North and South: The North and South Trilogy (104 page)

Bombarding her sister with words, Ashton urged her out of the door. “You run downstairs, and I’ll be there in a jiffy. I just want to find Homer, so everything will be ready.”

It was Rex, not Homer, whom Ashton sought after she slipped down the back stairs. She ordered the boy to race to Resolute on foot, with instructions to deliver her message to no one but Forbes LaMotte. She reinforced the order by digging her nails into Rex’s thin brown forearm until she saw pain in his eyes. The nigger had been uppity ever since the whipping. She knew he was just itching to get even. If she kept him scared, he wouldn’t dare.

She wrote a pass and shooed Rex out through the pantry. Then she patted her carefully done hair, fixed a sweet smile on her face, and glided to the front of the house to participate in the last happy moment of Billy Hazard’s life.

“And now, you may kiss the bride.”

After this pronouncement, the Reverend Mr. Saxton exhaled in a way that carried sherry fumes to those seated nearby. Clarissa pressed her palms together like a delighted child. She had watched the ceremony with great interest, even though it involved strangers.

Behind her, Marie-Louise uttered a dreamy sigh, then murmured, “Oh, wasn’t it lovely?”

“It’s as close as you’ll ever get to the altar,” her brother Judah said with a leer. “You’re ugly as a fence post.”

The girl kicked his shin. “And you’re mean as a snake.”

From behind, Cooper flicked each on the ear with the tip of his index finger, then induced silence with a fatherly scowl.

Brett had heard scarcely a word of the reading from the prayer book. When they had to kneel, it had been necessary for Billy to give her a gentle nudge. She knew the ceremony was sacred and important, but her heart was beating too fast for concentration. In a couple of hours she would be leaving the land of her childhood to be a wife in a strange, even hostile country. The prospect was terrifying—until the moment she gazed into her husband’s eyes, so full of love and reassurance.

He put his arms around her. She felt his strength flood into her. With Billy beside her, she could suffer through the worst the North could offer. She would hide whatever longing or fear she felt and build a fine future for both of them.

Kissing him, she made that silent vow.

Orry had chosen to sit in the third and last row of chairs, fearful of how he might react during the ceremony. Fortunately, he remained dry-eyed, although he felt the churn of powerful emotions.

He thought of Madeline. Of old age and the days passing in lonely procession. He thought of the crisis at Sumter. Even a year ago it would have been inconceivable to imagine that an American family like the Mains would be living under a new flag.

Perhaps he was prey to so much turmoil because any wedding was a watershed. A joyous occasion, yet a marking of profound change from the way things had been. He was determined to emphasize the happy aspect. He kissed his sister’s cheek and congratulated her warmly after the ceremony.

“I hope you mean that,” she said, nestling against Billy, who held her protectively, one arm around her waist. “I’d like to think this marriage will help keep our families close, no matter what happens.”

Orry looked at the bridegroom. A handsome, competent young man, brother of his best friend. Yet this same young man with the broad, almost bemused smile normally wore not a fine broadcloth wedding suit but a uniform. “I’d like to think so, too,” Orry declared, trying to conceal the doubt suddenly engulfing him. “Come on, now—into the dining room while the wine is still cold.”

He shepherded them out. They passed Ashton, who clung to the arm of her bored, fretful husband. Ashton stared at the newlyweds with an intense gaze that fortunately went unnoticed.

In the foyer at Resolute, Forbes listened to Rex’s message, then sent him to the kitchen to claim a reward of some hot cornbread. Justin strolled out of the study with Preston Smith. The sleeves of Justin’s silk shirt bore signs of his tramp through the fields—bits of leaf and twig. Preston had a large saddlebag slung over one shoulder.

Both men glanced at Forbes, who nodded and said, “Four-thirty.”

Preston looked past his friend to an ormolu clock standing on a fine fruitwood chest, just below the old saber on the wall. “Then we have plenty of time.”

“But I’d just as soon saddle up and leave now. I don’t want to risk missing them.”

“Nor I,” Preston agreed with a sly smile.

Justin smiled too. He swaggered to the wall, moistened the ball of this thumb, and wiped away some speck only he could see on the nicked blade. The sun through the fanlight flooded the wall around the weapon, setting it afire.

“Boys, I wish you well,” Justin said as he drew his thumb back and forth along the blade. “You’ll be performing a public service by killing young Mr. Hazard. There’ll be one less officer in the Yankee army. It’ll be a fine comeuppance for that Mont Royal crowd, too.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Forbes grinned, but his eyes were hard.

“I’ll be waiting for news of your success,” Justin called as they tramped out. Giving a pleased sigh, he started back to the study. After he had taken only a few steps, he was distracted by a faint noise at the head of the staircase. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly hoarse.

“What the devil are you doing up there, Madeline?”

It was obvious what she was doing. She was listening.

Standing in the deep afternoon shadow, she clutched the stair rail tightly. Then she descended two steps with more than her usual animation, he thought. Sudden anxiety touched him. Had the recent doses of laudanum through some mischance been too weak?

She clung to the banister with white hands, coming down another step, and another. The black silk of her bodice rose and fell in a way that suggested great effort. Her shadow-circled eyes brimmed with disgust.

The situation called for a firm stand. He marched to the center of the foyer, planted his boots wide apart, and hooked his thumbs over his belt. “Eavesdropping on our guests, were you?” The question carried an unmistakable threat.

“Not intentionally. I”—her voice strengthened—“I was on my way to the sewing room. What were you talking about, Justin? Who are they going to kill?”

“No one.”

“I heard the name Hazard.”

“Just your imagination. Get back to your room.”

“No.”

She came down two more steps, then closed her eyes and caught her breath. Her pale forehead glistened with little sparkles of perspiration. He realized she was still struggling against the effects of the drug.

“No,” she repeated. “Not until you explain. Surely I misunderstood. You can’t be sending your own nephew out to murder someone.”

Panic engulfed him then. He blurted, “You stupid slut, get back to your room. Now!”

Again Madeline shook her head, gathering her strength to continue her slow, labored descent of the stairs. “I’m leaving,” she said.

It took her the better part of ten seconds to negotiate the next two risers. He knew then that he had been foolish to panic. She was too weak to do anything about what she had overheard. He managed to relax a little and let his amusement show.

“Oh? To go where?”

“That”—she rubbed her forehead with a handkerchief crushed in her left hand—“is my affair.”

Her mind had grasped the sense of desperate urgency a moment after Justin had spoken the name Hazard. Now she heard hoofbeats echoing down the lane as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Fear renewed her strength, helping to overcome the terrifying lethargy. She stumbled toward the front door. Justin sidestepped, blocking her.

“Please let me pass.”

“I forbid you to leave this house.”

At the end of the sentence his voice cracked and grew strident. That was the final proof that the plotting was altogether real. Someone at Mont Royal was to be slain. She didn’t know the reason, but she knew she must prevent it—if she could.

She started around her husband. He fisted his hand, moved deliberately to her left, and smashed her in the side of the head. With a cry, she sprawled on the floor.

Lying there, she stared dazedly up at him for a time that, to her, seemed endless. Then, gasping, she put her hands beneath her, regained her feet, and once more moved on across the foyer.

Justin struck her again. This time the back of her head hit a corner of the fruitwood chest, a sharp, hurting blow. Her outcry was loud. She rose on one knee, desperately striving to move.

A door opened. Two black faces peered from the rear hall as Justin loomed over her. “If you insist on behaving like a stubborn animal, you’ll be treated like one.” He kicked her hard under her left breast.

Madeline recoiled back against the chest again. The chest hit the wall and rattled the saber. The ormolu clock tipped over, rolled off, and shattered. She lay gasping, fighting for breath, while her eyes watered and everything blurred.

Justin swung around and strode across the foyer. “Goddamn you, what are you staring at? Close that door or I’ll flay you.”

The terrified slaves disappeared. Madeline’s vision cleared a little. She fumbled for a grip on the edge of the chest and then, by force of will, dragged herself up.

Justin turned, saw her on her feet, and swore. She heard the staccato drumming of his foot heels behind her as he charged, spewing filthy curses. With an agonizing effort, she snatched the saber from its pegs, whirled, and slashed.

The nicked edge opened his face from his left brow to the midpoint of his jaw. For a second, pink meat showed beneath the separated skin. Then blood began to leak, spilling down his cheek and spattering his silk shirt.

He pressed his hand to the wound. “You fucking whore!” With his other hand outstretched, he lunged toward her.

She flung the saber away and instinctively swayed out of his way. His momentum carried him on. He struck the wall headfirst, like some actor in a low farce, and slowly sank to his knees. He rested his bleeding face on the chest and moaned.

Two other slaves hovered outside, attracted by the noise. Madeline recognized one of them. “Ezekiel, come with me. I need the buggy.” She gestured to the second black. “See to Mr. LaMotte.”

Two minutes later she was whipping the buggy down the lane toward the river road.

“Young. He said
young,”

The buggy’s left rear wheel slammed into a deep hole, almost throwing her off the seat. She fought to keep the vehicle from careening into the ditch as it flashed by the Six Oaks. The open air had sharpened her senses and cleared her head somewhat. She had just remembered her husband’s reference to
young
Mr. Hazard. She took that to mean George’s brother was the intended victim. He must have left the fort in Charleston harbor, but where was he now?

Light-dappled trees streamed by in a blur. Wind beat at her face. What a prize fool she had been to stay with Justin for so long. For months and months, her will to resist had been sapped by a puzzling exhaustion. Before that, it was her misguided sense of honor that had kept her at Resolute.

But there was no honor in the man to whom she had been brokered in marriage, nor in most of his family. Until this afternoon, however, she hadn’t realized how degraded they were.

She had paused at the head of the staircase, looked down, and discovered Forbes receiving a whispered message from the young slave. The boy didn’t live at Resolute, so obviously he had been sent from somewhere else. Sent with a message Forbes was anxious to receive.

Then Justin had strolled into sight with young Smith. She had at first believed she was listening to the planning of some prank. In a few moments the cruel words and facial expressions told her the reference to killing was meant literally.

Now she hoped she might find young Mr. Hazard at Mont Royal. Failing that, she prayed he could be located, warned in time. Orry would know what to do. Oh, God, she should have left Justin and married Orry long ago.

The cooling rush of air continued to invigorate her body and her mind. The pins and shell combs that fastened her hair had all worked loose, and the long, black strands began to trail out behind her. Lather was already showing on the wild-eyed gelding that propelled the buggy at breakneck speed.

She felt an immense, exultant sense of release. She would never go back to Resolute. Never go back to Justin—

And damn the consequences.

S
HORTLY BEFORE THREE, THE
family gathered to wave good-bye to the newly weds. Billy wanted to leave early enough for a leisurely ride to the little woodland way station.

It was a perfect afternoon for a wedding trip, Charles thought as he lit another cigar. Mild March sunshine slanted through the mossy oak trees, and the air was rich with the smell of wet earth. The low-country spring was coming on. Damn if he didn’t feel like riding down to Charleston and finding a girl.

He helped Homer lift and tie trunks and portmanteaus on top of Huntoon’s carriage. During this, Brett and Billy said their farewells to the family members, Ashton standing aside to be last. “Oh, I do wish you both Godspeed and much happiness. A long life, too,” she added. Sunshine flashed in her dark eyes as she hugged her sister.

“Thank you, Ashton,” Billy said. He shook her hand in an awkward way. In fact, Charles thought awkward the perfect word to describe Billy’s behavior with Ashton all afternoon. Well, no wonder; Billy had been infatuated with her for a good long time. In Charles’s opinion, his friend had wound up with the better girl. Ashton had drive and brains, but a mean streak, too.

“Bison”—Billy stepped up to Charles and extended his hand—“take care of yourself especially if things heat up at Sumter.”

“Sure will try.” Their clasp was firm and long. “You keep in touch. ’Course, I know you won’t be able to do it right away. Other things occupy a man who’s just married.”

“I’m sure counting on that.”

They both laughed. Brett had just finished embracing her mother one final time. She wiped away a tear and said teasingly, “That sounds wicked.”

Charles grinned. “You’re right, but we need a smidgen of smut in these festivities. The bridegroom didn’t get a proper bachelor dinner.”