Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (16 page)

“I’m coming with you.”

“Josie, you don’t have to do that. Stay here, with Madame
Emmeline.”

“Grand-mère will have Laurie for company.” Josie put on an
old dress and then stood ready.

The two of them clasped hands for a moment, and then entered
the field of contagion, together.

In the days to follow, Josie and Cleo followed Dr. Benet
into the quarters, fed water to the growing number of the fallen, and stripped
vile, sodden beds with their own hands. In addition, they mixed gallons of
molasses and water according to Dr. Benet’s direction. "Will it save them?”
Josie asked.

“My dear, I know nothing of a cure. I only hope to hit upon
a remedy that may help the body heal itself.”

While Cleo tended to the stricken down the lane, Josie
visited the cabin next to Ursaline’s. Three little children -- Tansy, her thumb
ever in her mouth, Val Jean, his knobby knees always scraped, and Josephine,
named after her -- lived there with their father Luc and their grandmother
Bella. They were everybody’s favorites as they skipped along with their Grammy
Bella to the dairy, to the cookhouse, then back to the quarters to deliver the
milk rations. Josie examined each of them, as Dr. Benet had taught her. If one
of these children should die, Josie felt the blow would be greater than she
could bear.

In spite of the doctor’s molasses potion, the cholera
strengthened. With every death, Jose felt her faith waning, her hopes more
desperate. She hardly slept, keeping vigil by the bedsides of the stricken. If
her will alone could save them, they would live. Cleo and Louella put food
before her and she ate; they brought her draughts of the molasses and water she
herself had mixed, and she drank, but she knew nothing of it. Once she focused
on Cleo’s gaunt face and ordered her back to the house, but she hardly noticed
that Cleo too remained among the sick.

Josie took to looking for Grammy Bella and the children
during the day, in the dairy, near the cookhouse, just to see that they were
well.
Josephine
,
Tansy
,
Val Jean
– it became a chant she
invoked all through the day. In her sleepless state, she believed, somehow,
that if only she kept up her chant, no harm could come to them.

But Tansy died. The cholera swept through her little body
and nothing Josie or Cleo or Dr. Benet could do stopped it from ravaging her.
Josie labored on as one whose wits were gone, and later she remembered nothing
of the days after Tansy’s small body was wrapped in its shroud.

Ursaline, the first stricken, was the first to show signs of
revival. Josie, Cleo, and the Doctor continued feeding the molasses mixture to
everyone taken with the cholera. Some died, but some lived another day, and
then another, until the sun set with no new cases, no new deaths. Of the
twenty-six who came down with cholera, all of them slaves, only seven of them
succumbed.

As the second day of reprieve closed, yet again no new
cholera, no new deaths, Josie sat on the porch of Grammy Bella’s cabin. Little
Josephine was in her lap, Val Jean leaning against his Mam’zelle. He sang
softly of Jesus and salvation, and Josie’s head began to nod. She slipped into
sleep without knowing.

Grammy Bella called her son out to the porch. “Luc, look at
dis chile. You think you kin carry her up to de house?”

“She don’ weigh nothin’. I get her to home.”

Josie might have been a sleeping toddler for all she knew of
Luc’s carrying her through the pecan trees. When the sun woke her in the
morning, she was in her own bed, and Cleo slept in the cot on the other side of
the room.

The outbreak over, the plantation struggled to carry on. At
her desk, Madame Emmeline, as drained as her granddaughter, struck the names of
the dead from her roster. As she reviewed the demands of the coming year
against the work force remaining, she despaired.

Albany Johnston came to call twice, but Josie had little to
say to him. She had little to say to anyone. Grand-mère Emmeline and she had
neither the energy for small talk nor the intimacy for deeper connection. Cleo
seemed to have her own life now; she continued to see Remy in the evenings and
began to come back to the house later and later in the nighttime. Josie slept a
great deal, and she took long lonely walks.

One afternoon, Josie sat at her writing desk trying to
compose a letter to Tante Marguerite. Sweat trickled down her ribs and the
sheen on her arms smudged the blotting paper. She continually flicked her wrist
to discourage the flies attracted to the ink on her pen and ended up spattering
ink across the page.

She stared at the tear-shaped drops on the creamy paper. The
letter was ruined. Josie leaned her head on her arms and wept. She had no
comfort, no reserves left.

Cleo looked in from the bedroom where she was folding
laundry. She walked over to Josie and put a hand on her back. “Sit up,” she
said quietly.

Josie wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Cleo folded the
spoiled paper and put it in her pocket. “Here,” she said, and laid out a fresh
sheet for Josie.

“Thank you.” Josie began the letter anew, and Cleo returned
to her work.

As the sun eased up that evening, Dr. Benet sat on the front
gallery enjoying a cigar and the river breeze when he saw Josephine walk
aimlessly through the oak alley toward the levee. Her shoulders drooped like an
old woman’s, he thought, and even from the gallery he could see her hair was
undressed. Poor child. She’d had too much.

And so had her grandmother. Fatigue and worry and grief had
aged Emmeline a dozen years. Dr. Benet prescribed a sleeping draught for her,
hoping that might restore some of her energy, but her complexion turned ashy
and her eyes lost the snapping quickness he had always admired.

The morning of Dr. Benet’s departure, he knocked on the
office door. “Good morning, Emmeline.”

She gestured to the big leather chair at the window, and he
settled himself in it. “Before I go, I want to discuss something with you.”

“Very well.” She motioned to Laurie to keep the flies away.

“It’s you and Josephine, my dear. The melancholy in this
house is overpowering.”

Emmeline leaned her forehead against her hand and simply
stared at the floor.

 “I know,” the doctor said gently. “How could it be
otherwise? But I am concerned about Josephine. The child has had too much
shock. Even when that young man, Johnston’s boy, comes calling, she hardly
loses her torpor.”

“I’m afraid he’s a dull young man.”

“It’s more than that. You must see it. Josephine is lost,
she’s floundering in grief.”

Emmeline’s face showed nothing. Her eyes, always alert, even
predatory like the eyes of a hawk, were now flat and dull. “Everyone on Toulouse
has lost someone, François.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Emmeline.”

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as Laurie gently fanned
at her mistress to shoo the flies away. At last Emmeline said, “What would you
have me do? I cannot bring my son back, nor the child’s mother.”

“I was thinking of sending her to New Orleans for the
season,” he said. “It would relieve her of the silence of this house, Emmeline.
And it’s past time Josie took her place in society.”

Emmeline’s lack of response didn’t deter him. “Your daughter-in-law’s
sister, Marguerite, will be in New Orleans for the winter. I’m sure she’d take
her under her wing.”

“Yes. All right,” Emmeline said. Her gaze wandered to the
window where the hot sun shone on the bare branches of the crepe myrtles. “No
flowers of any kind in the garden now. Had you noticed, François?”

“Never mind. I’ll send some camellias over, and the gardener
can root some roses for you. This time next summer, you’ll have a garden
again.”

“We likes the red roses,” Laurie said.

“Well, then, I’ll see to it you have red ones,” Dr. Benet
said. He let himself out of the house and crossed the make-do board walk to the
levee where Elbow John and three other men waited to take him across the river.

At dinner, Madame told Josephine she would write to her aunt
about spending the season with her. But Josie did not at first think of balls
or beaus or concerts. “Leave Toulouse?” she said.

Grand-mère put her spoon down. “Dr. Benet is right. You’ve
become dull and morose. You need to get away from here -- unless you can tell
me Toulouse holds more delights for you than New Orleans?”

Josie smiled for the first time in days and days. “No,
Grand-mère. I’ll be very happy to go to New Orleans.”

Phanor rode his old mule Toine into the courtyard and
dismounted. Madame had summoned him, so at the bottom of the gallery stairs, he
wiped his bare feet and put on the dry socks and boots he carried across his
shoulder.

Cleo met him at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Phanor. Your
poor Toine. Should I have Thibault give him some feed?”

“Old Toine, he is always ready to eat,” Phanor said. Once
the cholera was over, he had met Cleo and Remy and sometimes one or two others
with jaw harps on the levee for dancing and music. Now he pulled Cleo’s arm
through his until they reached the door into the house. “Cleo, I think you
putting back some of that weight you lost from all your troubles.”

“We’re all beginning to eat again, I think. Even Josie.”

Phanor asked about Josie every time he met Cleo. “Is she
well? Do you think I could say
bonjour
to her?”

Cleo gave him a sly look, and Phanor’s smile was his
confession. When he had attended the mass for Monsieur Emile, Josie’s white
face had pulled at his heart. He could well imagine how painful it must be to
lose a second parent. As for their differing stations in life, well, he wanted
only to comfort her. What would be so wrong with that? As the summer days wore
on, though, he thought less about her grief and more about her hazel eyes and
the way her hair caught the sunlight.

Cleo led him into the parlor where Josie sat gazing out at
the river. As usual, her needlework covered her lap, but the needle was buried
somewhere in the folds of the linen.

“Mademoiselle,” Phanor said.

Josie jumped. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She wadded
the linen up and stood to greet him.

Josie’s freckles had faded. She seemed thin and unhappy, and
the black dress – Phanor noticed such things – hung on her and seemed to pull
all the color from her face.

“I’m sorry for your father, Josie.”

She bowed her head briefly. “Thank you, Phanor.” The two
months since Josie had seen Phanor had been a lifetime. Lost in his big dark
eyes, she gazed at him almost as she had the first time she saw him. A tug of
longing pulled at her. “Your family is well?”

“
Oui
, all of them.” The moment dragged on until
Phanor slapped his hat against his knee. “Well, I best see Madame.” But still
he stood there, and his next words came out in a rush. “Listen, Josie,
sometimes Cleo and I, and some others, we make music in the evenings, on the
levee. We could play for you, maybe, if you would come.”

Her smile overpowered the gloomy dress and the pale skin.
“I’d like that, Phanor.”

The way the green in Josie’s eyes deepened fascinated
Phanor, but he made an attempt to pull his attention back to business. “Well, I
better see Madame. Maybe tomorrow, eh, Cleo?” When Cleo nodded, he said,
“Tomorrow, then, Josie.”

Cleo let him into Madame’s office and closed the door behind
him. She lingered to hear what she could through the keyhole, one impish eye on
Josie.

In a few minutes, Josie whispered, “What are they saying?”

Cleo held a finger up. “Wait a minute.”

Finally, Cleo walked quietly and quickly to Josie. “Madame
said something about Monsieur Cherleu. And New Orleans. Would she send Phanor
all the way to New Orleans?”

The office door opened and Phanor emerged with a big smile
on his face. He strode over to the girls and checked that Laurie had closed
Madame’s office door.

“What do you think?” He looked at both of them. “Me, I’m to
be old Monsieur Cherleu’s wine merchant in New Orleans! Madame has arranged it.
Me, Phanor DeBlieux.”

“Congratulations, Phanor!” Cleo said. “I knew you would get
to New Orleans.”

Phanor glanced over his shoulder at the office door and
lowered his voice. “Josie,” he said, “this means I cannot play my fiddle for
you tomorrow. Tonight, though…”

Madame Emmeline came out of her office. “Are you still here,
Phanor DeBlieux?”

“I was just leaving, Madame.” He looked at Cleo and winked,
then bowed formally to Josie. “
Au revoir
, Mademoiselle Josephine.”

When the door closed behind him, Josie looked an inquiry at
her grandmother.

“Monsieur Cherleu grows old, Josephine. He’s tired, too
tired to begin anew after the flood.” Grand-mère lowered herself wearily to the
settee and motioned for Cleo to pour her a glass of water. “He depends on his
wine import business now, and he needs someone to represent him in New Orleans.
Young Phanor is an intelligent fellow. He’ll learn quickly.”

Phanor would be in New Orleans over the winter! Would she
see him there? He wouldn’t be invited to the soirées, of course, but maybe on
the street, in the square?

Supper over, the sun nearly below the tree line, Josie and
Cleo slipped out of the house and collected Thibault from Louella’s cabin. He
was as good a chaperone as they could expect under the circumstances, but more
important to them, Thibault’s high, sweet singing voice promised joy and hope
of heaven.

Thibault ran ahead to Phanor’s mule grazing on the levee. He
rubbed Toine’s nose and pulled a patch of grass for him. “Toine, you a good
mule. You my friend,” he said.

Phanor stoked the beginnings of a fire in the center of the
clearing. “That Thibault, he sure love ol Toine,” he said. Then he grinned. “
Bon
soir
, Josie.”