Wilde, Jennifer (68 page)

"You
know how to please me, Meg. You always have."

Meg
stood up. She looked depleted. Her whole body seemed to droop, and her eyes
were incredibly weary, deep shadows underlining them.

"I'll
go to my room now," she said.

"You
look worn out," her brother replied, getting to his feet. "I'd better
accompany you. Wouldn't want you stumbling on the stairs. Here, take my
arm."

"Good
night, Marietta," Meg said softly.

"Good
night."

She
took her brother's arm, and they left the room. Meg moved slowly, as though she
might indeed stumble were it not for his assistance. I heard their footsteps in
the hall, heard Helmut speaking to her in a husky voice, although I couldn't
make out the words. The candles flickered, filling the room with a hazy gold
light that reflected in the polished surfaces of wood. I sat there for a long
time, thinking about the strange, complex young woman who somehow brought Greek
tragedy to mind.

Several
days later, while taking a stroll in the garden, I found myself again pondering
the mystery of Meg. It had been a long day, taxing as well. Meg and I had been
planning her new wardrobe, and her resigned, apathetic manner hadn't made it
easy. No matter how I tried, I couldn't seem to reach her. She was quiet and
polite and acquiescent, never unfriendly, never really responsive.

I
would almost have preferred a return of the defensive, bitter creature who had
been so cool toward me, but that Meg seemed to have vanished entirely. She
dined with us every night, and she no longer remained in her room all day.
Instead, she wandered about the house like a wraith in her loose, unattractive
clothes, avoiding me whenever possible, taking an interest in nothing. An aura
of sadness hung over her, but Helmut didn't seem to notice. He appeared to be
quite satisfied with her "improvement" and treated her with gentle
consideration, insisting only that she take care of herself and let me help her
plan a wardrobe.

Helmut's
manner toward me had changed, too. He had made very few denigrating remarks,
rarely took the trouble to be sarcastic. He could never be friendly, of course,
but his subtle antagonism had been replaced by a welcome indifference. He spent
most of his time planning the downfall of Robert Page, the planter who had
refused to accept a loan for improvements, and I knew the man was about to lose
his plantation. At dinner each night Helmut gave us an account of the steps he
was taking, describing his progress with gleaming eyes, a smile on his lips.

He
seemed to have temporarily abandoned another of his favorite sports. During the
past five days those nocturnal visits to Natchez-under-the-hill had ceased
entirely. I hadn't heard his carriage leaving Roseclay after midnight even
once. This rather surprised me, for Helmut was an extremely sensual man with
strong animal appetites, but I assumed he could go a few days without suffering
unduly. So long as he didn't come into my bedroom, I was quite content to let
him work out his own sexual arrangements. How fortunate he found me too
"patrician" to suit him. It was one time when being undesirable to a
man was a distinct advantage.

I
tried
not to think about bedrooms too often. I had no desire to take a lover, for
without deep feeling it would have meant nothing. I had been fond of Jack Reed,
had loved Derek to the point of desperation, had felt a great tenderness for
Jeff. Each had been superbly satisfying. There were times when I remembered
sturdy limbs and warm skin and plunging sensations, times when I longed to fill
the emptiness inside, but I always managed to reject both memory and need. Of
late, I had allowed myself to think of Derek now and then, and I found that
most of the bitterness was gone. I knew that I loved him still, but that love
was locked tightly away inside, and it would remain there. I refused to allow
the pain to take hold. Even if the love remained, its fury was under rigid
control. Thinking of Derek was a luxury I allowed myself only in small doses.

Twilight
settled heavily over the gardens now, filling the air with a soft haze, as the
last golden-orange banners faded against the horizon. Standing at the foot of
the gardens, I looked back at the house where lights already burned in the
windows. I paused near the gazebo, touching a shrub, smelling damp soil and
leaf mold and the perfumes of roses. Leaves rustled quietly. As I stood there,
I had the feeling that someone was watching me, but I knew it must be my
imagination. I was quite alone in the gardens.

The
sensation of being watched persisted, but I refused to let it disturb me.
Perhaps one of the slaves was hiding in the woods directly behind the gardens,
waiting for me to leave so that he could slip back to his quarters. I strolled
toward the gazebo. I had left a book on the cushion yesterday morning, and I
decided to retrieve it and take it back to the library. I had been reading a
great deal lately, mostly novels, romantic in nature, all of them unsatisfying.
The gazebo was filled with shadows and, as I stepped inside and moved across to
fetch the book, I heard a floorboard creak behind me. Before I could cry out,
an arm grabbed me around my waist and a hand clamped over my mouth.

I
was terrified. I struggled furiously. My captor tightened his grip around my
waist, pressed his hand more firmly over my mouth, drawing my head back against
his shoulders. He was very strong, and I realized that struggle was futile. My
heart pounded violently. When I tried to break free, he tilted my head back
even more, causing the muscles in my neck to strain painfully.

"I'm
not going to hurt you," he said urgently. "I just want to talk. Do
you understand?"

Shaken
and unnerved though I was, I recognized the voice. Some of the panic receded.

"Promise
you won't scream?"

I
just managed to nod. He hesitated a few seconds, uncertain whether or not to
trust me, and then he cautiously released me. Heart still pounding, I turned.
James Norman looked at me with an expression that was half threatening, half
beseeching. It was several moments before I could speak, and even then my voice
trembled.

"You—frightened
me out of my wits!"

"I'm
sorry for that."

"Do
you often do things like this?"

"Only
when I'm desperate," he replied.

"I
ought to call my husband—"

"Please...
That day on the river road, you were sympathetic. I felt it immediately. Your
husband's conduct appalled you. Surprised you, too. I had the feeling you'd
never seen him act that way."

"You
didn't seem surprised."

"I
knew what to expect," Norman told me.

"You've
come about Meg, haven't you?"

He
nodded, his handsome face grave, his dark-brown eyes glowing with
determination. He must have come directly from the fields, boots and breeches
dusty, shirt damp with sweat. I could feel his urgency.

"I've
been coming every evening for the past two weeks, hoping I'd see her, hoping
she'd come out for a walk in the gardens."

"That
was extremely risky."

"To
hell with the risk!"

"You
must love her very much."

Norman
ignored the remark. "I've hidden here in this gazebo for hours every
night, waiting, hoping, but I've never had so much as a glimpse of her. I must
see her, must talk to her."

He
paused, consumed with emotion. He looked as if he wanted to strike out at
something with his fist, but he also looked as if he wanted to cry. I was
touched. Norman took a deep breath and continued.

"I
want you to take a letter to her. I've been carrying it around with me. I
figured if Meg didn't appear, you might. At last, you did."

"What
makes you think I won't take the letter straight to my husband?"

"I
know very little about you, Mrs. Schnieder, but I fancy myself a pretty good
judge of character. You'll help me because you've listened to me this far.
You'll do it for Meg's sake, won't you? She's very unhappy."

"If
you haven't seen her, how could you possibly know that?"

"She's
with her brother. She must be unhappy."

He
said it as though that were a perfectly rational explanation, and I suspected
it was. I looked toward the house. The sky was growing darker by the minute,
the gardens rapidly filling with shadows. I would have to get back immediately
if I was to have time to change for dinner.

"Give
me your letter," I said quietly.

He
pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"I
know I can depend on you," he said.

"I
don't know
how
you know, but you can. I'll see that she gets it. I must
get back to the house now."

Norman
seized my hands and squeezed them tightly. Then he left the gazebo and
disappeared into the woods. As I hurried back to the house to change for
dinner, I was filled with admiration for this handsome young man who loved so
fiercely, and I was eager to give Meg his letter.

The
meal seemed interminable. Helmut talked about the papers that had been
delivered to Page that afternoon. As he told us that the man would have to pay
off the loan in two weeks' time or else lose his plantation, he chuckled
softly, eyes dark with amusement.

"I'd
like to go over one or two more sketches with you tonight, Meg," I
remarked casually as the three of us left the dining room.

"I'm
very tired," she replied.

"I
wish you'd just let me show them to you. I'd like very much to get them off to
Lucille on tomorrow afternoon's boat."

"Go
ahead," Helmut told her. "I need to go over some papers in my office,
anyway, and the sooner you get some decent clothes, the better."

Meg
followed me upstairs to my sitting room. Closing the door firmly behind us, I
was both nervous and excited. It must have shown, for Meg gave me a puzzled
look.

"Is
something wrong?"

"I
saw James Norman tonight, Meg."

The
girl looked stunned. For a moment I thought she was actually going to faint. I
took hold of her arms, guided her over to the sofa, and eased her down onto it.
She looked up at me in disbelief, and then her eyes grew wide with fear.

"It—it's
a trick. Helmut—"

"Helmut
knows nothing about it."

"James...
is in Natchez?"

"You
didn't know? I thought—I assumed you'd exchanged letters while you were in
school."

She
shook her head. "Helmut made arrangements to have all my letters read by
the head of the school. I never received any that weren't from him. I—I wanted
to write to James, but I didn't know where—"

She
cut herself short. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together in her
lap.

"It's
been four years," she said, and her voice was barely a whisper. "He
promised he would wait. He said nothing would ever change the way he felt...
You saw him?"

"He
was in the gazebo, hoping you'd come out for a stroll. He's been there every
night for the past two weeks." I took the letter out and handed it to her.
"He asked me to give you this."

Meg
stared at the envelope for a long time, and I could tell that she was trying to
control her emotions. The fear was gone now, and the shock finally passed. She
managed to compose herself, and when she stood up, her expression was calm, yet
there was a dreadful resignation in her eyes. She slipped the letter into the
pocket of her skirt.

"He
shouldn't have come," she said. She might have been speaking to herself.
"It's hopeless. He knows that."

"Hopeless?
But... he loves you, and you love him."

Meg
looked at me as though she'd been unaware of my presence.

"You
don't understand," she said.

"Meg—"

"Don't
ask questions, Marietta. Please don't. I—I must get back to my room. I must
think." She paused, and the fear flickered in her eyes again.
"You—you won't tell Helmut about this?"

"Of
course not."

She
left then, and I had a very restless night, thinking about her curious
reactions, wondering what they meant, wondering what the letter said. She was
no longer sixteen years old. Helmut couldn't keep them apart now, not if she
really wanted to marry Norman. Or could he? What was it I didn't understand? It
was tantalizing, and I was consumed with curiosity.

Meg
was cool and reserved the next day, refusing to mention the letter, silently
defying me to bring it up. She spent most of the day in the library, and at
dinner that night she was decidedly nervous, merely picking at her food.
Frowning, Helmut asked her if something was bothering her. She didn't reply,
and immediately after dinner she went upstairs to her room. Helmut was
displeased, and he looked at me as though I were responsible, all his old
antagonism returning.

"What's
going on?" he snapped.

"I
wouldn't know."

"She's
got something on her mind."