The Gamble (I) (53 page)

“Humph!” Leatrice readjusted her crossed hands over her barrel belly. “An’ I know who.”

Zach arrived with the baggage and the men began unloading it. Jack and Marcus came up the steps bearing the sewing machine. Zach and Ivory followed with a trunk, the latter with Agatha’s pink-flowered hat perched on his head.

“Where you git dat hat, boy?” Leatrice demanded.

Agatha snatched it off. “It’s mine, but the master of Waverley has issued his first order—no hats for me.”

“Where to with these things?” Jack asked.

“The right parlor,” Gandy answered, and the men moved inside.

Willy came by, lugging a hatbox nearly as big as he, while Jube and the girls followed with additional luggage. As they disappeared inside, Agatha plucked at the petals on the hat and peered up at Gandy with a teasing light in her eyes. “And where to with this thing?”

Gandy glanced wryly at the hat with its pink cabbage roses and whorl of net and its cluster of cherries in a sprig of green leaves.

“No offense, Agatha,” he said, “but that is the singularly most ugly thing I’ve ever seen. Why any woman with hair like yours would want t’ cover it with cabbage roses and cherries is a mystery t’ me.”

Agatha stopped plucking at the silk petals, sighed, and quite by chance won the black woman’s heart forever by inquiring, “Would you have any use for one slightly used pink hat, Leatrice?”

Leatrice’s eyes widened and fixed upon the gaudy creation. Her hands reached out slowly, reverently.

“Dis? Fo’ me?”

“If you don’t mind it being slightly worn.”

“Lawdy...”

Gandy grinned at Agatha and said, “Come on. Let me show you the house.”

They left Leatrice on the front steps, wearing the abominable-smelling asafetida bag around her neck and the pink hat on her head.

Scott took Agatha through a door wider and higher than any she’d ever seen into the grand rotunda, where she stood a moment to catch her breath. It was majestic. Spacious and bright with paneled doors rolled back revealing twin parlors on either side and the sweeping twin staircases twining down from overhead, forming a graceful frame for the matching back door across the shiny pine floor. She looked up and it was just as she’d imagined: the cupola roof overhead, the graceful brass chandelier, the catwalks and windows, the doors leading to the upper-level rooms, and the spindles—all seven hundred eighteen of them—like the ribs of a massive living thing.

She had that impression right from the start—that Waverley had a life of its own, apart from those who lived in it. It had dignity and a touching air of defiance, as if having survived the war gave it the right to feel superior. It dominated, too, its sheer scale dwarfing those who moved within its walls. But that dominance was tempered by an air of protectiveness. Agatha had the feeling that, should one need refuge, one had only to step between the twin staircases and they would embrace like powerful arms, holding any threat at bay.

“I love it,” she declared. “How ever could you have stayed away all those years?”

“I don’t know,” Scott replied. “Now that I’m back, I really don’t know.”

“Show me the rest.”

He took her into the front left parlor, a beautiful room with four high, dramatic windows, a large fireplace, and to the left of the doorway a graceful depression in the wall, surrounded by decorative plasterwork.

“The weddin’ alcove,” he announced.

“About to be used again,” she noted. “How nice. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

“Jube is ecstatic.”

“No. Not Jube. I meant the house.” Agatha lifted her eyes to the high ceiling. “It has a... a presence, doesn’t it?” She walked around a drake-footed Chippendale chair, trailed her fingers over the waxed surface of a Pembroke table, the back of a graceful sofa, then passed the piano,
where she played a single note that hung in the air between them. “A personality.”

“I thought I was the only one who believed that anymore. My mother did, too.”

Through the low front windows they could see the boxwoods his mother had brought from Georgia.

“Perhaps she’s looking over from her grave across the road and nodding in approval at how you’ve revived the place.”

“Perhaps she is. Come, I’ll show you my favorite room.”

She, too, loved his office on sight. So much more personal than the front parlor, and bearing a more lived-in look, with his ledger left open on the desk, a crystal inkwell and a metal-nibbed pen waiting to be put to use again; his humidor undoubtedly stocked with cigars, the remains of one in a free-standing ash stand near his desk chair. The smell of him permeated the room, cheroots and leather and ink.

“It fits you very well,” she told him.

She glanced up and found him watching her, not exactly smiling, but looking as pleased at having her here as she felt at being here at last.

“I’ll show y’ the dinin’ room,” he said, turning to lead the way across the hall. It, too, was huge, with a great built-in china closet and a massive rectangular table beneath another gas chandelier. The floor was bare and gleaming beneath the table and their footsteps echoed as they stepped farther into the room.

“Breakfast is at eight, dinner at noon, and supper at seven. Supper is always formal and all our guests share the meal with us.”

“And Willy?” she asked.

“Willy, too.”

So Scott Gandy would gift her with yet another thing—that ineffable sense of family that thrived around no place so heartily as around a supper table. Her sunsets need never be lonely again.

Her heart was full. She wanted to thank him, but he was already leading the way to the other front parlor.

“And this is your room,” Gandy told her, stepping back to let her enter.

“Mine?” She stepped inside. “But... but it’s so big! I mean, I wouldn’t need half this space.” Her sewing machine and trunks were already installed in the spacious room. Brightness everywhere—four gleaming windows—a south view of the front gardens, the drive, his mother’s boxwoods, and, to the east, the river. Too much to take in without being overcome.

“I wanted you t’ be on the main floor so you wouldn’t have t’ climb the stairs so much. If it’s all right with you, we’ll use a corner in here for Willy’s classroom.”

“Oh, it’s more than all right.”

This room was the twin of the first parlor, without the alcove, but with that rarity, a walk-in closet bigger than any two pantries she’d ever seen. There was a pretty bed with a white brocade tester, a chaise upholstered in multicolored floral, a small chest-on-chest, a five-foot freestanding cheval mirror on swivel brackets, and a library table holding a large bouquet of golden forsythia.

“I’m sorry, Gussie. You won’t have much privacy, except at night. Durin’ the day, to add to the feelin’ of intimacy around the place, it would be nice if you kept the doors rolled back while you’re workin’ in here. That way our guests feel like they’re one of the family.”

She stood before the cheval mirror, catching his gaze in the glass. She turned slowly, wondering if he had the vaguest notion of what it meant to a woman like her to have a room like this in a house like this.

“I’ve had privacy, Scott. It’s not all that desirable. All those years I lived in that dark, narrow apartment above the shop with nobody to come to my door and interrupt me or disturb me. You cannot guess how awful it was.” She smiled, a smile of the heart as much as of the lips. “Of course I’ll leave the doors rolled back while I work here. But I feel a little guilty about taking one of the loveliest rooms in the house that could be bringing in money from paying guests.”

“Your job is seein’ after Willy. I don’t see how you can do that from one of the slave cabins. Besides, there are three guest rooms upstairs, equally as large as this one.”

“But this is more than I’d hoped for. The nicest place I’ve ever lived.”

He came several steps into the room and stopped beside the foot of the bed. “I’m glad you’re here, Gussie. I’ve thought—”

Suddenly, Willy came charging through the doorway, claiming Agatha’s hand.

“Come and see my room, Gussie.”

He tugged her along impatiently and Scott followed to stand at the bottom of the right stairway, watching them ascend. “Can you make the stairs all right?”

“Nothing could stop me,” she replied, looking back over her shoulder.

On her way up Agatha was surprised to meet a middle-aged couple coming down. They were dressed for riding.

“Hello,” the woman said.

“Hello.”

Immediately, Gandy sprinted up the steps. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Van Hoef, off t’ the stables?”

“Indeed,” replied the man.

“A perfect day for a ride. Mr. and Mrs. Van Hoef, I’d like you t’ meet Agatha Downin’, the newest permanent resident of Waverley.” To Agatha he explained, “Robert and his wife, Debra Sue, arrived yesterday from Massachusetts. They’re our first official guests.”

Agatha murmured a polite response. Then the Van Hoefs continued down the stairs.

“Guests already?” Agatha remarked.

“Van Hoef runs a successful milling operation and is reputed t’ be one of the five most wealthy men in Massachusetts. Do y’ know why he’s here, Gussie?”

“No.”

“Because of somethin’ you said t’ me one time when we were talkin’ about Waverley. You called it a national treasure, do you remember?” She didn’t. He went on. “I had no idea when I left Kansas how I was goin’ t’ make Waverley pay its way again. Then one day I was lookin’ out the rotunda window”—he looked up to it, then back down at her—“and your words came back to me. I realized then what potential the place held. If it hadn’t been for you,
insistin’ I come back here, I probably never would have. I just wanted to say thank you for badgerin’ me into it.”

“But I’ve done nothing. You and the others did it all.”

Willy had gone ahead and was draped over the balcony railing, balancing on his belly. “Hurry up, Gussie!”

She lifted her head and caught her breath. “Willie! Get back!”

He cackled, the sound resonating through the great dome. “I ain’t scared.”

“I said get back—and I mean it!”

He thought he was funny, teetering on the banister, showing off.

“Scott, get him down from there.”

It took Scott only seconds to pluck Willy off the rail and plant him on his feet. When Agatha reached him she was exceedingly angry. “Young man, if I ever catch you doing that again you’ll be polishing these spindles all the way from the bottom to the top. Every one of them—is that understood?”

Willy grew sullen. “Well, golly, I don’t know what you’re so mad about. Nobody else gets mad. Heck, Pearl teached me how t’ slide down the banister.”

“She what!”

“She teached me—”

“Taught
me. And you’ve done that for the last time, too. You can tell Pearl I said so. Now, how about showing me your room?”

Willy decided retaliation was a better course. “I don’t wanna! You can look at my dumb room by yourself!”

“Willy, come back here!” Scott shouted.

Willy continued marching down the stairs. Scott began to head down after the boy but Agatha gripped his arm and shook her head. Her words carried clearly throughout the rotunda. “Why don’t you show it to me instead, Scott? It’s the room where Justine comes to visit Willy, isn’t it? I’d like to hear all about it.” She moved to the doorway. “Oh, isn’t it lovely.” They heard Willy’s footsteps slow and pictured him gazing up longingly. They moved about the room, Scott giving a cursory tour, mentioning every item he was certain Willy had been eager to tell Gussie
about—all his toys, the rocking horse, the view of the stables. When they emerged from the children’s room and moved on to the guest room next door, they knew Willy had been listening and saw him dip out of sight beside the curved stair extension downstairs.

“When we first reopened Waverley we used all the rooms up here for ourselves, but one by one we improved the slave cabins so everybody has a house of their own. Jube and Marcus are fixin’ up the old overseer’s place and will move in there after they’re married. The Van Hoefs are stayin’ in here.” He indicated the east front bedroom. “And tomorrow we have guests arrivin’ from New York who’ll take that room.” He indicated the rear one opposite Willy’s. “And this...”—he stopped in the doorway of the bedroom above the main parlor—“... this is the master bedroom.”

For some reason, Agatha hesitated to step over the threshold. “You were born here.”

“Yes. My mother and father shared it, then Delia and I.”

Delia, his lost Delia. Did he ever long for her?

“But you aren’t using it for yourself?”

“No. I share Willy’s room. That way we can rent this one out.”

The master bedroom was done in the same ice-blue as the vest Gandy wore today. A tall rosewood tester bed with hand-carved posts dominated the space. Incorporated into the intricate carving upon the center of its headboard was the convex oval that marked it as an original Prudent Mallard piece. Billows of white netting were tied back to its corner posts and beside it sat a set of three portable steps for climbing up to the mattress. A matching dresser took up nearly an entire wall. On the windows, tiebacks of ice-blue with an apricot bamboo design matched that of the heavy counterpane and tester. The design was picked up in a pair of Chinese Chippendale chairs that faced each other before the twin front windows with a low marble-topped table between them. The fireplace was done in Carrara marble with a decorative iron liner. The brass andirons gleamed, matching the chandelier with its etched-glass globes overhead. A hand-tied rug of a deeper teal-blue with a rust
border design covered the center of the virgin pine floor, leaving the varnished edges exposed.

“Will guests be coming soon to use this room?”

“Next week.”

“Ah.” She hated to see it happen. Somehow it felt as if the room would be desecrated by having strangers sleeping in the big Mallard bed where Waverley’s heir had been conceived.

“Would you like t’ see the view from the top?” he asked, to all outward appearances unruffled about giving his bed to strangers. “It’s grand, but there are a lot of stairs.”

“I want to see it anyway.”