Shadow Conspiracy (26 page)

Three days later a note arrived from Mr. Billings. He had not only learned the way to Laurel Grove, he had convinced his paper to provide him with a carriage for a journey there, on the promise of an article about the state-of-the-art equipment Mr. Ramsey had installed in his sugar house. Marie skimmed a paragraph of raptures about vacuum pans and steam-driven rollers, then smiled at Mr. Billings’s sudden formality in extending an invitation to her to accompany him thither at her earliest convenience.

Perfection. The journey arranged, at no expense to herself. Congenial company, and with Adele’s help, accommodations at Laurel Grove for both herself and her friend. When plans fell together with such ease, it was generally a sign that the Orisha approved.

The weather broke at last, and the sun shone with a hint of the coming spring warmth on the morning of Marie’s departure. Mr. Billings arrived in a shabby but serviceable carriage, and took only mild exception to the inclusion of Zombi’s tank in Marie’s baggage.

Bidding farewell to her family, Marie climbed into the carriage. Mr. Billings took up the reins and coaxed the horse to trot along St. Ann’s Street to the river road.

The journey passed easily. Marie had brought a basket of food on which they lunched in the early afternoon beneath the sprawling limbs of a live oak. By the time the carriage turned down the tree-lined alley to Laurel Grove, afternoon was beginning to wane, sunlight slanting between the trees, tinged with gold.

Marie gazed past the imposing two-story house with its great white columns to the lesser buildings beyond: a kitchen, a smaller house that was likely the servants’ quarters, a barn, a stable, and a massive brick structure that must be the sugar house. Beyond these a row of cabins stretched into the distance, surrounded by stubbled cane fields.

The alley was broad and well-maintained, surfaced in crushed shell that hissed beneath the carriage wheels. The trees to either side were laurels. Marie noted the crisp pungency of bay as they drove along, and wondered if Mr. Ramsey bothered to harvest that secondary crop, which by itself might turn a tidy profit.

Mr. Billings drove round to the rear entrance, where Adele hastened across the gallery to meet the carriage. Marie stepped down into her embrace.

“Forgive my coming unannounced.”

“Oh, no! I am delighted to see you, madame.”

“I hope you can also accommodate my friend, Mr. Billings. Mr. Billings, this is Mrs. Carter of whom I told you.”

He bowed over the hand she gave him. “Enchanté, madame. Have you room for one more guest?”

“Of course.” Adele turned to an elderly slave in a footman’s attire. “Beauregard, Mrs. Paris and Mr. Billings each require a room. Mrs. Paris may have Colette’s old room. It is just down the hall from mine,” she added, turning to Marie.

A swarm of servants appeared, enough that Marie suspected her sobriquet of Mrs. Paris—entirely accurate, though poor Jacques had been gone these many years—had deceived no one. The slaves who whisked their baggage away looked at her with mute excitement in their eyes.

Their rooms were on the second floor of the servants’ wing, the separate building that Marie had noted earlier. Zombi’s tank, draped with a shawl so that neither snake nor servants might be terrified, was tenderly carried up by two bondsmen, whom Marie followed with a watchful eye. She was settled in her room in time to change her travel attire before supper, which took place in the servants’ hall after the family had supped.

Laurel Grove was a large establishment, and full twenty sat down at the household servants’ table. Among them was a tall, lean white man whose brow was fixed in a permanent frown of concentration, who entered the room deep in conversation with Mr. Billings. They paused only long enough for Mr. Billings to introduce Mr. Wrackerby to Marie, then delved at once back into a world of valves and burners.

Marie turned to Adele. “I do not see Mignon. I know she does not need to eat, but what does she do at this hour? Is she with Anthony?”

Adele shook her head. “Mr. Ramsey takes a glass of brandy in his library after supper, and of late Mignon waits upon him.”

Marie watched her face. “Is there a problem there?”

Adele hesitated, staring at her dinner plate for a moment. “I hope not,” she said softly.

“Anthony must not be neglected.”

“He is not, I assure you.”

“But Mignon is not tending him. Why?”

Adele did not answer, merely frowned. Marie sipped her wine, allowing her friend a moment for composure, then set down her glass.

“I would like to speak to Mignon. Perhaps by the time we are finished with dinner she will be free?”

Adele glanced up sharply. “There is nothing I can do,” she whispered.

So Adele did know. And knew it was wrong. And that there was no way to prevent what was happening to Mignon.

Marie asked a question about Laurel Grove, turning the conversation to more comfortable matters. When a pause fell in Mr. Billings’s discourse with Mr. Wrackerby, Marie smiled at her friend.

“I trust you are finding plenty of substance for your article.”

“Oh, indeed! I had no idea Mr. Ramsey had replaced his entire system. Everything in the sugar house is brand new, state-of-the-art.”

“Newer than that,” said Mr. Wrackerby. “Rillieux’s system is unproven. It is really a prototype.”

“Is that not a great risk for Mr. Ramsey to take?” Marie asked. “What if it fails?”

“We’ve kept all the old equipment, madame. It is all in the barn. If the new system fails, it would take only a day or two to bring the old back into production. But it will not fail.”

He talked on, waxing enthusiastic about the genius of Rillieux, whom Marie deduced was the inventor of the double vacuum pan over which he and her friend were so excited. She concluded that Mr. Wrackerby was a positive, forward-looking man, despite his beetled brow.

When the dinner was over, Mr. Wrackerby took Mr. Billings away again to the sugar house, leaving Marie at liberty to wander. She donned her bonnet, slipped a pair of scissors into her basket and a candle and lucifers into her pocket, and by looking in at the kitchen acquired the escort of one of the chambermaids.

The sky was ruddy in the west, all that remained of a sullen sunset. Clouds had come in again, hiding any hope of stars. The evening was mild.

The chambermaid, a shy girl who had been born on the estate, knew nothing of the history of the laurels, but was able to tell Marie that they had not been harvested in her memory. She stood nervously by while Marie filled her basket with leaves.

“Now,” Marie said, stepping back from the tree with a gesture and silent prayer of thanks, “show me to Mignon’s room, if you please.”

“Mignon is a zombi,” the girl said in a hesitant voice.

“Not a zombi, a machine. She must still have some place where she keeps her attire, yes?”

The girl nodded, blinking unhappily, and led Marie back toward the servants’ wing. Mignon’s room was on the ground floor, at the end of the hall which terminated in a door to the outside. Marie noted this, thinking it would be easy for someone to enter that door and visit Mignon unnoticed by the other servants. She was therefore unsurprised to find in Mignon’s tiny apartment, along with the small chest she recognized from Mignon’s room in the Ramseys’ town house, a comfortable-looking feather bed.

Mignon herself was absent. Marie thanked the chambermaid and returned to her own room, where she took out the paper, pen, and ink she had brought from home.

Zombi was awake and pressing her pale belly against the glass, tongue fluttering to taste the foreign air. Marie went over to the tank.

“Are you hungry, cher? I will find you something soon.”

The snake stilled at the sound of her voice, then coiled away, working her way around the tank and looking out at the strange surroundings. Marie sat down and penned a quick note to Mignon, then carried it down to her room.

Her first impulse—to leave it on the pillow of the bed—she quickly rejected. Mr. Ramsey would no doubt resent any interference with his toy. She frowned, glancing around the room, and decided the best place was inside the chest, which appeared to be Mignon’s only possession. She lifted the lid, and fairly gasped at what she found inside.

She had expected spare clothing. Instead she found a small collection of books including a dictionary, and a wealth of keepsakes, many tidily labelled. Cuttings from a number of plants, carefully pressed between layers of paper and marked with their common and scientific names. A raven’s feather, “found in Jackson Square.” A drawing of Mignon, signed by Anthony. The stub of a blue candle, wrapped inside a white cloth, which Marie recognized as the remains of the makeshift altar she had made in Anthony’s room.

All these treasures spoke of Mignon’s emotions. Proof, if any was needed, that she had a soul.

Marie left her note atop the stacked books and gently closed the lid, then set out to find a meal for Zombi. She went to the sugar house, which was all alight, rather than the barn. She preferred not to catch a mouse herself, but a coin in exchange for a live mouse might be gratefully received by one of the working slaves.

She found Mr. Billings standing beside a large apparatus, some twenty feet long at the least, talking with two negroes. Mr. Wrackerby was nowhere in evidence.

Marie gazed at the machinery, which to her poorly informed eye looked like a giant, cylindrical tank lying on its side, with portholes and penetrations of copper piping at intervals along its length. She raised an eyebrow at her friend.

“This is the miraculous advancement?”

“It is,” said Mr. Billings. “Would you like a tour? Dominic here knows all about it.”

“Perhaps tomorrow. It is late and I confess, I am here on a much less lofty errand.”

She described her wish, watching the two negroes. The elder of them had the dull expression of one resigned to doing what one was told without question. The other—whom her friend had called Dominic—looked at first as if he might be insulted, then his mouth curved in amusement.

“And what could the Widow Paris want a live mouse for, ehn?”

A trace of accent told Marie he was foreign, Jamaican, perhaps. Familiar with voudon, no doubt. She smiled and lowered her eyelids.

“I thought to name it after your owner, Mr. Ramsey.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise, then his brows drew together. “Allow me, Madame.”

He strode away toward the back of the sugar house. Marie followed, intrigued by his sudden intensity, and curious about the place where the toil of so many was converted to profit.

Taking note that she had followed, Dominic paused. A flash of danger lit his eyes.

“Madame would do best to wait here. There are no mice in this building.”

Marie glanced at the clean-swept floors. “Where will you find one?”

“In the barn.”

She’d expected that answer, but not the tension in the man’s voice. Curious, she lowered her voice.

“I wish to watch the hunt.”

Dominic frowned. “Why? I swear to catch it unharmed.”

“Oya guides me to watch.”

His eyes narrowed, but he yielded with a slight bow. Marie followed him out into the darkness, across a grassy space to the dark, looming barn. He opened the door a mere crack and gestured to her to step in, then followed and closed it.

Darkness enfolded them. She heard Dominic breathing beside her, opened her eyes wide to urge them to adjust to the lack of light.

“How did you come to be here?” she whispered. “You belong in the city.”

“I was happier there. Marsh Ramsey bought me to run the vacuum pan.”

“I thought Wrackerby was the foreman.”

“He runs the whole sugar house.”

“So you know the pan better than he?”

“I know all of it better.”

She could hear the sneer in his voice. A proud man, and intelligent.

“You should not be a slave.”

He did not answer at once. When he did, the bitterness resonated even in his whisper. “I will not be for long.”

He seemed to regret saying it; she sensed him turn to her, felt his hot breath on her face as he caught her by the wrist. “Say nothing. Stay here.”