A Cry at Midnight (6 page)

Outside the wide window, she could see for miles. Green carpeted the land. She suspected that in a few months, there would be white bolls of cotton on each of those plants, and she'd see men and women with long sacks, harvesting the cotton for endless, back-breaking hours.

Jackson Durant would no doubt be out there, tapping his whip on his thigh, scowling at the workers. She just hoped he didn't decide to abuse anyone in her presence. Randi wasn't about to let that happen, and explaining her actions might be harder than convincing Jackson she was really his daughter's new governess.

Speak of the devil . . .

She pushed herself to one elbow, watching him thunder back home on a black horse that seemed to suit his persona exactly.

If he thought he was going to barge in on her and start another interrogation, he had another think coming. She was too tired for more of his questions and comments.

With another sigh, Randi rolled over in bed, facing the door. If Jackson Durant did show up, she wanted to know about it.

#

When she awoke, the room was dark except for a small candle sitting on a chest near a doorway. Randi felt disoriented for several long moments as she forced herself to breathe evenly, to let her eyes focus on her surroundings. For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, she realized that she'd traveled back in time. That she was actually in Black Willow Grove's plantation house.

Her fingers brushed against the fine cotton chemise and pantaloons she'd been given earlier. How in the world was she going to dress by herself? Even the servant had struggled with the row of hooks down the back of the dress Randi had worn earlier.

She'd find a way, though, she vowed as she struggled into the heavy skirts, pulling up the bodice and slipping her arms into the tight sleeves. Clothing from the 1800's was so uncomfortable; how had the women ever accomplished any chores wearing such dresses?

But then, women who dressed like this didn't do chores. They definitely didn't dust furniture, clean toilets, and vacuum carpets. With a sigh, Randi fastened as many of the hooks as she could, then slipped on the narrow leather shoes that had been provided. The late Mrs. Durant had longer, more narrow feet, making these shoes a poor fit. Randi remembered thinking that all the boots and shoes the museum displayed were equally narrow and usually smaller than her own size seven and a half. With a sigh, she thought of the comfortable tennis shoes she'd hidden in the very top of a cherry armoire, behind decorative carved scrolls. Too bad she couldn't wear her Keds instead.

As she walked to the door, she vowed that she'd find someone to help her finish dressing, then seek out Mr. Durant. He'd left in a huff earlier today, claiming she couldn't be a friend of the new governess, Agnes Delacey. Randi knew it was up to her to convince him that not only had Agnes sent her as a replacement, but that she'd be the best darn governess in the entire state of Tennessee.

She pulled the door open a crack, looked both ways down the hall, and started to slip outside. Her foot connected with something lying across the doorway.

"I'm so sorry! she exclaimed, bending down to help the servant to a sitting position. "I didn't know you were there. Did I hurt you?"

"No, ma'am," the young woman replied in a shy voice.

"Why were you lying there?"

"So's I can help you dress," she explained, struggling to her feet.

"You have to lie in the floor?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's the way we do these things."

"But that's so uncomfortable!" Randi shook her head. "Never mind. I shouldn't say a word. Where you sleep is your business."

"No, ma'am. The mas'r had me sleep here. Lebeau tol' me so hisself."

"Lebeau?"

"He's in charge in the house, ma'am."

"That will be all, Melody."

"Yes, Mr. Lebeau." The girl lowered her eyes, standing at the doorway as though she was a part of the furnishings. Randi's heart went out to her. How could everyone be treated so . . . indifferently? This whole system sucked. No wonder they'd had a big war over the issue of slavery.

Even though Lebeau was also black, he didn't treat the servants any nicer than the "the master." God, she hated that word!

"I need her to help me dress," Randi said, standing a little straighter and jutting out her chin, "then I want to see Mr. Durant."

"Mister Jackson is downstairs. I'll see if he's available."

"Don't bother," Randi said. "I'd rather surprise him."

The tall black man raised his chin, looking down at her as though she'd just suggested grabbing a few beers with the queen. He looked a lot like Morgan Freeman, especially in that movie that was out last winter about the slaves who wanted to go back to Africa.

"Melody, help Miss Galloway with her needs. I'll escort you downstairs when you are ready," he said before retreating down the hallway.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Randi pulled the girl inside the room, then kicked off the tight slippers. "Okay, just who is he and what's he like?"

"You want to know about Mr. Lebeau, ma'am?" Melody asked, confusing obvious on her expressive face.

"Of course. Haven't you ever heard that you should know your enemies? I'm not sure why, but I think Lebeau is not real happy with me." Or maybe he just didn't know how to treat her--another servant or a guest? She didn't know the answer to that question either.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you just being polite or do you actually agree with me?"

"Ma'am?" Melody asked in a bewildered tone.

"Never mind," Randi said, presenting her back. Just help me get fixed up for my next interrogation by Mr. Durant." She ran her fingers through her short, streaked blond strands. There was nothing she could do about her hair, but maybe he'd overlook that one twentieth century style if the rest of her looked more "respectable."

Melody lit several candles, then went to work on dressing Randi properly. While the servant adjusted the skirt over the layers of petticoats, Randi wiggled her feet inside the too-narrow shoes, wondering if there was a shoemaker around who could stretch them out. Wondering how long she'd have to tolerate these uncomfortable clothes and the angry man who thought her unfit. Before she could dwell too long on the depressing topic of being lost in the past, she was combed, corseted, laced, tied, and buttoned.

Melody stepped back, her hands folded demurely. Randi's heart went out to her in ways the girl would never understand. How could she explain to a slave in the 1800's that she couldn't tolerate these conditions, and that she didn't believe any of them should be expected to tolerate them either. No one should be considered inferior because of their race or the circumstances of their birth.

Randi felt like hugging the girl. Instead, she smiled and said, "Thank you again. I wouldn't be able to do this without your skills."

Melody looked up for only a second, but Randi could tell she was surprised by the kindness. Didn't anyone ever praise the people on this plantation? Was everyone as harsh and unhappy as Jackson Durant and his henchman, Lebeau?

She had a good mind to march downstairs and tell him exactly what she thought of his tactics. But that wouldn't gain her what she needed, and she doubted her opinion would sway him even a tiny bit. With a sigh, she headed for the door.

As she expected, the tall black man stood at the end of the hallway. "Come with me, Miss Galloway," he said. His tone of voice wasn't at all shy, pleading, or coaxing. He obviously thought of this house as his domain, and seemed to sense that she was as out of place in this lifestyle as she was in these clothes.

"Lead on," she murmured, struggling with the long skirt and too-tight shoes. With luck, she wouldn't fall flat on her face. With control, she wouldn't tell Jackson Durant exactly what she thought of him and his wealthy, parasitic life.

But Randi Mae Galloway, outspoken, unconventional middle child, had never been very good at keeping her opinions to herself.

She made her way down the steps carefully, holding her skirts up slightly with one hand, grasping the banister in a white knuckled grip with the other. Before long, she was following Lebeau down a short hallway that led to an open door.

"Please, don't announce me or anything," she asked him. "I'd rather not interrupt him if he's busy, and if he's not . . . well, I'd just rather let him see me on his own."

Lebeau titled his head back, peering from glasses perched halfway down his wide nose. "As you wish," he finally said before turning away with a very slight bow, leaving Randi alone in the hallway.

"Okay, it's now or never," she mumbled to herself. Consciously relaxing her tense body, she released her grip on her skirts.

She tiptoed to the doorway and looked inside. She was prepared to face Jackson Durant on his turf, to play the sweet-tempered young lady to the best of her ability. What she wasn't prepared for was the sight of the man who'd been nothing but angry and macho toward her, now holding his happy, gurgling baby daughter in his arms. Surrounded by all the masculine decorations, he looked as endearing as a Hallmark card commercial, as poignant as a Kodak ad.

Her hand drifted automatically to her flat stomach and she swallowed the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front him . . . and now was not the time to mourn the emptiness of her own arms.

Before he noticed her, she forced herself to stand straight, then pasted a smile on her face. By God, she'd get through this time-travel business even if it meant giving an Oscar-caliber performance that Dorothy, Alice, and Scarlett would be proud of.

#

Jackson knew he flaunted convention, but he couldn't stop this one departure from common wisdom. Each evening after Suzette fed Rose, he spent time with his daughter outside the nursery. At times they sat on the verandah and listened to the sounds of frogs and crickets. She'd watch the lanterns and doomed moths with glee, pushing with her dimpled legs until at times Jackson thought she might walk right off his lap.

Other times he'd carry her to the stable, where Rose would reach chubby fingers toward the horses and squeal in delight. In a few years, he'd teach her to ride. A good seat was necessary for a man, but admirable in a woman. Before she danced her first waltz, she'd be able to clear a three-foot fence with ease. Rose would ride to the hounds or pursue any other equestrian event she cared to try.

Tonight, rain threatened, sending thunder and occasional flashes of lightening through the northwest sky. Jackson settled on pacing his study with Rose cooing over the colored spines of his books and decorative items on his shelves. She reached for everything she saw, and he knew from experience that whatever she snagged would be immediately placed in her mouth.

"This is a crystal decanter, young lady," he informed his infant daughter. "Crystal could cut your mouth, so I won't let you hold it. Isn't it pretty, though? When you're older, you can have all the beautiful crystal you want. When you marry, I'll send to France for the finest service money can buy. You'll be the envy of all your friends."

Rose cooed and smiled, wiggling toward the glasses and decanters on the cherry sideboard that matched the massive desk and wall of shelves. This room was Jackson's favorite, a retreat where a man could run his empire in comfort. Every time he sat down in the tufted leather chair and reached for a gold-embossed sheet of paper, he reminded himself that he deserved every penny he pulled from the unforgiving clay soil.

Rose squealed, reaching toward a vase that he'd been told was from an ancient Chinese dynasty. He didn't care; he was more interested in forming his own dynasty at Black Willow Grove. But for that to happen, he needed a wife and a son. He loved Rose with all his heart, but one day she would marry and move to her husband's land, leaving this plantation without a male heir who could run it properly.

Before long, Jackson knew he'd have to make the social rounds, looking for a new wife. He had several months, however. No one expected him to marry for at least a year after Pansy's death. And Thomas Crowder would not take to Jackson's new wife replacing the deified Pansy as mistress of Black Willow Grove.

This time, Jackson vowed, he'd find a woman with a more sturdy disposition. He already had his land; he didn't need to marry within his immediate social circle. Perhaps he'd travel to New Orleans. Or he could go north, to St. Louis. He'd bring up the subject very subtly in conversation among the planters, just to see if a northern wife would be acceptable.

Speaking of acceptable--or unacceptable--he wondered how Miss Galloway fared with the female apparel. He only hoped the outer trappings made her behavior less suspect. The answers he wanted still burned in his gut. His reaction to her could only be called disturbing. He'd never seen a woman defy convention so thoroughly.

"You'll never act or dress that way," he told his daughter with a touch of his forefinger to her pink button nose. "You're going to learn what to do and say so you'll never feel awkward, so no one will ever question your right to walk into one of these rooms."

Rose babbled, a serious expression on her face, as though imitating him. The idea caused a curious lump in Jackson's throat.

With a powerful lunge, Rose squealed and turned away from the sideboard. Following her line of vision, Jackson felt the air leave his lungs. Standing just inside the doorway of his study was a woman like he'd never seen before. Short, straight, pale hair framed an intriguing face with pink-tinged cheeks and rosy lips. Her round breasts filled out the bodice of the green gown quite nicely, emphasizing her small waist. He'd seen more of her in detail, of course, when she'd been wearing the tight trousers and strange bodice. She hadn't looked all that appealing then, but now . . .