Darkwater (13 page)

Still, she wondered, through the dinner and even as the guests were departing—why should Liza be so excited about that doll? Why had Alicia been so excited about it?

Alone for a moment in the kitchen with Bess, she asked her, “What does a rag doll suggest to you?”

“A rag doll? What kind of doll?” Bess asked, screwing up her face suspiciously.

“Just that. Made from a sock, with some hair attached to it and a ribbon at its throat. Alicia had it the night she died, when we found her upstairs, and I found it a bit ago in Liza's room, and it seemed to be important to both of them, but I can't imagine why.”

Bess was silent for so long that Jennifer thought she meant not to answer, and when she did, her answer was entirely noncommittal. “It's probably just some old keepsake,” she said, turning back to her cooking, but Jennifer had the sense that there was something more she hadn't said.

* * * * * * *

When Jennifer did speak to Walter that night, it was briefly, and she had again forgotten about the rag doll.

She had gone to her room and finding herself too keyed up to sleep, she went back downstairs to the library, in search of a book to read. She was surprised to find Walter there, seated in a big old wing chair.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't expect anyone. I was just looking for a book to read.”

“Please, help yourself.”

She went to the shelves and hurriedly selected a volume, but when she started to leave with it, he stopped her.

“You needn't run away from me,” he said.

“I thought you would want to be alone.”

“Yes, I should be, I suppose. But I want to talk to you briefly, if I may.”

She turned toward him and waited in silence.

“I suppose you've wondered about your future, now that Alicia is gone,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“I still have the children, and they are more than my mother can manage. It would please us...it would please
me
...if you stayed on to care for them.”

“I shall be glad to stay, then,” she said. Thinking he had finished, she started once more to leave, but again he stopped her.

“Miss Hale...Jennifer....” He paused, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I know this is neither the time nor the place to speak of...of certain things. Alicia's death. Her illness before that. These have been very sad for me, sadder perhaps than I show. But the dead must bury the dead, and the living must go on living. In due time, when Alicia has been mourned long enough to satisfy propriety, I would like to talk to you further. About the future. About our future. If you will listen.”

She knew that he had all but proposed to her, and despite the solemnity of death in the house, her heart skipped a beat.

“I shall be ready to listen whenever you want to talk.” Then, because she could not trust herself longer to honor discretion, she did leave him, practically running all the way back to her room, and flinging herself across her bed, to think of the future.

“Our future,” he had called it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On Christmas Eve, Walter proposed to Jennifer, and she joyfully accepted. It had been more than six months since Alicia's death. Everyone knew that it had been a relief to Walter, as well as to the rest of the family, when Alicia died, and although the period of mourning had been brief, no one was shocked by the announcement of the engagement.

Indeed, there were many who were surprised that it had taken so long or that the couple, ever more obviously in love with one another, had been able to remain in such close proximity and yet remain so chaste.

It was not so difficult for Jennifer as many of the local women thought. It was true that with each day, as she became more aware of his strength and his goodness, she grew more and more in love with him. But to wait for that happiness was no sacrifice. She knew that she would be with him, and that was worth waiting for. Whatever impatience she might have felt was quickly negated by her dreams of what their happiness would be.

It was like a child's Christmas, all the more thrilling for having to wait, and in those months when he was respecting his dead wife's memory, no kiss was shared between them, no clandestine meetings held in darkened rooms, no secret messages shared. All that they did was done openly, before the eyes of his family.

If, when their eyes met, sparks of emotion leapt between them; if, when his hand accidentally touched hers, it lingered ever so slightly; if, when she heard his voice, her heart sang—why, those things were beyond her power to control, and were no harm.

Summer's brilliance faded gradually into autumn's softer splendor and with it faded the stark memory of Alicia. Winter came and the weather was cooler, although still much warmer than the winters Jennifer had known further north. It rained, and the wind from the bayous had an underlying crispness that it had lacked in the summer.

Thanksgiving was the first truly festive occasion in the house since Jennifer had arrived there, and although it was muted because Walter remained in mourning, it was still a happy occasion.

“After all,” Helen pointed out, “we have much to thank the Lord for, and it would not do to forget that.”

After Thanksgiving, it was time to think about Christmas. Jennifer made a trip to New Orleans with Helen, Susan and Martin Donally.

“We have a house here, the old Oglethorpe house,” Helen said when they checked into their hotel, “but it's hardly worth opening it up for a night or two.”

Jennifer was able to shop for things she could not find in Durieville. She bought a French parasol for Helen and a handsomely bound volume of Shakespeare's comedies for Walter, and of course, toys for Walter's children.

Liza was more of a problem. At first, in the weeks following Alicia's death, Liza had seemed genuinely happy, although she tried to subdue her feelings before the family. More than once Jennifer heard her singing gaily to herself, and she threw herself into her lessons with an enthusiasm that was infectious.

Gradually, though, she had begun to withdraw again. She stopped singing and gave up on her schoolwork until Jennifer threatened her with a scolding from Walter. It almost seemed as if Liza's happiness decreased as Jennifer's increased, until now they were back to where they had started, or perhaps further than that. There was almost an enmity between them that Jennifer, try as she would, could not dispel.

In the end she decided upon a dress for Liza, a rather grown up dress, Helen thought.

“Liza is probably almost fifteen,” Jennifer reminded her. “And in due time there will be boys coming to see her, if Walter intends to keep her on at Darkwater.”

“It's been so long since we did much real entertaining at Darkwater,” Helen said a bit wistfully. “Perhaps in the spring, we could have a party—a real party.”

“Perhaps,” Jennifer agreed, and smiled to herself because she already had in mind an occasion for celebration.

At last it was Christmas Eve. The children were sent to bed and Walter carried in the tree he had cut for the holiday. They trimmed it with the ornaments Helen brought from the attic, elegant crystals and brightly painted wooden figures, to which Jennifer added strings of popcorn and cranberries. When they were finished and Walter had affixed a gaily painted angel to the top, it was very festive looking.

“Bess has some punch for us,” Helen said. “I'll tell her to bring it in and have a glass with us.”

When she had gone, Walter came to where Jennifer stood just before the tree and put an arm about her. The move surprised her, for it was the first overt display of affection between them, but she did not move away or protest.

“Some time ago,” he said, leaning close to speak softly into her ear, “I said that when the time came, I would like to speak to you about our future.”

She nodded mutely, unable to trust her voice. She wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart or feel the trembling she could not control.

“The time has come,” he said. “I want you to marry me, if you will. And this is the present I have for you.”

He handed her a small box. It was unwrapped and it took no great insight to guess what it held. Slowly, she lifted the lid and there, nestled on a bed of midnight blue velvet, was the loveliest ring she had ever seen, a modest diamond surrounded by dainty chips of what looked like emeralds.

“It...it's lovely,” she murmured, staring at the ring in awe.

“Will you wear it? Will you be my wife?”

She turned in his arms, to smile up and him, and said, with tears glimmering in her eyes, “Oh, yes, my darling, yes.”

He kissed her then for the first time and she knew that never in her life had she known what true happiness or joy was. Those had only been words, words she had foolishly attached to this mood or that feeling, but she had been wrong, because now happiness and joy were hers and she knew them for what they really were. She was drowning, drowning in his kiss, sinking into his arms, and a fire from within, that she had never known existed there, blazed to life, seeming to consume and purify her.

From somewhere far distant she heard a surprised Helen say, “Oh,” but she no longer cared who saw them or what they might think.

At last, too soon, the kiss ended and she floated breathlessly back to earth and became aware of Helen and Bess, and behind them Susan and Martin.

“It's all right,” Walter said, beaming. “We are going to be married.”

With that pandemonium broke loose and so great was the excitement that Christmas was almost forgotten. At last Susan said, “Well, it looks as if this will be the first really merry Christmas in several years.” She did not say what they were all thinking—since Alicia had come to Darkwater as Walter's bride.

“Christmas, good heavens, I had all but forgotten,” Jennifer exclaimed.

They all laughed and Bess passed around the punch. They drank toasts and wished one another merry Christmas.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Walter said, kissing her once again, but more discreetly this time.

“Merry Christmas, my beloved,” she whispered in reply.

“When will the happy event be?” Martin wanted to know.

“As soon as possible,” Walter replied. There was more laughter and some teasing at his impatience.

“I have been patient long enough,” he said.

But Jennifer took a more sober view of things. “It will take time to make preparations. Normally the father of the bride assumes the responsibility.”

“This wedding shall be my responsibility,” Helen said. “My present to both of you. And it shall be the grandest this county has ever seen.”

“That alone will take time,” Jennifer said again. “And there is the question of Walter's mourning. So it will be next summer, at least.”

“Too long,” Walter said. “If my family and I think I have mourned long enough....”

Jennifer shook her head firmly. “I'll have no wagging tongues at my wedding, and no bad luck. In June you will have mourned for a year. We can be wed in July.”

Walter gave in to her on this point, but said, “Then I insist upon the earliest date in July. The first, or the second.”

“The second then,” Jennifer agreed. “July the second, 1881. What a lucky day that will be for me.”

Midnight came and went, too soon it seemed to Jennifer, on this most wonderful of all nights. The evening drew to a close. Susan and Martin left to return to their cottage and Bess began clearing up. Helen lingered for a moment, checking to be sure that all the presents for the children were under the tree. Then she too bade Jennifer and Walter good night and wished them a final Merry Christmas.

“Merry Christmas,” they replied in unison.

At last they were alone. Walter again took her into his arms. “I wish it were now,” he whispered, kissing her once more.

“The time will pass.”

“Not quickly enough.” But he kissed her good night at her bedroom door as chastely as a boy bringing his sweetheart home from their first date.

Jennifer lay awake for a long time. She knew that the children would be up early and that she ought to get some sleep. Tomorrow was Christmas day, after all.

She, however, had already received the dearest present she could ever dream of.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Although Jennifer awoke at her usual early time, it was to find that the children had long since awakened and gone down to discover their presents under the tree. She dressed quickly and went to join them, taking special delight in observing their pleasure and happiness.

Each of the children thanked her for their presents and it seemed to her that even Liza had begun to melt a little.

“Thank you, Miss Jennifer, for the dress,” she said, holding it up before her. “It's beautiful. And it's so grown up.”

Helen and then Walter soon joined them in the living room. The children thanked Helen somewhat soberly and Walter with many squeals and hugs. When Walter was finally disentangled and the laughter had somewhat died down, he went to where Jennifer was standing and put an arm affectionately around her.

“Now I have another present for you, children,” he said, beaming. “A new mother. Miss Jennifer and I have decided we will be married.”

As Jennifer had expected, the children were somewhat stunned by the announcement. Mary and Peter looked, she thought, more pleased than not, and she felt that when they had time to reflect upon it, they would take it well. She was quite fond of the two youngsters and she knew they were attached to her as well.

It was Liza, however, about whom she was concerned, and she saw at a glance that Liza was not taking it well. Her eyes had gone wide with shock and she turned them briefly upon Jennifer with a look of incredulity.

“It isn't true,” she cried, running to Walter and flinging her arms about him. “Tell me it isn't true, you're only teasing.” She began to sob.

Walter was taken aback by this outburst. For a moment he held her and patted her comfortingly, but when the crying and the protest continued, he suddenly took firm hold of her and held her at arm's length.

“Stop it. Stop it, I say. It is true. We are going to be married and you should be pleased for us. I think you owe Jennifer an apology for your rude outburst.”

“Walter,” Jennifer began, meaning to protest, but Liza ended the scene herself, at least for the moment. She twisted free of his grasp and before he could stop her, she ran from the room. They heard her footsteps clattering along the hall and up the stairs.

He moved as if he would go after her, but Jennifer laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Let her go,” she said. “She needs a good cry and to be by herself for a while. Later, when she's calmer, you can discuss it with her.”

He hesitated for a moment more, obviously angry and embarrassed, but he relented with a wan smile.

“She'll get used to the idea,” he said.

Jennifer was not so sure of that, but at the moment her thoughts were of the other two children, Walter's own children, who stared wide-eyed in reaction to Liza's outburst. She did not want Liza's dismay to affect their reaction to the news.

“I'm sure she will. And in the meantime, let us not permit everyone's Christmas to be spoiled. Why, Mary, you haven't even opened that book. And, Peter, I don't believe I have seen you play with that new top.”

At her prompting the children went back to their toys and were soon engrossed in them. Liza was allowed to remain in her room throughout the morning. Jennifer's heart went out to her, on this morning especially, which ought to be a joyous one. How difficult it was to be in that stage between childhood and womanhood. A few years younger or older, and things would have gone so differently.

Bess had gone out of her way to prepare an especially festive Christmas spread. Later guests would drop by for a cup of punch, but dinner was reserved for the family and Martin and Susan, who came at midmorning to spend the day. They sang carols in the lavishly decorated front parlor. Jennifer played the piano and led the singing, and even Walter seemed to forget the day's bad start and join in the mood of merriment.

Later, when it was time to dress for dinner, Jennifer thought she would look in on Liza. Perhaps the two of them alone could talk more frankly. She had realized something for the first time this morning. Watching Liza's outburst, she had discovered that the girl's feelings were something more than a childish attachment. She had clung to Walter with a genuine passion and she had sobbed with all the despair of a heartbroken lover. She was sure that, in her girlish way, Liza was in love with Walter, not as a daughter loved a father, but as a woman, however young yet, loved a man.

She could never tell Walter this. She was sure that he saw Liza only as a child and looked upon Liza's attachment to him as a sort of father substitution.

Jennifer thought that if Liza could be made to understand that each of them had her place in Walter's feelings then perhaps she could accept his marriage with more equanimity. She must speak to her not as to a child, but as to a young woman and with complete honesty. And of course Walter need not know the full import of this “girl talk.”

It was easy to excuse herself from the parlor. Helen and Susan had retired to look in on things in the kitchen. The children were busy with their new playthings, and the men were having one of their frequent arguments over the future of farming.

Jennifer slipped quietly from the room.

The door to Liza's room was closed. She hesitated, wondering if she should intrude on the girl's privacy at this particular moment, but she knew she might not have an opportunity to speak openly in the near future. She tapped lightly on the door.

“Liza,” she called softly, “it's Jennifer. May I come in?”

There was no reply, even when she knocked again, a bit more loudly. Thinking that maybe Liza was asleep, Jennifer opened the door a crack.

“Liza,” she called, but still there was no reply.

She went in, to find the room empty. Liza's bed was disarranged, where she had apparently thrown herself across it when she ran upstairs, but of Liza there was no sign. Jennifer remembered how distraught she had been and had a feeling of uneasiness. Could Liza have done something rash, something to harm herself?

Surely not—and yet, people had been known to do great harm to themselves for passions not greater than Liza's.

Thinking that perhaps Liza had just gone to another room, Jennifer began to go systematically but quickly from bedroom to bedroom, until she had covered the second floor and found Liza nowhere. On an impulse, she went up to the attic. She took her time, looking behind trunks and into big, old armoires that had probably come from France. It was not impossible, she reasoned, that Liza would hide from her.

Her search of the attic revealed nothing and at last, increasingly worried, she descended again to the parlor, where the men were still arguing the future of the farm worker.

“Excuse me,” Jennifer interrupted them, “I wonder if anyone has seen Liza?”

“Why, no,” Walter said. “I thought she was in her room. Isn't she?”

“No.” The sound of her voice seemed to make him understand something of what she had been thinking. A frown darkened his handsome face.

“She's probably in one of the other bedrooms,” he said. “I'll go find her. It's time I had a talk with her anyway.”

“I've already looked upstairs and in the attic. She seems to be missing.”

“Missing? I doubt she'd go far,” Walter said.

Jennifer knew that he had not gauged the depth of Liza's feelings for him and so could not comprehend what a shock his announcement had been.

“Walter, I am worried about her,” she said. “I'm afraid she may have done something rash.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, she may have run away.”

“That's preposterous. She's just a child. She wouldn't run away.”

“She did once before.”

He looked at her in disbelief, but she looked so concerned that he gave in. “We'll look for her,” he said. “I feel sure she's around the house somewhere though.”

Helen and Susan were summoned and they made a quick search of the house, with no results. They made a brief tour of the grounds as well.

“We may be making a mountain out of a molehill,” Susan said. “After all, Darkwater is quite large. There are a great many outbuildings and acres and acres of fields. Or she might have decided to go out for a stroll.”

Jennifer could see that the others, including Walter, leaned toward this view. She could not still her own fears, but she did not want to seem an alarmist either.

“It is possible,” she conceded. “But surely then we can assume she will return for dinner, can't we?”

“You can bet on that,” Walter said, smiling. “She loves to eat. Wait and see, just before dinner time she'll come strolling in from somewhere, surprised that we were worried and completely recovered from her little tantrum.”

As the time passed, however, Jennifer could see that each of the others was beginning to wonder. Finally it was time for dinner and Bess rang the great old bell outside the kitchen door. Its peals echoed over the dark waters of the bayou, but they did not bring Liza running for the house.

“Perhaps you've been right,” Walter said to Jennifer, his face more somber now. “Get the help and let's make a real search of the outbuildings, the grounds, even the house again, just in case she has been hiding.”

Dinner was forgotten in the flurry of activity that followed, but even the thorough search of the house and grounds revealed no trace of Liza. It was no longer possible to pretend that she had not gone away.

“Want me to have the men start searching the bayou?” Martin asked.

Walter was thoughtful for a moment. “No, I have another idea,” he said. “If Liza has left here, there's only one other place she could have gone.”

“Where's that?” Martin asked.

But Jennifer already knew. “She's gone back to Mrs. Hodges.”

“The swamp witch?” Helen said, unbelieving.

“She was living there before, when I found her. It's the only other place she knows around here,” Walter said. “When she thought this was no longer home for her, she must have thought that was her real home.”

A cool rain had begun to fall and he dressed to go out in it. The other men did not offer to accompany him. It was as if they knew this was a personal journey, not to be shared with outsiders.

Jennifer thought of the cruel, old woman in the swamp, and she thought of Liza with her, subjected to the woman's violent temper.

“I'm going with you,” she said suddenly, running after Walter.