The Choice (25 page)

Jesse leaned against the kitchen sink studying her with a cold, hard eye when she walked in the room.

“Where are Sam and Diane?” She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to be alone with Jesse. She liked him. He’d pull her secrets out.

“You’re pale, shaking and scared shitless of something. I sent Sam and Diane out. They took a walk up to the main road. Getting a feel for the area.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What gives, Marcie? You ain’t the same calm collected little girl who came back here with us this morning.”

She dropped her bag at her feet and wiped away the lone tear. “Jesse, have you ever had to do something you didn’t want to do. But knew it was the only way to protect someone you love?”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

No matter how much she wanted to confide in him, she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and summoned every ounce of strength to pull out of the miserable pit she’d sunk. “No, it
’
s fine; we better go. The sun will be setting soon.” She looked up at him, but she
couldn’t interpret what clouded his eyes, righteous fury—empathy—support—condemnation?

He walked straight at her. His narrowed eyes peeled back each one of her hidden layers and seemed to dig out her secrets. He picked up her bag, walked past her out the door. “Come on then, little girl, it’s getting dark, and the big bad wolf’s coming out soon.”

Her whole body trembled. She fisted her hands so hard her nails dug into the fatty flesh of her palms, desperate to find a way out of this living nightmare. And she did the only thing she could, followed Jesse, breathed and climbed back in the truck.

When they arrived back at Diane’s, Marcie told Sam, Diane and Jesse she was tired. But what she really needed was space and time to think. She hefted her bag in her cozy room and perched on the edge of the soft bed. She’d taken no time to appreciate this welcoming room’s cozy décor. Creamy wainscoting trimmed warm peach walls. A six-drawer honey colored dresser opposite the bed, mounted with a large mirror—a mirror that wouldn’t hide secrets or dark circles under her puffy eyes. She could hear Sam, Diane and Jesse through the closed door, involved in some deep discussion.

The bedside digital clock read 8:10 p.m. She’d a lot of time to think, so she looked around for a distraction.

Jerome’s letters beckoned from the oak nightstand beside the bed. Consumed by all this worry, she didn’t know if these letters would be enough to get her through the next few hours. She groaned and picked up the packet. A wider envelope dropped from the stack into her lap. Inside was a thin paper journal, with a lovely handwritten inscription,
Isabel Standford Morison
.

Marcie plopped up her pillows and leaned back clicking on the bedside lamp. She gently opened the delicate journal and glanced at the first page.

July 18, 1824.

Rand and I will marry today. I am grateful he is willing to give me his name and be a father to Jemmie. My precious boy, the secret of his father and the shame he’ll carry. I pray he’ll never find out. Rand promised no one would know. Only that Jerome was killed. He said it’s best if it’s never discussed. Never brought to light. Or he’ll be unable to protect me and my child from disgrace. Jemmie would be taken from me. Oh, how I fear to even put those words down.

Guests are arriving. Soon I’ll have the protection of his name, and Jemmie will have the future he so rightly deserves.

Lies, deception, greed, lust, shame.
Those significant words reminded her of what she’d brought into her own life. Two sheets of paper slipped out from behind. Carefully, she eased apart the thick paper, old and spotted. This one had no date, but as she read on, she was filled with sorrow and pain.

Marcie skimmed through; she managed to decipher the author as Isabel Marie Chamblee, daughter of Emiline and Benjamin Chamblee. She grew up on a plantation in the southern parish of Terrebonne. Her words were cold when she made brief mention of the slaves they owned, as if they were a herd of cattle to be fed and worked.

I met Jerome in the s
ummer
of 1813. He came with Privateers Jean Lafitte, Barney Swade who conducted business with my father. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. My father knew. That’s why he forbade me to marry him and threatened to send me away. Daddy hated Jerome, said he was an Acadian with a questionable business practice. I disobeyed him and snuck away one night with Jerome. We married in a quiet ceremony in New Orleans with only Jean Lafitte and Barney Swade attending.

Jean is an amazing man. I always thought of him as larger than life. I overheard him warn Jerome of the consequences of crossing my father. Jean urged him to move to his compound for protection, only Jerome was adamant we move to Grande Isle where he had built a comfortable home. My darling husband refused Jean’s generosity. Jerome believed it was necessary to keep business at a distance. He’s so protective, and it bothers him so, to leave me for weeks and months on end. He hired staff to care for me while he’s gone, a cook and a maid. He refused to use slaves. Although both the cook and maid are octoroons, he pays them a wage. They still address him as “Massar”. He remains indisputable, with his moral lines drawn, about owning another human being.

I overheard disagreements between Jean and Jerome, when Jerome refused to take slaves as cargo. Even though Jean and other lieutenants brought them in. Instead, he’s limited his cargo to the non-human for, even though, what they took was not their own.

The next packet was another journal.
This one not dated.
After a closer look, Marcie realized she’d read out of order.

Jean arrived with my father’s cousin, Rand Morison, with news Jerome had deceived me. He stole from Jean. The evidence was found in his possession. I don’t know what to do. I’m large with child and expect to deliver any day, Jerome’s child—my child. I’ve cried until I have nothing left. My shame is so great. And Rand has been so kind to me through all this, assuring me that he cares for me and vows not to rest until he exposes the truth. He said he had suspicions for some time, and when he visited his good friend, he discovered the truth. It was irrefutable evidence. Jerome was a slave, a mulatto. Although he appeared white, even with a mass of golden hair, his skin held a hint of dark complexion he brushed off to his Acadian ancestry. Rand said that was fabricated. As it’s illegal for a black man to marry a white woman, it will be annulled. Rand said he would take care of it.

I still cannot believe it's true, until he showed me the evidence. His mother an escaped slave owned by George Harklin, 28 years prior. Jerome 26, his mother now dead, but she was named Letty. Rand showed me the papers. Jean was furious and vowed I’d be looked after. I’m still in shock and ashamed to admit, as I pour my heart into this journal, my love for Jerome is still there. He was my first breath in the morning. I don’t know how I’ll survive. I pray this isn’t true, and that I’ll wake up and this was just a bad dream, a nightmare. Please dear God, spare me this pain, for me and for my child. I cannot go home. I have not heard from my father in over a year, since I left with Jerome. Although he sent word through Rand, he’ll never forgive me for my transgression.

Rand and Jean both assured me my child would be spared. The state legislature laws are clear, under the mother it fell. The blood factor and association, the physical appearance, less than a quarter African mixture, the child is legally white. They vowed no one will know. Oh dear God, please take this pain from me, how could he do this to me? Damn him to hell.

Weakened and sick from what she read, Marcie knew the truth had been manipulated for someone’s vengeance. Flooded by a wave of hostility at Isabel’s ignorance, she wanted to reach through time and shake the woman senseless. How could she believe all those lies about the man she loved? How could she turn her back on Jerome? A desperate need to somehow balance right compelled her to keep reading.

Isabel suffered alone and silent, pouring out her heart in her journal. She referred fondly to Rand as an attentive suitor, who stayed close to her. She’d done her best to close her mind to Jerome although she ached for him constantly. Her words on paper fought those feelings, replaced with hatred for his perceived betrayal.

Isabel confessed to whispers she overheard, Jerome was, in fact, in the Cabildo, awaiting hanging. Isabel’s words became colder and focused on her child, Jemmie. The spitting image of his father although he carried the light complexion of his mother. She thanked the Lord for that much. Pain and longing befell her each time she looked upon him. She battled a conscious effort to banish Jerome from her mind. Only Rand in his tender concern for her kept her sane.

The journal continued until the last entry.

February 28, 182
5
.

I cannot believe what I’ve discovered. Who was the betrayer? Rand. May God forgive me for what I’ve done. I lost faith in you, Jerome. My beloved Jerome, please forgive me. I don’t know how to protect our child. I still cannot believe what I found in Rand’s letter. I put it back, as I’m fearful of what he’ll do to our child. He lied about you. You were setup. My dearest Jerome, I pray you’re looking down and watching over him. How could I not believe in you? I didn’t know the evil that lurks in this man to fabricate what he did. I found my father’s letter to Rand along with forged documents. You were not an escaped slave, and you never stole from Jean. Jerome, you never lied. You were a victim as were I and our child and separated by the vengeance of two men. My father vowed to destroy you for taking me, and I’d never have believed him capable of such a heinous act. He schemed this whole downfall to keep us apart. Jean’s stolen goods were planted, by Rand’s orders. My father and Rand, how they managed to deceive Jean, I cannot fathom. My father sent Rand to seek me out, to make me his, part of my father’s reprisal.

I don’t know where to go. I cannot go home. Jemmie and I live on Grand Terre with Rand. He’s now my husband and he’ll not allow me to leave. My father’s plan all along was for Rand to be my husband.

Jerome, I have betrayed you, as if I pulled the trigger myself. I don’t know what to do, but I’ll confront him tonight when he returns. Jean’s gone. I don’t know when he’ll return. Does he know, or was he deceived too?

Marcie closed the journal. Emptiness and a horrible loss filled every inch of her. But she’d swear this heartache belonged to Isabel. Marcie grabbed the entire stack of letters and rifled through them.

What was her connection to all this? Deep down she felt the wind stirring as she ripped open the remaining papers, letters. The bed scattered with papers, in chaotic chronological order of what happened to Isabel, to Jerome. At the bottom of one letter was someone’s scribbled note,
Benjamin Chamblee, check the lineage from Gabrielle, sister, mother of Rand Morison? Lost track, found granddaughter merged with the Renard’s relocated to Washington State in a new farm community 1912.
She didn’t recognize the handwriting.

“No it can’t be. The Renard’s were
my
daddy’s people.” She couldn’t make out the rest. It appeared like chicken scratch. She rummaged through the papers, journals, but Marcie could find nothing else. What she didn’t understand was why Jerome came to her and guided her to these letters. What was he trying to show her?

“What are you doing?” She was so absorbed in what she read, she didn’t hear Sam come in..

“Sam, come here. Look what I found.” She showed the rough-penned family tree. “Do you have any idea who did this?” He squinted and then went to the wall and flicked on the overhead light. She glanced toward the open window.
Night
had settled in. It would be a full moon tonight.

“Could be my granddaddy’s writing, I’ve seen it on some legal documents I was sent.” Sam was a proud man who stood so tall and broad shouldered. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be held by him. She felt secure and protected around him, even with the hardness in his face, as he quietly read. What was he thinking? She needed to see his eyes. She watched his reaction closely, when she handed him the next page. The chicken scratch and family name she knew all too well. Barely a second passed before his eyes locked on hers.
Well, well, so he knows my daddy’s history too.

Marcie slid open the window and popped out the screen, setting it on the floor. She slid a chair under the window and climbed through. Her feet dangled from the main floor window before she jumped, landing in the dirt barely missing an azalea bush. She paused and listened, no movement, nothing. Thank goodness, everyone must be asleep.

For the past half hour, Marcie had listened from behind her door. Diane and Jesse had turned in a few hours ago. Sam slept on the sofa in the living room, and his light shimmered under her door. When he’d finally turned off the lights, she’d waited in agony, the longest hour of her life. It left time to think. And that she didn’t want to do. So she shut her head down, instead summoning the strength and determination to focus on tonight’s strategy. Time was a factor, and she needed to get to as many gardens as she could. Give Dan his damn weed and get him the hell out of their lives. And Sam, she’d do everything in her power to make sure Dan didn’t hurt him.
Whatever it takes, I’ll protect you.