Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (11 page)

Josie tried to raise herself, but the mud sucked at her
back. Chamard took an arm and lifted her to her feet with one hand. She leaned
against him, thrilled at the pressure of his arm under hers.

Albany dismounted and stood rather uselessly. Chamard held
Josie’s arm, and Abigail fussed at her other side. Josie drew away from both of
them, remembering her dignity. She could stand by herself.

“Miss Josephine,” Albany said, “you have to be more careful
on these wooded lanes. You never know when a rabbit or a deer …the woods are
full of game, and --.”

“It could have happened to anyone,” Abigail interrupted.

“Yes,” he reasoned, “but my point is that Josie looked away
from the road for a moment and so was not prepared when her horse reacted.”

“I still don’t see…” Abigail argued.

Josie ignored them. Chamard was examining her hairline. He
thumbed a smear of blood away where a rock had caught her. “It’s not bad,” he
said. “We have the soft mud to thank for that, and your wits to hold on to the
saddle as long as possible.” He held her chin a moment too long, she thought,
and she began to blush again.

Then he bent his head and sweetly kissed her lips. Josie
felt her entire being concentrate on the sensation of his lips on hers. She
might have become a piano wire strung taut, his touch vibrating throughout her
body.

The world stopped for a moment. Then Josie became aware that
the argument between Albany and Abigail had ceased. They were staring at them.
In the silence, Chamard seemed suddenly aware, too, and he straightened.

Josie felt the blood heating her face. He’d kissed her! And
in front of Albany Johnston and Abigail too. What must they think of her? And
what was Bertrand Chamard thinking?

He turned a jovial face to Albany. “My cousin is recovered,
and I take that as a blessing, Johnston. Perhaps you will allow her to ride
with you on your horse back to the house? I would take it kindly. My stallion
is not fit for a gentle rider.”

“I’m perfectly capable of riding by myself,” Josie protested.

“Please, cousin,” Chamard said. “I would be more at ease if
you would ride with Johnston.”

Those lovely eyes appealed to her, and she relented.

Albany offered his arm and led her to his mount. Once she
was in the saddle and he astride behind her, he reached one arm around her to
hold the reins and with the other held her around the middle. Josie was aware
of Albany’s hand pressed against her ribs, but it was not the same sensation as
her cousin’s hands on her. With Johnston’s body behind her, she was simply hot.

When they reached the stable, Albany slid off first. Then he
held both arms up to Josie. She allowed him to lift her down, and as he set her
on her feet, he said in her ear, “I’m so glad you’re all right, Josie.”

Josie pulled her head back. He’d dropped the proper Miss
Josephine, she observed. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said formally. She glanced
at Bertrand Chamard. He had the look of a man trying not to smile.

Albany was quite solicitous after the incident on the horse
path. Once Josie had cleaned the mud from her hair and changed her frock, he
hovered at her side all through the afternoon. Sit here away from the sun’s
glare, he’d say, or perhaps she’d like a little brandy to ease her bruises.

Josie, though she did not welcome his attentions, was
grateful he did not look at her as if she were a wanton woman that disgraceful
kiss in broad daylight on the horse path.

Chamard absented himself the rest of that day touring the
Johnston Plantation, and Josie watched the door for his return. He was the most
handsome man she’d ever seen, and so sophisticated. As Albany droned on about
cane futures, Josie relived her cousin’s totally inappropriate kiss. It hadn’t
been much of a kiss, even she knew that. Nevertheless, she absently traced the
shape of her lower lip, the memory of Bertrand Chamard’s mouth on hers warming
her whole body.

Josie became aware of Albany’s eyes fastened on her mouth.
She dropped her hand and valiantly pretended interest in the workings of the
New Orleans market.

Abigail and Mrs. Johnston sat on either side of the tall
window busying themselves with their embroidery. They were both
uncharacteristically quiet, and Josie caught Mrs. Johnston peering at her and
Albany over her sewing glasses. Judging by her encouraging nod and smile, Josie
gauged she was meant to bear Albany’s attentions quite alone.

Before supper, Mr. Johnston and Chamard joined them in the
drawing room. At last, Josie thought. She hoped her cousin would sit next to
her, but Albany diverted his guest by motioning Chamard toward the humidor
across the room. “Have a cigar?”

Josie admired the obvious relish Chamard took in the first
inhalation of the fine Cuban cigar.

“What did you think of the plantation, Mr. Chamard?”

He peered through the smoke at his hostess. “Very fine. You
have some excellent bottomland on this side of the river. As dark a soil as
I’ve seen hereabouts, and well drained.”

Mr. Johnston changed the subject. “You’ll be relieved, my
dear,” he said to his wife, “that the levees hold fast against the high water.”
He turned to Chamard. “Mrs. Johnston has been anxious about flooding. Someone
in New Orleans told her the river can carve a path through a levee, and she has
not slept well with this excessive rain we’ve had.”

“Like a knife through butter. That’s what Felicity LeRoy
said.”

“I told you, Mother,” Albany said, “we fortified every foot
of the levee. We are quite safe.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said, and put a hand to her heart.
Josie wondered that Mrs. Johnston didn’t seem to realize her neighbors’ levees
upstream were as crucial to her security as her own.

“You are quite recovered, Josephine?” Chamard said.

Josie thought she only barely blushed to have his eyes on
her. “Completely,” she said.

“I’m sure she suffers more than she lets on,” Abigail said.
“She has terrible bruises on . . . she’s terribly bruised.”

Bertrand’s smile hinted at the indecent, and Josie knew her
face must now be in full flush. Phanor assumed that same teasing familiarity,
she thought, but of course Phanor lacked the refinement of Bertrand Chamard.
Bertrand oozed elegance; Phanor, for all his charm, was ignorant and immature.

But Phanor had dug the trench around Maman’s grave. Would
Bertrand have done that so kindly and simply?

When the party rose to go in to dinner, Josie found she was
a little stiff from her fall. Albany too quickly offered his arm, and Bertrand,
with an amused nod of his head, offered his to Abigail.

Over strawberry preserves and cream, Abigail asked, “Exactly
how are you and Josephine related, Mr. Chamard?”

Bertrand put his spoon down and considered. “It’s very
complicated among us Creoles, Miss Johnston. We tend to have many children, and
we count anyone with a tinge of family blood as close relations. Now Josephine
and I. Let’s see.”

He turned to Josie. “Your mother Celine was René and
Marie-Louise’s next to youngest daughter. Yes?” Josie nodded. Chamard thought a
moment. “That makes Josephine my second cousin once removed.”

“Kissing cousins?” Abigail said. Josie played with her
strawberries and cream.

 “
Oui
, Mademoiselle,” Bertrand asserted. “Kissing
cousins.”

Josie glanced up and Bertrand winked at her.

“If I were a betting man – well, I am a betting man – I’d be
willing to wager my young cousin and I share a certain birthmark.” He looked
directly at Abigail. “I don’t wish to be indelicate, but it seems all of Great
Grand-mère Helga’s offspring carry her remembrance.”

Josie twisted the napkin in her lap and felt the heat
radiate from her face down past her bare shoulders. She did indeed have a patch
of reddened skin, very like a rash, just at the small of her back, as had
Maman. Josie had even seen it on her little cousin Jean Baptiste. But to
mention it in company –Abigail’s face was ablush too. Who was he trying to
embarrass? Her, or Abigail? He was insufferably crude.

“Ah, I see it’s true, isn’t it, Josephine? But I’ve
distressed you.
J’en suis au regret, ma chérie
.”

The ladies rose. Josie smiled sweetly at Albany as he held
her chair for her and pointedly ignored her cousin.

After supper, the party gathered in the music room. The
Johnstons’ piano was a Chickering like the one Josie had at home, but while the
ivory keys had yellowed with age on hers, Abigail’s keys were smooth and
bright.

“Will you play for us, Josephine?” Mrs. Johnston asked.

Josie quit breathing. She touched the curls over her ear and
ducked her head. The silence as Mrs. Johnston waited for a reply became
impossible for Josie to break.

Albany came to her aid. “Perhaps you would play a duet with
me? I am only a poor player, but if you will play slowly, I believe I can keep
up.”

What kindness, Josie thought. She arranged her skirts on the
bench, and together they made their way through a Mozart sonatina arranged for
two. They earned no accolades, but they had not disgraced themselves either.
Josie touched Albany’s hand in gratitude as they rose from the bench, and he
led her to the blue damask chair near his mother.

Abigail played next. She had great facility. Her fingers
flew over the keyboard, seemingly without thought. Bertrand sang a German
melody with her, and they were a stunning pair. Abigail’s blond hair reflected
the candlelight; Bertrand’s black hair, brushing the collar of his coat, seemed
to absorb it.

When Abigail asked Josie to sing with her, Josie felt on
safer ground. Her voice was pleasant enough, and she sang in tune at least.

“That was lovely, Josie,” Albany whispered to her as she sat
down again. Josie knew her voice wasn’t lovely, but she accepted the compliment
very prettily, as she’d been taught. Believe every compliment is the absolute
truth, Maman had preached, but receive it humbly.

Mr. Johnston dozed in his chair and Mrs. Johnston sat
dreamily on her settee, embroidery in her lap. Abigail and Bertrand began
another piece.

Josie admired Abigail’s straight back as she sat at the
piano. Monsieur Pierre had scolded Josie constantly about her posture on the
bench. But whenever Josie sat at the piano, defeat sat with her. She simply
couldn’t bridge the gap between her feelings and her fingers. And here was
Abigail, blue satin and golden curls, effortlessly infusing the room with
music.

Bertrand shifted his stance so that Josie could see his
face, and she forgot all about her poor musicality. His voice oozed seduction,
and with a roguish smile on his lips, he sang just to her. Meeting his eyes,
Josie was glad she was seated or her rubbery knees would not have held her up.

Albany wandered over to stand behind his sister, as if to
look over her shoulder at the music, but Josie saw clearly his protective
instinct at work. For her or for his sister, she wasn’t sure. He nearly blocked
Josie’s view of Bertrand, whose smile grew a little wider at the intrusion.

When Abigail finished the piece, she slammed the piano shut.
With a scalding look at her brother, she excused herself and abruptly left the
room.

The morning Josie boarded the riverboat to visit the
Johnstons, Cleo had wrapped two shawls around herself. The wind and the rain
made it a nasty day, and Cleo wanted to wave goodbye to Josie from the dock.

Since the funeral and Josie’s off and on distancing, Cleo
missed their old camaraderie. Surely if she kept herself ready to be friends
again, Josie would come around. Grief didn’t last forever.

Cleo followed M’sieu Emile and Josie through the front gate.
Emile turned around and waved her back. “Go back to the house, Cleo. No need of
your getting soaked,” he said.

Cleo was about to protest, but Josie didn’t even look back,
so Cleo nodded to Monsieur Emile and hurried to the shelter of the upstairs gallery.
A pang of loneliness grabbed her as she watched Josie board the boat. She
raised her hand to wave, and for a moment she thought Josie saw her, but there
was no hand raised in return. What would a week among those
américains
do to Josie? She might be even more distant when she came home.

After dinner, the clouds grew thinner, and the wind shoved
them further south and east. Cleo finished her chores and checked that Madame
was busy with the accounting books. Monsieur Emile was in his room, probably reading
or taking a nap.

Cleo wanted to pick out the minuet Josie was learning, and
she wanted to study the notes in Josie’s old beginner’s book. No one but Madame
Celine had ever minded Cleo playing the piano, though lately Josie had seemed a
little put-out. Well, Cleo thought, she should practice more if she wanted to
play better. M’sieu encouraged both of them, though Cleo was sure he’d rather
sing with her than with Josie. Josie got nervous and made mistakes when he sat
with her.

Cleo had only heard the piece twice. She certainly did not
envy Josie the tutor’s skinny, faintly odorous figure standing stiffly behind
her, beating the time with his foot, but she wished she could read the notes on
the page as Josie did. In the spring, she’d begun to decipher the mysterious
symbols in the beginner’s book she’d found in the cabinet. Maybe by next
summer, she’d be able to read music.

No sooner had Cleo opened the keyboard of the old Chickering
than Madame’s favorite little pickaninny found her.

“Cleo, you wanted, you,” Laurie said. Her hair was twisted
into little pigtails all over her head, and her black eyes shone with the
importance of delivering a message. “Dat Cajun fella, he here. Madame say you
see to it, she busy.”

“Is it the young Cajun or the old one, Laurie?”

“I seed Cajun wid a hat on his head. I don’ see no young, no
old.” Laurie held the coin purse out. “This here full of money. You best be
keerful, Cleo. Madame done count all dem pieces of money.”