You Belong to My Heart (8 page)

Clay’s thoughts were even more dangerous, more immodest, than Mary Ellen’s. For that reason he focused on her as infrequently as possible. At times just the sight of her across the dining table, or seated primly on a beige-and-white-striped sofa in the parlor, was enough to conjure up shameful erotic visions. He couldn’t forget for a second what she looked like, felt like, beneath her pastel summer dresses. And he could hardly wait to undress her again, didn’t think he could stand it if he couldn’t make love to her within the hour.

The sexual heat between them was so intense, they knew they had to be extra careful. It was imperative that they behave discreetly at all times.

Not only were they too young to consider marriage, Clay was not yet able to provide for a wife. He cautioned Mary that they would have to wait if they were to have any hope of gaining John Thomas Preble’s blessing.

Mary Ellen agreed. But she was certain it was only their ages that would keep her father from saying yes immediately. Clay was not so sure. In subtle, hard-to-pinpoint ways, the blue-blooded Prebles managed to let him know that they would prefer a better match for their aristocratic young daughter.

Clay couldn’t blame them. But he hoped that in time he could prove himself worthy of Mary.

For now, they had to keep quiet about their undying love and their plans to marry one day. Had they dared let anyone suspect the truth about their intimacy, they’d surely be torn apart. They couldn’t risk that.

So both were extremely cautious. Yet they managed to steal unforgettable moments of bliss in each other’s arms. The glorious summer went by far too quickly to suit the young lovers. It would, they knew, be twice as difficult to carry on their secret love affair in the freezing cold of a Tennessee winter.

“But, Father, I don’t want to go to St. Agnes.” Mary Ellen’s tone was emphatic.

It was a sweltering Saturday afternoon near the end of August. She stood in her father’s book-lined study, shaking her head, frowning at him.

“You’ll change your mind once you’re there, dear,” he said confidently.

John Thomas Preble sat behind his mahogany desk, leaning back in the burgundy leather chair, arms raised, hands laced behind his head.

“I will not.” Mary Ellen was adamant. “I want to stay at Eugene Magevney, where all my friends are, and—”

“You’ll make new friends,” John Thomas interrupted.

“I don’t want new friends. I like the ones I have.”

“Now, Mary Ellen…” Julie Preble broke her silence, rose from the long leather couch, and came to her daughter. Putting an arm around Mary Ellen’s narrow waist, she said, “We thought you’d be pleased.”

“Why? Give me one good reason why I would be pleased.”

“Well, the most privileged girls in Tennessee attend St. Agnes Academy for Young Ladies,” Julie told her. “Your father and I want the very best for you.”

Mary Ellen sighed heavily. “I know you do, Mother. But why must I attend some stuffy old school with a bunch of stuck-up girls?”

“It won’t be so terrible,” her mother said soothingly. Then: “You’re growing up, Mary Ellen. Sixteen already. Time you learn things that aren’t taught in public school. St. Agnes turns out some very cultured, poised young ladies.”

“Who cares!” Mary Ellen made one last attempt. “Father, please—”

“There will be no more discussion on the subject.” John Thomas Preble’s hands came unclasped, his arms came down from behind his head. He leaned up to his desk. “When the fall term begins in mid-September, you’ll attend St. Agnes.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, you may run along, child.” He fished a gold-cased watch from his waistcoat, looked at it, and added, “It’s after six and I have some work to do. Don’t forget, we’re due at the Simpsons for dinner at eight sharp.”

“Father, you said earlier in the week that I didn’t have to go to the Simpsons, remember?”

“Did I?” He looked from Mary Ellen to his wife.

Julie nodded. “You did, John.”

“Very well. I guess you don’t have to go.”

“Thank you, Father.” Mary Ellen started from the room.

John Thomas stopped her. “Wait a minute. Is Clay coming over here this evening?”

Mary Ellen turned back. “He said he would.”

Her father started to object, caught himself, and began to smile. “That’s nice. You won’t have to spend the evening by yourself.”

“No,” she said. “Clay will keep me company.” And she left the study.

Julie remained, closing the door after Mary Ellen. She turned and looked worriedly at her husband.

John Thomas smiled at her. “Come here, pet.”

Her skirts rustled faintly as Julie crossed the carpeted study. She reached him; John Thomas took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “You’re worried. You needn’t be, my dear.”

“John, suppose Mary Ellen continues to fancy herself in love with Clay Knight? What are we to do?”

John Thomas raised a hand, toyed with the cameo brooch pinned to the high stiff collar of his wife’s fashionable dress. “Have I ever let you down?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“And I never will. I know how to handle Mary Ellen. And I know how to handle Clay Knight, if it should come to that. But I assure you, it won’t.”

Julie Preble exhaled slowly, wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, and leaned her forehead against his. “Forgive me, John. I suppose I’m behaving like the typical overly protective mother.”

“And why shouldn’t you?” he said, ever indulgent. “Let me assure you this is one typical overly protective husband who will never let anything or anyone upset his wife.” Julie raised her head, looked into his dark eyes. He said, “When the time comes, Mary Ellen will marry a young man who pleases us as well as herself. This I guarantee.”

T
HE WARM GOLDEN DAYS
of summer grudgingly gave way to a chilly early autumn. The leaves of Tennessee’s dense timberlands changed their hues to suit the season. Deep emerald greens turned to brilliant golds and russet reds. But the glorious golds and vivid reds were too rare, too beautiful, to last.

They faded quickly into lackluster tans.

As if ashamed of their dismal color, the drab leaves no longer fought to stay alive. Willingly they curled up, became dry and brittle. And drifted lifelessly to the ground.

The elder Prebles supposed that with summer gone, the romance between Mary Ellen and Clay would slowly fade and die as well. Young people could be quite fickle. Often it took nothing more than a bit of separation to work great magic.

Mary Ellen would be attending the St. Agnes Academy for Young Ladies, so she and Clay would no longer be together each day at school. And since Clay was, admittedly, a handsome, likable lad, it wasn’t out of the question to imagine he’d catch the eye of a number of his female classmates.

Given a little breathing space without Mary Ellen shadowing him, Clay might find himself attracted to someone else. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had a new sweetheart by Christmas. Which would solve a host of problems for everyone.

By Thanksgiving the Prebles were quietly congratulating themselves, assuming that the relationship was already starting to cool. They supposed—and certainly hoped—that the bloom of romance had begun to fade and that their lovely young daughter would soon find someone more suitable.

Someone like Daniel Lawton, the older, highly eligible, university-educated son of extremely wealthy parents who were charter members of Memphis’s Old Guard.

While the Prebles were pleased with their ploy to keep Clay and Mary Ellen apart as much as possible, it served only to make the young lovers’ time together sweeter and more precious than ever. It was true they didn’t see each other as often now. St. Agnes was miles from Eugene Magevney. And when classes were dismissed each afternoon, Clay had to go directly to the cotton office, where he worked until seven each evening.

By the time he got home, cleaned up, had supper, and completed his lessons, it was too late to call on Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen understood. She looked forward eagerly to the weekends, when they could be together.

Clay worked hard, studied hard, and cautiously revived his dream—thanks to his supportive school professor—of an appointment to the Naval Academy.

The young, much-in-love pair continued to carry on what the elder Prebles believed—and Anna Knight prayed—was an innocent courtship that was beginning to chill along with the winter weather.

Christmas came and with it the usual round of gay seasonal parties for Memphis’s moneyed upper crust. One such gathering was at the opulent country estate of the James D. Lawtons on Thursday evening, December 23. The Lawtons’ handsome son, Daniel, was home for the holidays, so John Thomas Preble insisted Mary Ellen attend the gala.

She didn’t want to go. She worried that it would upset Clay if he knew she was at a party with Daniel Lawton. So she decided not to tell him. She wouldn’t lie to him. She simply wouldn’t mention it.

The evening came, and Mary Ellen reluctantly accompanied her parents to the Lawtons’ lavish Christmas party, dreading the affair, wishing she didn’t have to go. Wishing she could stay home and Clay could come over and they could lie in front of the fireplace together.

But she couldn’t.

And he couldn’t.

And they couldn’t.

Light and music and laughter spilled out of the imposing Lawton mansion when the heavy cypress door opened and a British butler in full livery ushered the Prebles inside.

Daniel Lawton, attired in dark formal evening wear, stood talking with a circle of gentlemen in the drawing room. He caught sight of a gorgeous blond girl in a long red velvet cape sweeping into the foyer. His fingers tightened on his stemmed glass of champagne and he stopped speaking abruptly, stared.

“Please excuse me,” he said momentarily, set his champagne glass atop a passing waiter’s tray, and made his way through the crowd. He reached Mary Ellen as she was unhooking the stand-up collar of her flowing red velvet, fur-lined cape.

“May I?” he inquired politely, stepped up directly behind her, and took the covering wrap from her shoulders.

Mary Ellen turned about to face him. Daniel Lawton favored her with a wide, disarming smile, undisguised interest flashing in his green eyes.

It didn’t go unnoticed by either the Prebles or the Lawtons that Daniel hardly let Mary Ellen out of his sight all evening. To the chagrin of the other young ladies present, the handsome eligible bachelor made no effort to conceal his attraction to the slender, golden-haired Mary Ellen.

“Let’s take a stroll in the back gardens, Miss Preble,” Daniel said less than an hour after she’d arrived.

“Don’t be absurd,” she replied tartly. “It’s freezing cold out.”

Daniel leaned closer. “I can keep you warm. Come on.”

“Certainly not!” She whirled away from him.

Intrigued, enchanted, he spent the entire night attempting to get her alone. Mary Ellen was having none of it, but that wasn’t the way it looked to her pleased parents. Nor did it look that way to a particularly unhappy young woman who would gladly have gone a whole lot farther than a walk in the cold with Daniel Lawton.

Green-eyed with jealousy, the voluptuous Brandy Templeton muttered beneath her breath, “I’ll fix you, Mary Ellen Preble. I’ll tell Clay Knight all about you and Daniel Lawton.”

The collar of his dark wool jacket turned up around his freezing ears, his hands stuck deep into his pants pockets, Clay finally reached the pebbled drive of Longwood on that cold Thursday night in December.

He began to smile.

Lights shone from inside, and he was sure a blazing fire burned in the spacious parlor. He could almost feel its welcome warmth, could almost taste a cup of steaming hot cider.

Mary would be surprised to see him.

He rarely came to Longwood during the week. Even now, with school out for Christmas vacation, he had little free time. He was putting in full ten-hour days at the cotton office through the holidays.

But tonight he had felt such a strong yearning to see Mary, he had finally stopped fighting it. He had to see her, to hear her voice, to touch her hand.

His mother had looked up from her sewing and frowned when Clay shot out of his chair and announced—shortly after nine o’clock—that he was going to Mary’s.

“Clay, it’s late. It isn’t a decent hour to call on a proper young lady. Besides, it’s too cold for you to be walking so far.” Anna smiled then and said patiently, “I know you want to see Mary Ellen. But the weekend’s only a couple of days away. Wait and go Saturday. Christmas.”

Clay shook his dark head. “I can’t, Mother. I have to see her. I have to. You just don’t understand.”

He went for his coat and was gone before she could say more. Under the lamplight, Anna Knight bent back to her sewing, but her gray eyes were clouded. She was troubled, worried about her son’s happiness.

While there was no sweeter, more down-to-earth young girl alive than Mary Ellen Preble, she was nonetheless one of Memphis’s elite.

The Prebles were aristocrats.

The Knights were not.

Though nothing had ever been said, Anna couldn’t imagine the powerful, protective John Thomas Preble allowing his precious only daughter to marry a boy whose blood ran red, not blue.

Anna shook her head and laid aside the half-finished garment. Tiredly she rose from her chair, crossed the small, spotless parlor, and pulled the curtain away from the front window. She raised a hand, rubbed the condensation from the glass, and looked out.

She saw her son walking fast, his strides long and determined, his dark hair gleaming in the winter moonlight. He was in a great hurry. He wanted to see his sweetheart.
Had
to see his sweetheart. He went around the corner and out of sight.

Anna Knight’s eyes closed. She sighed and wearily leaned her forehead against the cold, wet windowpane.

The worried mother remembered what it was like to be desperately in love. All too vividly she recalled the power and urgency of burning passion.

She strongly suspected that when a dead tired young man was willing to walk more than three miles on a bitter cold winter night to see a young woman, he had already learned more than he should about burning passion.