Читать книгу Sun in Their Eyes - Monte Barrett - Страница 9

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The night of the ball Colonel Sargent insisted on lending Jonathan the calash, a handsome closed carriage recently arrived from New Orleans. “We will go in the coach,” Mrs. Sargent had assured him. “We want you to make the proper impression on your young lady.” True to her promise she had earlier procured him an invitation to the ball addressed to Miss Cecily Marsten. The calash was the first carriage of its kind in Natchez, and Gabe sat proudly on the box, his smile almost as illuminating as the candles in its square brass lamps.

Johnny Durst was waiting at the flatboat to see them off. Jonathan thought the young Texan displayed an almost proprietary interest in Cecily. He called her Cissy and seemed to be on terms of easy friendship with her. He had brought her a bouquet of wild flowers for the occasion—blue gentians mixed with a small white flower, fragrant but unidentified, which grew profusely in the woods at this time of year.

“Where on earth did you find them?” asked Jonathan in surprise.

“I picked ’em myself,” declared Durst with a laugh. “This is a very special occasion and I wanted Cissy to be the belle of the ball.”

“They’re beautiful,” Cecily assured him. “And just what I needed with my dress.”

She was a far different picture from the gloomy vision which had worried Jonathan when he set out that evening. In his foreboding he had even thought of Cecily in an artless dimity frock, overwhelmed by the splendor of the other women and crushed with the realization of it. “It is my fault,” he had thought. “I got her into this.” He had started with a determination to protect her from any such experience. But remembering her pride, which he liked, he felt he had only a dismal hope of success.

Then he had seen her, a radiant figure, whose lithe young body was charmingly molded in the soft material of the clinging white dress. Its short sleeves and low neck added to its festive look. Her brown hair was parted in the middle, with curls soft at her temples, and her eyes were dancing.

“Why,” thought Jonathan, “we might be back at Redfields and she one of my own cousins come for the holidays!” All his uncertainty fled in that instant.

“Woman,” observed her father admiringly, “thou art animal disputans, but contentious or not, you’re lovely to behold.”

Gayly she pirouetted for his admiration. “Be a dear and get me my slipper bag, Cris,” she asked, “while I’m reminding Papa that we haven’t left civilization behind us yet.”

“You ought to see her slippers,” declared her brother proudly. “They’ve got tiny little heels on them, just like that.” He held up a thumb and forefinger to illustrate their size.

“Let me see,” Johnny Durst urged.

She Opened the bag and exhibited the satin slippers.

The Texan whistled softly. “I declare!” he observed. “I wouldn’t trust myself on such teeny little things.” And then turning to Jonathan he asked, “Did you ever see heels on women’s shoes before?”

“Not such pretty ones,” Jonathan assured him.

The mahogany chest had yielded also a mantle of white bombazine lined in pale blue, another cherished garment of her mother’s. Jonathan was proud as he draped it about her shoulders.

They all watched the departure from the deck. Gabe had the calash drawn up as near to the shore as he dared and Jonathan swept Cecily up into his arms and carried her to the carriage, amid much laughter and raillery.

“I wonder he let you come at all, Gabe,” called Durst. “I’m surprised he doesn’t tote her all the way. I’ve never been to a ball, but if that’s how they start I think I’ll have to mend my ways.”

Jonathan’s pride in Cecily continued to grow after they arrived at the ball. She more than held her own, he thought, with the gay throng that crowded Concord. In fact, she was one of the few carrying a bouquet and he wished that it had been his forethought which had provided it. The men were in velvet and broadcloth, their ruffled linen matching their white hose and buckles twinkling on their shoes. Only a few wore swords. The older men had their hair powdered and a few still wore wigs. Lieutenant Magee, who met them just inside the door, wore his hair in the new short style which still looked strange.

The house was ablaze with light. Two crystal chandeliers hung in the drawing room, their prisms dancing in the glow of many candles. From the wide lintels over the doors gleamed rows of tapers. The paneled walls reflected this mellow light. Cecily was breathless at the scene, and Jonathan could remember nothing in Virginia to surpass it.

Don Stephen Minor and his wife were receiving their guests in the hall. She wore a clinging dress of saffron silk, and a gold band about her head secured a plume of the same color. Jonathan and Cecily were just nearing the head of the line when he caught his breath. There was Teresa descending the stairs, beside Don Miguel, her soft lips smiling, her pearls glowing, warm with the tint of her skin. Cecily, glancing up, saw her too and noted the perfection of her costume. The entrance had been well timed. There was an instant’s lull in the conversation. Jonathan was thankful to be past the receiving line before Teresa arrived there. It might have been awkward. He guided Cecily into the ballroom.

When Teresa saw Jonathan’s red head below, her first feeling of exultation was followed by one of curiosity not unmixed with anger. She felt no jealousy of the girl on his arm. She had too much confidence for that. Her smile did not change and only by a brief narrowing of her eyes did her expression alter. Don Miguel saw the young man too and was alert to note how she took it. In this he was disappointed. He saw nothing.

Jonathan watched Teresa guardedly whenever opportunity presented and did not fail to observe her popularity. After her first dance with Don Miguel she was surrounded by admirers. He tried to tell himself he had no interest in her, but he knew better. His resentment was still very real, but her beauty affected him as it had before.

So well did he pretend indifference that it had an effect upon Teresa. At first she was assured. “Give him time,” she thought. “He will come to me and then I’ll teach him a lesson.” But as the evening wore on and still he did not come she grew first impatient and then angry. More and more she found herself studying him from the corner of her eye. Through her mind raced many plans, each in turn abandoned. He must not guess her interest. It must be more subtle than that, but her determination was growing.

Cecily proved popular too. Hers wasn’t a dazzling beauty but she had her own straightforward charm. As she danced away with others it gave Jonathan more opportunity for moody reflection. On one of these occasions he found himself beside Don Bernardo Gutierrez who greeted him warmly. It was the Spaniard who informed him of Teresa’s nearing departure.

“I have business in New Orleans,” he explained. “We will leave in two more days.”

Jonathan told himself that he was glad. Once gone, she would be easier to forget, he tried to assure himself, even while he realized her memory couldn’t be thrust aside so easily. Two more days and he would never see her again. It seemed unthinkable.

Cecily and Jonathan had made one corner of the ballroom their trysting place and here they met after each dance which they did not share. They returned there now. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red and smiling. “Why,” thought he, “didn’t I meet a girl like this before I ever saw Teresa?” He liked the sound of her laughter, her vibrant animation, so responsive to the excitement of the ball, and, most of all, the candor of her clear gaze and her utter lack of guile. There would be no dissembling, small chance for misunderstanding. What a contrast to Teresa’s duplicity! One day they had parted gaily, the next she had sent him away without explanation. Well, two more days and she’d be gone. He was well rid of her.

And then Teresa stopped by his side.

He recognized her perfume first. It brought back the memory of that day by the coach when he had spilt her lingerie and they had joined laughter so merrily. He fought back an impulse to turn, and tried to concentrate on his conversation with Cecily. But all the time the windows of his mind were open to this other presence and he found himself straining for the sound of her voice.

The violins struck a chord. It was time to dance again. This probably was the last time he would be close enough to Teresa to speak, and it was slipping by.

Lieutenant Magee, resplendent in his dress uniform, appeared through the crowd in search of Cecily. “Miss Marsten promised me a dance,” he said, “and I’ve come to claim it.”

Early in the evening Teresa had marked the corner that Cecily and Jonathan used as meeting place. Her glance had returned to it time and again. At first she wondered at him, later at herself. Earlier she was able to dismiss him from her mind at times. As the evening progressed he became an obsession, and her temper wore thin. “Now he will come to me,” she assured herself at the conclusion of each dance, until as the evening lengthened she realized with heavy conviction that this hope was false. Outwardly she was serene, though the smoldering within kindled a blaze behind her sultry eyes. Her laughter grew more gay. No one should guess.

She had no plan in mind when she deliberately stopped beside him. It was only to punish him, she told herself. He should watch her bask in the admiration of other men, hear her carefree laughter and, watching, see that she had forgotten him. But she chastened only herself as far as she could tell. He was there so close that she might touch him but his back was turned and there was no hint that he was aware of her, even now. That was torment to a patience long since frayed and she determined that he should ignore her no longer.

Jonathan watched Cecily move away with Magee. In another moment Teresa would be gone, dancing away with some new partner, stepping out of his life, too. He was listening to her again, just a phrase. She had enjoyed the dance; now someone else had approached.

“May I have the honor, Miss de Lerdo?” a new voice asked. “I believe this is our dance.”

“But there must be some mistake.” Teresa sounded regretful. She was standing so close he might have touched her, her voice distinct against the swelling music. “Yours is the next dance. I have this one promised to Mr. Jonathan Kirk.”

For an incredulous moment Jonathan doubted his own ears.

“No doubt he is looking for me,” Teresa continued in a clear voice. “If you see Mr. Kirk, will you tell him I am waiting here?”

There could no longer be doubt. Jonathan turned eagerly, all his anger forgotten.

“Teresa,” he said.

She smiled. “So you haven’t forgotten me?” she murmured. “I am very angry with you, Jontee. You don’t deserve the dance I saved for you.”

“I thought it was you who had forgotten,” he replied, and then, remembering, added, “Why did you send me away when I came to call? Why were you angry? What had I done?” The questions that had been troubling him came spilling out.

Teresa’s eyes widened. “Send you away?” she repeated in surprise. “When was this? Who gave you such a message?”

“The servant who hid during the fight with the bandits, you remember. It was he.”

“Luiz?” She was beginning to understand.

They hadn’t yet taken their place among the dancers. Teresa, a guest in the house, was familiar with its arrangement. The French doors behind them opened onto an upper gallery. She pressed her companion’s arm. “Come this way,” she urged. “There are some things which need explaining.”

They had the place to themselves. She made no further effort to conceal her anger.

“When was this?” she demanded.

“The morning after we arrived here. It was Luiz who gave me the message.” Jonathan recalled the words he had painfully rehearsed so many times. “He said, ‘I am to tell you she is not at home any time the señor calls.’ ”

The hand on his arm trembled. Teresa fought back her anger. Luiz was only the messenger. She knew very well who had tricked her and why. She convinced herself that her affair with this boy had been quite innocent. Nothing would have come of it, nothing. Her reasoning lacked logic but her willful anger was very real.

“And you believed him?” she finally replied. “Didn’t that message seem strange, coming from me?” Her voice, harsh at first, smoothed itself into softness at the end.

“I didn’t know what to think,” he confessed.

“But Luiz isn’t my servant, Jontee. Reflect. Who is his master?”

“Salazar?”

“Don Miguel,” she affirmed, and again her voice grew sharp. “We were tricked, Jontee.”

“But why?” He was baffled. “What has he against me? Why should he want to keep us apart?”

She pondered her answer.

Before she had been careful to describe Salazar as her guardian, and it had not occurred to Jonathan to question her story. She had thought it droll when Miguel had explained the necessity for the deception while on this trip.

“Otherwise many doors would be closed to us and that would jeopardize Gutierrez’ mission,” Salazar had concluded.

She had puffed out her cheeks and stroked an imaginary beard as she strutted the floor in imitation of Don Bernardo’s pompous manner. “We must make an honest woman of this pullet, if she’s to travel with His Excellency, the Minister to the United States, eh, Don Miguel?”

“I like you better as the wench you are.” He had laughed.

She had enjoyed the role of ward but now, in resentment at Miguel, she was tempted to abandon it. One cautious thought restrained her. She was not quite sure of Jonathan yet. She had no doubt of his infatuation, but would it survive the stunning knowledge that she was not what she seemed? Shrewdly she weighed her own feelings, too. Until she was more certain of his response and of her own desires, she was unwilling to risk revealing too much. Her anger did not blind her to Miguel’s liberality. She would proceed with care.

“He has been like a father to me,” she said, “so kind and generous.” They were standing at the rail, her shoulder warm against him. “But he has been very strict, too. He flies into a temper if he thinks a man so much as looks at me. Then he is terrifying.” Her candor seemed very innocent.

“But that’s unreasonable,” he protested. “Surely he expects you to fall in love and marry, like other girls.”

“In my country a girl has no choice. I will be expected to marry the man Don Miguel selects.” She sounded plaintive. “He would be enraged if I dared to disobey him.”

“You’re in America now.” Impatience made him brusque. “Here it’s different. When I fall in love with a girl, not all the guardians in the world will be able to keep us apart.”

“Perhaps Don Miguel realizes that, Jontee,” she responded softly. She was standing very close. “It is the way I thought you would be. Every girl hopes she will be loved like that, when the time comes.

“Only remember this, Jontee,” she continued. “Never accept a message from me unless it is delivered by one of my own servants. Maria you remember. The other is José. You will know him because of his crossed eyes. These two I trust and no others.”

“I will always remember, Teresa,” he replied. And then because of the pledge implied in her words, because of her perfume which was fragrant about him, because of her nearness and of all the doubts now swept away, he took her in his arms.

“Teresa,” he murmured huskily.

“Jontee,” she whispered.

He kissed her.

Luiz, resplendent in Don Miguel’s purple livery, was assisting with the service at the punch bowl. He wasn’t at his best in times of peril, and traveling upset him. His quaking bulk wasn’t fashioned for rough trails. This was different. He flaunted the magnificence of his velvet coat and surveyed his fat legs surreptitiously in the mirror, the white stockings stretched tightly over his bulging calves. None of your skinny legs for him. It took a man to fill stockings properly, with never a wrinkle. He enjoyed mingling with the guests, retrieving the empty glasses, moving with the slow pomposity which he fancied was dignified. And there was no telling what an alert fellow might hear on such occasions. Gentlemen often had the careless habit of ignoring servants when they talked. He had pasted together morsels of conversation before now. Sometimes they were merely titillating bits of gossip, sometimes they had proved worth retelling—at a price.

Luiz was in the drawing room collecting empty glasses on his tray when Teresa and Jonathan walked out the door. His fat face betrayed no expression but his step quickened imperceptibly. This was one of the better scraps of knowledge, worthy of reward if used promptly.

Don Miguel wasn’t dancing. Luiz’ alert eyes made sure of that before he quit the room. He wasn’t in the hall. Luiz made it his business to visit the dining room where some of the gentlemen were enjoying a potion more vigorous than punch. He waited until his master had finished the story he was telling. During the laughter which followed Salazar glanced at the servant with raised brows. Luiz barely nodded. The motion was lost in his fat chins.

Don Miguel excused himself and, once outside, listened attentively to the quick muttering of his lackey.

Absorbed in each other, neither Jonathan nor Teresa heard the soft opening of the door behind them.

Don Miguel seized her by the shoulder, jerking her away so roughly that a pearl brooch at her bodice was torn loose. Almost with the same movement, and before Jonathan realized what was happening, Salazar slapped him across the cheek.

The young Virginian’s response was instantaneous. His fist lashed out savagely and cracked against the Spaniards jaw. It was a short blow but all the power of his body was behind it. It sent Salazar spinning against the railing. He struck it heavily with his shoulder and then slumped to the floor, dazed but not unconscious.

“You see, Teresa,” he snarled: “he even fights like a savage. I challenge him to a duel and he uses his fists like a pelado.”

Jonathan was standing astride the fallen man, his fists ready, his anger flaming. The words robbed him of his confidence. He had the shamed feeling that his quick rage had made him look foolish before Teresa. That irritated him.

He stepped back, retrieving what he could of his dignity. “I’ll be glad to meet you, sir,” he retorted stiffly. “Any time, any place.”

Don Miguel had risen. His voice was coldly formal. He might have been exchanging remarks about the weather as he replied, “Name your seconds. I like my satisfaction to be prompt.”

Jonathan thought swiftly. “Lieutenant Magee and Mr. John Durst will act for me. They both can be found at the Kentucky Tavern.”

“They may expect a call tonight.” And then turning to Teresa, Salazar offered her his arm. “Come, my dear,” he said. The words were polite but the tone was mocking.

Teresa hesitated, then she took his arm, but as she stepped through the door she glanced anxiously back at Jonathan.