Magnolia. Diana Palmer
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it is properly lighted, so that it won’t frighten carriage horses.”
“I know all that,” she replied. “I’ll certainly obey all the rules. In any case, I don’t ride at night.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and studied her carefully. He really didn’t know her at all. She was his friend. But she was also a stranger who would now share his life, even though it was only a partial sharing. He wasn’t sure how he was going to like this.
Neither was Claire, despite her hunger for his love. She grimaced. “Is there indoor plumbing?” she asked.
“Of course. Down the hall,” he replied. “And you have access to the kitchen, but Mrs. Dobbs supplies all meals. You may check with her about the schedule and ask for any particular dishes that you like. She’s quite accommodating.”
“I’ll do that.”
She took off her hat, replacing the big pearl-tipped hairpin through the fabric. Without it, she looked fragile, and very young.
She wounded him, looking like that. None of this was her fault. He scowled as he thought how disappointing a day it must have been for her. He hadn’t done anything to make it easier. In fact, he’d been openly hostile most of the time, because of what Diane had said to him, because of that stricken look on Diane’s face. He could hardly bear the pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly, lifting her wan face to his eyes. “I knew that you wanted to back out of the wedding today, and it was too late. You didn’t think this far ahead, did you?”
There was no use lying to her. He could see that at once. His chin lifted and he sighed heavily. “What I thought no longer matters. We must make the best of what we have.”
She wanted to laugh hysterically. It wouldn’t help. Her gaze slid over his lean, handsome face with wistful regret. It would be a barren sort of life, without love or the hope of anything more than resentment and tolerance on his part. She must have been as crazy as he to have agreed to such a sterile arrangement.
“Why did you marry me when you still love her?” she heard herself ask.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “As you said, Claire, I never thought very far ahead. I felt sorry for you; perhaps for myself as well. And what difference do our feelings really make now?” He shrugged in resignation. “She’s married, and so am I. Neither of us is low enough to forget those vows, made before God.” He looked worn, weary, almost defeated as he spoke. He turned away. “I plan to have an early night. It might benefit you to do the same.”
“Yes, it might. Good night.”
He felt so guilty that he couldn’t look at her as he closed the door.
Alone in the dark later, Claire gave way to tears. She’d had such great expectations about her marriage, only to find that her husband was full of regrets and bitterness. If only Diane hadn’t come to the wedding! But now she was bound to John in a marriage that he didn’t want, and it was far too late to do anything about it. Just the thought of divorce made her ill. It was a stigma that no woman would want to have to live with. But a loveless, sterile marriage would be so much worse. There would be no kisses, no shared pleasure, not even the consolation of a child. She put her fist to her mouth to stem another burst of tears. Really, she had to stop crying. Broken dreams happened to everyone. But lately it seemed that her entire life had become one long trail of them…
FRIDAY CAME, AND CLAIRE’S spirits had lifted a bit, because she’d cleaned out the shed behind the apartment house for the motorcar. Mrs. Dobbs, the landlady, had agreed only after much coaxing. Like many people, she was a bit afraid of the modern inventions, especially those that moved by themselves.
Claire had John’s driver take her down to Colbyville to drop her off at the house her uncle had owned. She dusted off the motorcar and climbed aboard. A kind neighbor had helped her tie her wheel onto the back with ropes. She donned her goggles and waved goodbye.
It was like being freed from bondage. She zipped along the rutted streets toward Atlanta, grinning as she sat high in the seat in her long white riding coat and goggles, and the cap that went with her uncle’s regalia. The clothing might be too big for her, but she was quite capable of driving the car. Horses grew nervous at the unfamiliar noise, so she slowed down when she spotted a carriage. She didn’t want to spook anyone’s horse. Many people were killed in runaway buggies, not only because of automobiles, but also because they unknowingly purchased horses unsuited to the task of drawing a carriage behind it. There was some skill involved in picking a proper horse for such duties.
The wind in her face made Claire laugh with sheer joy for the first time during the single week of her marriage. John pretended that she wasn’t there, except at breakfast and supper, when he was obliged to acknowledge her as they shared a table with the elderly Mrs. Dobbs. Unaware of the true nature of their marriage, she was forever teasing them and making broad hints about additions to the family.
The good-natured teasing didn’t seem to bother John. She wondered if he even heard it, so preoccupied did he seem. But it disturbed Claire. It was stifling to pretend all the time.
Here, though, in the motorcar, whizzing down the rough dirt road at almost twenty miles per hour, she didn’t have to worry about appearances. She was so well covered in the driving gear that she wouldn’t have been recognizable to people who knew her. She felt free, powerful, invincible. The road was clear of other vehicles, so she let out a whoop and coaxed even more speed from the motorcar.
It had a natty curved dash, spoked wheels, and a long rod with a knob that came up from the box between the front tires, which was how the driver steered it. The engine was mounted between the rear tires, with the gearbox under the small seat. It now zipped along the rough roads smartly, although it had had no end of problems, which Claire and her uncle had needed to deal with on a daily basis. For one thing, the boiler tended to overheat, and in fact, Claire still had to stop every mile and let it cool down. The transmission band snapped with irritating regularity. Oil that had to be splashed over bearings to prevent their overheating constantly leaked past the piston rings and fouled the spark plugs. Brake problems abounded. But despite all those minor headaches, the little engine chugged merrily along for short spells, and Claire felt on top of the world when she drove.
She loved driving in Atlanta, past the elaborate traps and carriages. It was a city of such history, and she herself had been part of two fairly recent celebrations in 1898. The first had been the United Confederate Veterans reunion in July, to which some five thousand visitors had flocked to see the grand old gentlemen parade down Peachtree Street in their uniforms. She recalled old General Gordon sitting astride his grand black horse in the rain as the parade passed by him on the thirty-fourth anniversary of the Battle of Atlanta. The moment, so poignant, had brought tears to her eyes. The Northern newspapers had been disparaging about the event, as if Southerners had no right to show respect for ordinary men who had died defending their homes in a war many felt had been caused by rich planters who were too greedy to give up their slaves.
But controversy dimmed in December of the same year, when another rally was held. Called the Atlanta Peace Jubilee, it was to celebrate the victory of America in the Spanish-American War. President William McKinley was there, and Claire actually got to see him. John had been in the hospital at the time, and Claire had gone to tell him all about the excitement of seeing Confederate and Union war veterans celebrating side by side.
In fact, just this past July, Claire and Uncle Will had joined John at the Aragon Hotel at a reunion attended by veterans from both Union and Confederate forces. There, she thought, was a truly touching event as old enemies reminisced together and tried to bury the past.
In what seemed a very short time, Claire was home, maneuvering the little vehicle past Mrs. Dobbs’s towering white Victorian house. She guided it carefully into the shed and disengaged the engine, wrinkling her nose at the fumes from the gasoline. The burning oil was equally obnoxious to the nostrils. She fanned at the air, keenly aware of the stains on her uncle’s long driving coat and on her face, as well.
She climbed out and patted the open