Ciji Ware (49 page)

The
vibrations
transport
me… I
can
practically
hear
bells
ringing…

Amadora rose from her chair, and said apologetically, “I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I’m due at a board meeting in five minutes and need a moment to look at my agenda.” She glanced at Daphne, who had swiftly stood up, preparing to leave. “Call my secretary, Daphne, and come for supper one night next week. I’d love to have a little shot of New York.”

“That’d be great. I’d love to,” she said, wondering silently if she had the nerve to ask the renowned conductor what, exactly, she had meant when she’d described the power of certain sound vibrations to serve as a musical magic carpet?

***

On Saturday afternoon, Daphne made her way to the back entrance to the Eola Hotel, wheeling her bulky harp case through the kitchen and past the stainless steel warming tables. A waiter kindly held open the double doors that led into the adjacent lounge where afternoon tea was served prior to the cocktail hour. Mostly black cooks and busboys bustled about, banging pots and pans and shouting to each other. The pace of their labors picked up with the approach of the dinner hour. Eric, the maitre d’ of the tea service, waved as he directed his minions to pile teacups and saucers on trays in the pantry nearby.

Daphne positioned her harp unobtrusively in the corner of the lounge. She had learned long ago that for “I play, you pay” jobs like these, she was just part of the furniture, and in a sense, she preferred it that way. Fortunately, the harp had remained decently in tune, and within ten minutes, she entered the ladies’ room. There, she donned her long-sleeved black performance gown and reapplied her lipstick, then headed back to the pantry to have her own quick cup of tea before her mini concert began at four o’clock.

“Got milk?” Eric joked, ordering a busboy to take down more cups for a private party that was being served in a tucked-away corner of the restaurant.

“Yes, thanks,” Daphne replied, peeking through the small window of the kitchen’s double doors to see how many people had made reservations for tea.

She had raised her teacup to her lips for a final sip when her hand froze midway to her mouth. There, at a table for two, not ten feet from her harp, sat Jack Ebert and a woman Daphne recognized instantly from her newspaper photo—Francesca Hayes. She was certain that their presence there was no coincidence. Eola Hotel’s weekly ad in the
Natchez
Democrat
for “Afternoon Tea” featured a picture of the harpist posed beside her instrument. Jack knew exactly where he could harass her in a public place.

The question was, what was behind his latest attempt to “stir the pot”—as Cousin Maddy had so eloquently put it? Had he told his new consultant that her ex-husband and the teatime harpist were an item these days—as Jack had no doubt concluded by now—citing chapter and verse to Ms. Hayes of the times he’d seen them together?

Daphne leaned against the kitchen wall amid the shouts of the cooks and the clanking of cutlery and tinkling of glassware. Her heart had begun to pound and a feeling of vertigo suddenly came over her. She was vaguely aware of a busboy racing past her into the pantry to seize a tray full of teacups off a nearby shelf. Clattering crockery and the steady murmur of a roomful of voices pulled her into a spiral of confusion as she watched guests swarm the buffet. Their chattering seemed to grow louder as they grazed among a cornucopia of delicacies: thin, crustless watercress and egg salad sandwiches, marzipan tarts, hot buttered Scottish scones, and berries piled high in crystal bowls.

How strange, Daphne thought bemusedly, that the guests were wearing such heavy clothing when it was so hot
…
when the atmosphere outside was sticky and oppressive and foretold of rain.

And then she realized that the guests in long skirts and starched collars were not clanking teacups at the Eola Hotel, but rather were partaking of a feast set out on a long sideboard in the dining room of a large house not far from Whitaker Creek.

***

June 16, 1806

Porcelain teacups clinked genteelly as young Simon Hopkins tugged at his ivory brocade waistcoat. He inserted a finger between his neck and the stiff collar of his starched shirt and wished he were swimming in Whitaker Creek. He wondered how in tarnation the poor women attending his homecoming gathering could bear to be corseted and swathed in such heavy fabrics while sipping hot tea served them from his family’s ornate silver samovar.

His gaze drifted from the dining room to the parlor where Daphne Whitaker—now the widow Stimpson—dutifully played the small golden harp that his mother had often strummed before her death when he was a mere boy. His sister Emma had no interest in music whatsoever, so the instrument had stood silent, until now. It pleased him greatly to see Daphne seated demurely in a corner of the chamber, her honey-colored hair glistening in the afternoon sun that streamed through the parlor windows. Her glorious mane nearly matched the gilded harp, and her black bombazine widow’s weeds only heightened her fragile beauty. According to strict etiquette, a bereaved spouse should wait an entire year before performing music in a public setting. However, today’s gathering was merely for family and close friends, and he doubted few would criticize her too severely. In the insufferable heat, he’d wager that Daphne must be the most miserably uncomfortable person in the room.

Simon had heard already from several sources the sad tale of Daphne’s recent loss, even though he’d only just returned from Edinburgh, Scotland, where he’d toiled at his botany studies in hopes of improving the cotton yields at the Hopkins and Whitaker plantations.

Gossips loved to relate that Judge Ebner Stimpson “jilted one sister and married the other.” Maddy Whitaker, it was whispered, had drowned herself in Whitaker Creek over the snub. “Like that slave had,” they murmured. Like her own
father
, as Simon well knew. The elder Simon’s hair was now snow white. The young girl’s tragic suicide had aged his father prematurely.

As for young Simon himself, he had willingly sailed for Great Britain as soon as he heard of Daphne’s forced engagement and Maddy’s subsequent demise. That Judge Stimpson died of heart failure within six short months of his marriage seemed just desserts for such an overly ambitious man, or so the town’s tattlers had pronounced. Piling tragedy upon tragedy, Charles Whitaker’s anemic son, Eustice, perished from an infection this spring and died like his twin, Phaedra, had back in l793.

Now, Daphne made her home at Devon Oaks and Bluff House with her mother, Susannah, her unmarried sister, Suki, and her sole surviving brother, Keating, who at twelve was a handful if ever there was one.

“Simon, you surely seem to be woolgathering at your own party.”

Dark-haired Rachel Gibbs, teacup in hand, approached, flanked by two handsome young men who towered above her petite frame. One lad was her brother, John Gibbs, equally dark-haired and two years older than Rachel. Her other companion was a newcomer to Natchez, a Harvard classmate of John’s, late of Boston.

Aaron Clayton was half a head taller than John, with a muscular frame and neatly coiffed ginger hair. The two newly minted attorneys were rumored to be forming a law firm in town, and John, obviously, was seizing the opportunity of Simon’s welcome home soiree to introduce his new partner to the cream of Natchez society.

Earlier that afternoon, Simon had overheard a conversation in which Aaron Clayton had been asking about the disposition of Judge Stimpson’s will, and the likelihood that the sickly young Keating would survive many more fever seasons. John Gibbs had happily informed his friend about the advantages of becoming acquainted with such a socially prominent plantation family as the Whitakers.

“The young widow may be shopworn goods, old chap,” John declared slyly, “but that doesn’t alter the attractiveness of her purse, eh what? The good judge hadn’t much to leave her, but she’s heir to a goodly portion in her own right.”

“Ah
…
” Aaron Clayton had replied with a faint smile. “I’ve always meant to marry a little lady with a little money.” The two young men had exchanged knowing looks.

Now, as they nodded politely in Simon’s direction, the younger Hopkins cast a jaundiced eye at the outsider while Rachel made the introductions. After a decent interval, Simon withdrew with the excuse that he must attend to his ailing father, who was resting in a wheelchair in the library.

When he returned to the parlor, he was alarmed to see that Aaron Clayton was seated next to Daphne while the two chatted pleasantly over their teacups. In Sim’s prejudiced view, Clayton looked foolish, indeed. The hulking man’s big hand, covered with a sprinkling of sandy-red hair, dwarfed the delicate porcelain cup he was holding. His massive legs and knees jutted out from the spindly chair, and his boots were as long as a pair of river barges. Yet Daphne appeared aglow in the light of the interloper’s complete attention.

“Aren’t you just dyin’ for a breath of fresh air?” Rachel asked brightly when she spotted Simon’s return from seeing to the welfare of his father. She nodded in the direction of an open door that led to the front gallery. “It’s so close in here, and I’ll bet there’s a bit of a breeze to be found on the veranda.”

She’d all but asked him to escort her outside, and for a moment, he nearly acquiesced. Rachel was a lovely girl… kind, interested in plants and animals and in art, just as was he. She was comfortable to be with, like his sister Emma, and therein lay the rub. During his time away from Natchez, it had been Daphne that had filled his mind’s eye those long, wintry nights in Edinburgh. It was Daphne who made his heart ache with longing to touch her golden hair and to hear her play her harp. He’d hardly given Rachel Gibbs a passing thought while abroad.

“Simon,” Rachel said tartly. “Are you listening?”

Simon liked the sprightly Rachel and had no wish to hurt her feelings. He glanced down and took her gently by the hand.

“It’s good to see you, Rachel,” he said quietly. “I’ve brought home from Britain all sorts of interesting specimens I’d like to show you, but I’m afraid I must now see to my guests. Father isn’t up to making an appearance, so I must play the attentive host. Forgive me, will you?”

“I very much want to see your specimens, Simon Hopkins,” Rachel replied, removing her hand from his. “But more than that, I want to see
you.
I know that Daphne
…
pulls you like a magnet to the north, but
…
I urge you to discover for yourself what she’s like these days, won’t you?”

“She has endured much tragedy,” he murmured.

“She and that blighted family of hers have brought much down on their own heads,” Rachel declared matter-of-factly, “but I do believe men are far more likely to forgive women with golden curls—and that’s my final word on this subject.” She curtsied and said with touching dignity, “I will leave you to your guests.”

Simon nodded, both guilty and relieved that he was free to turn his attention elsewhere. He paused briefly at the buffet table and then approached Clayton and Daphne with a plate in hand.

“Have you tried the Scottish scones?” he said with a smile only for the pale, angelic-looking woman seated to Clayton’s right.

“Ah, yes. Excellent,” Aaron Clayton declared heartily. “Did you enjoy them?” he asked his female companion.

“Oh yes
…
lovely,” Daphne murmured.

Simon was vaguely aware that a house servant had wheeled his father’s chair into the sitting room and that several of his old cronies had gathered around.

“Daphne,” Simon began, as if Aaron Clayton weren’t even in the room. He had only a few seconds to make his request. “As you can see, my father’s health has declined drastically during my absence. There are several questions we must discuss regarding his continuing guardianship, especially of young Keating.” He nodded faintly in the direction of a thin, sickly-looking child who nevertheless had the stamina to play tenpins on the lawn outside with several black children while everyone else drank tea in the parlor.

“Keating?” Daphne said vaguely.

“Yes. May I call on you on Sunday? Perhaps you, your mother, and I can have supper together and discuss some important issues?”

Daphne laughed shortly. “I doubt you will find Mother very good company.”

“Well, then, may I call on
you
?” He sensed keenly that his pressing the issue irritated Aaron Clayton.

“If you wish,” Daphne said, sounding faintly vexed.

“I shall ride over in the late afternoon, if that would suit,” Simon insisted, wondering at his forwardness in the face of such obvious disinterest. Daphne glanced through her lashes in Aaron’s direction and then at Simon.

“We will be so pleased to have you as our guest,” she said softly, and he wondered, suddenly, if there was a faint note of sarcasm to her tone.

From the far side of the parlor his father beckoned.

“Simon!”