Southern Belle

“It’s an expression that means a certain combination of Southern grace and inner grit. In Elma’s case, she had both in spades.” He watched her take a quick sip of champagne and settle back in her chair. “As Sherman’s forces were advancing on Savannah, a forward scouting party of maybe a half-dozen soldiers made their way to Oleander Creek and were preparing to force their way into the house when one of them slammed his rifle butt into the front step and cracked the stone. Well, Elma thought this was unpardonably rude and confronted them at the door, saying there was no way they were getting inside unless they cleaned themselves up and remembered their manners. Apparently she gave those Yankees such a tongue-lashing that they left without even looking for the gold Elma and her slaves had hidden in the bottom of the well.” She smiled and took another sip. “The crack in the step is still there.”

“Sounds like Miss Elma was an enterprising woman. Do you take after her?”

“Me? Oh, no, although I’m named after her. But she was far more courageous than I’ve ever been or had to be.”

“Did she survive the war?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled, her eyes soft in the candlelight. “The tale goes that the Brigadier General commanding the Yankee scouts was none too pleased when his men came back empty-handed. He arrived at Oleander later the same day, ready to do battle with the terrible harridan his men had described, and torch the place if necessary.” She leaned her elbows lightly on the pristine white cloth and continued the story. “Instead, he found Elma in the hall, decked out in a beautiful evening gown and welcoming him and his officers to dinner in the most ladylike fashion.”

He grinned at the image. “What did the general do?”

“What could he do?” She spread her hands and laughed. “He was just a Yankee—not up to all Elma’s Southern charm. According to local historians, he sat down to dinner, enjoyed a few glasses of excellent vintage brandy, then left, loudly proclaiming the graciousness of Southern hospitality. Of course, the uncensored story passed down by one of Elma’s slaves is that he spent the night with Elma after she’d extracted his promise to furnish her with supplies and protection when Sherman reached Savannah.”

“Ah, not just an enterprising woman, but a practical one, too. And did the general keep his promise?”

“Well, Oleander’s still standing, so I guess he did. My estate manager, Ely, who’s a direct descendent of Elma’s favorite slave, still insists you can’t trust a Yankee as far you can throw him, but even he admits that the general must have been a gentleman.” She smiled at him, then lowered her gaze to her empty dessert plate.

“Do you all have a thing against Yankees?” he asked casually. “That could pose a problem.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“My mother’s a Yankee. Good Irish stock from Pittsburgh. I believe her family, the Rileys, didn’t arrive until after the Civil War, but still, I wouldn’t want you to think I was hiding my origins from you,” he teased.

“It’s certainly a thought,” she responded, eyes filled with laughter as she leaned back. “But I guess the general paved the way for you by holding his promises. Also, if I remember rightly, you’re an aristocrat. As far as Southerners are concerned, that’s definitely a plus.”

“You relieve my mind, madam,” he said, taking her hand and raising it gallantly to his lips. “For a moment there I thought I’d cooked my goose.”

Her laugh sparkled as their eyes met for a fleeting moment before Elm withdrew her hand. “Okay, your turn,” she said quickly. “What makes you spend the better part of your time at your castle, I wonder?”

“Same thing that sends you scuttling off to your plantation, I should think,” he murmured with a challenging grin, eyes seeking hers. “The desire to flee the madding crowd. Plus, I love the place. It’s home, just like Oleander is for you.”

“You never thought of moving to Pittsburgh?” she countered.

“Uh, actually, no. I love the States but I’m an Irishman through and through. Give me Dublin any day. Anyway, I have a business to run in Ireland.”

“Really?”

“Graney is a stud farm. I breed Thoroughbreds.”

“A stud farm. That must require a lot of patience.”

“It does. And I must warn you not to get me going on the subject of horseflesh. My mother claims that I can become a dead bore.”

Elm laughed and as she did so, Johnny leaned back, sipped his brandy and relaxed. All in all, it was turning out to be a very agreeable dinner.

Elm grinned, enjoying the easy intimacy between them, so deliciously alien yet somehow also familiar. She was deeply intrigued by the reserve she sensed behind his relaxed manner. Gioconda had said something about having a long story to tell her when they had a moment. And she supposed he must have been married at some point, since he had a sixteen-year-old son.

“What about your ex-wife?” she asked suddenly. “Didn’t she like it at Graney?” The words were out before she could stop herself. Deeply embarrassed by her rude question, she cringed as his eyes shuttered and he carefully chose a cigar from the waiter, who happened to stop by the table at just that moment with a humidor.

“Do you mind?”

“Of course not, go ahead.” Elm wished the floor would open up and swallow her as the end of the cigar was carefully clipped off and lit. Perhaps she should just change the subject. How could she have been so gauche? It was none of her business what his ex-wife liked or didn’t like.

“I’ve never been to a place like your castle. I’ve visited quite a few English country houses, but that’s not the same, is it?” she remarked hastily.

“Very different,” he agreed blandly, fully concentrating on pulling on the cigar. “Actually, when Marie Ange was alive, we didn’t live there. We split our time between London and Paris.”

A rush of horrified realization made Elm look straight at him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—it was extremely bad manners of me, I—”

“Don’t. He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “How could you possibly have known? It was a natural conclusion to think I was divorced. You may remember Marie Ange. We met at Rosey. Anyway, it all happened a long time ago, so don’t feel bad.” He squeezed her hand.

Elm mustered a smile, still chiding herself. Then she glanced uneasily at the snifter the waiter had placed before her. It was foolish to accept an after-dinner drink, but she could use it after her faux pas.

“Now, tell me some more about your life in Savannah,” Johnny said, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I imagine a politician’s wife has an inordinate amount of duties to perform?” He quirked a brow and raised his glass.

She shrugged, thankful for the change of subject. “There are lots of political and social functions, but I try to limit my involvement where I can. I far prefer to work on my own projects. At present, I’m restoring the gardens at Oleander with the help of some residents from the local shelter for abused women.”

“That sounds very laudable.”

“Not at all. I hope I can help restore some harmony in their lives, that’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m sure it’s a very worthwhile thing you’re doing for these women. And the gardens,” he added with a smile.

“Well, I discovered the original garden plans purely by accident while cleaning out the attic one day and that’s how the idea was born, thanks to a good friend of mine who runs the shelter. We both agreed it might be a wonderfully therapeutic experience for these women to be involved in the restoration project.”

“And what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“Oh, the rest of the time I paint.”

“What medium do you paint in?”

“Oils. I do some abstract, but mostly landscapes. The occasional portrait.”

“Do you exhibit?”

“Now and then. But organizing an exhibit is time-consuming. Somehow, other things always end up taking precedence.” She paused a moment, staring into the distance. Then she shrugged and gave him a rueful grin. “I’m not going to let that happen again. Let things get in the way, I mean. Indeed, Gioconda won’t let me. She’s been trying to persuade me to commit to an exhibit in Italy—I’m half afraid she’s going to lock me in a room with only my paint brushes until I cry uncle and allow her to organize the opening party for me in Florence.”

Johnny watched as she eyed the cognac, biting her lip as though deciding whether or not she should drink it. The gesture was so unintentionally erotic that he almost lost his focus.

“This meal was perfectly delicious,” she said, laying her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to roll me out of here if I’m not careful. I haven’t stopped eating since I arrived.” She glanced about the restaurant, seemingly enchanted by the atmosphere, the open fireplace, the low-beamed ceiling and the intimacy.

“That’s what Gstaad’s all about—relaxing, eating and having fun.”

“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “I’d forgotten how people here in Europe know how to enjoy life.” Her huge chestnut eyes had taken on a wistful expression that gave her an air of vulnerability. She was a compelling and complex woman, he decided, with an intriguing layer of uncertainty beneath that well-bred confident exterior. She was also perceptive, he mused; she’d sensed his discomfort at discussing Marie Ange and had immediately tried to redirect the conversation. Usually he deeply resented personal questions, and yet he hadn’t minded Elm’s. For some reason he didn’t feel threatened—although part of him knew he should, for she was entirely capable of upsetting his well-ordered world.

He hadn’t come to Gstaad for a fling, but he felt a surprisingly strong sexual attraction to her, and he hoped that the subtle undercurrents he’d sensed signaled an equal interest on her part. The question was whether either of them was in a position to do anything about it. The prospect was both alluring and dangerous. He’d be willing to bet that if they acted on their impulses, they’d both be getting far more than they bargained for.

He watched as she took a fleeting look at her wrist. “Oh, dear. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Time’s flown. Maybe I’d better be getting back to Gioconda’s.”