Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (24 page)

Bertrand smiled. He knew exactly what that meant. Doing
business with Americans was one thing, but accepting them into the family was
another.

Late in the afternoon the river channeled cold damp air over
the Cherleu dock. Bertrand and Albany pulled their collars up around their
necks while they watched the steamboat close the gap. As the boatmen shuttled
the ramp out for Albany to board, the two friends shook hands.

“I’ll see you in town, then,” Albany said.

“Yes, in a few weeks. Give my regards to Cousin Josephine.”

Bertrand watched the huge red paddle wheel churn the muddy
water, waved to Albany, and then headed back to the house. Cora had promised
him a supper of beans and rice with red peppers and onions on top.

A cold drizzle set in and Bertrand hoped heavy rain would
hold off a few more days until he could get the roof patched. The big house was
in worse shape than some of the cabins in the quarters, but there were at least
a couple of habitable rooms, and those two, his and Cora’s, had working
fireplaces, so he’d held off with repairs until the cane was in the ground.
Tomorrow he would get a few men up there to replace the rotten struts and
missing shingles.

On Thursday, as usual, Bertrand cleaned himself up to spend
the afternoon with Madame Emmeline. Her grief over Emile’s death seemed to have
run its course, though Bertrand understood the depths of her heart would not be
apparent. At any rate, he’d come to look forward to her company. He heeded her
counsel on curing the slaves’ bodily complaints, rationing their victuals
during the winter so they kept their strength up, and balancing discipline with
kindly treatment. What he hadn’t expected was that when they tired of talking
business, Emmeline proved to be witty and charming. She read widely and kept up
with the news from New Orleans, and even from Paris. They often laughed over
foolishness they’d read about in the New Orleans papers and speculated about
what the scoundrels in Washington would do next.

As Bertrand rode through the wintry late morning on the way
to Toulouse, his mind was not on running his plantation nor on Madame Emmeline.
He anticipated seeing the lustrous brown eyes of Emmeline’s girl Cleo. He no
longer associated her with Josephine. Now, somehow, she seemed to be at
Toulouse just for him. She always met him at the door to take his hat and coat,
to ask him if he’d like a sherry while he waited for Madame. She poured his
wine and served his dinner to him. And all the while she openly listened to the
conversation. Her intelligence wasn’t hidden by the prescribed calico
tignon
on her head nor by a slave’s usual lowered eyes. In fact, he often caught the
curve of her lips or the sparkle in her eye when he made some jest with
Emmeline.

When Bertrand dismounted at Toulouse, he handed the reins to
Elbow John, who this time was accompanied by the little simpleton who looked so
much like Cleo. Bertrand had concluded they must be siblings.

“
Bonjour
, M’sieu.”

“
Bonjour
, John. Tell me again what this fine fellow’s
name is.”

“Dis here is Thibault.”

Thibault’s wide grin charmed Bertrand. “Think you can take
care of my horse, Thibault?”

“I do a good job, M’sieu. I love dis horse.”

“That’s fine then,” Bertrand said.

He mounted the stairs and before he knocked, Cleo opened the
door to him. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur,” she said and held her hand out for his
hat.

“
Bonjour
, Cleo.” He touched her hand and watched her
face. Was she an innocent who would be surprised at his deliberate touch, or
had she understood his gaze on her these last weeks?

Cleo raised her head and looked directly into Bertrand’s
face.

Perhaps he’d hoped for blushes or parted lips, but what he
saw in her eyes was acknowledgment., nothing more. No smoldering welcome of his
attention, no quickening of her desire. No ignorance of his own, either. She
returned his smile with simple, but firm, friendliness. She was no easy target,
this Cleo.

Emmeline welcomed him in the parlor and they had a glass of
sherry while Cleo finished arranging the table. When Cleo stood in the doorway
to the parlor to indicate dinner was ready, Emmeline raised herself from the
velvet chair and Bertrand offered his arm. They seated themselves near one
another at the big table, and Cleo served the turtle soup.

This was their first meeting since Albany Johnston had been
to Toulouse. When they finished their meal and were sitting in the parlor
again, Emmeline raised the subject of the American’s visit.

“The Johnstons appear to have settled into river life. I
understand you know them well?”

“Yes, I do. I met Mr. Johnston in New York when I returned
from Paris, and we found ourselves both Louisianans. His son Albany showed me
around and introduced me to his friends at the Atheneum Club.”

“And do you approve of this Albany? As a man, I mean?”

“Oh, indeed. He’s a straight shooter. A little proper,
sometimes, but a dependable, honest fellow. You might not expect it, but a good
man in a poker game.”

“He’s asked to marry Josephine. Did he tell you?”

Bertrand nodded. He touched the cigar in his pocket, but didn’t
take it out.

“I’ve had a letter from Josephine,” Emmeline went on. “She
says she does not wish to marry Mr. Johnston. I’m inclined to agree, for the
time being.”

“You mean for her to take over the plantation before she
marries?”

Emmeline gazed at him. “Not necessarily.”

Bertrand’s hand was on his pocket again without his
realizing it. He brushed a fleck off his jacket as if that had been his
intention.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bertrand, smoke your cigar.”

He grinned at her and pulled a Havana from his pocket.
“Thank you, Emmeline. I am in your debt.”

As Bertrand clipped the end off the cigar and prepared to
light it, Emmeline said, “I’ve been thinking about Josephine and this place,
since Albany Johnston was here. I do want her to be able to run Toulouse if she
needs to. The Lord knows not every husband, nor every son, is an able manager.”

Bertrand drew on the cigar and the tip flamed red. He sighed
in deep contentment. “I can understand that. But I think I can assure you
Albany is a competent businessman. He and his father are already looking for
additional acreage.”

“I would not have him marry Josephine just for her land.”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that. Back in the
summer at the Johnstons, when Josie and I were both guests, Albany seemed quite
taken with her.”

“And how about you? Are you taken with her?”

Bertrand looked at her through his smoke. “What are you
getting at, Emmeline?”

“If you were interested in Josephine, I would find it a
desirable match. Your family is Creole and well known to me. I believe I
understand you. So I ask, are you taken with my granddaughter?”

Bertrand stared at the low fire burning yellow and orange
across the room. “I find her very appealing. But I had thought of her as hardly
more than a child, lovely as she is.”

“Josie will be nineteen next August. Two months before
Cleo,” Emmeline said.

Bertrand glanced at her, and she held his eyes. She didn’t
miss much, he thought. He looked back at the fire and smoked his cigar.

“There’s plenty of time,” Emmeline said. “Josephine will
come home in May. There will be long summer days for getting better
acquainted.”

From the bedroom window, Cleo watched the overseer’s house
go dark. Then she waited. Sometimes LeBrec slipped out of the house to prowl
the grounds. She knew what would happen to her if he caught her alone in the
dark.

She made her mind go blank as she waited. There was no moon
and only a dusting of stars across the sky. Cleo focused on the outline of the
big bell hung next to the overseer’s house so as to see LeBrec’s door more
clearly from the corner of her eyes. Half an hour, and she couldn’t bear the waiting
any longer.

Cleo picked up her bundle, closed the door of the house
silently behind her, and crept down the stairs. She shivered and pulled her
shawl tighter, glad for the shoes on her feet as she trod the wet grass,
finding her way by the faint gleam of the oyster gravel path but avoiding the
slight crunch it would make underfoot.

At Remy’s cabin she pushed the unlatched door open. Old Sam
and two of his grandsons slept in here, too; Cleo felt her way to the cot
nearest the door.

“Cleo?” Remy whispered. He shifted and the bells of his cage
tinkled.

“It’s me,” she said.

Remy turned himself a little, the bells signaling the shift.
His cabin mates were inured to the sounds by now, and they slept the sleep of
men worked hard too many hours of the day.

Cleo stretched a hand out and found Remy’s reaching for her.
She knelt by his cot and kissed his hand. Then she reached through the cage and
touched his face. They sat in the dark holding on to each other, not talking.

Finally Cleo unwrapped the bundle she’d brought. “I have a
chunk of ham for you, and a pot of marmalade. The bottle is full of
buttermilk.”

“I eat it in de mawnin,” Remy said. “It help. I already
feelin’ stronger. By warm weather, I gon’ be ready again.”

Cleo touched the cage with her fingertips. “What about
this?” she said.

“I’s studying on it. When de time come, I get it off.”

Cleo opened his hand and held it against her face. She
didn’t argue with him anymore. If he were caught a second time, they might sell
him to the slavers, and she would never even know where they took him. But she
and Remy had said it all, the what if’s and the but’s and the must’s. She was
scared, but she loved him all the more for his grit.

She pushed her face to the bars around his head and they
kissed until Remy’s hands made her forget the cold floor under her knees. She
pulled his blanket back, hiked her skirt up and climbed on top of him. “Be
still,” she whispered.

“I cain’t be still.”

She caught the gleam of his smile and grinned back at him.
“I’ll do all the moving. You just keep still.”

The ropes of the cot groaned, and the bells rang. Cleo
stifled a laugh and wrapped the blanket around the bells. She straddled Remy
once more, and they made as little noise as they could. When they were
tranquil, one of Old Sam’s grandsons sighed in his sleep, and the cabin was
quiet again.

“You be careful getting back to de house,” Remy whispered.

“I will. I know how to go in the dark.”

When Cleo left the cabin, Old Sam’s yellow dog sniffed at
her and followed her a few steps. She rubbed his ears and whispered, “Stay
here, Boots.” He sat back and wagged his tail, but he stayed.

Cleo moved in to the deeper darkness under the bare pecan
trees. When she heard a rustling behind her, she turned and said, “Stay, Boots.
Go on back.”

Silence again. “Boots?” she said. She peered back toward the
cabins, and then the darker shape of a man appeared between her and the
clearing.

Cleo turned to run to the big house, but he was on her. She
smelled his alcohol breath and knew it was LeBrec. She struggled, kicking and
scratching, but she had to keep quiet. If Remy heard her scream, he’d come
running, and then LeBrec would punish him again.

LeBrec knocked her to the ground and fell on her. Cleo
twisted to squirm from under his weight, but he was too heavy. He grabbed both
her wrists and held them over her head. His three-day beard scratched her face
as she turned her head back and forth, trying to avoid his wet mouth.

“Let go,” she hissed. “I’ll tell Madame.”

“And I’ll tell her you was sneaking out here to be with that
runaway. You think you too good for me? I’ll make you know what a man can do.”

He released one of her hands to fumble with his pants, and
Cleo pounded him on the head, shoved against him, scratched his face and neck.
Her legs were trapped under him, but she arched her back to try to throw him
off.

LeBrec pulled his arm back and smashed her face with his
heavy fist. Then he hit her again. Her senses stunned, Cleo’s body went limp.
She felt him enter her and cried out. He slapped her and clamped his hand over
her mouth.

Cleo struggled to breathe with LeBrec’s calloused hand
mashing her mouth, his greasy hair at her nose. LeBrec’s pelvis ground into
her, and she groaned in pain.

Suddenly LeBrec jerked and pulled his head up at Boots’ low growl.
Cleo wrenched her mouth free and cried, “Boots, get him!”

The dog weighed enough to knock LeBrec off Cleo. She began
to crawl away and then found her feet. She ran through the pecan trees toward
the house, the sounds of LeBrec’s curses and Boots’ growls behind her.

As Cleo gained the stairs, Boots yelped once, and then the
night was silent.
Blessed Mother, he’s killed Boots.

Cleo closed the door to Josie’s room behind her and sank to
the floor. She didn’t cry. Crying wouldn’t do any good. She worried about what
would happen if Remy found out. He would go after LeBrec, and the overseer
would surely kill him.

She’d have to make sure Remy never knew -- but she couldn’t
avoid Louella, Thibault, and Elbow John, and they would have no trouble
figuring out why she was bruised. They would have to be made to understand they
must not talk in the quarters about what had happened. And she couldn’t see
Remy again until her face had healed.

She grew cold and stiff on the floor and roused herself to
light a candle. She filled the basin from her pitcher and washed her aching
face, wincing when the cold water touched the scratches. There was only a
little blood between her legs, but she washed herself over and over. Then she
brushed the leaves and dirt from her hair. She dressed herself in a soft pair
of Josie’s old pantalets and put on a fresh gown.