The Immortelles (25 page)

“Yes, we heard about his bad fortune. He made little of it, but it hurt him to lose everything he had. So, Howard and I talked about it, and we thought how wonderful it would be if he'd return and just take over. Howard works too hard, but with Yancy there, he and I would have lots of freedom. We could even travel abroad.”

“Do you think Yancy will come?”

“I don't know. Howard has offered him a most lucrative position, but Yancy has bad memories of all those hard, lean years when he worked like a slave. He did some of the plowing himself. He was more of a slave than any of the black people who worked with him. Those were difficult days for him, but I hope he moves back to Shreveport. Have you known him long?”

Damita answered, “For quite a while. I think it's wonderful that you made him an offer like that.”

Chapter eighteen

March had come to New Orleans, a warm, early spring that drove out the cold breezes. Damita had ordinarily welcomed the season's change, but now, with the crisis she woke up thinking about every day, she took no joy in it. She struggled constantly with the question of what to do, and the conversation she had had with Lucy Adcock stayed with her.

Jeff had been insistent, but she had put him off as gently as she could. Now, early one Friday afternoon, she was walking nervously about the house, remembering Jeff 's visit the night before. He exerted more pressure this time. Moving to the window, Damita thought about how he had urged her, saying, “Damita, I want to take care of you and your family. I think we ought to marry at once.”

Now, looking out blindly at those who passed by on the street below, Damita knew that things could not go on as they had. She had met with Asa Pennington several days prior, and he had admonished her more stringently than ever before. “Something has to be done, my dear young lady. It's not just the bank, but other creditors.”

Damita had asked him the question that had been on her mind lately. “Suppose we had a good manager for the plantation. Is there any way that the bank could arrange to give us more time?”

Pennington had been rather negative, but Damita had seen something in his eyes that had encouraged her. Turning, she put on her coat and hat and left the house. She had her driver take her to the cotton market, where she found Yancy working on papers in his office. He smiled and stood to his feet. “A welcome relief from these dull things.”

“Yancy, I need to speak to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Isn't there someplace we could go, where we won't be interrupted?”

Yancy looked puzzled. “I suppose so. Nothing very urgent this afternoon. I can close early.” He picked up his coat, put it on, then settled his white hat with the broad brim on his head. “Come along. We should be able to find a quiet corner. Have you ever been to Luigi's?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“It's a small place. It'll be empty this time of the day, but they make good
café au lait.”

She accompanied him down the street, and he turned into a small café. A compact man with a broad smile greeted them. “Ah, Mr. Devereaux, you're early for a meal.”

“Just
café au lait
for both of us.”

“I will fix it myself.”

“Right over here, Damita.”

There was only one other couple at the other end of the room. The sun shone in, lighting Yancy's face as he sat down across from her. She studied him carefully. There was a looseness about him, and his face was smooth and tan. His body was angular and strong-looking—the body of a man who made his living with his muscles.

Suddenly she realized she knew very little of this man. He was smiling faintly, but she knew that behind that smile was a hunger and a loneliness and a temper that could sweep a woman away. She knew that his nerves were not easily touched by small things, but as she watched him, she sensed that he was somehow troubled by deeper issues.

After the waiter had brought the coffee, she ignored it and leaned forward, saying, “I've been thinking of something ever since I met your friend Mrs. Adcock.”

“She's a fine lady, and her husband's a fine man.”

“She told me about your early struggles to make the plantation pay. She said you worked harder than any man should have to.”

Yancy turned his head slightly to one side and studied her. “Why did she tell you about all that?”

“Because she was so anxious for you to come and manage their plantation. Are you going to do it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I worked myself too hard when I was building that place up. I still have bad dreams about it. I don't suppose you have any idea of what it's like, working until you can't speak properly, and falling into bed, too tired to eat. Those years took something out of me. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Yancy.”

Her words startled him. “Why should you say that? What difference does it make to you?”

“Because I'm going to ask you to do something, and now I know you won't.”

Yancy picked up his cup, sipped the coffee, then said, “Why don't you ask me, and let me make up my own mind about what I'm going to do?”

A tiny ray of hope flickered inside Damita. She said quietly, “I want you to come and manage our plantation.”

He was surprised and showed it. “Why would I want to do that?”

“There's no reason. I know you hate farming. I know it would be hard for you, but it's the only hope we have. I've been down to talk to the banker, Mr. Pennington. I believe
that if a good man were there to take over, he would give us one year. It would be a terrible year, about like those early years for you in Shreveport, but I'd give up everything and so would my mother, if we could only hang on to the place.”

Yancy was almost distracted by the beauty he saw in her face, in the rich curve of her lips and the ivory shading of her skin. He put these thoughts out of his mind and studied her more closely. “I know you've been having difficulty.”

“It's more than that. It's the end of everything for us. We won't have anything, Yancy.”

“I ran into Dr. Debakky the other day. He told me his partner had asked you to marry him.”

Damita was startled. “He . . . he has.”

“That would be an easy way. Doctors have lots of money. The bank would do anything for him.”

Damita felt thoroughly uncomfortable. She held her head high and said, “I have been tempted, but I just can't do it.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would you please do one thing for me? Come and look at the plantation, and then look at the figures, before you say no.”

Yancy suddenly smiled. “All right. I can do that, but no guarantees.”

“I understand. Thank you, Yancy.”

When she arrived back home, Damita explained her plan to her mother, and Elena said excitedly, “Oh, if he could only help us, Damita!”

“Don't say a word to him, Mother. We mustn't pressure him.”

Four days later, Damita stood outside her father's study. The door was closed, and she stared at it as if it held some answer for her. Yancy had accompanied her to the plantation. She had introduced him to Claude Napier, who had been boorish as usual, but Yancy had spent two days walking over the grounds and lots of time talking to the slaves. This displeased the overseer, and he said in a surly fashion, “There's no way to save this place. I done told her that.”

Damita also knew that Yancy had visited Mr. Pennington, although he had not revealed the results of his meeting. Now he had been all day in the study, pausing only long enough to eat a light lunch. Damita had sent it in by one of the maids, for he had demanded to be left alone.

As she stood by the light of the lamp that lit the hallway, she thought,
What will I do if he says no?
The thought frightened her. She reached out and knocked firmly on the door. When she heard his voice, she entered.

“Hello, Damita.” Yancy was in his shirtsleeves, standing beside the window. She saw nothing in his face that indicated his intentions.

“I couldn't wait any longer, Yancy. Can you tell me anything?”

Yancy walked over to the desk, which was covered with papers. She could see that he had filled up many pages with figures and notes. “It's not going to be easy.”

His words renewed Damita's hope. “You mean you'll help us?”

“Damita, it would take a miracle, but I'll try. I'll try, if that's what you want.”

“Oh, yes, Yancy! That's what I want!”

She walked toward him and put out her hand, but he shook his head. “Wait a minute. Let me tell you the rest of it.”

“What is it?”

“If I come, I must have complete authority over all money and everything that goes on at the plantation. You will have to sell this house. You might realize a little money on it. I've talked to Mr. Pennington, and he'll let us have just barely enough to make a crop, but we'll have to sell off some of the slaves. We'll work with a small crew. If we get a good cotton crop, he will give us another year. Two good years would do it, but it's going to be nothing but misery.”

“I don't care about that.”

“That's what you say now,” he said. “But you've never had to really do without, Damita. This means no new dresses, no new shoes, no running around to the opera every time you take a notion. And the same is true for your mother. It'll be poor doings.”

“Do you think you can save us, Yancy?”

“I don't know.”

“I'll do anything to keep a place for my family.”

Yancy suddenly reached out and pulled her close. Damita did not resist but looked in his face. She saw something in his eyes that reminded her of those moments when she had almost given herself to him, and now she whispered, “What are you doing, Yancy?”

“I know you once had something in your heart for me.”

“Please, don't put it on that basis. Don't talk of love.”

“I can't promise that.”

Damita put her hands on his chest and tried to free herself, but his grip was too strong.

Then Yancy released her and said quietly, “There's a real woman somewhere in you, and I'm hoping sometime, when things get bad enough, you'll turn that woman loose.” He laughed and said, “And I hope I'm there when it happens.”

PART FOUR
• 1835–1836 •
Yancy

Chapter nineteen

As Jeff stepped out of the house and walked across the yard to the carriage shed, a movement overhead caught his attention. He looked up to see a flight of swallows divide the air in evanescent shapes, making a kaleidoscopic pattern. He watched them with a sense of delight and longing; since moving to New Orleans, he had spent little time in the out-of-doors he loved. He had promised himself that he would go hunting and fishing, but the workload had been so great that he was never able to do it.

Now, as he stood still, a butterfly fluttered across the flowers that Rose had planted. It was a red admiral, and its wings made a delicate lens for the sunlight to pass through. The butterfly moved like a flake of color glittering in the air. The beauty of the tiny creature created a mood in Jeff Whitman, and he suddenly wished for some simplicity in life. He'd had that once, but now everything, personal and professional, was complicated. He shook his shoulders with an angry motion and hurried to his buggy.

Jimmy Bledsoe, who handled the horses, had hitched up the bay. “Mornin', Doctor.”

“Good morning, Jimmy. Got 'im all hitched, I see.”

“Yes, sir.” Bledsoe was a small, wiry fellow of eighteen with red hair and blue eyes whom Debakky had hired recently. “You want me to drive you, Dr. Whitman?”

“No, Jimmy, I'm not going far today.” Getting into the buggy, Jeff took the reins from the young man, then commented, “I'd like to be going fishing today.”

“Why don't we go, sir?” Jimmy asked eagerly. “Nothin' I'd like better than some good redfish.”

“I'd like to, but too much to do. See you tonight.”

Jeff spoke to the horse, who picked up into a fast pace. He had intended to go straight to the hospital, but he changed his mind and drove instead to the Madariaga house. He found a place for the buggy, tied the horse, patted him on the neck, and walked to the front entrance. As he passed through the iron gate, Jeff could hear voices and the sounds of furniture being moved. Knocking on the door, he waited, and it was opened by Yancy Devereaux.

“Hello, Doctor. Come in.”

“Hello, Devereaux. What's going on?”

“We're in the middle of a sale.”

“What are you selling?”

“All of the furniture.”

Jeff stared at Devereaux, who was in his shirtsleeves and evidently had been working; sweat shone on his brow. The April sun was rising and brought heat to the city. “What's the purpose of that?”

“We've got to make some money, Jeff.”

Jeff then saw Damita. She had a displeased look on her face, and he removed his hat, asking, “Selling everything?”

“Well, almost,” Yancy answered for her. He exchanged glances with Damita, who seemed upset. “I guess I'll get the items in the blue room ready to go.”

“We're not selling that washstand that belonged to my great-grandmother.”

Yancy looked at her for a moment with a calm expression. “We'll talk about it later,” he said and left the room.

“What in the world is this? What's going on?” Jeff said.

“I haven't had a chance to tell you about it, Jeff.” Damita looked weary and frustrated. She picked up a newspaper and began to fan herself. “I've asked Yancy to take over the plantation and try to make a paying proposition out of it.” She explained the details and added, “Yancy says we have to sell all of our belongings here in the town house. I didn't realize how attached I could get to things, but almost every item in this house has some sentimental value.”