The black swan (94 page)

Edmund Revanche came calling the next afternoon. He provided her a deliberately pleasant respite, speaking charmingly but not vivaciously of his travels. Some things, he said piously, he could not reveal for his own safety. "There is a large group of Southern citizens usually called the Peace Society. This seditious organization wants to overthrow the Confederacy and restore all states to the Union."

"Surely someone in authority would heah of theah meet-m*s an' arrest them all." said Patricia.

"They have no meetin's. Men known as 'eminents' travel the South, conferring the degree on others. Each member is an independent. They have passwords, secret codes, every shady means of operation."

"It doesn't sound like much of an organization to me," said Mad.

"It is highly organized," Edmund smiled. "They work alone, encouragin' desertion, askin' families to refuse to serve on the home front. Some of our soldiers are bone fide members of these Peace Societies."

"What is ouah world comin' to, when loyal Southunuhs can't be trusted anymoah?" Patricia asked.

"There are always misguided souls who cannot see the common good, Madame. But there are many women like yourself who nurse the sick, who never sit down without their knittin' so that our gallant men in gray may have socks and scarves. One woman hke you is a credit to the entire Confederacy." Edmund's eyes rested on Dulcie,

who had said little. "You are looking much improved today, Mrs. Tremain."

"Do go on talkin'. I am content just to listen."

"It is such a bright and pleasant afternoon, may I take you ladies for a carriage ride through Central Park?"

"Thank you, Mr. Revanche, but Patricia and I have obligated ourselves to finish several pairs of those socks you spoke of."

"I will go with you, Mr. Revanche," Dulcie said.

Though the mid-November day was chilly, it was warm under the plaid lap robe Dulcie shared with Edmund. The cool wind was invigorating.

"Will you be in New York long this time, Mr. Revanche?"

"Until the New Year, Mrs. Tremain. May I call you Miss Dulcie?"

"Why?"

"Iknow how you must feel about the man whose name you use.*'

"I'm sure you don't, Mr. Revanche. Do you have business in the city, or will you be takin' a holiday?"

"If you must be so prickly, why did you come?"

"Because it's better than knittin' socks,"

Edmund laughed. "How refreshingly honest you are, my dear."

"Mr. Revanche." She chose her words carefully, allowing them to reflect her bitter emptiness. "When I first met you, I thought I might learn to like you very much. Now that I know you better, I discover I am totally indifferent."

"You are hardly being fair, my dear. It was you who extracted my promise to tell you whatever I discovered. If you recall, I tried to dissuade you from listening. I might remind you that no matter how despicable the captain's behavior toward you, I had no part in it. Shall you punish me for what he did? And shall you end what might have been a pleasant friendship between us?"

"How could you possibly want a friendship with me when you know ... I really don't care to continue this conversation, Mr. Revanche."

"Come now, Dulcie, even v^dows have friends. You have had a grave shock, but I tell you, the best way to recover is to go on with your life. Fill it v^dth new things, new people, new ideas."

"Mr. Revanche, truly, I don't care."

"That must change. Immediately . . . Dulcie. My name is Edmund. I'll expect you to use it. As a matter of fact, I shan't answer to anything but Edmund coming from your lips."

Dulcie smiled in spite of herself. "Does nothin' put you off?"

"Very little. I am a man of select tastes and of great determination. I seldom forget a woman of beauty, or an enemy, and I pay proper homage to each." He laughed, pleased with himself, confident of her.

"No wonder you're such a success. They say you are a spy. Are you?"

"Where did you get that romantic notion?"

"One of your lady admirers whispered it to an avid audience. If you're not, you'll disappoint at least two dozen loyal Southerners."

"Ahhh. Then by all means well foster the idea. I always find it best to be whatever is wished by one's admirers. It makes them so much more ready to support my causes."

Dulcie looked at him from the comer of her eye. "Mr. Revanche—Edmund, sometimes you seem far more the cynic than the idealist."

He laughed, flicking the buggy whip. "You're a perceptive woman."

"I didn't pay you a compliment."

"As I said before, your honesty is refreshing."

"And yours is disconcertin'."

"Why? My life is such that cynicism comes readily. Except when I am in New York lecturing and raising money, I see little that bolsters one's idealism. But I seldom have the opportunity to speak with an intelligent and beautiful woman capable of understanding my temporary disillusion-ments."

"Are they temporary?"

"Of course. Once this cursed war is over. I have dreams . . . and home."

Dulcie smiled, glad she had come, glad to hear a man speaking in such a fashion about his future.

Unobtrusively, Edmund moved closer. "Have you ever roller-skated?"

"Ever what?"

"It's like ice-skating, except it's done on wheels. It's the latest craze. The social leaders of New York are trying

to confine it to the educated and refined classes and so are making it fashionable.'*

"Fd like to try that."

On Friday evening Dulcie went skating with Edmund, falling down several times before she learned to glide on wheels. He was fairly expert, skating either forward or backward. Relaxed and enjoying himself, he was at his most charming. Though he seemed always aware of his effect on people, superficially he was an uncomplicated, pleasant, attractive man who drew women's eyes. Dulcie found herself smiling, having fun almost against her wilL

"You are lovely tonight, little one," said Edmund.

/ love you, little one, Adam had said. Dulcie forced a smile. "I am enjoyin' myself, Edmund."

"Tell me, have we been fashionable long enough? Surely everyone has noticed us by now. Shall we have a late supper at the Astor House?" ,

In the following weeks Dulcie went out often with Edmund. At Wallack's a stage presentation creaked with old castles, titled lords and ladies, and missing heirs. During one scene, when Lady Upsnoot still lay on the floor from her suicide, someone threw her a corsage. The dead lady aiose and bowed, clutching the flowers, as was the custom. Then she lay back down and continued to be dead. Dulcie laughed and laughed.

At Thanksgiving (oflScially proclaimed by Mr. Lincoln as the fourth Thursday'of November) the family, with Edmund as guest, dined at the New York Hotel.

"Ah don't s'pose, if we wuh in Georgia, we'd be eatin' this well, Jem."

Jem laid a small bone in the bone dish and licked his fingers. "Possibly not, Patsy love. But Mossrose quail are sweeter than these."

"One thing I miss in the North," said Edmund, "is genuine Southern salt-cured ham. What we get here is but a pallid substitute."

"If what you said about salt is true, Edmund, they aren't havin' too much of your favorite ham in the South, either," said Dulcie.

He smiled at her. "Your memory is very accurate, my dear, especially when one recalls how the subject came up."

"Do you visit your home when you go South, Mr. Revanche?" asked Mad.

His eyes kindled briefly. "I lost my home by fire."

"How dreadful!" said Patricia.

"What will you do after the war, sir?" asked Oliver.

Edmund proferred cigars from a gold case, selected one, clipped the end, and lit it. "Politics. In essence I want to build up the country again. Win or lose, the Confederate States will be in need of repair."

Dulcie was thoughtful. Adam had such an idea. It was incredible that two such different men would seize upon the same idealistic notion.

From Thanksgiving until New Year's Day Revanche came almost daily to see Dulcie or to take her out. When he was lecturing, he liked to have Dulcie with him. He always had Josiah Whinburn along at lectures as well. Dulcie wondered sourly if Edmund wanted to assure himself of a sympathetic audience. She found no redeeming qualities in Josiah, who seemed driven and unsure of himself.

Edmund was famous in expatriate Southern circles, for his oratory was compelling, his fund of heart-wrenching stories bottomless. His ability to wring yet another dollar for the collection was ingenious.

On the way home late one night Dulie said, "Edmund who really gets the money you collect?"

"Why, the South, of course."

"Humbug. Those letters you show are false. I'd bet my teeth on it."

He was amused. "How did such a dishonest notion enter your head?"

"What you say and what you do don't add up. Somehow you are cheatin' people."

"And as a loyal Southerner you are protesting?"

"I want to know what you are up to.*'

"I am concealing nothing. Every penny goes into Confederate funds."

"After your expenses, of course?"

"My dear Dulcie, your late husband's perfidy has made you hard and cynical. With such an unwomanly character developing, how can you hope to attract suitors?"

"Edmund, you always make remarks as if a widow is in a position of beggary or not allowed to think unkind thoughts about men. My . . . late husband had his short-comin's, but he treated me as an equal. I don't like bein* patronized by creatures in britches."

Edmund laughed. "I'll add stubborn and sharp-spoken to your charms."

"You're evadin' the issue.' Josiah pockets part of the collection money. Is that helpin' starvin' Confederates?"

His face darkened. "What will you do about these suspicions? Whisper them about? Or are you asking for your share?"

"If I wanted a share, I'd say so in plain words."

"If my assistant is stealing, I must put a stop to it. The piddling contributions are too small to interest me. I turn them over to Confederate agents. I don't know how the money is spent."

Dulcie stared at him. "If you don't care, why do you lecture? Why go to all this trouble? For you do work hard at it, Edmund."

"I wish to make friends, a great many friends, among Southerners and Yankees alike. There is one error many of our people make, Dulcie, that I shall not. The South will need not only the best of its Southern people after the war, it will require the good will and financing of the North. I shall be in a position to call upon that good will when it is needed."

"And that does not make you feel disloyal?"

He frowned at her. "Of course not! It is for the South I will make use of their influence and their money."

Dulcie fell silent. He seemed to make good sense, but still there was something terribly calculating in Edmund.

She looked up to see him smiling at her, his eyes warm and admiring. "You^re a beautiful decoration to any man whose arm you hold, Dulcie. Especially now that you have left off wearing that ludicrous black armband."

"Why do you bring that up again and again? I believe you mention it more than I do. You teU me to forget, and then you remind me."

Edmund's voice was cold. "Forget and forgive. I no longer believe you can or should do either. How can you, when he deceived you so cruelly, deserted you for a skinny little nigger wench—"

"Skinny? How do you know if she was skinny, Edmund? Is there more you haven't told me? Were you—there— when he was—^killed?"

"Rumor has a long tongue. For all I know, she was quite plump. What is the difference? She remains a nigger, fat or thin.'*

"Possibly, but what is the purpose in mentionin' Adam?"

"Must I have a purpose for everythmg? Very well, I have one. I am merely pointing out that love, so called, is a useless commodity. Having similar goals is a far more valid reason for marrying."

"I don't believe I need such instruction."

"I think you do. You will marry again. Women like you need that relationship."

"Oh, you are infuriatin'! Puttin' me in a box labeled Vife.' Why not label me 'broom'? I sweep. Or ... or washboard? I scrub."

"I am happy you find me infuriating. Not long ago you claimed indifference. I am making admirable progress."

"Take me home. I have had enough of your egotism."

"As you wish, my dear." They drove on in silence, Dulcie annoyed, Edmund smugly satisfied.

At Oliver's home Edmund helped Dulcie down from the carriage. Before she knew it, he had embraced her, his lips pressed against hers, softly, then compelling. After an instant's startlement, Dulcie found herself responding. It was so long since she had been kissed.

Yet, why should she be unsettled because a man had kissed her? Compared to the greater liberties she had endured, a kiss was^—should be—^nothing. She was a free woman, out in society to have a good time, and if a man's idea of a good time included a kiss, why not?*

She knew why not. Never again woiild she be subservient in love, yielding to the man's need while denying her own. Justin had taken her—no, made her beg him, for what she didn't want. What Edmund felt she didn't know, but what she felt for him was not love. In Edmund's kiss there was no fire, just a vague reminder of what once was. One man had fed her fires with his own, counting her desires and their fulfillment as important as his—but that man had never belonged totally to her and had died unfaithful after abandoning her.

Edmund said she needed marriage. He was wrong. She would never marry again, never lie with another man. She was done with all that.

She did not see or hear of Edmund for several days. Her family never mentioned him. Aunt Mad had a gala party on the Saturday before Christmas, mviting several young people. As Dulcie's table partner she chose Oliver's

assistant, Parley Tobin. Oliver, beaming, introduced him as a very bright young gentleman, rising fast.

Parley was soft-spoken, a loyal admirer of Oliver. "That man is my ideal, Mrs. Tremain," Parley confessed. "He has taught me so much. He can attend to several things at once, yet remain perfectly calm and efficient."

Dulcie giggled. "You should have seen him dealin' with a bandit while we were in France. He was so calm, he even snored!"