Sara Crenshaw was conscious of the leers she was getting from the men around the landing. The white men even braked their buggies and reined up their horses in the middle of the street to turn and stare at her in open admiration. The Negroes sneaked furtive looks as they loaded the cotton bales onto the riverboat. Now and then a buggy carrying a white woman came onto the docks, and Sara sensed their glaring hostility. But she'd known hatred from other women all her life; now, at twenty-four, it no longer bothered her.
Sara had a flaming red mop of hair that curled in natural ringlets about her face, enclosing it in an ivory cameo of perfection. Her eyes were a gray that sometimes became green, and her lips had tiny laugh lines carved lightly in the corners, adding to her sensuousness. She looked as if she were continually on the brink of smiling.
The dress she wore was a daring combination of dark blue and brown, made especially for her in Paris. It plunged deeply down the front to reveal voluminous white breasts. The middle section of her dress was of shiny blue satin, so tight and revealing it was obvious her tiny waist needed no corseting. A wisp of petticoat and black patent slippers showed when she lifted her skirts from the muck on the docks.
Since she had grown up in Fenniman's Landing, Sara knew her way around the small trading town. She had gone to St. Louis on the riverboat and then by train to New York five years ago, when her father died and she had sufficient money for her fare. Even then, in cotton gingham, her figure was something of a sensation. She knew the town was just waiting now for her to make one false step to pounce on her and destroy her.
Old man Redford came wheeling onto the dock in his hansom cab looking for a fare. Sara waved him over. He snapped the reins; the sway-backed old mare came clopping over, then stopped dead still in front of her.
"Would you please load my baggage into the cab?" Sara asked.
"I dunno." He spat tobacco juice onto the steaming dock and looked down from the driver's seat to affix a rheumy eye on her. "I can't git aroun' too good any more. Be obliged if ye'd call one of them nigger bucks to do it."
"Do you want a fare or don't you?" Sara demanded. "If you do, then you'll damn well do the work that goes with it, or I'll find another cab."
"Don't reckon as how ye can," he stated flatly. "This here's the only one in town."
"I can find someone to drive me," Sara shot back.
"Yep, reckon as how ye could," he said, but no humor showed on the wizened old face.
He climbed down heavily in clumsy movements, every ancient bone in his body rebelling against the task. But, minutes later, he had the black steamer trunk, the telescoping case and the three Gladstone bags in the cab.
"H'yah! Nellie, giddap there!" he cried, and cracked a whip over the horse's head. The old mare, long used to having heard him cry wolf, moved off slowly, choosing her ordinary cadence.
"Seems to me I orter know ye," old man Redford said, turning from the docks onto the road. "Weren't your pa Sam Crenshaw what lived on River Road?"
"You have me identified correctly," Sara said nonchalantly. She studied the flat, false fronts of the buildings jutting upright along the main stem like a regal princess passing in a somewhat ragged coach among her subjects. The wretchedness of the cab, however, only added to her unusual beauty, and heads dotted the windows like flies to watch her ride past.
"Wait," she said. "Stop here at the lawyer's office. I want to speak to him for awhile, and I want you to wait."
"Seems to me ye picked up a mighty funny brogue whilst ye were away," the old man volunteered. "Don't recollect ye usin' such fancy highfalutin talk afore."
"I learned a lot while I was in New York," Sara said. "Mainly I learned to be a lady. And a lady does not speak to men casually, not even coachmen. Would you please be so kind as to keep your personal observations to yourself from now on?"
"Bravo! Bravo! That's putting the bounder in his place!"
Sara turned to find the owner of the voice, which seemed strangely familiar to her. Behind her, one hand on his hip, looking down from his expansive height, was a handsome man in a velvet frock coat. He was holding his hat in a gesture half courteous and half mocking.
"Clay Thompson," Sara said. "You look just as handsome as ever. And also just as courteous as ever."
"If I may return compliments," he smiled, "you were the loveliest girl ever born in Fenniman's Landing. Now, to all appearances, you are the most devastating lady in this half of the world."
"I would accept that compliment," she smiled, "if I knew for sure you'd inspected every lady in this hemisphere. But since I presume you have not, I shall merely say that I appreciate your intentions."
"Touche," he said, laughing. "Shrewd, as well as beautiful. The man who gets you will be a lucky fellow. There is one by this time?"
"Mr. Thompson," Sara said dryly, "if memory serves me correctly, you might have been that man. But it seems to me that you were content with trying to steal a few kisses-wanted me without benefit of clergy, so to speak. And while I do like the idea of being courted, I do not appreciate being pursued. Good day, sir."
She swirled her skirts and disappeared into the lawyer's office, leaving the handsome man looking after her in a moment of pique. Clay Thompson smiled to himself, content with himself, and walked on down the sidewalk. At last Fenniman's Landing had produced the challenge of an opponent worthy of his steel. "Lady," he whispered under his breath, "if I don't get in your panties in a month's time, I'll hang up my tool and go into retirement."
Mr. Peck looked up at Sara when she entered, and immediately jumped to his feet. He was a small man, who appeared almost hidden now behind the confusion of withered and yellowing documents which completely covered his desk.
"Good day, ma'am," he half bowed. "May I be of service to you?"
"I hope so." Sara looked down as she pulled off her gloves. "May I sit down, please?"
"Of course, of course," he muttered, and dashed around to the other side of the desk to brush the dust from the heavy leather chair. "My manners seem to have deserted me. I beg your pardon."
"That is quite all right," Sara smiled indulgently. "I came to inquire about purchasing a house. I understand you are a realtor as well as a fine legal mind."
Mr. Peck blushed involuntarily and became confused. He turned an even darker crimson each time he glanced at her.
"Of course, of course... Yes, I have several listings. One down on Twin Fork is just the perfect thing for a young man and his wife. It's a white cottage, with real New Orleans wrought iron around the porch, and climber roses-"
"No," Sara interrupted. "I already have a house in mind."
"Oh? Well, perhaps I don't have it on my list. Which is it, ma'am?"
"It's the large white house on the River Road. It has six Grecian columns in front, and it once belonged to... "
"To Sam Crenshaw. Now I remember who you are. Well, I'll be blessed! How in the world did you get enough money to buy back your father's house, Miss Crenshaw? It is Miss Crenshaw, isn't it?"
"I don't see, Mr. Peck, that it should be of any concern to you, how I acquired the money. However, I assure you that I came by it honestly. And should you care to inquire, you'll find my standing in the New York social register is quite, quite proper!"
"Miss Crenshaw, I certainly didn't intend to imply... " the little man blustered, and his ears turned crimson again.
"I can guess your intentions, Mr. Peck. But let's not pursue the matter. Now, will you prepare the necessary papers?"
"Of course, of course... "
"And I shall be back to sign them in the morning."
"May I recommend that you not stay at the town hotel," Mr. Peck said hesitantly. "A young lady, alone... "
"I intend to stay at Crenshaw House. It's mine, or soon shall be, after the delinquent taxes and the like are settled."
"But it's madness to stay there tonight, in that shell of a house, all alone... "
"I've managed to live alone for twenty-four years without any untoward or improper incidents. I can manage tonight, I suppose."
"Very well, but I see no merit... "
"Mr. Peck, no one tells me what to do from now on. I have enough money to buy this town and another dozen like it. I want that house because it was my family's, and I intend to restore it to its original beauty, if not improve it even more. I intend for it to be the showplace of the South!"
"Of course, of course... "
"And there are several other small matters, Mr. Peck."
"Yes, Miss Crenshaw?"
"When the next riverboat docks, which should be within the fortnight, I shall have some furniture aboard which I am having shipped here for the house. Would you be so kind as to see that it is delivered? I want the wrappings left on during handling so that my Italian damask upholstery will not be damaged. You may name your own fee, so long as it's reasonable. Also, I'll need a crew of workers the first thing in the morning, to begin repairs and cleaning up. About thirty, with a white supervisor, I think. Someone experienced. And I have prepared a list of provisions which they shall have to bring with them. Lumber, paint, tools and the like."
"I think I can manage, but it's short notice."
"I place myself entirely in your hands, Mr. Peck."
"Of course, of course," he muttered, and flushed red again.
Sara beamed at him, favoring him with a flashing smile, and walked out, closing the door softly behind her, leaving the slight little man trying to collect his scattered thoughts.
"Very well," Sara said to old man Redford, as she stepped back up into the hansom, "you may take me to the Crenshaw House on River Road."
"Ye don't mean to tell me ye bought the old place back again?"
"As I said before," Sara snapped, "it's really none of your business, and will you please hold your tongue."
He muttered something under his breath. "What was that?" Sara demanded.
"I said, 'Giddap, Nellie!'" The hansom plodded out of the main street district and onto the River Road. From the window of the hotel lobby, Clay Thompson watched it go, and finally, after it had rounded the bend, he left the window.
"Shore was a flamin' red head," the desk clerk said wistfully. He was a large brute of a man, beefy and red in the face. "I note you made her acquaintance, Mr. Thompson."
"Renewed her acquaintance, you might say, Bill. An old friend."
"Laws, Mr. Thompson! You don't mean to say...?"
"I said a friend. That's all. As a matter of fact, you knew her too, in her younger days."
"I did?"
"Yes. She's Sara Crenshaw, Sam's girl. She was still in school when you last saw her, maybe about thirteen years ago. I guess you got sent up about then."
"Yeah. I remember her now. They told me she was turnin' into the most beautiful gal on the river. News travels, even to the state prison."
"By the way, Bill, what was it you went to prison for? I don't remember." Clay did remember, but he knew that Bill liked to tell of his misfortune.
"Just about everybody knows. It were rape. I got drunk. Didn't know it was agin the law to rape a nigger woman. Don't know what this country's comin' to."
"Pretty steep, serving seven years for rape, when you could have got the same thing for a dollar bill."
"Not from this filly, Mr. Thompson. She was as purty as them high yallers come, hair hung clear down to her waist. She had titties that was as sharp and pointed as knives. Sometimes, at night, I can still feel them stabbin' me in the chest. Quite a gal, that Lilli Ann Wedges."
"Whatever happened to Lilli Ann, Bill?"
"Damned if I know, Mr. Thompson. Some say she's still around, that she turned to whorin' and drinkin', can you beat that? After she causes me a prison stretch, she starts givin' the damned stuff away."
"Well, that's life. Next time, pay the girl; it's worth it in the long run."
"I guess it is, Mr. Thompson. I sure guess it is."
Bill Thompson saw Mr. Peck leave his office and come across the street in quick, agitated little steps. He was wiping the moisture that dotted his forehead as he stepped into the interior of the hotel.
"Afternoon, Mr. Thompson," he greeted Clay perfunctorily. "Say, Bill, would you like to earn some cash tomorrow? I got to find a man to work a bunch of blacks at the Crenshaw place. Getting it cleaned up and making repairs. Not too much work, and she'll pay good."
"Hold on a minute," Clay said. "Why not offer that job to me? I think I'd like it."
"You, Mr. Thompson?"
"Sure, me. Don't you think I can field boss a gang?"
"Why sure, Mr. Thompson. But-"
"But, what? You don't mind, do you, Bill?"
"Why, 'course not."
"Fine, and I'll make sure you get whatever cash there is in it."
"Very well, Mr. Thompson, but you'll also have to collect a gang of blacks off the docks."
"Why? I have at least a hundred working on our plantation, and my father won't mind them working out for a day. They'll be glad to do it, for additional wages."
"Of course, of course, but still... "
"Balls, Mr. Peck. It'll work out fine, you'll see. Miss Crenshaw and I are old friends, and we'll hit it off fine."
The River Road was beautiful in the afternoon sun. Huge cottonwoods shot up along the drive, and cool banks of green grass spanned both sides in lush vegetation. The water twisted and twined slowly by in languid motions, deep blue in a fertile bed of greenery. White remnants of clouds drifted by. It was a far cry from the bustling Fenniman's Landing. And instead of the rot and muddy banks of the Mississippi, the air here was laden with the smell of honeysuckle and cape jasmine.
Sara strained forward, impatient for her first view of the Crenshaw House. She asked old man Redford to drive faster, but the horse refused to change her pace. Suddenly, as they rounded one of the multitudinous turns in the road, they came across a building which Sara had never seen before.
"Stop," she shouted up to the driver.
She looked across the well-kept lawns to a huge white mansion. There was a circular driveway, bordered on either side with foliage of pastel hues and colors she had never seen before. The house was large. Red drapes curtained off the many windows. A veranda overlooked the driveway. In the center of the spacious lawn, a grove of weeping willows surrounded a marble pool in which stood the statue of a young boy. It was naked and, Sara noticed, without the usual leaf. It held a large urn which splashed a silvery flow of water to the rocks he stood on, and then into the pool. Sunlight from the late afternoon played around the shadows of the trees.
Sara felt almost breathless. "Whose house is this?"
"It belongs to one of them Frenchmen. He moved in and built it nigh onto four, maybe five year ago," old man Redford said. "Stand-offish kind, he be. Seldom see him in town. Saw him once, when he took his ailin' ma to the doc's. And I see him when he comes down to take the riverboat somewheres."
"Well," Sara sounded almost dejected, "I'll certainly have to be resourceful to make my house into one as fine as that. I don't care for that statue, though, it's terribly lacking in good taste."
"Half them ladies in Fenniman's Landing take their Sunday drives by here," Redford cackled, "just to skin their eyeballs over that thang. Then they go to church and bellyache about it. But next Sunday, here they be agin."
"Drive on, please," Sara said.
The Crenshaw House was in a state of near collapse, and neglect had made it appear even more disgraceful. Sara felt a stab of pain in her heart as she looked over the scene, for the last time she had seen it, only five years ago, it had been white and proud, standing like a beacon over the umbrella trees.
She paid the old man his fare and gave him a generous tip. He drove hastily off, before she could ask him to move her baggage into the house. She strained under the load of the Gladstones, but eventually managed to get them upstairs to the second floor. The thick layer of dust on the floors and rotting carpets swirled up under her skirts. The walls had shed their plaster in many places, and rain had rotted rivulets in weird designs down the walls. The place was a shambles.
In one of the upstairs bedrooms she found an ancient chaise lounge which looked strong enough to sleep on. She removed sheets and a blanket from one of her bags and started to cover the chaise. It was then she saw the tiny black bugs crawling on its surface. She pulled back in revulsion. She selected a space on the carpeting in another of the rooms and made a pallet on the floor. It took her the better part of an hour to move the trunk and the rest of her bags into the front room.
When she finished the task she decided to go to the river to wash the dirt and grime from her body. She fished a revolver from a bag, checked to make certain it contained bullets, and then walked across a meadow and orchard in back of the house to the river.
She disrobed quickly in the dying sunlight and dived into the water, feeling it envelop her body. She swam to the opposite side, where she stood in shallow water and washed herself as best she might by running her hands over herself. As she bathed she tried to picture Clay Thompson poised naked on the bank-ready to dive in after her and possess her in the cool water. Then, ashamed of herself for entertaining such thoughts, she started toward the bank.
When she was toweling herself she thought she heard a noise in the underbrush. Quickly, she leaped to the pile of clothing and grabbed her revolver. Draping her petticoat about her middle, she walked toward the brush from which the noise had come. Ahead of her, she heard the breaking of branches, which told her that someone was in full flight.
She saw the back of a man as he disappeared into a grove of cottonwoods. He was fair. Even in the evening light, his hair glinted like white-hot metal. She was certain she had never before known any man with hair so white. She could tell by the way he ran that he was big. There was one thing about it, she'd know him if she ever saw him again.
CHAPTER TWO
Elliot Thompson, Col., U.S. Army, Ret., awakened at an unusually early hour. He climbed out of his canopied Louis VI bed and reached the sideboard and poured himself a stiff shot of corn whiskey. After he had belted the glass down, he felt much better. He rang for Mis'ry, and listened affectionately as he heard the old colored woman puffing and stomping up the carpeted staircase.
"Look here, Colonel," she muttered as she entered the room, "is you ailin'? You don't usually git outa bed until nigh onto ten o'clock and here it is only seven."
"Seems to me I can get up at any hour I choose," he said gruffly. "Where's Clay?"
"He down at the cabins, gettin' some men to go do some special kind of work for a lady what wants her house repaired."
"You mean he's taking those niggers off my place?"
"Yassah, I shore do."
"Well, you send that boy of yours down there, and you make sure that boy tells him I desire to speak with him immediately, in the library."
"Yassah." A worried look spread over her broad features, and she quickly retreated from the old man's room. The house reverberated under her bulk as she stomped back downstairs.
Clay Thompson was dressed in tight buckskin britches that he had selected carefully for this occasion. They fit as tightly as a second skin and showed his well-formed legs to perfection. His white shirt was spotless, and the short sleeves showed his bulging biceps to perfection. The deep V down the front revealed a generous portion of his hairy chest. His high-topped riding boots glistened with a fresh coat of polish. He was well pleased with his appearance. It was calculated to arouse desire within Sara Crenshaw.
He knew she felt strongly attached to him, because when he had managed a few minutes alone with her in their school days, she had returned his kisses with a burning desire. However, she'd always stopped his hands from roving when they approached the inside of her thighs. Once he had even kissed her and made a fumbling attempt to hold her breast. He'd got his face slapped for that, but she'd cried and forgiven him.
He was certain he could win her over, just as certain that she would hold him off in order to have him ask for her hand-a thing his father would never allow.
An impish little colored boy bobbed up in front of his horse, and shouted, "Mr. Clay, my mammy done sent me to tell you your daddy wants to see you in his li-li-in that big room where he sits and drinks."
"Thanks, Thomas Jefferson," he said, grinning down at the boy. Then he addressed the men gathered in the yard: "All you men head for the old Crenshaw House on River Road. You'll all get paid extra for this day's work, but you'll have to work Sunday back here, so we don't lose a day. Go ahead, now, and hurry it up. I'll catch up before you get there."
He spurred his mount and rode at a canter to the portico, where he swung down gracefully and marched into the house to face his father.
"Son," the older man began calmly, "would you be so kind as to explain to me exactly why you're taking my field hands off the place today?"
"Well, Father, it's a favor to a lady in distress. She's got to get her house fixed up. She'll pay them well, and they can catch up on the work here by working Sunday."
"Sunday happens to be the Sabbath, and I cannot allow them permission to soil their souls by working on the day the Lord has set aside. Poor niggers sin enough Saturday night, anyway, without having you leading them into the ways of a heathen. Who might this lady in distress be?"
"You wouldn't know her, Father. She just came to town."
"I assume you do know her name, Son? I would have found it out by this time under the circumstances, I assure you."
"Sara Crenshaw."
"Any relation to that white trash, Sam Crenshaw?"
"Sam wasn't really white trash, Father. He lost his place and that sort of put him out. He just never recovered from the blow."
"Which means she is related to him. You may go ahead with your plans, Clay, but in the future you will check with me before you do anything like this. If I refused to let the men go now, it would undermine your influence over them, and you must have their confidence if you are to take over the plantation."
"Yes, Father."
"On your way out, have Slick prepare my horse. I'll ride while you're gone today."
"But, Father... with your gout-" Clay began, only to be interrupted.
"That's final. You're dismissed. And, oh, Clay... " Clay spun on his heels. "Yes, Father?"
"Good luck. About getting into this filly. That's your reason for doing all this, isn't it?"
"I guess you're still too smart for me," Clay grinned sheepishly, and studied the toe of his boot.
Elliot Thompson threw back his musty lion's mane and bellowed with deep, throaty laughter. "Go on," he managed to squeeze in between spasms of laughter. "When I was your age I generally polished my walking stick at least six nights a week, too."
Clay rode fast enough to catch his crew long before they reached River Road. They were laughing and joking as they walked along, and Clay rode silently behind them. Their laughter died out as they approached the big mansion.
Sara Crenshaw had also dressed for work, but without any ulterior motives. She was wearing a high collar cotton dress of beige, and the long skirt was not filled out with hooped petticoats. Though it still showed her figure advantageously, it did not do so as well as the Parisian garment of the day before. She wore a small dusting cap atop shocks of red curls, and her face was almost devoid of makeup. She was sweeping the porch when she saw the group of men approaching. She stopped, one hand raised to her forehead to shield her eyes from the early morning sun, to see who the white man was.
Clay spurred the roan up ahead, and reached her before the Negroes entered the yard.
"Good morning, Miss Crenshaw."
"Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Don't tell me Mr. Peck got you to act as foreman for me?"
"As a matter of fact, I sort of forced myself on him."
"It's strictly work, Mr. Thompson. You didn't get yourself in for a picnic, you know. There's an awful lot to be done here today."
"Yes, I know, Sara, but hard work never hurt me before. And you're right, I did it mainly because I wanted to see you again."
"You have my permission to come calling Sunday, Mr. Thompson, if you want to take me to church. But as for the rest of the week, I'll be busy getting this house back into shape. Now select five men to clear the yard. I want the weeds pulled out of the hedge row, all the hedges trimmed, and the litter cleared away. Five more can start rebuilding fences around the orchard. Five can begin whitewashing the outside and five can start cleaning up the inside to get it prepared for painting. Then another five can start rebuilding the staircase, and replacing the windowpanes. Tell them to dump everything outside except my bags... "
"Your bags! You stayed here last night?"
"It's my house, Mr. Thompson. I signed the deed this morning. Let's see now, how many men is that?"
"You've got five left."
"Put them in the back yard and have them start digging a well, in a high spot, so the mud won't run into it when it rains. I think the old one must be contaminated by this time. Since we're so close to the river, they shouldn't have to go down more than twenty feet to hit water."
Clay broke the group of thirty laborers into crews of five men each, assigning a foreman to each group to curtail any laxity. To each foreman he gave specific instructions as to his particular task. This completed, the men fell to work with a vengeance, and the house and grounds were dotted with men hammering, chopping, sawing and painting. They shouted in laughter to each other, and songs came to their lips. Sara was surprised at the coordination Clay managed.
Sara accompanied Clay on an inspection round, going over each man's work in minute detail. She was amazed that Clay Thompson, who seemed so frivolous, knew how to manage the men to get the maximum production from each.
"You're quite good at this," she said.
"Why, thank you, Sara. Coming from you, I really appreciate that."
"To tell you the truth, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get the materials to work with. But when I drove in this morning, Mr. Peck got Mr. Toll to open his store early, and even had his man drive the load out here. Everything is going so well that I'm afraid to relax for fear that something will happen."
"I've got to go to the river to get a barrel of drinking water for the crew. Want to come along?"
"One of us should keep an eye on things."
"Everything's going smoothly. These men won't let me down. They've worked for me for years."
"Very well, then."
He hoisted her up behind him, where she sat sideways. She locked her smooth white arms around his waist, and away they went. He could feel her breasts moving at his back with each step the roan took. He raced the horse over the meadow toward a secluded part of the river bank. She held him tightly, her silvery laughter filling the air all the way.
"My goodness," Sara said breathlessly, slipping down as the horse pranced to a stop, "that was quite a ride."
"I'll fill the barrel," Clay said, carrying it to the water's edge. "Why not take off your shoes and wade a while. The water is nice and cool. We might even go swimming... " She remembered the image she'd had of him the evening before. "No, thank you," she said, blushing slightly. "Not with a man."
"Are you such a prude?"
"Tell me, Clay, how many of the ladies in town would go swimming with you. I mean, in the nude, out here alone with you?"
"Why, just about any of them, I reckon."
"Well, I won't. So just forget it."
He walked up to her and embraced her boldly, running his hands up and down the sides of her hips, then upwards, coming closer and closer to her breasts. She turned around to protest, and felt instead the pressure of his mouth against hers, his lips slightly parted. Her old desires rekindled, and she found herself returning the kiss with fire.
"Sara, Sara." He breathed huskily into her ear, strands of her red hair playing across his full lips, "God, how I've wanted you. Will you let me, Sara? It's a need, Sara, I have to have you."
She ran a hand across the flat plateau of his chest and rubbed the matted chestnut hair between her fingers, feeling his hand go to her throat, where he slowly began flicking open the buttons of her dress. "Please, Clay, don't," she pleaded. "I don't want to resist you, but I don't want you to think I'm cheap. If you won't marry me, I can't give you my body. I won't be a tramp, not even for you, Clay... " Clay slipped his large hand inside her dress. She was wearing only a chemise, which slipped softly away. As soon as her large, well-rounded breasts were exposed, Clay bent over and kissed one of them. She fought her own intermingled emotions as he locked one arm around her waist to prevent her retreat and ran his other hand over her breasts, stroking them softly. The sensation of his calloused hand running over her sensitive breasts caused her to catch her breath in anguish and ecstasy. He kissed her up and down her slender throat. She ran her hand through his curly hair, caught a handful, and pulled his head up to meet her own face.
"Don't, Clay, I can't stand it... " He said nothing, knowing now that he had created a situation over which he was master. So long as he didn't stop, she was under his control.
He kissed her again, and he felt her lips part. His tongue darted out and he guided it along the tips of her teeth, then deeply into her mouth. While kissing her thusly, Clay unbuttoned his tight buckskin pants and reached for her hand, placing it on his hairy abdomen. He waited for her to reach down even further, but she made no move to do so. He placed his hand on top of hers again and gently but firmly guided it down. She jerked her hand away as if she'd touched a hot iron, and fought to disengage her mouth from his.
"What's the matter, Sara? Don't you want to play with me first? That makes it that much better." Her face was twisted with some inner turmoil. "What is it, darling?"
Clay," she managed weakly, "I want you. You know I do, but not like this. I want you when we're married and in bed. Not to fall down on the bank of a river and act like two animals in heat... "
"But I am in heat, Sara, for you. What difference does it make if we get married before or after? I only know I want you. And you want me, too. I can tell... "
"I've just said that I do, Clay. Won't you even listen to me? But not like this. Now, will you let me button my dress back up?"
"Well, by God," he blurted angrily, "are you going to leave me like this? Sara, in the name of Heaven, let me take you, or I'll go stark, raving mad!"
"Then go mad!" she snapped. "If you want me you can marry me, or never come near me at all. No man ever has had me, do you hear that, Clay Thompson? I intend to go to the altar a virgin. Never once have you said you loved me. You act like a damned animal. If only once you had said-'Sara, I love you'-I might have weakened. But your intentions are obvious. What sort of a simple-minded fool do you take me for, anyway?"
He blanched under this flailing of words, but said nothing. She turned her back to him and began straightening and buttoning her dress. He followed her example and quickly buttoned his britches back up.
When Sara turned, she saw that Clay was looking at her breasts, which only moments before had been in his hands. Suddenly she laughed.
"I can't help it, Clay. You look so funny. I bet you walk with a limp when you start. It's lucky that women don't show the way men do when they get all hot and bothered. If they did, I'd probably look just as bad as you do now."
"Well," he said petulantly, "you could have fixed it so that I could have walked away as flat as a pancake."
"And," Sara laughed, "when I swelled up like a watermelon, where would you be? Down at Fenniman's Landing, making love to some other woman? Perhaps even your wife?"
"You're going to be my wife, Sara. I'm asking my father for permission tonight. If your father were still alive, I could go to him, but instead, I'll ask you. Sara, will you be my wife?"
"If your daddy the Colonel says yes, I probably could do worse."
"If that isn't about the damnedest answer to a proposal a man ever got!" Clay glared at her, angry with her for laughing at him so openly.
"I think it's genteel enough, Clay, seeing that you just tried to rape me a minute ago."
"Well, it's your fault, for being so damned beautiful."
"I can't help the way I look. Other men have proposed to me without going as far as you did."
"Damn it, I've known you since we were babies."
"That still doesn't give you any rights to my body. Clay Thompson, you're spoiled from having what you want every time you ask for it. I'm not so sure I even want to marry a man who acts like a baby all the time... " At that moment they heard a horse crashing through the underbrush. Sara vividly recalled the white-haired man who had spied on her as she bathed in the river. She turned to see the rider, but it was a different man. He was tall, lithe, and angular, with rococo curls of jet black hair and a deeply tanned face. He smiled, revealing perfectly formed white teeth. His face was the handsomest Sara had ever seen. He was astride a white stallion.
"Good morning, neighbors," he called.
Clay Thompson frowned slightly. "Mr. De Bois, I didn't know you rode in this section."
"I saw the workmen on the grounds, Mr. Thompson, and came over to inquire. I had intended buying the building and razing it to the ground-to rid the River Road of its most glaring eyesore. Do my eyes deceive me, or are those men actually going about repairing it?"
"There's nothing wrong with your eyes, sir," Sara said quickly. "The house is mine now, and I intend to restore it."
"That's an even better end for it," he smiled. "I don't believe I've had the honor of acquiring an introduction to this charming young lady," he said, as he dismounted in one quick, graceful movement. His voice ran with the cultivated resonance and accent of European-educated Americans, and he smiled cordially at Clay. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to present me, Mr. Thompson."
"Miss Sara Crenshaw," Clay said, with a bite in his voice, "may I present Frederick De Bois. Mr. De Bois, Miss Crenshaw. And now that the formalities are over, don't you think we should go back to the house to check the progress, Sara?"
"Certainly, Clay. Why don't you ride ahead with the water? The men are surely dying of thirst by this time. Mr. De Bois can accompany me, if he wishes."
"An honor, I assure you, Miss Crenshaw."
Clay leaped astride his roan and spurred away angrily, the barrel of water splashing over his clothing. Sara smiled pleasantly after him.
De Bois fell into step beside her, leading his magnificent stallion by the reins.
"Do you know, Miss Crenshaw, when you lived in New York your beauty was legend. I tried in every manner I knew to meet you. Then, I come home to find you're my next door neighbor. It's far too lucky to be a coincidence. Surely the Gods foreordained it."
"Mr. De Bois! I knew I remembered that name from somewhere! You are a sculptor, aren't you? I thought you were the fair-haired darling of all New York society. Surely you could have obtained an invitation to any ball I attended, if you had wanted to."
"I cannot dance, Miss Crenshaw, and never attended balls. I spent my entire early life in apprenticeship to a sculptor named Schneider. He was a tyrant, and also the most talented man in this field since Michelangelo. He was also my idol. I worshipped him. But he left me no time to learn the social graces. My every moment with him was spent in the study of anatomy, art, sculpting, medicine, and philosophy."
"It sounds both terrifying and fascinating."
"That is surely not a stock answer. You are a rather beautiful woman, Miss Crenshaw. I would like one day to do a bust of your head. You have one of those rare faces that will grow more and more lovely with every passing year."
"Mr. De Bois, if you continue talking in that vein, you will increase my head to twice its normal size," Sara said. "How long have you lived on River Road?"
"Next October will make it four years exactly."
"Did you do the statue of the youth in front of your house?"
"No, that's Schneider's work. He did it about fifteen years ago, and gave it to me as a going-away gift when I left the Continent."
"I'm glad you didn't do it. It shows a morbid interest in the male organ, I think."
"Good Lord, Miss Crenshaw. You certainly are outspoken."
"I'm afraid that's the influence of New York, Mr. De Bois. You see, I've always had trouble keeping my thoughts to myself."
"Wonderful! I only trust people who are frank. You've won me completely, Miss Crenshaw. You're even lovelier than legend had it in New York."
"I'm afraid the people of Fenniman's Landing will not agree. They really don't know what to think of me. It is most unusual for a woman of twenty-four to be unmarried and unattached, you know."
"At least in the South, I'm afraid."
"And so far I've given them no indication that I'm a husband-snatcher, or a loose woman. I imagine they're withholding all opinions until they catch me taking one false step."
"I wouldn't let them worry me, if I were you. I moved here to get away from everything-so I could concentrate on my work. That was a bad mistake. If you really want to be alone, the place to do it is in the city. They actually think I'm a bit off around here. They cannot comprehend a grown man playing in wet clay all day."
"I grew up here, Mr. De Bois. There's only one thing wrong with the people here. They have a chip on their shoulders because of the outcome of the war, and they're steeped in superstition and fear. I'd advise you to remain aloof to them."
"They make that easy for me, I'm afraid. None of them ever speaks to me."
"I'm sure that's their loss."
When they reached the house, Clay Thompson was nowhere to be seen among the milling workers. Sara recognized one of the foremen, and asked him if he had seen Clay leave.
"Yes'm. He say he be back in a hour. He tell you not to worry, we finish work okay with him gone. He be back."
"Thank you," she said, and turned to De Bois. "It seems as if I'll have to oversee things for awhile. I hope you'll excuse me, sir. I'm happy to have met you and I hope we meet again, soon."
"I'm sure we shall, Miss Crenshaw. Perhaps Sunday you could call for tea. I'd also like for my mother and my house guest, Reuel Williams, to meet you."
"I should like that very much, Mr. De Bois."
"Then I shall send a surrey for you at two-thirty on Sunday next. Until then, adieu."
"Good-bye," Sara said.
Clay Thompson pushed his horse until it lathered at the mouth. He rode hell-bent for leather down River Road and turned off at a clearing so small and insignificant that it might have been missed by the eye of a casual observer. Once off the road, he slowed down to follow a winding trail down to the river bed, among the thickly growing trees.
In a clearing ahead, some several hundred yards from the road, completely obscured, a weather-beaten gray shanty stood. White smoke curled lazily from its stone chimney. A flock of guinea fowl in the front yard cackled angrily and fluttered around the house into the back yard.
The door of the cabin opened slowly, and a woman stuck her head outside. When she saw Clay, she retreated into the cabin and closed the door after her.
Clay left his horse unhitched and strode heavily into the shanty, as one does who is certain of rights of ownership. The girl was rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Under her cotton nightgown, the outline of her figure showed supple and firm. She lay back on her mound of blankets and smiled at him, throwing her arms back above her head in a motion that caused the gown to open down the front and reveal every inch of her tantalizing curves.
Her body was a rich golden tan color. Her long black hair curled softly around her shoulders. Smiling up at him, she rubbed one hand over her smooth, planked stomach, and let it come to rest at the juncture of her thighs.
Clay locked at her lingering smile and immediately began disrobing.
"You sure are big, Clay honey," the girl said huskily as he shucked off his britches. "And you look like you really need it. Who started a fire like that?"
"Shut the hell up and get those pillows fixed!"
The girl reached behind her and got two pillows, which she placed under her buttocks. She drew one of her legs up, deliberately obscuring Clay's view of her. He hastily crawled onto the pallet beside her.
"Clay," she whispered huskily, "when you get through this time, hold me in your arms a while and whisper to me. Anything. Tell me you like it. Sometimes, when you get up and walk off, you make me feel like a slut."
"Okay, Lilli Ann," he muttered, running a hand over her breasts.
He climbed to his knees, kneeling in front of her, and let her guide him in with her hands. He was burning with an obsession to penetrate her body, but he knew he had to allow her time to excite herself, otherwise neither of them would enjoy it as much. So he moved slowly, steeling his body against her, and moved her legs up and down.
She lunged upward and locked her ankles behind his neck, still he would not give her everything. Listening to her short grunts of commingled pain and pleasure, he forced her body back until she was bent double, and then he ran his teeth softly around the nipples of her breasts, going from one to the other with lightning-fast speed. She began a low, crooning sound. Clay ran his hands up and down her rib cage, and felt her trying to hunch up closer on him. Still he would not permit her to move.
"Let me have it, Clay-now!"
Clay shoved his full weight forward suddenly. Lilli Ann cried out sharply, "You son of a bitch!"
He pulled loose then, and flopped over on his back. Lilli Ann was up as he touched his back to the blankets. She clutched his testicles in one hand and put pressure on them. He cursed loudly and hunched upwards, arching his back. At that crucial moment, Lilli Ann leaped astride him and forced him into her own body. He bucked like an unbroken stallion, but she had locked her legs under his body, and allowed him only enough room for short, quick thrusts. Then, his strength leaving him, he reached up and caught both her pointed breasts, and lay limp. She worked on him at a steady beat until she felt the shudder of finality racing through her body, then bore down on him with a frenzy. He squeezed her breasts until she screamed aloud in pain, but still she did not stop her fierce rhythm until her whole being jerked spasmodically and the sweet tide of relief coursed through her. Beneath her, half a heartbeat later, Clay gritted his teeth as he submitted the final thrust. He collapsed then, with the girl spread lifeless across him.
Moments later, she moved her body down across his and lay cuddled beside him. She ran one arm glistening with sweat over his pounding chest and caressed his nipples. When he raised a hand to her tangled hair, she licked his forearm. Idly, he smiled and tousled her hair.
"Thanks, Lilli Ann, I sure needed that."
"I needed you, too," she whispered.
Sara Crenshaw was beginning to become annoyed. Clay Thompson had overstayed his hour's leave by yet another hour. The sun was beginning to set. Worse yet, when she'd asked the men to return earlier the following morning, they had informed her that this was their last day of work off the Thompson plantation.
When Clay rode up into the yard, she was fuming.
"One of your men tells me you're not bringing your crew back tomorrow," she said.
"Well, I thought we could get it all done in one day. It does look damned good now."
"But, Clay, there's so much more to do. The new carpets must be laid. The rest of the windows-"
"Sorry, Sara, but Father will never give me permission to take thirty field hands away for two days. Mr. Peck gave me the impression that this one day was the extent of the work," he added tiredly.
"Hell," she fumed. "Now I'll have to ride in and get another crew! Would you have a man help me with my buggy? It's been a long time since I've put on a harness."
"Sure," he said, and called one of the men over. "Did your friend De Bois stay long?"
"No, but I wish he had. He's quite nice."
"A real dandy, that's for sure."
"It wouldn't hurt you to pick up a few good manners. What do you suppose your father will say?"
"About what?" Clay asked, then remembered his proposal, and hastily added: "Oh, he'll let me have my own way. I'm a spoiled child, remember?"
"There's no hurry," Sara said. "You can wait several months if you like. I still have the house to finish."
"Why? If we get married, we can't keep it."
"I'd never consider giving it up, Clay. I intend to live here."
"With the big old place of ours sitting empty, and right in the center of our plantation, where I'd have to work. What about it?"
"Sell it," Sara answered.
She climbed into the buggy, snapped the reins, and the horse pranced out of the yard, leaving Clay to stare at her in bewilderment.
CHAPTER THREE
Radiant in a deep blue dress modestly spanned with Spanish lace at the bustline, and wearing a pink flowered bonnet with parasol to match, Vonita Lee Lynn followed her fat, waddling mother up the porch stairs of the Thompson mansion.
Mis'ry, long acting as butler at the Thompson's opened the door and greeted the Colonel's guests.
Twenty years old, Vonita Lee inherited her dark, brooding beauty from her father's side of the family. In another twenty years, the soft lines of her plump face would probably give over to a flaccidness and obesity similar to that of her mother. But at this moment, she was in the prime of her life, and her flowering beauty had bloomed to its fullest, freshest peak.
"My, my, my," cooed Mis'ry. "Ain't you just as purty as a china doll. I ain't never seen you so purty afore, Miss Vonita Lee."
"Thank you, Mis'ry. I just hope old Clay notices my new dress, too."
Smothering under her tons of white taffeta, Mrs. Lynn glowered, "Conduct yourself properly, young lady."
"Well, lands sakes, Mama, Mis'ry is just like one of the family. Ain't you, Mis'ry?"
"I sho'ly hope so, Miss Vonita Lee. I keeried you on my knee when you was just a smidgin' of a baby, and my old bones is lookin' fo' the day you gits married up with Mr. Clay and has some more little precious chilluns around here."
"See, Mama?" Vonita Lee had proven her point.
"Is the Colonel in his study, Mis'ry?" Mrs. Lynn huffed, rubbing a beringed hand over her bulging stomach.
"Yas'm. He waitin' fo' you. Just walk right on in."
"And where's Mr. Clay?" pressed Vonita Lee.
"He's still gettin' cleaned up. He worked all day at Miz Crenshaw's place, and he got in kindalate."
Vonita Lee shot a look of alarm at her mother. "You mean," she asked, "that redheaded girl that used to live here, the one who went to New York? He's been at her house all day?"
"Why, yes'm. He took thirty hands over to that old house, and they worked all day, cleanin' and paintin'. They all been workin' since early this mawnin'."
"Now, why would Clay do a thing like that?" Mrs. Lynn asked.
"I seen her, Mama. She wears clothes from Paris, nicer than mine even, and she's a real, ravin' beauty. What do you suppose Clay went over therefor?"
"To work." Mrs. Lynn's voice was flat. "Leastways, I hope so," she added.
Clay Thompson appeared at the head of the stairs, and descended slowly. He smiled at Vonita Lee, noticing that she looked exceptionally pretty today. He had shed his working clothes and was dressed in the elaborate fashion of a gentleman-red linen frock coat decorated with twin rows of gold buttons and trimmed in black satin, britches of off-white linen and a white dress shirt with exquisite little ruffles. As he approached them his face glowed with extraordinary handsome-ness from the light of the chandelier.
"Good evening, Mrs. Lynn," Clay said. "Vonita Lee, I swear you're the loveliest looking girl I ever set eyes on."
Vonita Lee stiffened happily, her breasts jutting dangerously out over the Spanish lace.
"Why, Clay Thompson," Mrs. Lynn said, "you're the handsomest man in these here parts." She laughed gutturally and added; "You look like a play actor, I always said so."
"To which I can only say that looks do not the actor make one half so much as they do the rake."
Vonita Lee tittered appreciatively while her mother just smiled.
"Shall we join the Colonel in the study, ladies?" Clay asked, smiling.
He offered an arm to each of them and led them into the study. The Colonel looked up from his game of solitaire.
"Forgive my not rising," he said, "but the infirmities of the flesh grow upon me daily. Unfortunately, I spent the entire day in the saddle, straw-bossing, and I feel my age."
"Why, Father," laughed Clay, "you haven't enjoyed yourself so much in months, nor looked so well. Why don't you admit it?"
"Well, ummm," the Colonel bustled happily under the admiration of his son, and then changed the subject. "Well, Miss Vonita Lee, you sure look dressed to go picking in tall cotton tonight."
Vonita Lee pouted, "I'm glad at least one man in the house pays the lady a courtesy of noticing her new dress."
"Well, I swear," laughed Clay, "I thought it was just you. When you're around, I can't see anything but your pretty face."
"Let's get on with our cards, shall we?" the Colonel asked.
Clay played at whist that night, his thoughts were still on Sara Crenshaw. He could still feel the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth.
Idly he compared Sara to Vonita Lee. That was most unkind to Vonita, he realized; for while she was attractive, she could never arouse desire in a man the way Sara could. Still, he felt his stomach knot into a near panic at the thought of broaching the subject of marriage with her to his father. The Colonel would no doubt burst a blood vessel if he even mentioned Sara casually again. The old man obviously made Vonita Lee his choice for a daughter-in-law, considering only that her ancestry would be adequate for her to bear the grandchildren his son would sire. He was even beginning to be irate because Clay had not yet asked the girl for her hand.
"You could have taken that trick, boy," The Colonel expostulated, his anger spilling over.
"Sorry, Father, I was concentrating on the work to be done tomorrow."
"Today's work more than likely is the case."
Vonita Lee blushed charmingly and lowered her eyes. They played on in silence.
"But, Mother, she's most charming," Frederick De Bois was saying. "I even mentioned her to you in New York. One of the most beautiful women who ever walked the face of this earth. What will she think if she arrives as my guest and finds that you are incapacitated? I'd never live it down, just simply never. You must do this for me."
"Oh, very well, Freddie darling, to amuse you, then. But don't expect me to like the creature. She's hardly in your class, after all."
"Class has nothing to do with it, Mother. I want to get her to sit for me. She's enchantingly beautiful."
Reuel Williams looked up from his task of pouring tea from the glittering silver service. His white hair shone like a beacon. "I came upon her at the river when I was taking my evening constitutional," he said. "Quite by accident. I personally think she's as beautiful as the Contessa d'Ortega, in her own way, if not even more so."
"Surely you use schoolboy comparisons," the old woman laughed, her yellowing teeth flashing. "The Contessa is famous for her unapproachable profile."
"This young lady," pursued Reuel, "is equally as beautiful, in her own distinct way. There's no comparison, really. You have to regard them as separate types of women."
"I must admit that you have aroused my curiosity," Mrs. De Bois said. "I shall receive her, if only for a few moments to see if what you say is true."
After the old lady finished her tea, Frederick De Bois and Reuel Williams took leave of her and went to the study. Frederick lit an oil lamp which had a metal shield behind it. The shield magnified and directed the light to his work table, which was covered with a skeletal outline of wire supports partially filled in with clay. Only at the base of the structure was there any resemblance to a human form. There, a disembodied pair of legs stood firmly planted in the clay.
"If you'll disrobe now," De Bois said, "I think I can get a lot more finished tonight. When the conservatory ordered this pair of sculptures, they allowed me time to cast them, but not enough time to ship them back across the Atlantic. Fortunately, I can finish this in a week, if I hurry; it's only twice life size."
"But, Freddie, I'm getting tired of that pose. And besides, you'll ruin your eyes in this light."
"Most of the time I work by touch only. I can correct my imperfections in the morning."
Reuel stripped and placed his clothes carefully over a jet black mandarin chair in one corner. He grimaced at the carved monkeys entangled in the back of the chair. The dragon's head which formed the arms were set with eyes of polished white stone.
"It's hard to believe that a Chinese mandarin actually once sat there," he said, "giving orders to his soldiers to go lop off someone's head."
"Assume your pose, will you?"
Reuel stepped onto a small platform and asked, "Is my arm high enough?"
"Perhaps another inch upwards. Do you know, you have the best body of any model I have ever had. Your only deviation is the slight over-development of latissimus dorsi and pectoralis major. Other than that, you have a body any artist would consider ideal."
"The pectoralis major is the muscles of the man's tits, isn't it?" Reuel grinned.
"If you prefer to express yourself that way-yes."
"What was the other one?"
"Latissimus dorsi."
"Where's that?"
"The large sheath of muscle that binds the pit of your arm from behind. That, and the teres major and minor."
"That isn't the muscle I thought you had in mind."
"Hold still, Reuel."
"What am I supposed to represent, anyway?"
"As they explained it to me," De Bois said, laying on another strip of clay, "you're 'Day'. You've seen the Michelangelo works of 'Day' and 'Night'. Mine will be the same subject, but a far different treatment of the theme. You'll be standing on the sun."
"And what about 'Night'? Who's doing that for you?"
"I hope to talk Sara Crenshaw into posing for it. I can be persuasive when I want to."
"She's got a damn good figure. I saw her naked."
"You did?"
"Yes, she was swimming. She ran after me with a gun."
"You'll have to be more careful, Reuel. I don't want you hurt. Did you let her see your face?"
"She wouldn't know me again, I don't think."
"Well, if I can't convince her, there's a Negro girl up the River Road who'll do it. When I asked her, she leaped at the chance. Odd, considering she's a prostitute. They're usually extremely modest for any purpose other than the obvious."
"And this time," Sara Crenshaw said, "I expect you to follow my specific instructions. I asked you to recruit a crew of men for regular work, not borrow a crew from a plantation to put in a single day."
"Of course, of course," Mr. Peck murmured. "I had no idea Mr. Thompson would turn out to be unsatisfactory."
"The work was fine," Sara said. "The house is clean and painted, and the grounds look good. But I have to have it completely rebuilt within the fortnight, or else my furniture will be in the way and probably get ruined in the process. Now, can I count on you to have a permanent crew there in the morning?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss Crenshaw, you won't be disappointed again. It'll take time to round them up... most men on the docks are there just to loiter and find a crap game. There's hardly an honest one among them."
"You just get them out there. I'll work them. Now, here's a list of more provisions I'll need in the morning, and the necessary cash to cover everything."
"Of course," he said, accepting both. "Incidentally, Miss Crenshaw, a letter came for you in the post this morning. I took the liberty of keeping it here, since I knew you'd be by the office tonight."
He had some difficulty locating it among the many papers on his desk, but finally he found it and handed it over. It was on impressive linen paper, bearing the letterhead of her New York broker. She put it in her purse without opening it.
"Thank you, Mr. Peck. I'll see you in the morning. Try to be a bit earlier, if that's possible."
"Of course. Certainly."
Sara Crenshaw relaxed once she had entered the cool night air, and allowed her horse to take its own head. Its hooves struck the hardened dirt road in a rhythmic staccato, and the trees of River Road assumed fanciful shapes in the pale moonlight.
When the De Bois house loomed into view, Sara noticed a light burning in the East wing. She thought of Frederick's invitation for Sunday, and was glad she had accepted. Never before had she met a man so sophisticated, so endowed. He was at once charming, handsome, and talented. His body was impressive, but his could not compare with the robust vitality evident in Clay Thompson's.
As Sara pulled up into her own yard, she was well pleased with the day's work. The house still looked like an empty skull but in one short day the rust and decay of five years of neglect had been wiped away, leaving it shining and clean. In another few days of hard work, the interior would be ready for decorating. She had even bought half a ton of polished stones to set in the driveway, of a variety alien to this part of the South, and when rain fell upon them, they cast up the reflected beauty of all the colors of the spectrum, like a bed of uncut diamonds. The ante bellum house had been mainly constructed of stone; consequently, only the woodwork in the trimmings and the staircase had suffered a great deal.
She noticed for the first time that a dark, cloaked figure was sitting motionless on the steps, waiting for her. She halted the buggy directly in front of the person, and asked, "What do you want?"
"Are you Miss Crenshaw?" The voice was a woman's, low and melodious.
"Yes. Do you want to see me?"
"Yes, Miss Crenshaw. I was informed that you just moved to this place. I'd like a job as your maid."
"I can get a colored girl cheaper than a white one."
"I am colored, Miss Crenshaw."
Sara stared at her, noticing now that the girl had thrown her hood back that she possessed a hint of Negroid characteristics. Her lips were medium rather than full; her forehead was sloped rather than upright; her nose was high, not flat; and her hair, jet black, hung to her shoulders. What was it, then? But or course! Her eyes betrayed her ancestry; they were black and heavily lidded. Nonetheless, she was a beautiful woman.
"What is your name?" Sara asked.
"Lilli Ann Wedges."
"Where did you work before, Lilli Ann?"
"I been working my own farm, up the road a piece. But I need some cash money, so I came to see you."
"Have you ever been in any kind of trouble?"
"Well, kind of, ma'am."
"Then perhaps you'd better tell me about it before I make up my mind."
"I cause a white man to go to prison."
"Oh? And how?"
"'Cause he raped me. I didn't 'tend on turning him in, but the White Citizen's Council was mostly the cause of it. I'd just as soon they'd forgot the whole thing, but they wouldn't stop hounding me until I went to court. Now, nobody will hire me. They have the idea I'm a bad woman. I suppose you don't want me, either."
"I'll make up my own mind," Sara said. "You can go to work on probation."
"Don't think I ever done that kind of work before."
Sara laughed. "That means you work on trial. Say, a week. Then, if you like the work and I like you, you work steady from then on."
"That's a fine word, Miss Crenshaw, if it says all that."
"It does. Now, suppose you help me unhitch the horse. We'll ground-hitch him and go on inside. I don't have any beds yet, so you'll have to sleep on the floor for a few nights."
"That won't bother me none. I haven't ever slept on a bed, anyhow."
"Well, you soon shall."
Sara entered the house followed by Lilli Ann, who was still enveloped in the folds of her flowing dark cape. Sara lit an oil lamp and opened the letter that Mr. Peck had given her.
At first she could not believe her eyes, then she reread it. The Messrs. Healy and Bradford regretted to inform her that the stocks she held had dropped on the market, owing to a freak session of bear's selling. She had been completely wiped out. Not enough money could be rallied, the message continued. Those men who held the purse strings were afraid of throwing good money after bad. Sara had lost her annual income.
After she reread the letter for the third time, she folded it, replaced it in the envelope, then held it over the lamp chimney and watched it turn brown and flash into flames. She held it until the heat scorched her fingers, then tossed it into the fireplace. She did not want anyone in Fenniman's Landing to find out she had very little money left. She had taken care of the freight charges in advance, and had paid Mr. Peck generously for the crew. She still had three hundred dollars in her purse, which would be sufficient for quite some time, but after that was depleted, she'd be destitute, unless she sold her precious belongings.
"Lilli Ann," she said quietly, pointing, "will you get those blankets and sheets and make two pallets here on the floor?"
"Yes, Miss Crenshaw. Is there something wrong?"
"Not, not anything of importance."
When Lilli Ann awakened at around three in the morning, she found her new mistress sitting up, her hands folded over her knees, apparently in deep meditation. She wondered what possible connection there could be between Sara Crenshaw and Clay Thompson, and why he had sent her to ask for the job as maid. She knew of Clay's profligate sex life, but as long as she received her small monthly income from him, she didn't care one way or another what he did. She was quite used to following his orders without giving a second thought to them. But he had never done anything of this sort before.
She called out softly to Sara, but Sara was oblivious to her stirring. Finally, she gave up trying to reason a situation that was too complex for her and went back to sleep.
Hours later, Sara Crenshaw had laid out a complete new set of plans for survival in Fenniman's Landing. She felt sure she had found a way to keep her house and the furniture she prized. As the sun shot up its rays to a new dawn, she fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Located on the Mississippi River some one hundred miles below Memphis, Fenniman's Landing had long been an overnight stop for riverboats. Here they would refuel from the large supply of corded wood while discharging and picking up cargo. Everyone in Fenniman's Landing, as custom long stood, knew almost every aspect of the private lives of everyone else in the community. It was no secret that Sara Crenshaw had boarded the riverboat which delivered her furniture, and that she was going downriver, to Baton Rouge.
The processional caravan that Mr. Peck engaged to take her belongings to the Crenshaw House was a long one. Every woman in Fenniman's Landing had chosen that particular day to do her shopping. The wagons received careful scrutiny, and although the furniture was packed in burlap and crates, enough of it was exposed to cause some excitement among the ladies, who had long discarded the pretense of selecting merchandise in Mr. Toll's General Mercantile, and walked outside to line the sidewalk and watch.
"Lookie, Mama! That's a Duncan Phyfe cherry-wood table! Just look at the carving on the legs. Ain't it just darlin'?"
"Lookit that thing. What kinda cabinet is that?"
"French! Don't you know anything, Sukey?"
"You won't catch me mixing up my furniture like that! Everything in my house is modern. I don't like them antiques."
"Mainly 'cause you can't afford them, Emery Jean. Them things cost her a pretty penny."
"Shore would like to know how she came by the money."
"I swear! Lookit that big picture. It's real hand-painted, see it where the cover slipped down? Why, that is just awful purty. Ain't no tress like that around here... must of been done by one of them fur-riners... "
"Supposin' she has a housewarming, after she gits that place fixed up?" Mrs. Davis asked Mrs. Lynn. "Would you go?"
Mrs. Lynn snapped her fan open and glowered at the timid little woman, fanning herself vigorously. "I don't have anything against Miss Crenshaw, you understand; but I don't see how I could call on her. After all, we all knew what her father was, and blood will out."
"Well, if you don't call, Mrs. Lynn, I suppose that means she ain't going to be accepted into Fenniman's Landing's social circle."
"Well, hardly," Mrs. Lynn laughed condescendingly. "After all, how do we know where she got her money? Just wealth doesn't give a person any social status. And we must remember that our upper set is composed of people who founded this state. Almost a century of family status and breeding, as well as mere wealth, which we all have. No, I don't think Miss Crenshaw would fit. Should she be foolish enough to call on any of us, I dare say the lady being honored-" She underscored the word viciously, "- will be indisposed."
And, issuing her edict, banishing Sara Crenshaw from a society she had no desire to join, Mrs. Lynn entered the Mercantile, followed by her fawning companions.
Mr. Toll, long used to the abuses Mrs. Lynn levied upon him in exchange for her patronage, came over to wait on her. His mustache was luxurious and his scalp shone through his black hair in a thin part down the middle. Cynical, yet gentle, he had appeal for the feminine sex. Even Mrs. Lynn sometimes found herself unable to resist him. Now in his late forties, he was one of the most well-liked men in Fenniman's Landing.
"Morning, Mrs. Lynn," he drawled, "anything in particular you wanted today?"
"Good morning, Mr. Toll. I came in to see if there was any material in the latest shipment of piece goods-something I could use to make Vonita Lee a new dress."
"I got eight yards of cerise."
"Mr. Toll! That is not a fit color for a young lady!"
"It's what all them high society women in New York are wearing, ma'am. Besides, if your Vonita Lee was to make a dress out of that, every woman in Fenniman's Landing would be in here orderin' that material, and you know that's true."
"Perhaps, even if what you say is true," she giggled to the other ladies, "I'd prefer something in orchid or lavender. It brings out the whiteness of her skin."
"Well, I got this lavender print here," he said, showing her a full bolt of material. "Maybe it'll do."
"Why, there's a full bolt there. I can't buy anything with that much left over, somebody else would make a dress out of it too. And if a colored person showed up wearing it, that would just kill my Vonita Lee. She's such a sensitive child."
Mr. Toll gave up in disgust and retreated to his office. Mrs. Lynn snitched a bright red apple, to the awe of her friends, and flounced out of the store, well pleased with herself and the morning's incidents.
At the Crenshaw House, Mr. Peck was directing the placing of the furniture. He constantly referred to a list Sara had left him, instructions for the manner in which she wanted it distributed, but he was experiencing some difficulties.
"Now which do you suppose is the French commode?" he asked no one in particular.
The Negroes stood at random, waiting for him to tell them what to move next.
"That would be the cabinet with the elaborate filigree," came a voice from the doorway. It was Frederick De Bois. "I came to see Miss Crenshaw," he explained. "She left me a note telling me that she had to leave town on business, but I thought I might possibly catch her."
"Miss Crenshaw took the Meadowlark to Baton Rouge. She isn't expected back for a week," Mr. Peck said.
"Very well, thank you."
"I don't believe we've ever formally introduced ourselves, Mr. De Bois. Naturally, I know who you are. I'm Samuel Peck, Attorney at Law."
"How do you do." Frederick De Bois shook hands, but he was preoccupied. "I don't suppose you've seen my friend, Reuel Williams, have you? I thought he might have come by here."
"I've seen no one but you, sir. I don't believe I know him."
"Then I'll take my leave. Good day, sir."
"One moment, Mr. De Bois. I have a slight problem here. Perhaps you could understand these things much better than I do. Would you be so kind as to help me identify some of these pieces?"
"Surely."
Frederick stayed on for thirty minutes. With his help, Mr. Peck was able to place each piece exactly in its place. He did not seem to notice that De Bois had been rushing him, anxious to be through with the task.
As Frederick was about to take his leave, Lilli Ann appeared at the top of the newly carpeted staircase wearing a cast-off evening dress given to her by Sara. Her appearance was made somewhat incongruous by the white apron she wore, but her beauty caused a chorus of sighs among the Negroes working below, and the heads of the two white men bobbed upwards.
Lilli Ann descended with the dignity of a dowager empress, and smiled brightly at De Bois. "Good morning, sir. And good morning to you, Mr. Peck."
"Ah, yes. Good morning, of course, of course... "
"Has Miss Crenshaw hired you as a personal servant, Lilli Ann?" asked De Bois.
"Yes, sir. I'm her maid now."
"That's fine. You're working for a lovely person."
"Thank you, sir. That's the truth."
De Bois excused himself to Mr. Peck and left. Mr. Peck remained another thirty minutes to supervise the positioning of the rest of the furniture.
When they were gone Lilli Ann polished the different objects until they shone. She liked the feel of the various veneers. The lustrous woods appealed to her. She was going to like working for Sara Crenshaw.
Lilli Ann had long since finished her chores for the day when she decided to go to the river to bathe. It would be more fun and easier than carrying water in to use in the bathtub.
The sun had not quite set when she got to the river. The water moved lazily, like some big fat serpent. Lilli Ann stripped, hung her precious gown on the branches of a low limb, and waded into the water. It still held the warmth of the day. She sat down in a shallow area-an inlet pool imbedded with polished stones.
She ran the bar of soap over her body and massaged the lather between her breasts. Throwing her face forward into the water, she ran her hands up and down her neck, wetting her hair completely. Then she soaped her hair until she built up a volume of bubbles. The soap was a luxury, and she intended to take her time using it. She soaped her hair lustily.
Even though she was splashing the water noisily, she sensed the presence of another person. Her eyes opened suddenly, only to be filled instantly with soap, but not before she made out the dim outlines of a man standing on the bank not more than ten feet from her. She started to call out, "Clay?" But she caught herself in time. If it were Clay, he would have spoken, and since it was not, she might have given him away. Had she done that there'd have been hell to pay. There was no retreat for her. Feeling fear knotting up within the pit of her stomach, she leaned forward and washed her face free of the blinding soap as quickly as she could.
She looked up to see Reuel Williams standing over her, smiling.
"The river bank certainly seems a popular place to bathe, doesn't it, Miss Wedges?" he said.
"You better get out of here, white man."
"Now, Lilli Ann! You don't mind my watching you bathe!"
"You get your ass into a peck of trouble!"
"For what, Lilli Ann? Watching a pretty girl take a bath?"
"That ain't what you got on your mind!"
"You're jumping to conclusions!"
"You better not bother me," she said, rising slowly to her feet. Wading to the bank, she began backing to the tree where her dress hung.
While Reuel did not attempt to grab her, he did keep advancing steadily upon her, a leer spreading across his face.
"Look here, white man," Lilli Ann threatened, "you may not know it, but there's big trouble for you if you bother me. I won't answer for what happens to you if a certain party finds you here. I mean a certain important party... "
"De Bois wants your body just to look at," Reuel laughed harshly. "He won-'t mind if I use it for other purposes... "
"I wasn't talkin' about him," Lilli Ann said savagely. "I mean another man-a white man who'll whip your ass with a bullwhip if he finds you here. Now you better git while you can!"
"We'll just see," said Reuel, lunging at her.
The dress she clutched slowed her movements, but she was agile enough to sidestep his charge. He went crashing to both knees into the brush, but immediately sprang to his feet, his hands bleeding from scratches, his face now twisted and ugly.
Lilli Ann took off in a dead run across the open meadow, her dress flowing in back of her like a banner-Reuel Williams gaining on her with each step. He made a lunge at her that sent her crashing to the grass. He was on top of her in an instant, searching to cover her mouth with his own. Before he could, she had run a hand down across his cheek, clawing it deeply with her sharp nails. The blood oozed forth and mixed with his sweat. He slapped her face as hard as he could. Lilli Ann stopped struggling and prepared herself for the onslaught; she knew from previous experience what was to come, and she did not want her face pounded black and blue again.
So intent was his struggling and so dark her fear, that neither Reuel nor Lilli Ann heard the horse which approached on the run. Nor did they hear the sounds of the booted feet as they hit the meadow grass and came running. Breathless, his chest heaving in hoarse gasps, Reuel's attentions were riveted on the nude girl beneath him.
Clay brought the leaded handle of his bullwhip down across the base of Reuel's skull. Lilli Ann felt the clawing body go limp. She struggled from beneath him and jumped to her feet, still cautious, peering into the twilight darkness to see the face of her benefactor.
"Clay," she whimpered.
"I saw that bastard chasing you, Lilli Ann. Are you all right now?"
"I'm all right," she answered, staring down at the lifeless bundle on the ground, "but that's more than I can say for him."
"I hope I killed the bastard."
"Clay! I don't want no trouble... " Clay kicked the inert form over onto his back heavily, and then bent forward on one knee. He listened, an ear to Reuel's chest.
"He's still breathing," he announced. "No trouble. I don't suppose he'll go around bragging about this night's work."
"What if he jumps me later, Clay?"
"He won't. He'll know there's more where that came from... "
"Take me to the house, Clay. I'm scared."
"Lilli Ann, forget it. It's all over now."
"I know, Clay. But I can't stop trembling."
"That's because you're bare-ass," he laughed, "and it's cold out here. Wrap that dress around you, and let's go in. I got a bottle. That'll warm you up in a hurry."
Lilli Ann, standing in the center of the drawing room, started to step into her dress, but Clay caught her arm. "Leave that off, honey," he said. "It'll come off again in a minute, anyway. Here, have a slug of this." He offered her a generous glassful of whiskey. She swallowed some of it quickly, then gasped for breath.
"Come over here and sit on my lap," Clay said, pulling her by her wrist.
"Not with all your clothes on," Lilli Ann grinned. "Take them off."
"Why don't you-if you really want them off?"
Setting her glass of whiskey aside, she reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stood still, enjoying the tantalizingly slow and deliberate way she went about removing his shirt. When he was bare-chested, she ran the tip of her tongue over his chest while she unbuckled his pants. They dropped down to his boot-tops.
"You'll have to take your boots off."
"Like hell I will." Clay sat down in a chair and raised one foot. "Back up on that."
Lilli Ann bent to remove the one boot while Clay placed the other on her posterior and pushed gently but firmly forward. It slipped off easier than most, and Lilli Ann went sprawling to the floor, laughing.
"Now the other," Clay directed, taking a gulp of his whiskey.
She backed up again, and felt his free hand playfully grasp her.
"Clay!" she yelled, and he loosened his grip.
She removed the other boot, then his pants, then made him stand to get at his cotton underwear. When she had him naked, he set his whiskey on the floor, pulled her to him and kissed her, feeling her yielding body exerting pressure against his. His hands felt along her spine and came to rest possessively on her buttocks.
"Here," Clay said, "let me show you something I learned."
He sat down in the chair, wrapped both his arms around her, and ran his tongue over her stomach. It flickered in and out in a fast staccato, getting closer and closer to the pubic area.
Her muscles contracted, and she tried to push backwards, her hands on his massive shoulders. "Clay, honey, stop it! I can't stand it!"
He tightened his grip and continued what he'd started, feeling her twist and writhe frantically. In a few moments, she suddenly ceased struggling and sank into his lap. He held her cradled in his arms, and kissed her, one hand gently massaging her wet stomach. When she summoned enough energy to return the pressure of his moist lips, he picked her up and carried her up the winding staircase.
Clay laid her on the bed half on and half off, so that only her back rested on the bed. Her feet were planted firmly on the floor. Though she'd never had it this way before, she didn't have to be told what to do. She spread her legs widely apart. And when Clay moved between them, she buried her heels in his hard buttocks.
When they had finished, Clay crawled onto the bed beside her, and curled his large body around hers. The next morning they were still in the same position. Lilli Ann moved away from him slowly; Clay grunted contentedly in his sleep and turned over to lie on his back.
Lilli Ann walked to the window and pulled back the drape. She decided that Clay had at least a two hour margin of safety before Miss Crenshaw got back. She turned and openly admired his brown body, dark against the whiteness of the sheets. She walked over and kissed his lips affectionately.
Clay opened his eyes and smiled up at her. "Ummm, baby, you sure are good for a man. How about one more time?"
Lilli Ann squealed happily, climbed back into the big four-poster, and lay down flat on her back.
"No," he grinned, "let's do it different this time. You get on your hands and knees and I'll get behind you... " Lilli Ann followed his instructions, and was just about to receive him when they heard the main door slam, followed by the cry of "Lilli Ann!"
Clay jumped from the bed in a single bound.
Lilli Ann was terror-stricken. "It's Miss Sara," she whispered.
Clay threw her her old cotton dress and whispered, "For God's sake, stop her. Stall her somehow while I get out the back. If she sees me, I'll kill you. I swear it!" He had already managed to struggle into his pants.
"I'll try," she said, holding the dress in front of her and opening the door a crack. She could see Sara Crenshaw, her face flushed happily, as she began climbing the stairs. "Hurry, Clay!"
He was out the back door by the time Sara Crenshaw had reached the top landing.
"I'm back early, Lilli Ann. I was able to buy the merchandise I wanted without having to go all the way to Baton Rouge."
"Was it a nice trip?" Lilli Ann asked, unable to keep the edge of panic from her voice.
"Very nice. But what's wrong?"
Lilli Ann did not answer.
"Do you think I'll be angry because you slept in my bed?" Sara asked, guessing at her fears.
Lilli Ann heard Clay's horse clatter across the hardened space in the back of the house. In a few seconds he'd be gone from view.
Sara heard the hoofbeats, too. She swept into the bedroom, took one look at the stained and crumpled sheets, and turned aghast to Lilli Ann.
"You've had a man in here!"
Lilli Ann hung her head in abject misery.
"In my bed!" Sara said in disgust. "I suppose he was a Negro?"
"No, Miss Sara. A mulatto. Like me."
"I'll be damned," said Sara. "Well, take those sheets and boil them good. And use lye soap on them."
"Yassum."
"And I want you to pay particular attention to what I'm going to say now. If you ever do this again, I'll have you whipped in public! Now, let's forget the incident."
"Yassum-"
"And quit saying 'Yassum'!"
"Yes, Miss Sara."
"That was a horse I heard a moment ago, wasn't it?" Sara asked. "Yes."
"A colored man with a horse? Most extraordinary, isn't it, Lilli Ann?"
"I don't know, ma'am. Is it?"
Later, as she and Lilli Ann struggled to change the mattresses on the beds, Sara wondered which white man in Fenniman's Landing was sleeping with Lilli Ann. Certainly most of them would jump at the chance. She considered most of them that she knew, but the question of its being Clay Thompson never even entered her mind.
CHAPTER FIVE
Several days later the Excelsior puffed upriver and tied up at the dock at Fenniman's Landing. The passengers crowded the gangway to be lowered so they could disembark.
One group of passengers stood somewhat apart from the others. They, like the many large crates marked 'to Sara Crenshaw', were also destined for Crenshaw House. The group consisted of two women and two men. The women were wearing large fanciful feather hats and very low-cut gowns of silks and satins. For makeup, their eyes were lined with black pencil and both wore a deep blood-red lip rouge.
"So this is Fenniman's Landing," said Sophia Longstreet, her hoarse voice carrying over to the other passengers, who were frowning at her. "Not up to the French Quarter, is it?"
"What did you expect?" Brandy Goodwyn turned up her powdered nose. "This is the sticks, honey. Arkansas. We left civilization away back there downriver."
"Civilization can kiss my ass," laughed Sophia. "Still, I've bedded down in worse places. And the job pays good."
Brandy lowered her voice. "Say, honey, are we going to run our cribs here?"
"Well, dearie," Sophia said, "the boss lady said no dice. But I wouldn't know how to act outside a crib. If a man bats his eyes at me, I just turn soft inside and head for the nearest bed. Just so long as he's a gentleman, of course-and knows a lady expects a little compensation."
"What if Miss Crenshaw catches us turning tricks?"
"Listen, that number may act innocent, but I'll bet she bedded down with half the Union Army up North. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."
One of the men, a lean man with graceful hands and alabaster complexion, turned his attention from his companion and addressed the women. "I say, they seem to have lowered the plank. Mr. Frick and myself shall escort you ladies ashore."
"Why thank you, Mr. Potter," said Brandy.
Mr. Frick was wearing a complacent expression on his stone face as he offered Sophia his arm. Both men wore the unmistakable apparel of gamblers.
The women passengers among the other group drew back instinctively as Sophia and Brandy approached, flanked by the two men.
Sophia winked openly at one woman's husband. He turned brick red, refused to meet his wife's eyes. Her mouth tightened into a thin line and she stared angrily at Sophia.
"Well, Captain Morse," said Potter, as he genially offered his palm, "I wish to thank you for a most entertaining and profitable trip."
The Captain refused to shake hands. "Listen, Potter," he said, "If I was sure you were cheating at poker, I'd have slapped you in irons. As it stands, don't let me catch you aboard my ship again!"
"This old tub will probably sink or go aground before it reaches Memphis," Sophia laughed. "So there's no danger of that, is there, Captain?"
The four gathered on the far end of the dock, where they stood talking and laughing until Sara Crenshaw drove up in her coach to pick them up.
One pinch-faced lady watching them from the ship said to one of the male passengers: "It's a shame when a nice riverboat like this one has to carry riff-raff like that. Loose women and gamblers."
"Yeah... "The man sounded far away. "After the war the river sure changed. Dam yankees, carpetbaggers, loose women, all kinds of cut-throats, painted women. Why I don't know what Arkansas is coming to!"
"Well," said the woman, squinting suspiciously at the man, "there are still ways to take care of people like that. They can cause just so much trouble and then... "
"A casino opened in Fenniman's Landing!" snorted Mrs. Lynn. "Why, it's an outrage, an absolute outrage! That girl must be out of her mind, thinking she can get away with this!"
"Isn't there a law against it?" asked Mrs. Swinn, nibbling daintily at a watercress sandwich.
"Moral laws are laid down by community leaders," snorted Mrs. Lynn. "Moral laws and ethics must be assumed by the church and community, or else the whole town would be wide open to that low life. This sort of evil must be stamped out before it is allowed to flourish. I suggest we call on Brother Sharkey this very afternoon."
The group of chattering ladies gathered about their leader. Mrs. Lynn selected five of them to go with her to call first on the Reverend, then on the Sheriff.
When the ladies arrived at Reverend Sharkey's, he invited them into his parlor and offered them tea and cookies.
"This is not in the nature of a social call," Mrs. Lynn spouted. "Rather, Brother Sharkey, is it a protest group. We wish to enlist your aid in closing that wicked woman's gambling house before our men and boys become tainted."
"Gambling house?" asked the Reverend. "That's hard to believe."
"It's been running for over a week," Mrs. Davis said.
"Well, I shall certainly denounce it from the pulpit," he said. "Who, just what wicked woman is responsible for this wickedness?"
"A woman named Sara Crenshaw," volunteered Mrs. Swinn-and would have added more had Mrs. Lynn not silenced her with a glance, making it plain that she was spokesman.
"A young wanton, if you ask me," Mrs. Lynn said. "We are proceeding directly to the Sheriff for a closing order."
"I shall, of course, be of what help I can," the Reverend said, "but a man of the cloth has certain restrictions imposed... "
"Good, that's settled," said Mrs. Lynn. "We'll go to the Sheriff's now."
"Now?" said the Reverend. "Really, ladies, it's watering time for my begonias, and I still have to finish tomorrow's sermon-to include my denouncement of the gambling house."
"Those things can wait." Mrs. Lynn was adamant. "Will you please come now? You can surely make a denouncement without a written statement."
The Reverend wearily climbed to his feet and ushered the militant old ladies out.
Sheriff Jim Shaw, a young man with an ugly face and disposition to match, sat in his office with a clear view through the window. He could see the Reverend accompanying those old bitch ladies toward his office. Lowering his feet from the top of his desk, he stood and braced himself for what he knew was coming.
Mrs. Lynn, with her foul determination and her personal wealth which even the war had not lessened. She ran the town to suit herself.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Lynn. Ladies, and Reverend Sharkey," Sheriff Shaw said, holding open the office door. "Anything I can do for you today?"
"Sheriff," Mrs. Lynn said, "we want you to put a closing order on that Crenshaw woman's casino. We have to think of protecting our menfolk against her evil influence."
"The judge won't be due for another two weeks," Sheriff Shaw stated. "And I got no authority to close it down. There ain't no law against it. I could get myself sued, unless one of you ladies want to sign a complaint."
"Complaint, indeed!" Mrs. Lynn spurted. "I put you in office, and I can see to it you're taken out when election time rolls around again. Maybe even before. Now, would you like that?"
"No, ma'am," he said. "I shore wouldn't. I'll ride out and have a talk with the Crenshaw woman this afternoon. I can't close her for operating a gambling house. Nothing illegal about that. But I'll find some kind of charge."
"We'll all go right this minute," Mrs. Lynn said. "The Reverend here can appeal to her sense of Christianity, if she has any. We wish to avoid violence, but we'll close her down at all costs."
The Sheriff rode slightly behind the surrey full of women, watching their bonnetted heads bobbing back and forth in animated conversation while the Reverend busied himself with the driving. He found himself regretting having to do this to Sara Crenshaw. As far as he was concerned, she was a beautiful woman who hadn't wronged anyone. But his job was far more important to him than a dozen Sara Crenshaws would be. Mrs. Lynn would manage to see that Sara suffered, anyway-one way or another. It might as well be a gloved hand from him, he thought, than an iron fist from someone else.
As the surrey passed the De Bois mansion, the group of ladies silenced their cackling-each one carefully refraining from looking at the nude statue pouring its eternal stream of water into the goldfish pond. Around the next bend in the road, the Crenshaw mansion, now fully repaired, stood in proud and arrogant haughtiness.
Lilli Ann saw the surrey from the balcony where she'd been dusting. She quickly dashed downstairs to the kitchen, where Sara was helping her colored cook pluck chickens. The stench of hot wet feathers filled the air.
"Trouble come callin'!" Lilli Ann exclaimed. "You better answer the door, Miss Sara. They find out I work here, they'd just make more trouble for you."
Sara laughed. "You're cute when you get excited, Lilli Ann. Now just calm down, and go answer the door. Ask them to wait in the study. I can't go in looking like a scullery maid, now can I?"
With her heart beating ever so fast, Lilli Ann walked to the door, opened it, and calmly bowed to the group.
"Miss Crenshaw invites you to wait in the study. She'll be here directly."
Mrs. Lynn's mouth flew open in astonishment. "The nerve! Actually asking us inside."
"Well, Mrs. Lynn," the Sheriff offered, "can't be too much wrong with it. It's broad daylight, and the Reverend and I are with you. It can't be bad to go in under these conditions."
Mrs. Lynn experienced one rare moment of silence while she reflected on the pros and cons of this statement. Then, curiosity winning out, she nodded condescendingly to Lilli Ann and said, "Very well, show us to the study."
They marched in single file-the Reverend and the Sheriff bringing up the rear. The ladies were awed by the splendor of the house but were silent except for an occasional murmur of appreciation. They could not help being impressed by the gigantic cut-glass chandelier they passed beneath, with its hundreds of crystal pendants.
The 'study' was done in stately blue and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper, the floor covered with a rich red carpet. A marble fireplace with its gilt rococo screen dominated one end of the room, while dice and poker tables shone with their deep gloss. On one wall a gigantic Florentine landscape receded in soft imagination to magic fields and unearthly horizons.
But the most singular feature of the room was directly beneath the staircase. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary at first glance. Then one of the ladies stopped and found that the interior of the doorway was in fact a large painting, while to all appearances it was an outside rose garden. A door, built onto one side of the frame, was ajar, and completed the illusion.
"Would you look at that!" exclaimed Mrs. Udall. "It's witchcraft, it looks like a body could walk right through it."
"No, it's not witchcraft, it's trompe l'oeil," said Sara, as she entered the room. "A school of painting where the artist tries to fool the eye by creating objects so real you think you can reach out and touch them."
She had selected a dress for its conservativeness, a white satin, trimmed with ermine across the high collar. But it was difficult to conceal her curves beneath anything. An un-Godly shudder ran through Reverend Sharkey. He swallowed hard and blushed as Sara walked into the room, the satin rustling invitingly. The Sheriff and even the voluminous Mrs. Lynn found themselves at a loss for words.
"To what and whom do I owe the honor of this visit?" Sara addressed herself to Mrs. Lynn.
"I'm Mrs. Lynn, and this delegation... "
"Oh, yes, I remember you, Mrs. Lynn. Quite well. You're daughter is named Vonita, I believe. I've not had the honor of meeting the Reverend or the gentleman behind the badge, or your friends here."
Mrs. Lynn was again at a loss for words. The Sheriff took over.
"I'm Sheriff Jim Shaw, and this is Reverend Theodore Sharkey. The ladies are Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Udall, Mrs. Swinn and Mrs. Eastwood."
"Won't you all be seated?"
"We haven't made this in the order of a social visit," Mrs. Lynn said, her voice quavering strangely. "We've come to ask you to close down this gambling hall before the damage is done."
"May I ask what damage?"
"It's a sinful occupation," Reverend Sharkey croaked, cleared his throat, then continued: "It will lead young men astray... a house of this sort will always lead to other things."
"Reverend Sharkey," Sara said, looking more at Mrs. Lynn than him, "you've no right to assume any such thing about me. I intend to keep open. But if it'll bring you any peace of mind, I can tell you that from the beginning I've not allowed any of the local men of Fenniman's Landing in my place. It's open only to the riverboat passengers. The transients give me enough business. I'll not deny that some of your younger men have come here, but I sent them home to mama."
"You couldn't ask for anything fairer than that," said the Sheriff, fighting down a grin of approval.
"Such an establishment is a sin against God and His Son, Christ Jesus, who died on Calvary," Mrs. Lynn intoned sepulchrally. "I cannot stand idly by and watch the devil's work in progress."
"Mrs. Lynn," Sara said sweetly, "you have no choice. There's no-law against casinos, and I've promised not to taint your men. They probably prefer their barnyard crap games to this, anyway."
"Why-why-" Mrs. Lynn sputtered.
"And now I must ask you all to leave," Sara said. "But before you do, I wish to thank you, Mrs. Lynn, for giving my casino a name. I'd been wondering what to call it. Now it will be the 'Tromp L'oeil'. After all, what better name could there be for a gambling house?"
Mrs. Lynn was so angry she was speechless. Her little pig eyes glared at Sara.
"Miss Crenshaw," the Sheriff said, "I wish you'd reconsider. You don't know what you're letting yourself in for."
"This is strictly my own business, Sheriff Shaw. All your concern should be is that I operate within the law. And I assure you, I will. The house will take in a percentage from honest dealers who work here on their own time and money. And you haven't a thing to worry about."
"Not me," he said. "But maybe you do, Miss Crenshaw."
"Yes, you certainly have!" Mrs. Lynn burst out. "Don't underestimate the workings of Christians against the devil! I'll ruin you, I'll ruin you, I swear it!"
"You sound like a good Christian, Mrs. Lynn," Sara observed, remaining unruffled. "And now that you've had your say, will you please leave?"
No sooner had they begun their ride back into town than Mrs. Lynn, consumed in her wrath and indignation, began spewing forth like a volcano, denouncing Sara Crenshaw for being everything from a messenger of Satan to a shameless harlot. Reverend Sharkey begged her to calm herself before she had a stroke, but his mild words and manner fanned the flames of her obdurate ranting. She ended her harangue by calling for a meeting of the White Citizens League to find a measure to stop Sara Crenshaw-and stop her for good.
At the outskirts of Fenniman's Landing, Mrs. Davis leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Mrs. Lynn," she said, savoring this morsel she'd been saving, "I promised my son never to tell this, but I feel it's my duty."
"Yes? Yes?"
"One of those women working for Miss Crenshaw, the one named Sophia-she gave him the venereal disease."
Mrs. Lynn's eyes gleamed. "Why in the name of God didn't you tell me this before? Now, we have something to go on!"
"But he says Sara Crenshaw wasn't involved. The girl took him to the riverbank to-to-be out of the way."
"No matter where it was!" Mrs. Lynn spouted jubilantly. "Sara Crenshaw is directly responsible! Sara Crenshaw will pay!"
"Maybe I am," Sara said coolly, "but I'm not going to be run off my property by anyone or anything."
"But this is the Ku-Klux Klan. Nobody can fight them."
"What is the Ku-Klux Klan but a lot of cowards in sheets and caps-who're afraid to show their own faces?"
"You little fool," Clay persisted. "Insulting that Mrs. Lynn. Don't you know who she is? And when the White Brotherhood gets through with you, you may not be dead but you'll wish you were."
"Clay, you tend to dramatize things. I'm sure that with two men and four women in this house we can take care of any of the Ku-Klux that comes calling."
"Oh, Christ, but you do take the cake... " On the second-floor landing, Sophia and Brandy huddled in the shadows, listening to the conversation below. Sophia nudged her friend and motioned for her to go back into their bedroom. She held the door handle to keep the noise at a minimum while she shot the bolt forward.
"Looks like big trouble." Sophia dashed to the closet and dragged out her bags. She began pulling her dresses from the clothes hangers and folding them.
"And you're running out," Brandy accused, pouting. "You heard Miss Crenshaw say she could handle the situation. I don't want to run, not now, Sophia, when things are set up so good. We can trim the suckers at blackjack without her ever knowing it. And besides that, I made two hundred dollars extra last week, just by sleeping with a few tricks and rolling a couple of drunks. This setup's too good to run out on, honey."
"Listen, you stupid little bitch!" Sophia spat, her eyes narrowing. "You may not know what's coming, but I do, and I don't intend to stay here. I've seen them Klan buggers at work in New Orleans right after the Reconstruction. It ain't no pretty sight to see them take a nigger out and gut him because he voted the wrong ticket. And they don't stop at color, either. Once they took out a white Republican, stripped him naked and hung him from a tree. I ain't going to tempt fate by risking my ass here. There's plenty of gambling houses in New Orleans, or Memphis, whichever way the wind's blowing. You can come or stay."
"But Miss Crenshaw ain't done nothing bad enough to have them do anything like that to her," Brandy reasoned.
Sophia wondered how long it would be before the huge open sore inside her would begin to show. She had slept with three men whom she knew were local, and she knew also they all three had probably been infected. It would not be long before her customers would be able to see the sore, and her headaches increased every day from worrying about what she would do when that day arrived. The mob would come after her if not Sara.
"Hell, who needs reasons when mobs lose their damn heads? Like I said, it ain't going to be a pretty sight. I'm not going to be here to see it."
"Well, I can't stay behind either," Brandy said. "I been with you so long, Sophia, I wouldn't know how to get along without you."
"That's a dear. Now start packing."
There was a knock at the door just then, and Sophia looked up, startled.
"Who's there?"
"It's me, Potter. You ladies decent?"
Sophia quickly shoved her two bags under the bed and smoothed the rumpled bedspread. Then she unbolted the door.
"As decent as we'll ever be," she sang out gaily. "Come on in."
Mr. Potter looked about the room quickly, his shrewd eyes missing nothing. He spotted the open closet and empty hangers and smiled.
"I suppose you've heard of the impending visitation by a certain group of dissidents," he said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be packing in such a hurry."
"Packing?" asked Sophia.
"Oh, come now. I wasn't born yesterday, you know. You've emptied one clothes closet, and ten to one your bags are full and crammed beneath the bed right now."
"Okay, Potter, you guessed it. What are you going to do-tell Miss Crenshaw we're running out on her?"
"What?" He appeared hurt. "Betray a colleague?" He laughed. "No, Frick and I were just wondering which way the wind was blowing. I daresay it's only rats that would desert a sinking ship. So move over, ladies, and make room for brother rat!"
Brandy got her bags out and began stuffing them.
"Precisely what are your plans, Miss Sophia?" asked Potter.
"We're going to leave through the back door and go through the woods to the dock at Fenniman's Landing. It's only a quarter of a mile that way. And we can get there right at sundown, so less people will notice us. We'll get on whatever boat there is."
"Suppose there is none?"
"There's bound to be one or another. Hell, I'd get on a raft right now, anything to get out of this town."
"There's safety in numbers, they say."
"What does that mean?"
"Wait a few minutes and Frick and I will join you. Then, at least you'll have some protection."
"Protection?" Sophia laughed. "You're the best in the business when it comes to dealing an inside straight to yourself, but I don't think you could knock down a peg-leg. Still, I guess if we take you along, we won't have to worry about you ratting to Sara Crenshaw."
"Suppose he does tell her," Brandy said. "It's a free country now, ain't it? Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, remember? I guess we can leave any damn time we want to."
"That's pretty good," Potter said, "for one who only a few minutes ago didn't want to leave Miss Crenshaw."
"You swine!" Sophia glared at him. "You were listening at the door!"
"True, true," he admitted, grinning. "Now, you wait until Frick and I join you here." He walked to the door, where he turned to face them again, adding in a low, menacing voice: "Otherwise, you may regret it."
Potter stepped out into the hall and nearly collided with Lilli Ann. She had avoided him from his first day in Crenshaw House, and now his suspicions that perhaps she knew of their plans to get out caused him to search her face for any signs of guilt. She lowered her head and tried to pass him, but he caught her by the wrist and pivoted her around swiftly.
"Hold on there a minute, you," he demanded. "What are you up to?"
"I ain't up to nothing." Lilli Ann was frightened. "I been cleaning the rooms. That's all."
"Well, you just keep out of my room until I tell you it's okay to go in and clean it-you understand?"
"I'd be pleased to stay out of your room forever, Mr. Potter."
"That sounded like a wise crack. You better watch your step, girl. I don't take any sass from niggers, not even when they look like white girls."
"Yes, Mr. Potter, suh."
Lilli Ann went into Sara's bedroom on the pretext of cleaning it. Potter kept his eyes on her until she closed the door, then hurried on to his room.
In the meantime, downstairs, Clay Thompson realized the futility of his efforts to talk Sara Crenshaw into leaving her house, finally turned and strode angrily out. Sara watched him go, then went upstairs to her room, where she found Lilli Ann waiting. Lilli Ann appeared frightened.
"What on earth is wrong with you?"
"Miss Sara, those people-Sophia and Brandy, and Mr. Potter and Mr. Frick are up to no good. I don't know what it is, but Mr. Potter is acting kind of peculiar."
"Really? I guess they heard about the White Citizen's League meeting tonight, and are getting out of town. I guess I can't blame them. They've no call to risk a meeting of the Klan."
Lilli Ann's eyes widened. "The Ku-Klux Klan is coming here?"
"According to what's in the air. Mr. Thompson was just downstairs, and he told me. But I refuse to run. Let them come, I'll meet them on their own grounds. Nobody is going to run me out of town."
"But, God Almighty, Miss Sara. The Ku-Klux Klan! You can't fight them, not all by yourself."
"All by myself, Lilli Ann?"
"I didn't mean I was running out, too."
"You might as well go back to your own place tonight, Lilli Ann. The cook took off half an hour ago with her apron flapping in the breeze. You have no reason to stay and meet them, either."
"I only been here a week and a half. Miss Sara. But if you're going to stay, I'll stay with you. Don't know what help I'll be against the Ku-Klux, though."
"Just having you here will be a help, Lilli Ann. At least I can still retain some faith in my fellow human beings. And Clay Thompson," she mused aloud, "I was pleased that he thought enough of me to warn me."
Lilli Ann stopped in the middle of folding a sheet. She wondered if Clay Thompson had come to warn Sara because he wanted Sara out of danger, or had he come on her own account? He was fond of Sara, she knew, but he seemed just as fond of her. She'd certainly given him more reasons to be than Sara had. Still, she knew that when a man cannot get what he wants, it gives him all the more reason to want it.
Noticing Lilli Ann's preoccupation, though by no means guessing her thoughts, Sara tried to think of something that would cause her to get her mind off the gathering storm. She remembered that Lilli Ann had admired her white satin dress-the one with the high collar and ermine trim-and decided to give it to her. She went to her closet and got the dress.
"Here, Lilli Ann," she said, holding the dress out to her, "I want you to have it. I-" She stopped suddenly and looked at Lilli Ann. "Why, you're daydreaming. Here I expected you to be scared, and you're just daydreaming."
"I'm sorry, Miss Sara," Lilli Ann said. "What was you saying?"
"I want you to have this white satin. I'm getting a little too hippy to wear it."
"Miss Sara!" Lilli Ann exclaimed. "It's beautiful! You can't give it away!"
"Of course I can-and to you, too. Now, do you want to try it on?"
Lilli Ann beamed happily and hurriedly disrobed. As she prepared to put on the dress, they heard the back door slam. Sara hurried to the hallway and looked out. The bedroom doors were all open. She walked slowly past each room, and in each saw the same thing: empty drawers and cavernous, ransacked closets. The house was empty now except for the two of them.
When Sara walked back into her bedroom, she saw Lilli Ann tremble convulsively.
"A goose just walked over my grave," she explained to Sara.
In the lengthening shadows, Sara's face was serene. "Don't talk like that," she said. "You look lovely in the dress."
Lilli Ann walked to the mirror and saw that the white satin, even in the semidarkness, made her figure look smooth and enticing.
"Lilli Ann, can you handle either a dragoon pistol or a rifle?"
"Goodness no, Miss Sara. I ain't never fired a gun."
"Well, I'll get them and give you one quick lesson with the rifle. I don't want you to fire to kill anyone. If you have to shoot, aim well over their heads.
That'll keep them back."
"I couldn't hit anyone if I tried."
"They won't know that," Sara said, going to her closet for the rifle. She brought it back to where Lilli Ann was standing and began explaining, "This thing loads from the breech here-like this, see?"
"Yes."
"I have quite a few cartridges for it. All you have to do is pull back the hammer, insert the cartridge, aim it, and pull the trigger. It's simple."
"I'm afraid of it, Miss Sara," Lilli Ann said, drawing back.
"So am I afraid of it!" Sara shouted, shoving the rifle into the girl's unwilling hands. "But that's just too bad. Now, be careful with it. It's loaded."
Lilli Ann hefted the rifle, aimed at an imaginary Klansman, then pointed the barrel toward the floor. Sara handed her the extra cartridges; "I'll take the pistol and keep guard at the front door," she said. "You keep watch at the kitchen door. We won't let them get near enough to do any mischief. Remember, don't fire to hit anybody."
Sara went downstairs, out the front door, and across the pebbled driveway. The fireflies were blinking in the summer evening. The landscape was serene; the trees stirred in a tranquil motion. It was not a suitable setting for violence. The sun had dipped out of sight at about eight o'clock. Now, in the thickening darkness, the sound of chirping crickets was the only sound. Sara went back in the house and drew up a chair before the door.
There she sat for hours, her eyes constantly scanning the darkness before her. The silence in the empty house became more oppressive as the night drug on past midnight and into the early morning hours. Finally she could stand the emptiness and silence no longer. She got up and walked nervously among the hulking, grotesque gambling tables. Suddenly, impulsively, she reached out and gave the wheel of fortune a violent spin. Staccato clicking sounds shot through the house. The noise reassured her... until, sensing she was not alone, she whirled suddenly to find Lilli Ann standing behind her.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked.
"I heard the noise and thought something was happening to you."
"Well, I just got bored and couldn't stand the quiet any longer. I guess we'd both better get back to our posts."
"What if they ain't coming tonight?"
"Then I'm afraid we've wasted a lot of sleep. We can catch up in the daytime. They won't come in broad daylight."
"We can't keep watch all the time."
"We won't have to, Lilli Ann. I have the feeling this thing will come to a head pretty soon. Now you'd better get back to the kitchen door before somebody sneaks in that way."
Rifle in hand, Lilli Ann felt her way cautiously back through the darkened house. She did not have too much trouble, since she was accustomed to the surroundings. She continued on through the kitchen, past the huge stove, and to the door, which was standing slightly ajar. She remembered-or thought she did-that she'd pulled it shut before going out to find Sara. Approaching it quietly, she eased it wide open and looked out across the meadow.
The orchard trees still stood their sentinel in the moonlight. The early morning mist which rose from the wet ground added to the eerie scene. Beyond the meadow, where the darkness was more dense, she could not even see the tops of the trees that lined the river bank.
A sudden movement in the orchard attracted her attention. She strained her eyes to see what had caused it. There was no more movement. She raised the rifle and was about to shoot into the air when she clearly heard the whinny of a horse.
Involuntarily she lowered the gun to listen. So intent was she that she did not hear a sound from behind her. A cowled figure wearing a grotesque mask had stepped from behind the stove. In the near darkness of the room, Lilli Ann's white dress guided the intruder as he softly made his way toward her.
As Lilli Ann leaned out the door to glance past the corner of the house toward the stables, a sack was thrown over her head from behind. The rifle was jerked from her grasp. She tried to scream, but it was too late, for in one swift movement a gloved hand had clamped solidly over her mouth. A quick clip on her jaw rendered her unconscious.
The Klansman carried Lilli Ann's limp form into the orchard to a ground-hitched horse. He threw her, stomach down across the saddle, then quickly mounted and rode away across the meadow and towards the river.
Thinking she heard a slight scuffling noise in the rear of the house, Sara called out to Lilli Ann. There was no answer. She called again. Again no answer. Something was wrong, very wrong. Lilli Ann would've answered had she been able.
Holding the pistol tightly against her stomach, pointing it straight into the awesome silence in front of her, she left the front door and began inching her way softly into the kitchen-not daring to call out again.
She discovered the back door wide open; and there was no sign of Lilli Ann. She peered toward the orchard, but could see no movement. There was nothing but darkness and silence.
Sara picked up the rifle, examined the breech, and leaned it back against the kitchen wall. The gun was not cocked. Had Lilli Ann lost her nerve and run away? No, Sara reasoned. Her maid was many things-superstitious perhaps-but she was no coward. Lilli Ann had not left this house of her own free will.
Sara went back out and searched the area in back of the house. Hampered by darkness, she found nothing. She went back inside and let down the latch.
On her way back through the gambling room, Sara heard a sudden swish of cloth as two robed figures fell upon her from the darkness, pinioning her arms to her sides. One snatched the pistol from her hand and threw it across the room. Then they dragged her kicking, writhing body across the gambling room, knocking tables and chairs over as they struggled to get her to the porch. The sight that met her eyes was frightful.
A ghostly group of white-robed figures stood in the driveway. There were about ten of them, each holding a blazing torch aloft. In the firelight their tall black caps showed plainly, contrasting oddly with the white crosses and KKK blazoned upon them. Several of the caps had horns sticking out, and the eye holes were huge, round, black circles. Large, false noses protruded from some of the cloth masks. All in all they were terrible to look upon.
The leader of the group approached her.
"Kneel, Sara Crenshaw, in the presence of the White Brotherhood," came the muffled edict.
Instead of kneeling, Sara spat at the white monster. Two Klansmen fell out of the circle and kicked her in back of her knees. Sara fell like a rock, ripping her dress and scratching her knees in the process.
"Sara Crenshaw," the strange voice continued, "you have been tried for operating a house of prostitution, a gambling hall, and for harboring whores and cut-throats. You have given solace and comfort to a carrier of the venereal, who has poisoned a young innocent man. You have been found guilty-guilty!" the voice repeated.
The semicircle of Klansmen stood mutely by, waiting for the leader to speak again.
"As punishment, you will receive a whipping... "
"Go to hell, you filthy bastards!" Sara said savagely. "You brave heroes. Why don't you take off those masks and face me like men instead of cowards? What pleasure can you find in attacking a woman?"
Sara gasped as she felt the cloth being ripped from her back, exposing her from the waist up. Pain flashed through her like fire when a whip lashed her back. She did not scream when the whip struck, nor when it continued to fall across her back and shoulders. Another whip lashed out and seared an ugly welt across her shoulders. Then another, and another. My God! They all had whips! She brought her arms up to shield her face-and none too soon, for she felt a hot lash sting her wrists and mouth. Tears filled her eyes, she bit her lip, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.
Then, as yet another whip struck-this one a bull-whip-and before it could be uncoiled from her waist, Sara caught it with both hands and pulled suddenly with all her strength. A cowled Klansman was jerked forward and, striving to keep his balance, was hit accidentally by another member of the group. As he cursed angrily, Sara got halfway to her feet and pulled at his shirt under his open robe. She felt a piece of the cloth tear away. Her hand closed tightly over a button just as she was slapped away and shoved back to the ground.
The whips rained down on her more savagely than ever now. Her body was a bleeding mass of crisscross welts. For an instant the bloody pebblestones upon which she knelt swam and glistened beneath her eyes. And then she saw nothing, nor felt the pain. She had slumped forward to lie inert on the driveway.
This part of their justice completed, the Klansmen stopped their whipping and spread out across the front of the house. Windowpanes crashed as the pine torches were flung into the house. Flames leapt up the draperies instantly and licked at the stone walls. Within a few moments, the inside of the house was an inferno. The Klansmen backed away into the shadows to watch.
The flames licked out along the balcony of the porch. Moments later the timbers burned through and the entire second floor collapsed with a mighty roar. In the flashing heat of the fire, in the blessed arms of oblivion, Sara Crenshaw gave no sign of life as everything she owned went up in smoke.
At the height of the holocaust-as though the collapse of the interior had been some sort of signal-the Klansmen dispersed, heading for the cluster of trees wherein they'd tethered their horses. Justice had been done.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lilli Ann awakened with a start, and struggled to get free of the sack which was almost suffocating her. She had it off within seconds, and for a moment just sat there breathing in huge lungsful of air.
The heap of clothing in the corner caught her eye, and she froze in terror as she looked upon the dreaded cowl and mask of the Ku-Klux Klan. Still, strangely, she was lying on her own pile of straw and blankets in her own shanty.
Clay Thompson entered the room, laughing.
"Awake now?" he asked. "Sorry I had to slug you, but I had to get you out of that house before they attacked you. You didn't have sense enough to leave of your own accord. I hope Lilli Ann got out too. She can take care of herself, though."
He bent down to fit the sticks of wood he was carrying into the pot-belly stove. Lilli Ann lay in the shadows, he still had not seen her face. When the light from the stove filled the small room, he turned to look, and saw her for the first time.
"Good God!" he breathed, and his face contorted. "What the hell are you doing, wearing Sara's dress?"
"She gave it to me," Lilli Ann said in a small voice.
"But I thought you were Sara... in the night... " Lilli Ann was quick to grasp what had happened. She no longer had to guess which woman Clay loved. All the time he had thought he was bringing Sara to safety.
"I've got to get back there," he shouted, running out into the yard.
Lilli Ann heard the clattering of hoofs as he rode off into the night. And when she could no longer hear them, she lay on her pallet and sobbed, hiding her face from the light.
Clay rode hard to get back to the Crenshaw House, or what was left of it. The sky about the house was lighted, and the snapping of burning wood resounded through the night. He reined up directly in front of the house, and in the light saw the pebbles covered with blood. He screamed for Sara several times, but the only answer was the crackling of the flames. She was nowhere in sight. And then he realized that she might have been inside the house when it was fired.
"No! God no!" he screamed at the burning house. "Sara... Sara... " Fenniman's Landing found itself with a bad reputation among the riverboat crews and passengers after the Crenshaw House fire. The river people whispered distorted versions and half-truths concerning the burning of the house and disappearance of Sara Crenshaw. Many believed that the Klan had murdered her. Crenshaw House had become a pleasant stop for many the short week of its operation, and Sara Crenshaw had been well liked both for her beauty and unspoiled pleasantness.
A passive resistance set in. The riverboats still stopped at Fenniman's Landing. There was no other stop on the river, so they couldn't avoid the town. The wood was a necessity, and the cargo helped pay their wages. But the amount of genial passengers coming ashore to sight-see and to shop had visibly lessened.
Clay Thompson also skirted the town. He stayed on the plantation and worked from sunup till sundown, with an ill temper. He pushed the Negro field hands with a vengeance. Although they had been free for several years, still they'd learned not to believe the Northern promises of an easy life. They remained near chattels on the Thompson plantation because they had nowhere else to go. So they worked harder, making no protest against Clay's frequent display of bad temper.
Lilli Ann did not venture from her shanty for five days, for fear that Clay would come to see her and find her gone. She knew that Sara Crenshaw was missing, and hoped against hope that her mistress had come to no bad end. After the fifth day had passed, she could stand the loneliness no longer. Waiting until it was dark, she walked across the woods to the gutted ruins of Crenshaw House. She burst into uncontrollable tears when she saw the mound of ruin to which the magnificent mansion had been reduced. It was with a sad and heavy heart that she returned to her shanty.
Clay came a little while after she got back. He stalked in without saying a word and tossed a half-emptied bottle of whisky to her. She did not want to drink any, but when she saw that his mood was surly she raised the bottle to her lips and took a swallow. The liquor seared her throat. She coughed several times, and hurried to drink a dipper of water.
Clay took her in his arms and kissed her lips so hard she almost cried out. Then he undid the buttons on her dress and removed it. The smile of anticipation vanished from Lilli Ann's face as she watched him bundle it into a ball, walk to the stove and cram it in. The flames devoured the white satin, and the ermine quickly vanished into a smoldering black strip.
"Why'd you do that?" Lilli Ann asked, as much of a protest as she dared make under the circumstances.
"I bought you another dress," he said angrily. "I just don't want to see you wearing that one again."
He tossed a wrapped bundle to her. She opened it with trembling fingers, watching the stove from the corner of her eyes. The dress she unwrapped was cotton, a lavender print. It would have been far more suitable to a woman twice her age. She wondered immediately if she could cut the top down and convert it into a style which would show off her figure better.
"Aren't you going to try it on?" Clay asked, slumping down on the pallet.
"I'll try it on later, Clay," she answered. "It's real nice of you to get it for me."
"To hell with it." He drank heavily from the bottle. "Come over here."
She walked over and lay beside him. Without a word, he unbuttoned his fly, crawled astride her, and shoved himself into her body crudely.
Lilli Ann managed to hide her disappointment afterwards. He had made no use of any of the preliminaries to which she had become accustomed. Nor had he even bothered to kiss her-just rolled off of her, stood up, and buttoned his pants back again.
"I'm sorry, Lilli Ann," he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "That wasn't any good for either of us. I was just thinking of myself, I guess. I don't know what's the matter with me."
"I don't mind, Clay," she said. "I'm just glad you came at last... I missed you so much, Clay."
"I won't let it happen that way again, Lilli Ann. Guess I had a little too much booze."
"Clay... I love you."
He turned to look at her, his face twisted with some inner torture. "Don't," he said simply and without anger. "I'm not worth your love."
"Come back tomorrow," she said. "You need me, Clay, and I need you, too."
He did not answer, but turned instead and strode from the shanty. She did not follow him to the door to watch him mount and ride away.
She had always been able to please him before. And having the big chestnut-haired man in bed with her had always been a pleasure for her. They'd always made a wonderful thing of sex, enjoying their bodies to the utmost. Now she was left feeling only frustration, having her appetite aroused but not appeased. Sara was the cause, she knew. She was obviously festering in Clay Thompson's mind, and he blamed himself because she'd fallen victim to the Klansmen.
The room was luxurious in a quiet way. Drapes hung at glass-paned windows with the blue sides shining in. The bed was covered with a feather mattress of double thickness, and the pillows were of soft goose down. A writing desk and chest of drawers lined one wall, and a small table upon which sat a pitcher of water and a glass was beside the bed.
When she first awakened, Sara lay still, moving only her eyes, waiting for the twin images of the room to fuse into one. When her vision cleared she wondered where she was, at the same time trying also to remember exactly what had happened. Everything was so hazy. Her mind was in a whirl.
One of her fists was clenched shut. She opened it with some difficulty and found a rather large sized silver and turquoise button. Somewhere within the dim recesses of her mind, she seemed to see a large fire, and hear the clattering of horses riding over the pebblestone driveway.
Sara raised up, supporting herself on her elbows, and a streak of pain shot through her forehead, causing her to fall back again. The pounding increased until her head seemed ready to split. Then the sweet oblivion of sleep shut out the pain again.
When she awakened the second time, there was someone in the room. Before she could bring herself to say anything, she heard the door close. She was racked with a ravenous appetite. Never in her life had she experienced such pangs of hunger.
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the door opened. Frederick De Bois entered, followed by a white maid.
"Miss Crenshaw," he exclaimed. "You've come to at last!"
"How did I get here?"
"Reuel found you on the driveway of your home and we brought you here to put you to bed. Mama did the bandaging and doctoring, we thought it best not to summon a town physician. We've kept your presence here a secret; it's safer for you that way."
"Then everyone thinks I'm dead?"
"Yes, Miss Crenshaw. They won't bother you for awhile."
"I can't think clearly yet. Could I have something to eat?"
"Surely. Hulda, will you bring a bowl of soup?"
"Make that two bowls, Hulda," Sara said. "I'm starved."
"Perhaps you'd better lie back and rest until you have eaten," he said. "You'll feel better once you get a little of your strength back." Sara fought to keep herself under control as she tasted the soup. She was filled with a desire to turn the bowl up to her lips and drink the thick chicken broth, but instead she managed to restrain herself while De Bois was watching. She finished one bowl, and asked for a second. After that she felt much less queasy.
"How long have I been here?" she asked.
"About a week," Frederick answered. "We had to force feed you once a day. You fought us wildly, but we managed to keep you alive."
"I owe you my life," she said.
"Nonsense. Somebody would have found you before long. They could see that blaze halfway to Memphis."
"Blaze?"
"You didn't know about the fire?"
"What fire?" questioned Sara, but she already knew.
"Your house was burned to the ground. Hardly anything is left, save the foundation. I'm sorry, Sara."
"They burned it. Burned Crenshaw House, and after all the work I put in on it... how could they be so beastial?"
"This world is full of horrible, savage people."
"I'll make them pay for it. I don't know who they are, but I'll find out, somehow... "
"Why, Sara, why did they do it?"
Sara did not waver as she met his eyes, "One of the dealers I hired seems to have slept with a local boy and given him a disease. They said I was responsible, that I was running a house of ill-repute, and that I was as much of a harlot as she."
"What insane reasoning," Frederick said. "Well, I want you to know that you're going to stay here during your convalescence, if it takes days or even weeks, and you're to consider this your home."
Tears of gratitude welled up in Sara's eyes. "Thank you, Fred," she used his Christian name for the first time. "I don't know what I would do without you. They wiped me out completely. I have nothing left, not even a dress to wear."
"Don't worry about any of the material things, Sara," he smiled. "I can manage those easily enough. Just concentrate on getting well."
"One more imposition. Would you bring me a mirror?"
"A mirror?"
"Yes. I seem to feel that one side of my face is drawn. Is it scarred?"
"A tiny scar, Sara. It won't show under cosmetics."
He excused himself, and a few moments later Hulda appeared, carrying a shell-backed mirror, which she handed to Sara.
Sara was shocked. One of the whips had caught her along the side of her face, and a deep red wound an inch long ran along the ridge of her chin. She felt miserable at first, then realized it would heal to much smaller proportions. It was still open. Perhaps it would not show as much after it had healed. She put the mirror at her side, and went back to sleep. In sleep there was no hurt, no ugliness.
In two more days Sara was finally able to leave her bed. She walked gingerly to the window and back again, testing her legs. Later on she removed the bandages from her back. The wounds had closed, but there were heavy red welts left in criss-crossed patterns.
After the sun had set she took a short walk in the garden, leaning on Frederick's arm. It was the evening of the fourth day since she had recovered consciousness, and she was beginning to feel normal again. She discovered that she enjoyed having Frederick near her. His interest in her, his fantastic good looks, and his gentle manner were all exceedingly pleasant.
They sat together on a stone bench near a bed of rose bushes, whose roses filled the air with their heady fragrance.
"You promised me that one day you would show me your studio," Sara said. "I've often wanted to see it."
"I will then, tomorrow."
"Are you working on anything presently?"
"No, I'm still trying to find a suitable female to model."
"My body would be nice," Sara said cynically, thinking of the scars across her back.
"Sara," Frederick said, "you mustn't say things like that. After they heal, those welts will hardly be visible. I should know, I've studied medicine. The important thing is, don't let your mind become crippled because that will never heal."
"It's hard to keep from hating, after what I've been through."
"But don't you understand? If you hate them, you're not harming them at all. They thrive on hatred. You'll only be hurting yourself."
"There's sense in that. But I'll never be able to stop hating them until I've evened the score. I've had lots of time to think about what I'm going to do."
"I'll tell you what you're going to do," Frederick said. "You're going to take off every stitch of your clothes and model for me. When you see how magnificent your body looks to other people, you'll stop hating so hard and start appreciating what you still have. Even in your present condition you stand head and shoulders above the average woman. And that scar along your jawbone only serves to make your face that much more enticing."
Sara tried hard to believe in what he was saying.
"It's true," he continued. "A perfect face is nice, but one small defect on anything of real beauty makes the observer notice the perfectness even more."
"Are you serious? Do you really want me to model?"
"It would be an honor to try to capture your likeness in clay."
"Very well, you shall."
"Sara, do you mean it?"
"It's the least I can do for you."
"Don't do it out of a sense of obligation, Sara. You owe me nothing. I want you to pose to help me create a work of art to transcend the ages, not to pay a debt."
"I'm sorry I said it the way I did. I'll be happy to pose for you."
Reuel Williams stepped out into the garden from the French doors leading into the sitting room. At the sight of his white hair, Sara stiffened. He walked slowly over to them.
"How is our patient doing?" He smiled to Frederick.
"Excellently." Frederick turned to Sara. "You haven't met my other house guest, have you? Mr. Reuel Williams, may I present Miss Sara Crenshaw."
"I knew who you were," Reuel said. He flashed his white teeth in a nervous smile, and ran a hand over his crop of platinum hair.
"I've also seen you before. I don't like to dishonor your hospitality, Fred, but this guest of yours spied on me one evening at the river when I was bathing."
Reuel grimaced. "You do me an injustice. I came upon you by accident, and hardly noticed you before I ran for my life."
"I'm sorry," Sara said. "You did give me a fright."
"That makes us even. You frightened me, too."
"Could I go upstairs, Fred?" Sara smiled. "It's been a long day and I've become tired."
"Of course, Sara." He offered his arm, and escorted her to the French doors. Reuel walked some distance behind them.
Mrs. De Bois was sitting in the parlor when they entered. She looked up from her task of hooking a rug, and her eyes fell on Sara.
"Freddie," she said, and her aged voice had the resonance of glass being struck with a tuning fork, "you told me this young lady was beautiful, but that was an understatement."
She crossed the room, leaning heavily on her walking stick, and embraced Sara gently, pressing her withered lips against Sara's cheek. "I must admit, my dear, that when my son first mentioned you, I was afraid you'd be a gross creature, which one so often encounters in this country. But you are sublime. A goddess."
"Madame is too kind," Sara murmured.
"Not at all, not at all. I want you to feel welcome in this house. My son and I shall be happy to have you."
"Thank you, Madame."
Sara examined her back in the mirror. The long red lines had begun fading, and they would hardly be noticeable within another week. She was happy that her body was not disfigured as she had first feared it might be.
She selected a dress from among the several Frederick had purchased for her in New Orleans. The one she chose had a large bell skirt which stood out over yards of crinoline petticoat, which had a hoop sewn in it. There was a large bustle at the rear, and shoulder straps to support the heavy weight of the dress. A looped polonaise of lace draped over the skirt, and still more lace crept out at the sleeves, which ended a few inches below her elbows. The dress was of green brocade, which contrasted beautifully with her flaming red hair. She chose a green picture hat trimmed with white feathers to complete her costume, and opened the door to go downstairs.
Reuel Williams was standing at the landing, and when he looked up, the portrait that Sara presented in the green dress took his breath away. She might have been beautiful before, but De Bois' good taste had transformed her appearance into an indescribable work of art.
"Good Lord," was all that Reuel could manage to say.
Sara smiled at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Frederick and his mother were in the study. He stood when she entered the room, and the old lady looked up in astonishment.
"I can't find words to tell you how beautiful you look," he said. "That dress might have been created for you."
"It's very lovely," Sara said. "Thank you for getting it."
"Darling Sara," the old lady said, "how I should like to present you at court. Even the Countessa D'Ortega would be dimmed in the radiance of your presence."
"Madame, it is the dress, not I," Sara smiled. "And so the compliments should go to your son."
"When shall we begin work, Sara?" asked Frederick.
"Right now, if you like."
They took their leave of Mrs. De Bois, and Frederick escorted Sara to his studio. When Sara entered the darkened studio, she was impressed by the immense size of it. The large windows flooded the place with light when Frederick went methodically about pulling the drapes open.
Several pieces of art were wrapped in dampened burlap and tied with hemp, while others were exposed, in many different types of stones and metals. Sara expected at any minute to hear one of the busts speak to her, they were so lifelike.
The 'Day' representation which Reuel modeled for was exactly like its flesh and blood counterpart, and Sara recognized him. The only difference between statue and model was the size of the chest proportions. The statue was larger than Reuel. It was standing on an almost stylized sun, the arms outstretched and reaching upward.
"I may have to drape that," Frederick said. "They are becoming more and more puritanical in England every day."
"It seems a shame," Sara said. "He looks so real the way he is now."
"I've sent for two men to help me cast it next week. I'll want the one of you ready to do by that time."
"Well, what do I do?" Sara felt pangs of timidity.
"It seems a shame to have you take off that dress, when you look so enticing in it."
"I may look equally enchanting without it," Sara laughed, and then stepped behind a screen to disrobe.
When she stepped forward, she noticed that Frederick had already prepared a skeleton structure to support the clay. He had removed his coat and vest, and replaced them with a smock.
"Stand with your head bent forward slightly," he directed, his back to her, "and with your arms straight down at your sides. Turn the palms to face the rear. Stand on the small block of wood, just your heels, to hold a tiptoe pose. That way, you can hold the pose much longer, and the muscles will be expanded correctly... " Sara followed his orders to the letter. When he turned around to look at her for the first time, a gasp escaped his lips.
"Is something wrong?"
"It's just that you're so beautiful... more than I'd ever imagined. This work should survive the ages."
Sara was silent as he worked deftly, laying strip upon strip of clay on the frame, building it from the center outward. Within a few hours her body began to rebel against the rigorous pose, although she had rested often. Despite the fact that he urged her to take frequent rest periods, Frederick never slackened his own pace.
"Could we continue tomorrow?" Sara asked. "I'm becoming quite tired."
"Of course," he smiled. "When I get involved in my work, I forget all about time and consideration. I'm sorry that I was so unconcerned about you."
"That's all right. I understand."
Sara was deeply disappointed when Frederick stuck to his work without giving any indication of being aroused by her presence, particularly when she was in the nude. She tried to tell herself that she was only fond of him for his generosity and help, and not at all in love. Still, she did not climb back into the dress. She detached the polonaise and wrapped it about her. The lacy effect made her look even more desirable, she thought.
"Could we talk a few minutes, Fred?"
"Certainly, if you like."
"Fred, do you find me attractive?"
"Naturally. Any man would."
Sara looked at the floor. She swallowed hard, not knowing how to bring herself to tell him what she knew she would have to say. "Fred, I'm a virgin... "
"Sara, please... " She looked up into his pained, handsome face and blurted out: "There's no way to sound like a lady and say this, Fred; but I love you... I want you... "
"Finish dressing, Sara. Mother and Reuel are probably waiting dinner on us."
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes, but Sara, as much as I admire you, as fond as I am of you, I still don't love you. And since I don't love you, I couldn't be base enough to use your body for my own desires."
"Even if I wanted you? Wanted you badly?"
"But you don't really want me, that's just the point. You might be infatuated with me, but you love someone else, Sara. When you were unconscious, you named him again and again in your delirium. Not my name, but his."
"I mentioned somebody?"
"Clay Thompson. You called for no one else."
She became angry and turned her back on him. "Clay Thompson! That spoiled, insufferable, conceited, grandiose... "
"Whatever he is, you love him, Sara. Deep down where you don't even know yourself, but there can never be any other man for you. I'm sorry."
"We'll see about that!" Sara snapped. She had stepped behind the screen and was struggling into her clothes. "The very idea! That I could love a monster like him! Why, I blow up every time I think about him."
"Love manifests itself in strange ways," Frederick said wisely.
Sara sat sullenly through dinner, afterwards declining the coffee. Reuel stared suspiciously at De Bois. Mrs. De Bois was quiet by the time the meal ended. A cloud of gloom settled over the foursome.
On their way upstairs, walking behind Frederick as he helped his aging mother up, Sara touched Reuel on the arm.
He glanced at her furtively, questioning her with his eyes.
"After they've gone to sleep," Sara whispered, "come to my room... "
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sara trembled when she considered the gravity of her whispered words to Reuel Williams, spoken on the spur of the moment out of her anger with Frederick De Bois. She had invited a man to come to her room, the tone of her voice clearly conveying what she wanted him to come for. But when she thought again of how she'd humbled herself before De Bois-that and his refusal-she was almost glad she'd invited Reuel.
Sara hung the green dress in the closet, and placed the hooped petticoat and her other underthings on the bureau. She climbed into bed naked and pulled the sheet up to her chin. The coolness of the night air filled the room; the starched sheet felt good next to her skin.
She lay awake for almost an hour, trying to imagine what being with Reuel was going to be like. Finally she heard a light tap on her door. She raised up on one elbow and pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts.
"It's open," she called softly.
Reuel Williams entered the moonlit room wearing only his underwear. He made no sound as he padded over to her bedside. Barefooted, Sara reasoned, striving to control her pounding heart.
When he reached the bed, he asked, "Did you really ask me to come, or am I dreaming?"
"Kiss me and see if it's a dream," replied Sara.
He reached forward and wrapped her in his arms, and their mouths met hungrily. He ran a hand through her long red tresses.
Looking up at him with half-closed eyes, her mouth slightly parted, she asked sultrily, "Well, is it a dream?"
"If it is," he answered softly, "I hope I never wake up."
"Do you want to stay?" Sara asked. The scar at the edge of her cheek moved slightly when she spoke, making her face look more inviting in the moonlight than it had before.
"Do I!"
He pulled the sheet down and stared at her body. She began to feel embarrassed under his frank appraisal.
"There's something I should tell you," Sara said.
"It can wait," Reuel informed her, as he stripped off his underwear.
His body was large and well proportioned. It was almost entirely covered with a fine white growth of hair which shone like snow in the moonlight.
"I don't know what happened between you and De Bois in the studio, but I was pretty sure he would never touch you," Reuel ventured, guessing that it was this she'd wanted to tell about. "He's-er-not the type."
"And you are?"
He laid a hand on her stomach and moved it down gently. "Yes, I'm the type."
Her belly recoiled deliciously. She caught his head and brought his ear close to her mouth. "Say you love me, Reuel. You don't have to mean it, but say it. Just to please me."
He kissed the tip of her nose, "But I really do, my silly little schoolgirl. I don't have to say it and not mean it. I've loved you completely from the first time I ever saw you. I never dreamed it could come to this, but you've made me very happy. I love you. Sara. I really do."
Sara spread kisses on his neck and shoulders, suddenly really experiencing a genuine desire for him. She found his earlobe with her teeth and nipped it sharply, her body shaking with anticipation. She was becoming impatient with his delay.
"Hey, easy on the ear!"
"I'm sorry."
He moved her legs apart and knelt above her, lowering his body until he made contact. Sara shuddered and tightened her grasp on his shoulders, urging him on. But when he attempted to penetrate her, she writhed suddenly from beneath him, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"It hurts too much," she cried softly. "You're too big for me, Reuel. I'm sorry."
Reuel got up and put his underwear on. "I'll be back in a few seconds."
"Where are you going?"
"To my bedroom to get something."
"What?"
"I'll show you in a moment."
He looked up and down the hall before he slipped across to his own room. Sara never heard him moving about at all, though she listened raptly. He was back after a short while, holding one hand cupped before him.
"Here," he said matter-of-factly, "let me put this on you."
Sara complied with his command. It was a lubricantlike substance that smelled like some exotic perfume.
"I put some on myself too," Reuel volunteered, leaning over her, one arm on the bed supporting his body while he guided himself with the other.
This time he found the penetration difficult, but he managed. Sara gasped and twisted the sheets in her fists at her sides. Slowly, methodically, he continued pushing, until she brought a fist up to her mouth and bit it to stifle a scream.
Reuel stopped and withdrew himself. "Why in the hell didn't you tell me you were a virgin? Didn't you know it would be dangerous here in the house?"
"I'm sorry," Sara was crying. "I thought it would be something wonderful. I never expected it to hurt like that... "
"It always hurts, the first time," he said, smoothing her hair from her forehead. "We'll wait awhile until it stops, and then try again. Once you get used to it," he grinned, "it gets to where nothing else in the world feels as good."
"Stop trying to cheer me up," Sara pouted. "I asked for it-and I can take it, too. You'll see."
"That's my girl," he said, and began massaging her breasts.
"Mmmm... that feels good."
A few minutes more massaging, and Reuel asked, "Are you feeling less pain now?"
"I'm ready, if that's what you mean."
He raised her legs up and ran his hands over her hips. "It'll be okay this time, darling," he said, lowering himself to her. "You'll see."
Sara held her breath until her lungs pounded, expecting a recurrence of the pain she had experienced before. It still hurt her, but the pain she'd experienced before was gone. This time she let him press steadily forward until he was completely in.
He began a slow, rocking movement. Sara relaxed under the pleasing sensation it offered. Then, exhilarated by his thrusting motions, she responded-timidly at first-until she had gained enough courage to match him, meeting his motions with a forward, rhythmical lifting of her pelvis.
Sweat began to bead his arms and chest. Sara closed her eyes to him and exerted more elaborate heaves. With his every piercing movement she exerted more pressure on him. Finally, he spurred forward with a burst of renewed energy... and collapsed on the bed, lying on top of her, breathing heavily.
Reuel lay there until Sara thought he had gone to sleep. When she moved, twisting uncomfortably under his weight, he turned over and looked at her.
"I'd better get back to my room, Sara," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Must you go now?" Sara had not yet experienced a climax as he had, and although she did not know from her past experience what would happen, still she felt a drive to go on.
"It's one o'clock in the morning," Reuel whispered. "I'm not made of lead. A man can take only so much of that, and then he's finished. Didn't anyone ever tell you the facts of life?"
"Don't come back tomorrow night," Sara said, "unless I ask you."
"There's no reason to be mad, Sara. Good night."
Reuel left the room, carrying his underwear in his hands. Sara lay awake in her room long after he'd gone, wondering why she was left with such a feeling of incompleteness. It had been more like a business transaction than an act of love. She had never felt so cheap and degraded before in her entire life. Reuel Williams would never find himself being invited back again.
At breakfast the following morning, Sara read implications into every chance remark that fell from Mrs. De Bois or Frederick, though Frederick had greeted her cordially enough.
"Did you have a nice night's sleep?" the old lady asked.
"Yes, thank you."
Frederick smiled at her. "I've been wondering whether or not I should put a softer mattress in your room."
Sara darted a quick glance at Reuel, but he was concentrating on his bacon and eggs. She looked at Frederick and said, "That would be carrying coals to Newcastle."
"Perhaps so," he mused, "but I think the beds could be improved somewhat, I've been having trouble sleeping lately."
"Gracious, Freddie," Mrs. De Bois interrupted him, "whatever got you off on the subject of beds? It surely isn't comparable with your usual morning conversation."
"Sorry, Mama. In the future I shall restrict myself to discussing the weather."
"Frederick," she chastised him, "you're being rude, and in front of our guests."
"I meant it as a joke. A rather bad one, I'm afraid." He pushed his unfinished plate forward, and Hulda removed it.
"Now you're not finished," his mother pursued. "I don't know what's-wrong with you. You can't expect to work all day long without eating."
"Let me alone, Mama!"
Sara was grateful that the old lady had steered a turn in the discussion. At any other time, she probably would not have read any meaning at all into their words. Reuel seemed not to notice the light verbal lashing going on. Sara felt her courage gather when she noticed how coolly he was acting. After all, she had no bright red brand on her forehead to show how she had spent the night. There was no reason at all for either the son or mother to suspect she had surrendered her virginity to Reuel. And Hulda would probably never detect the one missing sheet from the linen closet. She had stuffed the soiled sheet in hex closet. She would dispose of it later.
Frederick helped his mother into the parlor. Sara lagged behind and, from the corner of her eye, saw Reuel smiling at her. He winked, and she looked quickly away.
Frederick addressed Sara: "Shall we begin work right away? I'm anxious to get this finished."
After her humiliation of yesterday, Sara was in no mood to continue modeling for him. But since she could think of no graceful way to back out, she nodded assent and accompanied him into the studio.
As soon as Frederick closed the door she stripped off her dress, a less elaborate one than the green. Frederick was busy pulling the drapes. Sunlight flooded the room, falling across the statue of Reuel, gigantic in its dimensions, and Sara flushed. As the light hit it, the changing shadows across its muscular surface gave it a fleeting illusion of life. Sara was careful not to look at it again.
"Do you mind if we stop early today?" she asked. "I have an errand to run this evening, and I should like to borrow your surrey."
"Certainly you may take it. But, do you think it's safe for you to go out at all? Remember, you'll still have to avoid the Ku-Klux Klan for awhile."
"I'm not going into town."
"By the way, Sara," he said, holding forth a silver and turquoise button, "I've been meaning to return this to you. It's a button you had clenched in your fist when we found you. We tried to remove it, but you held it so tightly that we couldn't."
Sara looked at the button. "I remember finding it when I first awakened."
"Does it have any special significance?"
"I can't remember where it came from."
"Well, Hulda found it while cleaning. It looks as if it might have been made by an American Indian, or a Mexican. It's probably valuable. I've never seen anything like it before."
Sara was reassured by his friendly manner. The bad spirits he'd exhibited at the breakfast table seemed to have vanished completely. His attitude indicated that he had completely forgotten her impulsive action of the day before. She found herself gradually relaxing in his company.
Her memory was returning a little at a time. She could recall everything that had happened clearly before the fire, but she did not know what had happened to Lilli Ann. Frederick had revealed little. He seemed depressed when she mentioned anything connected with the night of terror. It was as if he were striving to put the evil from his mind by not thinking of it.
One thing Sara had remembered was the receipts. She had not removed them from the safe in the back room. There was also several hundred dollars in currency there. Tonight she would go there and try to get the safe open. If the fire had not melted the combination mechanism, she would be able to reclaim the money.
Sara experienced a wave of frustration when she pulled up in front of the ruins. Within the sprawling foundation of her once magnificent mansion, only a few portions of the walls jutted upwards. The falling timbers had no doubt sent the stones sprawling. She left the horse and surrey unhitched and walked to the side of the ruin. Everything was an immense mound of charcoal black ashes and seared masonry. She found her way slowly through the debris, picking her stepping places gingerly. When she reached the safe, her hands and dress were smeared with dirty black streaks.
The safe sat under a fallen timber, which Sara shoved off with her foot. When it fell forward, a blinding cloud of soot and ashes arose and enveloped her.
Sara coughed as the alien substance choked her, but kept at her task until she managed to clear the door of the safe. It took several tries before she heard the first tumbler fall into place. A few more turns, and the door swung open.
The contents had not been exposed directly to the fire, but the heat conducted through the iron walls had charred the banknotes and records to a crisp. They fell apart when she picked them up.
"Damn, damn, damn... " Sara felt defeat in its most paramount form. Her last chance of salvaging anything from the destruction was gone. She stood and picked her way out of the ruins. Tears traced clean streaks down her blackened face. She did not see the two Negroes rounding the bend in the road.
Slick and Honey were returning to their cabins. Having polished off a couple of bottles of moonshine liquor, both were staggering drunk. Approaching the ruins they had automatically stepped up their pace. The area reminded them too much of the White Brotherhood.
It was Slick who first saw Sara moving ghost-like through the moonlit ruins. He stopped dead in his tracks and tugged at Honey's arm.
"Look-i-there, man. Whassat?"
"Where?" Honey demanded, his senses detecting the edge of panic in Slick's voice.
"There, in them ashes. That a woman?"
"What she doin' there?"
"I dunno."
They inched forward cautiously, trying to see the face in the thickening darkness.
"Miz Crenshaw!" Slick exploded. "She done come back from the daid!"
"You lyin'-"
"Look for yourself! It's her. She done come up from them ashes where they burned her!"
"What're we gonna do, Slick?"
"I dunno what you's gonna do, but I'se gittin' outa here now."
They broke into a dash, each frightened out of his wits.
Sara looked up to see them going down the road, Slick plummeting in front of Honey, and then Honey bursting past Slick with renewed speed. She knew they had seen her and thought it was her ghost. They'd spread their story all over the Thompson plantation. Perhaps the whites who heard it would not give any credence to the story of two frightened, superstitious Negroes. But she could take no chances. She would have to leave the De Bois house before anyone came there searching for her.
CHAPTER NINE
Sara returned to the De Bois house long enough to take a bath and change clothes, after which she drove into Fenniman's Landing.
Darkness covered the back streets, but the main street was alive with lights and music. A group of Negroes was having a dance on the docks. Several whites were watching in amusement as a little boy danced a fantastic jig.
Sara found Mr. Peck's house. The lamp light shining through the window indicated that the little lawyer was home. His house was a modest white clapboard, surrounded with a well-tended garden.
A dog barked ominously as Sara unlatched the gate, but she noticed that it was straining at the end of a short chain. It couldn't reach the walk to attack her. Yet its barking alerted the lawyer, who appeared in the lighted doorway.
When he saw Sara, the color drained from his face.
"Miss Crenshaw! Everyone thought you were dead!"
"May I come in, Mr. Peck?"
"Of course, of course!"
Unlike his office, what little Sara could see of Mr. Peck's home was methodically neat.
"Mr. Peck," Sara came right to the point, "I'm in serious trouble."
"Of course you are, Miss Crenshaw. After that terrible business-those people burning you out-I should think so."
"Right now I need a place to live. I have no other friends in Fenniman's Landing, so I thought perhaps I could impose on your friendship for a short while."
"You remember that little rose-covered cottage I offered to rent you? I think I could let you have that for as long as you need it."
"But you don't understand. I have no money."
"Gracious," he said, "I wasn't thinking of renting it to you, Miss Crenshaw. I said you could have it."
"Mr. Peck, you are a darling," Sara smiled.
He blushed as readily as ever. "Humpth! Er, how would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Yes, please."
"Fine. It's already brewing. I don't know what they're doing these days, cutting it so heavily with chicory that you can hardly stand the taste. But, with a little cream and sugar, it doesn't seem so bad."
He placed a cup and saucer on the table, and filled it for Sara. She poured in the cream and stirred it idly, waiting for the steaming hot liquid to cool.
"Mr. Peck, since everyone in Fenniman's Landing thinks I'm dead, I'd like to keep it that way for a little while. I hope I can trust you not to tell anyone I've been here."
"Of course, of course. After all," he attempted a joke, "I am a bachelor. I can't go about telling people that beautiful women call at my house after dark."
Sara laughed delightfully. He joined her. They both felt at ease.
"What are your plans, Miss Crenshaw?"
"I seem to be having trouble seeing the forest for the trees, Mr. Peck. That's why I need a place to stay... to think things out as to what I can do next. It's such a terrible feeling, to be so alone."
"You always have someone to whom you can turn," Mr. Peck said miserably, thinking Sara might suddenly start crying. "For instance, Clay Thompson thinks very highly of you. I'm sure he would be glad to do anything at all for you... "
"Clay Thompson is interested in me for only one thing!" Sara bit the words off. "I'm fed up with him!"
"Well, there are lots of people who speak highly of you... " The watch dog began barking excitedly, and Mr. Peck jumped to his feet. "I seem to have more company."
Sara was up in an irritant, looking about wildly. "I can't be discovered here! Is there anywhere I can hide?"
"Step inside that door," he told her. "It's the bedroom, the only other room in the house. If you make no noise, no one will suspect you're here."
Mr. Peck started toward the door, then noticed the coffee cups. He was shaking nervously as he gathered up the cup and saucer that Sara had used and put them in the dishpan. Then, he adjusted his tie and went to the door. He opened it immediately as the knocking sounded.
"Sheriff Shaw," Mr. Peck's mild voice carried in to Sara, "what brings you around tonight?"
"Got a problem, Mr. Peck," the Sheriff said gruffly. "It's about this writ I got here. Wonder if you would explain it to me in plain talk."
"Of course, of course. I'll be happy to. Won't you sit down?"
The clump of heavy boots reached Sara as the Sheriff stalked over, and sat down. "Care for a cup of coffee?"
"Naw, thanks, no coffee. Got anything stronger?"
"Oh, I never keep spirits. I'm sorry."
"Aw, that's okay. Now, how about this writ?"
Mr. Peck took out his bifocals and peered at the fine print of the document. Sara pushed the door open, admitting a sliver of light, then drew back in alarm as she saw the Sheriff sitting at the side of the table directly facing her. However, he was also looking down at the paper, and did not notice the slight movement of the door.
Sara remembered how he had accompanied the group of women and Reverend Sharkey to Crenshaw House to try to persuade her to close her gambling establishment. For this reason she disliked him. But she realized that if she had listened to him at the time, she might have retained her house and escaped the whipping. She was about to step backward into the further recesses of the darkened bedroom when something caught her eye.
At this short distance, she could see almost every detail of the Sheriff's clothes and the object that suddenly snapped her memory alive was the peculiar buttons on the shirt he wore. They were of silver and turquoise! And one was missing. It had been replaced with a plain white bone button.
When De Bois had handed her the button and asked her its significance, her memory had failed her. But now she knew! Every vivid detail of the whipping came back to her, and the desperate lunge she had made, her hand grasping the shirt beneath the Klansman's half-opened robe. There was no mistaking it. The Sheriff was undoubtedly one of the people who had been there.
Sara fought to keep her impulses under control. She felt a keen desire to burst out of the bedroom and slap the Sheriff across his smug face. But she calmed her temper rapidly and sat down on the bed, waiting for him to leave.
"By the way, Mr. Peck," the Sheriff was saying, "whose surrey is that out front? I could swear it belonged to Mr. De Bois. You don't see one trimmed up that fancy every day."
"Why, as a matter of fact," Mr. Peck was thinking fast, "it does belong to Mr. De Bois. I borrowed it from him. I have a house to show a client tomorrow, and I thought it would make a better impression if I drove that one, rather than my beat up old rig."
"Now I never would'a thought you was the kind to go showing off," laughed the Sheriff heartily.
The Sheriff left, still chuckling to himself. Sara heard the front door slam and the dog start barking. She came out of the bedroom and found Mr. Peck visibly shaken from his narrow encounter.
"Mr. Peck, will you take the surrey back to Mr. De Bois in the morning? You can explain to him; he knows that I have to keep out of sight."
"How will you get to the cottage?"
"Oh, I'll walk. It isn't too far, is it, to Twin Forks?"
"I'll drive you out and bring the surrey back. But first, Miss Crenshaw, I think a few commodities are in order. I'll get something from the kitchen for you to eat while you're out there."
Lilli Ann questioned the two cowering men closely. They had taken refuge in her cabin. Neither of them gave any sign of ever recovering from the sight of the specter rising from the ashes.
"You say you saw Miss Sara in the burned out house?"
"Yes'm. She jest rose up, real slow-like, standin' dere with ashes and soot coverin' her from head to toe, and she was cryin'."
"We come along just as she raised up from the dead!"
"She done come back to haint us!"
Lilli Ann took out the half-filled bottle of whisky that Clay had left several nights before. She poured each of them a stiff drink. They gulped it down greedily. It did not help calm them.
"Now, you two get a hold on yourselves. What call you got to be scared? Miss Sara didn't come back to haunt you. Maybe she came back to get those people that burned her, but you didn't have no hand in that, did you?"
"No, we sho didn't."
"Then don't you worry none. She ain't going to bother you. It's the others that should be scared if she's come back."
"Lawdy, Miz Lilli Ann, you should'a seen her, black from head to foot with ashes, but still as purty as she ever was in real life. I'se heerd of haints afore, but this is the fust time I ever seen one."
"Slick, and you Honey," Lilli Ann addressed the two, "I want you to make me a promise."
"Whassat?"
"I want you to promise you won't tell anybody, even your wives, that you saw Miss Sara tonight."
"Why not?"
"Honey, that woman was as good as good can be, with a heart of solid gold. She never did harm to anybody. I worked for her and I ought to know. But she ain't happy because of what happened to her. She's come back to seek comfort for her grave."
"Comfort for her grave?"
Lilli Ann now held their rapt attention, and she deliberately slurred her voice, making the intonation of her words more familiar to the two frightened men. She was one of them now, speaking the language they understood.
"The Ku-Klux burned Miz Sara out. She goin' to have to get even with them before she can find any sleep in her grave. She tossin' an' turnin' in that pile of burned rubble, but her soul ain't at peace, 'cause'a what they done... " Her eyes held theirs.
"An' so, she goin' to get even. Now, you tell people you saw her, an' you jus' lettin' yourse'ves in fo' trouble. You keep quiet about this an' she ain't goin' bother comin' after you... "
"We keep still, Miz Lilli Ann."
"That's good. 'Cause them whites hear you talkin' 'bout Miz Sara, they goin' be real mad. They don' have no easy conscience, not after what they done to her. I was dere the night they came and I got scared and run off. Maybe she even goin' to come after me... " Slick and Honey stared at each other with protruding eyes. If Lilli Ann had committed an injustice toward her mistress, they were in jeopardy in her cabin. They both started for the door simultaneously, and Lilli Ann sped them on their way with tears of regret and a final word of caution about keeping the appearance of the specter a secret.
After they had gone, Lilli Ann sorted over the happenings of the fateful night piecemeal. The story that Slick and Honey had brought her meant that Sara Crenshaw must not have been killed at all, that she'd taken refuge somewhere. But where?
But of course! The De Bois mansion. It was close enough, slightly around the bend, so that they could have seen the flames. Suppose then, that they had taken Sara in and not said anything about it. They would be afraid to make her whereabouts known for she still stood in the shadow of the Ku-Klux Klan.
Perhaps the whole thing was a case of nerves. Slick and Honey were drunk. They could have been carried away by their own imaginations. Lilli Ann poured herself a cup of coffee and stoked the smoldering embers before returning the pot to its place on the stove.
There was yet a third alternative. What if Slick and Honey were right? What if Sara Crenshaw ha actually been killed and now her ghost was walkin the River Road? In spite of her recent exposure to Clay, Lilli Ann had grown up on a slave farm in Georgia. There she'd sat around on the cold nights and listened to ghost stories from the lips of the older people who had witnessed all sorts of phenomena. It was hard to remove the shackles of superstition in a few short years of association with Clay Thompson, who had tried to enlighten her as well as tease her. Even now, she would not point, at the moon or the stars for dread of killing an angel.
The ghost image of Sara she conjured up refused to be completely dispelled by logic or reason. Her past was too close around her.
The cabin was quiet, the night serene and still. She wished that Clay Thompson would come and stay with her, for she needed him at that moment more than ever before.
Clay. If Sara were still alive, why had she kept her existence a secret from him, when he so obviously loved her? Since she had gone he was no longer the same person. A light tapping at the shanty door broke the stillness of the night.
Lilli Ann started nervously, dropping the cup of coffee on the floor.
"Who is it?" she called. Clay never knocked, and she seldom had any other visitors. The isolation of the cabin kept peddlers and chance acquaintances from her door.
"It's Sara, Lilli Ann. Let me in."
"Miss Sara?" She shuddered convulsively, her voice hedging on a scream. "But you're dead... "
"No, I've been at the De Bois house all this time. I'm as alive as you are, Lilli Ann. You don't believe in ghosts!"
"Please, Miss Sara, go away. I'm scared."
"Let me in, Lilli Ann. You'll be scared the rest of your life if you don't let me prove I'm real."
"Are you mad at me?"
"Why on earth would I be mad? Open this damned door!"
Lilli Ann summoned enough courage to open the door. When she saw Sara, she stared at her for a long moment. Then she burst into a flood of tears and embraced her former mistress, her emotions so entangled she could find no other method of expressing herself.
"Now, now," Sara said, smoothing Lilli Ann's hair in a light caress. Her voice betrayed that she was touched. "It's all right, Lilli Ann. Maybe you'd better sit down."
"I didn't run out on you that night, Miss Sara. You've got to believe that I'd never do that... "
"It's hard for me to remember exactly all that did happen, but more and more of it keeps coming back. I remember hearing a noise at the back door. When I went to look for you, you had vanished. Can you tell me what did happen?"
"All I know is, I heard a horse out in the orchard. I stepped out the door to take a look, and everything went black. When I woke up, I was back here in my own cabin. The man who brought me was dressed like Ku-Klux, but I-"
"Who was it?"
"I'd rather not tell you, Miss Sara."
"But I want to know. Who was it?"
"It was... Mr. Thompson."
"Clay, or his father?"
"Mr. Clay."
Sara was stunned by the information. It also revealed that in all probability it had been Clay in her bedroom with Lilli Ann the night she returned home unexpectedly. The very fact that Clay had brought the unconscious Lilli Ann to this cabin proved that he had been here before. Sara had had trouble finding it even from Lilli Ann's own description.
The words "Mr. Clay" created a vortex of confusion within her. So he had been a member of the Klan. But he could not have been one of those who had beaten her! She could not think that.
Lilli Ann watched Sara closely. She fought to keep from telling her the whole truth, that Clay had made a mistake because of the dress. Should Sara find out, perhaps she would have a change of heart. But she had indirectly let Sara know that Clay was her lover. Now pride would keep Sara from speaking to him again, and although Clay had his faults he was no braggart. He would not tell Sara that he attempted to save her. Lilli Ann held the strings to understanding this situation in her hands. She wanted to tell Sara when she saw the hurt in her eyes, but she loved Clay and would try to keep him at all costs.
"Lilli Ann?"
"Yes, Miss Sara?"
"I'm going to ask you a very important question Make sure that you think hard, and tell me the truth. Do you understand?"
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"It's this. Did Clay Thompson ride back to my house after he brought you here?"
"Yes'm."
"Oh, God! You're positive?"
"Yes, Miss Sara. He rode right back."
"It's hard to believe. He proposed marriage to me, and then went to help those-those people when they burned me out."
"Oh, Lord, Miss Sara," Lilli Ann said. "Clay Thompson didn't help them! He went back to get you out. Only he got back too late."
Sara was grim. "That's some consolation, at least. I thought he'd be more of a man than that. At least," she added ironically, "he managed to get you out of the house."
Lilli Ann was pensive, staring at the floor.
"Well, so much for all that," Sara said. "Lilli Ann, do you know Sheriff Jim Shaw when you see him?"
"Yes, I do. He was at the trial when they arrested that Bill. He was real friendly with me."
"Would you help me do something?"
"If I can."
"I want you to go into town late tomorrow. Find the Sheriff and tell him you been hearing strange noises around your cabin, that you're scared of a strange man you've seen hanging around. But let him know you really want him to come out here because he's a man."
"But why, Miss Sara?"
"Because I want to get him alone. And you're pretty enough to get him to come out here, aren't you?"
"Oh, he'd come, all right. But later on, what if he wanted to come again?"
"Don't you worry about that part of it... when I get through with him, he'll leave Fenniman's Landing."
"I'll do it for you, Miss Sara, if you say it's all right."
"It will be. By the way, ask him to bring a bottle of corn. If I know his type, he probably will anyway. The whole plan depends on you being able to get him drunk."
"What is your plan?"
Sara outlined her scheme in its finer details to Lilli Ann, but did not tell her of the Sheriff's connection with the Ku-Klux Klan. No need to frighten her.
When she'd finished going over the plan with Lilli Ann, Sara walked back to her own cabin, which was two miles distant. In the darkness her course seemed planned well enough to succeed, but she knew that the night sanctions many things that pale to nothing in the light of day. She wished impatiently that tomorrow night would come.
CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Peck had been generous as well as thoughtful with Sara. The house he let her use was built in two parts, one room separated from the other by a breeze-way. The bedroom was built away from the kitchen so that the smells of cooking would not penetrate the sleeping area. During the winters the kitchen was the center of activity for the family that had lived there, and in the summer months, the breezeway was a cool place to sit in the evenings. The house was of clapboard, and had been whitewashed recently. The red climbing roses running up the trellis on both buildings looked even more beautiful against the white background.
The furnishings were simple but functional. Sara guessed that the original family had moved sometime during the war.
The little lawyer had also supplied her with some staple foodstuffs-pinto beans, bacon drippings, flour, sugar, salt, and a slab of salt pork. There were several fruit trees and some wild blackberries in the yard. Sara spent the morning picking berries, getting her hands scratched on the sharp bushes. She made a cobbler-not because she was hungry, but because it was something to occupy her time. When she finally sat down to her solitary dinner of beans, hot biscuits, and cobbler, she rather enjoyed the fruits of her labor-especially the cobbler, though she had to admit it would have been much better with a little butter and cinnamon.
When Sara had taken the De Bois surrey to drive to town she had also picked up a riding crop in the stable. This she had kept when Mr. Peck returned the rig. She picked it up now and turned it over in her hands, thoughtfully studying the thick laced leather stock with its looped handle. Tonight, she thought, if all goes well this little toy will get quite a workout.
She took the crop with her when she began her two-mile walk to Lilli Ann's shanty at nightfall. Though the shadows had lengthened on the river road, Sara walked well near the bushes, ready to retreat from sight should she encounter anyone on the road. But she'd met no one by the time she reached the clearing and took the little trail that led to Lilli Ann's place.
There was a light burning. Lilli Ann had left it for her. She turned the wick down low and began her long vigil in the darkened room.
Hours passed before finally the sound of voices reached her. She stood for a moment until she heard them plainly. Lilli Ann had succeeded in bringing the Sheriff!
Sara slipped behind a blanket that was hung across a rope in one corner of the room. This was a makeshift closet where Lilli Ann stored old clothes. Sara, watched through a tiny hole in the blanket as the Sheriff walked into the cabin, gave it a quick once-over, then sat down heavily. His manner more than the half-empty bottle of whisky indicated that he'd already been drinking heavily. Lilly Ann turned the wick of the lamp up and turned to face him.
"Ain't you going to look around?"
"In a minnit," he answered, and swigged heavily from the bottle. "We'll find that varmint that's been pesterin' you if it takes all night," he said loudly, then laughed and slapped his thigh. "And it just might do that-huh, little lady?"
"If you say so, Sheriff."
"Hell, you drop that 'Sheriff' and call me 'Jimmy.' I got a hunch we're going to be real good friends."
"All right... Jimmy."
He had been drinking even before Lilli Ann had asked him to come to her cabin. And now, with her standing so far away, he was having difficulty trying to focus his eyes on her.
"Why don't you move over here closer, gal? I ain't going to bite you."
Lilli Ann moved nearer. He reached up and touched her arm.
"My, you sure have purty white skin. I wonder why I ain't seen you in town more often. A purty gal like you shouldn't live off like this, in hidin'. Can't have no fun 'less you got some men around. Guess that's why you ast me out here, huh?"
He laughed as he reached up and pulled her down into his lap. She ran her hands up and down the sides of his face, feeling the heavy growth of bristles. He planted a kiss from his wide, moist lips on her throat.
"Why don't you take your shirt off?" Lilli Ann breathed into his ear. "You'll feel better that way."
He set the bottle on the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt. Lilly Ann helped him, smiling down into his face. He laughed as he fumbled with the buttons, having an awkward time removing it.
"I must be getting heavy, sitting on you," Lilli Ann said. "There's a nice, soft pallet right over there in the corner, and we could lay down awhile and rest ourselves."
"That's a right fine idea!" he agreed.
He got up and stumbled toward it, laughing loudly as he tripped and fell forward. The soft pile of straw broke his fall. Lilli Ann got his bottle and handed it to him.
"Have another drink, Jimmy. You'll feel better."
"Don't know," his voice was slurred. "I think I had too much already. You ain't drinkin' at all, compared to me... "
"Oh, I don't need much liquor," Lilli Ann said, meeting his accusing glance, which melted quickly as she added: "I like you just fine without any... " She leaned forward and placed her mouth invitingly close to his, half-parted and lingering suggestively. He kissed her, wrapping an arm clumsily behind her neck to caress her. His breath reeked of whisky. Lilli Ann tried not to be visibly repulsed when his unshaven face scratched her cheek. "Let me take off your shoes," she offered, slipping nimbly from his embrace. He lay back, the ardent kiss she'd given him making his mind spin even more than the alcohol. He offered no resistance when she pulled the shoes and socks from his feet.
"Have just one more little drink," she said, raising his head and holding the bottle to his lips.
He gulped the liquid down, then shut his eyes and fell back, mumbling something under his breath.
Lilli Ann stood up over the inert body.
"Jimmy," she yelled, and delivered him a nudging little kick in the ribs."
"Lemme 'lone," he mumbled.
Sara Crenshaw stepped from behind the curtain, slapping the riding crop softly against one hand in front of her. There was a malevolent sneer on her face as she looked down at the snoring Sheriff.
"Help me get him back into the chair," Sara said.
The two women struggled to lift him into position. He muttered a few feeble curses.
A large center post supported the weight of the roof cross sections. It ran from the roof to the floor. Setting the chair against the post, Sara brought his hands around the back, where she tied them with wire. After that, she firmly secured each of his ankles to the front chair legs, using the wire again.
"Okay, Lilli Ann, I don't think he can get out of that. If he tries to get up the wire will cut into his flesh. Will you get some water for our sleeping beauty?"
Lilli Ann removed the long-handled dipper from the water bucket and handed the pail to Sara.
"It's only half full," Sara observed. "We'll probably need a tubful to get this drunk awake."
She gripped the handle and the bottom of the bucket, swung it back and doused the sleeping Sheriff in the face. He coughed, spat water and cursed all at the same time when the cold liquid splashed over him, but he still was not aware of what was happening. He struggled to wipe his face, but when he could not move his hands, he stopped and fell asleep again.
"Get another bucket," Sara said. "I'll watch him."
Lilli Ann walked to the creek bank, filled the bucket, and returned, straining under the weight.
Sara again doused the Sheriff, holding the bucket over his head and letting it pour over him in a steady stream. He struggled into half-consciousness.
When he saw Sara standing in front of him he was still in a stupor; but he stared at her, his mind trying to place her. When at last he did recognize her, he was prodded into wakefulness by her grim manner.
"Yes, it's me," Sara said. "How are you getting along, Sheriff?"
"What are my hands and feet tied for?" he asked, looking around. He tried to get up, and his face was instantly drawn into a mask of pain. "Goddamn you, woman, let me loose!"
"In my own good time, Sheriff. These are very pretty buttons on your shirt," she said. She held the garment up in front of him, inspecting it casually. "I suppose they have some meaning for you."
"I got 'em in the war with Mexico, had them for nearly twenty years. Why in the hell am I tied up?"
"You know-" Sara smiled serenely at him. "I found the button missing from this shirt not too long ago. A little memento I tore off the shirt of a Klansman when they stormed my house and burned it to ashes."
Her face suddenly switched from serenity to hate. "You were that Klansman, Sheriff! You were one of the people who beat me with whips until I couldn't even crawl away! But you made one mistake, you sonofabitch! You didn't kill me when you had the chance!"
Sheriff Shaw was fully awake now. He tried collecting his wits rapidly. His eyes searched the room until he saw Lilli Ann standing in the background.
"I'll see that you get paid good for this little trick," he threatened her. "You'd better get her to let me go right now-right now. Then I'll forget you done this. I won't ask again."
"It wouldn't do any good anyway," Sara said.
"You damn fool!" he exploded. "I tried to tell you that you couldn't fight them. But you just wouldn't listen, would you? That button doesn't prove I was with those people."
"Oh?" Sara sneered. "Are there other men who think so highly of a set of Mexican buttons that they sew them on one shirt after another and keep them for twenty years?"
"I don't know where I lost mine," he said, admitting ownership, "but I didn't burn you out. I didn't lay a hand on you!"
"Lilli Ann," Sara said sharply, "unbutton my dress."
Lilli Ann stepped forward, not daring to meet the Sheriffs eyes. Her fingers expertly flicked open the buttons, and Sara turned around, her back exposed.
"Count them, Sheriff," she looked over her shoulder. "Sixteen long red welts. That's not counting the ones that healed, and it's not counting the ones across the front. Sixteen lashes. I think that amount for you would be a fair exchange, wouldn't you say?"
"You're crazy!" He began to comprehend the terror which Sara Crenshaw intended for him.
"Sixteen lashes," Sara repeated, as Lilli Ann buttoned her dress back again. "Well, might as well begin."
She lifted the riding crop up and lashed him across the face. His head jerked back under the sudden impact. Blood began oozing from the ugly welt. He fought to get free, but the wire cut into his wrists, racking his arms with pain. Sara gave him time to recover from the blow. He looked up in terror and spat blood from his mouth. "All you have to do to stop this is to tell me who the other members of that group were," Sara taunted.
"Go to hell!" he rasped.
"Number two," Sara said, preambling her next slash with the crop.
Striking him above the eyebrows, she watched as a thick red welt appeared. The scream he emitted ended on a gurgle deep in his throat. Sara was sickened by the sight of the blood coming from the two welts, but she brought the crop down on him again and again, until her arms felt heavy with pain.
When she stopped, his body was racked with jerking, spasmodic convulsions. He was groaning and sobbing in misery.
"Now are you going to tell me?" she asked, entwining her fingers in his hair. When he didn't answer, she jerked his head back viciously, forcing him to look at her.
"Don't hit me again! I was with them, but I swear I didn't know who the others were... "
"You know!" She brought the crop up again, threatening though hoping she'd not have to hit him again.
"No!" he yelped. "No, I swear! Just the leader, that's all... the one who got all of us to go! I didn't want to; you've got to believe that. I didn't want that on my conscience, but they made me. I couldn't stop them."
"Who's the leader?"
"If I tell, I'll get killed!"
"You get beaten to death if you don't! Who was it?"
"Please... don't hit me again."
"Then tell me!"
"I can't! She'll cut my throat if I do!"
"'She'?" Sara shrieked, her mind whirling back. "Mrs. Lynn! It was Mrs. Lynn. Of course! Wasn't it?"
He did not answer.
Sara struck him again, cutting him across the lips this time. "It was Mrs. Lynn, wasn't it!"
"Yes," the Sheriff spat at her through bleeding lips. "Yes, damn you, it was Mrs. Lynn. I wish now she'd killed you!"
"Okay, Sheriff, that's all I wanted to know. Too bad you had to get all beat up, but the choice was yours."
"Lilli Ann," she directed, "get the gun out of his holster. If he makes a move while I'm untying him, shoot him."
Lilli Ann jumped to do Sara's bidding.
Sara began unwrapping the bloody mass of tangled wire from his wrists. The gun was an unnecessary precaution against him in his present state. His body was bruised and torn until there was no resistance left within him to put up a fight. He was a coward beneath his bragging. She was sure he'd run as fast as he could when she set him free.
While Sara loosened his ankles, Lilli Ann stood nearby, alert for any sudden move on his part. But as Sara had supposed, he was a beaten man, anxious now to escape the shanty and the deadly fury of Sara Crenshaw. He'd taken only a few clumsy steps toward the door when it swung open.
Clay Thompson stepped inside, where he stood staring in disbelief at the bloody spectacle the Sheriff presented-his arms dangling at his sides, his features almost crushed under the beating by the crop.
Sara froze for a moment, then shoved the blubbering Sheriff toward the door, shrieking, "Get the hell out of town!"
Clay Thompson stepped aside, too astonished to say a word. He watched as the Sheriff staggered past him, neglecting to get his shirt and shoes, and out into the night. Clay looked back toward the two women, both of whom were staring at him, waiting for him to speak.
"Sara, I thought you were dead... " Ignoring him, Sara said, "Thanks, Lilli Ann. I'd better go now, it's getting late. I have a lot to do tomorrow."
"Sara," Clay almost shouted, "what's wrong with you? What's the meaning of the god-awful whipping you gave that poor man?"
Sara attempted to go around him but he stepped quickly into her path.
"Let me pass."
"Not until you explain why-" He was cut off in mid-sentence with a resounding slap from her. Stunned, he watched her step out into the night.
When she was gone, Clay turned to Lilli Ann. "How long have you known Sara was alive?"
"She came back yesterday."
"Why did you not get word to me?"
"She told me not to."
"Damn you, didn't you know I was almost out of my mind because I thought she was burned? Didn't you tell her what happened that night?"
"I told her, Clay. But she's different now. She's only set on getting even with the Klan for what they did to her. She doesn't even act like the same woman any more."
"What was the idea of beating up the Sheriff?"
"He was Ku-Klux. She found it out and made me bring him here. I didn't know she was going to beat him, Clay."
"Damn it. Damn it to hell!"
"I'm sorry, Clay. I won't help her anymore, not if you tell me not to."
"I don't understand. I just don't understand why she stayed in hiding, and where could she have been?"
"She was at the Frenchman's."
"The De Bois'! But I went there, asking if they'd seen her."
"She doesn't want anybody to know she's still alive, Clay. She wouldn't let them tell you."
"This isn't like Sara, beating a man to a pulp while his hands are tied behind his back."
"She's different now, Clay."
"I guess she is. I wish I could help her... "
"Clay, did you come to spend the night?"
The shock of finding Sara in the shanty he'd shared so frequently with Lilli Ann left him not knowing quite what to do. He stared at her blankly for a moment, then walked to the door.
"I'll come by tomorrow," he said. "Keep me posted on whatever you find out about Sara from now on. Good night."
"Good night, Clay." Lilli Ann replaced the blood-stained chair at the table, then undressed and lay down on the pallet. She wished that Clay had arrived after Sara left. Tonight of all nights, she felt a need to be in his arm?. Truly, the reappearance of Sara Crenshaw opened complications in her life she could not sort out. She spent a sleepless night, trying to think of a way to get Clay Thompson in her arms again, and to get him free from any threat the redhead might pose.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"So you've been sneaking out of the house to see a man," Mrs. Lynn said. "And what's worse, some of the Negroes have seen you. You never did have any common sense!"
"But we never done anything wrong," Vonita Lee whined.
Her mother looked her straight in the eyes, trying to determine if she were telling the truth. She needed no other confirmation when the girl stared unflinchingly back.
"I wonder why you're such a little idiot," Mrs. Lynn said hotly, when Vonita Lee remained silent. "I suppose it's your father's blood in you. God only knows I've had to get out and work like a slave to keep this farm going. And now you start going out pussy-footing around at night, unmindful of the harm it could do our reputation."
"I can't help it, Mama," Voinita Lee admitted, studying one of her well-turned ankles. "I'm getting tired of waiting around for that old Clay Thompson to propose. It used to be different before the war, when there was a lot of beaus."
"Clay Thompson will still marry you," Mrs. Lynn said, "if you haven't been so stupid as to sully anything but your name. I'll call them Negroes in here and give them a good dressing down, then they'll not breathe a word!"
"Yes, Mama."
"Now I want you to tell me about this Reuel Williams. He's a gentleman, I hope."
"I don't know much about him, Mama; but he's always been a perfect gentleman around me."
"What business is his family in?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose he's from New York, that's where he met Frederick De Bois. He never talks about his family."
"Probably with good reason. Well, you've seen him for the last time."
"But I love him, Mama."
"Nonsense. You're going to marry Clay Thompson. Now get that through your head. I suppose you think life is just one primrose path, but it's hard, child. I married your father by his parents' arrangements with mine. And although we never were in love, we got along all right. I suppose happiness only consists of doing what you want to do, after all, and I always got my way. A woman always can, if she puts her foot down right at the beginning."
"But I don't want to marry Clay. He acts so peculiar, always like he doesn't even know I'm alive. Thinking all the time. He's never going to ask me, even if his father wants him to."
"I want you to promise me something, Vonita."
"What, Mama?"
"I want you to promise you'll never see Reuel Williams again. You have never broken your word to me, in spite of whatever else you've done. You're a good girl basically. So promise me that, and we'll forget the whole thing."
"No, Mama, I can't do that."
"Vonita Lee, don't force me into doing something unpleasant."
"I love him, Mama. I can't promise you."
"Then go to your room. You'll stay there until you decide to have a change of mind, if it takes a day or a month." Mrs. Lynn locked Vonita Lee in, pocketed the key, then returned downstairs and went to the kitchen.
"Miss Vonita is taking her meals in her room," she told her cook. "Not a word about this to anyone, you understand?"
The old Negress nodded her head in affirmation.
A furious barking began outside. Mrs. Lynn's vicious watchdogs seemed intent on tearing down the kennels.
The late visitor they heralded was Sheriff Jim Shaw. Mrs. Lynn gaped with open mouth as he strode wildly in, his face a pitiful bloody pulp. "What in the name of God happened to you?" she asked.
"Sara Crenshaw! She done this."
"Sara Crenshaw?" Mrs. Lynn turned to the cook, who was standing in the kitchen doorway. "What are you gawking at? Get back to the kitchen!"
"I suppose you could use a drink," she said to the Sheriff after the old woman complied. She walked to a cabinet and poured him a glass of brandy. "Now, explain exactly what happened."
"She still had the button she tore from my shirt," he said. "That give the whole thing away. She lured me out to this deserted shanty... "
"She lured you? Surely you didn't go with her after you knew where she wanted to take you? What a damn fool!"
"Well, that high fellar that worked for her took me out there; told me she heard lots of strange noises around the place at night. Hell, I only went because it was my job. How was I to know what that wildcat was up to?"
"Yes, I'm sure you were acting only in your capacity as a law officer," Mrs. Lynn's voice was flat. "Go ahead, tell me the whole truth. Don't you know when you leave something out I can tell, you sniveling coward?"
"Well, she got me drunk, hog-tied me with wire, and then did this to me with a riding crop!"
"And why?"
"She wanted to know who the others were."
"You kept your trap shut?"
He stared miserably at the glass which he twirled nervously in his fingers. "You fool! You utter fool!"
"I didn't mean to," he explained. "It was a slip of the tongue, she guessed the rest."
Mrs. Lynn shifted her huge girth from the chair to a standing position. She paced the floor several times in a small circle, her preoccupation so deep that she seemed unaware that the Sheriff was sitting, watching her. At length, she spoke.
"The harm's done now. The only thing is, how can she get back at me? She might go to that cowardly little lawyer, but he's afraid of his own shadow. Most of the farmers around here are my friends. So that leaves her with only one solution: She has to come after me by herself. And I'll be prepared, I promise you that."
"I thought you'd want to know," the Sheriff muttered.
"Hell yes, I'd want to know!" Mrs. Lynn exploded. "Well, you'd better duck out of sight for a while. We can't have everyone in town wondering how you got beat up. It might raise a few too many questions."
"A trip?"
"Yes, I'd say a very lengthy one. I'll write a letter to some friends of mine in Memphis. Maybe you can get appointed to some municipal post there, with my recommendation. One thing is certain, you've outlived your usefulness around here."
"I don't know anything about that kind of work."
"Oh, quiet down, you damned fool. You don't have to know anything. You didn't know anything about being a sheriff, until I got ahold of you, did you?"
"No," he admitted. "By the way, she told me to get out of town, too."
"Well, you will. We'll let her think she's winning out. Then, when she makes her move against me, she'll find out she's up against more than she bargained for."
After ushering the Sheriff out, Mrs. Lynn went to the kitchen and got the tray the cook had prepared for Vonita Lee. Out of habit, she knocked at her daughter's door before she opened it. There was not the usual response from within. She unlocked the door and walked into the darkened room. In bed, Vonita was covered completely from head to toe. Mrs. Lynn set the tray on the side table and went over to shake the girl awake.
It was not Vonita Lee she touched, but a roll of quilts covered by the sheet. Mrs. Lynn whirled to find the window open, even as she remembered how as a child the girl used to climb down the large mulberry tree just outside her window.
Mrs. Lynn considered getting out her buggy and going to the De Bois house. Then she realized the futility of this course of action. Surely the girl would be more intelligent than to go there. No doubt she was hiding somewhere along the river. It offered a thousand dark rendezvous places, but in the night she'd never find her.
Mrs. Lynn returned downstairs, took a knife from the kitchen, and walked out into the yard. She cut a large green switch from the willow tree and skinned the bark from it. Mrs. Lynn had not spanked her daughter for disobedience in years. Now, as she thought of the pain this switch would inflict across those tender buttocks, she felt righteous indignation growing.
She walked back into the parlor, unlocked the front door, then sat down in a chair to face it. She knew Vonita Lee could not climb the tree she'd gone down. She'd have to enter by the front door.
Reuel Williams was waiting at the appointed place, and had been waiting an hour longer than previously arranged with Vonita Lee. At last he heard a carriage wheeling through the sprinkling of broken dead twigs on the seldom used road. He stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.
Vonita Lee had been whipping the horse with a frenzy. Now she had trouble pulling it up to a sharp stop when she arrived in the little cove.
Reuel held her by the waist to lift her down from the buggy.
"Mama found out we've been seeing each other. She said she's going to put a stop to it," Vonita Lee said.
"What did she say?"
"She says I got to marry that mean old Clay Thompson," Vonita Lee pouted, screwing up her pretty little mouth. "And I don't even like him no more. He's got his cap set for Sara Crenshaw, anyway."
"Sara Crenshaw?" Reuel smiled.
"She's a redhead who used to live here. She went to New York and got rich, nobody knows how, then she came back here and lost everything when the Klan burned her gambling house down. I don't think old Clay will ever get over it."
"Well, let's not talk about them." Reuel took her arm and led her over to a large protruding tree trunk on the grassy knoll. He spread his coat over it for her to sit down.
"You're such a gentleman, Reuel," she said. "I just wish Mama could see you now. Why, this is the fourth time I've seen you, and you haven't even tried to kiss me yet."
Reuel lowered his head. "Please, Vonita Lee, don't say things like that to me," he pleaded in a tremulous voice.
"Why, Reuel? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"It's just that I'm afraid to touch you, Vonita Lee. You're like an angel to me," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. "You weren't meant to be loved by mere mortal... " Vonita Lee giggled. "I don't mind you touching me, Reuel. Why, I won't melt... "
"I don't want to do or say anything to make you run away," he said. "A woman as beautiful as you comes along only once in a lifetime. I'm afraid you'll run away like a beautiful fawn disappears at the slightest noise in the forest. I'm afraid of you, Vonita... "He held her smooth white hands in his.
"Gracious, Reuel, you don't have to be afraid to do anything you want to around me. I wouldn't run away... "
"I'm glad you said that, my precious darling," he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed the tips of them softly, fleetingly.
Vonita Lee was pleased, and flattered.
"I've never been around... around girls before," Reuel finished hastily, as though the statement had been ripped from his heart. "I guess I must seem like a country bumpkin to you."
"No, Reuel, no. I like you very much, I honestly do."
"Then prove it."
She brought her small mouth up to meet his full lips. He kissed her softly... until she began putting her entire body into pressing his lips. He reacted accordingly, taking her into an embrace, holding her passionately, trying to press her body into his.
"Reuel," she gasped after the kiss, "let's go home. I can't fight my feelings for you. Another kiss like that and I'll weaken."
"But you love me, don't you?" he argued petulantly. "Is it wrong to do anything when you're in love?"
"That's not it," she said. "Mama always said I shouldn't do this unless I was married."
"It's got to be all right if we love each other."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he smothered her words with a kiss. This time he worked his tongue into her mouth, running it over the front of her teeth. The kiss fairly bowled Vonita over with desire. No longer was she thinking of getting her dress stained, but clutched at his hip instead, pulling him close against her stomach. She felt his erection through the coarse fabric of his trousers. He tore at her dress as he fumbled to open it without letting her out of the clench. She shot up a hand to detain his, but he would not stop. That was the end of her resistance.
After he had completely undressed her, he sat upright and stripped off his own clothes. He was completely nude when he lay down beside her again and pressed himself to her.
Beside herself, burning with desire for him, Vonita took his penis in her hands and positioned it to enter her body. Reuel pressed forward, sheathing himself in her, then slowly began the thrusting motions of intercourse. Vonita moaned ecstatically and reached both arms around his back, her fingernails digging into Reuel's flesh. Her clawing triggered him into a faster tempo. Faster... and faster yet. Vonita's moans of pleasure filled the night.
Suddenly Reuel rolled over, bringing her body up to a sitting position on top of him. She was crying softly, tears of happiness running unseen, unnoticed, down her cheeks, as she took the initiative and began pumping up and down. The very position was fuel to the erotic fires already flaming in her.
When she began climaxing, Reuel began bucking underneath her, meeting her downward shoves with a driving thrust that sheathed him even further into her. She went faster when he began helping her-leaning forward, her alabaster body intertwined along the full length of his. She could hardly stand the feeling, yet she dared not still her movements for fear of losing it.
Reuel bucked beneath her and shuddered. Seconds later he became motionless beneath her, while she convulsed and shuddered and twisted in one final, glorious orgasm.
After awhile Reuel wished she'd get up. Her weight was becoming uncomfortable to him. He had lied her into the seduction; had his fill of her; and now he was no longer interested. She rubbed her lips over his mouth, not understanding why he'd turn his face and not return her kisses.
Finally, twisting to get her off of him, he spoke. "You've been screwed before. Who was it?"
"Reuel," she gasped, propping up on an elbow, "don't be crude."
"Was it Clay Thompson?" he asked, sitting up.
"No!" she shrieked. "What an idea! It was years ago-in finishing school, in Switzerland. One of the headmasters was a brute... I couldn't help it. But it was a long time ago. I don't even remember his name."
"Okay," he said. "You better get home now."
"But, Reuel," she wailed, "I can't go home. Mama will be waiting up for me. Besides, I thought with you being in love with me and all, that we'd run away and get married."
"Married!"
"You didn't think I'd do... do that if I didn't think we'd get married?"
"That headmaster didn't love you!"
"But he took me by force! I was only fifteen years old! If you don't marry me, Reuel, I'll be in trouble at home. I can't bring myself to face Mama, not after this. We don't have any other choice but to get married."
"Let's get one thing straight, Vonita," Reuel shouted; "marriage is out of the question for me!"
"Reuel, my mother will have you horsewhipped when she finds out about this." With this threat, Vonita choked up and began crying.
Unmindful of his nudity or of Vonita's for that matter, he stood and stared down at the crying girl. He knew that Mrs. Lynn was a hellion, and for the first time gave credence to Vonita's threat. Mrs. Lynn was a formidable enemy to have. Perhaps he could still find a way out. Flight, of course, was imperative.
"Well," he said, "I have a little money. We could elope to New Orleans tonight."
"Reuel!" she shouted, her joy evident as she got to her feet.
"I'll have to go to the De Bois house to get it," he added. "You can wait out in the buggy for me. Then we'll take the late riverboat to New Orleans."
"But when will we get married-and where?"
"Not here, Reverend Sharkey would be sure to tell your mother and the whole damn town. We'll get married there. Then your mother will forgive your running away. After all, I'm not the worst match in the world."
"You'll be a darling husband, Reuel," she laughed. She put her head against his chest, her arms about him. "I'd give anything to see old Clay Thompson's face when he hears about us!"
"Shut up about him, damn you!" Reuel said angrily. "What in the hell does he mean to you, anyway?"
"Nothing," she answered timidly, frightened by the display of temper. "I was just thinking out loud."
"Well, don't mention him again, see?"
"All right, darling. I'm sorry."
"That's okay," he said, grinning. The storm vanished as quickly as it had come. "Now get your clothes on, sweetheart. We still have a lot to do tonight."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The man in bed with her was snoring soundly, his chest moving up and down in slow heaves, his face serene. From the waist up his body was deep brown from long exposure to the sun; it was chalk white on down. He smelled of cheap liquor, and his mouth hung slack.
Making as little noise as possible, Sara eased off of the bed and tiptoed to her clothing, which laid in the chair where she'd flung them not two hours before. Dressing as quickly as the clothes would allow, she kept a wary eye on the man. He gave no sign of awakening. So far so good, she thought.
But when she started to leave the cabin, she stepped on a loose board that creaked under her weight. She drew back, instantly frozen, as he turned over and opened his eyes. He rubbed his chin, slow to notice that Sara was completely dressed, then sat bolt upright.
She could count on the fingers of one hand how often she'd slept with the riverboat passengers for money. She commanded and received a good price. But each time she crept away from the boat in the early morning hours, she felt a sickening shame. The only justification she could find for prostituting herself was that she'd been left penniless and could no longer bear bringing herself to impose on Mr. Peck. This oldest of professions paid her rent, put food in the house, afforded her several dresses, and even rented a horse and buggy. Even so, the price she paid was great.
The man stared suspiciously at her for a second, then grew uncomfortable under her gaze. He pulled the sheet over his nudity and sat up. "I was just going," she said lamely. It was always like this. Sara had to leave before they awakened, because usually they were drunk the night before, too drunk to notice her ravaging good looks. But when they'd awaken and see how extraordinary she was, they'd be reluctant to allow her to slip out of their lives after one brief encounter.
The man reached underneath his pillow, got his money pouch, and pulled the drawstrings open. Coins and a wad of folded paper money poured forth. He didn't need to count it to see that it was all there.
"I didn't steal from you," Sara said hotly. "I have only the money you gave me."
"You know how it goes," he said easily. "Some of the whores that work this river would slit your gizzard for a goldpiece. I didn't know you was any different."
"You do now," Sara said. "I've got to go."
"Wait," he said, jumping up, his nakedness no longer a matter to consider when he saw she was intent on leaving. "Wait till I get my duds on, and I'll take you home."
"No," she edged toward the door. "It's too far, the boat will have gone before you can get back."
"But, damn it, when will I see you again if I let you go now?"
"You'll be by Fenniman's Landing again."
"Not for a long time. We got time to spend a few more days together, before I have to continue on."
"I'm sorry," Sara said. "I kept my end of our bargain. Now let me go. I have to get ashore before people are up and around. I can't afford to be seen."
When he turned his back to find his pants, Sara pushed open the louvered door and stepped into the passageway. She walked quickly, hoping she would make it down the gangplank and out of sight before he got dressed enough to give chase.
She was scarcely a hundred feet away from the boat when she heard the gangplank-resounding under his pounding feet. She slipped into a narrow passageway formed by staked bales of cotton and, in the darkness, felt her way through it to the other side of the docks close to where she'd left her buggy. She climbed into it, and slapped the reins against the horse's flanks. It clopped off, down the back streets through Fenniman's Landing.
More than her nefarious profession, another sore that plagued Sara's every conscious thought was Mrs. Lynn. She knew the old woman was a ruthless adversary. There was a reservoir of strength behind that mountain of excess flesh. Sara was unaware that the hell Mrs. Lynn was going through after the disappearance of Vonita Lee was worse than any conceivable revenge that anyone could have planned for her.
"Don't know what's the matter with that boy," the Colonel was saying. "I keep after him all the time, but it doesn't do any good. He won't defy me, but he finds excuses not to do as I tell him."
Mrs. Lynn shifted her weight, leaning back in the wing chair. "Things are different since the war," she observed rather absently. "After the boys came back, the ones that did, it's a changed world for them."
"Where is that girl of yours, anyway?" The Colonel filled his pipe, getting the subject off the war, still refusing to think of his dead son. "Been weeks since she's been here, she can't get Clay to propose if she doesn't show herself."
"Vonita Lee has been puny lately, Colonel. She's been keeping to her bed for these past few weeks."
"It must be serious, all this time."
"No. She ought to be up and around any time now. I just insisted on her keeping in for awhile. I didn't want her to take any chances."
"Gal always struck me as being hearty enough."
"She's healthy, Colonel. It's just me, I guess. She's all I got in the world since poor Henry-God rest his soul-passed on. I fuss like a mother hen, but I don't want her exposing herself."
"Now look here, Leonora," the Colonel used her first name, which was a familiarity he seldom conferred on anyone, "you are telling me the whole truth, aren't you? Is something wrong? I never seen you looking so peaked, so overworked. You look like you are worried clear out of your mind."
Mrs. Lynn fidgeted under his questioning. "Of course I'm telling you the whole truth, Colonel," she said lightly. "I'll bring Vonita Lee the next time I come, you'll see for yourself."
Clay entered the study, smiling for the first time in weeks. His change was so marked that the Colonel was instantly alert.
"Good evening, Mrs. Lynn. Hello, Father. Sure is nice out tonight," he said expansively, pouring himself a drink.
"Yes, it is," his father said guardedly.
"I think I'll ride over and take Vonita Lee out riding," he said, smiling brightly.
"She's in bed, sick," Mrs. Lynn said. "I've told you."
"She looked fine when I saw her earlier this evening," Clay said innocently. He didn't notice Mrs. Lynn's sharp intake of breath. "I'd say she was well enough to go riding."
He's lying, she thought; trying to pump me. Smiling, she said, "Well, if that's the case. Clay, you do that."
"Thank you, Ma'am. I shall."
He started for the study door, then turned and addressed his father, who had brightened considerably.
"I'll probably be later than usual tonight. You have Mis'ry pour cold water on me if I balk about getting up for work in the morning. A working man should have better sense, but I want to talk with Vonita. I haven't seen her in such a long time."
Mrs. Lynn felt abject defeat. Maybe he wasn't lying. She wanted to fly at the smiling man and strangle the story from his lips, but she dared not. She was dealing with the Thompson family here. One wrong word or act could destroy her plans for her daughter's life. There would be time enough later to sort out the tangled threads of Vonita Lee's disappearance. She'd take her leave from the Colonel a little more early than usual.
Clay had heard talk that Vonita Lee had run away with a man. He would have to get the full story from Vonita Lee. If it were true, he'd have but to tell his father and the marriage merger would be off.
As he rode along at a slow lope, the trees screened the moon, letting a myriad of tiny pinpoints float softly across his face. He felt a peace with himself for the first time in ages. After he changed his father's demand that he marry Vonita Lee-assuming that he could-he'd find his next step just as difficult. Talking Sara Crenshaw into becoming his wife would not be easy. He could not understand why she had ignored him, why she remained in hiding. All he could think about Sara was that he was hopelessly in love with her.
Vonita Lee was sitting in the porch swing when he arrived at the Lynn house. When she saw him dismounting in front of her, she drew herself up into a small bundle and ignored him.
"Hello," he said, smiling as he walked up and sat down with her.
She had changed in the weeks gone by. Black circles lined her eyes; a gloss like a gossamer film covered them. She gave no indication that she even knew who he was. Her arms were bruised. She gave the impression of being some wild forest animal, abused and untrusting.
"Aren't you going to tell an old friend hello?" Clay put his feet forward, giving the swing a shove that sent them rocking gently.
She did not answer him, but turned to look up the road as if expecting someone.
"Vonita Lee," he said, and started to touch her.
She drew back instantly. And when she did speak, her voice was high and sliced the air like the thin edge of a razor: "Get away from me!"
Clay stood up, uncertain now as to what to do. When he had seen Vonita Lee earlier, disembarking from the riverboat, she had not seemed in such a state of wildness. Perhaps the impending arrival of her mother had brought on her present state.
Vonita Lee showed action of her own volition for the first time when her mother's buggy pulled into the yard. She screamed once, a high and shattering cry, and ran to her mother-grasping the woman in stark terror before she even had time to get out of the buggy.
"Mama, Mama, Mama," she said over and over again.
Her mother embraced her, patted her, soothed her with, "There, there now, precious... Mama's little girl... " Vonita finally calmed down, smothering her sobs in her mother's great bosom.
"Help me get her inside, Clay," Mrs. Lynn said.
But Vonita Lee cringed when he came near her. Mrs. Lynn decided she had better do it alone.
"I guess you'd better get home, Clay," she said. "There's nothing more you can do."
"I'll come by tomorrow and see if she's better." Clay was genuinely sympathetic. "What do you suppose is wrong?"
"I wish I knew, Clay," she said. "I wish I knew."
Vonita remained silent as her mother placed her in bed, but went into hysterics when she attempted to leave her alone. The old woman sat up with her through the night, afraid to leave the room for an instant, for fear that the girl would set off on another barrage of screaming.
She wisely did not attempt to question the girl about where she'd been or what she'd done. But in her nightmare-filled sleep, Vonita talked enough so that Mrs. Lynn could put the picture together more or less as it had happened: Reuel Williams had artfully seduced Vonita the night she left the house. They had gone together to New Orleans. Reuel had a large roll of money, but it was reduced in bulk with each passing day. He would not try to go to work to support them.
Vonita Lee begged him to marry her. She was afraid of what people would think, but Reuel kept putting her off. Finally, they left the expensive hotel and moved to a cheap house on Bourbon Street.
When the money ran out, Reuel began bringing men home with him. Vonita resisted the first time, threw a tantrum and sent the man on his way. Reuel entered the room, said nothing, but sent a fist to her jaw with shocking impact. She cringed on the floor, where he beat her until she passed out. When he brought home the second man, she did not resist.
She lived in abysmal fear, never knowing when he would be away all night with another woman who boarded there. He came in one night and brought another person with him, a woman this time. She was a tall brunette who laughed continually in an alcoholic stupor. She stripped her clothes when Reuel asked her to-right in front of the horrified Vonita. Reuel had taken them both in bed, first her and then his new girl. Afterwards, when Reuel and the woman fell asleep, she stole the money from Reuel's wallet.
She ran out of the hotel, down endless lamplit streets, hiding in the shadows, until she heard her heart pounding as if it would burst. She bought passage home. The Captain separated her from the other passengers because of her screaming all night, but he was kind enough not to put her ashore.
Finally, she had come home, living in mortal fear of ever seeing Reuel Williams again. Now she was frightened by ordinary men, finding the faces of her night visitors reflected there...
Mrs. Lynn cried for the first time in years. The dreams she held slipped away one by one with each fragment of the story the sleeping girl uttered. By morning, she had decided to sell the farm and move away from Fenniman's Landing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lilli Ann awakened to hear the guinea fowl screeching in alarm. She jumped up and hurried to the door. The guinea were crashing through the protective covering of the bushes to the east of her cabin. Clay Thompson was hitching his horse outside. She stood in the open doorway, watching him in silence.
"Morning," he said. "I came to see if Sara was here."
"I ain't seen her in six weeks," Lilli Ann said truthfully.
"No idea of where she is?"
"No, Clay. She just dropped out of sight again."
"I wanted to tell her that I had a long talk with my father last night. He sort of gave up the idea of my getting married to Vonita Lee. So now there's no reason to keep Sara and me apart... " Lilli Ann hid her face against the wall to keep him from seeing her cry.
"Well, damn it to hell, woman!" He was exasperated. "I always told you I'd end up getting married one day. You know I never lied about it. Things will go on just like they were before... "
"I always thought you'd marry someone you didn't care for," Lilli Ann said. "I thought it'd be somebody like Vonita Lee Lynn, to raise your kids for you and not mind it if she found out about us. But with Sara, it'd be different. She knows about us, Clay. But even if she didn't, you'd stop seeing me anyway. You can't love a woman like her and share that love, can you?"
He didn't answer.
She continued. "I know you, Clay. You love her. If you was married, you'd live for her alone. Ain't I right?"
"I never thought much about that part of it."
"Well, you think this part out. Sara Crenshaw suffered a hurt from you when she found out about us. She'll never marry you now. Never. And you'll see that when you talk to her."
"Lilli Ann, I'll always take care of you. You know that."
"But I don't want taking care of, Clay. I want you. I want things the way they used to be, before she came along."
"Time changes things, Lilli Ann."
"Well, will you come inside now, for old time's sake? Just once more, before I lose you forever?"
Clay shifted the weight of his body from one foot to another, then picked up the reins. "No, Lilli Ann. Not now."
"You see what I mean?" she said in a dry chuckle. "It's no good between us any more. You had to go and fall in love."
His answer to this was to mount his horse and pull its head about, ready to ride out again.
Lilli Ann came running from the porch, and detained him by putting a hand on his thigh.
"Remember this, Clay," she said, "when she spits in your face again-and you know she will-you can always come back here. I only wish you loved me the way I do you. There'll always be a lamp burning in my window for you, Clay, to show you the way home."
"Thanks, Lilli Ann. I wish things could be different."
"Where are you going now?"
"To the De Bois place. She probably went back there to stay with them after she left here that night. If De Bois lies about it this time, I'll knock his teeth down his throat."
"Maybe she isn't there, Clay... "
"I'll find out. See you later," he said, spurring the horse forward at a quick gallop.
Lilli Ann watched him out of sight before returning to the cabin to dress. Knowing that Clay was hot-tempered, she had decided to follow him to the De Bois house. If there was trouble, perhaps by cutting through the forest she could get there in time to stop it.
Reuel Williams was sitting in the parlor when Frederick De Bois came down. He had a two-day stubble of beard, and his clothes looked as if he had slept in them. Smiling ineffectually, he greeted De Bois with a wave of his hand, then concentrated his efforts on lighting a cheroot.
De Bois did not acknowledge the greeting, but walked to the studio door and unlocked it. He then motioned Reuel to come in, preferring the privacy of the studio as a place to talk.
"Well, well. The bad penny."
"Hello, Freddie."
De Bois busied himself with pulling the drapes, his extreme concentration on not losing his self-control was obvious in the hasty manner with which he went about the task.
"Well, have you any reason to explain why you stole the money?" he finally demanded. His voice was harsh but still he did not turn to look at Reuel.
"I'm sorry I did it," Reuel answered lamely. "I was in a spot. I'll pay you back, every cent of it, I promise."
"How? By borrowing from me?"
"Now, hold on just a minute. It was your idea to bring me here. I didn't want to come, remember?"
"Every one is entitled to a few mistakes," De Bois said vindictively. "You are one of mine. How I ever fostered a friendship with you, I'll never know. Where did you go?"
"New Orleans is nice in late summer. I went down there to get married," Reuel said, "but she run out on me."
De Bois' face whitened. "Sara Crenshaw?"
"Sara Crenshaw!?" Reuel repeated. "Are you crazy? I haven't seen her in weeks."
"Are you going to deny that you spent a night in her bedroom, right in this house? Hulda found the evidence of your fornication, so don't bother lying."
"Damn it, Freddie, that was her fault. You know I've been a fool all my life about women. But she did all the seducing. I couldn't help myself."
"You never give up, do you?" De Bois' lip curled in disgust. "In New York you got in trouble with that girl who was our house guest-and her husband right there, too. I managed to smooth that over. But now I'm getting tired of being left to clean up the messes you've made. Whom did you go to New Orleans with?"
"Vonita Lee Lynn. You've met her, that raven-haired aristocratic beauty."
"Good God, man!" De Bois floundered in hatred. "Have you no conception of what you've done? Her mother is probably the most important person in this county, and you had to choose her to defile!"
"Before you make me lose my temper, Fred," Reuel breathed quietly, "cut out that damned snobbery. I won't stand here and be insulted by you. I was a poor, immigrant simpleton when you found me working as a stevedore in New York. I might have been unpolished, without your damned inbred manners, but at least I was honest. I had some pride before you hired me to model... "
"You acquired a taste for luxury in a hurry," De Bois said, smiling. "And you've learned after a fashion. You might fool the people around here with your imitation of a genteel country squire; but to me, you're only a copy. I'll admit you look good, but whenever I look at you, all the sordidness shows through the cracks."
"I'll pretend you didn't say that," Reuel said loftily. "After all, nothing so bad has taken place that it could destroy our friendship."
"You have made plans, I hope."
"No, I don't think I need any."
"Oh? You thought you could walk right back in here after that escapade, that I'd take you back in after what you did? Well, I might be willing, but you've a debt to other people, too. I'd suggest you marry Vonita Lee as quickly as possible. You've no other alternative."
"Marry that little pig? I'd rather be dead."
"You've got to recognize that your actions reflect on me, Reuel. I'll intercede in your behalf, go to Mrs. Lynn and explain that you want to marry her daughter, that you feel it's the best thing after your rash, impulsive act."
"She won't marry me, so forget it."
"There's more to the story than you've told?"
"Well, when the money ran out, Vonita Lee started selling... selling things that a woman only sells when she's down and out."
"You mean she prostituted herself for you?" De Bois laughed. "I think I see through your colors now. You mean you forced her to sell herself. I know you, Reuel; and a mongrel bitch never dropped worse. I think you'd better get out of my house."
"Why, you filthy bastard!" Reuel screamed, seizing Frederick by the collar.
He brought his knee up to De Bois' crotch in a quick, paralyzing blow that caused him to double up in pain. Then, he brought both fists up, snapping his head back.
De Bois screamed sharply, the high-pitched scream of a woman, and started crawling to the studio door. Enraged even more by the man's weakness, Reuel lifted him to his feet and hit him again, a jab that loosened his teeth in their sockets. De Bois crumpled in a heap at the base of the colossal statue of Reuel.
Reuel looked wildly about, then a germ of an idea took root in his brain. He laughed horribly as the irony of his idea struck home. He climbed up behind the statue, put his shoulder to it, and pushed. He had trouble shifting the titanic weight of the dried, hardened clay, but he strained and heaved against the calves of the statue until at last it began to move. With a slow rocking, it tipped back and forth, then went off-balance. It hovered for one split second, the arms reaching out, the mouth opened in supplication, the sightless eyes staring toward the heavens. Then it pitched forward, gaining in momentum and leaving the base.
De Bois opened his groggy eyes for only a flash, just in time to see the gargantuan figure come crashing down with its deadly embrace. He may have screamed, but the crash of the impact drowned out every other sound with its deafening roar. The dust swirled up in clouds, before it cleared away in a slow, sifting mushroom that revealed the exposed wires where the clay had broken away. Reuel stared wildly at the broken, crushed body of De Bois, twisted awkwardly like a rag doll beneath the giant of his own creation. The head of the statue had broken away, and De Bois' own eyes stared up in silent accusation at Reuel. Madly, Reuel looked around. He picked up the first thing he could lay his eyes on-a long, sharp chisel. With it, he beat the dead man again and again, blotting out all resemblance to a human countenance.
Finally, his anger spent, he turned his back on the destruction and tried to compose himself. The idiotic beating he had administered after the fall had erased all chance of anyone thinking it was an accident. Perhaps they would not have believed it anyway; the statue was too well constructed to crash of its own volition. But those staring, sightless eyes.
Then he noticed a shadow on the wall, a shadow different from the trees that moved in the breeze outside.
He whirled in time to see the face that ducked quickly out of sight.
A witness to his crime!
He knew now he would have to murder again to prevent the exposure of his first crime. He sprang madly to the door, through the parlor, and out the French windows. The woman running ahead of him would not be missed for a long time. She would die a violent death on the lonely stretch of river ahead.
Reuel's mind raced along with his feet. She had made it a perfect coincidence. He could say he had given chase. Catching her would not be difficult. Already she was slowing down as she strove to run through the high grass. But the embankment of trees jutted nearer and nearer. Reuel forced himself into a renewed burst of speed, until he thought his heart would tear itself out, but he was gaining on the running woman with each step.
Clay lifted the large ring in the lion's mouth knocker and let it fall. Its noise resounded throughout the house. He waited for a moment, then impatiently knocked again.
Again there was no indication that anyone was coming to the door. It was early in the morning, perhaps too early for the DeBoises to be up. He tried the knob; the door opened. He stepped into the magnificently furnished parlor and looked about him. At the far end of the parlor a door stood ajar. Quietly he made his way to it.
He walked into the studio and looked around.
The statue that had been modelled from Sara was not completed, yet there was enough of the face so that he could recognize her. He stepped closer to the large platform, his attention centered on the contours of the breasts that bulged forth in ripe, youthful beauty. From the waist down, it still retained a human appearance, but the work was rougher. The outlines of the thighs were there; the slightly protruding stomach and the valley beneath it had begun to take shape.
Clay felt anger-jealous anger-at the idea of Sara posing in the nude for De Bois. He walked closer. When he did, he saw for the first time the broken chunks of the gigantic torso sprawled on the floor, and the blood which had run from beneath it. When he bent to one knee to find the cause of the blood, he saw what was left of De Bois' caved-in skull. The sight sickened him. The chisel that had been used to do it laid nearby. Clay picked it up and looked at the mass of clotted hair and blood that covered one end.
A hideous scream brought him to his feet, and he turned to see Hulda standing there, her hands brought up in horror to her contorted face. Behind Hulda stood Mrs. De Bois. She hobbled across the floor with an astonishing agility to find the cause of the furor.
When she recognized the remains of her son's body, the cane fell from her hand, her body folded in the middle, and she crumpled to the floor.
Clay yelled for the maid to give him a hand, but she stared at him, her eyes wide in disbelief, then turned and dashed out. He lifted the ancient woman into his arms and carried her into the parlor, where he deposited her full length upon the divan.
"That's him, he killed the master!" The cry came from the French windows.
Clay turned to see Hulda leading in two stable hands. They eyed him cautiously, saw he was empty-handed, then approached menacingly.
"Hold on," Clay said, "you're making a mistake. I didn't kill anybody."
"I saw him!" Hulda screamed. "He's the one!"
The first one tried to grab Clay and got punched in the stomach for his efforts. The blow knocked him backwards, but he regained his balance and charged again. When Clay swung he ducked the flashing fist and rammed Clay in the stomach with his head.
Clay doubled up, falling backwards to the floor. Both men jumped him while he was down. They dug their knees into his biceps, searing his muscles with the grinding force. Clay struggled to fight back, but a fist hammered into his temple knocked him out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mrs. Lynn found the entire store bristling with activity. Crowds of men and women stood talking in small cliques. She grew panicky for a moment, fearing they had learned of Vonita's experience. She started to enter, but Mrs. Davis separated herself from the bevy of women surrounding her and strutted over.
"Haven't you heard? It's just the most awful thing that's ever happened in Fenniman's Landing," she gushed.
"Heard of what?" Mrs. Lynn was strangely reticent. "Why, Clay Thompson. They found him at the De Bois mansion just after he'd beaten the poor man to death with a chisel, then pushed a statue over on him to make it look like an accident."
"Clay? Clay would never do a thing like that."
"Well, dear, just wait until the trial starts tomorrow. They've got a dozen witnesses who saw the whole thing happen."
"Really? A dozen?"
"Well, there's the maid that works for the DeBois. I think they said her name was Hilda. And the two stablemen who came in. But the worst part of it was-" Mrs. Davis paused for emphasis, fanning her hands-"was that the poor boy's mother saw the whole thing. She's prostrate with grief. They say she can't get out of bed."
"Why would Clay kill De Bois?"
"You won't believe this," she confided, "but they found a great big statue inside that looked just like Sara Crenshaw! Can you believe it? She stood up there as naked as a jaybird and let that man look at her!"
"And Clay saw the statue?"
"Yes, that's when he did it. In a fit of jealousy. Why, it's been common gossip for ages how he's crazy about that Crenshaw girl... " Mrs. Davis suddenly remembered that Mrs. Lynn had always said that Clay would marry her daughter. "But, that's just gossip... "she finished lamely.
"Just gossip, and yet Clay killed because of it?" Mrs. Lynn smiled slightly. "Vonita Lee is going way right soon, you know."
"Well, I should think so," Mrs. Davis said. "The poor thing was probably upset when she found out Clay was in this mess."
Mrs. Lynn was conscious that the entire crowd was Tent, pretending not to be listening, but her every word was being memorized for future use. She raised her voice to a clear tone and continued, "Clay has nothing to do with it. She has been ill for the past six weeks, and I'm taking her to a specialist in Memphis."
Old Man Redford, the hansom cab driver, broke away from the crowd and sauntered over. He spat tobacco juice on the floor, then looked at Mrs. Lynn in a peculiar fashion. "So your young'un has been sick fer the past six weeks? Home in bed, I reckon?"
"Yes, she has, Jethro." Mrs. Lynn regarded him with distrust.
"Well, now," he spat again, then looked at her with his good eye. "Could'a sworn I saw her come back from New Orleans a few days back. Talk was she went there with a man."
"You're mistaken," Mrs. Lynn clenched her teeth. "She hasn't been out of the house in weeks."
"She certainly has not," a voice interrupted them from the front of the store.
Heads turned to see the speaker. It was Sara Crenshaw. She smiled brightly at Mrs. Lynn and continued speaking. "Mrs. Lynn hired me as a night nurse to sit up with Vonita Lee, and I can vouch that she's never been out of the place. Your eyes never were much good, were they, Mr. Redford?"
Old Man Redford turned on his heel and stalked out of the mercantile. Mrs. Lynn astonished everyone by nodding courteously to Sara Crenshaw, for her previous antipathy to the redhead was well known. Her daughter's reputation had been saved by the one person she hated; she had been forced to be courteous to Sara. To a person with her pride, it was the extreme punishment.
"Good morning, Mr. Toll," Sara said, placing a basket on the counter. "I'd like you to fill out this list for me."
He took the slip of paper from her and began placing the groceries on the counter. One of the waspish little women, Mrs. Udall, approached Sara.
"What a nerve you have," she snapped.
Staring at her blankly, Sara said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You ain't heerd of Clay Thompson murdering the Frenchie-on your account?"
Sara paled. "Clay? Where is he?"
"In jail. Where else would he be?"
Sara hurried out of the store and crossed the street to the jail. The new sheriff looked up in surprise when she came in.
"You've got Clay Thompson here," she said breathlessly. "I've got to see him, please!"
"Okay, calm down, little lady. I'll give you five minutes with him."
This sheriff was an older man than Jim Shaw had been. He smiled at her. His face was deeply wrinkled, but his blue eyes flashed with kindliness and a trace of youth.
"Thank you, Sheriff. That's all I'll need."
Clay Thompson's face was drawn. He looked tired and haggard with a three-day growth of beard. But when he saw Sara standing on the other side of the bars, his smile brightened even the dismal atmosphere of the cell.
"Sara!" he almost shouted it. "I knew you'd come when you found out."
"What happened, Clay?"
"Didn't they tell you?" he asked.
"Yes. But I want to hear the truth."
"I went to see De Bois, looking for you. I walked into the studio because I thought he might be there. I found his body and the chisel. I guess I wasn't thinking, because no sooner had I picked it up to look at it than the maid and the old lady came in. It looked like I had done it. I can't blame them for thinking I did. If my horse hadn't thrown that shoe, I'd have arrived earlier, in time to see who really killed De Bois. But I didn't do it, Sara, believe me."
"Of course I believe you, Clay. But who could have?"
"I don't know. The house was empty except for the women."
"Maybe one of the stable hands, or even Reuel Williams. Was he anywhere around?"
"I didn't see him."
"I doubt that Reuel did it," Sara said. "He's a brute, but too much of a coward to kill. Besides, he had no reason. De Bois was his friend, as well as his meal ticket."
"Then who was it?" Clay was dejected. "No one else was even around."
"Clay, I'll help you all I can," she said. "How is your father taking it?"
"He knows I wouldn't kill like that, Sara. But the thing is making him sick. He's going to get a good lawyer... "
"Mr. Peck might help," Sara suggested.
"Sara, you can't get me out of this mess with him. He's more of a real-estate salesman than a lawyer. We'll have to get a good criminal lawyer from up-river. In the meantime, Sara, your coming in to see me is the best medicine I've had in ages."
She touched his hands through the bars. "I'll be back, Clay. As soon as I can."
Lilli Ann reached the De Bois house before Clay. Knowing better than to knock at the front door, she stepped into the shadows of the garden, near the front doors. She saw De Bois as he descended the stair and motioned Reuel into the studio. Inside, they were out of sight.
She crept to the windows and tried to get a foothold on the wet mud. Fortunately, force of habit had led De Bois to pull the drapes. She was able to get a full view of everything that ensued. She would never have been seen had she not slipped on the mud and grabbed at a vine to keep her balance. The vine swung beneath her weight, and Reuel spotted her through the window.
She ran as if all the hounds of hell were after her, the meadow grass stinging and cutting her bare legs as she lifted her skirts. In the morning dampness, they had the sharpness of razor blades. If she could only make it to the river bank and its thick cropping of trees. There she could hide.
But Reuel was gaining steadily on her with every step. She raced wildly, knowing that unless she kept her wits she'd be caught. If she ran along the river bank the long way around, as she had come, he would overtake her easily. She could not swim, yet there was the river to cross if she were to save her life.
The skin on the nape of her neck crawled when she heard his heavy footsteps pounding a few yards behind. The trees seemed to weave crazily up and down in front of her bobbing, jerking head.
Then Reuel tripped on a soft mound of dirt and went flying across the grass.
Lilli Ann saw him go sprawling out of the corner of an eye. But she never slackened her pace. He would be up and after her in seconds. She gained a lot of precious yardage on him. Then she spotted an old burned out, hollow tree trunk. Reuel was nowhere in sight.
She ripped off her skirt and tied it around a large rock, then went to the edge of a dirt cliff which had been undermined by the rushing water. She screamed as the rock plunged downward, cutting the sound sharply as the rock splashed into the depths. Peering over the edge, she saw the skirt coiling gently in murky water. Then, hearing Reuel crashing through the undergrowth, she ran back to the old tree and hastily crawled into the trunk.
Reuel came hobbling by her place of hiding, his ankle apparently sprained from the fall. She watched him limp out to the edge of the embankment and look down into the river.
Lilli Ann crouched deeper in the rough interior of the tree, her head down between her knees, cramped into a foetus position. She was covered with sweat, the singing birds in the branches overhead seemed to be mocking her. She wanted to get up and run, take her chances; but if she did, Reuel would be certain to catch her, even with his damaged ankle.
Her body was racked with exhaustion; it could stand no more, the only thing she could do was wait. Her lips moved in silent prayer, hoping her hastily contrived deception would be successful. The soft dirt beneath Reuel shifted dangerously. He inched backwards, not caring for a plunge into the river. The way he read it, Lilli Ann had leapt into the river and her body had been caught by one of the tree roots projecting beneath the water level. This was the best part for him. Lilli Ann's death had actually been accidental. No one could prove he had any connection with it.
When he walked back to the house he was hoping he wouldn't see either of the two women. But when Hulda came running out to him, screaming that Clay Thompson had murdered the master, he felt like singing. It was all too good to be true. He buried his exultation beneath a mask of sorrow and bereavement and, slowly, walked Hulda back into the great house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Huge black clouds hung ominously over the distant bend upriver. One thing was certain: it was going to rain, and soon. But the impending storm did nothing to allay the growing excitement of the crowd surrounding the small one-story courthouse. It appeared that the whole of Fenniman's Landing had turned out for the trial.
Inside the stuffy little courtroom all but four chairs had been filled since early morning. These the bailiff had stoutly refused to surrender to any of the clamoring spectators milling and loitering near the courtroom door, in the hallway, on the porch and sidewalks. A scattering of late-comers who had been unable to obtain even a decent spot among the press on the porch had gathered at the courtroom windows, where they peered in at those lucky enough to have gotten seats. The men talked and smoked while the few women present fanned themselves nervously. One could tell from the evidence of sweat-soaked clothes that the atmosphere inside the room was stifling. And outside was little better; the late summer morning had become unbearably hot and sultry.
A surrey drew up directly in front of the courthouse. Those standing at the edge of the boardwalk backed grudgingly away when Reuel got out to help first Mrs. De Bois then Hulda down.
Both of the women were dressed in black; though to be sure, Hulda's dress bespoke her station. The old lady wore widow's weeds. Her face was almost obscured beneath the layers and tiers of black veiling she wore. Reuel sported a large black band around the left arm of the natty grey suit he'd chosen for the occasion. The threesome lost no time in getting through the crowd. With Reuel a pace ahead on one side and Hulda on the other, Mrs. DeBois was wedged through the curious onlookers. As they made their way to the courthouse door, Hulda dabbed at her eyes frequently with a lace handkerchief.
No sooner had the bailiff shown them their seats and returned to the door than Sara Crenshaw appeared. He admitted her quickly and pointed out the last empty seat, himself remaining at the door to answer a noisy wave of protest at what was immediately interpreted as favoritism.
Wearing a dress of mauve silk with a modestly high collar, Sara proceeded regally down the aisle. A chorus of gasps and whispers swept the room. She looked at Reuel, caught his eyes and held them for a fleeting instant before seating herself directly in front of him.
There was a hush as the judge entered the courtroom. The spectators stirred as the clerk approached the bench and whispered something to him. Whispering started in the back of the room. The judge banged his gavel on the desk and demanded order. During the resulting silence thunder sounded and raindrops began sprinkling on the dry, dusty town.
It was at this point that Clay Thompson was led in and ushered to a seat at a small table occupied by Mr. Peck and his associate, the special Memphis attorney the Colonel had hired for his son's defense. Colonel Thompson, who was seated only two chairs from Sara, looked at his son, his face an impassive mask revealing-nothing decipherable.
The court was called to order and declared to be in session. The first witness for the prosecution was Hulda. When she was sworn in and seated in the witness stand, she felt faint and frightened at the many faces watching her. The prosecutor noticed her reaction to her situation and smiled his appreciation. He would do his biggest damage by prolonging the questioning of this one, or if not prolonging it at least frightening her even more. It would not be difficult to get this domestic to eat out of his hand.
"Your name and occupation, please?"
"Hulda O'Leary," Hulda choked out. "I work as a maid for the De Bois family."
"Tell us how long you've held that position."
"For sixteen years, sir."
"Were you home on Friday last, in August?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell us then what happened."
"I heard a noise downstairs, sir, a great roar. I was detained by putting on my clothes. When I got to the studio where the noise came from, I found -" She pointed at Clay Thompson-"him. He was standing over the dead body of my master with the chisel he done it with in his hand."
The prosecutor turned and addressed the court recorder: "Let the record show that Miss O'Leary pointed at the defendant, Clay Thompson."
Not until the recorder had finished this task did he turn back to Hulda. "And he had killed Frederick De Bois with the chisel."
"Partly, sir," she said, less fearful now of the role she was playing. "He also pushed a statue over on top of him, and that crushed him."
"Was there anyone with you when you entered the work room?"
"Madame De Bois came in right after me, sir."
"What happened then?"
"Well, sir, I ran out to get the men from the stables."
"And what did Madame De Bois do?"
"She fainted, sir, which isn't unusual, considering she just seen her only son murdered. I guess Mr. Thompson carried her into the parlor and laid her down. He was standing over her when we came back in."
"Did he say anything?"
"He shouted something, I can't remember what. The two stablemen had trouble with him, sir. Fought them like a wildcat, he did. But they finally apprehended him, and brought him into town."
"Thank you, Miss O'Leary."
Mr. Peck got slowly to his feet. It seemed unusual for him to take the active part in the case, while the specially hired attorney remained passive. The people noticed it. Questions flew back and forth, until the judge banged his gavel.
"You may cross-examine, Mr. Peck."
"Thank you, your honor.
"Now, Miss O'Leary, I have only two simple questions to ask you. There's no need to be nervous. The first is, did you see the lethal blow struck?"
"I come in right after-"
"I asked you, did you see the blow struck?"
"No, sir."
"Then, it might well have been someone else in the study, rather than Mr. Thompson, mightn't it?"
"I object, your honor!" The prosecutor was on his feet, shouting wildly. "That question calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness!"
"Objection sustained. Strike the question from the record. Mr. Peck, restrict your questions to the proper form, please."
"Yes, your honor.
"Tell me, Miss O'Leary, you said that Mr. Thompson carried the unconscious body of your mistress into the parlor where he attempted to make her comfortable?"
"Yes, sir."
"He didn't flee like a thief? He remained to help a lady who needed his aid? He stayed, even though he knew you had gone for help?"
"Object, your honor! That question is-"
"Objection overruled. Answer the question, Miss O'Leary."
"Yes, sir. He helped her."
"Miss O'Leary," Mr. Peck said, turning a disdainful sneer to the prosecutor. "That will be all."
"Thank you."
"You may step down, Miss O'Leary," the judge said.
The prosecution called Mrs. De Bois to the stand. Her story was substantially the same as Hulda's-except for the end, when she had passed out. The prosecutor hurried out of regard for her age and, when Mr. Peck waived cross-examination, helped her back to her seat in the audience.
Mr. Peck addressed the judge, "If it please your honor, I should like to call a special witness who can shed light on the exact circumstances of this case."
"I must object, your honor," the prosecutor said, rushing back from his theatrics with Mrs. De Bois. "Prosecution has no knowledge of any such witness and is unprepared to make proper cross-examination!"
"Your honor," Mr. Peck said mildly, "we have established that neither the maid nor Madame DeBois saw this murder take place. The witness whom I should like to call saw everything."
Reuel Williams shifted nervously in his seat, wondering what the little lawyer was up to. He was prepared to hear his own name called, but all he had to do was deny any knowledge of the murder.
"Call your witness, Mr. Peck," the judge said. He knew the social stature of Clay Thompson. There might be an unsavory aftermath to this mess unless he allowed every conceivable effort to clear him.
"Thank you, your honor. I now call to the stand Miss Lilli Ann Wedges."
Heads pivoted to the back of the big room, as a door opened and Lilli Ann stepped forth from a room adjoining the courtroom. She walked rigidly down the middle aisle, her eyes directly ahead of her. Her appearance caused a hubbub. The judge rapped his gavel sharply and threatened to clear the court. The audience quietened.
After the routine questions, Mr. Peck asked, "Miss Wedges, would you tell the court where you were on the morning the murder took place?"
"Yes, sir. I was at the De Bois house."
"You had business there?"
"I knew Mr. Thompson was going there," she said. "I wanted to deliver a message, and I got there before him."
"Tell us what happened."
"Well, I didn't go to the door and knock. The house was quiet, so I thought I'd wait in the garden... " A brilliant bolt of lightning followed by a deafening clap of thunder heralded a heavy downpour outside.
People watching from the windows quickly fled to the sheltered porches along the street front. Mr. Peck told Lilli Ann to speak louder, so that she might be heard above the sound of the rain.
"I saw Mr. Reuel Williams inside the house," she said loudly and distinctly. "Mr. De Bois came up to him and acted angry. He and Mr. Williams went into another room. I went around to that window to watch. They got into a terrible argument. Mr. De Bois got beat up bad, and Mr. Williams pushed the statue over on top of him. Then he hit him across the face with a chisel over and over again, but Mr. De Bois was already dead. Mr. Reuel saw me at the window, and he started chasing me... " Reuel Williams stood up, slowly. All the eyes in the courtroom were on him. His face was as white as his hair. He stared wildly at Lilli Ann. Her voice caught for a moment, but she went on talking.
"He chased me across the meadow. He was going to kill me, too. I couldn't outrun him, but I tricked him. He thought I drowned in the river... " Reuel brought the pistol up slowly, took a second's aim and fired. Lilli Ann screamed as the bullet struck her left shoulder. Women screamed and chairs overturned as the spectators pushed away from Reuel. A red flower of blood suddenly blossomed where Lilli Ann had been hit, growing as its petals seeped forth. Lilli Ann slumped to the floor in a dead faint; Pandemonium erupted, a cacophony of hysterical voices screaming, and in the melee Reuel pushed his way to the rear door. The deputies forgot Clay, their quarry was now getting out into the street. Reuel fired at them, into the crowd, and people crushed against one another in their frantic scrambling to get clear. They impeded the deputies, who could not fire back.
Clay rushed to Lilli Ann, reaching her just as Sara did. The judge ordered them to carry her into his chambers, and sent another person for a doctor. Between them, they got Lilli Ann into the small room and laid her on an upholstered sofa. She was breathing in hurried gasps, fighting the shock of her fear. Her eyes opened and she spoke.
"Miss Sara," she moaned, "bend closer. I got to tell you something... "
"Don't talk, Lilli Ann, please." Sara was crying. "The doctor will be here soon, just rest quietly."
"I got to tell you this. Clay went for you that night. He made a mistake-carried me out of the house, because I was wearing your dress. Remember? You gave it to me... "
"Hush, Lilli Ann."
But she went on: "I never told him or you, Miss Sara, but he tried to save you, not me. It wasn't me he loved... not enough, anyway."
She smiled then, a pathetic little smile, as her eyes left Sara and found Clay. She lifted a hand to him. He took it and held it tenderly in his own. She lay still for a moment, overwhelmed with joy at Clay's obvious concern for her.
"Forgive me, Clay," she said softly. "I loved you so much. That's why I couldn't force myself to tell Miss Sara the truth."
"There's nothing to forgive, Lilli Ann," he assured her. "Now don't talk any more. The doc is on his way.
"It would have been easy," Lilli Ann said to Sara, whose bent head muffled her sobbing. "It would've been easy if I hated you. But I couldn't. I've already suffered my share because of what I did. Please understand me... "
"Now lie still," Sara said sharply, though unable to hide the tremor in her voice. "This whole thing was my fault. If I hadn't forced you to come here today you'd still be all right."
"I had to do it for Clay and you," Lilli Ann explained.
Just then the doctor came hurrying in. He spoke to the judge, then bent immediately to examine Lilli Ann, who took one fluttering look at him and closed her eyes. He ripped away the blood-soaked sleeve and with it wiped most of the blood away from the area of the wound. Intently observing all this over the doctor's shoulder, Clay could see immediately that the long shallow wound was not a fatal one. And noting the bland little smile on the doctor's lips, even Sara sensed that there was hope. At this point the judge slipped quietly out of the room.
Clay and Sara watched intently as the doctor opened his bag and took out a square of bandage and a small bottle containing a clear liquid. Lilli Ann's eyes were closed, and she was moaning softly.
The doctor soaked the compress in the liquid and applied it quickly and firmly to the oozing wound. The instant the fiery turpentine mixture touched the open wound Lilli Ann screamed arid sat bolt upright, bowling the dapper little doctor back on his haunches in the process.
"Sonofabitch-bastard!" she shrieked, clasping the wound with her right hand. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
The doctor scrambled to regain his feet and dignity. He looked first at his surprised and somewhat mortified patient, then at Clay and Sara.
"I think she'll live now," he announced, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
Clay burst out laughing, as did Sara. Lilli Ann just sat there, spitting mad though vastly relieved, too, that she wasn't going to die.
"Damn you, Clay Thompson!" she snapped. "I'll get even with you!"
Clay only laughed all the harder.
"Here, girl." The doctor extended a hand and helped Lilli Ann to her feet. "Come sit on the desk over here and I'll bandage that shoulder."
Still highly amused, and herself vastly relieved, Sara moved to Lilli Ann's side and helped escort her to the desk. Lilli Ann, she realized, was the best-in fact, the only friend-she really had. And at that moment of realization, she felt closer to her than she'd ever before felt toward anyone. Suddenly, and without any apparent reason, she turned angrily on Clay.
"Would you please get out of here, Clay Thompson?" she snapped.
Clay stared at her in mute surprise. "Please, Clay?"
There was a strange glint in her eyes.
Women! he thought, and turned and strode angrily to the door.
"And close the door!" she flung at him.
He slammed it and continued on through the chair-strewn courtroom to the porch.
Diagonally across the muddy street, in front of Miller's Hardware Store, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Clay could see his father in the center of the crowd, and beside him the judge.
"What happened?" he asked of the few stragglers on the porch.
"They shot that white-haired fellow that shot that gal," one of them answered. "Is he dead?"
"If he ain't, he will be."
And even as the man spoke, Clay saw the crowd begin to break up and head for the shelter of the porches to escape the rain.
The lifeless body of Reuel Williams lay face down in the mud.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The little boy with the red hair ran tearfully into the library, where Colonel Thompson sat reading. He looked up in astonishment. The lad's thick crop of flaming red hair was vivid in the leather-and-brass dullness of the furnishings. The child flew into his grandpa's arms, causing him to drop the book. The child hugged the old man tightly as the door flew open to reveal a very angry Lilli Ann.
"That little demon is just like Clay!" she expostulated. "And I'm going to tan his hide for what he's gone an' done!"
"Now, hold on, tiger," the Colonel shot back. "Just what did this pore little baby do that was so all-fired bad?"
"'Pore little baby' my ass, sun," Lilli Ann sassed. "He done took a batch of cockleburs and put them under that pore old hound-dog's tail, thas' what he done!"
"Well, that ain't no call to go flying at him or me," the Colonel said, his whiskers bobbing, his face red in anger.
Sara Thompson stood up from the chair in front of the fireplace, and walked over. "Father Thompson," she said, "that's no way to let a child grow up, going unpunished for things he does when he knows they're wrong. Now let Lilli Ann whale the tar out of him for doing what she told him not to do. Goodness knows she's right about him being spoiled."
"Nobody lays a hand on my grandson," the old man said, but without much effort. He was used to bowing to wishes of his fiery daughter-in-law-to say nothing of Lilli Ann, who practically ran the house. She and Sara acted like blood sisters. And in spite of himself he heartily approved.
"Come here, Son," Sara said.
The child slowly but dutifully obeyed.
She knelt before him and looked into his eyes. "Now listen, Lilli told you never to do that again. How would you like it if somebody stuck cockleburs under your tail?"
He laughed delightedly at the prospect of owning a tail.
"Elliot," Sara continued, "Lilli is going to take you out in the kitchen and give you what-for. You've got to learn to treat dumb animals with gentleness. They trust you, and you've got to learn to respect that trust."
He shrilled madly in a tantrum as Lilli Ann took him out. A few minutes later he came flying back, his pride far more injured than his stinging butt.
Elliot Thompson the Second found consolation in his grandfather's loving arms. Back at the fireplace Sara smiled at the sounds of coddling and cooing going on between them. Life had been good to her since the trial-good to all of them...
The extra brandy he'd had before coming up had sharpened his senses, but what he saw before him sharpened them even more. Clay entered his bedroom to find his wife waiting for him. Sara was wearing a soft red silk negligee he'd brought her from New Orleans. The voluminous leg of mutton sleeves were the newest thing in ladies' styles. And its transparency was maddening.
"You know," he said, "I don't believe I'm going to like that dress. It looks too complicated for you to get out of."
She laughed and turned on her side to face him. "Clay Thompson, you're depraved!"
"No," he denied. "I just like my loving."
"You talk big for a man with his clothes on.
"You want 'em off, you take them off."
Sara raised up and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Step a little closer, helpless," she said.
"You love it, and you know it."
Boots and all it took Sara less than thirty seconds to strip him bare. And no sooner had she accomplished the delightful task than he rolled her back on the bed.
"You're impossible," she stammered, as he removed the negligee from her shoulders.
Sara pressed her long slender body against him.
"It was wonderful how you tamed Father today," he mumbled, kissing her throat. "Lilli Ann told me."
"It wasn't easy," Sara snuggled closer to him as he buried his lips on her shoulders. "He fights every inch of the way."
"You used your feminine wiles," he chuckled, cupping her breasts in his hands.
He bent forward and ran his tongue around a nipple. Sara moaned with delight. He closed his mouth over it and began sucking, building up a force inside his mouth. Then he crossed to the other and repeated the performance. Twin torches of desire were burning in her breasts as he sank slowly to his knees, his arms around her waist, his hands rubbing her buttocks. His tongue darted out to criss-cross over her stomach and then went on down, beating out an exquisite arpeggio of tattoos... until she could no longer stand it.
She caught his head and urged him up until their lips met. Her arms encircled his neck as she arched herself up to him. He nibbled playfully about her neck and chin, breathed hotly in her ears. When she could stand it no longer, she reached down and guided him in. Then slowly, their senses aflame with love and passion, they began the motions of intercourse. Even after three years of marriage, this ritual still went on; and each time seemed like the first time all over again.
When they had spent themselves, they lay quietly. Clay rolled over on his side, still holding her pressed to him. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily.
"I love you, Sara," he said simply.
She opened her eyes and regarded him lovingly.
Whatever else he might have said was lost on his lips as she kissed him. He could feel the fluttering of her heart as she lay with her warm damp breasts pressed against him. Tenderly, rapturously he pressed his mouth across her hair, her brow and her cheek, then again upon her mouth. Her eyes remained closed for a long time, until at length they opened to see the deep wonder of his love and devotion.
Outside in the moonlight the cabins of the Negroes nestled in a phantasy world of soft new snow. Smoke curled lazily from their chimneys. Quiet and peaceful night had spread over hill and valley.
Between the window and the lovers on the bed, a lamp flickered merrily on the table. The strife and pains of everyday life were lost to them now in quiet oneness. Perhaps in the eternity to come they would again know their share of sorrow; but not now, not this hour or this night. This night belonged to them.
The flame danced on in the lamp; the stars twinkled brightly in the night; but neither of those fires could match the Olympian flame that burned in their hearts, a flame that would never die in all the years to follow...
