The haughty headwaiter tried to seat them behind a potted fern next to the kitchen entrance. "No, thank you," Willa said pleasantly. "I'm Mrs. Parker, of Trump's Playhouse. I send many of our patrons here to enjoy your cuisine, and I won't take your worst table. That one in the center, please."
It was a table for four, but the man was defeated by her charm. He thanked her effusively.
Soft gaslight and candles on the tables combined to create a civilized, intimate atmosphere in the busy room. Several gentlemen interrupted conversations to cast admiring looks at Willa. The black dress and her vivid blue eyes produced a lovely effect as she sat across from Charles, a swath of pink tablecloth between them. Napkins in the wine goblets resembled pink flowers.
"I'm out of place here —" he began.
"Nonsense. You're the handsomest chap in sight. No more begging for compliments, if you please."
He started to protest and saw she was teasing. The waiter delivered leatherbound menus. Charles blanched when he opened the one for wine.
"It's in French. I think it's French."
"It is. Shall I order for us?"
"You'd better. Do they serve any grits or corn bread?"
It made her giggle, as he'd intended. He began to enjoy himself. She said, "I doubt it. The veal medallions are always fine. And escargots first, I think." Charles examined his silver to conceal his ignorance about the nature of escargots.
"Do you like red wine?" she asked. "They have a Bordeaux from the little village of Pomerol, and it's reasonable."
"Fine." The waiter retired. "You know a lot about food and wine."
"Actors spend a great deal of time in hotels. Ask me to plant a garden or catch a fish, I'd be helpless." Her smile put him wonderfully at ease. He warned himself to be careful, remembering Gus and how it felt when he lost her.
"So you're ready to leave for the Indian Territory. Perhaps this year it will be peaceful out there." He pulled a cigar halfway out of his pocket; put it back. "No, go ahead. I don't mind cigars."
He lit it, then said, "You keep up on the Indians?"
He meant it facetiously. Her reply, "Oh, yes," was serious. "In New York I belonged to a group called the Indian Friendship Society. We circulated memorials to be sent to Congress asking the government to repudiate the massacre at Sand Creek. You're familiar with that?" He said he was. "Well, the blame for it lies entirely with the white man. We steal land belonging to the Indians, then slaughter them if they resist or object. The white man's relationship with the native tribes is a shameful history of deceit, injustice, broken promises, violated treaties, and unspeakable cruelty."
Charles found himself in awe of her crusader's passion. "My partner would agree with you," he said. "He likes the Southern Cheyennes. Most of them, anyway." "And you?"
"I've only had experience with a few Comanches, in Texas — all of them mad enough to shoot at me."
"I know it's impossible to stop westward expansion. But it mustn't, come at the price of extermination of the original inhabitants of this country. Thank heaven there are signs of a movement toward peace. That bloodthirsty General Dodge wanted to unleash a thousand men to kill any Indians found along the Santa Fe wagon road, but he was blocked. And yesterday I read in the Missouri Gazette that Colonel Jesse Leavenworth, the Indian agent, has managed to get a truce with some of the Indians he oversees through his Upper Arkansas Agency. Do you realize what that means?"
She leaned forward, vivid color in her cheeks. "It means that William Bent and Kit Carson and Senator Doolittle of Wisconsin have a real chance to arrange a peace conference soon. Perhaps for once we'll have a treaty both sides will honor."
The waiter brought small silver forks and curious shell-like things arranged in a semicircle on each plate. Charles lifted the little fork, baffled.
"Escargots," she said. "Snails."
He coughed and groped for his cigar, resting in a crystal dish. Several deep puffs pulled him through his first encounter with snails that were eaten rather than observed in a motionless journey across a rock or a leaf.
After the waiter decanted the rich, heavy Pomerol, and Charles drank some, conversation became easier. He told Willa something of his war experiences, and of his closest friend, Billy Hazard, whom he'd rescued from Libby Prison. He described the officer named Bent who held an inexplicable grudge against both his family and Billy's. "He disappeared in the war. A casualty, I suppose. I can't say I'm sorry."
More wine, then the veal, appealingly garnished with bright yellow rounds of squash and large whole pea pods. He spoke of other matters with obvious emotion. He described his abiding love for Mont Royal — burned, but rebuilding — and his affection for his cousin Orry, who'd saved him from self-destruction.
Presently he said, "What about you? Is this your home?"
She concentrated on lifting a bit of veal with the fork in her left hand, something Charles had seen only among people of great refinement. "No. I answered an appeal from Sam Trump to help him put his theater on a profitable basis. He's an old friend of my father. Whose name was not Parker, by the way. It was Potts." She crossed her eyes and made a face, and he laughed.
They talked on, Charles forgetting how bizarre his slicked-down hair must look, or how ill at ease he felt in the frayed cutaway. The wine slipped down quickly, muting the candlelight, enhancing her prettiness. A violinist and cellist, solemn whiskered fellows in white ties and tail coats, began to play semi-classical airs from seats in a corner.
"What brought you to St. Louis as a trader, Charles?"
"Actually —" Did he dare trust her? He searched her blue eyes. Yes. "I've never gone out before. I graduated from West Point, you see. After the war I went back in the Army, but someone at Jefferson Barracks — a man who went to the Academy when I did — recognized me. They booted me out. Literally. Well, I needed a way to support my son —"
She dropped her spoon. It hit the edge of her dish of blueberries in cream and fell to the floor. Charles saw her anger. "Oh, no, wait." Without a thought, he shot his hand over to clasp hers. "I didn't trick you. I do have a son, eight months old. His mother died in Virginia when he was born."
"Oh. I'm truly sorry." Relaxed again, she picked up the new spoon the waiter had silently laid beside her gold-rimmed dish. With her eyes on the dessert, she murmured, "We both have a past out of the ordinary, it would seem."
He wondered about the undertone of pain in those words. A man tipped the musicians to play "Lorena." Charles and Willa exchanged looks, letting the sweet sad music speak for them.
The night smelled of wood smoke and approaching autumn. Willa suggested they walk on the levee, and they linked arms. This time she wasn't quite so careful; the silken thrust of her bosom rested easily, moved lightly against his sleeve. He experienced a strong physical reaction.
They turned right on the levee, a wide esplanade between the piers and a row of wood arid stone warehouses and commercial buildings. A sickle moon hid the dirt and litter, and softened the silhouettes of great crates and casks piled up awaiting shipment. A cargo watchman resting on a keg took his cob pipe from his mouth. "Evening." His left hand remained on his shotgun.
"It's been a delicious evening," Willa said, sighing. "Since you already know I'm forward, I might as well tell you that I'd love to repeat it."