Natchez Flame (25 page)

“It’s really somethin’, isn’t it?” Jaimie Walker stood beside her at the rail. Stuart had gone ahead to see to their arrival at his town house while Priscilla completed her morning ablutions and finished the last of her packing.

“Yes …,” she said softly. “It is.”

“Natchez-under-the-Hill Isn’t a place on this earth that’s anything like it.” Jaimie turned toward her. The morning breeze ruffled his thick red hair and his blue eyes sparkled as bright as the surface of the broad Mississippi. “Worse den of cutthroats, thieves, gamblers, whores, pimps—sorry ma’am—ever took a flatboat down the river.” He grinned, his teeth white and even in his freckle-dusted face. “But then I guess—you bein’ born here—you know all about it.” He was attractive, she realized, maybe for the very first time. Boyish and a little bit shy, but fine-featured and well-proportioned.

“How did you know I lived here?” Priscilla asked.

“I … guess the boss must have mentioned it. How does it feel to be back home?”

“Natchez isn’t home, Jaimie. I left when I was six—I really don’t remember much about it.” She glanced out at the ramshackle buildings that lined the steep slope.

She couldn’t recall this place of squat, slab-roofed houses, the crude doggeries made from abandoned, beached flatboats. A few hastily constructed buildings of brick had been built on the narrow, winding streets, but they looked as run-down as the rest. And all of them served as home to the constant parade of drunken rivermen and their doxies who swilled the rotgut whiskey sold in the roughneck establishments at the bottom of the bluff.

“No reason you should remember a god-awful place like this.” Jaimie pointed up the hill toward a row of stately mansions overlooking the river. “That’s where a lady like you belongs—Natchez-on-the-Hill. Boss’ll be back soon with a carriage to take you up into the city.”

Jaimie had no more than said the words when Priscilla spotted a sleek black calèche with the top down, driven by a rail-thin black youth in red satin livery.

“Before he got so busy with the ranch,” Jaimie explained, “the boss spent a good bit of time here in Natchez. Fact is, this is where he made his fortune. He still keeps a small staff of servants at his fancy town house; just hires extra people when he gets in.”

“I see.” Priscilla accepted Jaimie’s arm, and they started down the gangplank toward the shore. “Will you be staying there with us?”

“There’s separate guest quarters in the rear. That’s where the men always stay.”

She wanted to ask him why Stuart thought traveling with so many men was necessary, but a glance at the disreputable characters lining the wharf told her that maybe his caution was warranted after all.

When they reached the shore, Stuart approached, took her arm, and helped her into the carriage. “The house isn’t far,” he said, climbing in beside her while Jaimie climbed up next to the driver. “We’ll take the long way. I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing a bit of your old hometown.”

That should have been true—but indeed she felt just the opposite. Everytime the carriage rounded a corner, a prickle of dread crept up her spine. What was there about the place that made her want to run and hide?

“I’ve arranged for your trunks to be delivered as soon as possible. I suggest you rest this afternoon. I’ve several important meetings today and tomorrow, so I’m afraid you’ll be left on your own. Friday evening, we’re invited to a soiree at Melrose. The McMurran’s—John’s a very prominent lawyer—will be our hosts. The house is newly completed and reported to be one of the most beautiful in the city. All in all, it should be a lovely affair.”

Priscilla forced a smile as the carriage rolled along the shady streets. When she’d agreed to become Stuart’s wife, she hadn’t for a moment suspected the type of life she’d be leading. She’d imagined a solitary existence on the Texas frontier, not the hustle and bustle, the glitter and social whirl of Natchez—or maybe even Washington. It wasn’t what she’d bargained
for—and certainly not the kind of life she really wanted. But there seemed no help for it now.

“If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you have Jaimie show you around tomorrow,” Stuart was saying. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“That sounds … fine.” It was silly, this uneasy feeling she harbored. It was just the sadness of the past, the vague recollection of the pain she had felt at the loss of her mother and father. There was nothing to be afraid of—she might as well confront her childhood fears and start living in the present.

Stuart’s home, situated on North Pearl Street near Franklin, was a two-story structure of fine red brick with white shuttered windows and manicured front lawns.

It was mostly Georgian in design, with parquet floors, Italian marble mantels, and lovely ornate moldings. There were English tables, French mirrors, and Aubusson carpets. Heavy red velvet draperies hung at the windows, and Chinese vases stood on rosewood pedestals near the front door. It was slightly overdone for Priscilla’s taste, but impressive just the same.

“I’ll join you for supper at eight,” Stuart said. Having shown her through the house, he led her upstairs to the bedchamber adjoining his. It was another command, thinly veiled, but Priscilla was growing accustomed to them.

“I look forward to it,” she replied, not really meaning it. It was amazing how quickly one could don the mask of banality.

Supper, a very southern affair of chicken and pork,
pokeweed, sweet potatoes, and biscuits, droned on with the same mundane pleasantries. Priscilla retired early, with only a glance toward the adjoining chamber door. She wondered if Stuart desired her, then thought of the few times she had caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking. He wanted her, all right. Not with the same physical hunger Brendan had, more as a means of possession, of conquering her spirit and making her his.

Brendan.
For a while she’d been able to forget him. It was rare that she allowed herself thoughts of him. But on nights like these—warm, sultry evenings that marked the last of summer, with the wind blowing in from the river and the windows open to the scent of magnolias—memories of their nights together beneath the stars brought almost a physical ache.

Where was he now? she wondered. Was he alive or dead? Rotting in some stifling jail cell would be more of a death for a man like him than swinging from the gallows.

Priscilla closed her eyes against a well of tears and lay back against the soft down pillows. Above the carved wooden headboard of the big four-poster bed hung a John James Audubon portrait of snow geese winging south for winter. Brendan would have loved the painting, she had thought from the moment she’d seen it.

Go to sleep, Priscilla
, her mind warned.
All of that is behind you. Keep his memory buried the way you do those from your childhood.

And so she did. It took all of her will, but she did. And in the morning when Jaimie Walker waited in the elegant front parlor to take her on a tour of the
city, she was ready. Wearing a dove-gray day dress trimmed with black embroidered brandenbourgs, she preceded him out on the porch and down the brick walkway to the carriage.

She would battle both sets of memories, fight them and defeat them—and then get on with her life.

“The hell you will!” Stuart Egan leaned over the burned and scarred top of the old wooden table. “You’ve got two choices, McLeary—you can stop spending money like a drunken sailor, or you can halt your operation completely. What’s it going to be?”

“You’ve got some nerve, Egan. You live like a bloody pharaoh, and you come down here telling me to quit spending my own goddamn money.”

“I’m a respected businessman. Everyone knows how I earn my living—they expect me to be a man of means. You own a stinking tavern in this armpit under the hill. Sooner or later, you keep flaunting your money, people are bound to get suspicious. If they link you to the smuggling on the river and the robberies and murders on the Trace, they’ll come after you. Knowing you as I do, you’ll squawk to the authorities as fast as that tongue of yours can wag. I won’t have my political ambitions destroyed because you’ve got an itch for the gallows!”

“And I won’t live like a pauper while you live like a king!” Caleb McLeary slammed a large fist against the table, but the dull thud, and the roar of his voice, were lost in the noise and laughter that filled the tavern outside the shabby back room.

“Calm down, McLeary,” Stuart warned, and Mace
Harding’s hand slid a little closer to the heavy Walker Colts he wore at his waist. “We’re here to work out our differences—that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Stuart had come into the grimy tavern through the rear so he wouldn’t be seen. There was another way out of the place as well—through the honeycombed tunnels the river had conveniently carved into the soft loess soil behind the shanties and shacks—the place where the loot was stored.

“I’m not asking you to do this forever,” Stuart soothed with a wave of his hand around the dusty store room. An overturned barrel with a half-burned candle on top held shot glasses filled with whiskey for the men. Beside it sat a stack of dusty crates and boxes. Flies buzzed near a crusted-over bowl of mutton stew, and a spotted brown mongrel scratched at its flea-infested hide in the corner.

“We decided going in we’d give it a five-year run,” Stuart reminded him, “then you could take your share of the earnings and head off on your own. A little more discretion is all I’m asking. If that isn’t agreeable, we split things up right here.”

“What if I’m not ready to quit?” the burly ex-riverman asked. “What if I want to build one of them fancy houses up on the hill and stay right here in Natchez?”

Then you’re a dead man.
“You can’t afford to take that chance. You’re already living well above your means.” From what Mace had discovered, Caleb had a pricey suite at the Middleton Hotel and a very expensive mistress. “Something like that would get you hung for sure.”

“You’re not worried about me—you’re worried about your fancy reputation.”

“You’re damned right I am! I’ve worked hard to get what I have, and no sleazy, two-bit riverman is going to welsh on his agreement and ruin things.”

Caleb shoved back his chair and came to his feet. He was a tall, dark-haired man in his middle thirties with a thick black mustache and unkempt muttonchop sideburns. Still, Stuart supposed he wasn’t bad-looking in an uncouth, rough sort of way.

“You’d better get this, Egan, and get it good. I don’t take orders from you anymore. These days, I’ve got my own inside information. Your man’s usually a day late and a dollar short, anyhow. You want to end this partnership, that suits me just fine!”

Stuart’s expression remained carefully controlled, but inside he seethed. Caleb McLeary would still be running flatboats downstream if it hadn’t been for the chance Stuart had given him four years ago.

“We’ve made a lot of money together, you and I,” Stuart reminded him. “It isn’t like you to go off half-cocked.”
Not much. The man had a quick, mean ternper and always had.
“Why don’t we both take some time to think things over. I’ll be in Natchez for a while. Let’s let things simmer down—you finish the Meyers job, and we’ll talk again next week.”

Some of the tension left McLeary’s big body. “I don’t want trouble, Egan. I just want what’s due me.”

And that’s exactly what you’ll get.
“Since that’s what we both want, there shouldn’t be a problem.” He extended his hand; McLeary hesitated a moment, then shook it.

“Figured you’d understand, once you saw my side a’ things.”

“Of course,” Stuart agreed. He motioned toward Harding and started toward the low wooden back door. “I hear there’s a new lady in your life,” Stuart said amiably.

“She’s been with me about six months.” Caleb grinned. “You remember Rosie O’Conner? Pretty little gal with long dark hair and big brown eyes? Used to work over at the Painted Lady a few years back—before Ben Slocum bought her outta there. She’s one high-grade filly now—and she belongs to me.”

Stuart smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Rose is one of the reasons I’ve got to get out from under the hill. She’s too good for that kinda life, and I mean to see she don’t ever have to live that way again.”

“Very admirable, Caleb.” Stuart walked toward the door. “I’m sure the lady shares your sentiment completely.” He brushed past Mace, who obediently held it open. “Remember, I’ll see you next week.”

Little Rosie O’Conner
, he repeated to himself as the door slammed closed behind him. It amused him to imagine what Priscilla would think if she ever discovered the truth about herself and the girl from Under-the-Hill.

Rose Conners, formerly Rosie O’Conner, strode purposely along Canal Street toward Briel. She’d been shopping all morning, ordering new dresses, several feather-trimmed bonnets, and a hand-painted parasol that came all the way from Paris, France. Caleb
was always so generous. What did it matter if he got a little drunk and heavy-handed once in a while?

She’d suffered far worse with Ben Slocum—and him claiming to be such a gentleman! Perverted—that’s what Ben was. At least he’d gotten her out from under the hill. For that she’d be eternally grateful.

Now she lived with Caleb McLeary in a fine suite of rooms at the Middleton. Not the fanciest hotel in town, but far more elegant than anyplace she’d ever been in.

It was a lonely existence, since Caleb didn’t have many friends and Rose knew only the whores she had worked with and the nuns who had raised her, but that didn’t matter. She dressed like a lady, she had taught herself to read and cipher—she was even learning to play the piano.

She’d come a damned long ways from the terrified little girl who’d been orphaned at five and left to survive on her own.

Rose’s full silk skirts—a bright yellow overskirt above four ruffled flounces of black and yellow polka dots—rustled as she walked down the street toward the hotel. Purposely avoiding the ladies she knew would shun her, Rose usually stayed clear of crowded roadways, and even went so far as to enter the hotel by the back stairs. Someday she hoped to move away from Natchez, find a place where no one would ever guess who she was or how she had lived.