Darkest Hour

  "Oh please, call me Bill. I'm William Cutler the Second, but I prefer being called Bill. It's more . . . informal and I like being informal with pretty women."

  "I imagine you do," I said, and he roared.

  When we stepped out on the porch, he stopped and gazed over the grounds. Showing them made me feel ashamed. My heart ached to see how the flower beds had been neglected, how the iron benches had been left to rust and how the fountains dripped with dirty water.

  "This must have been one helluva beautiful plantation at one time," Bill Cutler said. "Coming up that drive, I couldn't help but think about it when it was in its heyday."

  "It was," I said sadly.

  "That's the trouble with the Old South. It don't want to become the New South. These old dinosaurs refuse to admit they lost the Civil War. A businessman's got to look for new, more modern ways of doing things, and if good ideas come out of the North, why then, use them, too. Now you take me," he said. "I've taken over my father's boardinghouse and built it up into a fine place. I get some very high-class clientele coming to stay there. It's a prime piece of property on the ocean. In time . . . why, in time, Lillian, I'm going to be a very wealthy man." He paused. "Not that I'm not well off now."

  "You must be well off, spending all your time at cards and winning the homes and property of other more unfortunate people," I snapped. He roared again.

  "I like your spirit, Lillian. How old are you?"

  "I'm just about seventeen," I said.

  "A right prime age . . . unspoiled and yet you've got a certain look of sophistication about you, Lillian. Had many boyfriends?"

  "That's none of your business. You want to tour the plantation, not my past," I retorted. He roared again. It seemed like nothing I could say or do would upset him. The more obstinate and unfriendly I was, the more he liked me. Frustrated, I took him down the steps and around to see the barns, the smokehouse, the gazebo and the sheds full of old and rusted equipment. I introduced him to Charles, who explained how bad things were and how much machinery had to be replaced. He listened, but I found that no matter what I showed him or no matter whom I introduced him to, he kept his gaze on me.

  It made my heart flutter, but not in a way I enjoyed. He didn't gaze at me with soft, gentle eyes as sweet Niles had done; he looked at me with unbridled, wanton lust. When I spoke to him and described the plantation, he listened, but he didn't hear a word. Instead, he stood there with that wry smile, his eyes full of desire.

  Finally, I announced our tour had ended.

  "So soon?" he complained. "I was just beginning to really enjoy myself"

  "That's all there is," I said. I wasn't going to go too far from the house with him—I didn't feel safe alone with Mr. Bill Cutler. "So you see, you've won yourself a headache," I added. "All The Meadows will do is drain your pocketbook."

  He laughed.

  "Your father rehearse you to say all that?" he asked.

  "Mr. Cutler . . ."

  "Bill."

  "Bill. Haven't you heard or seen anything this past hour? You claim to be one of the South's new, wiser, modern businessmen. Are you saying you think I'm exaggerating?"

  He grew thoughtful for a moment and then turned and looked around as if his eyes had just opened to the condition of The Meadows. Then he nodded.

  "You got a point . . ." he said, smiling, "but I didn't spend a penny to get this and I could simply put it all up for auction, a piece at a time, if I liked."

  "Will you?" I asked, my heart thumping.

  He leered at me. "Maybe. Maybe not. It depends." "Depends on what?" I asked.

  "It just depends," he said, and I understood why Papa had said this man liked to play with people's lives and possessions. I started back toward the house ahead of him and he quickly caught up.

  "Might I interest you in joining me for dinner at my hotel tonight?" he asked. "It's not a very fancy place, but—"

  "No thank you," I said quickly. "I can't."

  "Why can't you? Too busy doing your father's empty books?" he retorted, obviously not used to being refused.

  I turned on him.

  "Why don't we just say I'm busy," I said, "and leave it at that."

  "Aren't you the proud one?" he muttered. "That's all right. I like a woman with spunk. She's a lot more interesting in bed," he added.

  My face reddened and I spun around on him.

  "That's rude and inappropriate, Mr. Cutler," I shot back. "Southern gentlemen might be dinosaurs to you, but at least they know how to speak properly to a young lady." Once again, he roared, and I hurried away and left him laughing behind me.

  But to my regret, less than half an hour later, he appeared again in the doorway of Charlotte's nursery to announce he had been invited to dinner.

  "I just stopped by to tell you that since you won't accept my invitation to dinner, I accepted your father's," he said, his eyes full of glee.

  "Papa invited you?" I asked incredulously. "Well," he replied, winking, "let's just say I wrangled one out of him. I'm looking forward to seeing you later," he teased, tipped his hat and left.

  I felt dreadful that such a coarse, arrogant man could worm his way into our home and have his way with us. And it was all because of Papa's foolish gambling. I couldn't help but agree with Emily this time—gambling was evil; it was like a disease, almost as bad as Papa's drinking. No matter how much it hurt him or how painful it was, he couldn't keep himself from wanting to do it again and again. Only now we were to suffer as well.

  I hugged baby Charlotte close to me and flooded her cheeks with kisses. She giggled and twirled the strands of my hair in her tiny fingers.

  "What sort of a world will you grow up in, Charlotte? I hope and pray it will be better than it was for me," I said.

  She stared up at me, her eyes big with interest because of my tone of voice and because of the tiny, infantlike tears that were falling from my all too sad eyes.

  Despite our poor economic state, Papa ordered Vera to prepare a far more elaborate dinner than we were accustomed to having during these times. His Southern pride would permit nothing less, and even though he disliked Bill Cutler and despised him for winning The Meadows at cards, he couldn't face him over a table of simple foods served on ordinary dishes. Instead, Vera had to bring out our most formal china and crystal. Tall white candles were put in our silver candelabra and a large tablecloth of snowy white linen that I hadn't seen used for several years was placed on the dining room table.

  Papa had only a few bottles of his expensive wine left, but two were placed on the table to go along with the duck. Bill Cutler insisted on sitting beside me. He was dressed very elegantly and formally and did, I had to confess to myself, look handsome. But his irreverent air, his sardonic grin, and his flirtatious manner continued to annoy me and put me off. I saw how much Emily despised him, but the more furiously she glared at him across the table, the more he seemed to enjoy himself at our dinner.

  He nearly broke out in laughter when Emily began with her Bible reading and prayer.

  "You people do this every night?" he asked skeptically.

  "Of course," Papa replied. "We're God-fearing folk."

  "You, Jed? God-fearing?" He roared, his face red with three glasses of wine already consumed. Papa glanced quickly at both Emily and me and turned crimson, too, but with swallowed rage. Bill Cutler had the sense to change the topic quickly. He raved about the meal and praised Vera, bestowing so many compliments on her that she blushed. Throughout the entire dinner, Emily glared at him with such an expression of disgust and loathing on her face, I had to bury a smile in my napkin. It got so Bill Cutler avoided gazing back at her across the table and concentrated on Papa and me.

  He described his hotel, what life was like at the beach, his travels and some of his plans for the future. Then he and Papa got into a heavy discussion about the economy and what the government ought and ought not to do. After dinner, the two of them adjourned to Papa's office to smoke cigars and sip brandy. I helped Ver
a clean up and Emily went to see about Charlotte.

  Despite what had happened and what she knew, Emily took more of a sisterly role toward Charlotte than she had toward me. I sensed that she had assumed a guardianship over my baby and when I said something about it to her one day, she retorted with her usually fiery religious beliefs and predictions.

  "This child is the most vulnerable to Satan since she was created out of pure lust. I will envelop her in a ring of holy fire so hot that Satan himself will be turned away. The first sentences she utters will be prayerful ones," she promised.

  "Don't make her miserable about herself," I pleaded. "Let her grow up to be a normal child."

  "Normal?" she spit back at me. "Like you?"

  "No. Better than me."

  "That's what I intend," she told me.

  Since where Charlotte was concerned Emily was mysteriously gentle and even loving, I didn't try to come between them and Charlotte did look at her the way a child might look at a parent. One word from Emily would stop Charlotte from playing with the wrong things. Under Emily's watch, she remained quiet and obedient when she had to be dressed, and when Emily put her to sleep, she didn't resist.

  Emily usually had her mesmerized with her Biblical readings. When I finished helping Vera and went to Charlotte's room, I found Charlotte on Emily's lap listening to Emily's rendition of the first pages of Genesis. Charlotte looked up at her and listened with fascination as Emily lowered her voice to imitate the voice of God.

  Charlotte looked at me curiously after Emily completed her reading. She smiled, playfully slapping her hands together, anticipating some lighter, happier moments. But Emily thought that would be inappropriate after her religious time.

  "It's time she went to sleep," she declared. She let me help put the baby to bed and kiss her good night.

  But before I left, Emily wanted me to see something, to witness the success she had been having with Charlotte.

  "Let us pray," Emily said, and pressed her palms together. The baby looked at me and then at Emily, who repeated her words and actions. Then Charlotte pressed her little hands together and actually held them there until Emily completed the Lord's Prayer.

  "She mimics like a monkey," Emily declared, "but in time she will understand and it will save her soul."

  Who will save mine? I wondered and went up to my room to retire for the night. As I ascended the stairs, I heard Bill Cutler's ripple of laughter coming from Papa's office. It quickened my steps and I was glad to put distance and doors between myself and this arrogant man.

  But that was easier said than done. Every day for the rest of the week, Bill Cutler came to visit The Meadows. It seemed that whenever I turned around, he was there standing behind me or watching me from a window when I was outside with Charlotte. Some-times he played cards with Papa, sometimes he ate dinner with us, and sometimes he appeared with the excuse he was looking over his new property to decide what to do with it. He hovered about us like some horrible torment, a reminder of what lay ahead whenever he had the whim to take action. Consequently, he had his run of our home and our lives, or at least mine.

  Late one afternoon after I had left Charlotte's nursery and gone upstairs to prepare myself for dinner, I thought I heard footsteps outside my door and I peered out of my bathroom to see Bill Cutler let himself into my room. I had taken of my dress to wash and brush my hair and had only my slip on over my brassiere and panties.

  "Oh," he said when he saw me look out, "is this your room?"

  Like he didn't know, I thought. "It is and I don't think it's very nice for you to just come walking in without knocking."

  "I did knock," he lied. "I guess you didn't hear me because you were running the water in there." He looked around. "You keep this pretty . . . plain and simple," he said, obviously a little surprised by the bare walls and windows.

  "I'm getting myself ready for dinner now," I said. "Do you mind?"

  "Oh no, I don't mind. I don't mind at all. Go right ahead," he quipped. I had never met a more infuriating person. He stood there with that debauched grin on his face, leering at me. I had my arms over my bosom.

  "I could brush your hair for you, if you like."

  "I don't like. Please leave," I insisted, but he only laughed and took a few steps closer to me. "If you don't leave my room, Mr. Cutler, I'll . . ."

  "Scream? That wouldn't be very nice. And," he said, gazing around again, "as for this being your room . . . well"—he smiled—"you know it's really mine."

  "Not until you take possession," I replied.

  "That's true," he said, coming closer. "Possession is nine tenths of the law, especially in the South. You know, you are a very pretty and very interesting young lady. I like the fire in your eyes. Most women I meet have only one thing in their eyes," he said, widening his smile.

  "I'm sure that's probably true of most women you would meet," I snapped. He laughed.

  "Come on now, Lillian. You don't dislike me all that much, do you? You must find me a little attractive. I've never met a woman who didn't," he added boldly.

  "Well, you've found your first one," I said. He was so close now that I had to take a step back.

  "That's because you don't really know me well enough. In time . . ." He put his hands on my shoulders and I started to pull away, but his fingers tightened so that he held me firmly in place.

  "Let me go," I demanded.

  "Such fire in those eyes," he said. "I've got to put it out or you'll burn up," he added and brought his lips to mine so quickly, I barely had time to bring my head back. I struggled against him, but he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me harder. The moment he pulled back, I wiped his kiss off my lips with the back of my hand.

  "I knew you would be exciting. You're like an unbridled wild horse, but after you're broken, I bet you'll gallop like few others," he declared, his eyes traveling quickly from my flushed face down to my breasts.

  "Get out of my room! Get out!" I cried, pointing to the door. He held his hands up.

  "All right, all right. Don't get yourself upset. It was just a friendly kiss. You didn't dislike it, did you?"

  "I hated every second of it," I spit out.

  He laughed. "I'm sure you'll dream about it tonight."

  "In nightmares," I retorted. That brought a bigger roar from him.

  "Lillian, I really do like you. The truth is, it's the only reason I'm still amusing myself with this run-down, pathetic excuse for Southern glory. That and beating your father at cards again and again," he added. Then he turned and left me gasping with indignation and fury, my heart pounding.

  I refused to look at him that night at dinner and answered every question he asked with a simple yes or no. Papa didn't appear to notice or care about my feelings toward Bill Cutler, and Emily assumed I was seeing him the way she saw him. Once in a while, under the table, he touched me with the toe of his boot or his fingers and I had to ignore it or pretend it wasn't happening. I saw how he was amused by my discomfort. I was happy when the meal ended and I was able to go back up to my room and escape from his teasing and tormenting.

  A little more than an hour later, I heard Papa's footsteps in the hallway. I was sitting up in my bed reading and looked up when he opened my bedroom door. He stood there for a moment just looking in at me. Ever since the birth of Charlotte, he had avoided coming into my room. I knew that he was embarrassed to do so. In fact, he was rarely, if ever, alone in a room with me anymore.

  "Reading again, eh?" he said. "I swear you read even more than Georgia did. Of course, you read better things," he added. His tone of voice, the way he looked away when he spoke, and his tentativeness made me curious. I put my book aside and waited. He looked distracted for a moment.

  "We should fix this room up again," he said. "Maybe have it painted or something. Bring the curtains back . . . but . . . maybe it would be foolish to waste the time and money." He stopped and gazed at me. "You're no longer a little girl, Lillian. You're a young lady and anyway," he said, clea
ring his throat, "you need to move on with your life."

  "Move on, Papa?"

  "When a girl reaches your age, it's expected. Except a girl like Emily, of course. Emily's different. Emily has another sort of destiny, another purpose. She's not like other girls her age; she never was. I always knew that and accepted it, but you, you're . . ."

  I saw how he struggled for the words to describe the difference between Emily and me.

  "Normal?" I offered.

  "Yeah, that's it. You're a regular young Southern lady. Now then," he said, straightening up with his hands behind his back and pacing in front of my bed, "when I accepted you into our house and family some seventeen years ago, I accepted the responsibilities of a father and as your father, I have to see to your future," he proclaimed. "When a young lady reaches your age in our society, it's time for her to think about marriage."

  "Marriage?"

  "That's right, marriage," he said firmly. "You can't expect to lollygag around here until you're an old maid, can you? Reading, doing needlework, spending all your time at that one-room school."

  "But I haven't met anyone I want to marry yet, Papa," I cried. I wanted to add, "Ever since Niles died, I have given up on the thought of love and romance," but I kept quiet.

  "That's just it, Lillian. You haven't and you won't. Not the way things are now. At least you won't meet anyone proper, anyone who can provide well for you. Your mother . . . that is . . . Georgia, would have wanted me to find you an acceptable young man, a man of some stature and accomplishment. She'd be right proud of that."

  "Find me a man?"

  "That's how things are done," he declared, his face reddening with his struggle to get what he wanted to say said. "This nonsense about romance and love is what's ruining the South, ruining Southern family life. A young girl doesn't know what's good for her and what's not. She needs to depend on much older, wiser minds. It worked well in the past and it will work well now."

  "What are you saying, Papa? You want to find my husband for me?" I asked, astounded. He had shown no interest in it before, nor had he mentioned it. A kind of paralyzing numbness gripped me as I began to anticipate the thing he was about to say.