The Seduction Of Ellen

Although she had been raised around great wealth, and presently lived in an opulent town house, Ellen was awed by these splendid southern residences that were guarded by ancient towering oaks and surrounded by lush, verdant gardens. It was the gardens that most impressed her. Accustomed to the starkness of the plain concrete sidewalk outside the Park Avenue town house, she was enchanted by the profusion of flowers and leafy vines and velvet lawns before her.

“This incredible garden,” she enthused, gazing at one particularly well-tended, flower-filled terrace sloping down to the street. “These grounds must be the most beautiful in the entire state of South Carolina.”

“They are exquisite, but you should see Middleton Place,” Chris said offhand. A pause, then, the idea abruptly striking him, he said, “How would you like to see Middleton Place, Mother? It’s an old, uninhabited plantation that was once one of the glories of the Low Country. The gardens and ponds are still there. Would you like to see them?”

“I would love to see them.”

“Tomorrow at noon, as soon as general leave starts, I’ll hire a carriage and we’ll drive out into the country. You have the hotel pack us a picnic lunch and we’ll make a day of it.”

“I can hardly wait.”

The ride out into the lush, green countryside of South Carolina was highly enjoyable for Ellen. Along the narrow dirt road, tall pines grew and several bountiful orchards were filled with blackberries, grapes, persimmons and plums. Birds sang sweetly in the trees and the occupants of passing carriages waved as if greeting old friends.

It was early afternoon when the pair reached Middleton Place on the banks of the Ashley River. Ellen was eager to explore the estate and Chris was only too happy to point out where the plantation house had once stood. He told her the home had been built in the mid 1700s in the style of an Italian villa.

“What happened to it?” Ellen asked. There was nothing there but a pile of rubble.

“A detachment of Sherman’s army occupied the plantation in the war. When it was time to move on, the soldiers ransacked the house, then set it on fire. Then the walls finally fell in the earthquake of ’86.”

“Such a shame,” said Ellen.

“Yes,” Chris agreed, “but the gardens are still here and someone—I don’t know who—tends them regularly. Come.”

Chris showed Ellen the most magnificent grounds that she’d ever imagined. Classical in concept, geometric in pattern, the gardens featured parterres, vistas, allées, arbors and bowling greens. And everywhere, among the live oaks and Spanish moss, was water, reflecting in its depths the clear Carolina sky.

There were broad-terraced lawns and butterfly lakes and a rice mill pond. Azaleas and magnolias and camellias in full bloom sweetened the air with their fragrance.

Chris told his mother the history of the house and its family while they ate cold chicken and ham and cheese and rolls as they sat on a blanket in the shade of a tall oak.

Feeling lazy after the meal, they stretched out on their backs to talk and doze and enjoy the serenity and beauty of the warm May afternoon. A time or two Ellen considered telling Chris about the upcoming adventure—or misadventure—that Alexandra had planned. But she didn’t want to spoil this perfect spring day. She would tell him tomorrow.

On Sunday, Ellen and Chris attended church services at St. Michael’s. Afterward they had lunch in the Mills House dining room. It was during the meal that Ellen told her son of Alexandra’s latest folly.

“Chris, you know that Aunt Alexandra hates the idea of getting old,” she began.

Chris laughed and said, “Somebody should tell her that she’s already old.”

His mother smiled, then was serious. “I know. But she doesn’t want to get any older, so…”

Ellen drew a deep breath and related the entire story. She told him that Alexandra had been furious with the physicians in London when they’d told her there was nothing they, or anyone else, could do to slow down the aging process. That she was an old woman and couldn’t expect to live many more years.

Ellen went on to explain that Alexandra had seen an ad in the newspaper promising magic waters that would keep a person forever young. Ellen talked and Chris listened intently, seeing the worry in her eyes.

When her story was finished, Chris did his best to console Ellen, to jolly her, to make light of the situation, although it worried him that his mother and aunt would be traveling with strangers, people who were obviously of less than sterling character.

“I just wish Aunt Alex would wait a month,” said Chris. “Then I could go with you, watch out for you.”

“It isn’t our physical safety that most concerns me, Chris. These people are nothing but liars and thieves. And Alexandra wants to be young again so badly, there is no telling how much money they’ve taken from her. Don’t you see, they know how foolish she is and they may be planning to rob her of the entire fortune.”

“Now, Mother,” Chris soothed, “I’m sure you’re worrying needlessly. Aunt Alex may be behaving foolishly, but she hasn’t lost her mind. Surely she’d never let anyone get their hands on all that money.”

“I’m not so certain,” Ellen said. “I believe she’d give away the bulk of her estate if she thought it would get rid of a few wrinkles and buy her ten more years.” Her eyebrows knitted, she said, “For heaven’s sake, it is your inheritance we’re talking about here, Chris. The Landseer fortune should go to you and—”

“Mother, I wish you would stop worrying about my inheritance and—”

“Never!” Ellen said, interrupting. Her chin raised pugnaciously, she said in a cold, level voice, “I have tolerated that ill-tempered old woman all these years and I mean to see to it that you are not cheated out of what is rightfully yours.” Before he could reply, she softened and said, “It will be a long, difficult journey we’ll be making. We’re going all the way to the canyonlands of Utah. The lead guide, Mister Corey, has said that near the end we may have to walk and—”

“Corey?” Chris interrupted. “Did you say Corey? What is this Mister Corey’s full name?”

“Ah…I really don’t know. I’ve never heard anyone call him anything but Mister Corey. Why? Is the name familiar to you. Have you heard of Mister Corey?”

Chris paused with indecision, then said, “No. No, Mother, I haven’t.”

He quickly changed the subject, turning the conversation to the activities at the academy. No more was said about the journey or the man leading it.

But after Chris had seen his mother off at the train station, he hurried back to the Citadel. Its quadrangle was nearly empty on this warm spring afternoon, very few cadets on the grounds. Chris went into the silent building that housed the Hall of Honor.

In a glass display case he examined the sun-faded outline of a Silver Star, the nation’s second highest award for bravery. The medal was no longer there. Nearby, a framed photograph of the graduating class of 1882 hung on the wall. In the third row, standing fourth from the right, a cadet’s face had been crossed out.

Chris read the name below, scratched through, but still discernible.

Cadet Captain Steven J. Corey.

Eight

The contentment, the happiness, the warm glow that had enveloped Ellen during the long, lovely weekend in Charleston was rapidly slipping away. No matter how hard she tried, she was finding it difficult to retain that wonderful sense of well-being she’d felt from the minute she’d stepped off the train in Charleston on Friday afternoon.

But now it was Monday.

Blue Monday.

And the northbound train on which she rode was moving steadily closer to New York City and the terminal at Grand Central Station. The joy of the past three days was behind her, already a sweet, fading memory.

Ahead of her was a long arduous journey to the inhospitable West with her cranky aunt and a motley group of unprincipled characters led by a disrespectful man who had kissed her at the depot as if the two of them were lovers.

Ellen’s eyes opened.

A little tremor surged through her slender body. She told herself it was a shudder of revulsion at the memory of that audacious kiss.

But was it?

The train was now slowly rolling into the station. Dread was rising, creeping through her bones, tightening her throat, giving her a slight headache. Anxiously she peered out the window, praying she would not see a tall, lean man with coal-black hair and a long white scar on his right cheek waiting on the platform.

Her prayer was in vain.

Leaning lazily against a wide, square column that supported the depot roof’s overhang was Mister Corey. He was wearing a white shirt, buff-colored snug-fitting trousers and freshly polished leather shoes. Clothes that were no different from the ones worn by many of the other gentlemen on the platform. At least a half-dozen men were dressed similarly. They all looked neat, clean, harmless. Except for Mister Corey.

He looked neat.