The Work and the Glory (138 page)

As Joshua helped Caroline from the carriage, he looked up at the imposing entrance. There was nothing like this in Independence. St. Louis was starting to have its own upper class and to get some beautiful homes, but Independence was not even five years out of the log cabin and sod hut stage yet. Someday, if this cotton deal proved to be what he hoped for . . .

Caroline slipped her hand through his arm. “It is a beautiful home, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But then so is yours, Caroline. You have a lovely home.”

She looked away quickly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He kicked himself mentally. Earlier she had promised him that she would have herself pulled together by this evening, and she had kept that promise. There had been no trace of this afternoon’s mental turmoil. On the short ride over to the Wesleys’ she had been cheerful and witty, and seemed to be genuinely happy to be with him. Once or twice he sensed that her geniality might be a trifle forced, but he didn’t care. Now, however, he had triggered the somberness again.

But as quickly as it came, it passed. “Come on,” she laughed, “I’m hungry, and Margaret’s cook is one of the finest in Savannah.”

“I know,” Joshua grinned back at her. “If you’ll remember, I ate far more than I should have last time. Richard had to sell one of his ships to cover the costs.”

She poked at him. “There’s no way to make Sally happier than to have a second helping of her cooking.”

One of the maids answered the door even before they had reached for the knocker. “Evenin’, Miz Caroline. Evenin’, Mistuh Steed.”

“Good evening, Mary.”

She took the knitted shawl from Caroline’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Miz Wesley y’all have arrived.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

As the servant walked down the hallway, Caroline stepped across the entryway to stand in front of a table that was up against the one wall. It was made of beautifully carved black walnut. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above it. Caroline turned to face it, reaching up one hand to fluff at the hair around her ears.

Joshua watched her reflection with open admiration. She wore a gown of deep green that looked like silk. She had chosen not to wear a hat, which had surprised him. But the effect of the deep forest green with her red hair was stunning. Her complexion was flawless, and she wore little makeup. That was something Joshua had especially come to appreciate.  He had learned, much to his distaste, that many of the women of the South wore heavy makeup to hide the scars left by smallpox. The makeup was wax based, and during the winter, according to Caroline, special tilt-top tables were set in front of the fireplaces to shield the ladies from the heat so that their makeup didn’t run. Gratefully, Caroline had been spared the need for such artifices.

She looked up and caught his eye. “You look especially lovely tonight,” he said.

She smiled at him in the mirror, then curtsied slightly. “Why, thank yuh, Mistuh Steed,” she said, imitating the heavy drawl of the South. She stepped back away from the table and looked down. The table was of an unusual design. Just a few inches above the level of the floor there was another mirror, set back between the table legs and running the full length of the table so as to be almost up against the wall. This is what Caroline was looking at. She turned slowly, letting the full skirt float freely just barely off the floor while she watched it carefully.

Suddenly, understanding dawned on Joshua. “Is that what that’s for?”

“What?”

“The mirror down there.”

She laughed. “Of course. Why do you think they call this a petticoat table?”

He hadn’t known they did. He had only noticed a similar table in the entry hall of almost every Savannah house he had been in, including Caroline’s.

She dropped back into her accent. “Why, suh, it would be simply too, too embarrassin’ if a lady were to be found with her petticoats showin’.”

At that moment Margaret Wesley appeared at the head of the stairs. “There you are,” she cried. “Welcome to our home.”

* * *

There were just the four of them. The Wesleys had three children, but Joshua had learned that the children of genteel Southern families always ate in a separate part of the house with the mammy. Even the best loved children were not allowed to eat at formal dinners until they were in their mid to late teens and had proven their maturity.

The dining room was large, the table big enough to sit fifteen or sixteen people around it when all the leaves were inserted. It was on the second floor. And that was another thing Joshua vowed he would remember. The first floor of the houses in the city picked up the sounds and smells of the streets, so the main living quarters were always on the second floor.

As they finished their dessert, he looked around. There were many things he wanted to imbed in his memory so that when he built a home in Independence he could furnish it in a similar manner. The bull’s-eye mirror was one example. Round in shape and with a curved surface, it was mounted on one wall a little higher than the height of a man. It allowed the hostess to sit at her end of the table and monitor how each guest was doing in terms of food service. There were sconces on the candles and lamps—metal reflectors with polished surfaces to reflect the light back into the room instead of diffusing it all around. Joshua determined that in his future home there would also be a “Sheraton” like the one that stood in Caroline’s bedroom. Will had proudly shown that to him one day when his mother was out. It was a cleverly crafted cabinet which provided all the conveniences for personal hygiene right in the bedroom. The top lifted to reveal a mirror. The upper drawers were lined with zinc so as to hold water for washing. The bottom compartment was large enough to hold the “necessary,” a large chamber pot made of porcelain. He had really chuckled at that, but had to admit it had distinct advantages over the rickety, drafty outhouses that stood behind most homes in Missouri. Especially in winter.

As he watched the servants clear away the service, he admitted to himself that he knew full well what all his mental note taking was about. There was an imaginary house starting to take shape in his mind, and he knew whom it was for. The promise of such a home could be enough to convince her to come with him to Missouri. If he did it right.

“Well,” Wesley said, pushing his chair back, “Joshua and I will retire to the gentlemen’s study for a glass of sherry and a good cigar. Ladies, if you’ll excuse us.”

Joshua stood too. Normally this was a custom he did not prefer, this leaving women together to do lady talk while the men gathered off by themselves. He even found it irritating that in some homes, especially on the larger plantations, the gentlemen’s study had a door specifically designed to be too narrow to allow ladies with their wide-hooped and many-petticoated skirts to pass through. But tonight he didn’t mind. He had some things he wanted to discuss with Mr. Richard Wesley.

He waited only long enough for Wesley to shut the door and get the cigar box down. Joshua took a cigar, but just held it in his hand. He watched as his friend got out a match and struck it. “Tell me about Berrett and Boswell,” he said.

Wesley jerked around, nearly burning himself. He recovered, touched the flame to the end of his cigar, and puffed it into life. “What about them?” he said, eyeing Joshua narrowly through the smoke.

“Come on, Richard,” Joshua snapped. “You know how I feel about Caroline. This is my business now.” He told him quickly of the experience he had had that day.

Wesley let out his breath slowly, the sigh showing a deep weariness. “I had heard they were about to make another move. I had hoped it wasn’t true.”

“So, I want to know the full story.”

For several moments Richard looked at him, then finally he nodded. He reached over and stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray. “All right. Sit down. This may take a while.” 

Chapter Nine

Joshua Steed stopped for a moment on the sidewalk outside the entrance to the offices of Berrett and Boswell, merchants and cotton factors. He looked up at the sign that hung from a wrought-iron holder bolted to the brick wall of the warehouse. There was no evidence that the sign had ever read, “Berrett, Boswell, and Mendenhall.” Not that it surprised him. From what he had learned in the past two days, Mr. Berrett and Mr. Boswell would not stoop to something as crude as simply painting over a name. Squeezing a man’s fortune from between his fingers, driving him into virtual bondage, legally robbing any vestiges of the estate from his widow and children—now, that was a different matter entirely. But crudity was certainly not the style of Mr. Jeremiah Boswell and Mr. Theodore Berrett.

Joshua took a breath. He knew full well that these two were masters at playing their game. Three different lawyers had convinced him that Caroline stood not one chance of breaking the contracts signed by her late husband and witnessed by men of impeccable credentials. One by one, Donovan Mendenhall had signed away his assets, thinking that the guarantees he was promised in return justified the risks he was taking. And one by one, he had lost it all. Will Mendenhall believed with all the faith of his twelve-year-old heart that his father had died of yellow fever. There was no doubt in Joshua’s mind that the dreaded disease had been the ball that killed him; but he also knew now that by that time, Donovan Mendenhall had been a totally shattered man.

Angrily he jerked the door open and took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

“I assure you, Mistuh Steed, everything is in perfect legal order. We understand Miz Mendenhall’s discontentment, but—”

“Look, Berrett,” Joshua cut in sharply, “let’s get a couple of things straight. I run a freight business in Missouri. I know when there’s something in the corral you don’t want to step in. Putting a handkerchief over it doesn’t make it stink any less.”

Theodore Berrett was shocked by Joshua’s bluntness, but Jer-emiah Boswell didn’t move or react in any way. He was watching Joshua closely, his eyes hooded and unreadable. Joshua noted it with no surprise. Everyone had said that Boswell was the shark you had to watch.

“Why don’t you just say what you’ve come to say,” Boswell said evenly.

Joshua nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a cigar from an inside coat pocket, then a small knife from his vest pocket. He began to trim off the end slowly and deliberately. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, took a match from the box on the desk without waiting to be asked, and lit it up. Only when it was glowing and the air around his head was filled with smoke did he continue.

“I know what your legal standing is. I’ve checked that out carefully.”

“Then surely you know we are in a very strong position to—”

Boswell shot his partner a withering look, and Berrett clamped his mouth shut.

Joshua never took his eyes from Boswell. “I also know that, legally or not, you two robbed Donovan Mendenhall just as surely as if you put a gun to his head.”

A faint smile played around Boswell’s mouth, but his eyes were, if possible, even colder than before. “In Savannah, Mistuh Steed, if it’s legal, then it isn’t robbery.”

“Well,” Joshua said, taking another long puff on his cigar, then blowing it at the ceiling, “that’s just it, Boswell. I’m not here to play by Savannah’s rules. Out west we speak a different kind of language.”

“How quaint.”

Joshua laughed shortly. The man was good. Pure ice. This was not going to be easy, but that would make it all the more enjoyable. He stood and walked to the window that looked down on River Street and the docks. It was a warm day outside, and the window was open. The sounds of the street floated up to them clearly. Across the street, a ship was tied up at the docks. Men were wheeling bales of cotton up the gangplank and disappearing into the holds. He didn’t have to look at the name on the bow. He knew it was owned one hundred percent by the two men who sat behind him now.

“Cotton,” he mused, “now, there’s a flammable cargo for you.”

Berrett shot out of his chair as though someone had touched his posterior with the tip of Joshua’s cigar. “Are you suggesting—” His eyes popped out in near apoplexy. “How dare you threaten us!”

Joshua turned around. “Why, Mr. Berrett, I do think your emotions have gotten the best of you.”

Boswell had risen now too. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “Get out, Steed, or I’ll send for the constable.”

Joshua returned to his chair and sat down. “My, my, aren’t we testy today?” He smiled pleasantly. “You mustn’t think—”

A sharp cry from outside cut him off. “Fire! Fire on deck!” Before it even had time to register, the cry was picked up by other voices and pandemonium erupted outside.

Boswell went pale, then kicked his chair aside and leaped to the window. Berrett was beside him in an instant. Joshua got up and strolled back to join them. Across the street, men were running from every direction toward the ship. Some had grabbed buckets and were passing them up to eager hands reaching down. A small column of black smoke was rising from the deck near the main mast. Joshua watched as several buckets of water were hurled at the base of the pillar of smoke. In a moment, it was over. Cries of relief went up. By the time Boswell and Berrett were certain that their ship was no longer in danger, Joshua had returned to his chair again.

He noted with satisfaction that Boswell’s icy veneer had been shaken. He had suspected it would be. At least twice in recent memory Savannah had been devastated by fires, the last one burning for three or four days and destroying large portions of the city. Savannahans were deeply paranoid about fire.

He looked past them toward the window again as they turned to face him. “Lucky thing it didn’t happen at night, and down in the hold. Before you know it, a whole ship could be lost.”

“Theodore,” Boswell said between pinched lips, “go fetch a constable.”

Joshua was rolling the cigar back and forth between his fingers. He raised his eyes in mock horror. “Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with that. Why, you would have to testify that I was right here with you during the whole time. How could I be responsible for something clear across the street?”