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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.