The Work and the Glory (137 page)

“Good.” He clapped him on the shoulders. Joshua liked this big man with the ready grin and quick, intelligent eyes. “Well, Sam, give me a few more days and you can have this space back.”

Samuel’s face fell a little. “We gonna miss you, Mistuh Steed. It’s been a real pleasure havin’ you here in Savannah. Y’all gonna be comin’ back?”

Joshua didn’t answer. He turned and looked around, feeling the frustration rising up again. “I don’t know, Sam. Not—”

All of a sudden he started. A figure was walking briskly by the doors, moving west along River Street. Her head was turned, watching the ship pulled up to the wharf and the men swarming over it; but there was no mistaking the profile nor the green hat with its ostrich feather and large bow, the hat he had bought for her at one of Savannah’s finest millinery shops.

“Caroline?”

But she was past the door, not hearing him for the noise along the docks. He started after her, then realized what state he was in. He turned quickly to where Samuel kept a towel hanging from a peg on one of the thick wooden pillars. “Get my coat for me, will you, Samuel?”

He wiped his face and brow quickly, then turned to where Samuel was holding his coat for him. The foreman was smiling broadly. “That Miz Mendenhall. She be one fine woman.”

Joshua laughed. “Yes, she is.” He smoothed back his hair and beard, then thrust his arms into his coat and buttoned it quickly. “Tell Mr. Wesley I’ll be back to sign those shipping orders.”

Not waiting for an answer, he hurried outside, blinking in the dazzling sunlight of midday. For a moment he thought he had lost her. River Street was always a busy place, with sailors, dockworkers, teamsters, merchants, and planters milling about. But few of the people along River Street were women. He shaded his eyes, squinting against the brightness. Then he had her. She was several buildings up the street, moving briskly, ignoring the interest she was generating as she passed.

Joshua started after her, walking swiftly, tempted to call out, but wanting to surprise her. Ahead of him, she suddenly stopped beneath one of the signs that hung out over the warehouses. She started as if to go in, then stopped again. Even from a distance he could see her indecision. Curious, Joshua slowed his step.

She was standing beneath the sign that read, “Berrett and Boswell, Merchants, Cotton Factors.” She seemed hesitant, almost reluctant. Twice she started forward, then stopped again. Joshua could sense the tension in her. He stopped, moving closer to the buildings so she wouldn’t notice him. Finally, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went inside.

For several minutes Joshua stood there, debating with himself. Wesley would be waiting for him. But he wanted to see her—as always! But more than that, he was puzzled. Ladies of Savannah did not favor strolling along River Street. Not that Caroline had been strolling. Whatever it was that had brought her here, it was obvious it was not going to be pleasant.

Making up his mind, he moved across the street to where one of the large cotton wagons was standing. He moved around behind it, leaving himself a clear view of the door where Caroline had entered. He took out a cigar, fished out one of Wesley’s matches, lit the cigar with the match, then settled down to wait.

* * *

Mr. Jeremiah Boswell’s eyes always reminded Caroline of a cat’s. They were wide, seemingly filled with nothing but lazy curiosity, but there was always a faint sense of something sinister lurking behind them.

“But Miz Mendenhall,” he was saying, “we have been more than patient. It will have been two years in September.”

She looked at him coldly. “I quite well remember when my husband died, Mr. Boswell.”

“Now, Miz Mendenhall.” Theodore Berrett was always the soothing one. He never raised his voice. He always had a sincere, caring smile that had no more substance than a coat of varnish. As Caroline looked at the smooth face, the waxed mustache, the fluttering fingers, in her mind she corrected her impression of him. Not soothing, she thought. Oozing. Mr. Berrett was always the oozing one.

The two men looked at each other. They must have known it wasn’t going to be easy. Or pleasant. But that had never deterred them before.

“Donovan signed papers—,” Boswell started, but Caroline swung on him with such loathing that he stopped.

Someday, heaven willing, she would learn what these men had done to her husband to get him to sign away his interests in the business, his one-third ownership in an upriver plantation, his sizeable investment in one of the ships owned by these two men. And the house. She felt the dizziness sweep over her for a moment. Somehow they had even gotten the house Donovan had built for her and the children, the house on which she had lavished so much time and effort.

“We have been more than patient,” Berrett started, more cautiously now. “There was really no legal obligation on our part to let you stay in the house this long.”

“Nor to provide you with the monthly annuity,” Boswell rumbled.

Her head shot up, and she had to fight to keep the panic out of her eyes. In all the battles, all the bitter words, the monthly income—supposedly her share from her husband’s investments—had never been questioned before.

“Please understand,” Berrett drawled with obvious satisfaction, “we are not about to put a poor unfortunate woman and her two children into the street. But that house is far too commodious for a family of three. We have found a place for you down on Abercorn Street, near Taylor Street. It’s near Calhoun Square. Very adequate.”

Caroline turned slowly to Boswell, the sudden fear giving way to fury. “And how many children do your sister and her husband have?” Caroline demanded of Boswell.

The eyes hooded over quickly, and she could tell she had struck the mark. No one was supposed to know Boswell’s plans for the Mendenhalls’ house. Not yet. His sister had one girl, a five-year-old. It was rumored she also had three cats and a surly dog. Boswell was giving the house to her.

Boswell’s lip curled in open contempt. “We told you right at the outset we would give you two years to make other arrangements. Obviously you have made no effort to find other accommodations.”

Berrett seemed distressed at his partner’s directness. “Now, now, let’s not get angry with one another here. That will solve nothing.” He turned to Caroline, wringing his hands. “We don’t wish to turn this into an ugly fight, Miz Mendenhall, but we have been more than patient.”

She stood, close to tears, but only because there was nothing that could sufficiently convey the contempt she felt for these two men. “Well,” she said, her voice trembling with anger, “an ugly fight is just exactly what you will get if you try to evict me from my home.”

Boswell shot to his feet. He leaned over his desk, his eyes crackling with anger. “We would welcome that, ma’am. We have total confidence in the legality of our position.”

Mr. Berrett was up too now, dancing around her like a hit bird. “Oh, Miz Mendenhall,” he chirped, “you must not let yo emotions govern yo actions in this regard. We are most anxious to be fair. Most anxious.”

Suddenly his eyes took on a hard shrewdness, and for an instant he much more closely resembled his partner. “If you should reconsider, we would put the deed to the new home in yo name with no restrictions. And we might even be persuaded to guarantee the monthly annuity, so yo mind could be put at rest over that matter once and for all.”

“Of course,” Boswell cut in, really enjoying himself now, “you would have to sign papers declaring you have no further interest in Berrett and Boswell.”

“Berrett, Boswell, and Mendenhall,” she said icily. Then she turned to Berrett. “When my husband first met me, Mr. Berrett, I was helping my mother run a dress shop in one of the less acceptable sections of Baltimore. He spent over eleven years and a considerable part of his inherited fortune trying to make me into a lady. Well, it didn’t take, Mr. Berrett. So you take your house on Abercorn Street and your guaranteed pension and you stuff them into that rat hole that serves as your twisted little mind.”

She turned and smiled sweetly at Boswell. “And you, Mr. Boswell, we’ll see you in court. Then we’ll see who is the better street fighter.”

She spun around and walked out of their office. As she went through the outer office she saw that the male secretary’s eyes were wide with shock, and she realized he had probably heard every word. She flashed him one of her most radiant smiles. “Good day, Mr. Barber.”

She went down the narrow stairs, her head high. But when she reached the little alcove at the bottom of the stairs, out of their sight and out of their hearing, suddenly her shoulders sagged and her head dropped. She fought the shuddering sensation that was building within her and the tears that burned her cheeks. She stood there for almost a minute, helplessly caught between fear, rage, and a powerful sense of hopelessness.

Above her, there was a soft sound. She looked up in panic, brushing frantically at the corners of her eyes. Not waiting to see what or who it was, she plunged out the door and into the street.

* * *

Joshua crossed River Street quickly, angling so he came up right behind Caroline. He really had to stride out, for she was walking very swiftly, the heels of her shoes making a staccato rattle on the boardwalk. Grinning, he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Caroline?”

She whirled, slashing at his hand, knocking it violently away.

The fury he saw in her face was more shocking than her blow. “Whoa!” he cried, raising both hands in front of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten”—his voice trailed off as he saw the swollen, puffy eyes—“you.”

She blinked twice. “Joshua?”

“Caroline, what’s the matter? What happened?”

She fell back a step. “I thought you were—” There was a quick, angry shake of her head. “I’m sorry. You startled me.” She looked away. “What are you doing here?”

“I was at Mr. Wesley’s. I saw you go past the warehouse.”

Her head jerked back around. “You followed me?”

Now it was he who fell back a step in the face of her reaction. “I . . . I came out in time to see you going into the offices of Berrett and Boswell.” It sounded so lame. “I wanted to see you, so I waited across the street.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She obviously wasn’t pleased, but at least it seemed to defuse the anger. She turned and started up the street again, but walking more slowly now. He quickly fell into step.

She looked up at him, started to speak, saw two men approaching them, and waited until they passed. Then she spoke. “I’m sorry, Joshua. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

He took her by the arm, motioning with his head across the street toward the river. She started to resist, but when he gently persisted, she gave in and let him steer her over to the low wall that lined the riverbank wherever there was a gap between the wharves. As they got there he let go of her arm. Instead of turning to face him, she moved right up to the wall, staring down into the muddy water moving slowly past them.

Joshua watched her for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Caroline, what happened in there?”

She didn’t turn, didn’t move.

“Look, I don’t want to pry. I just want to help.”

There were some pebbles on the top of the wall. She picked them up and began to drop them slowly into the water. She seemed mesmerized by the soft plop, plop, and by the ripples that moved slowly downstream away from them.

Joshua watched her, struck once again by the fineness of her features, the soft line of her lips. Half bent over as she was, the slimness of her waist was emphasized. And the position of her head let the sunlight catch the rich darkness of her hair, filled with an auburn sheen that turned it into burnished copper. If she was mesmerized by the falling pebbles, Joshua was mesmerized by the sight of her. This was a woman of uncommon loveliness, and Joshua never tired of watching her.

Suddenly she straightened. “I was sixteen when Donovan first came to the little dress shop my mother owned.” She hadn’t turned around. She just gazed out across the river, her eyes not focusing on anything.

Joshua stepped closer, listening intently. She was speaking barely above a murmur.

“He was the handsomest man I had ever laid eyes on.” There was a deep sigh. “He was charming and funny and rich. It’s no wonder I loved him.” She finally turned and looked up at Joshua. “I loved my husband a great deal.”

He nodded, but before he could think of an appropriate response, she went on. “He was charming and funny and rich”—she took a breath, her eyes turning bitter—“and he was a fool. The biggest, most naive fool ever to land on the docks of Savannah.”

Joshua’s face exhibited shock, but she seemed oblivious to him now, even though she was looking right at him.

“I don’t want to stop loving him,” she cried softly. Her fists were clenched now, the fingernails digging into the palms. “But I am so angry with him! Why did he do this to us?”

“What?” Joshua asked, struck to the core by the anguish he saw on her face. “What did he do, Caroline?”

She stiffened, her eyes widening a little as her mind registered that she was not alone.

“Caroline, I want to help.”

She shook her head quickly, not meeting his eyes.

He reached out and took both of her hands. “Caroline, I—”

She pulled free, fighting the trembling in her lower lip. “I would like to be alone.”

She saw the instant hurt in his eyes. “Please, Joshua. This has nothing to do with you. I just need to pull myself together. I’ll be better by tonight for the dinner.” She managed a wan smile. “I promise.”

He stepped back, trying to be manly about it. “All right.”

On an impulse she went up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes were shining again. “Really, I’ll be better by tonight.”

* * *

Richard Wesley’s home was built in the beautiful English Regency style. It was two stories high with an attic above that. But most impressive was the large front porch with four stately columns supporting it. Two matching staircases swept in gentle curves up to the main entrance. The first time Joshua had come here with Caroline, she had told him, with a sense of reverential awe, that the home had been designed and built by William Jay. He had nodded and tried to look impressed. Since then he had learned that Jay had been a brilliant young architect from England who had built some of Savannah’s finest homes during the previous two decades. To live in one of them was now a considerable mark of distinction. It said something that Richard Wesley, only five or six years older than Joshua, should now own one of them.