Thurston House Page 6

“Would you like a drink? I brought some of my own wine with me.”

  “I’d love that, Jeremiah.” He drew the cork and poured out two glasses of a full-bodied rich red wine, sniffed the glass, looked satisfied, and handed the first one to her.

  “No one will see you drink this here.” She wouldn’t have drunk it elsewhere on the train, but she was suddenly relieved to have a glass of wine, and she was surprised at how fine it was when she took the first sip. Once again she found herself impressed with him, and she looked sadly up at him as she set down the glass.

  “I wish I didn’t like you so damn much.”

  “I wish you liked me more.” They both laughed at that, and got off at the next stop to share a quick dinner before getting back on the train. They bought an enormous basket of fruit. Jeremiah had some cheese left over from the day before and they ate fruit and cheese and drank his wine well into the night, as they discussed the condition of the human race, and slowly began to get drunk as they laughed at it all. And somehow each of them knew that they had found a lifetime friend. She was the wisest woman he had ever met, and for the next few days he drank in every word she said, shared all of his wine with her. They ate every meal in each other’s company, played cards, laughed, told jokes, shared confidences that neither of them had ever told before, and by the time they reached Atlanta, Jeremiah knew that he was more than just slightly in love with her. He was head over heels mad for her, and yet he knew at the same time that she would never agree to marry him, and he also thought he understood why. In the depths of her soul, she still hadn’t given her husband up, and perhaps never would. She kept insisting that Jeremiah needed a young girl, and children of his own. He had told her about John Harte, and the two children who had died, and he had admitted to her that he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to take that risk. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost a child. I lost a woman I loved once, Amelia, that was enough.…” This was late one night, more than halfway down his second bottle of wine, but Amelia had shaken her head at him.

  “You can’t live in fear like that. You have to gamble a bit in life, you know that.…”

  “Not with your heart.…” Barnaby Harte’s face came to his mind again and he closed his eyes. “I couldn’t bear that.” She had grabbed his arm.

  “You must. Don’t miss that chance. You still have a whole life to live … do it … dammit, don’t let it pass you by. I won’t let you do that. Find the right girl, go looking for her if you have to, but get what you want … what you need … what you deserve.…”

  “And what’s that?” He wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore.

  “A girl with fire … with passion … with love in her veins, a girl so alive that you almost have to tie her down to capture her.”

  Jeremiah laughed. “Sounds like you, is that what I should do to you?”

  “You’d better not, Jeremiah Thurston. But you know just what I mean, a little fireball to keep you warm and happy and amused.”

  “Sounds like a great deal of trouble to me.” But he had to admit, in some ways, the idea appealed to him. “And where does one find such a girl?”

  “Wherever she is. And one looks hard, if one has to. Or perhaps she’ll just walk right into your arms.”

  “She hasn’t yet, or at least not until this trip.” He eyed her knowingly again and she laughed. She had almost allowed herself to fall head over heels in love with him. But she couldn’t do that. She had too much left to do on her own, and he deserved more than that.

  “Don’t forget what I said!” she told him in the last moments of the trip. The train was already pulling into the Atlanta station and his bags were packed. They were standing in his private car, and he had left instructions to leave it on for her and her maid. The journey to Savannah would take them only a few more hours, but she wasn’t thinking of Savannah now. She was only thinking of him, and he of her.

  “Damn you, why won’t you marry me?” He looked down at her tenderly, with grief and passion mixed in his eyes. “You’re a fool.”

  “I know I am”—tears suddenly welled up in her eyes—“but I want something better for you.”

  “You’re the best there is.”

  She shook her head, and the tears rolled slowly down her face as she smiled. “I love you, dearest friend.” She took him in her arms in a hug that enveloped him and he held her close until the train stopped and then he pulled away to look at her again.

  “I love you too. Take care of yourself, my dear. I’ll see you in New York sometime soon.”

  She nodded, and waved at him as he left the train, and he stood and waved at her as the train pulled away, and he wondered at the fate that had brought her to him and then let her slide away. There had never been anyone like her before … and probably never would be again … and the damnedest thing was that if she would have let him, he would have married her in a moment. It was strange. He had fallen head over heels for Amelia in a matter of days, moments … hours … and with Mary Ellen Browne, he would have been content with a lifetime of Sundays. It was something to think about as he rode to his hotel, watching the sights slide by him.

  4

  There was a wonderful quality of elegance about the Kimball House, which dominated the skyline of Atlanta. A fleet of men rushed forward to help Jeremiah alight and enter the richly decorated lobby, where armies of servants seemed to be hovering about. The decor was more that of a grand ballroom than a hotel lobby. It made the grandeur of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco pale by comparison, although Jeremiah still preferred the familiar comforts of the Palace. It was his favorite hotel in the world. But the Kimball was an excellent second. Jeremiah regained his bag in his suite, looked around, had a drink, and it seemed only moments later when he heard a knock on the door to his room, and Mr. Beauchamp’s footman appeared. He stood impressively tall, and black, in formal livery, and handed him an envelope of rich creamy paper, the envelope closed with a very grand gold seal. Having ascertained who Jeremiah was, the envelope was extended in one powerful black hand.

  “From Mrs. Beauchamp, suh.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jeremiah swiftly pulled out the card and discovered that he was expected for dinner at eight o’clock that evening. French hours, he thought as he thanked the footman, and asked him to reassure the Beauchamps that he’d be there. With a stern nod, the man, resplendent in his livery, disappeared. Jeremiah wandered around the room, thinking of that night. The room was handsomely decorated, with fine fabrics and French antiques, but to Jeremiah it looked all too empty now. There was a soft knock on the door, and a black maid appeared with a silver tray, bringing him another tall mint julep and a plate of cookies that smelled freshly baked. Normally, after the long ride on the train, he would have liked nothing better, but now all he could think of was Amelia. In a few hours she would be arriving in Savannah, and she would be busy with her daughter, but all Jeremiah wanted was to fold her into his arms again. It troubled him as he took a long sip of the mint julep and strolled out onto the terrace to look at the city. It had grown a great deal in the twenty years since the war, and in many ways it was a booming city. But much about it was as it had been before the war, and he knew that the Southerners still resented being dragged into the Union. They liked their old ways and were still bitter about losing the war. He wondered briefly what Beauchamp and his friends would be like. He knew that they had plenty of money at their disposal, but he suspected that Beauchamp was newly rich and painfully flashy. It was easy to guess that from the heavily gold-encrusted suit the man’s footman wore, and the enormous gold seal on the letter.

  Jeremiah bathed before dinner and attempted to have a nap, but as he lay on the large canopied bed in his hotel room, all he could think of was the tiny woman with the raven black hair and huge dark eyes, almost as dark as the jet beads on the suit she wore the night that she met him. Why was it that he could remember every detail about her dress? He had never done that before. But she was elegant and so beautiful and sensual that he w
anted her desperately and he felt a knot in his throat, which he tried to dissolve with another mint julep, but nothing seemed to chase her from his head and Jeremiah found himself wondering how he was going to do business with his head so full of her. But this evening was just a matter of social amenity. He knew that he wouldn’t be expected to begin discussing their business deal until the next day. Southerners were far too correct to mix business with pleasure. This evening would more than likely be a quiet dinner at Beauchamp’s home, to show the uncivilized Westerner a little Southern hospitality. Jeremiah smiled at the image as he put on his jacket and looked at the white suit in the mirror. It seemed in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned skin, and dark hair, the same color as Amelia’s … Amelia … Amelia … Amelia … he wished he had never gotten off the train, as he walked down to the lobby and out to the waiting carriage Orville Beauchamp had sent for him.

  The footman was quick to jump to the ground and hold open the door for Jeremiah, and then he hopped up beside the coachman again as elegant ladies swept past them in glittering evening dresses, accompanied by well-dressed men on their way to dinners and concerts and the other social events that made up the night life of Atlanta.

  The carriage sped down the broad splendor of Peachtree Street and into the residential section of the city, to the Beauchamp house, which stood in small but stately splendor farther down on Peachtree Street. It was a relatively new house, obviously built since the war, and it was not wildly extravagant, but it was definitely handsome, and Jeremiah was suddenly sorry that Amelia wasn’t there with him to share the evening. They could have gone back to the hotel afterward and discussed the various costumes and foibles of the guests, and laughed as they sampled more of the wine he had brought with him from Napa. And it was Amelia he was thinking of as he shook hands with Elizabeth Beauchamp, Orville Beauchamp’s once pretty but now faded-looking wife. She was a washed-out blonde with pale skin the color of milk glass, and eyes that seemed to water with despair. The impression Elizabeth Beauchamp left one with was one of extreme fragility, as though she might not live out the week, and one wasn’t even sure she would care to. She had a plaintive, sad little voice, and talked constantly about the days before the war, and life on her “Daddy’s” plantation. Orville seemed not to hear anything that she said, except that now and then he would snap, “That’s enough, ’Lizabeth, our guests don’t want to hear about life on your daddy’s plantation. That’s all gone now,” but the very words seemed to strike her like a whip, and she would seem to subside silently then into her own reminiscences. Orville himself was of an entirely different breed, obviously less aristocratic than his wife. He had a rough edge to him, with eyes narrowed constantly as though he had just thought of something important. And it was clear that the only thing important to Orville was business. His hair was as dark as Jeremiah’s, his complexion almost swarthy. He explained that his grandparents had been from the south of France, and had first come to New Orleans before moving to Georgia. And he made no secret that they had had nothing when they’d come, nor had his father some thirty years later. It was Orville who made the family’s first fortune, who profited from the industrialization of the South during and after the war. He had built himself a small empire, which he admitted was not yet as large as he wanted it to be, but would be one day, especially with the help of his son, Hubert, named after Orville’s grandfather.

  But it was Jeremiah’s impression that Hubert was not nearly as bright as his father. Instead, he had his mother’s annoying whine and he seemed far more interested in spending his father’s money than in making any of his own. He talked about a string of racehorses he had bought in Kentucky, and the brothel he liked best in New Orleans. All in all, it was a tedious evening for Jeremiah. And two of the other members of the consortium he would do business with were there too, quiet older men with strong opinions and uninteresting wives who talked to each other in hushed tones for most of the evening. Jeremiah noticed that they spoke little or not at all to Elizabeth Beauchamp, and she seemed to ignore them completely. It was easy to see that she thought them far beneath her, given her aristocratic beginnings on her “Daddy’s” plantation.

  The other thing Jeremiah noticed in the course of the evening was that the Beauchamp family was singularly obsessed with everyone’s fortune, how much who had and how they had made it. Elizabeth had lost everything she might have ever had during the war. Her father had shot himself after the destruction of his plantation, and her mother had died shortly after of grief, perhaps more for the fortune they had lost, Jeremiah thought, than for her husband.

  The Beauchamps apparently had a daughter, whom Orville claimed was a “perfect jewel,” but given what he’d seen, Jeremiah sincerely doubted it. She was at a grand ball somewhere that night, “with every boy in Atlanta nipping at her heels, no doubt,” the proud papa said, before adding, “They should be … the dress she has on cost me a fortune.” Jeremiah smiled blankly at his words, tired of their obsession with money, and all he could think of as the evening droned on was that he wished he were with Amelia in Savannah, seeing her grandchild for the first time, and visiting her daughter. What a different and far more genteel atmosphere that would have been, and then he laughed at himself. It wasn’t the gentility of the scene that appealed to him, but the chance to be near Amelia, to inhale her sensuous perfume, kiss her lips, and spend hours looking into her eyes. Just thinking of her brought a smile to his lips, which Elizabeth Beauchamp thought was meant just for her, and she patted his hand limply before getting up to lead the ladies into the other room, while the men smoked cigars and drank brandy. It was only then that the deal that had brought him to Atlanta was mentioned, and it was almost a relief to talk business after the incredibly boring evening.

  He was relieved when the first guests left shortly after eleven o’clock, and he was able to seek refuge in the excuse that he was exhausted from the long trip and anxious to return to the hotel to rest before they began negotiations the next morning. The Beauchamp carriage took him back to the hotel, and half an hour later he was standing on the terrace looking out over the city. He thought back over the hours he and Amelia had shared and it seemed almost like a dream, as he looked out over Atlanta. The Beauchamps were already forgotten. All he could think of was her.

  “Good night, little love,” he whispered as he went back inside, thinking of her words again.… Get married, Jeremiah … have babies. But he wanted no babies now. He only wanted her. “I love you,” she had said to him … I love you … powerful words from a powerful woman.… His mind and his heart seemed full of her as he drifted off to sleep in the elegant canopied bed a short while later, feeling desperately lonely.

  5

  Jeremiah’s dealings with Orville Beauchamp’s consortium were extremely successful, and within a week of his arrival in Atlanta, the deal had been made. Nine hundred flasks of quicksilver were to be sent to them for distribution, among them, for the manufacture of bullets and assorted minor war machines, and for mining throughout the South. Jeremiah had made slightly more than fifty thousand dollars on the deal. He was extremely satisfied with the terms, as was Orville Beauchamp, who took a commission off the top for making the deal. In fact, he had made several subdeals, involving the resale of his portion of the quicksilver. Unlike the others, it was not for use in factories of his own. He was more of a middleman and a wheeler-dealer, and he was interested in big money and quick deals. The deal complete, Beauchamp extended his hand to Jeremiah. “I think we ought to celebrate tonight, my friend.” From the moment the negotiations had begun, their socializing had ceased. Jeremiah had dined each night in his hotel, and the Beauchamps had not extended another invitation to dine, but now there was cause for celebration. The seven Southerners and their wives, as well as Jeremiah, were invited to dine at his home. “ ’Lizabeth will just be so almighty pleased,” he insisted as he beamed. But Jeremiah couldn’t imagine her being anything of the kind, particularly to have fifteen business people come to dine. But
that was Orville’s problem, not his, and he was tired after the long week and anxious to get home. He had been unable to get a satisfactory train connection for another three days, and he was trapped in Atlanta through the weekend with nothing whatsoever to do, and he was less than pleased about it. He wanted to get home as soon as he could.

  Once or twice he had toyed with the idea of going to Savannah for a couple of days while he waited, but he didn’t want to embarrass Amelia. She was visiting her daughter and the sudden appearance of a strange man on the scene would have been difficult to explain. So he was faced with cooling his heels in Atlanta, and he just hoped he wouldn’t have to see Orville Beauchamp much after tonight. It had definitely been a very long week, albeit a profitable one for him.

  The carriage picked him up once again at eight o’clock, and this evening he had been asked to wear formal dress. Apparently Beauchamp was going all out. Jeremiah had to admit when he got to their home that everything looked lovely. There were hundreds of candles ablaze in the chandeliers and sconces along the walls, huge bouquets of flowers everywhere, orchids and azaleas and jasmine and heavily scented blossoms that Jeremiah had never even seen before, which seemed to add a heady fragrance to the air as the candles danced and the guests arrived, covered in silks and satins and heavily bejeweled.

  “You’re looking very well tonight, Mrs. Beauchamp.” But he knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say. “Looking well” was never an effect that Elizabeth Beauchamp strove to achieve. She seemed to enjoy her ill health and her pallor.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thurston.” She drawled over the words as her eyes wandered to the next guests arriving. Jeremiah stepped aside and began speaking to one of the men he’d been doing business with all week, and they were joined a few minutes later by Hubert, who was full of some tale of a horse he wanted to see in Tennessee. Jeremiah wandered aimlessly through the group, chatting with the men, being introduced to their wives, and eventually to a pretty young blonde whom Hubert had invited to join them. She was a livelier, healthier, much prettier version of his mother, and Orville seemed to find her particularly attractive as they got ready to go in to dinner. It was only then that he noticed that their numbers were uneven and called across to his wife.