Passion's Joy (10 page)

Joshua's growing weakness gave rise to another coughing fit, and he was unable to deliver the stern lecture he intended. Joy left quickly to heat his potion, and Joshua lay back in an attempt

to catch his breath. A great weakness settled over him, and with it memories suddenly spun clear and vivid in his mind's eye: memories of Joy, the single light in his life.

Joy might have been his brother's daughter by birth, but she had always been his daughter at heart. He thought of her as such. After all, he had raised her from the time she was two years old, a feat that had been anything but easy. Heavens no!

What a bittersweet mix of joy and worry she brought to his life! She had never been perfectly sweet, at least not with any consistency. She was four when she announced she would be a boy, simply because she noticed they had far more fun. That was also when it became apparent she had inherited her parents' gift for languages, picking up one maid's French by the time she mastered English. There had been the endless stream of nursemaids; each one tiring in turn from the perpetual chasing of their irrepressible young lady, each one alternately cursed and blessed his girl: "Oh, I cannot tell ye the 'eaven of holdin' the little girl on me lap and singin' until those blue eyes finally—at last!—close, but they always open again. That's it, I can't turn me back for a blink of an eye and she's gone! Trouble, she's naught but trouble. Wild and rambunctious like a lad, can't sit still for a minute—not even a second! And those questions of the little miss. Where do they come from? Oh, she's a wild thing, she is, and I would stay on if, truly, if..."

Always if.

Hoping a mother's love would help, he took and subsequently survived not one but two wives—fine ladies each. Henrietta had died after only three months of marriage and Maria, sweet young Maria, had died with Joshua's own child in childbirth. Yet Henrietta and Maria both had expressed the exact same attitude, complaints and praise for his extraordinary charge.

Two events had exasperated the problem. While he could not seem to keep a wife, the Reverend had joined the family, keeping to them with a most tenacious bond. Then they had moved to this new wild country, for the better, warmer climate—he had already succumbed to the first stage of the consumption—and to do what they could for the abolitionist cause which by then, as for many of his English countrymen, had become his moral passion. Joy Claret had even less guidance as he became weaker and though she had a startling, quick mind for her studies—the classics, history, and even figures—this also went too far. She was just as likely to find entertainment in the swamps, swimming in a lake or riding that infernal horse of hers bareback, with a skill that even the most liberal would consider indecent for a woman.

Add to this the abolitionist cause. The very first day of their arrival in Louisiana, Joy, a child of ten, had witnessed the unmatched horror of human beings chained and led past their modest carriage by the threat of a whip. Until then, she had only known the evil of slavery from her uncle's long pontifications and lectures. Through the endless garden parties and church meetings, slavery was a thing her young mind connected to fairy tales, stories of princes and princesses, far away distant lands where strange and magical things happened. The harsh reality presented to her innocent eyes had been felt, known, encompassed even then; she had cried that very first day.

Living in an abolitionist household further separated her from the conventions of the surrounding society, though Joy did experience a popularity among the predominantly French community unknown to any other English or American young lady. The French forgot the Napoleonic wars, the battle of New Orleans, even the much hated immigration of so many Americans the moment she displayed her command of their language. Her acts of charity were as well known as they were widespread, and few could forget the young girl in the clean, white smock with a helping hand who followed the doctor into rich and poor houses alike, before his consumption had settled completely.

It was odd, too, how her moral superiority finally developed; she looked at her neighbors and friends, not with contempt or scorn for their support of the peculiar institution, but rather with pity for their lack of vision, understanding and compassion, for trading morals for wealth and justice for comfort. Indeed, she seemed to treat slave owners the same way they treated their slaves

—as small ignorant children.

The thought brought a worried frown.

Where would it end? Could Joshua possibly live long v enough to move to another place where she might have the chance to meet her equals? No, he knew; the end steadfastly approached. He would be hard pressed to see her into a loveless marriage in any case; moreover, it would be absolutely impossible to give her to a man who violated the principles she was taught to hold as dear and sacred as the good lord's very breath. Thus, he had turned down the two gentlemen who had already asked for her hand; both had been from good families, but both had been wealthy and with that had come slave holdings.

What was to become of Joy?

A last prayer closed his eyes and he fell into a restless sleep. Joy returned and set the glass on the table. With a gentle touch, she eased the worried lines from his brow and kissed him. She then spun around, leaving to find the traitorous Reverend. She would give him a piece of her mind!

After a long, drawn-out and tedious meeting with the bankers, Ram Barrington stepped into the warm morning air. The bank faced the far end of the marketplace, and though the street bustled with people and activity, he immediately discerned Bart had yet to return with the horses. With the unexpected few minutes of leisure, he strolled through the crowded marketplace down to the levee.

Ram had seen dozens of ports around the world, and yet as he stood there staring in the midst of the Orleans' marketplace, even his experienced and knowledgeable gaze was dazzled by it. Every language and nationality, every color and creed of people seemed to be represented. The sheer abundance of merchandise and goods astonished him. He stopped for a moment, detached, watching the endless stream of sailors load and unload cargo at a frantic pace. In the ribald exchange of their greetings and pleasantries many languages sounded: French, English, Spanish, Creole, Portuguese, Greek, Italian and, to his amusement, a group of small golden skinned men at the far end spoke an oriental tongue.

He smiled at the sight.

Mounds of coal, bales of cotton, barrels of tobacco and sugar filled the levee, mixed among case after case of merchandise stretching as far as the eye could see. Merchants ran back and forth, desperately shouting orders in a futile effort to be heard above the incessant noise. Longshoremen, their strong black and nearly naked bodies glistening with sweat as they rolled barrels or lifted bales, sang songs in strange African dialects, songs that blended into a garbled English or Creole patois. Gracefully and effortlessly, Negro women carried huge baskets of goods on their heads, calling out wares for sale.

A few paces away, the marketplace looked even more exotic. Rows of canvas-shaded stands spilled out in every direction from the long brick structure resting beneath the Palace D'Arms. Food stands, offering every palatable item imaginable along with many unimaginable and unrecognizable took up over half the marketplace. The produce area alone occupied two rows, selling every type of greenery known to the world. Alongside the produce stands sat a long row of fish and meat stands. Small Negro children obediently fanned flies from the piles; a signal from their master sent them dashing to the river with a bucket—a dark streak in the glaring sun— returning to dump cool water

over the fish. The stench was overwhelming, but oddly Ram felt he was the only person among the multitudes who even noticed it.

Every other kind of ware was for sale, too: clothes, fabric, housing goods and wares, even one book stand. The far side offered livestock: pens of cows, sheep, chickens and goats, other pet pens of dogs, kittens, birds and even monkeys.

Proprietors shouted unceasingly for the attention of the jostling crowds of buyers. Grand Dames, dressed in silks and twirling brightly colored parasols, walked alongside peasants, beggars, Negroes and even savages. He never would have believed it, without seeing it.

Eventually he found himself seated at a table in a small cafe, his back to the bank to watch for Bart. With a colorful blue and white striped awning, the cafe provided pleasant shade as well as a panoramic view of all the many activities. Waiting for his meal and coffee, he leaned back, sighing with satisfaction.

The first part of his plan was set in action. He hired two agents to look for a prime piece of rich delta land. The land would be cleared and a manor would be built, all to create the impression that he planned to make Louisiana his home. Which he would have to do for a while.

The information his agents had gathered left no doubt that the five men he would see ruined were close to the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest, in the state. Though these men certainly deserved to be hanged, he was not going to give them the mercy of a hanging—that was too easy. Their atrocities sprang from simple greed; therefore it was their fortunes he'd see ruined. The whole endeavor was a favor to his uncle, and while he certainly didn't mind the effort this favor required, to say nothing of the results the favor would reap, the time required bothered him. Time was the enemy of life, especially his life. There would never be enough time for all he wanted to accomplish.

A friendly mulatto, serving wench placed a huge plate of gumbo, honey-baked rolls, a glass of claret and a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. Ram thanked her with a more than generous tip. He was enjoying his meal as much as the sights, sounds and bustle of the marketplace, and he took no notice of the carriage that stopped in front of the bank he had just quit. Two older women descended and entered the bank, while three fairly young ladies made their way across the muddied street, clacking, giggling and fussing over their skirts. They stepped into the cafe with a dazzling burst of pale color and spent at least three minutes trying to decide where they ought to sit in the nearly deserted place, drawing but brief attention from the newspaper Ram read.

Ram took no more notice of them, though each of the three young ladies was of the age where she noticed him. They fell into hushed whispers, bursts of giggles and blushes, quick sideways glances at his table. Ambrosia went so far as to drop a pretty pink lace handkerchief, one that matched perfectly her cotton day dress. The prompt serving woman quickly picked it up, shook it, and folded it neatly in front of the girl with a smile.

"Well, this is a first," Ambrosia assured her two friends.

"Oh my!" Katie cried happily, "Look, it's Joy! Yoo-hoo, darling!" She waved, jumping up. "Joy Claret!"

The name instantly solicited Ram's attention, and he looked up and over the street, held by the unexpectedness of it. She looked both lovely and magnificent; he knew no other way to describe how she appeared atop that beast, controlling the fine mare beautifully. He smiled—thank God she rode side-saddle. A young colored girl sat astride behind her, skirt hiked over bare legs, hanging on to her mistress's waist for her life.

Joy Claret reined Libertine around, and seeing who called to her, she smiled and kicked Libertine to a pretty trot. She pulled up alongside the platform of the cafe, coming to a stop. "Why Katie, Ambrosia, how do you do!"

"Joy darling." Katie introduced the third unknown young lady, "This is Melissa, my cousin, all the way from Memphis for a visit!"

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. This here's Cory." Joy smiled, pointing to her fellow passenger.

Comprehension was slow to follow confusion. Melissa managed to nod but remained so shocked that the young lady introduced her darky to her, she hardly heard the rest of the conversation.

All it would take was a quick glance to the back to see who else sat there, but Joy's eyes never left her friends. Ram was able to enjoy the uninterrupted pleasure, and he missed nothing of this first view of her in feminine apparel, nor did he miss the surprising and ever so admirable proportions of her slender figure, which were noted with a highly appreciative raise of brow. She wore a wine-colored skirt and a plain, white cotton shirt, the dark color, like the homespun quality of the skirt's material marking her family's poor financial situation. A matching maroon scarf held back her long unbound hair—hair that matched the dark roan-colored mare. A wide, straw sun hat crowned her head.

"Have, you come to town for shopping?" Joy was asking.

"Yes! Slippers and shawls for our party next week. Oh, you are coming Joy, aren't you?" "Oh, yes!"

"And tell me, darling, how is the good doctor faring of late?”

The question quickly subdued her gaiety. "Oh, better I think," she answered quietly. "Though goodness, his recovery is filled with ... well, occasional setbacks."

Katie reached a hand to Joy's and squeezed it affectionately, "Well, my word"—she knew to change the subject—"where are the two of you off to today?"

"You all won't believe it when I tell," Joy brightened with an excited laugh. "Cory and I are aiming to travel down river to where that old witch lives, the Negro’s medicine woman."

This drew the wide-eyed attention of all three young ladies. Ambrosia even gasped with shock, while Katie exclaimed, "Why, I don't believe it!"

"Oh, but we are! I'm going to ask her for a potion for Joshua." She bit her lip and looked briefly away to add, "Dr. Morson seems able to do little good these days."

"But aren't you afraid?" Katie pursued. “To hear our darkies talk of that woman, I half suspect she's as much myth as Methuselah. And not one of their tales doesn't lift my hair from my neck!"

"I'm not afraid at all. She might have something to help Joshua, and besides, the worst she could do is turn us away. Honestly, I'd march through Hades with a banner if it could help Joshua."

"But what if she puts a hex on you?" This was Ambrosia.

"Oh, I don't believe in that silly voodoo nonsense." Joy dismissed this with a wave of her hand. "And if one doesn't believe, one is perfectly safe."