The Handsome Road (19 page)

“May I bring you a plate, Miss Ann?” asked Hugh Purcell at her elbow.

She flashed her famous hostess-smile at him. “Thank you, but not yet. I can’t stop that long.”

“But you should take some refreshment. Here—a minute’s pause anyway.”

He took two glasses of champagne from the tray Napoleon was passing and held out one to her.

“The South, God bless her?” he suggested.

“The South, God bless her,” Ann echoed obediently. She had a sudden feeling that none of this was real, or that if it was she was watching from a great distance and it had nothing to do with her. But the champagne had an invigorating effect and she was glad he had suggested it. Setting down the glass, she went off to corner one of the Alan Durhams and make him take care of the St. Clair girls, reflecting that the Durham family had very little imagination, the way they persisted in naming so many of their male members Alan. There was another Durham cousin sitting quietly in a corner by himself. He had one leg and a cane, a reminder of the defense of New Orleans. Ann glanced around for some nice girl to amuse him. She thought of Sarah, who was her favorite; but no, it would not do to give a mutilated man to a girl when her husband of a month was just before going up to Vicksburg. Cynthia Larne came up to her. “Are you looking for somebody, Ann?”

“Yes,” Ann said, “I—” She hesitated, glancing down at Cynthia. Cynthia was nearly fourteen, a thin, wiry young girl with a pale face and a heavy cloud of black hair. She would never be pretty, but she had a quiet dependability about her that Ann had begun to admire. “Cynthia,” she said in an undertone, “do you think you could help me out with that Mr. Durham who’s lost a leg?”

“Why of course,” Cynthia returned with cool assurance. “What shall I talk to him about?”

“Anything but the war.”

Cynthia smiled a little. “I see. All right.”

Ann took a breath of relief. The rooms were crowded, and the closeness was giving her a headache. Grimly she ordered her nerves to be quiet and went on about her work of being hostess. Now and then one of the gentlemen offered her a glass of champagne, and she was glad of it; she had no time to eat and was becoming aware of a jittery exhaustion that was growing harder and harder to fight. She gripped herself after she had taken champagne with Bertram St. Clair. She must be careful, for that stuff was insidious, and this was Denis’ last party. No matter how she felt it would not do to let her famous charm give way now. She began again.

“Have you tried the jellied chicken, Mrs. St. Clair? Oh, but you must—my cook is very proud of it and I’m sure she’d run away to the Yankees if we left any behind us. Napoleon, will you fetch some of the chicken, and some wafers? How do you do, Dr. Purcell? Thank you, I’m feeling very well indeed, no need of your ministrations. I’m so glad you like the cakes—have you tried a piece of that fluffy chocolate one? It goes very well with coffee. Miss Valcour, may I present Lieutenant Chauncey? The lieutenant’s from Virginia, down here doing something important and mysterious about the river defenses.”

At last she got herself to one side and stood still, watching them—the flowers and lights, the billowing flounces and white shoulders, the shining epaulettes, the crutches and scars. “I wonder how many of them will be alive a year from now,” she thought. “And I’ve got a child in the nursery upstairs and I’m sure I’m going to have another one. Imagine any woman’s having the cruelty to bring children into a mess like this.”

She saw Denis, his fine head and shoulders visible as the center of a group of flowered coiffures. He caught sight of her, and let a smile flicker in her direction. She lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips in a little secret gesture.

As her hand moved down she touched a flask on the sideboard. Almost automatically her fingers closed around it. Then all of a sudden Jerry was beside her.

“Stop that, Ann.”

His voice was low, but so sharp and stern that she looked up at him in astonishment. “Stop what?”

“Getting drunk,” said Jerry.

“Why—”

“Come in here,” said Jerry tersely. He drew her through a nearby doorway into the back study. Ann stood staring up at him, surprised and resentful.

“Jerry, I’m not drunk! I’ve never been—”

“Look here,” he said. “I know the signs. You’ve been pouring down champagne all evening. You were just about to start again. Stop it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ann exclaimed. “I’m shaking all over as it is, trying to get through this—”

“Yes, I know.” He was suddenly very gentle as he put his hands on her shoulders.

She sank down into a chair. “Jerry, I’ve been going through fire and brimstone in my mind. If I don’t do something I’ll go to pieces.”

“Do you think you’re the only one?” he asked her almost fiercely. But as if afraid to voice his thoughts he added more quietly, “I’m not going to read you a lecture. I just wanted to warn you. And by the way.”

“Yes?”

“Er—be rather specially nice to Sarah, will you? She doesn’t like my going.”

“How can she? I don’t see why you’re going. You don’t have to. I wish to heaven Denis had had sense enough to stay out of it. Maybe father was different—he’d been in the army already, and Mexico—but not you and Denis!” She was talking vehemently, finally turning loose what she had not said to Denis in these past weeks. “Why do you suppose they exempted men like you from conscription if it wasn’t to save the sort of people who are really important to civilization—the sort who have culture and ideals —and—everything?”

“We won’t be able to save ourselves forever,” Jerry returned shortly. “Besides, it—gets you. I can’t explain. Let’s go back.”

Ann got reluctantly to her feet.

It was after four in the morning when they said goodby to the last guests. Denis went to the door to see them out, and came back to meet her in the hall. He pulled her into his arms.

“Darling, it was a grand party!”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Ann agreed.

“I never enjoyed anything more in my life.
Look
at this house!”

She glanced around at the gay disorder. “It doesn’t matter. The girls can clear up tomorrow.”

“Are you tired?”

“Practically dead,” she returned laughing.

Denis did not know her hands were tight fists, buried on either side of her in the folds of her green velvet skirt. “It takes a lot of doing, a party,” she added.

“I know it does, sugar. You were a dear to have it. Come on then, let’s go to bed.”

“I’m so sleepy,” she murmured.

“Let me carry you up. Put your arms tight around my neck.”

“Can you?”

“Try me and see.”

She laughed. Denis hoisted her up. “How
do
women walk with so many clothes!” he exclaimed as her skirts billowed around them both. He added, “You looked mighty pretty tonight.” She held to him as he mounted the spiral staircase. At the head of the stairs he paused, and she turned and kissed him, feeling his arms tighten adoringly around her as their lips met.

Afterwards she thought she would always remember Denis like that, mounting the stairs with her in his arms for their last night together. She was glad he had gone from her in such splendid strength. For she would always have that memory of him, and she grasped it like a changeless refuge when Vicksburg had fallen and they learned that Denis had been killed during the siege.

2

It was not until July, after the fall of Vicksburg, that they learned of the death of Denis, for during the siege no word could be had from the garrison. To Ann the news came hardly as a shock. It was merely an intensifying of the pain of loneliness that had been growing upon her ever since he went away. It had been like living on an island, with no news from outside but the vaguest rumors; and now Denis was gone too, Denis to whom she had looked to stand between her and everything she did not want to face. She felt deserted and full of terror. She had one child and was shortly to give birth to another, and the thought of her children, defenseless but for herself in a world gone mad, frightened her to the limit of endurance. If there were only somebody she could talk to, she wished frantically, but she discovered to her surprise that there was nobody she knew well enough. She had never needed other people very much, and so she had never gone to the trouble of establishing intimate relationships.

Certainly not with Denis’ mother. Not long after Denis left, the government had asked for the use of Frances’ town house as a military headquarters and Ann had felt duty bound to ask Frances and Cynthia back to Ardeith, but during the months that she and Frances had occupied the same house their acquaintanceship had never ripened. Now, watching the courage with which Frances was facing the loss of her son Ann admired and envied her, and wished with all her heart for an offer of support in her own trembling weakness. At night when she was alone she lay in bed with her hands pressed over her eyes, thinking, “If she would only come
talk
to me!” But Frances did not come, and Ann did not dare to seek her. Frances went about with her face white as a bone, so silent and stricken that Ann ached to go to her, but the thought of being repulsed was more than she could bear, so she could only emulate Frances’ silence and lock herself in her own room to shed her tears.

But she astonished herself by the decision with which she acted. With Vicksburg fallen and the Federal fleet no longer divided between two forts, she suspected it could not be long before Port Hudson must go too, and then the army would come swarming down the river unchecked. She got Cynthia to help her, and working in the hours between midnight and dawn for secrecy they buried the more important pieces of silver in the gardens and set out nasturtiums and oleanders above the treasure-troves. Other valuables they hid in the vault, and one night they moved a set of portable wine-shelves across the door leading down to the vault from the wine-closet so it would look as if there were only another solid wall at that side. The effort left Ann so exhausted that she crumpled panting at the foot of the staircase and finally crawled up on her hands and knees. Cynthia, who was doing the best she could with a dogged obedience that roused in Ann more admiration than in her present weariness she could express, whispered scared protests.

“Ann, I don’t know much about ladies in your condition, but I’m sure this is bad for you. Couldn’t we get somebody to help us? We can trust Napoleon.”

Ann shook her head. In her present state she was afraid to trust any Negro. The fieldhands were drifting away from the plantation, and though the house-servants had stayed on this far, she was unsure whether that was from loyalty or from their inbred contempt for joining the field-hands in anything. She hardly remembered getting into bed. As soon as she lay down, sleep dropped over her like a blanket.

She woke up toward the middle of the morning, so aching with weariness that it seemed too much of a task to ring and summon mammy to bring the brew of burnt corn and sweet potatoes they had been drinking since the coffee gave out. She simply lay where she was, staring up at the darns in the mosquito bar. The squares of sun moved across the floor, and it was nearly noon when the door opened softly and Cynthia tiptoed in.

“Ann, are you awake?”

“Yes. What is it?” Ann raised herself on her elbow. Cynthia was carrying a tray. “Here’s your breakfast. Sarah’s come over from Silverwood to see you. She wanted to say she’s had word about Jerry. He’s all right.”

“Oh.” Ann shivered with thankfulness, for though Jerry’s name had not been on the list of those killed at Vicksburg she had hoped and dreaded to get news of him.

Cynthia pushed back the mosquito bar. “Sarah and mother came up to your sitting-room so you wouldn’t have to go down the stairs. I told them you weren’t feeling so well—I figured you wouldn’t be after shoving things around all night. How do you feel, anyway?”

“Terrible.”

“I thought you would.” Cynthia set the tray on the bedside table. “Well, I reckon you’d better eat.”

Ann surveyed the tray, where there were hot cornbread and butter and preserves, and a cup. She lifted the cup. “Why—Cynthia!”

“Chocolate,” Cynthia told her proudly.

“Where on earth did you get it?”

“I found a little bit in the back of the kitchen safe. Left over from that party you—I mean, I thought it might be good for you.”

Ann drank it hungrily. “Cynthia,” she said, “I like you.”

“Do you? Thanks.”

“No, I mean I like you because you’re so different from most people. You don’t go around giving me a lot of worthless sympathy. You manage to be practical about it.”

“I can’t make pretty phrases,” Cynthia retorted. “Mother always said I had less tact than any other young lady she ever saw. Do you feel like getting up now?”

“Yes, I feel a lot better. Where’s mammy?”

“Out in back washing the baby’s clothes. Can’t you get dressed without her?”

“I’m not even going to try. I’m too tired.” Slipping out of bed Ann went to the bureau. She gave her hair a stroke or two with the brush and put on a dressing-gown Cynthia brought from the armoire. One of its seams, she noticed, was beginning to tear out. She must have it mended. Then she thought fiercely that she would mend it herself; at school in Paris they had taught her to do exquisite embroidery, and anybody who could embroider could sew up a seam. She opened the door and went with Cynthia into the sitting-room.

Sarah was there with Mrs. Larne. Cynthia sat down on the floor, her arms around her knees, watching a ray of sunshine play on Sarah’s torch-like hair. Sarah was very white. She had the delicate skin characteristic of red-haired women, and with her present pallor it looked waxen, like a magnolia petal. As she talked she sat with her hands laced tight in her lap as though afraid if she loosened her fingers they would quiver. They talked about Vicksburg. Ann said very little. Sometimes these days she felt if anybody said anything more about the horrors of Vicksburg she was going to turn into a screaming maniac. Maybe that would be easier than keeping sane. Sarah said Jerry had survived the siege; she had received his letter only this morning.