Patricia Potter (18 page)

But first he must see MacIntosh. The man had been pleasant enough when they had been introduced the previous night, but later he had seen the planter’s eyes turn cold as they watched him. Meredith Seaton, he knew, was probably responsible for that.

That was unfortunate but it was his own fault. Damn his eyes or, more accurately, his
mouth
for not keeping silent. He wanted the shipping contracts. An increase in shipping from this area would, of course, give him a reason for stopping often at Vicksburg, which would be beneficial to the Underground Railroad. But he also wanted to see the
Lucky Lady
prosper. He had come to love the steamboat, although he knew he would probably have to give her up one day. He had already made legal arrangements to transfer the title to Jamison if anything happened to him. He owed the
Lady,
as he often called her, much, for she had helped him rebuild his life and had given him purpose and confidence. In some ways, he considered the boat almost human, deserving the very best care.

And his own quiet need to be successful at something other than cards and intrigue was a challenge. His words to Brett had not been completely false.

From a distance, the MacIntosh mansion appeared larger than Briarwood although it was of the same Greek Revival and Italianate styles. But where Briarwood had columns only at the front, this home was surrounded with them, and a huge porch and galleries wrapped around the entire home. It was breathtaking, he thought, and would be extraordinarily tempting to a young lady. He recalled how Gil MacIntosh had hovered over Meredith Seaton and he felt an odd pang. But why, he wondered, would Gilbert MacIntosh be interested in such a frumpy woman? Her inheritance, perhaps? Could MacIntosh need money? And why in the devil did he, Quinn, care?

Gilbert MacIntosh was in the fields, and Quinn was ushered into an elegant study while Cam stayed outside with the horses. Quinn studied the room, its Italian marble fireplace, crystal chandelier, and shelves of leather-bound books. Beveled stained-glass windows cast a warm glow on the rich handmade furniture. If MacIntosh needed money, there was certainly no evidence of it here.

Quinn didn’t have to wait long. MacIntosh, dressed in riding clothes and mud-splattered high boots, appeared in the doorway and Quinn knew he had not been mistaken last night. The man’s eyes were icy, his mouth grim.

“Devereux?” There were no pleasantries.

Quinn regarded the planter inquisitively. He was undeniably homely, his face too broad, his hair too red, his skin too pale despite the hours he must spend in the sun. Yet there was a certain integrity about the man that surprised Quinn.

Quinn tried his most disarming grin. “I think I can offer you very advantageous prices to ship your cotton.”

“You’ve wasted your time, Devereux. I’m satisfied with my current arrangements.”

“You said last night you would hear me out.”

“That was last night,” MacIntosh said curtly. “I’ve had information since that leads me to believe I wouldn’t care to associate with you.”

Quinn had not expected so frontal an attack. Meredith Seaton had done her work well. But not quite well enough. Robert Seaton had already signed a contract with him. Quinn’s smile didn’t fade, although the corners of his mouth twisted slightly.

“I’m offering two cents less per pound than what you’re paying now,” he said, ignoring the other man’s insult. “Robert Seaton has just signed a contract with us.”

Gil shook his head. “I said I was satisfied with my present arrangements. My butler will show you out.”

Quinn felt a brief respect for MacIntosh, and surrendered. “It’s your loss, MacIntosh. If you change your mind, you can contact my agent in Vicksburg.”

“I won’t.”

Quinn nodded, and followed the butler, who had suddenly appeared at the door. He didn’t know whether to rage at Meredith Seaton. He had lost business, but she had apparently just added to a reputation he had scrupulously tried to build over the past years.

Yet he didn’t like her interference. It was another score to settle. One that perhaps the theft of her slave would even. He gave Cam a brief smile as he remounted his horse. One way or another, he was going to get Daphne away. For Cam. And now there was an added reason—revenge.

They rode for several hours before they arrived at the Parson’s cabin on the lake. The dogs were barking, and Quinn hoped that meant the Parson was home. But he wasn’t. Four dogs came out to meet them, but no figure in a black suit. The cabin was unlocked but empty.

Cam’s face fell, and Quinn knew the reason why. They could spend only another day and a half in the area. If they missed this opportunity, he didn’t know when they would be back. And Cam would have to tell Daphne that their plans were off.

“We’ll wait,” he said, taking the chair Meredith had occupied just several days earlier, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

Cam paced awhile, then said he would keep watch outside. Quinn nodded, instinctively knowing that Cam wanted to be alone. There were certain things they could share, and some they could not. Quinn knew Cam’s worry over Daphne was intensely private.

After a few moments, he rose and looked around the cabin curiously. There was a large worn Bible sitting on the table in the corner. He went over to it and ruffled the pages, glancing only briefly at the words.

Whatever belief he had had in God had deserted him in the prison ship. Nothing that had happened in the next years had changed his mind. Even now, he questioned the existence of a God, any God. If there was one, he wasn’t altogether sure he cared for an omnipotent being who allowed cruelty and brutality and slavery. He started to close the Bible when three sheets of heavy paper fell from it.

He leaned down and picked them up, not intending to look, but his eyes caught the strong sure strokes of a face he recognized. He looked at the second.
The Carroll brothers.
The third sheet captured an entirely different subject—a fox whose wary dark eyes stared at him. There was so much life in the animal that Quinn thought it could jump from the paper into the room. But even more intriguing was the familiarity of those bold, impatient strokes.

“Captain Devereux.”

He spun around and stared at the Parson, who stood in the doorway with Cam. Unaccountably, he felt guilty standing there with the sketches in his hand.

“Jonathon.”

The Parson acknowledged the greeting with a nod, his eyes on the sketches. “This is a surprise.”

Quinn wished he didn’t quite feel like a small boy with his hand caught in a forbidden pie, but the circuit preacher’s eyes didn’t do much to relieve that discomfort. The pale blue, while not accusatory, nonetheless demanded answers.

“You know Cam?” Quinn asked, discomfited.

The Parson nodded. “We met once in New Orleans.” He waited for Quinn to continue.

“There’s a girl we would like you to help.”

The Parson raised an eyebrow. “You’ve come all this way for that?”

“No. We’re staying not far from here. Shipping business.”

The Parson seemed to stiffen. “Where?”

“The Seaton plantation. Briarwood.”

A curtain fell over the Parson’s face. He turned away from Quinn and Cam and went to a small cupboard. “Cider?” he asked, his back to them.

“No,” Quinn said, a bit puzzled. “We can’t stay long. We just wanted to ask for your help. A girl named Daphne at Briarwood. We were hoping you could help her North.”

The gaunt man turned to him, his eyes unfathomable. “Does she want to go?”

“Yes.” It was Cam who spoke. “I talked to her last night. Gave her the password.”

The Parson nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

That was, Quinn knew, a great deal. Still he hesitated, his fingers tightening on the sketches he held.

“Where did you get these?”

The Parson reached out his hand for them. “One of our agents…in New Orleans. These two are apparently a pair of slave hunters.”

Quinn held onto them. “Who sketched them?”

The Parson’s light blue eyes caught and held Quinn’s midnight blue ones. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I’ve seen that style before…. I have a painting and I think it’s the same artist. I’ve been trying to find more of his work.”

The Parson smiled slightly. “I didn’t know you were an art lover.”

Quinn grinned at the description. “I didn’t know either. It’s just that there’s something about that particular painting.”

The Parson knew before he even asked. Something was growing in him…a terrible sense of inevitability. “What kind of painting?”

“A rainbow over the Mississippi. There’s something haunting about it.” His hands fingered the sketches. “Could these be by the same artist?”

The Parson was a man who believed the end justified the means. And the end, now, was freedom. Freedom for many. It had become his obsession, his life. Nothing to him was more important. Not even the truth. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. They came to me from New Orleans to circulate among the stations. The man who sent them knows I enjoy animals and sent the sketch of the fox along. I didn’t ask the source.” The hint was strong that Quinn should follow suit.

But Quinn wasn’t ready to let go. “These two men were on the
Lucky Lady
a month ago.”

“They’ve been many places, according to our information. May I have the sketches?”

Quinn reluctantly handed them over, his eyes lingering over the drawing of the fox. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Yes,” the Parson said simply. He took them over to the Bible and slipped them back between the pages. He turned to Quinn. “How long will you be at Briarwood?”

“Another day. Robert Seaton’s agreed to ship some of his cotton with us. It will give me a good excuse to stop at Vicksburg frequently if you have cargo for me.”

“How do you find Briarwood?”

Quinn shrugged. “Like any other plantation.”

The Parson felt briefly relieved. “Tell me about this Daphne.”

“She was recently purchased in New Orleans by Meredith Seaton, who apparently owns her.” He looked over at Cam. “Cam talked to her on the
Lucky Lady…
he’ll make arrangements for her after Cairo.”

So it was Cam who was interested, the Parson thought as he looked at the large black man who stood silently near the door. He knew Cam’s story, at least part of it, and he knew that Quinn and Cam together had been uncommonly effective conduits for the Railroad. They deserved this…the gift of Daphne…and perhaps it would dull Devereux’s obvious interest in Briarwood.

“You’ve tried to buy the girl?”

“Several times. I believe Miss Seaton has taken a dislike to me.” The observation was made dryly.

“From what I hear of you, Captain, that must be an unusual dilemma.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear,” Quinn replied. “But I take it money means nothing to Miss Seaton. My brother says she spends it like water. Too bad it doesn’t make her more presentable…or agreeable.”

The Parson choked slightly. “I think it might be wise if you left, Captain. I don’t want anyone to see you here.”

Quinn nodded and offered his hand. “Thank you. Just get word to us where Daphne is, and we’ll take care of her.”

The Parson nodded. “Four weeks, no more.”

Quinn and Cam opened the door and went to their horses. The Parson watched them mount and ride from the clearing, his mind trying to sort out this latest complication.

It was amazing that his two best, most observant agents were completely fooled by each other. Or were they? They displayed a certain bafflement, some indefinable current, as they talked about each other. And they were already linked in some way by the painting.

He looked up at the sky. Some divine plan? He fervently hoped not. Singularly, they were both very effective. That effectiveness, he sensed, would come to a complete end were they to find out about each other. Neither did anything halfway, and he suspected their hard-earned disguises would be destroyed if they ever came together. There was no place in Quinn Devereux’s disguise for tenderness, and none in Meredith’s for love.

He felt a tug of guilt. He must work to prevent their union. The Underground Railroad, and their roles in it, was too important. Personal lives came second. They had to.

The Parson, feeling a hundred years old, heard the sharp bark of the fox. He moved slowly toward the barn to feed it as he thought once more about Quinn Devereux and Meredith Seaton. He prayed silently that he was making the right decision.

C
hapter 10

THE MATHIS PLANTATION
, like Briarwood, sat alongside the Mississippi but it was farther south, not far from Natchez. Like so many other Mississippi plantations, the house was Greek Revival, but rather than white, it was a brownstone color, which blended with the bluff on which it sat. Large meticulously attended gardens surrounded the home.

Meredith had arrived ten days earlier, coming unannounced with Daphne and Aunt Opal. They had been welcomed coolly, but hospitality, even for uninvited guests, was a Mississippi tradition. No one thought of turning them away even if the Mathis family grumbled privately.