,” he said with a faint smile.

She nodded, the simple response and a brief close of her eyes carrying a world of understanding. Thomas took her for the kind of woman who would not try to comfort him with platitudes. The cat, a gray tom, leaped to her lap and curled there with a proprietary air. She sipped her coffee. Thomas set down his cup. He should go. There was nothing more to be said, though volumes strained to be spoken. He knew nothing about this woman. People could fool you. They could surprise and disappoint you. Tried-and-true instincts could betray you. But of this he was sure about Jacqueline Chastain: She was too special to live in a loft or back room of her sister's house and too talented to work for pennies selling another's wares in a millinery shop.

He leaned forward. “Mrs. Chastain—Jacqueline—if you could find a suitable position here in Howbutker, would you stay?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, and he'd hoped to hear a leap of hope in her voice, but she sounded resigned to her fate. “However, I do not expect such a position to be available.”

“Why not?”

“There are…certain influences afoot in this town that would prevent my being offered one.”

He frowned. “Like what? Whose?”

She rose, holding the cat. Their visit was over. “I'm not at liberty to say, Mr. Toliver, but I do appreciate your concern. Thank you for inquiring after my welfare.” She led the way to the door and smiled a final good-bye as she held out her hand. “Time will not close the hole in your heart,” she said, “but I hope the years will fill the space with happy memories of your son.”

“You have not heard the last from me, Mrs. Chastain,” Thomas said, refusing to accept the finality in her tone. “You must keep the faith.”

“I'm afraid I've lost that, Mr. Toliver,” she said.