Wilde, Jennifer (21 page)

Half
an hour later I was soaking in a tub of hot water in my room, my hair tied up
on top of my head. I had scrubbed myself thoroughly and was luxuriating in the
water and suds. Just as I stepped out of the tub to dry off, I heard a timid
knock on the door. I wrapped the towel around me and opened the door to see a
pair of black slippers, a full maroon silk skirt, and two arms holding a stack
of packages that completely concealed the rest of her body.

"You
must be Clarice," I said. "Just drop the packages on the bed."

The
girl obeyed and then turned to give me a dazzling smile. Perhaps two or three
years older than I, she had dark, luminous black eyes, smooth golden skin and
beautifully arranged hair the color of polished teak. Predominately French, the
strain of Negro blood gave her a rich, exotic beauty that was most unusual.

"Madame
says tonight is a very special night and that I'm to help you do your hair. It
will be a treat for me— such lovely hair." The girl spoke in a lilting
voice with a distinct French accent. "You get into your new petticoat
while I go fetch someone to take out this tub."

When
I opened the first box it was to find an entirely different petticoat from the
one I had purchased. I had picked out a simple white shift. This one was beige
silk, with half a dozen full skirts festooned with exquisite lace. The message
on the card I picked up was simple and direct: "It goes with the dress,
honey. I'll up the price on another bonnet." When I slipped the sumptuous
garment on, it made me feel like a queen.

After
the two servants who returned with Clarice had carried out the tub, water, and
kettles, the girl sat down in front of the dressing table and began to comb out
my hair. When she left half an hour later, I gazed at myself in the mirror,
amazed at the marvels she had wrought. She had pulled my hair back sleekly,
shaping it to my skull, and a dozen long, perfectly curled ringlets dangled
down in back. I carefully applied dark cinnamon mascara on lashes and brows,
tannish-mauve shadow on my lids. I used the rouge sparingly, heightening the
color on my high cheekbones, and applied the coral lip rouge just as lightly.
We had secretly practiced using makeup when I was in school, and I knew the
idea was to subtly emphasize one's natural coloring.

Derek
Hawke might not notice the makeup, but he was definitely going to notice the
perfume, I vowed, using it most generously. After slipping on the new stockings
and high-heeled leather shoes, I took out the gown Clara and I had selected. It
was topaz-colored silk, with long sleeves and a low-scooped bodice that fitted
snugly. The skirt swirled out in glistening folds over the petticoat, pointing
up my slender waist. Simple, unadorned with ribbons or ruffles, it was
wonderfully elegant, and I knew that we had made a wise choice.

I
felt like a different person as I went down to the lobby to wait for Derek's
return. The happiness I had felt earlier on had been magnified by Madame
Clara's warmth and generosity. I had gone through some bad times, had
encountered some terrible people, but it was reassuring to know people like
Clara existed in the same world.

The
lobby was deserted, as dusty and depressing as ever, but I didn't notice its
shabbiness now. I was filled with a glow of anticipation, eager for Derek to
see me, eager to see the reaction he had when he saw the splendid
transformation Clara and Clarice had made possible.

As
I waited, I wondered about the "business" he was attending to today.
I doubted seriously that it had anything to do with Shadow Oaks, else he
wouldn't have been dressed so grandly. Did it have something to do with the
lawyer back in England? As I had done many times before, I thought about those
revealing phrases he had sobbed out in his delirium: "It'll be settled, I
told her... Hawkehouse will be yours and you'll have a title and
riches..." I knew so little about him, nothing about his past. Why had he
left England? Why had he bought a run-down plantation in Carolina and then
worked like a slave himself to make it successful? Maud claimed he had very
little money in the bank, and he must have made thousands. Was he sending it to
England, hoping to gain something in return? Had Hawke been cheated out of an
inheritance? That would explain his bitterness, his grim determination to
succeed.

Lost
in thought, I hadn't heard anyone enter the lobby, but I suddenly felt a pair
of eyes staring at me, just as I had felt them last night down in the taproom. I
turned around, uneasy, and the uneasiness increased when I saw Jason Barnett
leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, his brown-flecked
green eyes full of devilment. A ray of sunlight burnished his short-clipped
gold hair, making it gleam darkly, and his face took on an even more wolfish
look as his lips spread in a wide grin.

"Seems
like this is my lucky day," he remarked. "Yes, indeed. Who'd
a-thought it after I lost a pile in that card game earlier this afternoon? You
waitin' for me, wench?"

"I'm
waiting for Mr. Hawke," I said coldly.

"
'Mr. Hawke,' is it? Aren't we grand and formal. Me, though, I like a wench with
class. You got that, gal. Don't know how Hawke ever lucked across you. Shame I
wuzn't at that auction."

I
turned away haughtily, refusing to reply. Jason Barnett moved over to me with a
lithe, stealthy grace. He stood in front of me, grinning, and though he wasn't
at all good-looking, not with those sharp features, that too-wide mouth, there
was something about him that was intriguing. I gazed at him with cool, level
eyes, praying he'd leave before Derek arrived.

"Feel
like havin' a little fun, wench?" he inquired.

"Go
away, Mr. Barnett."

"Hey,
that ain't no way to be. Me, I can show you a real good time. Dozens-a women'll
testify to that. I got stamina, real lastin' power. They all squirm and squeal
with delight. You look like you could use a treat—"

"I
think you're disgusting!"

"Do
you now? That's interesting. Reckon I'm gonna have to take you up to my room
and show you what a nice chap I can be. Hawke may not like it, but I couldn't
care less about him. You're somethin', wench—"

He
took hold of my wrist and began to lead me toward the stairs. When I tried to
pull free, Barnett chuckled, jerked my arm and pulled me against him, wrapping
his free arm tightly around my waist. Panic welled up inside of me. My heart
began to pound. The more I struggled, the tighter he held me, grinning all the
while. "Let go of me!"

"Frisky,
ain't you? I like a woman with spirit, makes it more excitin'. You hold
yourself pretty high, don't you? Carry yourself like a regular lady. Hell,
you're a convict, an indentured servant. Why, you ain't one bit better'n a
nigger gal, even if your skin is white."

The
arm wrapped around my waist forced me up against him. His face was inches from
my own, and his mouth seemed wider than ever as he parted his lips and leaned
down to kiss me. I tried to pull away, but he gripped my chin in a tight clamp
and forced me to meet his lips with my own. The boy kissed me ardently,
thoroughly, bending me at the waist and forcing me to lean back as his mouth
worked greedily. When he finally raised his head, the grin still played on his
lips.

"Still
wanna argue? You liked that, wench. You liked it a lot, and that's just a small
sample. I'm gonna show you what it's all about, and when we're through, know
what you're gonna do? You're gonna beg Hawke to sell you to me—"

"You're
vile!"

"Don't
get too frisky," he warned. "I like a little spirit, but there's a
limit. I can get mighty ugly if I want to, and you wouldn't like that."

I
lifted my foot and kicked his shin with all the force I could muster. Barnett
cried out. His eyes widened in shock. His mouth fell open. He released me abruptly,
so abruptly that I fell back against the wall at the foot of the stairs. When
he reached down to rub his shin, I tried to slip past him, but he seized my
wrist again, clamping his fingers around it in a tight, wiry grip I found
impossible to break.

"No
you don't, wench," he said, pulling me toward him. "Come along now
'fore I have to get rough."

What
happened then happened so quickly that it was difficult to follow. Barnett
pulled me toward the steps, a wide grin of anticipation on his lips, his eyes
alight with excitement, and then he gave a startled cry and I saw a large hand
gripping his hair, the fingers tugging at the dark gold locks and pulling him
away from the stairs. Barnett let go of me, his arms waving in the air as he
stumbled backwards. It was Derek, of course. Neither of us had heard him enter
the lobby. He whirled the boy around and delivered a blow across his jaw that
sent Barnett reeling across the room. He crashed against the counter with a
loud bang and sank to his knees, completely stunned. Derek stood over him, legs
wide apart, fists clenched at his side, ready to strike again if necessary.

"If
you so much as touch her again, I'll kill you," he said, and his voice was
calm, frighteningly calm. "If you so much as look like you want to, I'll
kill you. Do you understand, boy?"

Still
on his knees, Barnett shook his head to clear it and groaned, rubbing his jaw,
wincing at the pain. He staggered to his feet, leaning back against the counter
and looking up at Hawke with the eyes of a petulant little boy who has been
unjustly punished.

"I
just wanted a bit-a fun," he whined, all his bravado gone now. "I
don't know why ya had to hit me! Hell, she ain't nothin' but an indentured
wench—"

Derek's
hands unclenched and flew to the boy's throat, gripping it with a brutal force
that caused his shoulder muscles to bunch up beneath the navy blue jacket.
Barnett gasped and made gurgling noises, eyes wide with fright. Although I
couldn't see Derek's face, I knew it must be as cold and expressionless as his
voice.

"I
said I'd kill you, boy, and I meant it—"

His
fingers tightened even more, and he shook the boy as a terrier might shake a
mouse. Barnett's face turned a bright pink, his eyes beginning to protrude.
Derek shoved him back until he was leaning over the counter, his feet barely
touching the floor, his body like that of a limp rag doll. Horrified, I leaned
against the wall, my throat dry, my pulses racing. I was afraid he was actually
going to choke the boy to death then and there. I tried to call out, to plead
with him to let go, but no sound would come.

"All
I'd have to do would be squeeze just a tiny bit more," Hawke informed
Barnett, ever so calmly. "That's all it would take. Do you understand? Nod
if you do."

Barnett
was panic-stricken. His face was a deep plum color now, his eyes about to pop
out of his head, yet he managed to nod. Derek released him. Barnett slid to the
floor, coughing and gasping. Unruffled, looking as though he might have just
exchanged a few friendly words, Hawke turned and strolled toward the stairs.

"Come
along, Marietta," he said.

He
started up the narrow wooden staircase, and I followed, turning once to look
back at Barnett, who was on his hands and knees, still making spluttering
noises. Hawke strolled down the hall, moved past the door of his room, and
opened the door to mine. I was trembling inside, still badly shaken by what had
happened. The expression on his face as he held the door open for me was not at
all reassuring. Although his features were composed, his gray eyes flat, I
could sense the anger that possessed him.

My
topaz silk skirts rustled with the sound of dry leaves as I stepped into the
room. I stood by the bed, clasping my hands together, desperately trying to
still the trembling. Hawke closed the door and stood looking at me, silent, and
although a flood of words rushed up in my throat, I couldn't speak, either.
That glorious exhilaration I had felt throughout the afternoon had vanished
completely. I felt helpless, guilty of some dreadful crime even though I had
done nothing to encourage Barnett. I knew full well what Hawke was thinking. I
knew it would be futile to try to convince him of my innocence.

"I
see you got your new dress," he remarked.

"Yes.
I bought it from the most unusual woman. She—"

"You
bought make-up, too, I see, and perfume. You did your hair. I'm wondering why
you didn't have a sign made up while you were at it—Tail For Sale in bold block
letters."

"That's
not fair—"

"Barnett's
not to blame, of course. He only did what any red-blooded youth would have
done. When it's there and all too obviously available, a man reaches for
it."

"I
came down to the lobby to wait for you. I wanted to surprise you. I thought
you'd be—"

"It's
a lovely dress, Marietta. Take it off."

I
stared
at him in dismay, startled by his words. His mouth was set in a grim line, and
those dark gray eyes were filled now with a brutal determination that filled me
with apprehension.

"What—what
do you intend to do?" I whispered.

"What
you've wanted me to do all along. Take off the dress!"

"Derek.
I—not like this. Please. Not like—"

"Do
you want me to remove it for you? I'll probably tear it to shreds in the
process."