The Six-Gun Tarot (8 page)

Her hair fell about her shoulders. She brushed the bangs out of her eyes. And wiped a smear of mud off her forehead. She suddenly wanted to cry and hated herself for that as well. She blinked and looked deep into the eyes in the mirror, ordering the tears to hold. The eyes belonged to a stranger.

Her earliest memory was of the ships in Charleston Harbor. Father would take her with him to work in the city in the vague intervals between the care of governesses or distant relations. They would pass the harbor on their way to his offices, near Market Hall, and every time Maude would feel as if she were glimpsing some fantastical world, more colorful and exciting than any that she had been presented in the stories of Anderson and Marryat she listened to wide-eyed each night.

The ships clustered in the docks were like alien castles: masts spiderwebbed with dark cable-like lines, the colorful flags from distant, mysterious nations snapping in the gusting wind, and everywhere the men who mastered the ships—swaggering, lanky, unkempt. They strode across the decks, scurried up and down the gangplanks and the nests; they spit, cussed sang and laughed, all with such vital purpose. They were so different from Father, so different from all the other men she had ever seen in her life.

“Father,” she said once as they passed the harbor, “when I am grown, I wish to become a sailor and travel the world and have my own ship, with my own crew, and have grand adventures!”

It was said with grave seriousness. Her father had smiled. In the years to come, Maude would see the same smile cross the faces of many men in her life, even when she was a grown woman. Always the same smile, full of patronizing amusement and smug condescension.

“Don’t be a featherbrain, Maude, my dear,” he said, without a drop of malice in his loving tone. “Women can’t be sailors, or own ships. That’s the kind of nonsense that sped your dear mother to an early passing. Women simply are too delicate for such adventures, you see. But perhaps you may marry a merchant captain that owns a fleet of ships. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

That night the stories were not as magical. They never would be again. Maude had begun to wonder what else she was not allowed to do, to be. The world had suddenly become a much, much more narrow place.

Mother’s proxies were an endless stream of brittle, joyless women paid to care for her. When one would quit or be dismissed Maude would often spend the intervening time passed from one relative or another, mostly from her father’s side of the family, the Andertons.

Father had experienced much success in the trade and export of indigo and deerskins and was very well off. Mother had been a governess and schoolteacher prior to meeting Father. She was outspoken and well educated, a trait found in many of the women of her family, the Cormacs. Father loved her and tried to endure her mannish proclivities, including a well-known and often much-maligned enthusiasm for the abolition movement.

As difficult as being married to an abolitionist in South Carolina could be, Mother was equally vocal about her support for the burgeoning suffrage movement. While Martin Anderton endured numerous indignities because of his wife’s views, he loved her dearly and tried to make the best of the near-constant ribbing he received from colleagues and business partners about his wife’s ridiculous politics.

That all ended the day of Maude’s arrival into the world. Claire Anderton regarded her bloody screaming, beautiful baby girl, smiled and kissed her once before all the light faded from her eyes forever.

Maude had just turned nine when father’s business required him to travel to Baltimore for an extended period of time. One evening over supper, Maude was told that she would be going to live with a relative she had never visited before, one from her mother’s side of the family.

“Aunt Allison is very ill,” Father explained. “And Grandmother Anderton is touring England currently, so you will be staying with your mother’s great-great-great-grandmother, Bonnie.”

“Oh,” Maude said, eyes widening. “How many ‘greats’ is that, Father?”

Martin laughed. “Yes. She’s older than Moses, apparently. She lives in a big plantation near Folly Beach. House has been in your mother’s family for many generations, I’m led to understand. Grandmother Bonnie’s late husband apparently built it. Made his money in shipping, I’ve been told.”

“How long will you be gone?” Maude said, pushing her food around her plate sullenly.

“No longer than I have to be, dear,” Father said. “I know it’s not what you are used to, Maudie, but I simply can’t avoid this. I’ll return as soon as I can and I shall buy you every doll in Maryland.”

He smiled. The promise of a bribe was supposed to make everything better. Maude had a huge collection of dolls as testament to this strategy. She nodded and proceeded to clean her plate. Like a good girl.

By the following afternoon, a carriage deposited Maude at the steps of Grande Folly Plantation to the southwest of Charleston. She was alone, except for the driver, a man named Clower, who was long in the employ of her father. Father had said his good-byes that morning. He had to prepare for his own journey and couldn’t spare the time to travel out to Bonnie’s with her.

Clower, a fat, hairy man who seemed to sweat even in winter, pulled the second of Maude’s trunks off the back of the carriage and paused to mop his florid face with a dirty rag. “Here they come, Miss Maude.”

Several house slaves made their way down the wide porch stairs. They gathered up the large chests and luggage and carried them into back into the house. One of the men, dressed in shirtsleeves and a vest, smiled at Maude and knelt to meet her gaze.

“Hello, Miss Anderton. My name is Isaiah. Welcome to Grande Folly. I hope your trip out was pleasant. We are very pleased to have you visit us.”

Clower handed Isaiah a sweat-damp sealed letter he produced from out of his pant pocket. Isaiah rose. He was a good half a head taller than Clower.

“Here ya go, boy.” Clower said. “Letter of introduction for Mrs. Cormac and promissory notes to help with the girl’s upkeep.”

“Thank you, boss,” Isaiah said. Maude noticed all the softness had fallen out of his voice.

“Jess’ you make damn sure that gits to Mrs. Cormac, y’hear me, boy?”

“Of course, boss. I’ll give it right to her.”

Clower turned and patted Maude on the head.

“Have a good stay, Miss Maude. Someone will come to fetch you once your father has returned.”

He rode off in the carriage. Maude stood and watched it until it disappeared from view behind the curtain of Spanish moss hanging low from the bald cypress trees that ringed the driveway and yard. Cicadas buzzed. She felt very small.

“Miss?” Isaiah said softly from behind her. “This way, please. Lady Cormac is awaiting you.”

Maude followed him up the stairs, across the wide porch and through the doors into the grand foyer. The house was shadow and shade after the bright summer day. It smelled of well-oiled wood and faintly of peppermint. Her things had been gathered here and the house slaves stood by them, awaiting orders on where to take them. Maude turned in the direction of a wide room off the left side of the foyer. Its massive sliding mahogany doors were partially open. While Isaiah paused to direct the servants in the disposition of the luggage, she carefully, slowly walked toward the fissure of the open doors.

Her eyes widened and her heart jumped as she saw the room was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, swollen to overflowing with books, papers, even what appeared to be scrolls of ancient parchment and other tantalizing artifacts. Without even realizing she had done it, Maude crossed over into the room.

She paused at the heavy reading table, piled high with books, reached out and touched one of them. The smell of old paper in the room, the motes of dust drifting, like planets, in the warm sunlight of the great bay windows. The feel of a well-worn cloth book cover on her fingertips.

Maude felt the tightness in her stomach begin to ease. She could survive this place, this time. This room would sustain her, the feeling of being surrounded by human ideas, emotions, dreams; it would be fine, even if this distant, elderly relative proved to be less than pleasant company.

There was a heavy, flat stone on the table, an island in the towers of books. It looked very old. Painted onto it were symbols all in black: Animals standing like men; stick people with triangles for shields and lines for spears. A strange looped cross. She ran her fingers across the stone. It felt smooth from age, and that made her feel good.

“It’s from Africa,” a dry voice said from behind her. The voice had an odd accent Maude had never heard before. She turned and saw that the sliding doors had been opened fully. An old woman stood in the doorway; Isaiah stood beside her, supporting her at the elbow with a gentle but firm hand. She was slender, tall, with a pretty good figure for a woman of her years and skeletal weight. Her hair was a tangled mane of snow, with a few strands of copper and iron peeking through. It tumbled down her shoulders. Her eyes were green fire, the devil dancing in the flames. It was hard to judge her age. She looked down at Maude with an expression that was a mixture of amusement and disdain. “It’s very old. Who told you to come in here, girl? Who gave you permission?”

Maude’s gaze fell to the floor.

“Not going to find an answer from your slippers, girl,” the old woman said with a snarl. “Answer me, damn you!”

“I like books—”

“Who told you!” This time with such force, Maude jumped. She glared at this evil old woman.

“No one!” Maude shouted. “No one! I just did it because I wanted to!”

The old woman blinked. The scowl slipped away and she began cackling, a dry, rasping laugh. It ended with a wet coughing fit. “That got yer back up, didn’t it, lass?” the old woman said when she caught her breath. “Good! What’s your name, child?”

“Maude.”

The old lady smiled and Maude was surprised how wide and bright her smile was. There was a flash of a gold tooth.

“Well, hello, Maude. You and I are of a kin. I can see it in the piss in your eyes when someone riles you.”

The old woman gestured to the walls of books. “My favorite room as well. You are free to come and go from here anytime, day or night. Read what you like, as much as you like. Hell, you can even read the bawdy stuff up on the top shelves, if you can figure out how to climb up there and get it. Anyone ever explain the he’ing and she’ing to you before, lass? ”

Maude shook her head. The old lady laughed again, sharp and loud and alive. Maude had never heard a lady laugh that way before.

“Just as well,” the old woman said. “Some mysteries are more fun to unravel on your own.” She turned to leave, a little wobbly on her feet, and Isaiah steadied her. “We eat when we’re hungry around here and we go to bed when we damn well feel like it,” she said. “You need something, you get it yourself. You can’t find it, then go pester Isaiah, understand?”

“Yes,” Maude said.

“Welcome to Grande Folly,” the old woman said. “You can call me Bonnie. It’s as good a name to use as any, at least for starters.”

The sound of Arthur’s and Constance’s raised voices pulled Maude out of the mirror of memories. She threw on a camisole quickly and hurried down the hallway.

“You will not speak to me in that manner, young lady!” Arthur Stapleton shouted, red faced. “I am your father and you will do as I say!”

Constance was equally angry. Her gaze burned into Arthur’s blandly handsome face. The banker loomed over the girl, fists clenched.

“I am not doing anything wrong, Father!” she yelled back. “I would never do what you’re implying!”

Maude stepped between the two. “What on earth is going on here?”

Arthur smelled of lilac hair tonic and gin. His eyes were unfocused and she knew he had spent much of this day in “business meetings” at the Paradise Falls. He turned the furnace of his anger toward her.

“Your daughter is intent on cavorting around like some common gutter whore at this hayseed dance! She might as well be spreading her legs for that simpleton Muller boy!”

“It’s the church social, Daddy!” Constance said over Maude’s shoulder. “And Jess is a good person; he likes me. I don’t care if his family doesn’t have much money!”

“Arthur, Constance, please.” Maude said, closing her eyes.

“It’s obvious you have no care what anyone thinks of this family!” Arthur said. “We have to present a sense of propriety at all times. My reputation as a banker depends on that!”

“Is that why you drink all day in that saloon?” Constance said. “And play cards all night? To uphold your—”

Everything happened fast. Too fast. Arthur lunged at Constance, smashing into Maude. Maude spun, old, flabby muscles struggling to remember the training, even if her mind was quick enough. She felt the wind leave her lungs, but not before she clutched his lapels and shifted her weight, twisting at the hips. She managed to divert the majority of Arthur’s momentum toward the dining table, away from Constance. The laws of motion and cheap gin did the rest. Arthur smashed into the table, knocking it over as he tumbled to the floor and lay still.

Maude turned to her daughter. With great effort she hissed out the words with what little air remained in her. “You will not speak to your father that way. Go to your room and we will discuss this shortly. Go on.”

Constance nodded and scurried down the hall. Maude heard the door to her room click shut and lock. She turned back to where Arthur was slowly climbing to his feet, shaking his head.

“You stupid, clumsy cow,” he mumbled. “Could have killed me.”

“Yes,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry, dear, you were just so angry, and—”

He telegraphed the slap; she would have seen it coming even if he wasn’t drunk. She was ready this time and she rolled with it, felt the snap and sting of the blow across her cheek and chin, but had arched her neck enough that it wouldn’t even leave a mark. She grunted and flew across the room in an impressive enough manner that Arthur’s tiny reptile brain would feel the glow of accomplishment. Perhaps later his human mind would feel guilt and remorse. Perhaps not. It was hard to say anymore.