Now, Charles thought. Cut it off. Leave it there. But he'd drunk too much of the rich red fruit of the village of Pomerol.
"So would I."
"Good. How long must I wait?"
"Till spring, I suppose. That's when Jackson comes back with the horses he gathers during the winter."
"All right." The black feather bobbed on her hat as she nodded. "Starting the first of next April, I'll leave a standing order at the ticket window. You'll have a box seat for any performance. When I see you in the audience, I'll know it's time for another supper."
"That's a bargain. You're very confident the theater will prosper."
"I'll make it prosper." She wasn't bragging, merely stating what she believed. "Like so many actors, Sam's a lovely, charming man, vanity and all. But he has a weakness for drink. If I can keep him away from it, and we can mount three or four new shows in repertory, a Moliere comedy, perhaps, and another of those melodramas Sam writes under the name Samuels — they're dreadful, really, but audiences love them, because he does know how to write stirring lines for himself — if we can accomplish that much by the time you return, we'll make it. Time then to think of adding actors for a touring troupe."
"For someone so young, you're very determined."
She watched the river. A great white side-wheeler churned upriver toward the Missouri, a necklace of amber lights gleaming along her cabin deck. From the channel drifted the slushing of her paddles and the bleating and squawking of sheep and chickens in crates stacked among new farm wagons lashed to the decks.
"Isn't she a pretty sight, Charles?"
"Yes, but the cabin lights make me feel lonesome."
"I know. I've felt that way ever since I was small and passed through strange towns with my father, wishing one of the lamps was lighted to welcome us — It's late," she said abruptly. "We should go back. I always check to be sure Sam's tucked in, and sober. We're running through Streets of Shame in the morning."
They walked in silence, comfortably, amid the night sounds of St. Louis: a man and woman quarreling; a banjo doing "Old Folks at Home"; street mongrels yapping and snarling over scraps. "That's a lovely tune," she said as they approached the theater. "What is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"The tune you were humming." She repeated a few notes.
"I didn't realize I was — it's just something I made up to remind me of home."
"That's something I've never had, a real home." They stopped by the stage door. She found a key in her silk reticule. "Sam sleeps in the office, and I have a pallet in the scene loft. It saves the cost of lodgings, though I hope I can move to better quarters if we're successful this season." She raised her head, waiting. Charles leaned down and gave her a brotherly kiss, barely touching one corner of her lips with his. Her left hand darted up to press the back of his neck a moment. They separated.
"Take proper care of yourself out West. I want to see you again in the spring."
"Willa —" He struggled; this had to be said. "You're forthright. Let me be the same. I live a solitary life, especially now that my son's mother is gone. I don't want —attachments."
Without emotion, she asked, "Does that include friendships?"
He was put off; could only repeat, "Attachments."
"Why don't you want attachments?"
"They hurt people. Something happens to one person, and afterward it's bad for the other. I don't mean to suggest that you and I — that is —" He cleared his throat. "I like you, Willa. We should leave it at that."
"Perfectly fine with me, Charles. Good night."
She unlocked the door and disappeared. He remained outside, gazing at the moon-washed building and congratulating himself on speaking at the right moment.
But if he'd done such a fine job of it, why was he so filled with delight, even a surprising yearning, as he thought of her face, the feel of her breast brushing his sleeve, things she'd said, the little graces that seemed to come so naturally to her?
Something was astir in him, something dangerous.
You'll have a lot of time for getting over that, he said to himself as he turned and strode off toward the hotel stable.
Inside Trump's Playhouse, Willa leaned against the street door. "Well," she said, "it was only a small hope."
She'd learned long ago that, in this world, hopes were easily and frequently dashed. She straightened up, touched her eyes briefly, then moved toward the band of light showing under the office door. The sound of Sam's snoring rescued her from the spell of the night and the tall Southerner, and the evening's foolish fancies.
Lesson XIII.
The Good Girl.
MOTHER, may I sew to-day?
Yes, my child; what do you wish to sew?
I wish to hem a frill for your cap. Is not this a new cap? I see it has no frill.
You may make a frill for me; I shall like to wear a frill that you have made...
Jane sat down upon her stool and sewed like a little lady. In a short time she said, Mother, I have done as far as you told me; will you look at it?
Yes, my child, it is well done; and if you take pains, as you have done today, you will soon sew well.
I wish to sew well, Mother, for then I can help you make caps and frocks, and I hope to be of some use to you.
McGuffey's Eclectic First and Second Readers 1836-1879
MADELINE'S JOURNAL
September, 1865. Cooper is pardoned.
This from Judith. She drove from Charleston with Marie-Louise to see to our welfare. I showed them the school-house, nearly complete, and introduced Prudence, who charmed them. Cooper will no longer come here because of the school. Judith says he insists that the only acceptable social order puts the colored forever beneath the white. He grants them freedom but not equality. It saddens Judith.
Knowing of our growing isolation, J. left certain Charleston papers describing the momentous work of the constitutional convention meeting at Columbia's Baptist church. The secession ordinance is overturned, the Thirteenth Amendment ratified. Provisional Governor Perry rebuked a minority who tried to amend the motion to abolish slavery by compensating former slaveowners and, forbidding Negroes from all but manual work. Perry: "No; it is gone — dead forever — never to be revived"
So two of Johnson's conditions are met The third, repudiation of the war debt, is not Perry: "It will be a reproach to South Carolina that her constitution is less republican than that of any other state."
Delegates recommended that James Orr be elected governor. A moderate man, opponent of the hotspurs and once Speaker of the House in Washington; I remember you respected him. While in the Confederate Senate he pleaded for a negotiated peace, predicting certain military defeat. None would listen.
Inflammatory language was struck from an appeal for clemency for Mr. Davis. Delegate Pickens was blunt: "It does not become us to vapor, swell and strut — bluster, threaten and swagger. Our state, and world opinion, bid us bind up Carolina's wounds and pour on the oil of peace."
Some hooted him down. Are we forever prisoners of old ways, old passions, old errors? ...
A strange parcel found at dusk at the entrance to our lane. Do not know how it came there. ...
The mule recognized the hunched black man and nuzzled him. Juba dragged his tired, arthritic body across the porch of the Dixie Store. In pain, he clutched the door frame. The two white men didn't acknowledge his presence for almost a minute.