A Reluctant Belle Read online

  May 2, 1870

  Joelle adjusted the focus of the opera glasses Grandmama had loaned her for the evening. The mahogany paneling, gilt gaslight chandeliers, and velvet draperies of the Greenlaw Opera House blurred into the background of Schuyler’s laughing countenance. He was golden himself, like Dionysus come down to carouse with mortal fraternity brothers. Clad with careless elegance in a well-tailored black suit and snowy linen, longish hair tumbling over his brow in burnished waves, he fairly glowed with joie de vivre.

  He’d said he wasn’t coming. What was he doing here?

  “Joelle, are you not feeling well? Perhaps I could fetch you a lemonade.”

  Startled, she dropped the glasses and turned to find Gil already halfway out of his seat. All day, during the long train ride to Memphis and then dinner at her grandparents’ house, he’d been even more attentive than usual.

  “No, no, I’m fine.” She forced Schuyler out of her mind.

  “But you were growling. Or clearing your throat. I thought you might be about to—you know . . .” Gil’s color rose.

  ThomasAnne, seated to her left, looked at Dr. Ben, seated to her left. “Oh dear, I knew that fish at dinner looked suspect. Ben, maybe you should take a look at her.”

  Joelle had to laugh at her cousin’s excessive concern. “There was nothing wrong with the fish. I’m just surprised to find Schuyler in the audience, after he carried on so the other night.”

  “Where is he?” Gil grabbed the glasses and began to search the audience.

  “Down front with that pack of young men. The tall one in the middle with his cravat half untied.”

  “I don’t know how you can tell that from the back.” Gil handed the glasses back to her. “But I wouldn’t be surprised. Beaumont is an undisciplined”—he stopped himself and glanced at ThomasAnne—“idiot.”

  Joelle saw no need to encourage Gil’s incessant criticism of Schuyler. “Shh. The lights are dimming.” The curtain opened, and she was soon lost in musical euphoria. Delfina Fabio lived up to her billing. Joelle might have her differences with her autocratic grandparent but could only be grateful for this unexpected treat. She would never have been able to afford the tickets, let alone the train fare, on her hotel manager’s salary.

  The lights came on for intermission, and she looked around to regain her bearings. Realizing Gil had been staring at her and not the stage, she jumped to her feet. “I need some air.”

  Gil rose. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I have to—I need to—” She circled a hand vaguely.

  Blushing, Gil dropped back into his seat. “Oh.”

  She’d almost made it out to the lobby when someone grabbed her by the arm. She whirled, jerking free of the drunk who had accosted her, and faced the untied cravat and stubborn chin of Dionysus himself.

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?” he demanded before she could say a word.

  Gently bred single women didn’t wander around alone. She knew that. But the look of disapproval narrowing his blue-gray eyes was annoying.

  “It’s intermission. I’m doing what one does during intermission.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Women travel in packs. Where’s ThomasAnne?”

  “She’s in her seat.” She looked him up and down. And up and up. He was one of the few men of her acquaintance who towered over her nearly six-foot height. “But if we are being interfering and inquisitive, perhaps you’ll tell me what has overcome your professed violent disdain for opera.”

  He stared at her, as if he couldn’t decide whether she really wanted to know or had simply thrown out a verbal barb.

  She wasn’t sure of that herself.

  Finally he said, “Hixon and Jefcoat and I came with General Forrest and his wife. I met them at the fund-raiser yesterday, and apparently Mrs. Forrest is on the opera board.”

  Nathan Bedford Forrest, one of the most celebrated Confederate officers to survive the Recent Unpleasantness, had retired to direct the post-war recovery of the South from his Memphis plantation. Rumors swirled regarding his involvement in vigilante groups like the Red Shirts and the Ku Klux Klan.

  Joelle stifled hurt that Schuyler had accepted the Forrests’ invitation after turning hers down. “I see. That’s . . . interesting. In that case, please excuse me while I conclude my business.” She dipped a pert curtsey and turned.

  “Wait—Joelle, don’t go like that.” He caught her hand.

  She turned with a sigh. “What, Schuyler?”

  “I told the Forrests about you and your sisters and the hotel, and his wife wanted to meet you.”

  “Really?” She bit her lip, the reporter in her coming alive. She could interview General Forrest and write a truthful article about him. Mr. McCanless, editor of the Tupelo Journal, would certainly buy such a hot-topic piece.

  “Yes, but here’s the kicker. We’ve all been invited to a party after the opera, hosted by this Fabio woman—the star of the show. I told the general how you love music. Wouldn’t you like to come?”

  She stared at Schuyler. There was something soft in his expression, almost as if he were trying to please her. Which was such an odd idea, she brushed it away as a quirk of her imagination. Schuyler rarely tried to please anyone but himself.

  But getting to know an opera singer would almost be worth the effort of staying up late and making small talk. “I suppose that would be nice,” she said slowly, “if the rest of my party doesn’t mind. Thank you for thinking of me. I’ll meet you in the lobby when the opera’s over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in a hurry.” Squeezing his hand, she whirled in the direction of the ladies’ room.

  Schuyler watched the back of Joelle’s red-gold head disappear into the crowd milling about the lobby. Feeling rather strangled, he reached up to loosen his tie and found it, to his deep chagrin, already dangling against his shirtfront. He’d been so busy herding his friend Kenard Hixon out of the hotel bar and finding a hack for the opera that he’d had no thought for a mirror. No wonder Joelle had looked at him like something she’d just shaken off her shoe. She probably thought he’d taken a turn through the ale house himself.

  Which, come to think of it, would have been a deal more fun than this highbrow snorefest. If he hadn’t told Joelle he’d introduce her to the Forrests after the opera, he’d ditch the whole thing and go back to the billiards room at the Peabody. He glanced in the direction of the women’s retiring room. He didn’t like the thought of Joelle wandering about unescorted. He knew how well that dazzling exterior disguised her introverted soul. He could wait for her, walk her back to her seat.

  But she’d probably challenge his “interference” again. How was a man to maintain a code of chivalry in the face of such manic independence?

  So he made his way through the darkened theater, stumbling over indignant patrons who hadn’t been cursed by acquaintance with Joelle Daughtry. He longed for simpler days when his major trial had been sailing a blockade runner across Mobile Bay under Union gunboat fire. Flumping into his seat between Hixon and the third member of their triumvirate, Jefcoat, who had just arrived, he scowled at the portly tenor carrying on in the limelight. Fabio the Fabulous, as the American press dubbed her, was nowhere in sight. He couldn’t imagine why Joelle was so excited about meeting her.

  “Where you been?” Hixon whispered, nearly singeing Schuyler’s eyebrows with the alcohol on his breath. “Might’ve known you’d ditch ush in favor of shome sh-shkirt.”

  “That was no skirt, at least in the sense you mean.” Schuyler elbowed his erstwhile fraternity brother. “Stow it before you get us thrown out.”

  “That wouldn’ be shuch a great losh.” Bitterness laced Hixon’s tone. “You owe me a drink after thish.”

  “I think you’ve already reached your—”

  “Shhhhh!” someone behind them hissed.

  Schuyler slumped deeper into his seat.

  Sometime later he awoke to thunderous applause and shouts of “Encore! Encore!” Circling his h
ead to relieve the crick in his neck, he sat up. The entire cast had paraded onto the stage for an extravagant mass bow. Flowers flew over the heads of the orchestra, and the audience—with the exception of himself—came to its collective feet. The lovely dark-haired Fabio in her red velvet gown glided to stage center, where she kissed her hands with extravagant drama.

  Thank the Lord it was over. He could find Joelle, take her to the Peabody, introduce her to the Forrests, and call it a day.

  His father owed him one for this dangerous foray into enemy territory.

  He stood up, looking for his two companions. Jefcoat was snoring like a freight train, head back against the seat, so perhaps he’d just leave him to sleep it off. Hixon was hunched over, elbows on knees.

  Schuyler shoved him. “Hixon! Get up! It’s time to go.”

  Hixon looked up, his face a strange greenish white above his thick beard. “I think I’m gonna be—”

  two

  “JOELLE, YOU ARE ENTIRELY TOO DREAMY and impulsive,” Papa had said to her the morning he sent her and Selah off to boarding school, as if it were a character flaw of which she should be mortally ashamed. “This is for your own good. Let go of your mama and get on that train with your sister, right now.”

  She felt something of that sense of dread as she threaded through the crowd leaving the theater, behind ThomasAnne, Gil, and Doc. Had she really agreed to attend an opera star’s cast party at the Peabody Hotel? What if she wasn’t dressed right? What if she tripped over her own big feet? What if she unintentionally said something insulting to the wrong person? Schuyler would be embarrassed, his father’s campaign would be negatively affected, and the hotel would lose business.

  Intelligent, levelheaded Selah or bubbly Aurora should have been chosen for this task.

  As they reached the lobby, she tugged the back of ThomasAnne’s simple bolero jacket. “ThomasAnne, I need to tell you something. I ran into Schuyler during intermission. That’s why I was late coming back into the theater.”

  ThomasAnne turned with a smile. “That’s nice. Did you invite him to come to Aunt Winnie’s house after the opera? You know how she dotes on him.”

  “No, I didn’t invite him. I actually didn’t think of it, though I’m sure he’ll come by sometime tomorrow. I was just going to say, he invited me to a party at the Peabody. I’m to meet Miss Fabio and some of the other singers. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  ThomasAnne’s naturally arched eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “Tonight? But it’s nearly eleven o’clock! We can’t go to a party. It’s bedtime!”

  “Well . . . Actually, he only invited me. You don’t have to come.”

  “Oh.” ThomasAnne blinked. “Certainly I don’t mind, but what about your escort?”

  “My escort?” She watched Doc and Gil strolling along in conversation a few steps ahead of them. “You mean Gil?” She hadn’t considered how he might feel to be excluded. Oh no.

  Apparently realizing the women had gotten left behind, Doc elbowed Gil and turned to see what was going on. “Is something the matter?”

  “Joelle wants to go to a party,” ThomasAnne said, looking troubled. “At the Peabody, with Schuyler.” She made it sound like an orgy.

  Doc looked concerned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your grandmother will expect you to come home with us.”

  Joelle had somewhat expected these objections, had even considered letting her elders override her plans. But suddenly she remembered she was a modern twenty-two-year-old woman. A professional writer, a journalist. Why couldn’t she go to a party if she wanted to? “I’m afraid I’ve already agreed to go. There comes Schuyler right now.”

  She saw his golden-wheat head weaving through the crowd. As he got closer, she realized he had his friend Hixon’s arm draped over his shoulders, lugging him along like a sack of wheat. Hixon did not look well.

  Schuyler gave Joelle a rather desperate look. “Wait there. I’ll be right back.” He hauled Hixon toward the men’s room.

  Joelle watched them go, mouth open.

  “Joelle, you’re not going anywhere with that reprobate,” Gil said. “Look at the company he keeps.”

  ThomasAnne brought out her fan. “I need to sit down. I think I’m going to faint.”

  “I think we all need to sit down,” Doc said grimly. “Reverend Reese, if you’ll be so good as to secure a hack to take us all to McGowan House, I’ll go to the cloakroom and find the ladies’ wraps.”

  Joelle lifted her chin. “I would appreciate it if you’d collect my wrap, and of course you all are perfectly free to return to Grandmama’s house. I’m going to the Peabody. But first somebody needs to go check on Schuyler and his friend.” She looked at Doc.

  Doc wavered. “Perhaps I should—”

  “He got himself in this mess. He can take care of himself.” Gil folded his arms.

  Schuyler chose that moment to return, looking exceedingly harrassed. “Joelle, I’m going to have to take Hixon to our room before I can take you to the party.”

  She had made up her mind not to be coerced. “That’s all right. I’ll just go with you.”

  “Hixon will be fine in the morning, but he’s not fit for female company right now.” Schuyler shoved his hands into his already wild hair. “I’m not sure how long this is going to take.”

  Whose side was he on? “The others can drop me off at the Peabody,” Joelle said. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  ThomasAnne started bleating incoherent protests.

  “You can’t do that, Jo,” Doc said, not unkindly. “As you can see, your cousin is worried about you. We need to get her home to your grandparents.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Gil said suddenly.

  A minute ago he hadn’t wanted her to go. Now he stared at Schuyler like a bull ready to lock horns. Joelle did not fancy herself in the role of a cow. “Now wait just a—”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Schuyler said. “Y’all wait in the Peabody lobby, and I’ll find you after I get Hixon settled.” He wheeled off into the crowd again.

  Gil cleared his throat and addressed Doc with assumed authority. “Joelle seems to have her heart set on absorbing as much of what her grandmother considers ‘culture’ as possible in one evening. Such an opportunity does not often come. Besides, I confess I should like to make the acquaintance of the talented Miss Fabio myself.” He took Joelle’s hand and tucked it into the bend of his elbow. “I’ll chaperone her at the party and make sure she returns to McGowan House well before the stroke of midnight. After all, we cannot let our heroine’s carriage turn into a pumpkin, can we?”

  Joelle didn’t relish being obligated to Gil, and she didn’t much like fairy tales. But having committed herself, there was no backing down. Where was one’s fairy godmother when one needed her?

  As they entered the Peabody’s luxurious lobby, whose golden chandeliers cast glittering light from the grand curving staircase to the massive front door to the gleaming walnut service desk, Joelle looked up at Gil. He might not be as extravagantly good-looking as Schuyler, but there was character in his bony face and kindness in his eyes as he glanced down to make sure she didn’t slip on the polished marble entryway.

  “Thank you for coming with me, Gil. I really appreciate it.”

  His expression brightened. “I’m happy if you’re happy.” He indicated a tufted brown velvet sofa just inside the door. “Why don’t we wait here until Beaumont arrives?”

  Joelle sat down, pulling her wrap about her shoulders. Though she wasn’t cold, she definitely felt out of her element. She would be glad when Schuyler arrived. As much as he irritated her sometimes, his force of character had always served as a welcome buffer for her shyness.

  “Are you comfortable?” Gil sat beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.

  “Yes, thank you.” She hesitated. “Gil, why did you really offer to come with me? I know you don’t like parties.”

  He reddened. “Neither do you!”

  “That’s
true, in the normal way of things. But I did want to meet Miss Fabio. If she comes to the hotel, she’ll bring others with her. The word will get out. Besides, she seems like an interesting person. I enjoy talking to interesting people.”

  He looked as if he didn’t believe her. “Interesting people are usually immoral.”

  Did he realize what he’d just said? She laughed. “That’s a bit of an overstatement. I’m not immoral! Don’t you find me interesting?”

  “Of course I do, I only meant—” His big hands gripped his knees. “You’re not that kind of interesting. You’re the perfect sort of quiet lady I enjoy spending time with.”

  “I was just teasing. But, Gil, I’m not the perfect anything.” She sighed. “I have lots of faults that I’m trying to correct. Helping others, for example. I don’t want to be selfish.”

  His gentle gray eyes were puzzled. “Joelle, I don’t think of you as selfish at all. I’ve seen you trying to educate your slaves.”

  “They’re not slaves!”

  “I just meant, they work for you—and yet you take your lunchtime to help them learn to read and write. That’s more than most people do.”

  “It’s the least I can do. How can people take care of themselves if they can’t read a contract or do basic arithmetic or even read the Bible? God’s Word tells us to treat others the way we want to be treated.”

  “You’re right, of course. I should put that in my next sermon.”

  “Yes, you should,” she said quickly. “If Christians don’t show love in these simple ways, who is going to? Why should Southern Christians stand back and let missionaries from up north come down here to do what we can do ourselves?”

  “Joelle, what are you talking about?” He looked alarmed. And confused.

  “The American Missionary Association has been sending teachers into Southern states to start schools since the war ended. I’ve been looking into getting connected with them.” She’d been thinking about this for some time, and she was glad he’d brought the subject up. “But why can’t we move my little school to our church? The building isn’t used for anything during the week. It would be closer to the Shake Rag community, and even more people could come, adults and children! You could be the headmaster—”