Magnolia (6 page)

“I don't hit women,” he said icily. “But I won't have you driving around in that motorcar alone. Try it again and I'll cut the tires off the damned thing.”

“John!” she burst out, shocked at hearing him curse not once but twice in less than a minute.

He smiled coldly. “Do you think that because I work in a bank I don't react like a normal man to things that anger me? I wore a uniform for several years, Claire, between graduating from the Citadel and going to Harvard. I was working in Atlanta when I reenlisted—long enough to fight in Cuba—but at one time, I never envisioned a life outside the military. I learned to conform to civilian life, because I had to. You'll learn to conform to high society, because you have to. There's been more than enough gossip about us already.”

He hadn't spoken to her like this before—and now he was making himself a stranger to her. She cleared her throat.

“I had to get Chester here, didn't I?”

“Chester?” he asked, scowling.

She made an awkward motion with her hand. “My motorcar.”

His eyes twinkled. She was an odd woman, he mused,
full of spice and vinegar, but she gave a pet name to a piece of machinery.

“I won't drive it.” She finally agreed, although it was like giving up a part of herself. Apparently the cost of her support was going to be the suppression of her personality. “I can ride my wheel when I need exercise, I suppose.”

“You needn't sound so tragic. I only wish you to act like the wife of the vice president of one of the most prestigious banks in the South,” he said, “instead of a little girl playing with dangerous toys.”

Her gray eyes glittered. “A motorcar is hardly a toy.”

“For you, it is. Why don't you spend some of this abundant free time you seem to have making friends or visiting or buying yourself some new clothes?” he asked irritably. “You're living in the city now, not feeding your chickens and washing clothes like a countrywoman.”

In other words, she had to behave as if she were good enough to be married to a bank officer with a Harvard degree. She felt pure dislike for him.

“I shall try to give good value, sir,” she said haughtily, and curtsied.

He looked as if he might like to give way to a string of curses, but before he could utter them, Claire beat an orderly retreat to her room and slammed the door behind her.

A minute later, she opened it again, red-faced and furious. “Just to set the record straight, I was driving Chester up from Colbyville with my wheel tied on to save you the freight charges. And also for the record let me tell you that
I have no intention of terrorizing Atlanta or shocking your friends with Chester. I shall ride the trolley!”

And she slammed the door again.

John stared at the closed door with mingled reactions, the strongest of which was amusement. Claire was spirited, all right. It was a pity his heart was Diane's, because in many ways, Claire was his match.

He didn't really mind her playing around with the car, but only when he was with her, to protect her from her reckless nature. Besides, she had to learn to conform to his lifestyle. It wouldn't hurt her to be tamed, he thought, just a little. But all the same, he had to fight the very strong impulse to follow her into her bedroom and continue the argument. He found her stimulating in a temper. He wondered if the passion in her could be physical as well as verbal. Perhaps one day he'd be driven to find out.

AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, CLAIRE FINALLY DECIDED
that if her husband wanted her to become a social butterfly, it might be to her advantage to accommodate him.

She'd never been a social climber, but she did have acquaintances among Atlanta's elite. The foremost of these was Mrs. Evelyn Paine, the wife of local railroad magnate Bruce Paine. She called upon her early one morning, cards in hand. But since Evelyn was in, there was no need to present her maid with the requisite two cards from a married woman, one for Evelyn, and one for her husband. Cards were only presented if the host or hostess was unavailable. And most cards carried an “at home” legend, stating when the holder would receive guests. Today was Evelyn's “at home” day.

She was received in the small parlor and given coffee and delicate little cakes while Mrs. Paine sprawled on her satin-covered divan in an expensive and beautiful silk-and-lace
wrapper. She and Claire had met through Claire's uncle and found that they had quite a lot in common. Under other circumstances, they would probably have been close friends; Claire hadn't sought friendship because of Evelyn's higher social status. But Claire's skill with a needle had caught Evelyn's eye, and Claire had made any number of original gowns for her—and never used her relationship with Evelyn in any way to open doors for her. Now, however, she felt obliged to approach anyone who could help her make the best of her new place in society as the wife of a bank executive. John might not want her as a true wife, but she was going to show him that she was no shrinking Nellie, just the same. She was as good as any of his haughty friends, including the adored Diane!

“My dear, it's such an unexpected pleasure to see you,” Evelyn drawled, smiling lazily. “I was about to call on you and see if you could design something very special for me for the Christmas ball at the governor's mansion. You see how much time I'm giving you to create it; it's almost three months away.”

“I daresay I can do something very special with so much time,” Claire promised.

“Then what can I do for you?”

Claire clutched her purse. “I want to join some societies,” she said at once. “I'll work hard, and I'm not afraid to approach strangers for contributions. I'll bake cakes and pies, man stalls at bazaars, do anything I'm asked within reason.”

Evelyn raised up on her elbow. “My dear, you sound
positively frantic. May I ask the reason for this sudden flurry of ambition?”

“I want my husband to be proud of me,” she said simply.

“Well, that is a laudable goal!” Evelyn sat up, stretching. “I do know several people on committees, and they always need volunteers.” She smiled mischievously. “Count on me. I'll make sure you get the proper introductions—and to the very best people.”

“Thank you.”

Evelyn waved a languid hand. “No need for that. We women have to stick together.”

 

C
LAIRE VERY QUICKLY
found herself in demand. Her days were full from morning until late afternoon, baking for cake sales, sorting clothes and whatnots for the fall bazaars, and wrapping bandages with her church group to send to the military in the Philippines and China for Christmas. She kept the apartment spotlessly clean, as well, and even found time to help Mrs. Dobbs bake. She felt obliged to do that, since she was having to borrow her landlady's woodstove to make her contributions to her various societies.

Mrs. Dobbs was impressed by the sort of women who began to call on Claire for tea. The names read like the roster of Atlanta society. The landlady began to dress more formally—and even to help Claire set up the tea tray, using her own best silver.

“I must say, Claire,” Mrs. Dobbs told her one afternoon, “I'm very impressed with the company you've been
keeping. Imagine! Mrs. Bruce Paine right here in my house! Why, her family and her husband's were founding families of Atlanta, and they keep company with people like the Astors and the Vanderbilts!”

“I've known Evelyn for several years,” Claire confided. “She's a fine person, but for obvious reasons, I never tried to become a close friend.”

“Well, that's all changed with your marriage, since Mr. Hawthorn is well-to-do and holds the position he does at the Peachtree City Bank.”

Claire didn't exactly know that John was well-to-do, although he never seemed to lack money. He didn't discuss finances with her. She did know that his position at the bank was an important one. “Yes, I know. That's why I've tried so hard to find my way into the right social circles, so that I wouldn't make him ashamed of me.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Dobbs said gently, “no one would be ashamed of such a hardworking, kind young woman.”

Claire flushed. Mrs. Dobbs always made her feel better. It was just as well that the starchy woman had been out of the house the day John and his business colleagues came home to find Claire in such a disreputable condition. “You're the kind one, Mrs. Dobbs—to give me such freedom in your house.”

“It's been my pleasure. I must tell you, I've enjoyed the little savories left over from your efforts. Where did you learn to cook so well?”

“From my uncle's housekeeper,” she recalled. “She was
a wonderful cook—of the ‘pinch of this and dab of that' variety.”

“Now, I'm just the opposite. I can't cook without my measures.” There was a knock at the door. “Ah, that will be your callers, Claire. I'll let them in.”

Claire greeted Evelyn and her friends, Jane Corley and Emma Hawks, and introduced them to the flustered, beaming Mrs. Dobbs.

It made the landlady's day. She went off to bring in the tea tray in an absolute delirium of pleasure.

Later, after tea and cakes, Evelyn brought out a sketch from the leather writing case she carried.

“I'm no artist, but this is what I thought I'd like you to make me for the ball, Claire,” she said, and handed the rough sketch to the younger woman. “What do you think?”

“Why, it's lovely,” Claire said, nodding as she considered fabric and trim. “But this line, just here, won't do. A peplum is going to make you look chubby around the hips, which you certainly are not,” she added with a grin.

Evelyn's eyes widened. “Why, you're right. I never noticed.”

Claire took a pencil from the small porcelain bowl on the occasional table and erased the line. “And if we just add one flounce to the skirt, here…” She made another few strokes with the pencil, while Evelyn watched, amazed.

“There,” she said, finished, and handed the sketch back. “What do you think? In black, of course—with silver trim and black jet beads on the bodice, just here?”

Evelyn was wordless. “Exquisite,” she said finally. “Just exquisite.”

“I've never seen anything so beautiful,” Emma Hawkes exclaimed. “I buy all my clothes in Paris, but this is—this is extraordinary. How very talented you are, Claire!”

“Thank you,” Claire replied demurely.

“Yes, I want this,” Evelyn said immediately. “And I don't care about the cost.”

“You will.” Claire winked. “It's going to be quite expensive.”

“Anything worth wearing to the governor's ball should be,” came the reply.

Emma nibbled on her lower lip and glanced at Claire. “I suppose it will take all your time to make Evelyn's gown…?”

“Not at all.”

Emma brightened. “Then could you do one for me as well?”

“And one for me?” Jane added.

“Not of this design!” Evelyn cried, aghast.

“Certainly not,” Claire said. “Each gown will be individual, and suited to its wearer. I'll work on the sketches and you can come Friday to approve them. How will that do?” she asked Jane and Emma.

“Wonderful,” they said in unison, beaming.

 

C
LAIRE HAD VERY LITTLE
free time after that. If she wasn't baking or helping with some worthy charity, she was buried upstairs in her room with the sewing machine and what
seemed like acres of fabric, sewing madly to meet her deadlines.

Of John, she saw little. That suited her very well, given their last conversation. She was still bristling from his disapproval. He seemed to avoid her afterward, but he chanced to come home early one Friday, and, since Claire's bedroom door was open, he went to speak to her.

The sight that met his eyes was a surprise. “What in God's name are you doing?” he asked curtly.

She'd been sewing an underskirt for Evelyn's gown, and thank God she had the rest of the project safely hidden in the closet. She didn't want John to know that she had a separate income from the household money he gave her. Her independence was sacred, and she wasn't sharing the news with the enemy.

“I'm making myself a dress,” she said calmly.

His eyes narrowed. “You aren't living with your uncle now, Claire,” he said. “You don't have to manage with homemade clothes. Go down to Rich's and buy yourself some clothes. I have an account there.”

“I like to sew my own things.”

His gaze went over the plain blue dress she was wearing, which was one of her older ones. It was faded, but very comfortable to work in. “So I see,” he replied mockingly. “But that's hardly the sort of thing you need to wear in town.”

Her chest rose and fell angrily. She'd make herself a gown for the governor's ball, too—and then he'd see something!

“Where in town did you have in mind?” she asked coolly. “You haven't take me out of the house since we married over a month ago.”

He scowled. “Has it been so long?”

“It seems like much longer,” she returned quietly. She pushed back a loose strand of brown hair. “If you don't mind, I'm quite busy. I'm sure you have some exalted function to attend, or a dinner with colleagues.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and studied her. It hadn't seemed like a month. Claire had been conspicuously missing from their apartment—and his life—every time he looked for her lately. He'd supposed that she spent her time shopping, but she seemed to have nothing to show for it. There was the fabric she was working on, but it seemed an odd choice for a day dress…or for any kind of dress. It looked more like a slip.

His eyes darted around her room and found it neat and clean, but with very few obvious signs of occupation—save for the brush and hand mirror on her dresser, and the small porcelain powder and jewelry boxes.

“I hardly see you,” he said absently.

“A blessing, I should think, considering the opinion you have of me and my wardrobe,” she murmured as she continued to apply pressure to the treadle under her feet to move the needle along the seam.

He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, drawing the fabric taut against the powerful muscles of his thighs. “Well, one or two people have remarked upon the fact that we
aren't seen at social functions. I suppose we should be more outgoing.”

“Why?” she asked, lifting clear gray eyes to his. “Does someone think you've murdered me and buried my body in the garden?”

His mouth twitched. “I don't know. Perhaps I should ask.”

She took the fabric from under the needle and cut the thread with her small pair of scissors, holding the seam up for critical inspection. “I'm quite content with my life as it is,” she said, not looking at him. It made her heart skip to see the long, powerful lines of his body in that unconsciously elegant pose. He was so handsome. It took her breath away to look at him at all, but she couldn't let him see. She'd had quite enough taunts from him about her helpless attraction to him.

“Don't you miss pretty clothes and parties, Claire?” he asked.

“I've never had either, so why should I want them?”

He considered that for a minute. It was true. She'd never had much in the way of material things. Now she had access to them through him. So why wasn't she taking advantage of it? Diane would have. She'd gone on a shopping spree immediately after her marriage to Eli Calverson that still had tongues wagging today.

“Buy a new gown,” he said abruptly. “There's a party at the Calversons' next Saturday evening, and we've been invited. Apparently Eli thinks you've had long enough to grieve for your uncle and become accustomed to marriage
with me. He wants to introduce us both to a new investor. A very important one.”

“Why us?”

“Because I'm vice president of the bank, Claire, and investors keep us solvent. This gentleman is the head of an investment firm, and he's very thick with Eli. Apparently, he's rich as Croesus.”

“How nice for him. But I don't want to go to the Calversons'.”

He took an impatient breath. “I've told you that I have no back-door dealings with Diane!”

She looked at him steadily. “So I should go with you and spend the evening watching you eat your heart out over the sight of her? No, thank you.”

His eyes flashed angrily. “It would be far better than to spend the evening here, watching you eat your heart out over me,” he countered icily.

She threw the underskirt down on the floor and got to her feet, her gray eyes like lead bullets as she went right up to him.

“I am not eating my heart out over you! I hardly see you, in any case. I have no secret hankering for such a conceited, overbearing—”

Suddenly he reached for her and pulled her against him. In his leaning position, she found herself pressed intimately to his long legs—in between them, in fact—with his arms wrapped tightly around her. The look on her face amused him, taking the heat out of his anger.

“Don't stop there,” he invited, with a smile. “Do go on.”

She wanted to, but her heart was beating too rapidly to allow speech. The whalebone corset she was wearing constricted her breath enough, without the added pressure of his embrace. She could barely breathe at all.

Her hands pushed weakly at his chest. “Let go,” she said faintly. “I can't…breathe.”