Receive Me Falling (17 page)

As much as Catherine longed to remain at Esther’s
side, she felt the overwhelming need to go on with her day as planned.
 
Perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps her
father’s health would improve.
 
Perhaps
this was just a hard lesson. Resolved to push forward, Catherine kissed
Esther’s hand, closed the door as she exited the room, and again set out to
inventory the food storehouse.

The
Ewing plantation came into view as Catherine
and her father rounded a bend on the road in their gig.
 
Catherine was ill at ease, uncomfortable in
her finery, and glum at the prospect of enduring such an evening as her father
rambled on about the magnificence of their neighbors and the charms of young
Edward.
 
His recent escalation of
effusions of the subject of Edward Ewing was beginning to concern
Catherine.
 
She found Edward conceited in
his manners, full of self-importance, haughty to those around him, and cruel to
his slaves.
 
His charming façade did not
fool Catherine, and she found evenings spent dodging his flattery to be
tiresome.

A finely dressed slave led the Dalls into the
massive Ewing foyer and went to fetch his
masters.
 
Catherine gazed upon the lavish
surroundings with distaste.
 
Everything
was in overabundance at Goldenrise.
 
Massive, expensive furniture cluttered every room, vast feasts spilled
off the table at every meal, a profusion of alcohol was consumed, and the most
decadent and impractical clothing were worn.
 

As Catherine looked around the room she was
confronted with her reflection in the massive, gold-gilded mirror that hung in
the foyer.
 
Her skin was tanned, her hair
was bleached white from time spent in the sun, and her dark eyes were hung with
shadows—a slave with white hair.
 
She
smiled with irony at her likeness and realized how scandalous it would be to
mingle about society in England
with such a face.

“You are a dazzling sight to behold, Miss Dall,”
said Edward.
 
“I see you’ve even charmed
yourself.”

Catherine colored with embarrassment as Edward
took her arm and led her to the dining room.
 
She cursed herself for allowing Edward to witness and misinterpret such
a moment.
 

“It was amusement at my appearance that you
witnessed,” she said.
 
“My skin is shockingly
dark for an Englishwoman.
 
Mrs. Hall
would be mortified if I were her daughter.”

“What you say is true; however, tanned skin is
strangely becoming on you.”

Catherine ignored his remark and pulled her arm
from his grasp as the small party sat at the table to dine.

As the dinner progressed, Catherine moved the food
about her enormous gold-rimmed plate as the men laughed and conversed around
her.
 
Edward, noticing her displeasure,
urged his Father to quiet himself.

           
“We are in the presence of a lady, Father,”
said Edward.
 
“I apologize. We are not
accustomed to the fairer sex.”

           
Catherine exchanged glances with a
timid female slave who hurried out of the room.

           
Cecil and Bartholomew continued to
try and outtalk one another while Edward leaned closer to Catherine.

           
“I’m delighted you could join us
this evening.
 
We need a proper feminine
influence to smooth some of our rough edges.”
 

Edward could see that he was not charming his
guest, and searched for another avenue to conversation with Catherine.
 
“I am touched by your sweetness in attending
to the slaves.
 
Do the beasts even
acknowledge your sacrifices on their behalf?”

           
“The men, women, and children I
assist are always very grateful if that is what you are asking.”

           
“Have you been speaking to the Methodists?
 
You are beginning to sound like an
abolitionist.”

           
“I am merely acknowledging that to
deny a slave is as human as you or me is foolish,” said Catherine.

           
“Your childish optimism is very
refreshing—overly simplistic and idealistic—but refreshing.”

           
“You need not patronize me.”

Before Catherine was able to continue her argument
with Edward, a strange, unpleasant odor crept into the dining room—one of
scorched hair and burning vegetation. Cecil urged the group to move to the back
of the house to watch the rat-burning, which he announced must be commencing as
they spoke.
  
They all moved to the back
veranda and beheld the breathtaking and frightening sight of the burning
field.
 

Ten feet of land had been cleared and filled with
wet beach sand around the entire perimeter of the field.
 
The flames rose high into the air, smoke
blotted out the stars and a potent stench arose from the hellish inferno. They
watched the fire for a long time in silence as it blazed inward to the center
of the field and smoldered out along its edges.
 
Dark figures like little demons could be seen raking over and stamping
out tiny fires left burning in the cane.
 

The revolting smell indicated that many rats were
indeed burning.
 
Seizing the opportunity
to hasten their departure, Catherine complained of a headache.
 
The party moved back indoors and approached
the front entranceway.
 
Catherine and
Cecil boarded the gig, and Bartholomew stumbled back into the house as Edward
watched the carriage until it disappeared from view.

7

Meg’s
head was throbbing.
 
She took her pain
medication, showered, and waited for the headache to subside while turning over
last night’s conversations.
 
She had
phoned Brian on her way back to the villa to tell him about the dinner and her
plans to sell the estate.
 
He had been
mostly quiet, but seemed to be in agreement with her on the need to sell.
 
Meg had convinced herself that selling to Grand
Star was the best way to secure money to start paying back her father’s
debts.
 
They could offer the best
possible price—maybe even enough to take care of all of her father’s
debts.
 
Then she could keep her other
assets, and put it all behind her.
 

           
Brian had seemed distracted on the
phone.
 
He had not said much about the
sale of the land, but did seem interested in hearing about Drew.
 
Brian had told her about some places of
interest in Nevis he found on the Internet
that she might want to visit during her stay, and peppered her with questions
about the villa, but then got off the phone in a hurry.

 
          
After
her conversation with Brian, Meg called Howard at home to discuss her
meeting.
 
He had said that a class-action
suit had been filed against the Owen estate for sixty-eight million
dollars.
 

           
“Meg, are you there?” asked Howard.

           
“Yes.”

           
“Worse than you expected?”

           
“Much.”

           
“You know, I’ve had several hours to
digest this and have spoken extensively on the phone with their attorney—who, I
might add, I have done business with in the past and have a very good
rapport.
  
Their attorney said that all
of the parties listed in the suit are pained over this and are simply seeking
their losses—nothing more.
 
It’s amazing,
really.
 
Your father may have stolen from
these people, but they still consider him a friend.”

Meg flinched.
 

“If we are able to quickly turn over these assets,
we may be able to settle rather soon,” he said.
 
“Of course, that won’t leave you with much of anything.”

Meg had thought about that, and it wasn’t sitting
well.
 
She had just learned that she was
a multimillionaire heiress, only to learn that she might end up broke.
 
Meg was accustomed to a certain style of
living and did not look forward to making any adjustments to it.
 

           
Howard said that he would set her up
with an agent to survey the property as soon as possible.
 
Meg was grateful he was taking care of
that.
 
In the meantime, Meg told Howard
that she would do some more research on Benjamin West and how she might get the
painting assessed.

           
“I’m sure you’ll want to keep the
press out of this as much as possible, Meg. We will get through this as quickly
as possible.”

           
Meg hung up the phone, and feeling
rather helpless, and with nothing else to do, she fixed herself a
Night Cap
.

           
Meg slipped into the warmth of the
plunge pool to watch the night move over the sky.
 
She heard the far-off waves crashing and the
singing of the bellfrogs.
 
A faint breeze
played on the leaves.
 
If the air had not
cooled so much, she could have stayed out there all night.
 
As it was, she was chilled and could not keep
her eyes open.
 

Her sleep was fitful.
 
Since the accident, Meg had been dreaming
vivid dreams that her parents were still alive.
 
Always out sailing on the bay with her mom, dad, and Brian.
 
Usually on the Fourth of July—the day Brian
proposed—while they watched fireworks from the Annapolis Harbor.
 
They were all sunburned from a long day on
the water, and a bit tipsy.
 
Brian
disappeared below deck for a minute.
 
Richard gave Anne a knowing look and dropped the whaler into the black
water.
 
Brian came back up and asked Meg
to take a ride out away from the other boats with him.
 
Zigzagging between the throngs of holiday
boaters until they were at least a hundred yards from anyone.
 
Watching fireworks over the harbor from the
distance.
 
Masts rocking back and forth,
water lapping, thunderous explosions muffled from the humid air.
 
Meg almost didn’t hear Brian over the
fireworks. She saw the ring first.
 
When
they got back on the boat she hugged her parents.
 
They hugged Brian.
 
Richard turned back toward the display and
mumbled to himself, “And just like that, she’s gone.”
 
But Meg had heard.
 
And that was how she woke up each day.
 
And each day she had to remember that it was
not she who was gone, but them.

The worst part of grieving, Meg often thought, was
waking up each morning and having to remember over and over again that her
parents were dead.
 
There were those few
precious, innocent seconds, followed by that stab of pain. She wished she could
just know that they were dead.
  

The
knock at the door was tentative, as if the person on the other side of it was
not confident that he had the right place, or wasn’t sure it was his place to
be there.
 
Meg opened the door to Drew.
  
She had called him earlier that morning to
invite him to accompany her to the plantation.
 
She felt that she could trust Drew and knew that he would take a keen
interest in exploring Eden.
 
He may even have some advice for her on what
to do about the artwork.
 
She told him
that she would drop him off at the museum when they finished.

           
“How’s Mrs. Edmead doing?”

           
“Oh, fine,” said Drew.
 
“Thank you for asking.
 
She is diabetic and was feeling a bit under
the weather yesterday.
 
She needed some
adjustment to her medication.”

           
“I hope she doesn’t mind that I’m
taking you away from her for some adventure this morning.”

           
“I did tell her that the beautiful
young lady who gave me a ride had asked me on a date, but she didn’t seem too
worried.
 
She thinks I’ll be back
soon.
 
She thinks I won’t be able to keep
up with you.”

           
Meg laughed as she packed two
bottles of water and her camera in her bag.
 

           
“I’ve found a way to take the jeep
up the drive, so you won’t fall in any holes and twist your ankle like I did
the other day,” said Meg.
 
“The house
itself seems surprisingly sturdy.
 
You’ll
be just fine.”

           
Meg drove Drew out to the main road
and down about a hundred yards.
 
A rusted
gate sat buried in the foliage on the side of the road.
 
She hopped out of the jeep, pushed the gate
open, and proceeded down the long, overgrown path to the plantation house.

           
As Eden came into view, Drew’s face grew
shadowed and serious.

           
“Are you okay?”

           
He paused a moment, but then
answered. “I’m fine, yes.”

           
Meg turned off the jeep and stepped
out onto the crushed shells by the remains of an aged, cracked fountain.
 
Drew walked to her side and they stared up at
the Great House.
 

           
Meg said, “Can you imagine what this
place must have been like in the 1800s?”

           
“Can you imagine what its
inhabitants would have thought to see us here together today?”

           
They were quiet as they entered the
house.
 
Meg showed Drew around each of
the downstairs rooms.
 
Just as Meg had
suspected, Drew was thrilled by the condition of the house.
 
He was most interested in the
pianoforte.
 
Meg thought of the piano
music she heard in the night.

           
“Would a slave have been able to
play the piano?” she asked.

           
“That would be unlikely, unless she
learned from watching her mistress get lessons.
 
Sometimes, slaves were educated right under their masters’ noses.
 
Many slave owners thought slaves to be
subhuman beasts of little intelligence.
 
They would tell secrets, get educated, and learn instruments in front of
their slaves not suspecting that the men, women, and children serving them
could learn too.
 
Why do you ask?”

           
“It’s silly.”

           
“Are you thinking of the piano music
that can be heard in the middle of the night?”

           
“I am.”

           
Drew walked over to the pianoforte
and played a few sour notes on the tuneless keyboard.
 

           
“The music I’ve been hearing sounds
much more melodic,” said Meg.

           
“You have trouble sleeping?”

           
“Lately.”

           
Drew began to play
Moonlight Sonata
.
 
It sounded strange played on such an old
instrument, but it was still recognizable.
 

           
“Me too.”

           
Meg smiled at Drew.

           
“But your hands—“

           
“My right hand is fine. My left
still has two working fingers.
 
Since the
right hand plays the melody, I’m able to improvise with the left.
 
It’s not so difficult, really.”

           
“Amazing.”

           
“It is amazing how people
adapt.
 
It could have been much worse.”

           
Drew stopped playing and gestured to
the painting.

           
“This must be the Dalls?” he said.

           
“I would imagine.”

           
“Beautiful girl.
 
She looks very much in control of her
surroundings.
 
Do you see how she holds
her father’s shoulder?
 
She’s in charge.”

           
“He looks amused, glassy-eyed.”

           
Drew knelt down and lifted up a
piece of the painting that had been torn.
 
He fit it back into place.

           
“Do you see this?”

           
Meg looked carefully at Cecil Dall’s
left hand.
  
He held a glass of amber
colored liquid.

           
“Rum?”

           
“It would appear that way.”