The black swan (41 page)

Englishmen flocked to the prospect of enormous profits to be made from the American war. Men were given mysterious and lengthy leaves of absence from the Royal Navy to man the blockade runners under assumed names. Young gallants glowed with the borrowed glories of men of the past such as Sir Francis Drake, freely roaming the oceans, outwitting the enemy in the dark of night, all to win or all to lose on the quirks of fate and the expertise of the Federal guns.

All of them, like Adam, were waitmg anxiously for their ships to be completed. Their eagerness for the adventure infected Adam with the same fever. He had to calm himself before he arrived in London. Tending to British registry for the ships and contacting the Confederate agents there, he was hard pressed to keep his mind on business. His heart had long ago left him, to stand on the bridge of a sleek, dark-gray sidewheel steamer that was taking recognizable shape on the River Clyde in Scotland.

In June he boarded the Tunbridge for home, a man divided: his heart still in Glasgow, his mind leaping the Atlantic to New York.

Chapter Eight

Dulcie found the process of growing up one of mixed blessings. She loved being with Aunt Mad and Uncle Oliver, and the European tour was something she had dreamed about but never dared hope would come true. But leaving Mossrose as she did, under the heavy cloud of Jem's disapproval, was a constant sorrow to her, something that lay at the back of her mind, momentarily forgotten when she became enchanted by the wonders of Europe and the gallantry and effusive admiration of the young men she met, remembered when the thrill of flattery had worn thin.

The first six weeks of her Grand Tour were spent in the British Isles. Aunt Mad and Uncle Oliver delighted in taking her across green and foggy Ireland in wagonettes, swathed in great heavy plaids that laughed at rain and chill. They had several days in sooty, hospitable Dublin. In the faces, crag-lined with the marks of robust individuality, tempered by a natural chivalry, Dulcie saw the origins of the people who had made the South what it was. Everywhere she looked, seeing the gardens, the fierce love of the land, she knew more keenly than ever what Jem felt for his beloved Mossrose.

In England they marveled at Hadrian's Wall, sixteen hundred years old and crumbling, still standing sentinel over the harsh Northumberland countryside. From London they sailed on a French trader to Dunkerque, then traveled north overland by diligence to Belgium and the Netherlands. From Marseilles they took another boat to Livomo and spent a leisurely winter and early springtime touring Italy.

Then it was March 1861, and they were in Milan. Though Oliver had checked at all the previously agreed-upon post offices on their journey, there had been no mail

from Jem or Patricia. Dulcie concealed her disappointment and smiled. "Perhaps when we get to Paris."

Oliver beamed on her gratefully. "Of course there'll be a letter in Paris." Then he gave her a totally unexpected compliment. "You are a very satisfactory traveling companion, Dulcie. You never get tired or seasick, never downhearted."

Dulcie blushed. "I can't thank you enough for bringing me and Claudine with you. I don't think I could ever tire of traveling."

Yet she was tired, of the potholed miles over haphazard roads, of the meals that made her stomach queasy, of inns where the bedding was sour and grimy. And though she tried not to think of it, she was homesick. She wanted to see her mother and father and Mossrose. With her own eyes she wanted to look at her father and know he had forgiven her. There were so many things she understood now that she had not been able to see before. If only she could tell him. She yearned to see corn and cotton waving in the winds that blew over Mossrose. She wanted to hear the plantation bell tolling out the arrival of dawn. She wanted to smell the fragrance of Violet's home-baked bread. She wanted home.

After a few weeks in Milan they moved north with the sun. The variflamed torch of May lent splendor to the chestnut trees along the Seine, the gardens of the Palais Royal, and to the kiosks, cafes, and the flea market. "Paris in springtime," breathed Mad.

Dulcie drew in a quivering breath of delight. "I see why it's your very favorite city. Ifs beautiful!"

"It's also ugly," Oliver harrumphed. "It stinks of its sewers, but it's famous for its perfumes. All the best and all the worst can be found right here."

They took a furnished apartment at the Chalon in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. For most meals they went to a clean little ordinaire a few blocks away. Their proprietairet Monsieur Bas, was knowledgeable and accommodating, helping them to find agreeable guides and carriage drivers who were no more reckless than the average.

Their time in Paris was leisurely. While Oliver spent his days talking business in a passable French and visiting sooty factories, his languid gaze missing no detail of foreign manufacturing procedures, Dulcie, Aunt Mad, and

Claudine enjoyed themselves thoroughly. European charm and exaggerated displays of courtliness did much to enhance their stay in Paris, as well as enliven the hushed girlish conversations at night in their room.

Daily Oliver inquired about the mail. Then finally there was a letter from Jem, dated a month before.

"My dearest daughter," Jem began, and Dulcie could feel the tears spurting from her eyes. Blindly she ran to her bedroom, where she could read and weep as she needed to, and unfolded it before her:

This letter finds your mother and myself well. We trust you are the same, as we have rec'd. only two letters from you. [But I've written every Sunday! thought Dulcie.] I have posted letters to you at every known stop to keep you and Oliver informed of our situation here.

President Davis has called for volunteers. The brave men of the South have responded eagerly to defend their country. I cannot believe that any war between the North and the South will last long.

I am sorry to terminate your joumeyings, but I do not want you to come back to New York only to be held prisoner in the North. As always the Abolitionists and the Black Republicans under President Lincoln's guidance continue to harass. There have been changes in passport regulations, and many innocent Southerners on leisurely travel have been accused of being Confederate spies.

Convey my greetings to your aunt and uncle and tell Oliver that I am ordering you home without delay. I will be fearful for your safety until you are at Moss-rose again.

Your loving father, James Moran

Dulcie read the letter twice. Heedless of tears, she rushed to the sitting room. "Daddy sounds so urgent about us comin' home. Uncle Oliver. Is the South truly at war?"

Carefully he read her letter. "I've been reading news of it in all the European papers. So far it has been all wind and bombast, but the storm is gathering. We shall start for the United States tomorrow."

Oliver looked at his niece. As though a limb had been

severed by so sharp an instrument that no pain was felt, this abominable war had severed Dulcie's nationality from his.

Mad was far less willing to confront such unsettling realities. "Oliver, I declare, you're as bad as Jem, scarin' poor Dulcie half out of her wits. There's nothin* to it, Dulcie, so don't you be frightened."

"Now, Mad," said Oliver softly, "we don't need to treat Dulcie like a little girl."

"Jem is just an alarmist, Ollie dear." Mad dismissed him, seeking comfort in less perplexing things than the division of a nation. "Besides, we have a personal introduction to the Countess Archambeault, whose first name is also Madeline, only she spells it differently than I do."

"If she lives in Calais, you can visit her," Oliver said mildly,

"Well, it's just on the way, Ollie dear."

"Just on the way in which direction? Toward the Mediterranean?"

Mad laughed and patted his shoulder. "No, you goose, only a few miles off the post road toward Calais."

"Then a visit won't be possible, as we'll be traveling by train."

Dulcie recognized the initial skirmishes in a marital battle; the mild hint from Aunt Mad, the quietly decisive reply from Uncle Oliver, the subtle suggestion of opposition from her aunt. Mad's next move, Dulcie knew, would be a sidestep.

"I guess this will be our last night in Paris," Mad said. "But I insist we not make it serious or sad. Let's make it a real celebration!"

"We just had a big night last night. Dear Mad, I believe I am getting too old for late nights."

True to form. Mad gave in gracefully—this time. "Of course, Ollie honey, that was very thoughtless of me. We'll go to Monsieur Honfleur's and have a really splendid repast! Then we'll retire quite early."

Oliver appeared to have won the first engagement, because Mad had retreated. "Oh, Oliver! How is it that you can always get around me? You never want to argue with me, and yet you always come out best!"

Oliver nudged Dulcie. "The last time I recall getting the better of her was March of 1841, when I got her to say she'd marry me," he whispered.

But the battle was scarcely joined. Mad began it again after a superb dinner of delicately browned fresh fish, duck stewed with cucumber, a tongue with a mouth-watering tomato sauce, sweetmeats and puddings, finishing with peaches flambee, and wines to enhance each course. Oliver had been particularly appreciative of M. Honfleur's choice of wines and was nodding a bit over his dessert.

Dulcie, delicately spooning the last bites of peaches flambee, caught her aunt's eye and burst out giggling. "Give up. Aunt Mad."

Mad had a face made for smiling. Her high round cheekbones, her wide mouth with straight white teeth, and eyes that crinkled but not too much for beauty's sake, combined to bestow upon her a radiant look of cherubic joy. She smiled now on her beautiful niece, thinking once again that since she had no children from her twenty years of marriage, how nice it was of Patricia to lend her Dulcie. So much more soothing to be with than any of her sister Caroline's flighty daughters.

"I never give up, dear. I have it all worked out!" she cried happily. "We'll hire a carriage large enough to carry all our trunks. We'll take the post road as far as Chantilly and just endure the customs men. The castle of the prince of Conde is there, you know."

Dulcie had not known.

Mad went on dreamily, "We might just spend a day in Saint Denis. The Benedictine abbey there holds the French crown jewels and a number of holy relics, including, I believe, a thorn from our Blessed Savior's crown."

Oliver said unexpectedly, "We've already seen enough nails and wood from the True Cross to build a ten-foot fence around the castle of Chenonceaux."

Mad squeezed his arm conspiratorially. "Just the same, Ollie dear, one of them might be real, and think what a thrill that would be I"

"You do realize, dear Mad, that this whole scheme is completely irresponsible?" Oliver said mildly. But Mad had already won. All thoughts of war and safety had been banished. Oliver looked fondly at his women and agreed silently that a few days more could hardly matter.

Mad broke forth in her angelic smile. "Oh, yes, Ollie! I'm sure it is the height of naughtiness, but doesn't that just add flavor to the adventure? It will be such a grand end to Dulcie's Grand Tour. Oh, yes!" Her eyes were

sparkling and happy as Oliver looked on with tacit approval. "From Chantilly we work our way north and east to Pierrefonds. The Countess Soulier gave me explicit directions."

"In that case we shall surely become lost," Oliver mumbled. "We'll have to have postilions, you know, Mad. We'd never find the way without them."

"Nasty little creatures," said Mad, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled one. "I can never decide which feature about them is most revoltin', their saddle-sore beasts, their noisome garments, or those very peculiar jackboots."

"Their manners," rumbled Oliver. "I've known goats more civil. We could take the train to Calais, get there in less than a day," he added in one last weak thrust at good sense. Then he appeared to doze, his round face and bulbous nose shadowed by the candlelight, his superfluous chins tucked comfortably into his cravat.

Mad had gone conveniently deaf. "Will you be terribly disappointed at having to leave Paris so soon, Dulcie?"

Dulcie smiled at her aunt and looked away. "Of course I'll be sorry to leave. Aunt Mad, but I know I'll enjoy seeing the other places on the way to Calais. And the Marquis duBois did invite us to his ball, remember?"

'*Ahl Might there be a certain marquis's son you'd like to see once more?" Mad asked brightly, then darted a testy glance at her husband. "We certainly won't miss that! The very idea! Just because Jem is crying wolf! By now Alain v/ill be positively spoiling to see you again!"

Dulcie blushed, remembering good-looking Alain duBois of the liquid brown eyes and the ardent kisses. "Oh, he's not serious, Aunt Mad. He's just being extravagant and complimentary."

Mad wagged an admonishing finger. "You're not to discourage him, Dulcie. Not every Southern family has a real French marquis in it!"

Dulcie grinned. "Daddy'd love that! You know how he is about foreigners."

"I sincerely doubt that he ever met one of any importance. We must go. OUie, we're leavin' dear, hadn't you better open your eyes?"

"They were never closed," Oliver rumbled. He might have spoken truly, for all his vague, sleepy manner. When he seemed to be furthest away, he would suddenly utter some remark, some wise conclusion that astonished them

all. Many a shrewd businessman, assessing Oliver and thinking him a bit lacking, had discovered his error expensively.

Back at the appartement Mad went into a frenzy of activity. She issued orders to Claudine, to Dulcie, to Oliver, who simply fell asleep in his chair, to M. Bas to bring down their trunks, to arrange for a carriage, to go out and buy them another trunk.

They were ready at dawn. Guilbert, the carriage driver, was surly and apparently weak-muscled, for he dropped anything he tried to load. In the end Oliver and M. Bas put on the luggage. M. Bas sent his son to fetch the postilion. An hour passed before they returned.

Mad's pet peeves were all combined in the postilion. His official duty was to ride ahead on his pony to warn the driver of large potholes, washed-out bridges, bandits, and other dangers. He was, in effect, their protector. It was quickly plain that the meagerly constructed, wizened wisp who drunkenly sat his bony mount would not do. His looks would sooner inspire hilarity than fear, should they be beset on the highway. On his small head sat a large cavalier's hat, complete with plume. He wore a blackened sheepskin coat that came down to his enormous jackboots. His legs would be well protected, for an iron rim ran around the top of each boot, emphasizing their impressive diameter. To complete his costume he wore wickedly long brass spurs encrusted, as it proved, with the blood of his hapless pony.

"Good God!" Oliver exclaimed.

Even M. Bas, accustomed to such creatures, was taken aback. He recovered quickly. "A tigre, Monsieur Raymer! Frangois, expose for Monsieur Raymer your pistolet"