Chapter Eighty-Two
It was spring again. The white dogwood and spirea, redbud and purple wisteria were blooming. As Thomas rode into town from Houston Avenue, he wondered if he would ever feel the way he had last year at this time when his daughter turned sixteen. Then, he had felt in the bloom of a full life with perhaps the exception of his marriage, but a man couldn’t have it all. But that had been a year ago, and then the darkness came with David’s death that had left the surviving members of his family feeling as though they’d been buried in the black core of the earth. They had emerged after a time, but none of them was the same as before.
It will just take more distance from that dark place, Thomas thought to himself. Then perhaps life would return as it had been, or at least a semblance of it. For now, he had little enthusiasm for things the way they were then: his marriage, civic obligations—even, sometimes, Somerset. He went through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in those occupations that had given him purpose and enjoyment. A carpetbagger was running for his spot on the city council and Thomas was of a mind to let him have it without a fight. Vernon had practically taken over the running of the plantation, and as for his marriage, he simply hadn’t the energy to stoke a flame from the dying embers any more than Priscilla seemed to want its warmth. It was still a surprise to him that she’d rebuffed his attempts to console her after David died. She’d turn away from him, and sometimes he’d catch her staring at him accusingly—as if she blamed him for their son’s death. After a while, Thomas attributed her coldness as coming from the sobering realization he’d endured for some time. They were losing their firstborn to manhood, and their daughter’s vital presence would be gone from the house when she married next year. Priscilla would be stuck with her dull husband and his aging mother.
This morning he was on his way to have luncheon with Armand. Another black cloud was descending. Henri DuMont was terminally ill, and Armand was going through the throes Thomas had suffered when his own father was facing death. Like then, when Armand had offered the solace of his friendship, Thomas was going to tender his.
First, he had business with the man running his cottonseed mill located the other side of Howbutker. Thomas had established the mill in 1879 when cottonseed was in high demand for every use from food fodder for animals to stuffing for mattresses. Cottonseed oil had overtaken flaxseed as the chief source of vegetable oil in the United States, and a market had opened up with the new invention of oleomargarine that called for the oil as a substitute for animal fat in its production. Today he was to confer with his foreman about expanding the mill’s capacity to meet its increasing avalanche of orders. Thomas felt he should be happy to discuss plans to enlarge this lucrative source of income, but the mood was not there.
Automatically when Thomas entered the town circle, he glanced down the spoke street leading to Jacqueline Chastain’s shop. He had never dared turn his horse in its direction for fear that a mere glimpse of her through the mullioned panes might give him cause to stop. It had been a year since he’d last seen the back of her dark head outlined in the eisenglassed window of his carriage. She had sent a note of condolence after David’s death, and he’d resisted the insane impulse to go to her and cry out his grief on her lovely bosom.
This morning he gave in to the urge to ride by her place of business. What the blazes did it matter, anyway? Perhaps he would not feel the same when he saw her a year later. He was not the same man. She might not be the same woman. Besides, he would not stop and go in. He would simply allow himself a brief look and keep riding.
Moments later, Thomas reined his horse before the shop. He stared in disbelief at the sign in the window: CLOSED. The display windows gaped vacant of the luring frippery of women’s hats, umbrellas, gloves, and purses exhibited there last spring. An air of desertion hung about the place as if it had been closed for some time. Thomas dismounted and tried the door. Locked. He peered inside at the empty shelves and bare counter. What in hell? He backed away from the entrance and cast his eyes upward to the second floor, relieved to see an array of perky geraniums in the window box. Someone was living there.
Thomas secured his horse at the hitching post and walked around to the side of the building, where a flight of stairs gave access to the apartment above. He listened and looked for signs of life, a movement behind a curtain, a domestic sound, but heard and saw nothing to indicate anyone was home. Something brushed his leg. A cat. It leaped to the bottom step and flew up the stairs to the landing, where it began to mew demandingly at the closed door. Thomas held his breath as it opened, and Jacqueline Chastain stood framed in the doorway.
Thomas called softly, “Jacqueline?”
She stepped out onto the landing and peered down. “Thomas? What are you doing here?”
“I…I saw the sign in the window. I had no idea that…your shop had closed.”
“Yes, for four months now. My business…fell off.”
Dismayed, he placed a foot on the bottom rung. She wore a look of defeat, despite her straight posture and beauty that was unadorned this morning. She wore a dressing gown and her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
“But it looked as if you were doing so well,” he said.
“I was…for a while.”
They stared at each other. Thomas said, “Will you be staying in Howbutker?”
“Only a little longer until I can make other arrangements. Armand DuMont has been so kind to allow me to stay in the apartment, but I can’t impose on him much longer. I’m sure I’m preventing him from renting the space.”
“Armand DuMont?”
“He owns the property. I’m so sorry to hear his father is ill.”
Only Armand, God bless his generous heart, would rent property to a competitor, Thomas thought. He’d had no idea. He said on impulse, “May I come up for a cup of coffee?”
After a small hesitation, she said, “You may.”
She served him steaming coffee in delicate china cups. They sat in the small room facing the street that served as a parlor. Thomas noticed packed crates tucked here and there, crowding the limited space. “Where will you go?” he asked.
“Back home, to Richmond, Virginia. I’ve a sister there. She and her husband have agreed to take me in. I’m hoping to find work in a millinery shop in town.”
“When…will that be?”
“In a few weeks when I can dispose of the rest of my inventory.” She gestured toward the wooden boxes. “A general store in Marshall has agreed to take them, and then I’ll have the money for my fare.”
His heart felt squeezed. “I’m so sorry things didn’t work out. You are so talented. I would have thought you’d have plenty of business.”
She smiled at him sadly. “I did, too, but…” She shrugged her shoulders. “It was not meant to be. How have you been getting along since…the tragedy?”
“I’m…managing,” he said with a faint smile.
She nodded, the simple response and a brief close of her eyes carrying a world of understanding. Thomas took her for the kind of woman who would not try to comfort him with platitudes. The cat, a gray tom, leaped to her lap and curled there with a proprietary air. She sipped her coffee. Thomas set down his cup. He should go. There was nothing more to be said, though volumes strained to be spoken. He knew nothing about this woman. People could fool you. They could surprise and disappoint you. Tried-and-true instincts could betray you. But of this he was sure about Jacqueline Chastain: She was too special to live in a loft or back room of her sister’s house and too talented to work for pennies selling another’s wares in a millinery shop.
He leaned forward. “Mrs. Chastain—Jacqueline—if you could find a suitable position here in Howbutker, would you stay?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and he’d hoped to hear a leap of hope in her voice, but she sounded resigned to her fate. “However, I do not expect such a position to be available.”
“Why not?”
“There are…certain influences afoot in this town that would prevent my being offered one.”
He frowned. “Like what? Whose?”
She rose, holding the cat. Their visit was over. “I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Toliver, but I do appreciate your concern. Thank you for inquiring after my welfare.” She led the way to the door and smiled a final good-bye as she held out her hand. “Time will not close the hole in your heart,” she said, “but I hope the years will fill the space with happy memories of your son.”
“You have not heard the last from me, Mrs. Chastain,” Thomas said, refusing to accept the finality in her tone. “You must keep the faith.”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost that, Mr. Toliver,” she said.