Bon Marche (43 page)

“When you're finished, I don't want to see you again tonight.”

“Yas, ma'am. Ah be in mah room, Miss Mercy, jest as quiet as—”

“With the door closed,” her mistress interrupted.

“Oh, yas, ma'am!”

“Help me with this.” Mercy started to push a small settee from its position against the wall so that it faced the flames of the fire.

“Miss Mercy?”

“Yes.”

“It nice to see a man in th' house agin.”

The widow laughed. “You're a romantic devil, Delilah.”

“Yas, ma'am.”

When the settee was in place, Mercy sat down, arranging the wrapper tightly around her legs.

Andrew came out of the bedroom, enfolded in the heavy robe. “Mr. Callison must have been a big man,” he commented. “This robe could go around me twice.”

“In stature he was big,” she said lightly. “Join me here, Andrew, and get warm again.”

He sat down on the settee, extending his bare feet toward the fire. “That does feel good.”

Delilah scurried out of the bedroom, carrying the wet clothes.

“Fetch a bottle, Delilah,” Mercy ordered.

“Yas, ma'am.”

In what seemed to be only seconds, the black woman was back with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. Mercy took the bottle in one hand, the glasses in the other, and pulled the cork out with her teeth.

“A little trick I learned from my husband,” she said, after she had poured a liberal portion of the amber liquid into each glass. “Calvin was adept with a whiskey bottle.”

Andrew didn't think it necessary to respond.

“You must have wondered why we moved around so much.”

“I did, yes.”

She took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “Cal was a drunkard. There's no way to put a good face on it. It was very sad. He was a man of ability—a fine lawyer. But he drank away every opportunity he ever had.” She paused. “I told you that he died of pleurisy. Well, that's what I asked the doctor to say. In truth, the whiskey killed him.”

“That
is
sad.”

Mercy was pensive. “At least Cal taught me how to drink whiskey. But I guess that isn't much to get out of a marriage, is it?”

MacCallum patted her hand sympathetically. He couldn't remember when he had been more at ease with a woman and less sure about how he should act. That it was an intimate moment there was no doubt. He left his hand on hers as they sat silently that way, the crackling of the fire and the tick of the large clock in the corner and the steady beating of the rain on the roof the only sounds.

“Andrew?” she said softly.

“Yes?”

“I have a confession.”

He chuckled. “Alexander Pope once suggested that a confession meant that one was wiser today than yesterday.”

“Oh, I don't think it's that serious a confession. Certainly it has nothing to do with being wise.”

“May I hear it?”

“When we were hurrying from the inn,” she started hesitantly, “it ran through my mind that getting soaked by the rain, as we certainly did, would give me the opportunity to … well, keep you here. To set up an intimate situation with you, just as it has happened.”

“But now you have second thoughts?” he suggested.

“In a sense. Sitting here so quietly and comfortably, it has occurred to me that you might not want an intimate situation. That you would think me … unladylike. Even brazen.”

“No such thought crossed my mind.”

“What has, then?”

“That I enjoy being with you. That I want to know more about you, the little things that may not seem significant to others. That I want us to be close friends.”

“No more than that?”

His answer didn't come immediately.

“You didn't think of making love to me?” Her question bordered on petulance.

“Yes, I've thought of that.”

“And?”

“I didn't want to offend you by making an overture. You've become too dear to me to risk offense.”

Mercy laughed ever so slightly. “You really are a gentle man—that's meant to be two words—aren't you?”

“Perhaps a fool.”

“No, not at all.” She leaned toward him, brushing her lips against his. “I wouldn't be offended, Andrew.”

He reached for her, taking her into his arms, kissing her with passion, feeling her body against him through the thin robe. And feeling good about it. Her eyes, he noticed, were misted over, just a bit. The laugh started inside him, and he tried to keep it there. He could not.

It clearly annoyed her. “Andrew … what—?”

“I'm so sorry,” he tried to apologize. But he was still laughing. “It's just that young George Dewey, who imagines himself the world's premier roué, confided in me recently that a sure sign of a woman's desire could be found in the misting over of a woman's eyes.”

“And mine have?” she interrupted.

“Yes.”

“It seems that George's theory has some merit.” She grew bolder. “I want you very much, Andrew.”

“He also said that you could never believe a woman's
words
in matters of intimacy.”

Mercy feigned anger. “What would anyone so young know about it?”

She got to her feet, Andrew's hand firmly in her grasp. Tugging at him. “I think we've done entirely too much talking about this subject, don't you?”

“I do.”

The widow Callison guided him into the bedroom.

IV

C
HARLES
entered the dining room at Bon Marché, having completed his early-morning inspection of the horses, to find Mattie the only one at the breakfast table.

“Andrew's not down yet?” he asked.

“Horace tells me he's not in his room. Hasn't been all night, as a matter of fact.”

“We did have a bad storm last night. He probably stayed at the inn.”

“Sometimes, Charles Dewey, I can't believe how naive you are!”

“Naive?” His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, of course … Mercy Callison.”

“Exactly.”

Dewey grinned. “You really think so, huh?”

“Would you like to make a wager on it?”

“I'm a gambler, not a fool. Well, well … staid and proper Andrew.”

“He's a man,” Mattie said. “And Mercy is certainly a desirable woman.”

“I admit that I'd like to see something develop there. For Andrew, of course, but also for purely selfish reasons. It would keep him here.”

V

T
HERE
was a knock on the bedroom door. “Good mornin', Miss Mercy,” Delilah called out. “Ah has breakfas'.”

“That woman is an incurable romantic,” Mercy whispered to Andrew. She pulled the covers up to hide their nakedness. “Come!”

The black woman tiptoed into the room. “Oh, Mistah MacCallum, suh, Ah didn't knows ya was here!”

Mercy shook her head in disbelief. “Then why have you brought two chocolates and two toasts?”

Delilah dissolved into giggles.

“Thank you, Delilah,” Andrew said.

The servant placed the tray on a table by the bed, but remained standing there.

“That will be all,” her mistress said.

“Ya sure Ah caint git ya anythin' else, Miss Mercy?” She looked at Andrew. “Mistah MacCallum?”

“That will be all, Delilah,” Mrs. Callison said firmly.

“Yas, ma'am.” She bowed her way to the door. “Ah sure do hopes ya enjoys th' breakfas'.”

“Delilah,
please.
”

“Yas, ma'am.” She left the room, but the door stood ajar.

“Delilah!” Mercy shouted.

The servant's head appeared in the room again. “Ma'am?”

“The door!”

“Oh, yas, ma'am. ‘Scuse me, ma'am.” She closed the door gently.

They could hear her continuing giggles as she retreated to the pantry.

Mercy sighed. “Lord—”

“I think she's very refreshing.” Andrew chuckled.

They ate the simple breakfast in comparative silence.

When they were finished, Andrew kissed her. “I suppose I ought to get back to Bon Marché.”

“Must you?” Andrew could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Not immediately, of course.”

Mercy got out of the bed and went to the window. Andrew watched her appreciatively, thinking again what a sensuous body she had. She peeked out through the curtains.

“It's a nice day,” she reported. “Sunny. Maybe we could go for a ride.”

“Hmmm.”

“After the noon meal, I was thinking. I'm sure Delilah is busy preparing it now.”

“I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint Delilah.”

“A brisk ride in the country,” Mercy continued, “up along the Kentucky road. I know it's January, and all that, but maybe you'd enjoy seeing that area.”

“I imagine I would.”

“We might take a picnic meal along … for dinner, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

She turned away from the window. “Do you have to go back at all today?”

He reached for her. “You know what we're doing again?”

“Talking too much?”

“Right.”

Mercy went to him, snuggling down beside him. Slowly and comfortably they made love again. And they fell asleep again.

When MacCallum awoke, he kissed her closed eyes. She opened one. “Well, if it isn't Mr. Andrew MacCallum.”

“An interloper.”

“No you're not, Andrew, dear. You belong here—with me.”

“I was thinking. Perhaps Delilah could take a note to Morgan, to deliver to Bon Marché.”

“And what would you say in it?”

“That I'm going to be delayed, that they're not to concern themselves about me, that I've been detained in Nashville—”

“On business?” She laughed heartily.

“No, no. That I'm delayed in Nashville on a social engagement.”

“For how long?”

“I could tell them not to expect me for…” He looked at her questioningly.

“How long can you put up with me?” she asked.

“If that were the criterion, I'd never return to Bon Marché.”

She dropped her bantering tone. “That sounds for all the world like a proposal of some sort, Andrew.”

“It is.”

Soberly, she studied his face. “It
is,
isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“May I suggest, Mr. MacCallum, that you write that damned note before you change your mind.” Mercy called out: “Delilah!”

“Yas, ma'am,” the voice answered from the pantry.

“Go find Morgan! He's to deliver a message to Bon Marché!”

“Yas, ma'am. Righ' 'way, ma'am!”

Her happy giggles filled the small house.

V

O
N
Wednesday afternoon—four days after the rainy-night dinner at the Nashville Inn—Andrew MacCallum rode up the lane toward the Bon Marché mansion. Riding beside him, daringly astride, not using a lady's saddle, was Mercy Callison.

Charles, who was lunging a horse in a paddock adjacent to the lane, waved at them excitedly. Turning the horse over to a black, he ran to greet them.

“Where in the devil have you been, you old dog?”

“Didn't you get my note on Sunday?” Andrew asked.

“Sunday? Are you sure?” Dewey seemed mystified.

“Yes, of course. It was Sunday.”

“Well, about noon on Monday a boy from the livery stable … uh?…”

“Morgan,” MacCallum prompted.

“Yes—Morgan. He came riding in here—considerably drunk, according to Horace—with your message. He didn't say anything. He just gave the note to Horace and left.”

Mercy smoldered. “Damn him!”

“We hadn't heard anything from you Saturday night,” Charles went on, “and again on Sunday. By Monday, then, we were somewhat concerned. You'll have to admit, Andrew, that the note you sent was hardly filled with detail.” He chuckled. “At least, we knew you were alive…” A knowing glance at Mercy. “… and well.”

“I'm sorry if you were worried,” his friend said.

“Would you like to volunteer some more information?” Dewey's curiosity was gnawing at him.

“There isn't much to report,” MacCallum replied with studied nonchalance. “Unless, of course, you would be interested in the fact that we've been married.”

Charles was stunned, his mouth gaping open. He sputtered. “Married! But when? Where?”

Andrew gestured to Mercy, deferring to her.

“Yesterday,” she said. “At the Court House. Judge Overton performed the ceremony.” She laughed. “We decided that we weren't very good at living in sin.”

“Dear,
I
thought we were
reasonably
good at it,” he corrected her, smirking devilishly. To Charles: “It's just that we believed our friends would be more satisfied if we took the proper legal steps.”

“Come! Mattie must hear this!”

Charles raced ahead of them to the mansion, calling for his wife.

“He seems more delighted than we are,” Mercy commented.

“He
couldn't
be more delighted than I am.” He reached over to squeeze her hand.

In the mansion, as Charles poured toasts for the couple, Mattie excitedly drew the whole story from them.

“Isn't it wonderful, Charles?”

“Marvelous! Just marvelous!” He pumped Andrew's hand for perhaps the fourth time. “Just think—Dewey and MacCallum together at Bon Marché!”

“Oh…” Andrew showed doubt.

“What?”

“We haven't decided yet what we are going to do. For the moment, though, we'll live at Mercy's house in Nashville. We rode out here so that I could collect my clothes.”

Mattie added: “Surely you'll stay now, Andrew?”

“It's one of the possibilities we'll consider, obviously.” The answer implied no commitment.