Magnolia

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 seat lovingly. “There, now, Chester,” she cooed, using her own pet name for the mechanical creature she loved with all her heart, “you’re home at last. I’ll be out to clean your plugs later.” She grimaced as she noted the knots that secured the wheel on the back. “And I guess I’ll have to bring a knife, to free that,” she murmured to herself. It was unlikely that she was going to be able to enlist John to untie the complicated sailor’s knots that Uncle Will’s neighbor had used to tie on the bicycle. He had so little time to spend with her, even in the evenings. Especially in the evenings.

She closed the shed up, twisted the wooden knob that secured it, and went toward the back of the house, stripping off the car coat and goggles on her way. She walked down the hall, intent on reaching the upstairs apartment without being seen in her deplorable condition, her once pristine skirt and blouse splotched with dust and dirt and oil, her face grimy, her hair disheveled from the goggles and driving cap.

Just as she gained the hall, she unexpectedly came face-to-face with her husband and two men in business suits.

John looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her—worse, as if he didn’t want to recognize her! His dark eyes grew darker and he took a visible breath.

“Claire, come and meet Edgar Hall and Michael Corbin, two of my colleagues. Gentlemen, my wife, Claire.”

“How do you do,” she said, with a smile, extending a grimy hand—which they both shook without apparent distaste. “You’ll have to excuse the way I look; I’ve just been driving my uncle’s motorcar up here from Colbyville. It took most of the morning.”

“You drive a motorcar, Mrs. Hawthorn?” one of the men asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she replied proudly. “My uncle taught me.”

He gave John a speaking glance. “How…er…interesting and unusual.”

“Isn’t it?” she replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and get cleaned up.”

“You do that,” John said, looking as if he were dying to say more.

She made her escape, painfully aware of the shocked and disturbed glances she was getting.

“…not wise to let your wife be driving that contraption around,” one of the men, the older one, said as she reached the top of the staircase. “What will people say?”

She didn’t wait for John’s reaction. Men! she thought angrily. If a woman took off her apron and did anything intelligent, it shocked them speechless. Well, they were due for a few more shocks, if she had her way. And that included her reluctant husband!

But her bravado lasted only until John came into their apartment. The very sharp and deliberate way he closed the door was disturbing.

“I won’t have you driving that contraption around the city,” he said shortly.

“Because it isn’t ladylike and your friends don’t approve?” she taunted, eyes sparkling with bad temper.

“Because the damned thing is dangerous,” he returned. “Don’t drive it alone again.”

“Don’t you puff up at me like a rooster with ruffled feathers,” she shot back. “I’ll do what I please. I’m not your slave…or your property.”

The scowl grew darker. “You’re my wife, for my sins. I’m responsible for you. That thing is a death trap!”

“No more dangerous than a horse,” she informed him. “And the opinion of your colleagues matters not one whit to me!”

“Nor to me,” he said irritably. “My concern is for you, not public opinion.”

Her heart jumped. “Truly?”

“Truly. And I don’t want you talked about,” he added quietly, searching her eyes. “Some measure of decorum is called for. Your social status is higher now than it was when you lived with your uncle. You will have to conform, just a little.”

She felt sick inside. The old freedom-loving days of her youth seemed to have died with her uncle. Now she had to conform to fit in with polite society. How in the world would she manage that dull sort of life, after the wonderful days with Madcap Will?

She caught hold of the back of a graceful wing chair and held on to it for support. “I see,” she replied, staring at John as the full impact of the shift in her life hit her—and the difference in her husband. He wouldn’t have been overbearing like this with Diane. If she’d wanted to ride naked down the streets of Atlanta in a motorcar, he’d probably have said nothing about it. But then, he loved Diane. And while he was concerned for Claire, it was for her reputation. God forbid that more gossip should be added to fan the already blazing fires.

John let out a long sigh. Claire’s sudden pallor enhanced his guilt. “Certain sacrifices have to be expected in a marriage like ours.”

“My sacrifices, of course,” she said, nodding curtly. “You’ll go on as before, working fifteen-hour days and mooning over Diane.”

The attack caught him off-guard. “Damn you!” he snapped.

He seemed to implode, Claire thought. His eyes blazed at her, his stance threatened.

She lifted her chin and moved toward him, utterly fearless. “Would you like to hit me? Go ahead. I’m not afraid of you. Do your worst. I’ve lost my uncle and my home and my independence. But I haven’t lost my pride and my self-respect, and nothing you can do will take those away.”

“I don’t hit women,” he said icily. “But I won’t have you driving around in that motorcar alone. Try it again and I’ll cut the tires off the damned thing.”

“John!” she burst out, shocked at hearing him curse not once but twice in less than a minute.

He smiled coldly. “Do you think that because I work in a bank I don’t react like a normal man to things that anger me? I wore a uniform for several years, Claire, between graduating from the Citadel and going to Harvard. I was working in Atlanta when I reenlisted—long enough to fight in Cuba—but at one time, I never envisioned a life outside the military. I learned to conform to civilian life, because I had to. You’ll learn to conform to high society, because you have to. There’s been more than enough gossip about us already.”

He hadn’t spoken to her like this before—and now he was making himself a stranger to her. She cleared her throat.

“I had to get Chester here, didn’t I?”

“Chester?” he asked, scowling.

She made an awkward motion with her hand. “My motorcar.”

His eyes twinkled. She was an odd woman, he mused, full of spice and vinegar, but she gave a pet name to a piece of machinery.

“I won’t drive it.” She finally agreed, although it was like giving up a part of herself. Apparently the cost of her support was going to be the suppression of her personality. “I can ride my wheel when I need exercise, I suppose.”

“You needn’t sound so tragic. I only wish you to act like the wife of the vice president of one of the most prestigious banks in the South,” he said, “instead of a little girl playing with dangerous toys.”

Her gray eyes glittered. “A motorcar is hardly a toy.”

“For you, it is. Why don’t you spend some of this abundant free time you seem to have making friends or visiting or buying yourself some new clothes?” he asked irritably. “You’re living in the city now, not feeding your chickens and washing clothes like a countrywoman.”

In other words, she had to behave as if she were good enough to be married to a bank officer with a Harvard degree. She felt pure dislike for him.

“I shall try to give good value, sir,” she said haughtily, and curtsied.

He looked as if he might like to give way to a string of curses, but before he could utter them, Claire beat an orderly retreat to her room and slammed the door behind her.

A minute later, she opened it again, red-faced and furious. “Just to set the record straight, I was driving Chester up from Colbyville with my wheel tied on to save you the freight charges. And also for the record let me tell you that I have no intention of terrorizing Atlanta or shocking your friends with Chester. I shall ride the trolley!”

And she slammed the door again.

John stared at the closed door with mingled reactions, the strongest of which was amusement. Claire was spirited, all right. It was a pity his heart was Diane’s, because in many ways, Claire was his match.

He didn’t really mind her playing around with the car, but only when he was with her, to protect her from her reckless nature. Besides, she had to learn to conform to his lifestyle. It wouldn’t hurt her to be tamed, he thought, just a little. But all the same, he had to fight the very strong impulse to follow her into her bedroom and continue the argument. He found her stimulating in a temper. He wondered if the passion in her could be physical as well as verbal. Perhaps one day he’d be driven to find out.

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