Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

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.