Natchez Flame (18 page)

“Why is owning that much land so important? Most people would be happy with half as much as you already own.”

“I’m not ‘most people,’ Priscilla, though I started out that way. Like a great many men, I grew up with nothing. My father died when I was young; my mother did her best, but it wasn’t much. By the time I was thirteen, I was out on my own.”

“Your mother died, too?”

“Ran off with a gambler.”

“Oh.”

“It was a bitter existence, I’ll tell you, living in the streets of Natchez, fighting for every mouthful of food. A man’ll do damned near anything just to stay alive.”

She thought of her bleak life with Aunt Maddie—at least she’d had a decent place to live, plenty to eat, and her schooling—far more than Stuart had had.

“Eventually I started working in the shipping trade,” he continued, “loading goods aboard the steamboats going up and down the river. Later I got a job in a freighting office. I swore the day would
come when people would look up to me the way they did the men I worked for. Someday they would respect me—and obey my orders without question. That day has come.”

He slapped the reins lightly on the horse’s rump, a lovely sorrel mare with a blaze of white on her face, and the buggy rolled off down the hill.

“I intend to be a force to be reckoned with in this state.” He smiled down at her. “With a woman like you beside me, nothing can stand in my way.”

Priscilla smiled with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

“See that rise to your left?” Stuart pointed in that direction. “That’s the far border of the Warton spread. It connects our eastern boundary, has good water, and brings us closer to the main trail between San Antonio and Corpus Christi. So far Warton has refused my offers to buy him out. But it’s only a matter of time. Sooner or later that land will be mine.”

Priscilla felt a shiver of unease at the determination in his tone. “How can you be so certain? Surely there are some men who would rather own their own land than accept your money.”

Stuart pinned her with a glance, the easy smile gone from his face. “There are ways….”A hard edge had crept into his voice, and Priscilla’s unease grew. “When it comes to the ranch, you needn’t concern yourself. Your place will be in the home.”

Though she wasn’t sure she liked the way he said it, she felt compelled to agree. “I suppose you’re right about that. With such a large household to run, seeing to the cooking and cleaning, the mending and so forth, I’m sure I’ll be busy.”

“Nonsense,” he said, surprising her. “Consuela will see to the house and the staff. Once you’re my wife, you’ll hold a position of great importance. I’ll not have you working at menial labor.”

“But surely there is something I can contribute. What kind of a life would I have doing nothing?”

“In a very short time you’ll have sons to attend,” he reminded her, and Priscilla flushed at his words. “We’ll be traveling quite often. I’ve a trip to Washington planned. You’ll need the proper clothing—I’ve already sent to San Antonio for some of the items you’ll need. As soon as it’s feasible, we’ll travel to New Orleans.”

His eyes slid down to the narrow span of her waist then moved upward to settle on her breasts. “In the meantime, I have plans for you of my own.”

Priscilla watched the way his pupils darkened and his mouth went thin. She forced herself not to shudder. What was there about him she found so disturbing, almost repelling? Why did she sense he’d be as unyielding and demanding in the marriage bed as he was when it came to his ranch?

“Stuart … I know Judge Dodd has traveled quite some distance…. I know you’ve planned a celebration and all, but surely you can understand my reluctance to rush into marriage. We have only just met and I—”

“The wedding is set, Priscilla. You’re under my protection and guidance from now on. I understand your shyness—you are, after all, a virgin. However, sooner or later, you’ll have to do your wifely duty. The longer you postpone it, the more you’ll fear it. By tomorrow, you’ll know your husband and your fears
will be put to rest. That is the end of it.” He urged the horse into a trot, and the buggy rolled on down the road.

Priscilla said nothing more. Tears stung her eyes, but she willed them away.
Her wifely duty.
No words of affection, no caring, no gentleness. She would spread her legs for him, he would take what he believed was his, and be done with it. She would know none of the passion she had shared with Brendan, none of the joy.

None of the love.

A short time ago, she could have accepted it, would silently have endured it. Now, she’d have to steel herself, resist the urge to recoil from him, and let him have his way.

The buggy bounced along, and Priscilla forced her attention back to the land that was her new home. Besides the small cabins in the compound itself, tiny workers’ houses, some of wood, some of stone, darkened the brushy landscape near its perimeter.

“With the war so close at hand,” she said, determined to make conversation, “I’m surprised you haven’t had trouble with the Mexicans who work for you.”

“These men know little of the war. They’ve lived on this land for more than a century. Now that the land is mine, their loyalty is to me—and of course, to Texas. There were Mexicans who fought against General Santa Anna at the Alamo.”

Priscilla arched a brow. “I never knew that.”

“If it came down to it, these men would stand with me.” There was pride in his tone and a toughness he hadn’t shown in his letters.

“I see.” Such loyalty was hard to imagine, and yet she’d glimpsed it already. As the buggy jounced along, she looked off the road to her left. Even from a distance, she could make out the shiny black skin of several Negroes, stripped to their waists in the sun, shovel in hand, bent to their tasks.

“I didn’t expect to see so many Negroes this far from the South,” she observed.

“Texas
is
the South, my dear. Those nigras belong to me. They’re slaves.”

“Slaves? You own slaves?”

“Not many, something less than thirty. When I moved here from Natchez, I brought them with me.”

Why did each revelation seem so overwhelming? “I … didn’t realize…. In Cincinnati, people don’t believe in slavery. It seems such a harsh institution.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Stuart snapped. “Those people are nothing like us. If I didn’t provide for them, they’d probably starve. All I ask in return is a good day’s labor, no different from any other man.”

“Other men choose their labor,” Priscilla pointed out. “Black men have no choice.”

Stuart’s irritation grew. “Whatever position you’ve held on this matter in the past, from now on your opinion will be the same as mine. I intend to enter politics. Texas is a slave state. I’ll continue to uphold Southern beliefs in that institution and you, my dear, will do the same.”

Priscilla’s chin came up and with it a surge of anger. “Marrying you does not give you the right to control my thoughts, Stuart. We both came from
Natchez, but I’ve never believed in slavery, and I don’t intend to start now.”

Stuart started to argue, his eyes hard on hers. The woman beside him had squared her shoulders and clenched her hands into fists.
Who did the little fool think she was?
Nothing but another mouth to feed, someone to clothe and provide for. She’d pay with her body and the sons she would bear, but she would learn to obey him. A muscle ticked in his cheek but he forced himself to calm.

He smiled. “Our wedding day is hardly the time to discuss our political differences. I’m sorry if I sounded overbearing.”

His smile grew broader. “It appears you aren’t the only one who’s nervous about getting married. I seem to have a case of bridegroom jitters myself. Why don’t we go back to the house and you can rest for a while? We’ll see more of the ranch in the future.”

“All right.” Priscilla ignored the knot in her stomach. Maybe he
was
just nervous. Across the road, one of the Mexican workers waved toward the buggy, and Stuart waved back. None of his people seemed bothered by his high-handedness. Not even Consuela. They all appeared happy and content.
Well-cared for
, Consuela had said. What more could they ask? What more could
she
ask?

“A mind of their own,” she mumbled aloud.

“What did you say, my dear?”

Priscilla smiled tightly. “I said I hope you don’t mind our returning home.”

Stuart reached a hand to her knee and patted it solicitously. “Of course not, darling. It’s obvious
you’ve a delicate constitution. In the future, I’ll be sure to remember that.”

Priscilla’s stomach churned.

“Your gown
es muy hermosa
—very beautiful—the prettiest dress I have ever seen.” Consuela’s large hand ran lovingly over the heavy silk fabric, the rich ivory color shimmering against her olive-skinned hand.

“Thank you,” Priscilla said softly. “I made it myself.”

Staring at her image in the big oval looking glass, Priscilla had to admit she looked lovely. Though her face seemed pale, the skin beneath her eyes a little too dark, the gown she wore was beautiful indeed.

She touched a cluster of tiny glass beads that shimmered against the silk. They nestled here and there among layers of ivory lace festooning the voluminous skirt. The neck veed gently, framing her bosom with rows of the same delicate lace. Made of ivory peau de soie, a flat-finished satin so rich in texture it begged to be touched, the dress emphasized her tiny waist, the upturned swell of her breast. More of the ivory lace, gathered near each elbow, hung down to her wrists.

“You are a very fine seamstress,” Consuela said.
“El patron’s
last wife could not sew.”

“You knew her?” Priscilla’s head came up.

“For a while before she died. She was a fine lady. Very shy and reserved. She spent most of her time reading.
Señor
Egan bought her many beautiful books.”

“Did Stuart … did he love her?”

“Señor
Egan is not one to show his feelings. I think he cared for her. Mostly he was busy with his
rancho”

I see.

“Turn around,
señorita.
Hand me the rose, so I may pin it in your hair.”

It was a single white rose from the garden below the window, the delicate petals just a shade lighter than the dress. Priscilla flinched as one of the thorns pricked her finger.

“It seems there is always a price to pay for great beauty,” Consuela said, noting the small drop of blood.

“I suppose so.” What price would she pay for this beautiful house, the servants, and a wardrobe of expensive clothes?

Sucking at the tiny drop of red, she handed the rose to Consuela, who plucked off the thorns and pinned it into her hair. The big Mexican woman had proved surprisingly adept, using a hot curling iron to fashion long, dark chestnut curls, then separating the heavy mass and tying a cluster of ringlets below each ear.

“There,” she said as she finished.
“Señor
Egan will be very pleased.”

Priscilla looked in the mirror. If only her eyes could sparkle with the same lovely lights as the gown.

On impulse she turned to the plump Mexican woman who was the closest thing she had to a friend. “Am I doing the right thing, Consuela? I mean, I hardly know him. We’ve been writing, of course, but he’s nothing at all like his letters. Except for his
looks, that is, I mean he’s handsome and all, but—” At the look of astonishment on Consuela’s face, she broke off.

“Every bride is nervous on her wedding day,” Consuela said. “But you must face the truth. You have told me you have no family, no one to watch out for you. You have no money, no way to find work. Unless
Señor
Egan arranged it, you could not even return to what was once your home.” She cupped Priscilla’s cheek in a work-calloused palm. “It is time you grew up,
niña.
My Dolores had no choice in this matter—and neither do you.”

At the truth of her words, tears welled in Priscilla’s eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Consuela’s voice grew stern. “You will do what all women do. You will survive and make the best of things. If you are lucky, and
Señor
Egan is pleased, you may even find a way to be happy. Now end your crying and prepare yourself to meet your husband.”

Knowing Consuela spoke the truth, Priscilla swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped at her tears, a little ashamed of her outburst.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.” She forced herself to smile, though it felt as if her lips would crack. “Things will work out. I’ll make Stuart a good wife, just as I planned. We’ll raise a family, and we’ll both be very happy.”

“Sí,
niña.
Things will work out.” Her tone was solid and reassuring, but there was a sadness in her eyes Priscilla didn’t miss. “Come. It is time for your wedding.”

Even before Consuela opened the door, Priscilla
could hear the music, soft strains of guitar that drifted up from below, filling the room with its poignant melody.

The house rang with voices and laughter and the sound of the servants’ shuffling feet. The smells of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread pervaded every corner of the house—aromas succulent and inviting.

Head held high, Priscilla walked down the hall toward the joyous sounds below, while Consuela silently slipped out of sight. At the bottom of the staircase, Noble Egan stood waiting, resplendent in his black tailcoat and smiling up at her. Beside him, a small Mexican boy clutched a bouquet of white roses that matched the one in her hair.

“You look lovely,” Noble said to her, extending his arm. Needing his gentle support, she gladly accepted. “My father has chosen a very lovely bride.”

“Thank you, Noble.”

“For you,
señorita.”
The little Mexican boy handed her the roses. He grinned, a front tooth missing, when she knelt to accept them.

“This is Ferdinand,” Noble told her. “We call him Ferdy. He’s one of the Juárez children.”

“Juárez?” she repeated.

“Bernardo Juárez, the overseer. Besides the cattle we raise, there are gardens to attend, corn fields, vegetables—and of course the mill. Bernardo works with the men in the fields.”