Jim Meredith had come to give her a sedative. Her father had come in several times and had stood at the foot of her bed, gazing with increasing concern at her glazed eyes. Tina Lafayette had held her hand and talked softly and comfortingly but had received no replies. Augusta had sunk into a world of silence, consumed by her own thoughts, oblivious of those around her. When the bride-to-be had failed to put in an appearance at the lavish reception, Charles Lafayette had announced smoothly, but sadly, that Dr Meredith was attending her and that she was suffering from a fierce flu virus and would be incapacitated for several days: possibly two weeks or maybe three.
‘I’m sorry, Bradley. She’s not well enough to see anyone,’ Charles Lafayette had said awkwardly when Bradley had arrived the next morning.
Bradley had stared at him, his jaw muscles tensing. For once he had not argued with his future father-in-law. He had simply swung on his heel and strode towards his car, intent, apparently, on speaking with Dr Meredith and discovering the true situation for himself.
Charles Lafayette breathed a sigh of relief, remembering those agonizing moments. He had no desire for Bradley to see Augusta in her present condition. If Bradley saw her, he might think twice about going ahead with the wedding. Augusta’s passivity was far more disquieting than hysteria would have been.
He paced his study restlessly. When she had fainted on her birthday she had recovered within minutes: bouncy and vivacious as ever. When she had fainted at Laetitia Clay’s funeral she had taken longer to return to her normal self, but she had done so – eventually. This time he was filled with grim foreboding. It was as if his Augusta, the little girl he loved so deeply, had slipped away from him and left a stranger in her place. A stranger whose mind was closed to him. Even Jim Meredith had been disconcerted and had promised to contact a psychiatrist friend of his. A man who was a specialist in cases of emotional disturbance. He slammed his fist hard on his desk. Damn it. She couldn’t be like her grandmother. She couldn’t.
Besides, his mother’s death had been an accident. Not suicide. He had never believed what the gossips had believed: what the family had believed. His mother had been young; happy; in love. Why should she have waded deep into the stagnant waters of the bayous and extinguished her own life? It was a question he had asked himself a hundred times.
Doubt, insiduous and never quite stilled, gripped him. Perhaps his mother had been sick. There had been other rumours down the years. Rumours about Leila Jefferson. And Leila and his mother had been inseparable.
He clenched his fists. There was nothing wrong with Augusta. Nothing abnormal about his little girl. Why, then, was she behaving so strangely? Goddammit. She had wanted to marry Bradley. She had everything a girl could desire. What, in heaven’s name, was the matter with her?
At the time, Charles had thought that what he had told the guests at the reception would give plenty of leeway for Augusta’s recovery. Now he was not so sure. Two weeks had already passed and Augusta was no nearer to being her laughing, vivacious self than she had been when she had regained consciousness in the vestry. It was as if an inner light had been quenched. She no longer glowed with life and health and vitality. She remained in her room, sitting for long, silent hours at her dressing table, gazing into the oval mirror as if therein lay the answer to her misery. Jim Meredith had come again, Dr Wallace, a young, slick-suited New Yorker in his wake. Charles had regarded the man distrustfully, but Jim Meredith had promised that no one would know that they had resorted to psychiatry. Not even Bradley.
Since then the unnervingly young Dr Wallace had moved into St Michel, and now spent the greater part of each day with Gussie. Apart from Charles and Jim Meredith, only Tina Lafayette knew of his presence. Fortunately, Bradley, respecting Jim Meredith’s judgment, had promised not to force his presence on Augusta until she was willing, of her own accord, to see him. He had anticipated a wait of days – not weeks. He had visited the house two, three times a day and every time he left his sense of disquiet grew. Something terrible had happened to Gussie and no one would tell him what it was.
Dr Wallace emerged from Gussie’s room and gravely told Jim Meredith that in his opinion Augusta Lafayette had a deep-seated father fixation: that her emotional trauma was caused by her fear of losing her father’s love once she became a wife as well as a daughter.
Jim Meredith frowned and kept his thoughts to himself. In his opinion the answer was not so simple, but Wallace was the expert. He himself was only a family practitioner, accustomed to healing day-to-day infirmities – not delving into the recesses of sick minds. Nevertheless, he went to sit with Augusta himself.
‘How are you feeling this morning. Augusta?’
She was sitting at her dressing table, a satin, long-sleeved robe over her négligé. At his query she turned her head away and stared through the open window and out over the lawns and trees of St Michel.
‘Bradley was here about an hour ago. He’s coming back this afternoon. He wants to see you very badly, Augusta.’
There was no reply.
‘It’s been three weeks, Augusta,’ he said carefully, convinced that she had no concept of how time had passed since she had collapsed. ‘Leo has returned to Vancouver. Great Aunt Belle has finally returned home, much to your father’s relief. Bradley has come every day, several times a day, to see you. Your father is refusing him permission until he feels you are regaining your strength and expressing a desire to see himyourself. How about it, Augusta? He’s a fine young man.’
He waited. It was as if she had not heard him. Then she turned her head slowly and his heart twisted at the pain in her violet-dark eyes.
‘I don’t want to see Bradley, Dr Meredith. I don’t want to hurt him any further.’ Her voice was low, drained of feeling. The voice of someone for whom there is no option.
Jim Meredith leaned forward and took her unprotesting hands in his.
‘Why, Augusta? Why?’
‘Because I can’t marry him,’ she said, as simply as if she were talking to a child. ‘I can never marry him.’
‘Don’t you love him?’ He tried to keep the eagerness from his voice. This was the first time she had spoken at any length since her collapse. Perhaps at last he would know the truth.
A shadow of a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth and vanished, leaving an expression of unspeakable sadness.
‘Yes. I love him. But I can’t marry him. Not ever.’
‘But why?’ Jim Meredith’s voice throbbed with urgency. Was Dr Wallace correct? Did Augusta have a father fixation that they were unaware of?
She turned away from him, staring sightlessly into the dressing-table mirror.
‘I gave my word to someone else,’ she said, and large tears glittered in the depths of her eyes. ‘I can never be free of that vow. Never.’
Jim Meredith felt relief swamp him. So much for psychiatry. Augusta had been unfaithful to Bradley and was now consumed with regret and guilt.
‘Only a wedding vow is binding,’ he said compassionately. ‘No other vow can hold you.’
A smile, wordly-wise, strangely knowing on so young a face, tinged her lips. ‘The vow I took has bound me more firmly than any wedding vow, Dr Meredith. Wedding vows are only until death.’
‘I don’t understand you, Augusta. What vow did you make?’
She tilted her head slightly on one side, her hair skimming her waist, her eyes suddenly puzzled.
‘I didn’t promise anything …’
‘Then what did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ Staring into the glass she began go laugh softly, mirthlessly. ‘Nothing at all. I just willed him and now he won’t let me be free. Not ever.’
Filled with disquiet, Jim Meredith rose to his feet and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders.
‘Who did you will, Augusta? Who is it you believe has a hold over you?’
Her disconcerting laughter ceased. Through the glass her eyes met his. Intelligent and sane, deadly sure.
‘Beauregard Clay,’ she said and began to weep.
Dr Wallace did not accept Dr Meredith’s opinion that Augusta’s distress was caused by her infatuation with the dead Beau Clay. Father and daughter had lived together at St Michel for fifteen years. The result was a relationship with incestuous overtones.
Jim Meredith called him a fool and told Charles that he had made a mistake in asking for Dr Wallace’s opinion. Charles Lafayette paid Dr Wallace lavishly and saw him off the premises within the hour.
Jim Meredith nursed a brandy and thought hard. It would serve no good purpose to tell Charles what Augusta had told him. Charles would find such a reason for his daughter’s behaviour totally unacceptable and would probably not even believe it. It was a confidence he must keep: for the time being. He would treat Augusta himself; visit her daily; gain her trust. Time. With time, everything would be resolved.
Bradley Hampton had run out of time.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he stormed at Charles Lafayette. ‘But I’m going to see Gussie.’
Charles Lafayette protested in vain. Jim Meredith laid a restraining hand on his arm and said quietly
‘I think Bradley should see Augusta.’
Reluctantly Charles Lafayette stood by as Bradley strode towards the staircase, taking the crimson-carpeted stairs two at a time.
‘He won’t marry her now, Jim. A Hampton and a Lafayette. It would have been such a good marriage.’
‘It still may be, Charles. He loves her and she loves him.’
‘Then what in hell’s name is wrong?’ Charles asked tormentedly. ‘What has happened to Augusta?’
Jim Meredith didn’t answer him because he didn’t know. Or at least not enough. He intended speaking to the Alexanders’daughter. She was a level-headed girl and close to Augusta. She had been bridesmaid at the hastily terminated wedding ceremony. He would ask her why Augusta should feel bound to a man dead for many months and who, to his knowledge, had never paid her the slightest attention.
‘Gussie! I was beginning to think you were dead and they were scared to tell me.’ Bradley crossed the room in swift strides and folded her in his arms. She trembled, but no arms circled his neck and when he tried to kiss her she averted her head.
‘What’s the matter, Gussie? There’s nothing so bad you can’t tell me.’
She tried to move away from him but he refused to let her go.
‘Gussie!’ His voice was naked with desire and love. ‘What is it that troubles you? Please tell me.’
‘I can’t.’ Sobs rose in her throat.
His hold tightened. ‘It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It won’t alter the way I love you. Do you understand that, Gussie?’ He hooked a finger under her chin and stared challengingly down at her. ‘I love you, Gussie. Nothing you can say or do will alter that.’
She gave a little sound full of pain and anguish.
‘I want to marry you and take you away from New Orleans. At least for a little while. We could go to Europe. Anywhere. Father Keane will marry us right here, at St Michel, this afternoon. Your father and Dr Meredith will serve as witnesses.’
‘No!’ She twisted free of his hold. ‘No! I can’t marry you, Bradley. Not ever!’
‘Why?’ His eyes were frenzied.
She was gasping for breath, the blood beating wildly in her ears. ‘Because I don’t love you!’ she lied.
The silence was terrible. It yawned between them like a chasm that could not be bridged. His eyes held hers, unbelieving at first, then masked with pain. Very slowly he turned on his heel and left the room, the door swinging open behind him.
She swayed on her feet, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. He was going. He would never come to St Michel again. Never hold her; never tease her; never love her. With a cry of anguish she ran to the door and the landing beyond. He was in the hall, striding, unspeaking, past her father and Jim Meredith. Striding towards the door and his car.
‘Bradley!’ His name screamed in her head, but could find no utterance. ‘Bradley!’
The door slammed in his wake.
‘Bradley!’
This time her fevered cry filled the house. Her father and Jim Meredith were racing up the stairs towards her but Bradley had gone. She had set him free. Free, as she herself would never be.
‘Augusta, for God’s sake.’ Her father’s hands seized her shoulders.
Obediently she allowed herself to be propelled into her room. Now was the waiting time. Now surely he would come to her.
There was no longer any talk of when the Hampton/Lafayette wedding would take place. Callers, refused entry time and time again at St Michel, ceased to come. The porch swing gathered dust; the pool was covered. Mae Jefferson and Austin Merriweather married and moved to Atlanta. Augusta had been invited to the wedding, but the letter declining the invitation had been in Charles’s handwriting.
Still, Beau didn’t come. It was as if, sure of her fidelity, he no longer needed to remind her of his presence. Through long sleepless nights Gussie waited in vain for his voice; for his presence. Her cheeks became hollow: her eyes blue-shadowed.
Bradley Hampton took Eden Alexander out with increasing regularity, and there were rumours that a wedding was afoot, but nothing came of it, and Eden continued her relationship with Dean.
Charles Lafayette resigned his directorships and was no longer seen at civic functions. Augusta was never seen at all. Rumour had it that she had gone to London: to Paris: to Rome. No one knew, and the less they knew the more they talked.
As the months passed, gossip faded, only to be renewed when the preparations for another Mardi Gras began. After all, Augusta Lafayette had been a queen of Mardi Gras. Now she was a recluse. Seen by no one but her father and by the Lafayette servants, who steadfastly remained silent on the subject.
Eden wrote, telephoned and called in person at St Michel, all to no avail. In despair she wrote to Mae, expressing fears she dare not utter. The letter from Mae was terse. No. She did not share Eden’s fears. Midsummer’s Eve had been a prank. She was surprised that Eden even remembered it.
Eden screwed up the letter and threw it away. She knew that Mae was lying, and at last decided to pay a visit to Tina Lafayette.
They sat in the grape-hung conservatory on sun-loungers and as Eden spoke Tina threaded and rethreaded the fringe on her shawl through her fingers.
‘I have not visited St Michel for a long time,’ she said apologetically. ‘I really don’t know if my cousin and Augusta are in residence or if they’re away. Would you like a cocktail? A Hurricane? Nicky makes very good Hurricanes.’
A devastatingly handsome young man some fifteen years Tina Lafayette’s junior mixed drinks as obediently as a butler.
‘Bradley is still in love with Augusta,’ Eden said, silencing Tina as she began to talk about the new boutique that had opened near the square.
‘Oh!’ Tina Lafayette’s hands fluttered nervously. ‘I’d heard that … I thought perhaps … You and Bradley …’
‘No. He isn’t a monk. He dates a lot of girls. Too many. His dates with me are different. Purely platonic. I’m his link with Augusta: or rather, he’d like me to be his link with Augusta. The house is closed to him now – as it is to everyone.’
‘I think that’s a little exaggerated, Eden.’
‘When did you last see Gussie?’ Eden shot at her.
‘Why, I … Actually …’ Tina Lafayette’s hands tightened on her glass.
‘Exactly. I bet it’s so long ago you can’t even remember!’
‘They like their privacy. There was so much gossip …’
‘Hardly surprising under the circumstances,’ Eden said grimly to Tina, and then to herself, as if Tina Lafayette wasn’t there: ‘What the hell am I going to do? There must be something. It isn’t possible. It just isn’t possible …’
Tina Lafayette stared at her with frightened eyes and did not deter her as she rose to her feet, her drink untouched, leaving without even saying goodbye.
The nicest people had begun to behave strangely, Tina reflected. Judge Clay was a broken man and even to her it seemed odd that his collapse should come after the intended Hampton/Lafayette wedding, and not before. Until then he had managed to keep up an outward appearance but now he was scarcely recognizable. He shambled about the Clay mansion, murmuring his dead son’s name: speaking to him as if he were in the same room. She shivered. Beau’s body had never been found. Never would be found now.
Gussie, who should have been the belle of the city, was hiding away, refusing to see even the cousin of whom she had always been so fond. Charles had become a withdrawn wraith, an anguished figure who would speak to no one. This time last year, all had been happy anticipation. There had been Gussie’s birthday party and their whirlwind trip to Europe for dresses. There had been the happy preparations for Gussie’s wedding. Now there was nothing but vile gossip and fevered speculation.
‘Another drink, Nicky, darling,’ she whispered, feeling suddenly old. ‘A double, please.’
Eden drove with unusual slowness away from Tina Lafayette’s sprawling home. Lives were being destroyed and it seemed impossible that the cause could have been a giggling, thoughtless, girlish game. Without intending to, she drove to the old, overgrown graveyard in the French Quarter. She turned her jacket collar up, dug her hands deep in her pockets and wandered between the cold stone of ancient family mausoleums.
The single rose before the Clay tomb was fresh, the soft petals not even beginning to brown or wither. Eden knew full well whose hand had placed it there. She stood for a long time, staring at the long-stemmed rose as the breeze ruffled the lush petals. She would write to Mae again. She would not give up. Not yet.
‘A heart attack,’ Jim Meredith said bleakly to Tina Lafayette, who soon after disclosed to the New Orleans elite that her cousin had been ill for a long time and that Augusta had nursed him: hence, their seclusion.
No one was surprised. To a certain extent it helped to moderate the gossip. It was a reason readily believed, but not by Jim Meredith, who had signed the death certificate; and not by Mae Merriweather and Eden Alexander.
‘What will I do, Jim?’ Tina sobbed helplessly. ‘Who will look after Augusta?’
‘Augusta doesn’t need any looking after,’ Jim Meredith said. ‘She’s not mad, Tina. Not even halfway mad.’
‘Then why won’t she behave normally? Why does she stay there, day after day, refusing to see people?’
Jim Meredith sighed. ‘I don’t know, Tina. There was a time when I thought I did, but I guess I was wrong. Perhaps being a recluse is part of Augusta’s nature. Perhaps she was never meant to marry.’
‘Rubbish,’ Tina Lafayette said, stamping a small, expensively shod foot. ‘You know that isn’t so, Jim Meredith. Why, you’ve known Augusta since she was a baby. How can you say such things?’
‘Because I don’t know the real answer,’ Jim Meredith said bleakly.
She was dressed entirely in black, her sun-gold hair gleaming in a chignon and topped by a tiny pill-box hat and heavy veil. She looked incredibly beautiful and utterly vulnerable.
‘I don’t need a sedative,’ Augusta said to Jim Meredith on the morning of the funeral. ‘I loved him too much to want the pain of losing him eased.’
Leo Lafayette walked with her to the first of the waiting limousines, Tina Lafayette, leaning heavily on Jim Meredith’s arm, following close behind. Family members who had last been at St Michel on the occasion of the intended wedding came after, descending to the cars silently and in tears. An austere man to many people, Charles Lafayette had been a long distant patriarch to scores of Lafayettes and was sincerely mourned.
When the cortège reached Providence Memorial Park, Jim Meredith gave thanks to his Maker that Charles Lafayette was not to be buried in the St Louis Cemetry. Judge Clay, physically helped in and out of the Clay limousine by his remaining son, had insisted on attending the funeral. For his sake, if for no other, Jim was glad that the Lafayette burial place was not adjoining the desecrated family tomb.
His anxiety eased even more as the service progressed. Augusta’s face streamed with silent tears but her veil shielded her from the stares of the curious. She was conducting herself with admirable dignity and Jim felt proud of her. It would give the lie to all those who whispered she had lost her mind.
Through the carefully tended woodlands of the cemetery, a blue Thunderbird approached. Jim Meredith felt a slight constriction in his chest. Bradley Hampton. He had seen Mr and Mrs Hampton among the mourners and had felt relief at Bradley’s absence. He should have known that Bradley would not stay away.
Heads turned as Bradley made his way towards the large group of mourners to stand, towering and broad-shouldered, beside his parents, his burning gaze focused on where Augusta stood, her veil lifting gently in the breeze, her slender figure forlorn and alone.
Why had he come? Oh God, why? Augusta’s nails dug deep into her palms. ‘Because he loves you,’ she told herself. ‘He still loves you.’ The tears that wet her cheeks were now no longer solely for her father, but also for herself. He looked so handsome; so comforting; so safe. If only she could throw herself into his strong arms. Have him tell her he would take care of her. Love her. If only …
The service was over. Leo was cutting short those who were approaching Gussie and offering her their condolences. Bradley remained where he stood, holding her with his eyes.
Gussie tried not to look in his direction. How long had it been? Three months? Six months? More? Perhaps he was married! Terrified eyes flew to his hand. Strong and olive-toned and ringless. What right did she have to be jealous? She had told him she did not love him. She had done it so that he could love elsewhere. Oh, Jesus God, why did it still hurt so much?
‘This way, Augusta.’ It was Leo, gentle and dependable.
‘I’m sorry,’ she wept as she stepped into the rear of the limousine. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry …’
Those who heard thought the despairing words were for her father. Jim Meredith, staring from her to the tortured figure of Bradley Hampton, knew differently. Sighing deeply, he followed Tina into her limousine. It all would have been so much easier if Gussie had been married to Bradley, and now, without Charles, Gussie would be more cut off than ever. There would be money in plenty. In theory, the world was at Gussie’s feet. He sighed again. But they had already been through all the arguments, and he knew she would fight tooth and nail rather than leave the seclusion of her home. He would call in every day. There was nothing more he could do.
She watched from her bedroom window as Jim Meredith’s Continental eased its way down the oak-lined drive. In the aftermath of the funeral Augusta had been pale and silent, but nothing in her behaviour had caused speculation among her array of relatives. Now they were gone and she was alone. Alone. The word sent a cold shiver down her spine. She had never been destined to live alone. She needed to love and be loved. The need for Bradley was like a physical pain. She could go to him today. Now. He wouldn’t turn her away. She knew he wouldn’t.
‘Augusta, Augusta.’
She gasped and pressed her hands against her eyes to shut out the invidious whisper. It was her imagination. It had to be. Beau’s voice had not tormented her for weeks, for months.
She tried to recapture the decisiveness of a minute before. She had simply to walk from the room, descend the stairs, summon the chauffeur …
‘Augusta!’
Again she pressed the palms of her hands against her ears, willing herself to move to the door. In ten minutes she could be at the Hampton estate. Bradley would be there. He would be tense, not knowing the purpose of her visit. She would tell him she was sorry; that she loved him and wanted to marry him; that she had told a lie because …
‘AUGUSTA!’
She was at the door, looking down the richly carpeted stairs that wound down to the marble-floored hall. Through the glass panels of the door she could see the blurred outline of someone waiting. Fifty yards. Only fifty yards …
‘You’re mine! Mine!’ The voice was no whisper now it was a frenzied, jealous shout.
‘No!’ she shouted back into space. ‘You’re dead and I’m alive!’
Like breaking an invisible barrier, she hurled herself from the room and grasped the gleaming rosewood banisters. ‘I’m going to Bradley!’
‘Forever,’ Beau’s voice said menacingly, and his shadow fell across her, pinning her back against the banisters. ‘You bound me to you forever, Augusta.’
She could feel the weight of his body, feel his breath on her cheek. She was being pushed backwards. The banister rail dug deep into her spine; her hands slid helplessly along the smooth wood.
‘You made me love you forever, Augusta. You can’t leave me now for another man. You’re mine. Mine …’
‘Landsakes, Miss Augusta! You’re going to fall to your death,’ Allie shrieked, rushing up the stairs and grabbing her. ‘What you think you’re doing? Leaning back over the banisters that way?’
Gussie gazed at her dazedly. They were alone. Where had Beau gone? Surely he’d been here?
‘Beau,’ she said, as Allie ushered her back into her bedroom. ‘Beau? Where are you? Where have you gone?’
‘There ain’t no one here,’ Allie said sternly, sitting her down on her bed, removing her shoes, swinging her legs up and under the coolness of the sheets. ‘You need to sleep, Miss Augusta. That’s what you need.’ She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. ‘I don’t want no more such nonsense, Miss Augusta. You’ve no right to scare folks so.’
The door closed. Augusta stared up at the ceiling. Where had she been going? Beau had been jealous. So jealous that he had been going to come for her. Her head throbbed. Who could Beau possibly be jealous of? She’d never loved anyone but him. Except Bradley. She tried to remember Bradley’s face but could not. It was swamped by Beau’s hard, glittering eyes.
‘Mine,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Forever, Augusta. Forever …’
She rose at dawn and stepped like a sleep-walker into the dew-damp air. She picked a large, milk-white magnolia and then stood trancelike until the limousine slid to a halt at her side.
Augusta smiled at Horatio, the quiet, well-spoken man who had been her father’s chauffeur for twenty years, and slid into the rear of the car. Horatio nodded good morning and kept his thoughts to himself. He had hoped Mr Lafayette’s death would put an end to Miss Augusta’s dawn trips to the St Louis Cemetery.
Yesterday’s flower lay dying on the tangled grass. She replaced it with the lush magnolia.
‘Forever,’ she said, shivering in the early morning air. ‘Forever, Beau. Just as I promised.’
‘Miss Eden for you, Miss Augusta,’ Allie said as the spring sunshine warmed the day. ‘She’s out on the back porch. ‘Shall I bring you some milkshakes?’
‘Yes and tell her we’re coming, Allie.’
Allie stared at her. Miss Augusta was on her own. She hurried from the room. Things had been bad before Mr Lafayette had died, but now they were a hundred times worse, Miss Augusta continually talking to herself, singing late at night and into the early hours of morning; soft, coaxing singing as if she was trying to lure someone to her room. Servants who had been with the Lafayettes for years bore it stoically but the little girl from Atlanta who had come to help in the kitchen had soon fled, saying that the mistress was spooked.
The girl had received a clip around the ears from Sabina Royal, the Lafayette cook, but silently many of the staff agreed with her. There was no pleasure left in being employed at St Michel, and Miss Augusta certainly didn’t behave as if she was right in her head. When Horatio had at last told them where Miss Augusta insisted on being taken every morning, the unease had deepened. The Lafayette family mausoleum was not in St Louis Cemetery. Augusta had no reason to go visiting there. Not unless …
Allie had told them not to be fools. Of course Miss Augusta wasn’t spooked. She was just disturbed. She would be all right again: eventually.
‘Hi,’ Eden said, disguising her dismay at the sight of Gussie’s hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes. ‘How’s things?’
‘Fine.’ Gussie sat next to Eden on the faded cushions of the porch swing as Allie came out with the drinks. Eden felt a surge of relief. This was more like old times. At least Gussie had not refused to see her.
‘How are you finding it? Living here by yourself?’ Eden asked when Allie had gone.
‘Oh, I’m not by myself,’ Gussie said composedly.
‘Is Tina staying with you?’
‘No.’
‘Then who is?’
‘Beau Clay,’ Gussie said, swinging rhythmically. ‘I told you he was here last time you came but you didn’t believe me.’
Eden stared at her with horrified eyes. ‘Beau Clay is dead, Gussie.’
‘I know. You said that before, too. He’s dead, but his being dead doesn’t make any difference – not to Beau. I’ve bound him to me forever.’ She leaned towards Eden, her eyes feverish. ‘And he’s going to come for me, Eden. Soon. Today, Tomorrow. Soon!’
Eden felt as if she would never breathe again. ‘Bradley,’ she croaked at last, ‘what about Bradley? He still loves you, Gussie.’
Desolation swept Gussie’s face. ‘Does he?’
For a hair’s-breadth of time Eden thought she had broken the sickness of Gussie’s mind and then Gussie said sadly, ‘But I promised Beau first. I told him I would love him and want him forever. Vows have to be kept, Eden. Bradley said so.’
‘I’m going to see Mae’s grandmother,’ Eden said shakily, rising to her feet. ‘She started all this, she’ll know what to do.’
‘It’s too late, Eden,’ Gussie said, her eyes brilliant with fear. ‘Beau won’t wait any longer for me. He’s going to come for me! I know he is!’
‘Jesus and Mary,’ Eden whispered. ‘You’ve got to do something, Gussie. Quickly!’
‘Too late,’ Gussie said again and leaned back against the cushions, the fire dying from her eyes. ‘It’s too late, Eden.’
Eden ran for her car and turned the ignition with trembling fingers. Something had to be done immediately or Gussie would be put in a State mental institution. She swerved out of the driveway, just missing an oncoming car. She had never met Leila Jefferson, though she had heard the rumours. She crashed a set of lights. But those rumours were nothing compared to those that would soon be circulating about Gussie. She skidded into the broad drive of the Jefferson home. Should she have gone for Bradley first? Told Bradley what had happened on that distant Midsummer’s Eve? She slammed the car door behind her. No. Bradley was in love with Gussie. He could not be expected to accept that her mental derangement was due to an obsession with another man. Once the spectre of Beau Clay had been erased, Gussie would return to normal and her relationship with Bradley would take care of itself.
‘You want to see my mother-in-law, Eden?’ Mrs Jefferson asked incredulously. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
Eden forced a brilliant smile. ‘I’m doing some research on Old New Orleans and I thought Mrs Jefferson Sr could help me out. Mae said she knew a hundred and one stories about the beginning of the city.’
‘Yes.’ Mae’s mother was unenthusiastic. She knew some of the stories her mother-in-law told and didn’t approve of them. ‘I’m sure she would have loved to have helped you, Eden, but I’m afraid she isn’t here. She doesn’t live with us: not that we haven’t asked her, of course –’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, I’d love to go see her. Only I don’t know where the old Jefferson place is …’ she said disarmingly.
Mrs Jefferson had no intention of telling her. It was a decrepit, near-derelict place and a disgrace to the family. The thought of anyone visiting there gave her vapours.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Eden,’ she said firmly. ‘My mother-in-law receives no visitors. It’s been very nice seeing you but now I must ask you to excuse me. The secretary of the Rose Club has just called and …’
Eden made a speedy exit. There was no point in staying. She drove to the nearest diner and ordered a hamburger and coke. Then she phoned Desirée.
‘The Jefferson place? Why do you want to know?’ The edge of permanent hysteria in Desirée’s voice heightened.
‘To hell with why I want to know,’ Eden snapped ‘Where is it?’
‘Down-near the Gulf; deep in the bayous.’
‘But where?’ Eden demanded, wishing she could shake Desirée by her silly shoulders.
‘I don’t know where!’ Desirée said, her voice rising alarmingly. ‘What ever do you –’
Eden slammed the phone down. She ate her hamburger without tasting it and then rang the Shreve house, the Ross’s house, the Lafittes and the Delatours. No one could give an accurate address for the old Jefferson plantation. No one but the Jeffersons had ever been there. Eden swore under her breath and rang Mae in Atlanta.
‘But why?’ Mae asked nervously.
‘Because Gussie is losing her mind,’ Eden yelled brutally. ‘The only person capable of breaking her delusion is your grandmother.’
There was a long silence and the Mae said tremulously, ‘What if it isn’t a delusion, Eden?’
Eden’s voice lost its usual authoritativeness. ‘Of course it’s a delusion.’
‘I don’t believe it’s a delusion,’ Mae sobbed. ‘I believe it’s the truth,’ and she slammed the phone down, and no matter how many times Eden rang again, refused to answer it.
Eden crossed the Mississippi on the Greater New Orleans Bridge and headed west. Mae had said that the original Jefferson home was near Sulphur amongst the swamplands in the vicinity of Calcasieu Lake. Once in the area she would be able to find someone to direct her. Paying little heed to the speed limit she pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator and sped along the West Bank Expressway, her brow furrowed.
‘You see, my love, I told her,’ Gussie said, pushing the swing into motion with her foot, oblivious of the afternoon’s passing. ‘Why do you tease me? Why do you make me afraid?’
Allie put the empty milkshake glasses on a tray, saying unsteadily, ‘Who are you talking to, Miss Augusta? There ain’t nobody there.’
‘Beau is here,’ Gussie said, twisting a long strand of golden hair around her finger.
The glasses rattled on the tray. ‘Beau who, Miss Augusta?’
‘Beau Clay,’ Augusta said. ‘He’s always here. He likes it here, Allie. He likes the garden and the trees. He likes to stand beneath the branches and watch.’ Her eyes darkened introspectively. ‘Soon he will come inside, Allie. Soon he will not be content to stay in the garden. He will come inside and take me away.’
‘Lordy, Lordy, it’s time someone took her away,’ Sabina said, removing her apron, the fat on her upper arms quivering. ‘I ain’t staying here another day. That girl ain’t right in the head and there ain’t no one can tell me that she is.’ She rammed a hat on to her head. ‘Heaven help her, that’s all I say.’
‘Are you going as well?’ Allie asked fearfully as Louis entered the kitchen, his jacket and waistcoat replaced by a sweater, a suitcase in his hand.
‘I’m afraid so. She talked to him all through lunch, just as if he were there. I can’t take that. No matter how good the wages.’
‘But there’s going to be nobody left,’ Allie wailed.
‘There’s Horatio,’ Sabina said, throwing her belongings into a basket, ‘… and there’s Beau Clay!’
Allie shrieked and buried her head in her hands, sobbing convulsively. ‘Miss Augusta won’t mind if you leave,’ Louis said kindly, ‘She won’t even notice, Allie.’
Allie raised a tear-stained face. ‘I can’t leave her. Not now. She’s ill.’
‘She’s spooked,’ Sabina said. ‘If you’d a mite of sense you’d get yourself out of here – right now.’
Allie shook her head dumbly. She would stay. Horatio would look after her.
Gussie was uninterested in the exodus of St Michel’s staff when Allie told her. She didn’t want to eat anyway. Dusk fell and a breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, lifting the lightness of the mosquito netting that hung against the side of the window as she sat before her mirror, brushing her hair and staring into the glass, willing him to appear.
‘Will it be soon, my love?’ she asked. ‘Will it be tonight?’
She was wearing the white silk dress her father had been so fond of. It was simple and unsophisticated. Not the sort of dress she would have worn to go out with Beau.
She crossed to the wardrobe and opened the door, running her hand along racks of dresses.
‘Which dress should I wear?’
Her hand was invisibly stilled. Beneath her fingers was the rose-pink gown she had worn on the night of his death. A little sigh escaped from her lips. Tonight she would be ready for him. Tonight she would have a lover. Tonight she would be normal again.
With great care she bathed and perfumed her body and stepped into the softness of the ankle-length gown. The colour warmed and flattered her cheeks. She set the lamp near the window and opened her bedroom door. Then she sat on the dressing table stool and waited, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap like an innocent Madonna.
Allie approached the room nervously, the glass of warm milk she carried rattling on the small tray. Miss Augusta’s aunt had instructed that she was to make sure Miss Augusta drank her milk and took her sleeping tablets every night. The door was ajar. There was a stillness about the house that was unnerving.
‘Miss Augusta? Are you all right?’
Hesitantly Allie entered the room.
‘Augusta!’ The voice sighed past her, filling the room. ‘Augusta! Augusta!’
The milk and the tray crashed to the floor. Augusta leapt to her feet and imprisoned the fleeing Allie by the wrists.
‘No! Allie, wait! Watch! He’s coming! Don’t drive him away!’
Sheer terror rooted Allie to the spot. The room was silent again. From outside came the sound of the night wind soughing through the tops of the trees and then, unmistakeably, there came the faint sound of footsteps on the gravel of the drive.
Allie stifled a scream as Augusta’s finger dug deep into her flesh. ‘Did you hear that, Allie? He’s coming for me! It’s nearly over!’
‘Holy Mary,’ Allie moaned, her face ashen.
‘He’s there! I know he’s there!’ Gussie turned to the open door, her eyes wild.
Eden roared down the avenue, the tyres screaming as she entered St Michel’s drive. It was nearly midnight and she had accomplished nothing. Everyone in Sulphur knew of Leila Jefferson. Everyone had heard of the Jefferson place, but no one could tell her how to get there. And without directions it would be difficult to explore the forest and marshlands in safety. Eden would drive to Atlanta and force Mae to return with her. They would see her grandmother together. The drive curved, the oaks thinned. At Gussie’s window a lamp burned, but the rest of the house was dark and silent, strangely forbidding. Her headlights flicked past the last of the trees and illuminated the porticoed entrance. A dark figure stood between the fluted pillars, his hand on the great, brass Georgian door-knocker.
The car swerved and bumped wildly on to grass. Bradley. What was Bradley doing at St Michel at near midnight and where was his car?
By the time she had regained control of the Cadillac, the doors of St Michel were wide open and a fleeing figure was hurling itself down the shallow stairs and towards her. She ran from the car.
‘What’s is it? What’s the matter, Allie?’
‘It’s Miss Augusta! She’s plum out of her mind!’
Eden seized the hysterical maid, shaking her violently. ‘What’s happened, Allie? Is Augusta safe?’
‘He was coming for her, Miss Eden! I heard him myself! I heard his voice in the room and then I heard his footsteps on the gravel and then …’
Eden released her and ran into the darkened hall and up the stairs towards Gussie’s room, her heart pounding, filled with an unspeakable fear.
‘Gussie!’ She halted in the doorway, panting for breath.
Gussie was sitting at her dressing table, her face a mixture of rage and pain and blinding relief.
‘What’s happened, Gussie?’
Gussie began to shake. ‘He came for me, Eden. He came for me but Allie was here and then you arrived.’
Eden pressed a hand against her palpitating heart. ‘Thank God,’ she gasped. ‘Listen Gussie. Allie has left. I’m staying at St Michel tonight. Tomorrow I’m going for Mae. There won’t be another night like this.’
‘But there has to be, Eden!’ Gussie cried fervently. ‘He must come for me! I can’t stand until I’m old waiting and waiting, not able to love anyone else. A prisoner …’
The bottle rattled against the rim of the glass as Eden poured a large brandy.
‘If he comes for you, Gussie, you’ll die.’
Gussie’s tragic eyes met hers. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Eden! I’m so afraid.’
‘So am I,’ Eden said truthfully, draining the brandy and pouring another for Gussie.
‘Then you believe me? You don’t think I’m mad?’
Eden sat unsteadily on the bed, remembering the dark, powerful figure so clearly held in her headlights.
‘No,’ she said, fighting wave after wave of overwhelming fear. ‘I don’t think you’re mad. I know he’s here. I saw him.’
Gussie rushed to the window, opening it wide. ‘Beau,’ she called vainly. ‘Beau! Beau!’
Eden seized her shoulders. ‘He mustn’t come in, Gussie.’
‘But he’s in torment. All because of me!’
Their eyes held, wide with terror. Then, like children, they clung together and wept.