A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,126
man into the mix.”
He blinked. “Just how many men are we talking about?”
“Does it really matter? You know I’ve always been good at juggling.”
“I don’t know,” he said coolly. “Sounds to me as if you’re losing your touch.”
He rose and I handed him his shoes. “Don’t be sore, Quentin. I have to figure some things out and I can only do that with a clear head. If I sleep with you now, I’ll only confuse myself more. You always were so good at making me forget everyone else.”
That little piece of flattery did the trick. He gave me a contrite look and dropped a kiss to my cheek. “Darling Delilah. I was being a brute. Forgive me. I hope you manage to get it all sorted.”
“So do I. Will you come to Fairlight?”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I have to hurry back to England. I left things rather in a muddle when I dashed off to take care of you.”
I put my hand to his cheek. “Dearest Quentin. How good you are to me.”
“But not quite good enough,” he said ruefully. He kissed me again and then he was gone.
That night, alone in my bed, I finally opened Mossy’s letter. I read it over quickly, then twice more, savouring each word. She had a child’s handwriting, loose and loopy, filling the pages with a hasty scribble of violet ink. She wrote that Granny Miette was holding a conjuring and had assured her I would be protected. Mossy related this in stilted words, and I could just picture the tight expression on her face. She claimed not to approve of such goings-on, saying they were backward and silly, but I had known her to ask for a bottle of Follow Me Water when she wanted to turn a man’s head or a pinch of goofer dust to sprinkle in the footsteps of a rival. She went on to say that Granny had made a special trip into New Orleans to light a candle to Our Lady of Prompt Succour. I smiled when I read that and crossed myself quickly. “God bless you, Granny,” I murmured. The Colonel hadn’t taken matters quite so well. He’d cut me off for good, Mossy said. No more tidy allowances coming from the profits of the sugar plantation, and if I ever wanted to come back to Reveille to see Granny, I’d have to do it when he was elsewhere. I muttered a swearword or two as I turned the page. The rest of the letter was just random news of people we knew—who got married, who was getting divorced and who was the cause of it. It was Mossy’s way of telling me that life went on and that this, too, would pass. She carried on in that vein until the last page.
They said there was a curse on us and maybe there is. Maybe we were born under bad stars or maybe for us there’s always a bad moon on the rise. But if it’s true, if sorrow and loss follow us around like mean stray dogs, then that means somewhere, some fighting angel decided we were strong enough to take it. So shine up your dancing shoes and pinch your cheeks and lift your chin, child. Because if we’re on the road to hell, we’re going to dance the whole damn way and give them something to talk about when we’re gone.
And below that, she had signed it, using a word that at her insistence hadn’t crossed my lips since I was five years old.
All my love, Mama
I folded the letter and put it under my pillow and turned out the light. And in the darkness I heard it, the quiet green stillness that comes when the rains end and all the world is limp and soft and ready to begin again. I turned my face to the window where a slender new moon was rising and I slept.
* * *
I had nothing to pack, so I was empty-handed when I strolled down the main staircase of the Norfolk. My bill had been settled by Quentin, and I walked out to find Ryder’s ancient battered truck idling at the curb. I ran to it and wrenched open the door.
“Memsahib Delilah! How good it is to see you! I have come to take you home.” Mr. Patel was wearing his motoring goggles, as was his little monkey. The monkey hopped up onto a hamper and chattered angrily at me.