The black swan (93 page)

"Well, I needed him plenty of other times, and he didn*t care then!"

"Whoa! Ladies—quiet. What is all this?" Rod raised his arms, pretending to separate two pugilists.

Zoe walked hastily to the washstand. "Nothing. Just a family argument."

"She hates me because I didn't die trying to save Adam like Claudine. That's what they all think. That's what they aU want!"

"You've said enough, young lady! As long as you're Mrs. Tremain's guest, you'll keep a civil tongue."

"I'm not a guest! I live here—or I did. Do I live here, Aunt Zoe?"

Zoe walked angrily from the kitchen. Rod followed her. "Zoe, what is this about?"

"It's too long a story, and I want to see Adam."

"Your whole life seems wrapped up in long stories and secrets. Pardon me. I thought I could help. you. Wasn't that why you asked me to come?"

Zoe looked at him tearfully, then ran up the stairs.

Adam moved restlessly on the bed, his voice hoarse and all but unintelligible, an undercurrent that mumbled of limbless monsters and chickcharnies and Satan. When Zoe came in, he opened his puffy-lidded eyes and seemed to see her. "There was a . . . shipwreck."

"Yes, dear, I know," Zoe said shakily.

"Red hair—she had red hair. See her? Wife . . . red hair . . ." He drifted off, then his gaze found Rod's. "May-maybe you saw Dus-Dussie? Dussly? Wrecked. In'pend-pendas. But not Dussie . . . find her."

"We'll do that," Rod said heartily.

"Red—like fire. All 'roun' . . ." Adam's eyelids swung shut.

Biting her lip, Zoe forced herself not to go to Adam to try to make him recognize her. Mammy sat listlessly in her chair, her face gray with fatigue, her clouded eyes sunken deep in her head. "Mammy, I want you to go to your room. You're not getting any rest."

Mammy didn't move for so long, Zoe thought she hadn't heard. Then the old woman took a deep breath. "Ah resses when he resses. You jes' leave me set wheah Ah is, Miz Zoe. Dis wheah Ah b'long."

"Mammy, I want you to do as I ask!" Zoe said shrilly.

Rod come up behind her, moving her toward the door. "Let her do as she wants, Zoe. She wouldn't sleep if you made her go to her room."

Zoe pulled away from him, nerves raw. "Don't meddle, Rod. I know what's best."

"Damn it, Zoe, if anyone should go to her room and rest, it's you!"

"Don't raise your voice to me in here!"

"Then get out in the hall because I am going to raise my voice to you!"

Mammy's tired eyes lit briefly. "Y'all bettah do what he say, Miz Zoe.'*

"Zoe!"

She whirled to face him.

"You and I are going to get a few things cleared up. If you want my help, I'll give it willingly, but I sure as hell will not be shoved into the background to watch a woman scream at every member in the household. I'm accustomed to running things—and running them smoothly."

"Well, I'm not accustomed to being run!"

Rod's eyes bored into her. "Maybe it's time you learned to be."

"I should never have sent for you! Never! You're just as pushy and crude as any Yankee. If Paul Tremain taught me nothing else, he taught me never to trust any man, and certainly no dirty Yankee!"

Rod grabbed her arm. "Don't you ever confuse me with Paul Tremain—or any other man, Zoe!"

"Let me go!"

"Not this time." Rod walked quickly to her sitting room.

Chapter Eleven

It was an anxious six weeks for Dulcie before Mr. Revanche returned. While he was gone, General Lee had attacked the Army of the Potomac near Bristoe Station, Virginia. Union Major General Thomas, called "The Rock of Chickamauga" for his bravery there, replaced General Rosecrans as commander of the Army of the Cumberland. General Grant became supreme commander of the western forces and within ten days had opened a supply line to Chattanooga still under siege by Bragg.

"Look at this, Patsy," said Jem, shaking his newspaper. "Lee has been fightin' without a decisive battle for the past month, so now he's withdrawn his troops to winter quarters on the Rapidan River. Can't our generals do anythin' but skirmish and retreat?"

"And die of disease." Oliver shifted his gold toothpick. *Twice as many men die of disease as of wounds. The Union has its Sanitary Commission to minister to the sick and wounded and Its Christian Commission to look after their spiritual welfare. But the South hasn't got money for that."

"I heard a good one about a chaplain at Chickamauga," said Jem. "This so-named man of the cloth says, 'Remember, boys, he who is killed will sup tonight in Paradise.' One soldier yelled back, 'Well, Parson, you come along and take supper with us.' Then the shelling began, and the chaplain spurred his horse to the rear. The soldier says, 'Parson ain't hungry, an' he never eats supper.'"

The others laughed, but Patricia said, "That chaplain had to be a dirty Yankee. No Southuhnuh would—" She stopped, reddening. "Oh, Oliver, Ah beg you to forgive me. Ah don't mean all Yankees—an' heah you an' Mad are bein' so kind."

Jem patted her as she sat stiff in her chair, tears flowing in mortification. "There, there. Patsy love, Oliver knows you don't mean him."

"Of course not," Oliver declared heartily.

The front door knocker sounded.

Dulcie's heart jumped and began to beat with slow, heavy thuds.

Edmund entered the room, as impeccably dressed and at ease as always. He exchanged pleasantries with each one. Jem was too willing to talk about the war, and Oliver expounded on economic matters. Edmund accommodated them, graciously accepting a drink.

Dulcie could not stand it any longer. "Mr. Revanche, is there . . . did you learn anything of my husband?"

Edmund set his glass down. His voice was soft and regretful. "You are all hoping for good tidings, but none of you wish more than I that I could bring them. Unfortunately, I am not able to do so." His eyes remained on Dulcie.

She became pale, holding her breath.

Mad bristled. She was one of the few upon whom Edmund Revanche's charm had no positive effect. "As you have nothin' encouragin' to tell us, Mr. Revanche, perhaps it would be as well if you refrained from tellin' us any-thin'."

"No, Aunt Mad," said Dulcie tensely. "I want to know. I . . . must know."

The sympathy in the room almost overwhelmed her, but she would not cry. Not here. She wouldn't break down, not until she knew.

"I gave my word that I would tell you anything I might find out, but Mrs. Tremain, I beg you, don't call me upon my honor to keep that promise. Let it be enough that I have, verified that Captain Tremain is dead."

"He didn't die in the shipwreck—did he?"

Edmund looked at the others, appealing to them. Mad snorted. "Really, sir, you are drawin' this out into a three-act tragedy."

"I am loath to speak, Mrs. Raymer. I was hoping to spare your niece, for whom I have the greatest esteem, the sordid details of the death of a man who was patently not good enough for her."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Revanche. Either you have been misinformed or we speak of different men. No one was finer, kinder, or more honorable than Adam. I should like to hear your story. I think you have located information about the wrong man."

"I am seldom in error, Mrs. Rayner. Information is my

business. Were I not most precise and capable, the South would not wish my services."

Jem said impatiently, "Get to the point, Mr. Revanche."

Edmund breathed deeply, letting out a great sigh of resignation. "I bow to your wishes, sir. Mrs. Tremain, as you surmised, your husband did not die at sea. In fact, he died only last month."

Dulcie's head swam. Through dry lips she said, "Yes?"

"It was the talk of Wilmington. The respected, shall we even say idolized, blockade runner Captain Tremain met his end in a sordid brawl."

"If you please, sir," said Oliver angrily. "Where was this event said to have taken place?" He had greatly admired Captain Tremain, and his heart ached for Dulcie sitting so white and proud.

Edmund said sorrowfully, "In the Green Swamp, Mr. Raymer. A salt patrol was searching for him. It was reported that his men, led by him, had destroyed and disrupted several camps. There were rumors that Captain Tremain sold the stolen salt back to the Confederacy at tremendous profit to himself."

"I don't believe that!" Dulcie cried.

"Nor do I!" Mad agreed emphatically. "Adam Tremain would have nothin' to do with traitorous white trash. Stealing salt! The very idea!"

Edmund shrugged. "I am not making this up, Madame. Nor am I in a position to discern what is true or not true about Captain Tremain, not having known him myself. But, perhaps you did not know him as well as you thought."

Dulcie sat in stunned silence. Tom lived in the Green Swamp.

"Go on, Mr. Revanche," Jem said. "Painful as it may be, I think my daughter should hear it all. Perhaps then she will see what I saw from the beginnin'. This man was never right for her."

"The patrol found Captain Tremain with two women. They tried to arrest him, and he fought them. I was told he died of his wounds. The white woman, evidently a swamp creature, escaped."

Dulcie shook uncontrollably. "The other woman— T

"She was killed, trying to save the captain. She was known to be his . . . companion." Edmund paused for the

full effect of his words to hit Dulcie. "She was a nigger wench. Claudine, I believe they said."

Dulcie's vision dimmed. The room grew black, disappearing while she watched. Sounds dimmed. The shelf clock that ticked so loudly softened to nothing.

Dulcie put up one hand pushing away the acrid smell stinging her nostrils. She moved her head from side to side. "Stop. Don't."

Mad chafed her wrists. "Dulcie honey, can you hear me? It's your Aunt Mad. Sit still, dear. You'll be all right in a-few minutes."

"A terrible, terrible blow," Edmund said mournfully. "I feel responsible. Mrs. Tremain insisted. I did not want to tell her."

"We understand, Mr. Revanche," Jem's face was red with anger. "Dulcie had to know. I told her he'd break her heart. An adventurer, that's all he was—"

Mad said, "Jem, you hush. This is gossip!"

"He was a good man, a fine man," Oliver declared. "Pity he had to come to such an unfortunate end."

"At least it won't be known here in New York for a while," Jem said. "Dulcie won't have to face our friends and defend the rascal."

Dulcie stood up, though her arms and legs were jelly. "I don't want you talkin' about Adam. If ... if Mr. Revanche is correct, then Daddy is right, and I made a mistake in marryin' him. But—" She looked at them all, seeing none of them. "Can't you understand? I love him."

Oliver, without comment, handed her a glass of straight whiskey.

"Ollie Raymer! Dulcie, don't you take—"

Dulcie sipped the whiskey defiantly, wanting it to take hold as it had that one night—with him—^when they had watched the sua-come up over Eleuthera.

Had he gone to other women on each trip away from Nassau? Was it carousing and wenching that gave his face such a haggard look when he came back to her? And Claudine—with him at the last.

Beneath the doubts was a deeper hurt. Adam had never really tried to find her. He knew Oliver was in New York, and he had not sought him. He knew her father lived at Mossrose, and he had not sought Jem.

She held out her glass for more. Yet, she still loved him.

The longing didn't ease. Knowing he was dead didn't change it. Knowing he was not the shining kniglit siie had believed didn't lessen it.

It seemed to her that she spoke very clearly. "Mr. Revanche, I realize this will be hard to keep secret, but I'd be grateful if you said nothin' to anyone else. I will need time to—"

Edmund was at her side, bringing her hand to his lips. *Td protect your reputation with my life. Not all men are—-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"No, no, we won't talk about it. Forget. Begin anew, Mrs. Tremain."

"Oh, yes," Dulcie sighed. "Tomorrows are made for be-ginnin', aren't they? My tomorrows used to be so . . ." She shook her head. Her tongue felt thick. "No, no, I mustn't think that. Did you deliver my letters?"

"Mrs. Tremain's letter I delivered myself. The lady was not at home, so I gave it to a servant girl. The other I wasn't able to deliver." He reached into his pocket. "Captain West is not known in Charleston." He handed Dulcie the worn-looking letter.

She stared at it, dizzily speculating on the source of the travel stains on it. She tore it slowly across and put the pieces in the fire. She laughed, a low mirthless chuckle. "Tomorrows are for beginnin', and yesterdays are for burnin'. Bum, yesterday, burn!"

She noted with surprise that her legs were misbehaving. "I—don't think I feel quite well. Excuse me, Mr. Revanche, I must ..." She looked around stupidly, wondering what it was she must do.

"Mrs. Tremain—forgive my boldness—may I tell you that never in my life have I met a woman braver or more poised than yourself? Will you permit me to call on you tomorrow? I should like to offer you whatever small crumbs of comfort my presence will provide."

"Certainly." Holding Jem's arm. Dulcie mounted the stairs. The maid undressed her, and she lay in bed feeling unpleasantly close to the rawness of life. Her mother came in. "I don't feel like talkin' Mama."

Patricia bent dovm and kissed her daughter fondly. "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Remem-bah that, dahlin'."

"I'll remember. Good night. Mama."

"Theah's nothin' we can do fo' you now, but dahlin*, woman have always found strength in theah Makuh. It's moah than a platitude, Dulcie."

After Patricia tiptoed out, Dulcie shut her eyes. Vignettes of Adam . . . Adam . . . Adam drifted before her like a magic lantern-show. Adam cruel yet desiring her in Tom's bayou house. Adam comforting her on board the Tun-bridge, talking with her in the storm, entering the tournament because she wanted him to, catching Andrew Whit-aker kissing her. The night of the terrible fire at the plantation. Adam and herself laughing like two fools running from their pursuers in New York. Adam making love to her under the canopy of the broken bed. Making love, making a child together, dying together—all of them. And only herself left—dead. Tomorrows with no beginnings.