Madeline was living alone, prosperous but despised because of her scalawag ways. Ashton heard about the Klan outrage at Mont Royal and the new house under construction, and then, from a tipsy journalist with whom she flirted, she learned something else which truly excited her. Everyone in town knew it. Mont Royal was heavily mortgaged.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fenway," said Leverett Dawkins, enthroned in his special office chair. "How might the Palmetto Bank be of service this morning?"
Ashton sat with perfect posture on the edge of his visitor's chair. The careful way she drew her shoulders back emphasized the line of her full bosom, something the banker did not miss. She watched his eyes slide upward to her face — the poor fool obviously thought his attention had gone undetected — and she knew she had the advantage. She was familiar with Dawkins's name but she had never met him; therefore he would never associate her with the Main family.
Outwardly composed but inwardly straining, she said, "I want to inquire about property in the district. I have old family ties in South Carolina. I treasure the Charleston area and I would like to have a home here."
"I see. Go on, please."
"When I was driving on the Ashley River road the day before yesterday, I saw a lovely plantation that captured my heart. I've been back twice since then to observe it, and my feeling remains the same. I hoped you would be able to tell me something about the property."
"To which plantation do you refer, ma'am?"
"I was told the name of it is Mont Royal."
"Ah, the Main plantation," he said, leaning back. "The owner is Mr. Cooper Main of this city."
Hearing her brother's name startled and confused Ashton. Fortunately her heavy black veil hid her momentary disarray. She recovered, saying smoothly, "I thought a woman controlled the place —"
"You're referring to the owner's sister-in-law, Mrs. Orry Main." Ashton noted a certain distaste when he said that. "Yes. She lives there by arrangement with Mr. Main. She's a sort of resident manager, responsible for the operation of Mont Royal. But Mr. Main holds the title."
Carefully: "Might the plantation be available for sale?"
He thought it over. He considered what he knew of Cooper's feelings about the Negro school, and his hatred of Madeline Main's complicity in the marriage of his daughter to the Yankee. Dawkins's visitor raised a new and most interesting possibility, one in which he saw a dual advantage. Profit, and ridding the bank of a relationship that had grown irksome.
"There is a substantial mortgage on Mont Royal," he said. "Held by this institution."
She already knew that, but didn't let on. "Oh, what luck! Do you suppose the owner, this Mister, ah —"
"Main," he prompted.
"Would he sell if the mortgage could be paid off as part of the transaction?"
"Naturally I can't speak for him, but it's always a possibility. If you would be interested in making an offer, the bank would be happy to act as your representative. For a fee, of course."
"Of course. I'd insist on it. And upon some other conditions as well. My husband, Mr. Fenway, is a wealthy man. In fact, he's richer than Midas. Do you know Fenway's Piano Company?"
"Who does not? Is that your husband? Well, well."
"If Mr. Main found out who was trying to buy his plantation, he might inflate the price unreasonably."
"We can make sure that doesn't happen. If we act in your behalf, you can maintain complete anonymity until the sale is consummated." That pleased her, he saw. "You mentioned conditions in the plural —"
Her heart was beating so hard, she almost shook. Here it was — the chance for the perfect reprisal she'd dreamed about for years. Fighting to keep tension from her voice, she said, "I would want the sale to be completed very quickly. Within a matter of a few days. I would want to take title, and possession, before I return to Chicago."
He frowned for the first time. "What you ask is irregular, Mrs. Fenway. And difficult."
She sat back, as if withdrawing her friendliness. "Then I'm sorry —"
"Difficult," he repeated, swiftly raising one hand. "But not impossible. We would bend every effort."
"Excellent," she said, relaxing. "That's just excellent. Perhaps we can move on to specifics? A suggested offering price. Please name the figure. Not unreasonable, mind. But high enough to be irresistible to this Mr. Cooper Main. That's the magic word, Mr. Dawkins."
She lifted the black veil slowly to let him gaze on her sweet poison smile. He was entranced by the wet gleam of her lips and the even white beauty of her teeth as she whispered to him:
"Irresistible."
BOOK SEVEN
CROSSING JORDAN
I do not believe that the whites can now, or will, live under a rule where persons so entirely ignorant, so venal, so corrupt, have the management of their State government. ... I think they will bear as long as they can but there will be a point beyond which they cannot bear.
66
"It's from Sam. In New York. My letter was sent on from St. Louis."
"What does he say?"
She scanned the page. "He was surprised to learn I was in South Carolina. He sends you his wishes for a quick recovery. He'll be happy to give the bride away as long as the ceremony doesn't interfere with a regular performance. What performance?" She turned the sheet over. "Oh, my. This is rather hard to take."
"What?"
"Claudius Wood liked Sam's Othello. He imported the production to fill a spot in his schedule and it turned into a huge hit. Sam says it's to run indefinitely at the New Knickerbocker. Eddie Booth's seen it twice. Oh, that is ironic. Sam working for the man who almost killed me."
She tossed down Trump's letter; it, too, had been forwarded from St. Louis.
"You sound angry."
"Well, yes. I Should be more tolerant. Sam's an actor, which means he's quite like a little child in some ways. Children's wishes are often stronger than their loyalties. Sam constantly wished for this kind of success — which is bad luck in the theater — so naturally it eluded him. Then when he wasn't looking for it, it arrived. It's foolish to expect him to turn his back on it. He's an actor."
"I think you said that."
"I did, but it explains everything. We'll just have to be married on whatever day the Knickerbocker is dark. That is, if you still —"
"I do. Come here."
Yellow light, summer light, painted the ceiling and the whitewashed wall behind the head of his bed. Work on the new house was ending for the day. Someone drove a last nail into a roof beam; the nailhead sang like a bell at each blow.
In the distance he heard the mill saw whining as it cut. He heard the shouts and the cracking whips of the muleteers driving their carts in the phosphate fields. Nearer, in the main room of the whitewashed house, Madeline and Willa were chatting about supper. They'd gotten along wonderfully from the day he and Willa arrived with the portrait of Madeline's mother in their luggage. Madeline wept when she saw the picture.
Warm in a new blue flannel nightshirt Willa had cut and sewn for him, Charles lay staring at the ceiling. The slatted shutters broke the wash of light into a pleasantly regular pattern. A large undefined area of his lower back, the left side, still hurt. But not as badly as before. He was getting better.
Red Bear and four of his Cheyennes had taken him to Camp Supply, unconscious. There a surgeon probed for the bullet without finding it. An Army ambulance delivered him to Duncan at Leavenworth. Gus was safe there, although Charles was too delirious to know it immediately. The brigadier telegraphed the playhouse, and Willa rushed to Kansas by train. During the three weeks in which she tended Charles and shared Maureen's bed, Sam Trump and company closed Trump's St. Louis Playhouse, and decamped to New York.