Wilde, Jennifer (61 page)

His
kiss had been long and tender and surprisingly experienced. Bruce had the
quiet, understated virility of the well-bred English gentleman, and I suspected
his years at Harvard College in Massachusetts had not been spent entirely
pouring over books. Though carefully controlled, the kiss had communicated a
passionate urgency. When he finally released me, he hadn't said a word, had
simply looked at me with those serious blue eyes that expressed his feelings
far more eloquently than words could have. His wasn't a boyish infatuation, nor
was Bruce a randy young buck with seduction in mind. It seemed the wealthy,
handsome only son of one of the town's most prominent families was in love with
me.

Sitting
down at the dressing table, I began to brush my hair vigorously. What superb
irony, I though, not without a certain satisfaction. Bruce was the prize catch
in the society that had so successfully thwarted all my plans. Those haughty,
self-righteous matrons would give anything to nab him for their daughters, and,
I knew, the daughters vied for his attention, constantly visiting his sister in
hopes he would be on hand. Bruce wanted none of them. He wanted me, and I
intended to use him to achieve my goals. I only hoped I could do it without
hurting him too badly.

It
was important that I look especially attractive today, and I chose my dress
with care, finally selecting a soft beige muslin sprigged with tiny brown and
blue flowers. The dress made me look younger and emphasized my full breasts and
slender waist. It was a provocative garment, one I wouldn't have dreamed of
wearing for Bruce before. Today, it suited my purpose ideally.

Giving
a final pat to my hair, I went into the hall and moved down the stairs.
Stepping outside, I locked the shop door behind me. It was a lovely spring day.
There was a subtle perfume in the air that blended with the smells of mud and
moss and river that were ever present. I felt strong and purposeful as I moved
toward the gate. I had finally admitted defeat and was ready to give up the
shop. Another chapter of my life had closed, a brief and frustrating chapter,
and a new one was about to begin. I was going to be in control this time, I
vowed. Marietta Danver was no longer to be a pawn of fate.

A
light, elegant open carriage came bowling down the road a few minutes later,
pulled by two sleek gray horses with silky manes that waved in the breeze.
Bruce drove with practiced skill, handling the reins firmly without apparent
effort. I smiled as he halted the horses and climbed down. I was genuinely glad
to see him, and I wished I weren't so fond of him. It would be so much easier
if he weren't such a serious, admirable youth. I didn't look forward to hurting
him. Had there been someone like Bruce in my life six years ago, I mused, none
of this would be necessary.

Although
his generous pink mouth shaped a smile, I could tell that he was preoccupied,
as though there were some very important decision he must make. I fancied it
concerned me in some way. Not much taller than I, Bruce had the lean, finely
muscled build of a young athlete, shown off to advantage by his superbly
tailored pearl-gray breeches and frock coat.

The
preoccupied look gave way to one of appreciation as he took in the details of
my appearance. Manipulating him was going to be absurdly simple, I knew. He was
so young and malleable that he'd be defenseless against my wiles. I wasn't
particularly proud of myself, but what must be done must be done. As he handed
me into the carriage, I wished I were an innocent eighteen-year-old girl whose
only desire in life was to please him.

"It's
a lovely day," I remarked.

Bruce
nodded, taking up the reins. "You're lovely, too."

"Why—thank
you, sir."

"You've
never looked so fetching."

"I
imagine it's the dress. I wanted to wear something appropriate for such a
glorious spring day. You approve, I take it?"

"Very
much."

Bruce
drove us through the heart of the city on his way to the river road. I was
still amazed at the changes that had occurred since the time Jeff and I stopped
here on our way to New Orleans. Natchez was little more than a frontier
settlement then, and in just four years it had become an impressive town with
many fine buildings and an increasing number of elegant homes. It had a clean
and graceful beauty quite unlike that of New Orleans. Perched high on the bluff
overlooking the river, it had a spacious, airy charm all its own, and there was
an aura of prosperity. Fortunately the bluff concealed that second city huddled
under the hill. Bruce was silent, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"You
seem preoccupied," I said.

"Sorry.
It's Schnieder's ball."

What
a stroke of luck, I thought. Bruce had brought the subject up himself. I knew
he was referring to the ball Helmut Schnieder was giving at Roseclay the
following week.

"I'm
expected to attend," he replied.

"I
understand it's to be the event of the season. Everyone in Natchez seems to be
talking about it. Schnieder's never entertained at Roseclay before, they say,
and this will be the first time anyone's had an opportunity to see the place
properly."

"I
don't like the man," Bruce said, "and I haven't the least desire to
see the interior of his house."

"It's
supposed to be magnificent," I said casually.

"It
is," Bruce admitted. "It took him over three years to finish it to
his satisfaction. He had a whole crew of foreign artisans working on the
interior, and he spent a fortune having the gardens laid out. He just finished
the place a few months ago, and then he took off to Europe to buy furniture. A
whole shipload arrived last month."

"I
heard about that. Mr. Schnieder must be very wealthy."

"He
is. His plantation is the largest in the territory, and the most productive.
They say he owns half the land in Natchez. He came here years ago, when it was
a tiny settlement, and he was already a wealthy man. When the place started
booming, he seemed to have his hand in everything. He's helped finance a lot of
the building, helped get businesses started, made loans left and right."

"He
sounds quite the philanthropist."

"Not
at all. Schneider never does anything without a reason. He's been open-handed,
yes, and as a result he's got a tight hold on the entire town. Everyone's
intimidated by him—with a good reason, I should imagine. Even my parents.
That's why I'm expected to go to this damned ball. Can't risk offending the
mighty Helmut Schnieder."

Bruce
scowled, lapsing into silence, while I thought about the encounter I had had
with the German almost four years ago on the waterfront. He had been
supervising the unloading of pink brick for the mansion he'd recently finished.
That day he had wanted to buy me from Jeff. I remembered the way he had looked
at me. remembered his incredible presence, his strong, blunt features. One
wasn't likely to forget a man who exuded such power. I hadn't. Only last week I
had seen him driving past the shop, his large, heavyset body impressively clad
in expensively tailored clothes.

That
was when the plan first began to formulate in my mind.

I
had heard a great deal of talk about him, of course.

I
knew that he was still single, and I knew that his sister Meg was attending
school in Germany. I had frequently wondered about her and the adamant young
man who had been trying to persuade her to elope with him. Evidently, Schnieder
had sent the girl away shortly after I had overheard that fiery conversation at
the inn. Young James Norman had lost his plantation soon afterwards, and many
claimed Schnieder was responsible. After losing his place, Norman had left for
New Orleans and hadn't been heard from since.

Gossips
claimed that his sister was the only thing in the world Helmut Schnieder cared
about, and they added that no man would ever be good enough for her as far as
her brother was concerned. He had gone to visit her in Germany almost every
summer since her departure. The girl was supposed to be returning to Natchez in
just a few weeks, I understood. She would be twenty years old now. I remembered
her pale, fragile face that would have been plain except for those violet-blue
eyes which had been so tormented as she pleaded with her swain. I wondered if
she were still as frightened of her brother as she had clearly been four years
ago.

As
a shopkeeper overhearing gossip and asking discreet questions, I probably knew
far more about Helmut Schnieder than Bruce did, but I had no intention of
letting him know that. Leaving Natchez proper behind, we turned down the
sloping river road. I caught glimpses of the masts of ships that crowded the
harbor, and then the road twisted and they vanished. Tall oaks trailing Spanish
moss grew on either side of us now, and sunlight sifted through the canopy of
limbs overhead. It was all very peaceful and lulling, but I wasn't ready to
drop the subject of Helmut Schnieder.

"They
say that now that he's finished Roseclay he's looking for a wife," I
remarked. "Rumor has it that that's why he's giving this ball—he wants to
look over the prospects."

"Could
be," Bruce replied, uninterested.

"Aren't
we near Roseclay?" I inquired.

"It's
a mile or so up the road. You haven't seen it?"

I
shook my head.

"Driving
out to watch the progress on the big house used to be a favorite pastime for
folks around here, but now that it's finished, Schneider doesn't like anyone
nosing about. We'll go by just the same."

"If
you think we shouldn't—" I began.

"We'll
have to trespass in order for you to see it properly, but Schnieder inspects
his plantation on Sundays. He'll never know we were there. It can't hurt
anything."

"I
wouldn't want you to get into trouble."

"What's
he going to do? Shoot me? I'm not afraid of Helmut Schnieder. If you want to
see the house, we'll go by and see it." His voice was slightly defiant.

A
few minutes later, we stopped before two tall pink brick pillars. The ornate
wrought-iron gate between them was closed but not locked. Bruce climbed down to
push the gate back. Getting back up beside me, he urged the horses up the
private drive at a slow walk. The grounds on either side were beautifully laid
out, the grass neatly trimmed, trees casting long shadows in the sunlight.
There were elegant flower beds as well, and as the drive curved around I had my
first glimpse of Roseclay.

It
was stunning. The pink brick was light and mellow, and there were white
shutters at all the windows. The roof was a blue-gray slate, and six tall white
pillars in front supported the portico and second-story verandah. The house was
enormous, with deep, cool-looking verandahs surrounding both floors. Tall elms
growing on either side of the house brushed the walls with hazy shadows. As the
horses slowly trotted along the drive that circled in front of the house, I
caught glimpses of the spacious gardens in back. Bruce stopped the carriage
directly in front of the house, holding the reins loosely in his lap.

"There
it is," he said.

His
manner was slightly bored, and I could tell that he was determined to remain
unimpressed. I gazed up at the house with something like awe, for it was quite
overwhelming. Majestic without being ostentatious, the house's simple elegant
lines gave an impression of graceful ease. Although it was not at all like the
stately homes I had seen back in England, it had a grandeur all its own. How
glorious it would be to be mistress of a house like this, I thought.

"Impressed?"
Bruce inquired.

"Extremely."

"It's
altogether too large," he remarked. "Schnieder has delusions of
grandeur. He thinks he has the power of a king, and he's built himself a
palace."

"Now
all he needs is a consort," I said quietly.

Bruce
made no comment. I continued to gaze at the house, my resolution growing by the
moment. If I hadn't been sure of my plan before, I was now. Seeing Roseclay
gave me an even greater incentive, and I was determined to go through with it at
all costs. If I succeeded, the rewards would be staggering. If I failed, at
least I would have made the effort. At this point, I had nothing to lose.

The
horses began to stamp restlessly on the drive, and I could see that Bruce was
impatient to be gone as well. I was just about to tell him to drive on when the
front door opened. Helmut Schnieder stepped out onto the verandah, pulling the
door shut behind him. I couldn't believe my good fortune. Thank goodness I had
selected this particular dress and taken such pains with my hair.

Where
another young man might have been at a loss, or nervous and upset by
Schnieder's unexpected appearance, Bruce was as calm as could be. Showing no
surprise, he nodded at the German.

"Good
afternoon," he said politely.

Schnieder
stared at us with cold blue eyes, and then he moved toward the wide front
steps. He was exactly as I remembered: tall, heavyset, his features strong and
blunt. He still had a belligerent look, and the pale yellow-blond hair still
fell in a monkish fringe across his jutting brow. He wore brown breeches and a
thin white shirt slightly damp with perspiration. His tall black boots were
dusty. He had obviously just returned from inspecting his plantation.