Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (9 page)

On the way back to the house, Josie stopped in the carriage
barn to return the trowel. It was dim in there, and Josie squinted to find the
hook where it belonged. A rustling in the far buggy caught her ear, and she
thought she’d better tell Grand-mère the squirrels were nesting in the carriage
house again. But the rustling became a giggle.

Maybe some of Elbow John’s grandchildren had sneaked in to
play. She bet it was Laurie and some of her cousins. They all spoiled her
silly, cute as she was.

Josie moved to the high-backed carriage to see what Laurie
was up to.
I bet they’re giving their dolls a ride
.

But it wasn’t Laurie at all. It was Cleo – with a slave boy!
Josie was sure she smelled Maman’s perfume too. Grand-mère would have Cleo
beaten for that if she found out. Josie had never had to protect Cleo from
Grand-mère before; it might be more difficult than with Maman.

Cleo’s laugh was forced. “You caught us,” she said.

Josie examined the boy sitting so close to Cleo. A handsome
boy, high cheekbones and a slender neck. Bold, too. He didn’t let go of Cleo
when Josie eyed their clasped hands.

“Who’s this?” Josie said.

“Dis here Remy. He Elbow John’s grandson.”

Josie looked at Cleo a long time. Her sister. And Papa’s
favorite. What would Papa think about Cleo sitting out here with a field hand
with sun scorched hair? And no chaperone.

Not unlike Josie herself a few minutes earlier. Was Cleo as
lonely as she was, then?

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what, Mam’zelle?”

“Like a…” Josie’s voice trailed off.

“Like a slave?” Cleo’s eyes flashed. She climbed out of the
carriage, pushed past Josie, and ran out.

Remy and Josie stared at each other. Now she remembered him.
He had played with them at Grammy Tulia’s sometimes, when they were little.
Nobody could catch him when they’d played tag, and he’d once helped her pull
the burrs off her stockings. Now he had the broad shoulders and long legs of a
man.

“I know you,” she said.

Remy sat as if frozen on the carriage seat. Josie had meant
to reassure him, but she saw fear flicker in his eyes. She had no doubt he was
imagining the whip across his back.

Josie had never witnessed a whipping, never heard a slave
cry out in agony, but she’d seen the scars on the backs of slaves who’d been
whipped. She would never be the cause of such suffering. When she was mistress
of Toulouse, there would be no whippings.

“It’s all right,” she said. She reached her hand out but
didn’t touch him. Then she left him in the shadows.

Cleo ran over the sodden ground back to the courtyard, her
jaw clamped to keep from crying. Just because Josie didn’t have a sweetheart,
she thought, didn’t mean she couldn’t. If Josie was jealous of Remy, well,
she’d just have to be jealous.

But, she thought, she shouldn’t have left Remy in the barn
with Josie. Maybe she should go back. And say what -- Remy’s too sweet for you
to be mean to, Mademoiselle Josephine?

In truth, Josie was never mean to anyone. But Josie had not
been herself lately. That sour mother of hers was still her maman, Cleo
thought, and Josie missed her.

Bibi appeared on the back gallery above her. “Cleo, where
you been, child? Don’ you know it time to set the table?” Bibi eyed the pavement
she had just swept. “Look at dose footprints you making!”

Cleo had tracked mud all across the courtyard bricks.
“Damnation,” she muttered.

“Never mind ‘bout dat now. Get on up here.”

Cleo pulled her shoes off and stuck them behind the wine
racks in the underhouse. Madame Emmeline didn’t care whether Cleo was barefoot
or not, but she wouldn’t abide mud on her floors.

Cleo hurried up the stairs to get the dining room ready for
dinner. Through the open doors, Monsieur Emile’s cigar smoke wafted through the
house from the front gallery. She’d watched him the last few weeks, since
Madame Celine died. The first few days, he was more grieved than she’d
expected, but he seemed himself again now.

She never called him Papa, not even to herself, though she
had always known he was her father. When she was a child, he had gently touched
the top of her head whenever he passed by her. He had smiled at her as often as
he had at Josie. And he had held Maman on his lap those mornings when Celine
and Josie were in the rose garden.

Josie was so dumb sometimes, Cleo thought as she set the
plates on the table. Josie never seemed to know anything Madame Celine hadn’t
wanted her to know. And now that Josie had found out about Remy, Cleo guessed
there’d be trouble.

“None of her damn business, anyway,” she said under her
breath. Like Cleo hadn’t seen her with that Cajun boy up on the hill. And Cleo
would have to clean her damn shoes.

She folded the last napkin and poured water into each glass.
She’d done her part until Louella sent the dinner over and everyone gathered.
She popped a fig from the preserves dish into her mouth and licked her fingers.

Emile clomped in from the gallery, and she plucked another
fig as he entered.

“I’ll have a glass of wine, Cleo,” he said.

Cleo poured him a claret, knowing Madame Emmeline would harp
at him for drinking so early in the day. It was the rain, Cleo thought. He was
bored and restless.

“Will you go hunting this afternoon, Monsieur?” Cleo asked.

“
Non
. It’s nothing but mud out there. The game have
gone looking for a little high ground.”

Cleo heard Madame stomping her feet on the back gallery.
“Cleo,” she called, “bring me a mat to wipe this mud on.”

“
Oui
, Madame.” Cleo wondered where Josie was. She’d
certainly had time enough to change from that muddy dress by now. Josie had
been so odd lately, cold one minute, and then loving again the next. Probably
planning to stick her nose in Cleo’s business.

By the time Emile had seated Madame Emmeline at her end of
the table, Josie entered in a fresh linen frock. “
Bonjour
, Mémère,
Papa.”

Cleo served the soup and stood back while dinner progressed.
Madame talked business, as always. Monsieur Johnston had agreed to buy his
start-up cane from her, and they had negotiated a price. If only this incessant
rain didn’t ruin the shoots.

Madame picked up her spoon again. “Josie,” she said. Cleo
saw Josie start. She’d been woolgathering instead of listening. She was in for
it now.

“Josephine.” Madame spoke sharply. “The business of this
plantation concerns you more than anyone. Pay attention.”

“I’m sorry, Mémère. You were talking about the rain?”

“Is there something more important than the cane on your
mind, young lady?”

If Josie planned to make trouble over Remy, Cleo thought,
now’s the time.

“On my mind?” Josie said. Cleo caught her glance, and Josie
held her eyes. “
Non
, of course not, Mémère.” So she wasn’t going to
tell.

“Well, then,” Madame Emmeline continued, “you’ll do well to
listen to your –.” She stopped mid-sentence and gaped at Cleo. Cleo had taken
Madame’s soup plate away even though it was half full.

“What are you doing, you stupid girl? Put that back.”

Cleo shared a fleeting smile with Josie and repositioned
Madame’s soup in front of her. It was a long-standing habit to distract Madame
Emmeline whenever she fussed at Josie. It made Madame angry and gave her
someone else to rail at. Cleo was well aware Josie had protected her from
Madame Celine; she did the same for Josie with Madame Emmeline.

Madame reclaimed her dinner, and then she affected a casual
tone. “Josephine, I’ve had a letter from Monsieur Johnston. About the cane, of
course, but he mentions his daughter – you remember Abigail? She invites you to
visit them next week. Only for a few days, just to get better acquainted.”

“Oh, it’s too soon, Grand-mère. I really don’t want to --.”

“Of course you do, Josephine. It’ll be good for you to make
a new friend. And now the dressmaker has finished your mourning clothes, you
have no excuse for sitting about moping. You should be with other young people
more.”

Cleo knew Josie would appeal to Emile next, but that
wouldn’t do her any good.

“Papa needs me here,” Josie said.

Emile admired the color of his claret. “I believe your
Grand-mère is entrusting you with a business assignment, Josephine.” He put his
glass down. “In order to ensure the Johnstons’ considerable wealth finds an
outlet in our pockets, she wants you to befriend the girl, charm the family,
and, tell me if I’m wrong, Maman, to win the son as well. Not such a lot to
ask. Have I understood you right, Maman?”

“Emile, you are impossible. You know how these things are
done, yet you will not stir yourself to make friends with either Monsieur
Johnston or his son. They are looking for connections with us Creoles, and you
waste this opportunity.”

“I’ll go, Papa.”

Cleo knew she’d say that. Anything to keep the old lady from
carping at Emile. Besides, the old lady was right. That’s how business was
done. It’s just that Emile had no taste for it. He had his books and his
hunting.

Cleo had long ago observed that Emile spent much of his time
doing nothing. He sat on the gallery in the rocker, smoking his cigar, watching
the Mississippi roll by. As long as he could hunt early in the morning, he was
content the rest of the day. After supper he read, unless he was playing cards
with his friends.

Josie sat and stared out the window a lot too. She and Emile
were alike in that. And in their disinterest in the plantation. As hard as
Madame was, Cleo thought, she was the one who kept Toulouse running.

“I’ll go, Grand-mère,” Josie said.

“Of course you will. And you will have a lovely time. How
nice that you have a new wardrobe for the occasion,” Emmeline said.

An all black wardrobe, Cleo thought. Josie looked awful in
black.

Cleo served the vegetables and slyly omitted the stewed okra
from Josie’s plate. Madame wouldn’t tolerate finicky eaters, so Josie had to
clean her plate every meal, and she hated slimy stewed okra.

Emile raised his glass to Josie. “You are an angel,
Josephine, and I do agree that you need to get out of this dreary wet house.
Go, my dear, and enjoy yourself.” He finished his wine in a gulp and excused
himself.

Madame Emmeline eyed his untouched food, no doubt
calculating the number of half cents wasted on his plate, Cleo thought. No
matter. Cleo loved stewed okra. She would eat it herself after Madame left the
room.

And so Josie was to go to the Johnstons. That meant Cleo
would have to see to it that all Josie’s small clothes were washed and ironed,
her stockings mended and laundered, and all the new mourning clothes carefully
folded into the trunk. Abigail had written that she had plenty of maids in the
big house, and Josie need not bring her own. That was fine with Cleo. She could
meet Remy every day while Josie was gone.

In Josie’s bedroom that night, the girls lay in the dark
talking. A year ago they might have discussed Posey Purr’s latest litter and
who should be given the kittens. There’d been few times these last weeks,
though, when Josie set aside the distance she’d put between them. Tonight,
Josie said, “That Abigail called our house ‘little.’ Like it was a cottage or
something.”

“This big house? How big must her house be then?”

“Papa said the new
américains
all build huge houses.”

“Are they all rich? Richer than Creoles?” Cleo said.

“Did you see that gown she wore to the funeral? I bet it
came from New York, or even Paris.”

“Well,” Cleo said, “she talks through her nose.”

“And her French is terrible.”

They were quiet a moment, and then Josie said. “My English
isn’t very good. I’ll feel like a fool every minute I’m there.”

“Maybe you should pretend you don’t know any English at all.
Then they’d have to speak French.”

Josie snickered at that, but her anxiety radiated through
the room. “My clothes are all black,” Josie said. “Mostly cotton, and all
black.”

“I think you need to wear some rouge.”

They settled into silence. Cleo reflected on the close call
she’d had. If Josie had told on her, she could have been switched for slipping
off with a field slave when she was supposed to be in the house. Remy would
have been flogged.

Cleo had seen a man flogged -- her cousin Jean. It hadn’t
happened on Toulouse in a long time, but Mr. Gale knew how to wield his
six-foot whip with the four knotted ends. Jean had lain in the cabin for a week
hardly able to move after Mr. Gale had flayed him for running away. That was a
long time ago, and it was the last flogging on Toulouse. Still, Cleo knew the
whip still hung on Mr. Gale’s porch.

But there would be no beatings, thanks to Josie’s discretion.
Cleo didn’t see how she could have endured a flogging. A beating with the whip
left scars, scars that forever marked you as a slave. 

Every day it rained some more. The wind and the heavy
downpours tore the rose buds apart, and the dahlias dragged their heads in the
mud.

Josie stood in the rain on the Toulouse dock while the men
loaded her trunk onto the riverboat. The wind whipped at her skirts and Elbow
John struggled to hold a big umbrella over her. She stared at the current swirling
in the middle of the river. Anything dropped overboard would be sucked under,
like Oncle Augustine was, and he’d known how to swim.

“Ever see such a rain? Look to me like the whole world gonna
drown,” the boat captain said.

Emile laughed. “I put my faith in the Bible, Mr. Hurley.
‘Neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.’”

“Could fool me, Mister Tassin. These clouds go clear up past
Vicksburg, they say.”