Forever (11 page)

Despite the soft warmth of the night, she shivered in her lace-trimmed nightdress. She had been destined to marry Beau and now she was going to marry Bradley. She could barely remember Bradley's face. It was Beau's image that burned in her brain. She could see the narrow eyes set slanting above high cheekbones, the mouth quirking in a mocking smile as if he were only feet away from her.

‘Oh my love,' she whispered as the moon rode high in the sky. ‘Why did you leave me? Why? Why?'

Leo settled himself into Charles's leather wing chair and shook open a copy of the morning paper, thankful for his bachelorhood and his consequent lack of worries. The guest list for the party was on a side table, names scored through viciously in red ink. Though Charles had not told him when they'd met at breakfast, Leo knew that Charles had spent most of the night hours going over and over it, searching for the guest who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dead Beauregard Clay.

‘Good morning, Cousin Leo. Has Daddy gone?'

Leo peered over the top of the centre page. ‘About fifteen minutes ago, Gussie.' He frowned. Unless he was very much mistaken, Gussie's slender shoulders appeared to be relaxed, and it seemed to him that her lemon dress and matching hair ribbon were not the sort of clothes someone who was distressed might wear. It seemed that Charles had been overreacting to Gussie's behaviour the previous evening.

‘Going somewhere special?' he asked with a smile.

‘I'm having lunch with Bradley. There's a house at Baton Rouge he wants us to have a look at.'

‘That young man certainly doesn't let the grass grow under his feet, does he?'

Gussie gave a small smile. ‘No. Would you like some more coffee, Cousin Leo?'

‘I wouldn't say no. I've lived in Vancouver so long, I've forgotten how good real chicory coffee tastes.'

Gussie rang for Allie and then sat on the sofa, staring towards the far corner of the room where the screen had stood the night before. She had made up her eyes and her lips were glossed, but her face was pale, her eyes pensive.

‘I thought perhaps Bradley would be tempted by the North,' Leo said, injecting a note of briskness into his voice in an effort to dispel her sombre quietness. ‘New York or Washington, for instance.'

Allie came in with the coffee and Gussie poured.

‘No. Bradley is a Southerner through and through. He wants to stay here and build up a law practice.'

Leo's eyebrows rose. ‘I thought Bradley was all set to take over the family's banking fortunes?'

With an effort, Gussie tore her eyes away from the corner of the room. ‘He wants to make it on his own first. That's why he wants to buy a place instead of renting one or living at St Michel or with his parents.'

Leo sipped at his coffee. ‘As I remember it, the Hampton home would house an army. It must be one of the biggest plantation houses left in the district.' He shook his head, thinking of his neat service flat in Vancouver. ‘Why people still want to live on in those great white mausoleums, I can't imagine.'

Gussie trembled so violently that her coffee spilled into the saucer. Mausoleums. She had never visited the Clay mausoleum. She had never paid her respects. She set the cup and saucer down unsteadily. Perhaps she should go. Perhaps she should make an excuse to Bradley and go today. She heard the Thunderbird sweep to a halt outside St Michel's entrance with a screech of tyres.

‘Have a nice day,' Leo said, returning to his paper.

‘Yes …' It was too late now. She could already hear Bradley's voice greeting the butler. She would go tomorrow: or the day after.

‘Hello, princess,' Bradley said, taking her in his arms and kissing her full on the mouth. ‘You look sensational.'

She clung to him, relief flooding through her. This was Bradley: flesh and blood: warm and loving. Suddenly her fears seemed groundless, and her melancholia lifted. She was going to view a house that could well be her future home. She was happy and in love.

Hands clasped, they ran down St Michel's wide shallow steps and towards the car. As Bradley swung the door open for her, a small exhalation of breath brushed the nape of her neck. She halted, trying to keep hold of the sensation, but it vanished as swiftly as it had come.

‘What is it, sweetheart?'

‘Nothing.' She got into the car and Bradley started the engine.

‘Bradley …' She hesitated. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to share everything with him only it was so difficult. They eased out of the drive and the Thunderbird picked up speed. ‘Bradley, last night the strangest thing happened.'

‘Your father got stoned.'

‘No.' For once her usual giggle was absent. ‘Cousin Leo was showing some film of my birthday party and …'

‘Idiot.' Bradley said as a pale blue Continental swerved out in front of him. ‘What were you saying, honey? Were they good?'

‘Yes.' Her voice was bleak. ‘Yes. They were very good.'

She couldn't tell Bradley. He would laugh at her; tease her. Besides, she didn't really
want
to tell Bradley. She wanted to keep her thoughts of Beau Clay to herself.

‘It's plenty big enough,' Bradley said as he and Gussie strolled through the empty rooms. ‘The pool isn't Olympic sized, but I like the way it's been landscaped with palms and magnolias. What do you think of the balcony off the main bedroom? We can breakfast there and pretend we're in the Vieux Carré.'

‘It's lovely, Brad,' she said softly, her voice holding none of its usual verve.

Bradley frowned and stared down at her. ‘You don't have to like it to please me, Gussie. I don't care
where
we live as long as you are happy.'

She forced a smile and squeezed his hand. ‘I mean it, Brad. It's lovely.'

Faintly perturbed, Bradley led the way back to the car and drove to the nearest restaurant.

‘Are you feeling O.K., Gussie?' he asked as the waiter took their order. ‘You look pale.'

‘I'm fine. Truly.'

Bradley wondered if being faced with the house had given her a sudden attack of pre-wedding nerves. Instead of laughing and chattering, squeezing his arm, kissing him at every opportunity, teasing him unmercifully, Gussie remained strangely subdued, barely hearing him when he spoke to her. The day was not turning out remotely as he had envisaged. Instead of Gussie being overjoyed at the sight of their future home, she seemed almost indifferent. Instead of the happy celebration he had planned, she was picking listlessly at her food and ignoring the expensive wine he had selected with such care.

Her mood was contagious. By the end of the meal he, too, had lapsed into silence, though Gussie seemed unaware of it.

Disappointedly he drove her home, hoping that the sight of St Michel would arouse her from her stupor and that she would ask why they had returned so soon. She didn't. She allowed him to kiss her goodbye and then said hesitantly, ‘Do you believe that love is forever, Bradley?'

He tilted her chin so that her troubled eyes met his. ‘Of course, I do, darling. I shall never love anyone else. Is that what's been troubling you?' He grinned and held her close. ‘Goose,' he said tenderly. ‘How could you ever imagine that I would cease to love you?'

A faint frown puckered her brow. ‘Once you give your word there can be no going back, can there?'

‘Never.' He held her close, trying to reassure her foolish doubts.

Her face was pressed against his chest. She said indistinctly, ‘Then it isn't possible to love again when you have already vowed your love to someone else?'

‘No.' He held her away from him, his voice emphatic. ‘I don't know what's got into you, Gussie, but I can tell you that I've never loved anyone else and that I never
will
love anyone else. When we make our wedding vows I intend to keep them. Understand?'

‘Yes.' Her voice was little more than a whisper, her eyes on his but strangely unseeing and unfocussing. ‘Yes,' she repeated. ‘I understand.'

‘Then stop looking so tragic and get back in the car. I've tickets for the theatre tonight.'

She shook her head. ‘I'd rather not, Bradley. I don't feel too good. Maybe another night.'

‘But the tickets are for tonight …' he began and then stopped in mid-sentence. She was already halfway into the house.

‘What the hell …' he said and then savagely tore up the tickets and drove to a club in the French Quarter where he drank Hurricanes until his frustration was drowned in an alcoholic haze.

Gussie sat on her bed and stared at her row of dolls. The dolls stared back unblinkingly. Why did she feel so strange? Why had she hurt Bradley when he had made so much effort to make the day special? Why could she not give him her attention? Why was it centred so firmly on Beau Clay?

Slowly she moved across to the dressing table and sat down. Did she love Beau, and not Bradley? Did she love them both? Or did she love Bradley, and did Beau know, and was his presence at her side a reminder of her foolishness; of her lightly-made vow? She slammed down the hair brush so hard on the polished wood that it splintered. She was being idiotic. There were no such things as ghosts. Beau was dead and had never loved her. That had all been in her imagination. She was in love with Bradley; she was going to marry Bradley. She was bound to no one else but the man whose ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand.

‘Forever,'
the silence breathed.
‘Forever and forever and forever.'

‘No!' she shouted, drowning the insidious whisper. ‘It was a
game
! It didn't mean anything! It couldn't have!'

‘Forever.'
The words echoed and reverberated. Vainly she pressed her hands over her ears. Bradley had believed that once a vow was given it could not be broken. She had vowed to make Beau Clay love her forever. Was he surmounting death to keep his promise? Was it Beau's shadow that fell across her on the cloudiest of days? Beau's voice that whispered so insistently in her ear? Beau, who had stood beneath the trees of St Michel and watched in jealous anger as she danced with another man?

She groaned, scarcely recognizing herself in the glass. Her eyes seemed huge in her whitened face. The gaiety and the vivacity had gone. All that was left was a mental anguish that grew steadily, minute by minute. She closed her eyes, fighting for self-control. She had to think. She had to behave rationally. Eden: she would telephone Eden. Eden's commonsense was unfailing.

With shaking hands she dialled the Alexanders'number.

‘Hi! Nice to hear from you at last,' Eden said, putting
Madame Bovary
down and pouring herself another glass of chilled Chablis.

‘Can you come over, Eden? Now?'

At the tone of her voice, Eden paused, holding the bottle in mid-air. ‘What is it Gussie? You sound ill.'

‘I'm not ill. I just need to talk and I can't do it over the phone. Please come.'

‘I'm on my way.' Eden recorked the Chablis, flung it into her bag and walked quickly from the room. Gussie's time had been so taken up with Bradley that she hadn't seen her in ages. However, one thing was for sure. The voice on the phone had not been that of the old, fun-loving, irrepressible Gussie.

‘My God,' Eden said as she entered Gussie's bedroom. ‘I thought future brides were supposed to be radiant. You look like Mae on a bad night.'

‘Quit joking, Eden. I feel terrible.'

‘I believe you,' Eden said, searching for a tooth mug and filling it with Chablis. ‘You look it. What's wrong?'

Gussie sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her. Now that it had come to it, the whole thing sounded so ridiculous that she didn't know where to begin.

‘Here.' Eden handed her the tooth mug and searched for another glass. ‘I've discovered a delicious fact of life. I'm an alcoholic who never gets drunk.'

Gussie sipped the wine. Eden sat on the window seat and waited. At last Gussie said awkwardly, ‘Do you remember that silly ritual we held here the night Beau Clay died?'

Imperceptibly Eden stiffened. ‘Yes. What of it?'

‘It couldn't have
meant
anything, could it?'

‘In what way?'

Gussie felt her throat tighten with suppressed hysteria. ‘Well, it couldn't have
worked
, could it?'

Eden shrugged. ‘
You
thought it could.'

Gussie put her glass down and hugged her arms around her body as if she were cold. ‘But Beau died.'

‘Yes.' Eden regarded Gussie curiously.

Gussie rose from the bed and began to pace the room, rubbing her arms as if to bring some warmth back into them.

‘Eden, I think I'm going mad. I keep hearing Beau calling my name. I keep feeling his shadow. Today I felt his breath on the nape of my neck!'

Eden tried to check her, but once started Gussie rushed on heedlessly.

‘He was at my birthday party! Cousin Leo took movies and he was there, on the film! I swear he was! He doesn't want me to marry Bradley! He wants me for himself! He's going to love me forever, just as I said he would!'

Eden sprang from the window seat and grabbed her, halting her frenzied pacing. ‘You're
hysterical
, Augusta Lafayette. Beau Clay is dead.'

‘Then he wants me to join him! He wants us to be together!'

Eden slapped her viciously across the face and Gussie collapsed on to the floor, sobbing unrestrainedly.

‘I loved him so much,' she gasped. ‘I would have sold my soul to have had him. Is that what I've done, Eden? Sold my soul?'

‘Your sanity more like,' Eden said cruelly, dragging her to her feet and shaking her. ‘That childish charade was utterly meaningless, Gussie. If you hear Beau Clay calling your name it's because subconsciously you want to hear him call your name. It's about time you put him from your mind. You loved him and he's dead. Now you love Bradley. Be careful with that glass of wine. It's a nineteen seventy-one.'