The Gamble (I) (51 page)

She took a bite of meat, looked up, and caught him in a deep study of her feminine attributes. She stopped chewing. He took a gulp of mineral water. Tension buzzed around them for the remainder of the meal.

She wiped her lips for the last time and lay her napkin aside. He pushed his dessert plate back, ordered a cup of coffee, and lit a cheroot, after snipping it with the pair of miniature gold scissors.

“You’re still carrying them, I see.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As he lit the cigar, she watched his lips and moustache conform to the shape of it. Then she became immersed in the pungent aroma, relishing it again. A memory came back, clear as a reflection in still water.

“I remember the day that oil painting of Dierdre was delivered to Proffitt. You paid for my supper at Paulie’s and I was so put out with you I wanted to... to ram your money down your throat.”

“And you were so prim and proper and I was embarrassed as hell about pushin’ you down in the mud.”

“Embarrassed? You?” Her eyebrows rose.

“I was.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of being embarrassed about anything. You always appeared so... so cocksure. And so aggravatingly adept at teasing. Oh, how I hated you.”

Scott leaned back casually in his chair and laughed. “I reckon y’ had good cause.”

“So tell me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “how is Willy?”

Scott’s eyebrows knit and he leaned forward, tapping the
ashtray distractedly with his cheroot.

“Willy’s not the boy he was when he left Proffitt.”

Her happy mood vanished, replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s turnin’ into a brat, that’s what’s wrong. He’s hangin’ around with too many of the wrong people, if y’ ask me. A riverboat gambler, a bartender, a roustabout, three ex-prostitutes, and a black mammy with a mouth as sassy as a hissin’ goose. The only one he doesn’t seem to pick up bad habits from is Marcus. The girls spoil him terribly and he occasionally lapses into some of their gutter language. Leatrice gives him his way all the time, and when he goes off with the men into the woods it’s hard t’ tell what kind o’ talk he’s exposed to. He’s even gotten demandin’ with me. When I don’t give him his way, he pouts or gets mouthy. I tell you, Gussie, sometimes when he talks back to me...”—he made a fist in the air—“... I want t’ turn him over my knee and tan his backside.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

The fist relaxed. Scott’s expression softened. “I guess because he got enough o’ that kind o’ treatment from his old man.”

“But Alvis Collinson never loved him, Scott. You do. He would surely know the difference.”

He knew she was right and shook his head despairingly. “I can’t do it, Gussie. I’ll never be able t’ raise my hand t’ that boy.”

In her chest she felt the lump of love expand, recognizing in those few words the kind of father he was; the kind she’d always wished for herself.

“But Willy must be reprimanded when the occasion calls for it or he’ll only continue to get worse, and there’s nothing more unlikable than a willful child.”

“He’s willful, all right. But it’s not really his fault. Part of the problem is that he has nobody his own age t’ play with. I’ve taken him into town a couple times t’ spend an afternoon with a little boy his own age, named A.J. Bayles, but Willy is so insufferable t’ A.J. that he hasn’t been invited back again. And he’s started talkin’ to an imaginary friend.”

Agatha didn’t appear to be fazed a bit. “That’s not unusual. I did that a lot when I was a child. Didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be so concerned if it weren’t this particular friend.”

“Who?”

Gandy frowned at the ashtray and tamped out his cigar more times than necessary. “Gussie, you’re goin’ t’ think I’m mad, but the bedroom where Willy and I sleep is... well, that is... it seems t’ be haunted.”

Instead of looking bemused, Agatha asked seriously, “By whom?”

“You believe me?” he asked, amazed.

“Why not? By whom?”

“I think it’s Justine, my daughter.”

“And she’s the one Willy talks to?”

“Yes.” Almost unconsciously, he reached across the table for her hand. His eyes were dark, worried. “Gussie, I’ve heard her, too. She calls for help. Never anywhere except in the northwest bedroom on the second floor, the one we call the children’s room. But it’s as clear as any human voice I’ve ever heard, and several times I’ve seen the imprint where she—or somebody—has lain on the bed, when nobody else has been in the room t’ muss it.”

“Does it frighten you?”

He considered a moment. “No.”

“Is Willy frightened?”

“No. Quite the opposite.”

“Then what harm can come of it? You seem to have a friendly ghost. And if you’re her father, she surely wouldn’t harm you or anyone close to you.”

He looked at Gussie as if in a new light. “You’re amazin’.”

“My father was a miner. There are no more suspicious people in the world than miners. If they hear so much as a falling pebble in a deep shaft they attribute it to ghosts. And there are plenty who’ll swear they were right, especially after cave-ins.”

He was so relieved at her acceptance of his tale that he felt guilty for having tried to reason with Willy. “I told Willy it was impossible for him t’ have seen and talked t’
Justine. I suppose that was the wrong thing for me t’ do.”

“Maybe. If it were me, I’d allow him to talk to her all he wants. What harm can come of it? If she’s just a figment of his imagination, he’ll outgrow it in time. If not, he’s no more deranged than you, is he?”

“Ah, Gussie, I’m so relieved. It’s been on my mind so much lately, but I was afraid t’ talk t’ anybody at Waverley about it. I thought if I did, it might get back to Leatrice, and she’s already wearin’ a smelly asafetida bag around her neck t’ ward off hants, as she calls ‘em. If she finds out there really is one, we’ll never get her inside the mansion again. And even though she’s outrageously insubordinate, I need her there t’ keep the place runnin’ smoothly.”

“This Leatrice sounds somewhat like Ruby.”

“She is. But, as I said before, she’s started to influence Willy. He’s pickin’ up her bossiness and her bad grammar. Which leads us to another point. Willy is six already. He should be goin’ to school, but the closest one is in Columbus, and it’s a ten-mile drive, one-way. I don’t have the time t’ make that trip twice a day, and there’s certainly nobody on Waverley qualified t’ tutor him.”

Agatha’s heartbeat accelerated even before Scott went on.

“Which is why I’ve brought you here, Gussie.” He still held her hand, their fingers linked, palms down. “He needs you, Gussie, more than he needs anyone else right now. He cries for you at bedtime, and at Christmastime he raised a regular stink because I didn’t bring you t’ Waverley or send him t’ Proffitt. I try t’ do the right things for him, but after talkin’ with you such a short time I realize my judgment isn’t nearly as good as yours. He needs your steady, dependable sense of right and wrong. And someone who knows how to say no to him and make it stick. Somebody t’ monitor what he picks up from the girls and Leatrice... and even me. He needs a teacher, daily lessons. You could do all those things, Gussie, if you came to Waverley.”

So there it was—his proposition. So much for her foolish misconception that he’d brought her here with anything so tempting as seduction on his mind. She need not worry herself about it further. Neither need she waste even the
briefest moments supposing that he’d brought her here to ask her to marry him. He didn’t want her as a consort or a wife, only as a governess for Willy.

The picture of Willy crying for her at bedtime raised a surge of maternal caring within her breast. But it could not quite quell the disappointment she felt. She withdrew her fingers from Scott’s and folded her hands in her lap.

“I would be a governess, then?”

“Why does that sound like such a cold word? You mean as much to Willy as any real mother could. That makes you so much more than a governess. Say you’ll do it, Gussie.”

And live in your house, longing for you for the remainder of my life?

“When would you want me to come?”

He sat forward eagerly. “Jube’s taken that decision out of my hands by demandin’ that I get you to Waverley with all due haste, t’ start makin’ her wedding gown. She and Marcus are plannin’ t’ be married on the last Saturday in March, and she said she wants you at the weddin’. Now what do you say?”

She felt obliged to put up some resistance, no matter how weak. “But I have a business. I can’t just up and leave it.”

“Why not? It’s slowly dyin’ anyway. Y’ told me yourself hats will soon be a thing of the past. And with factories on the eastern seaboard turnin’ out ready-made clothin’, the seamstress’s trade is sentenced to the same demise. It’s only a matter of time.”

“But what about Violet?”

“Ah, Violet.” Gandy paused to recall the glinting blue eyes of the wrinkled little woman. “Yes, it would be hard for you t’ leave Violet.” He quirked one eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you left the entire business t’ her.”

“The whole business?”

“Well, what else are you goin’ t’ do with that... that aviary of birds’ nests and butterflies, and those cubbyholes full of ribbons and lace, and that enormous rolltop desk? Why, you could even leave her the furniture in your apartment—that is, if you don’t object. We certainly have all
we need at Waverley. And wouldn’t it be a nice change for Violet t’ have a place of her own instead of only a tiny room at Mrs. Gill’s boardin’ house?”

The thought of Violet gave Agatha pause. Violet had become a true friend. Leaving her would be very sad, indeed.

“I think,” Scott said, “that Violet would be the first one t’ encourage you to say yes. Am I right?”

As if Violet were here, Agatha heard her titters at Scott’s sudden appearance in the store, saw the little woman blushing as he leaned over her blue-veined hand and brushed it with his lips, heard her breathlessness as she sank to a chair and fanned her flushed face with a lavender-scented hankie.

“You never came within a country mile of Violet Parsons without her wishing she were forty years younger. How could I expect an unbiased opinion out of a woman like that?”

He laughed. “Then you’ll do it?”

She might be a virgin, a virtual innocent. But there were vibrations between Scott Gandy and herself that could not be mistaken. She might vacillate between believing and disbelieving them, depending on her state of emotions. But in her saner moments she realized full well that within them both an undeniable physical attraction was being nurtured with each hour they spent together.

She should ask him—should she not?—what his intentions were on that score. Was she then, in time, meant to become his live-in mistress now that Jube was marrying Marcus? A man like Scott would not do without a woman for long, and though he hadn’t said he loved her, love seemed unnecessary to him when considering consortium. After all, he hadn’t loved Jube either. Yes, she should ask him, but how did a woman broach a subject like that with a man who hadn’t even kissed her after a five-month separation? A woman like Agatha Downing didn’t.

In the end she drew a quavering breath, held it a moment, then released it in a rush. “I will. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That I leave Violet with everything except my Singer
sewing machine. If she wants one, she’ll have to buy her own. Mine was a gift from you and I think it’s only fitting that I bring it to Waverley to make Jube’s dress.”

“Very well. Consider the freight paid.”

When he saw her to the door, it was not with the goodnight kiss for which she’d hoped, but with a firm handshake on the pact they’d made.

He took her to the springs twice each day for the next two days while they stayed to enjoy the spa, and though they grew friendlier than ever in terms of conversation and companionableness, not once during those two days at White Springs did he make the slightest advance toward her...

Until they were at the train depot and he was seeing her off again.

What was it about train depots that made hearts grow desolate even before good-byes were said?

Just before she boarded, he took her by both arms and kissed her squarely on the mouth. She sensed when he did it that he was determined to keep the kiss short and friendly. But when it ended and he looked into her eyes and her gloved fingertips rested against his breast, the temptation became too great and he drew her to him, more gently this time, and kissed her once—a moist, voluptuous kiss with his tongue saying good-bye inside her mouth—and made her knees go watery and her heart detonate like cannon shot.

When he set her back and looked again into her eyes, she had the awful feeling that men and women kissed this way all over the world, at moments such as these, and it was only her lack of experience that made her believe this was special between her and Scott, that it meant something more than it actually did.

Why did you wait three days to do that?
she wanted to ask. But a woman of propriety didn’t ask such things.

“Good-bye,” she said instead. “And thank you for giving me swimming in White Springs. I’ll never forget it.”

“I didn’t give you anything. White Springs was always here for you t’ take.”

But he had and they both knew it. He had given her more
than any other human being had ever given. He had given her, if not his own love, then hers for him. And giving it, she discovered, was the next best thing to having it reciprocated.

There was a mood created by rocking trains that lent itself to introspection—the landscape moving faster and faster until it became a smear of green in the distance; the incessant thunder of metal on metal shimmying up from below until its vibrations became as much a part of the rider as his own heartbeat; the keening whistle carried on the wind as a faint sigh; outside, the green turning to black, and a face looking back at the rider, and that face her own. It was like having one’s subconscious staring back, demanding examination.

On her way back to Proffitt, Agatha spent the hours thinking about the gamble she was taking—and it was a gamble, wasn’t it? Purgatory against heaven. For to live in Scott Gandy’s house as nothing more than a governess was to deliver herself into eternal purgatory. She loved him, she wanted him, she wanted a life with him, but as his wife and nothing less. Yet he spoke of neither love nor marriage. Living in his house, keeping her feelings silent—would it truly be preferable to staying in Proffitt alone?