North and South: The North and South Trilogy (62 page)

His trousers still hung at his ankles, but Ashton was already busy putting her various garments back in place. “You’ll think of something, dear. Could it be the skeeters? They’re bad tonight. Two of them bit me a while ago.”

“Sure, that’s it, bad skeeter bites.” He dabbed his neck again, then chuckled, half admiringly, half in awe. “I tell you, Ashton, you’re something.”

“You mean you’re not sorry you came out here?”

“Not on your life. That was—well, I’ve got to be straight about it. Nearly the best ever.”

She pouted. “Is that all? Nearly?”

He laughed. “You’re a damn conceited wench, too.” He fondled her bosom affectionately. “All right. The best.”

“Thank you, Forbes. But keep your hands off my dress, please. You’ll get me all mussed again.”

Busily, she straightened petticoats and patted lace gone limp in the heat. She could have made the same statement he did. Never had she felt so aroused beforehand or so satisfied afterward. He was rough, he had hurt her, but she had relished every moment.

She didn’t dare tell him, though. It would swell his head. Better to keep him dangling. She hummed.

Finally he blurted: “Will you let me see you again? Like this, I mean?”

“Not tonight. I must be sweet for all those Yankees.”

“Of course not tonight. I meant from now on till you marry Jim Huntoon.”

She glided to him, her hoops swaying to and fro. “Forbes, you must understand something. My relationship with Mr. James Huntoon is what you might call business. This is pleasure. As long as people are discreet, there’s no reason pleasure can’t go on and on, indefinitely.”

“You mean even after you and Huntoon—?”

“Why not? ’Less, of course, you get to drinking like you do sometimes and blab and embarrass me. Let me hear of that happening just once, and you’ll never see me again.”

“I swear I’ll never open my mouth. You can ask anything of me, Ashton—I’ll do it. Oh, my God—aren’t you something?”

She let him kiss her once more before they left the stable by separate routes. She was pleased with her accomplishments thus far this evening. Forbes had helped relieve some of the awful strain that had been building up within her lately. Just as important, he had put himself completely in her hands. She felt as if she had become the owner of a new slave.

A little smile sat on her rouged lips as she hurried up the lawn toward the great house aglow with lights. She had a hunch Mr. Forbes LaMotte was going to be a very valuable ally.

Candles in branched holders shone in every window that night; Chinese lanterns bedecked the lawns. The house couldn’t contain all the guests who had arrived by carriage and horseback. They spilled outdoors, spread among the trees, strolled into the shadows in couples or small groups.

The entire downstairs had been cleared of all furniture except chairs. The dining room was reserved for dancing, the music provided by Von Grabow’s Orchestra from Charleston. Orry had chartered
Eutaw
to bring all fourteen musicians and their instruments to the plantation. At midnight, given favorable breezes, the river sloop would take guests on a cruise, with supper served aboard.

On the piazza facing the river, trestle tables had been erected for the food and drink. Slave boys with whisks kept the insects off the platters of ham, lamb and beef barbecue, broiled chicken, oysters, shrimp, ocean crabs. Two hundred pounds of ham had been purchased for the affair and similar quantities of everything else. French champagne flowed as well as imported French and German wines—there were forty cases of each.

The guests had attired themselves to match the elegance of the occasion. The air was fragrant with the scents of powdered shoulders and perfumed décolletage. Macassar oil dressed the hair of many of the gentlemen, glistening brightly beneath the paper lanterns. Before an hour had passed, Orry could close his eyes, listen to the party, and know it was a huge success. The laughter and conversation were loud enough to be heard in Columbia, he fancied.

It was a warm evening. His coat, waistcoat, and cravat were making him uncomfortable. And the temperature seemed to be rising—or perhaps that was the effect of the champagne. He carried a glass as he circulated; when it was empty some black hand was always close by to fill it, whether he would or no.

Orry’s discomfort was minor compared with his pleasure. To him the party represented everything that was fine and gracious about his home state. The dazzling lights, the food and wine and music, all generated an aura of good feeling. It was a magic occasion. He saw that demonstrated again and again.

Tillet and George told stories and laughed uproariously together—as if the argument about secession had never taken place. Orry saw them refill their glasses and stroll away arm in arm.

Constance came staggering off the dance floor, red-faced, out of breath, and giggling. One of the Smith boys had invited her to polka and overcame her initial hesitancy with an outpouring of charm. Many ladies and gentlemen named Smith had come to the ball, though none were close relatives of Mr. Whitney Smith, who was absent.

Constance had danced fast and hard, earning a compliment from her partner and an embrace from Clarissa, who said, “You dance just like a Southern girl. Sure you wouldn’t like to move down here?”

“It’s such a splendid party—so many nice people—I might be persuaded, Clarissa.”

Orry drifted back outside. He leaned against a white pillar, sipping champagne and smiling at everyone. He felt slightly bleary but wonderful. Not everyone shared his euphoria. Cooper was still rankling over his father’s behavior last night. It showed in the owlish look on his face as he stood drinking by himself.

Orry wandered up to him and amiably punched his shoulder, slopping some champagne on Cooper’s sleeve in the process.

“Come on, enjoy yourself for once. You have to admit it’s a damn fine party.”

“Fine,” Cooper agreed, without much sincerity. “It would be splendid if people always felt this charitable toward Yankees.”

Orry blinked. “Well, if you like the party, why don’t you smite?”

“Unfortunately, I keep thinking of what it costs to make it all possible. Not everyone here is having a fine time, you’ll notice.”

With a slow, stately motion of his glass, he led Orry’s eye to a man struggling along the piazza with sweat drenching his face and two heavy cases of wine balanced on his shoulders. The man was a house slave, sixty-eight years old.

Furious, Orry turned and left.

From that moment, Orry’s mood soured. Everything he saw and heard contributed to a mounting displeasure tinged with melancholy.

One of the Bull boys pulled down a rope holding half a dozen paper lanterns, one of which caught fire and almost ignited Aunt Betsy Bull’s hoop skirt. She scolded her young relative, urging him to locate a horse trough and soak his head till he sobered up. His smile faded, as if the scolding had sunk in.

But it wasn’t a contrite heart that altered his expression. It was too much liquor in an upset stomach. Standing right in front of Aunt Betsy, the boy vomited. Several spectators fled in dismay; one turned pale, swayed, almost swooned. Things were beginning to go wrong with a vengeance, Orry concluded.

A little while later, in the crowded house, he encountered Justin LaMotte. Justin had one gleaming boot planted on the cane seat of a chair that otherwise would have provided a resting place for someone. Every other chair was occupied.

“—frankly don’t care who the parties nominate,” Justin was saying. “Yancey was right, Traditional party loyalty has become a foul, feculent disease. Vote the Whig ticket and you’re voting for a party which is an invalid, if not a corpse. Vote for the Democrats and you’re siding with a political organization that no longer represents the interests of this region. I for one lean toward the American party. No immigrants. No popery. I’m sure they’ll soon add ‘no abolition’ to that platform.”

Orry stared at Justin’s boot, his meaning unmistakable. Justin gave his host a faintly defiant look and kept his foot on the chair as he pontificated. Orry walked away in disgust.

Ten minutes later he was leaning against the dining-room wall, watching George waltz with Madeline. George had earlier announced his intention of doing that. He appeared to be enjoying it.

Orry spilled champagne on his shirt when he raised his glass. He realized he was drunk. He didn’t care. It was a quarter after eleven, and the party was roaring along under its own power. If he fell down unconscious, it would make no difference.

He had no intention of falling down, however. Not while he could stand and behold Madeline. How beautiful she was, turning gracefully beneath the chandelier with his best friend. Her bosom was white as milk against the emerald silk of her gown. The color suited her dark hair and eyes.

George waltzed expertly and with dash. Not surprising, Orry thought, taking another drink; George had the proper number of limbs for it.

How he wished he were a whole man. Able to ask Madeline to dance with him to the beautiful music. Able to stop hiding the love that filled him so full of thoughts of her and longing for her that he hurt. His lips compressed to a slit. His dark eyes, reflecting the myriad lights, reflected his anger, too. He held out his glass without looking. A black hand holding a bottle was there to fill it, just as he expected.

“She’s a charming partner,” George said when he brought Madeline to Orry at the conclusion of the dance. “Utterly charming. But I see Constance hunting for me. You’ll excuse me, Orry? Your servant, Mrs. LaMotte.”

And away he went, leaving Madeline flushed and nervous at Orry’s side.

“I see why you like him,” she said. “He’s kind and intelligent and amusing.” She opened her lace fan and began to cool herself with it. “It’s a glorious evening. What a pity it rushes by so fast.”

He let his gaze sink deep into her eyes; drunk, he didn’t care whether anyone noticed.

“Everything’s rushing too fast, Madeline. The months. The time we have left—”

She snapped her fan shut so quickly one of the ribs broke. She closed her eyes and silently spoke one urgent word.

Don’t.

Then, startling him, she stepped backward, animated as a child’s marionette. “Yes, time does pass swiftly, doesn’t it? We all grow old before we know it.” Why the hell was she speaking so loudly? “Do you know what Francis’s boy Forbes calls me now? Aunt Maddie.” She laughed, but he could tell she wanted to cry.

“There you are, my dear.”

They turned at the sound of the voice; it belonged to Justin. “Someone told me you were dancing with a Yankee,” he continued as he came up behind Orry. “I trust none of it rubbed off.”

Justin’s expression was an unpleasant blend of boredom and smirking humor, and his remark had been a deliberate insult directed against Orry’s guest. Though Orry was angry, he could do nothing. Justin’s smile made the remark a joke, and any man who took it as something more would be considered boorish.

Justin crooked his left arm to form a V. “Shall we sample some of our host’s fine food, my dear?”

“You go ahead, Justin. I’ve already had ample—”

“I insist.” He seized her right hand and forced her to take hold of his arm. Humiliation brought a rush of color to her cheeks. As Justin led her away, Madeline managed to give Orry a quick, covert glance of longing. He felt the same longing, nearly unbearable.
This can’t go on without some kind of change. Without some break in the stalemate.

It might not happen at once or even soon, but a rush of intuition told him that it was inevitable.
It would
happen. Would the outcome favor them or destroy them?

The emotional pressure suddenly became too great. He wheeled around, stepped forward, and crushed his champagne glass into the wall. Dozens of tiny tinkling pieces struck the floor.

His frustration diminished a little. Why the devil had he done that? Drunkenness? Fortunately no one appeared to have been watching. He raised his hand. A small cut leaked blood down over his knuckles to his wrist.

Waltzing, Billy and Brett whirled past Orry. They didn’t notice him or his cut hand or his bleak expression. Under the flashing pendants of the chandelier, surrounded by the wavering flames of lamps and candles, they were lost in emotion and each other. Billy wished the surging music would go on and on, and the night too.

“The camellias arrived just before I came downstairs,” Brett said. He let out a relieved sigh. This was the first time she had mentioned the courtship gift. “There were so many of them,” she added. “The arrangement must have cost a fortune.”

“I guess the Hazards can afford it.”

Instantly, he felt foolish. The remark was pompous. Lord, how she muddled him with the sparkle of her eyes, the tilt of her head, the wry but not unkind set of her lips. George had once told him that many West Point cadets claimed to be “anti-romance” because romance addled your mind, and that in turn interfered with academic work. Billy could understand that attitude, but it was far too late for him to develop it within himself. Besides, he didn’t want to.

“In any case,” she said, “the flowers are truly lovely—and so is the thought that sent them.”

“Thank you. Some girls might not be kind enough to say so.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true. That’s why you’re different. You don’t flirt or keep someone guessing. You speak your mind. It’s one of the things I love”—he swallowed the word, turning red—“like about you.”

“At one time I had the impression you didn’t like it at all.”

He grinned. “We’d better not start a discussion of my past mistakes. There are so many, we’ll have no time to discuss anything else.”

“Oh, you don’t make many mistakes. Not serious ones, anyway.”

“Indeed I do.” At the edge of his vision, Ashton’s pale face blurred-by. She was standing with Huntoon but watching him. “Occasionally, though, I do something right. Such as asking Orry for permission to call on you. I only wish I could do it more often than once a year.”

“But I’m glad you asked, and I’m glad he said yes.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll write you a lot of letters. And perhaps Orry will bring me to West Point for a visit. It’s still a popular resort, isn’t it?”