Property (Vintage Contemporaries) (23 page)

“Has he found her?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But it does appear that your suspicion that she has disguised herself may be correct. He has attempted to trace the gentleman traveling for his health and there is no evidence that such a person exists.”

“Where was she last seen?”

“If it is she,” my uncle cautioned. “He can’t be certain, of course. This gentleman was traveling under the name of Mr. Claude Maître and he is known to have disembarked from the
United States
at Savannah. He hardly spoke to anyone on the trip, he kept to his berth, and the steward says he didn’t sleep but sat up in his chair fully dressed. He never removed his hat.”

“That’s because his long hair would fall down.”

My uncle smiled. “It’s remarkable, don’t you think? How did you guess it?”

“I thought it odd that a sick man would travel with a woman and a baby. Why wouldn’t he take a boy, who would be more useful?”

“It’s so bold,” my uncle said. “Here I have been imagining her hiding out in the swamps, perhaps meeting up with one of Murrel’s men, who would pretend to be her guide, and then sell her to Indians, and instead she has been traveling north in a private cabin.”

“She wouldn’t be so bold if someone weren’t helping her.”

“No. That’s certainly true,” my uncle agreed. We did not say the name that sprang to both our lips because my uncle can hardly speak of Mr. Roget without becoming agitated. “Well, we shall see,” he concluded. “Mr. Leggett believes the Philadelphia destination is a ploy, and that she will more likely try to reach New York. Here we are,” he said, as we had arrived at my door. I bid him good-night and let myself into the parlor, where I sat in the dark for some time, entertaining the idea of Sarah passing as a sick white gentleman in the freezing metropolis of New York. Even if she were apprehended at once, it might be weeks before she was returned. I pulled a straying lock of hair back from my face; it might be best to send Rose out to study with a decent hairdresser. She was much improved as a housekeeper, and she managed Walter as well as Delphine did. She was presentable, willing, and she liked living in town. I had thought to sell her when Sarah returned, but it might be more practical to sell Sarah.

As I so mused, my eyes fell upon the side table, where I noticed a white card left on the salver. Joel, I thought. He must have stopped by on his way to his next party and written a line of courteous concern about my indisposition at my aunt’s card table. Party? I asked myself, as I lit the lamp and reached for the card, or a room full of fancy yellow harlots?

But it wasn’t his card. It was larger and the lettering was different. I held it close to the light and read the legend:

EVERETT ROGET
Tasteful and elegant carpentry
Interior and exterior painting and plaster
Faux marble and fresco

I turned it over and read the carefully lettered message on the reverse:

Dear Mrs. Gaudet,

I hope you will allow me to call upon you tomorrow afternoon at two on a matter of import to us both.

Respectfully,
Everett Roget h.c.l.

AFTER BREAKFAST I consulted with my aunt, who agreed with me that Mr. Roget knew exactly where Sarah was and intended to make an offer pending her return. “He may seem sure of himself,” she said. “He has established some means of contacting Sarah quickly and he thinks she is so well hidden no one can find her. But he must know Mr. Leggett has been commissioned to apprehend her. This is a desperate measure.”

Mr. Roget did not appear in the least desperate when he arrived at my door that afternoon. As he followed Rose into the parlor his eyes darted confidently over the cornices, the mantel, the baseboards, then settled upon me with much the same quality of appraisal and assurance. He was neatly dressed, though not elegant in any part, except for his walking stick, which had a silver knob. He took the seat I directed him to, set his hat upon the side table, and held the stick between his legs. His hands, I noticed, were large, chapped from the cold and the dry plaster of his trade, the nails neatly trimmed. One was bruised black at the quick. He was light-skinned, though not so light as Sarah, and his features were pleasing, especially his eyes, which were wide, dark brown, the lashes thick for a man. He began almost at once, offering his condolences for my recent losses and apologizing for having taken the liberty to disturb me in my mourning.

“It is for just that reason that I must ask you to come directly to the point of your visit,” I said.

He compressed his lips in a tight, self-satisfied smile that suggested he had not expected to be treated courteously, and was now justified in that expectation. I leaned forward over the arm of my chair, giving him my close attention.

“I have come in hopes that you will accept an offer for the purchase of your servant Sarah.”

“Sarah?” I pretended surprise. “But she is not for sale. Are you in the habit of offering to buy servants who are not for sale?”

He raised his eyes to mine. “No,” he said.

“Then I wonder what has driven you to such impertinence in this case.”

“I made Sarah’s acquaintance when she was with her former owner, and I have long been desirous of purchasing her.”

“You know, of course, that she has run away.”

“I do,” he said. “My offer is made in the event of her return.”

“What makes you think she will return?” I asked. “She has eluded capture for over a month now.”

He looked down at the knob of his cane, making no reply. After a moment he rubbed at a smudge on the silver with his palm.

“How soon after I accept your offer might I expect her return?” I asked.

Still the infuriating man did not speak. His eyes wandered over the objects on the side table, stopping at the portrait of my father. How Father would have detested him, I thought, and seen through his despicable game. He wanted a wife lighter than he was, but no free quadroon would have him. In spite of his fortune, which I didn’t doubt was considerable, he was a laborer. Sarah was perfect for him. They could raise a houseful of yellow brats, one more useless than the next. But what, I wondered, would he do with the baby Sarah already had?

“You know that Sarah has a child with her,” I said.

He looked up from the portrait, his expression candid and businesslike. “I do,” he said.

“I assume that your offer would include that child. It is too young to be separated from its mother.”

“Of course,” he said.

“You have figured that into the offer, have you?” I said.

He frowned at my persistence on this point. “I have,” he said.

“Did you know that Sarah has another child?” I asked, watching his face closely. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She didn’t tell him, I thought.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“A boy,” I said. “A healthy child. She left him behind.” I stood up and pulled the cord for Rose. “He is eight years old.” Rose came in at the dining room door. “Send Walter to me,” I said. She looked past me at Mr. Roget, then turned back hurriedly. She and Delphine were probably huddled together over the kitchen table in a fit of jabbering. I turned, smiling, to my guest, who had not moved, though his shoulders drooped. The interview was not going exactly as he had planned. “Walter is old enough to be separated from his mother,” I observed, “but that is a policy I have always abhorred. It is a cruelty to sell a child away from his only protector. My father, that is his portrait”—I lifted my chin indicating the picture—“was strongly opposed to the unnecessary breakup of family connections among our people, and I have tried to follow his example.”

Mr. Roget listened to these sentiments absently, his eyes focused on the dining room door. I kept my back to it, as I knew exactly what he was about to discover and I felt a great curiosity to see his face when he experienced what I imagined would be a series of hard shocks to the foundations of his scheme. We listened to the patter of bare feet as the wild creature charged across the dining room. Then with what amusement I heard the gleeful bark with which Walter is wont to greet new faces! His hand brushed against my skirt as he hurried past me to clutch the knees of the astounded Mr. Roget. I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “It was too bad of Sarah not to tell you about Walter,” I said solemnly. “I expect she feared you might be disappointed in some way.” Walter was working up to a scream as he attempted to divest Mr. Roget of his walking stick. “You can’t have it,” Mr. Roget said. “You might hurt yourself with it.”

“He can’t hear you,” I pointed out helpfully. “He is deaf. He has been examined by a physician, and I’m afraid there is no hope that he will ever be normal.”

Walter gave up the stick and held out his arms to be picked up. When Mr. Roget did not respond, he turned to me, stretching his arms up and mewing. He persists in this behavior, though I never touch him if I can avoid it. He was wearing only a slip made from sacking, his face was smeared with what looked like dried egg yolk, his hands and feet were filthy, and his hair was a mass of knots. I looked back to see Rose watching from the far door. “Come take him,” I said, and she came in quickly. As soon as he saw her, the boy ran to her arms. He was carried back to the courtyard, simpering and patting Rose’s cheek. “He is much improved since our move here,” I observed to Mr. Roget as I resumed my seat. My guest raised his hand and commenced rubbing the corner of his eye with his finger, evidently thunderstruck. “But the truth is,” I continued, “as you can see, he will never be worth anything to anyone.”

“No,” he agreed. He left off rubbing his eye and gave me a look of frank ill will mixed with grudging admiration, such as one gives a worthy opponent. This gratified me, but his lips betrayed the faintest trace of a smile, an habitual insolence, I thought, which made me want to slap him.

“Perhaps you wish to reconsider your offer,” I suggested.

“No,” he said. “But as you say yourself, this boy has no value. If I were to agree to take him, I would not offer more.”

“Well, I am curious to hear the figure you have in mind.”

“Two thousand dollars,” he said coolly.

It was twice what Sarah was worth. I allowed the notion of making such a profit and getting rid of Walter in the bargain to tempt me for a moment. I’ve no doubt I gave Mr. Roget the same adversarial scrutiny he had just given me. “It is a generous offer,” I said. “You must be very determined to have her.”

“I am,” he said.

What possessed the man? He had already gone to the expense of financing Sarah’s escape. He was probably paying someone to hide her as we sat there. If I agreed, he would have to pay to bring her back, then take on two children not his own, one ugly and dark, the other no better than a mad yellow dog. Then he would have to go through the long, expensive process of manumission, applying bribes all round, as the laws are strict. He leaned back in his chair, bringing his stick to the side and stretching his legs out before him, nonchalantly examining his trouser leg. He found a bit of plaster stuck to the seam and flicked it away with his fingernail. It fell onto the carpet near his shoe. I focused my eyes and my mind upon this small fleck of white plaster. The fact of it enraged me, but I counseled myself to remain calm. Mr. Roget was waiting for my answer, having no idea that a bit of plaster had sealed his fate and Sarah’s as well.

“I fear you are improvident,” I said. “And that you will regret your offer.”

“That will be my lookout,” he said. “My offer is firm. I am prepared to write you a check for half the amount today.”

“Let me propose a counteroffer,” I said. “I think it might prove a more practical solution for us all.”

He glanced at the mantel clock, reminding me that he was a busy man.

“I have no intention of selling Sarah,” I said. “It’s that simple. She is not for sale. However, I would have no objection to a marriage between you. I think that is your object, is it not? She would continue to live here during the week, but she could come to you on Sundays and she would be free to visit one or two evenings a week when I am dining out.”

“You aren’t serious,” he said flatly, leaving me to imagine the extent of his outrage. A free man married to a slave! His children would be mine, to do with as I pleased.

“I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you,” I said. “In the event of Sarah’s capture, of course, which I firmly believe can only be a matter of days.”