Darkwater (9 page)

“I will do what I can.” She started for the door, but before she reached it, a thought occurred to her and she turned back.

“Doctor, do you know a woman who lives in the swamp, Mrs. Hodges?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes. The people hereabouts call her the swamp witch. I would avoid her if I were you. She's mostly harmless, but certainly unstable.”

“Do you think...?” She hesitated. “Do you believe she is a witch?”

He gave her a look of mild reproach. “No, I don't believe that, but she has effected some cures that seemed like magic to folks hereabout. She's very knowledgeable about herbs and natural methods of healing, and there are miracles that can be worked with them if one knows enough. I wish I knew more. She has cured one or two cases where medical science was helpless. But that is not real magic, it is only advanced knowledge. That is all the Middle Ages witches were, you know, people who were misfits and who were, in many cases, ahead of their time in the knowledge they possessed, the same kind of knowledge, of herbs and berries and such. But why do you ask about Mrs. Hodges?”

“I was only curious. I had heard she was the mother of a girl living at Darkwater, Liza. Do you know the child?”

“Yes, but I could hardly believe she is Mrs. Hodges daughter. The woman is seventy if she's a day, and Liza can't be more than thirteen or fourteen.”

“She could be a granddaughter, perhaps.”

“It is possible,” he said with a shrug. “But I would still doubt it very much. That would presuppose that at some time Mrs. Hodges had a child of her own, and if she did, no one around here ever heard of it. She has lived in this neighborhood for decades, you see, and surely someone would have known if she had a child. Word gets around.”

“I suppose that is so. But I'm told Mr. Dere found her with Mrs. Hodges. If she is not Mrs. Hodges daughter, where do you suppose she came from?”

Another shrug. “There was so much confusion after the war. Children were abandoned by families who could not care for them. I suspect if the truth were known, and probably it never will be, that was the case with Liza. Someone—an unmarried woman, a derelict mother, a family whose fortunes had been destroyed—left her somewhere in the hope that someone would find her who could care for her. In this case, that someone was apparently Mrs. Hodges.”

The doctor was right, of course. Mrs. Hodges was much too old to be Liza's mother. If she herself had not been so shaken by her encounter with Mrs. Hodges, Jennifer would have realized this for herself at once. And Alicia, surely Alicia was intelligent enough to accept the truth for herself.

Most likely the truth was something along the lines of the scenario the doctor had outlined. But if Liza's was not Mrs. Hodge's child, whose child was she, and how had she come to be living in the swamp with the old woman?

CHAPTER TEN

Helen had not yet returned to the trap. Jennifer went along to the Emporium and found Helen there, waiting while the clerk wrapped a bolt of fabric for her.

“The children need some new clothes. Liza is too big already for her clothes. They were mostly hand-me-downs anyway.”

Again Jennifer was struck with the treatment afforded Liza, as if she were one of the family and yet not quite that either. She knew Helen did not care for having Liza there, and resented her. At the same time, her sense of fairness and her natural affection for children made it impossible for her to be really cruel to the child.

Surely, Jennifer thought, Liza must instinctively sense this ambivalence of feeling toward her. No doubt that was part of the explanation for her aloofness.

By the time they had finished their shopping and had made the drive back to Darkwater it was later afternoon. The return trip was pleasant. Helen kept to herself any curiosity she might have felt regarding Jennifer's visit to Doctor Goodman.

Perhaps, Jennifer thought, that was because she had no curiosity. Surely by now she too had concluded there was nothing physically wrong with Alicia, and that her spells sprang from unhappiness and her possessively jealous nature.

For that ailment, Jennifer saw no relief. She felt certain herself that sending Liza away would not solve the problem. With Liza gone, Alicia would only look around for someone else toward whom to direct her jealousy and resentment. And Jennifer did not have to look far to guess who that would be.

“By the way,” Helen said as they came up the drive to Darkwater, “we will be having company this evening for dinner.”

Since Jennifer had been at Darkwater there were frequently guests at dinner, but this, she gathered, was something a bit different.

“Is there an occasion?”

“Some of the local men are talking of forming a grange. They want to discuss it with Walter after dinner. Of course they'll be bringing their families with them.”

“Perhaps I can help by looking after the children.”

“There will be servants enough for that. And some of the children are old enough to help look after the others. You will be more of an asset at the dinner table, and perhaps afterward, in the parlor. Do you play the pianoforte?”

“A little. But I'm not an artist, I'm afraid.”

Helen dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Folks out here get hungry for entertainment. If you can manage to bang out a tune on the keys, they won't be too critical, I assure you.”

Jennifer hesitated a moment before asking, “Will Alicia be with us for dinner?”

“She rarely feels well enough for company,” Helen said, her voice dry and noncommittal. “I rather expect she will have a tray in her room, as she usually does.”

Later, in her own room, it occurred to Jennifer that she had been virtually asked to help act as hostess in Alicia's place. It gave her a thrill to think of acting as Walter's hostess, greeting his friends and entertaining them.

She knew she should feel guilt for her happiness, but she could not. Surely it was innocent. Helen could not suspect how she felt about Walter. It was the sort of favor she would have asked of any female living in the house, but to her, it was like every wonderful happening rolled into one. For this night, at least, she could pretend, pretend that she and Walter were not doomed to be forever apart, that he did not have a wife already, and that there might be some prospect of happiness for them.

She wore her best dress that evening, the gray silk Worth, and although it was clearly well worn, she knew it made a good impression upon the ladies when she entered the dining room.

She did not pay so much attention to what the men thought, except one. She glanced in Walter's direction and found his eyes on her. Was it only her imagination or was there a gleam of appreciation in them? Surely he rose to his feet more quickly than the others, and moved to hold her chair for her.

In addition to herself and Helen and Walter, and Susan and Martin Donally, there were three other couples, the Mortons, the Sands, and the Baumgardners.

That these last two couples should even be at this dinner party said something about the new South that had emerged from the ashes of the war. The Sands, she knew at once, were creoles, descendants from the original French settlers of Louisiana. Of dark complexions and dark hair, the creoles had in the past looked with disdain upon the '
Merican coquin,
those flatboatmen and swindlers from the North, as they saw it, who had dared to try to mingle with the aristocratic creoles.

The Baumgardners were of that breed of German settlers who had come to this rich new land and had, many of them, carved out vast estates for themselves. He was a man of about fifty, fat and florid but with a sort of robust vitality that made him seem younger and slimmer. His wife was pale and puffy, a soft little creature without angles or lines, only lush curves. She spoke with the thick accent he had almost lost.

The Mortons were young, in their thirties and energetic. It was such as these, Jennifer believed, who would rebuild the South. The old aristocracy had gone soft, spoiled by luxury. The Deres had fared well partly because they were strong, hard-working people. Even Helen, obviously bred to wealth and class, could put herself to work in the kitchen without any seeming distaste for menial tasks.

For this occasion, Darkwater did itself proud. From somewhere Bess had produced extra servants to help prepare and serve the food. The dining room looked lovely. Although it was not furnished in what could be considered a luxuriant manner, the pieces there were good and old and handsome, and tonight they were at their best advantage, polished until one could see one's face in the gleaming wood. Arrangements of flowers had been placed about the room and scores of candles flickered softly, and the mismatched dishes that the family used from day to day had been replaced with what was surely “the good china.”

It had been many years since Jennifer had been seated at a meal like this. Because day to day life at Darkwater was simple, it was easy to forget that the Deres were aristocrats and, by the standards of the time, wealthy.

On this night, she was reminded as course followed course, each more beautiful and tastier than the one before. Bess had made use of the local food available, whereas in the past delicacies of every imaginable sort might have been imported for the occasion—but Louisiana could provide a table in abundance, as the dinner proved. From the swamps came frog's legs and crayfish and shrimp, and from the forests, game birds and a wild pig. From right here on Darkwater came chicken for the
poulet noir
, and the greens and the sugar with which the yams were sweetened.

Jennifer felt as if she were intoxicated, although she barely sipped at the wine set before her. She thought of her mother, and of the years of deprivation, and a wave of sadness made her eyes smart. The food at this table would have fed them for months.

“I had thought you would enjoy the diversion,” Walter said at one point, leaning close to her, “but you look as if it makes you want to cry.”

“Perhaps it does,” she said, but she beamed because he had noticed her and had taken the trouble to try to cheer her.

Alicia did not appear at the table. As Helen had predicted, she remained in her room, ostensibly eating from a tray. She did manage to make her presence felt, however. As the group was sitting down to dinner, Alicia rang the bell in her room and demanded to see her husband. Dinner waited while he answered the summons. Jennifer could not know what transpired between husband and wife, but when Walter returned after several minutes, his face was flushed with anger.

Later, as dinner progressed, he was twice more called away and Jennifer could see that his patience was being sorely strained. She herself could not understand why Alicia had chosen not to join the guests. She herself had tried to persuade Alicia that she was quite well enough to eat at the table with them, but Alicia had remained convinced otherwise.

“What do you know of the way I feel?” Alicia had demanded petulantly. “I lie here suffering and no one knows or even cares.”

Well then, Jennifer had thought, dropping the subject, let her sit alone and miss everything if she chooses.

Despite Alicia's interruptions, the dinner went well. There was some brief conversation among the men regarding the prospective grange, but that was generally deferred until the ladies had withdrawn.

Jennifer understood a little about the organization. It was generally regarded as the country's first important farmers' movement, and it had begun in the Midwest, where farmers there had begun to form organizations they called Patrons of Husbandry, which became commonly known as granges. They were organized to combat the unfair practices of railways and grain elevators, and they had been successful in having protective legislation passed, legislation that touched deeply upon the subject of states' rights. As a result, granges had begun to spring up about the country, even in the Deep South where farming before had been an independent and gentlemanly pursuit.

She saw the looks of surprise from the men when she joined in their conversations on the subject and indeed she would have been glad to pursue it but the men did not think that suitable.

“We don't want to bore the ladies with such serious talk,” Mr. Morton said and the others nodded agreement and began to discuss the opera in New Orleans before the war.

Jennifer and Helen exchanged a quick glance. In some ways it was still very much the Old South, Jennifer thought. Women were meant to be pretty playthings, with little practical value.

When dinner was finished, the women retired to the withdrawing room while the men lingered over their port and passed around cigars.

For herself, Jennifer would as soon have lingered with the men. Although she suspected all the women present were intelligent and thoughtful, she was dismayed to see that their conversation was limited to “women talk.” They discussed their homes, their husbands, their children. They would not be persuaded by Jennifer to discuss literature nor the state of the South since the war, nor anything else of consequence.

Jennifer escaped once to look in on the children. With those who had come with the visiting couples, plus the Dere children and Liza, there were an even dozen. A table had been set up for them in one of the spare rooms, where they had eaten. By this time their meal was over too and the table had been cleared so they could play games.

When Jennifer came into the room, Liza was holding court. She was only slightly older than some of the others, but the impression she gave was that she was minding them all and doing so by keeping them entertained. At the moment she was engaged in telling them some story, the import of which Jennifer did not get.

“...By a witch,” was all she heard as she came in, but at the sound of the door opening, Liza's narration stopped and everyone turned in Jennifer's direction.

“I was only looking in to see that everything was all right,” Jennifer said, aware that her presence was a distraction. “Do go on, please.”

She left, and not until the door had closed and she was walking away did she hear the murmur of Liza's voice begin again.

By this time the men had finished their port and the entire party was now assembled in the parlor. When Jennifer came in, someone said, “Here she is now.”

Helen said, “I promised them you would play some music for us.”

Embarrassed, Jennifer said, “But I am really not very accomplished.”

“I would certainly enjoy to hear some music,” a voice close to her said. She looked up into Walter's eyes and knew she could not refuse after that request.

“Very well,” she said, taking a seat at the pianoforte. “I will play, but only if everyone sings.”

She brought her hands down upon the keys, hesitantly at first and then with more confidence, and began to play a spirited rendition of “Camptown Races.” Shyly at first and then with gusto, those who gathered about the piano began to sing. By the time she was playing the second chorus, everyone was singing loudly and happily, making the walls ring with their voices.

She kept them singing with “Nellie Gray.” And then she grew more serious, beginning to play an Irish song she had heard during the war, “The Rose of Tralee.” Until then she had not sung but now, as the others did not know the song, she began to sing it for them, her sweet girlish soprano only a whisper as she began, then soaring until it filled the room with the song's haunting melody and the tender lyrics.

When she finished, she was surprised by the brief hush that lingered after the last chord. Then, in unison, her listeners began to applaud. She flushed with embarrassment.

“That was lovely,” one of the women said, and another said, “It filled my eyes with tears.”

Jennifer looked around and saw that Walter, who had stepped back a pace or two, was beaming at her with pride. His smile thanked her more than the spoken words of the others.

She played “Annie Laurie” next, insisting that they all sing with her, and then, so that the party not become too maudlin, she finished with “Captain Jinks.”

By the time she rose from the instrument the mood of fun and gaiety had been restored. There were loud protests that she should stop playing.

“My hands are not accustomed to the effort,” she said. “I am afraid I am too tired to continue to play.”

She again excused herself, thinking that she would look in on the children. This time when she opened the door to the room they were in, they paid less attention to her. They did not even seem to notice her, in fact, so absorbed were they in what Liza was doing.

She was at one end of the table with the others clustered in front of her, their eyes glued to her hands. She held what looked to be a crude doll, fashioned, so far as Jennifer could see from the doorway, of feathers and straw, and apparently intended to represent a chicken. Liza moved it back and forth, jiggling it to give a remarkably effective impression of a hen waddling.