Magnolia (17 page)

“Mrs. Calverson was ministering to you,” she said calmly. “I hesitated to intrude.”

“You're my wife,” he said shortly. “You had every right to intrude.”

The nerve of him! she thought furiously. “You have a convenient memory about that! Whenever Mrs. Calverson comes near, you seem to forget you have a wife!”

“Claire…” He took a long breath. “I realize that my recent behavior has been less than admirable. I've been confused, you see. Our marriage has had its—shall we say…interesting moments just recently.”

She stared at him, though embarrassed. “You mean we have slept together. I believe you remarked that it was compensation for not having Diane.”

“I said no such damned thing!” he snapped. “I would never use one woman to forget another.”

She straightened. “You intimated that the marriage bed was our only common ground.”

He winced inwardly at the calm, cold accusation. How could he defend himself—when he'd said so many harsh things to give her that idea? He'd made so many mistakes, and he couldn't seem to rectify even one of them!

“I said a lot of things,” he replied. “We know so little about each other, Claire. We married for all the wrong reasons, and we've—
I've,
” he amended, “done nothing to try and smooth it out between us. Perhaps when this latest disaster is dealt with, we can begin to find new ways of living together.”

“Such as?” she asked belligerently.

“We could go out more often,” he said. “To the opera or the theater, if you like. We could have all our meals together.” He studied her drawn, wan face. “We could be husband and wife in every sense, Claire.”

Her chest rose and fell roughly as she fought to breathe normally. How she longed for what he was suggesting. She loved him so. Life was uncertain at best. He could have been killed this morning. The terror of it made her face go pale. But despite her love and her fears, he wasn't hers. She might have saved him, but it was for Diane. How often had he said so?

“You kissed her,” she said.

He exhaled impatiently. “I explained to you that she did the kissing!”

“Yes, you explained it. I didn't believe you then and I don't believe you now. You told me that you loved her, and that she loved you, on the day we were married,” she said, with painful bitterness. “Has that changed, John?”

He hesitated, trying to find the right words to undo the damage. He was hungry for Claire, and Diane had actually become a nuisance. He wanted nothing more in the world right now than to clasp Claire tight to him and hold her, comfort her, reassure her. But when he stepped forward, she immediately stepped back. He must go slowly with her, woo her, pamper her. She'd had so little from him. He daren't rush her.

He smiled gently. “Many things have changed, Claire,” he said quietly. “We must talk about them. But for now, I have to get cleaned up and go back to the bank to help sort
out the mess. The fire never reached us, but it came very close. We can talk tonight.”

“Talk,” she echoed softly, thinking that their situation had gone far beyond conversation. “Yes. Well, I'll leave you to tidy yourself.” She started to turn away.

“Claire, what were you doing in town, in the automobile?” he asked abruptly, just having remembered that she had apparently driven near the bank at the time of the riot and fire.

She turned. “I had come to town to visit Kenny Blake,” she said, with pure malice, remembering Diane's soft fingers on his face.

His eyes glittered. “I've told you to have nothing to do with him!”

“You invited Diane to my home—and let her make the cattiest sort of remarks to and about me,” she replied belligerently. “During our entire marriage, you've treated her like your sweetheart and me like an interloper. Well, at least I've had the decency to visit Kenny in town. And I was not alone with him,” she added, stretching the truth just a little. “I was in his shop.”

“For what purpose?”

She couldn't admit that she was using Kenny as an intermediary for the Macy's buyer. She lifted her chin. “Think what you like, John.”

He could have raged at her. He would have, but he knew that he was standing on shaky ground. She was correct to say that he'd done nothing to discourage Diane, and he
had
told Claire that he loved the other woman. Suddenly he felt
guilty, and low and ashamed. This woman loved him. What had he ever offered her except pain and humiliation?

She turned back toward her doorway. “Whatever you think of me, I'm glad that you're all right, John,” she added dispiritedly, thinking that she might not see him again for a very long time and trying valiantly not to show her feelings for him.

Her tone was defeated, lost. He knew that she wasn't having an affair with Kenny, but he was jealous of the man just the same. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He wanted to talk to her, to discuss their marriage. He called to her, but she went out the door without even looking back, then closed it with unusual firmness.

He cursed under his breath. What could he have said, anyway? She'd seen Diane with him. He remembered having smiled at Diane, as well. She'd only think it was more of the same, more of what she'd seen in the kitchen when Diane had kissed him. He didn't have the words to explain how drastically his feelings had changed for his reluctant wife. Perhaps by tonight, he thought. He just needed a little time to think it all through, to decide how to say it. It was his own fault. If he hadn't been so disparaging about the exquisite night they'd shared, if he hadn't let his fears rule his harsh tongue, how different it all might have been. Her response had been glorious. Many men went all their lives with women whose very coldness shattered their dreams of love. Claire had been magnificent. And what had he said to her? He'd managed to imply that sex was all he wanted from her, that he felt nothing more than lust. He
groaned at his own stupidity. Leave it to a man, he thought bitterly, not to know what he felt until it was too late.

He changed his clothes, called a quiet goodbye to Claire through the door, and went back to work. If Mrs. Dobbs thought their behavior unusual for a couple who'd just risked being killed by a mob or burned up in a fire, she kept her thoughts to herself. Even a blind woman could tell that there were problems with this marriage. She only hoped they'd be able to solve them.

CLAIRE HAD HER BAGS PACKED AND READY TO
go in no time at all. She would never forget that it had been Diane who'd rushed to John's side when he'd been hurt at the fire, Diane whose comfort he'd craved. Well, he could have his precious Diane. She was through fighting for a man who wanted someone else. She was going to leave, just as she'd threatened to. He was all right, and if he loved Diane so much, there was nothing else she could do except leave him to it. He'd said they would talk. Talk, ha! And about what? About a divorce? She didn't doubt that he would ask her for one now.

For just a moment she thought of driving Chester to Savannah, but that would be far too great a folly. Driving a couple of blocks in Atlanta was one thing; driving across the state was something else. The little car barely made it between Colbyville and Atlanta without mishap. On the long, rutted, dangerous road to Savannah, she could throw a band, have four flat tires, break an axle, or have engine failure. And without parts, or enough space to carry the amount of gas she would need to make the trip, it would
be foolhardy. She couldn't even be certain that she could find gas at drugstores along the route. The roads were far more suited to wagon travel than automobile. She would have to take the train and hope for the best.

She went to see Chester one last time, hoping against hope that John wouldn't do away with it in her absence. Things seemed so hopeless.

She patted the little car's door gently. “You were very brave this morning, Chester. I'm proud of you. And I'll be back for you, old dear,” she told it. “Someday.”

 

T
HE CARRIAGE DRIVER
took her bags out for her. Before she got into the carriage she'd hired to take her to the train depot downtown, she stopped long enough to tell Mrs. Dobbs goodbye.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Mrs. Dobbs said worriedly. “And after this morning, too… But whatever shall I tell Mr. Hawthorn when he comes home and finds you gone?”

“I've left him a note,” Claire said, pretending to be casual about the whole affair. “Everything will be all right, Mrs. Dobbs. We had a slight misunderstanding and I need to get away for a while. I'm only going to visit my cousin for a few days. I'll be back soon.”

“For a few days?” She brightened. “Oh, thank goodness it was nothing serious between you and your husband!”

“Yes,” Claire lied, feeling guilty. “Now, you go on about your business. I'll be back before you know it.”

She swept out the door. Perhaps she should have left John a note. Truly, she hadn't thought about it. She couldn't think of anything to tell him that she hadn't already said. He'd know why she'd left. There was no need to elaborate.

 

J
OHN
H
AWTHORN CAME HOME
that afternoon to an empty apartment. There was no sign of Claire, and her best cloak was missing from her chifforobe. He leaned against the doorjamb and stared blankly at the room she'd occupied. He'd half expected this, but it still came as a shock. He'd waited far too long to act like a husband, and when he had, he'd lied about his motives. Then this morning he hadn't been able to find the right words to explain that he'd much rather have had Claire's hands than Diane's doctoring his cuts. He'd been confused, especially after the passionate night he'd shared with his wife. And her confession that she'd visited Kenny Blake had sparked a spurt of jealousy that had diverted him.

Mrs. Dobbs stuck her head around the door.

“There you are!” she gushed. “I know it must be lonely for you while your wife's away visiting her cousin, so I've invited my sisters over to dine with us. I thought you might like some company this evening.”

So that was what she'd told Mrs. Dobbs, that she was going to visit a cousin. Did she have a cousin? She'd never spoken of one.

“She was going by train, I believe,” he said, fishing.

“Was she? She didn't say, but I'm certain she would have taken the train if it's any distance. Her little automobile is still in the shed. I'll have the evening meal ready at the usual time. If you want anything special for dessert, Mr. Hawthorn, you only have to say so.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dobbs,” he replied courteously. “But I'm not terribly hungry. I have to go to the depot.” He
didn't add that he was going there to try to trace his wife. He hoped he could find her.

 

I
NQUIRIES AT THE DEPOT
proved fruitless. The depot ticket agent had been taken sick quite suddenly and had been transported to St. Joseph's Infirmary. The relief agent had no idea which young woman this earnest, dark-eyed man was seeking so urgently. John went to the bank the next morning with a heavy heart, no closer to an answer than he had been the whole sleepless night. Where was Claire?

On an impulse, he had the carriage drive past Kenny's shop, just to check that the man was still in town. Sure enough, the little weasel was clearly visible through the window. John leaned back in his seat, vaguely ashamed of his suspicions. Claire wasn't the sort of woman to run off with another man unless she told John about it first. She was too honest. He only wished that she'd stayed and talked to him before she set off for God alone knew where. She had no relatives, and no close friends. He sighed heavily. It hurt him to think of Claire alone in the world, without even a little cash to tide her over, unless she'd taken the housekeeping money with her. If she had, she'd be able to afford a decent place to stay.

The thought worried him, so when he got to the apartment, he went immediately to the small pot on the bookshelf where she kept the housekeeping money. It was a relief to find it empty—as empty as the apartment. He'd never minded being alone before his marriage. Now, he found he minded it very much. Where, he wondered miserably, had Claire gone?

 

C
LAIRE ARRIVED IN
S
AVANNAH
weary and dispirited. She checked into a hotel downtown and a porter carried her luggage for her. As a precaution, she used her maiden name when she signed the register.

“Miss Lang,” the clerk echoed, and gave her a suspicious look. Young ladies of quality rarely traveled in the South without an escort of some sort, generally an older aunt or cousin. His eyes narrowed. “Will you be staying long?”

“Hopefully not very. I have relatives here,” she said, and smiled at him. “I've come from Atlanta to see them.”

“I see. And they are…?”

She looked him steadily in the eye. “You're very inquisitive for a hotel clerk,” she said evenly. “Would you make the same demands of a male guest?”

His cheeks burned. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Do excuse me. It is, of course, your business.”

She lifted her chin and smiled haughtily. “I can see that the suffragette movement needs more stimulus in this community.”

His eyes widened. Now he knew who she was—she was one of those worshipers of Susan B. Anthony and Margaret Sanger, one of those “modern” women who thought and behaved with the freedom of men. He found them all distasteful, but it wouldn't do to antagonize one of them. God forbid that they should invade this hotel to protest any bad treatment of one of their own.

He gave her a conciliatory smile. “I've put you in Room 202. It's a very nice room, overlooking the bay. There's a—”
he hesitated, searching for the word “—a ladies' room just down the hall from you.”

“Is there a telephone?” she asked.

He nodded. “Certainly. You may use the telephone in the office, at your leisure. You have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” she said politely, and followed the porter with her luggage up the staircase.

When she was alone, she drew the curtains and looked out at the bay. Savannah was a beautiful city. She opened the window and breathed in the fresh sea air. There were other places on the Georgia coast, farther outside the city, where mills spewed smoke into the air and there was an unpleasant odor from them. Here, the air was salty and brisk and clean.

She gave a thought to John and how it must have felt for him to come home to an empty apartment. She knew that he'd worry, even though he didn't love her, and she was sorry. But she couldn't go back. There were too many problems; she needed breathing space. Perhaps he, too, would have time to make the decisions he needed to make. If he still loved Diane, he should give up Claire. Both of them would be better off apart, regardless of the gossip it caused. She had her work now, and she could support herself nicely without his help.

She closed the curtain and walked back to the single chair by the bed, running her hand over the carved walnut back. She must decide what to do. The hotel was pleasant enough, but she was nervous about staying here on her own.

She hoped that Maude would want her to stay at the
Hawthorn home, but her unexpected arrival might cause problems with Maude's husband. It was best to have a place to stay, just in case. But she must call Maude Hawthorn and tell her that she was in town. She allowed herself to think of nothing more than that, and went downstairs to do it.

The clerk escorted her to the telephone switchboard, where the hotel operator sat. Claire didn't know the number, but the operator did. She put Claire right through to the Hawthorn home, and gave Claire a curious, interested glance as she waited for the connection.

“Here, I have it for you,” she said after a minute.

Claire picked up the receiver of the telephone nearby.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Maude Hawthorn?” Claire asked. “This is Claire…”

“Claire!” Maude exclaimed. “My dear, where are you? Is John with you? Is he all right?”

“He's fine,” Claire said. “I've come to see you. I'm staying at the Mariner Hotel on—”

“A hotel? Oh, Claire! How could you? I'll have our man get the carriage hitched up and I'll be right there to pick you up. Don't argue, dear. I really can't allow you to stay at a hotel! I should be no more than thirty minutes. I'm so glad you've come.”

The connection was cut. Claire smiled self-consciously. Well, it seemed that the nervous desk clerk would be relieved that she wasn't to be a guest in this hotel after all. She thanked the operator, nodded at the puzzled clerk, and went back up to her room.

The porter brought her bags back down again and she paid the small amount due on the room.

It was, in fact, less than thirty minutes before Maude swept into the hotel like some grande dame in her long, elegant black suit and feathered big hat. “My dear!” she exclaimed, and came forward to hug Claire warmly. “Harrison,” she called to her liveried driver, “do get Claire's bags and put them in the carriage, please.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the driver said, tipping his hat.

“Harrison is part of the family,” Maude confided. “He's been with us forever.” She glared at the clerk, who was staring. He quickly occupied himself with his books. “Come, dear. Let us go.”

“I annoyed him,” Claire told Maude when they were outside. “He was very nosy, so I made mention of the women's movement and he became quite friendly.”

Maude chuckled. “It's quite active here. One day we'll have the vote, Claire—and then we'll show these men how to build a proper government!”

“Yes, we will,” Claire agreed. “I have thought about joining our Atlanta chapter, but I hesitated because I didn't want to do anything to endanger John's position.”

“My dear, how thoughtful of you. And how silly.” She grinned as they got into the carriage with Harrison's help and the door closed. “John is less conventional than you think. I'm sure he would be shocked that you hesitated to do anything for fear of embarrassing him. Take it from me, child. John can't be embarrassed. I know. He's my son.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Why are you here, Claire?”

Claire grimaced. “I felt like a change of scenery,” she murmured evasively.

“And you don't want to talk about it. All right. I won't pressure you. But you know you're very welcome in my home, Claire—for as long as you would like to stay.”

“How kind you are,” Claire said, with genuine feeling. “I would like to get to know John's family. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

“And we should like to get to know his wife. It has been a very long two years for me, Claire…with no contact at all between our son and us. I think Clayton feels just the same, but is too proud and stubborn to admit it. Your visit may prove more productive than either of us dream. I pray that it will.”

“Will it cause trouble for you, though, with your husband?” Claire asked worriedly. “You said that he was in bad health…”

“He will be happy to welcome John's wife,” Maude said bracingly. “Believe me when I tell you that he would do anything to mend the rift between himself and John. He will see your presence as a step in that direction, and welcome you with open arms. You wait and see!”

Heartened, Claire let the last of her worries go.

 

M
INUTES LATER
, C
LAIRE
was walking up the steps of an elegant colonial-style Savannah house beside Maude. It sat on the corner of one of the many squares that made up the quaint city on the Atlantic, and like most of the houses in
this section, it had a walled garden stretching around the back. Because the Christmas season was in full swing, there was a gay wreath on the front door done in familiar Victorian pale pink and blue ribbons, and there were garlands of holly and fir limbs on the gate.

She noticed the brass lion-head door knocker as Harrison opened the door to admit the two ladies, then brought her suitcases in behind them. A young maid hovered until Maude waved her away with a smile.

“Make yourself right at home,” Maude said. She stuck her head around the living room door. “Emily, you'll never guess who's here!” she called.