Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (3 page)

Papa looked at Josie and Cleo, both of them blatantly
listening, watching for his reaction. Amusement played across his mouth. “I
wasn’t aware, Madame, that you were endeavoring to tutor both girls.”

“Of course I am not. But you see how it is. The slave girl
listens to everything; she is even so bold as to practice drawing the alphabet.
She will soon be learning to read if we are not careful.”

“Josephine, you are not teaching Cleo to read, are you?”

“No, Papa. Indeed I am not.” She sent a guilty glance toward
Cleo, but Cleo wore a blank expression, the one she put on when Maman scolded
her.

“Nor am I. So you see, Madame Estelle, the only one from
whom Cleo might learn to read is you, and I am sure you are guilty of no such
crime.”

Madame Estelle pursed her lips and stiffened her back. “I
understand perfectly,” she said. “I’ll not trouble you about it again.”

Josie studied dutifully if without enthusiasm. Cleo’s
progress nearly matched her own, and the conspiracy continued.

It was because of the piano that Josie consciously became
Cleo’s ally and her mother’s adversary. Before that day, whenever Maman was
hateful to Cleo, Josie had felt helpless. She often would cry when Maman
scolded or shook Cleo. Then she’d wait for Maman to leave the room before she
crept to a dry-eyed Cleo to give and receive comfort.

The day Josie asserted herself, she was practicing the
pieces Monsieur Pierre had left for her while Maman lay down for her afternoon
rest. Occasionally Maman would call to her to count the beats or check how many
sharps she was supposed to play, but mostly Maman slept through the hour. When
Josie tired of playing, she’d quietly relinquish the bench to Cleo.

Cleo had never benefited from Monsieur Pierre’s direct
instruction, but she was blessed with an ear and that ineffable something,
talent. She could play whatever she’d heard, and Maman never noticed the
difference behind her closed bedroom door.

But Cleo forgot herself this afternoon. She began to pick
out the tune of a melody she’d learned in the quarters, an old song the men and
women sang when they chopped cane or picked cotton. Josie sat on the sofa
looking through the stereopticon Papa had brought from New Orleans. She didn’t
at first hear Maman come into the room.

Cleo saw her immediately. She froze, her hands still on the
keyboard. Josie looked up to see Maman and Cleo staring at each other. Maman
moved first. She covered the distance from the doorway to the piano in three
quick strides, grabbed hold of Cleo’s headscarf and hair in one bunch, and
yanked Cleo’s head back.

“You little bastard.” Maman slapped Cleo, hard. Cleo gasped,
but she’d long ago ceased to cry when Madame punished her.

Josie, however, couldn’t bear it. She ran across the room
and caught Maman’s raised arm. “No, Maman!”

Maman’s face was in that white fury Josie dreaded. “I’ll
deal with you later, young lady.” She pulled her arm out of Josie’s grip and
raised it to strike Cleo again.

“Maman! ” Josie grabbed her arm again and dragged her away
from the piano.

Maman pointed toward Cleo. “You put her in her place, this
instant, or I will have her whipped.”

Josie shook her head. “She belongs to me. Papa gave her to
me.”

In a swish of skirts, Maman spun back to Cleo. She seized a
handful of black hair and hauled Cleo from the bench. Cleo’s head hit the edge
of the bench as she fell and a gash opened over her right eye. Maman didn’t
stop at the sight of the blood. She pulled Cleo further from the piano, both
hands tugging at the loose hair.

Josie threw herself against Maman. “Let her go!”

Maman fell back and across Cleo. Josie went down with her,
struggling to force Maman to let go of Cleo’s hair. She cried and pulled at
Maman’s fingers.

Maman scooted back across the floor, her face twisted. She
put the back of her hand against her mouth and stared at Josie. “You take their
part. You’re just like him.” Maman sobbed, both hands covering her face.

“She belongs to me,” Josie whispered.

Cleo lay stunned, wordless, the blood flowing across her
face and onto her dress. Josie stared at the blood, then at Maman’s trembling
hands.

“Maman?” Her mother rocked back and forth, deep gulping sobs
shaking her. “Maman?” Maman wouldn’t answer her.

Josie crawled over to Cleo. She helped her stand up and took
her to Bibi to be seen to.

It was days before Maman left her room. When finally she
appeared at table, it was as if nothing had happened. Ashen faced, but
decorous, Maman made small talk with Grand-mère and Papa and inquired about
Josie’s English lessons. Josie felt she could breathe again for the first time
since the incident at the piano.

On Sunday afternoon, Maman said, “Bring your basket and sit
with me in the parlor.”

Josie hesitated. She had been about to follow Cleo outside
to find Elbow John. They were going to ask him to take them to the bayou. After
the horrible scene over Cleo playing the piano, though, Josie did her best to
placate her mother. She sat down near the window and threaded a needle.

After an hour, Josie’s eyes hurt. “Stop squinting,” Maman
said. “If you don’t keep your face quite still, you’ll have wrinkles before
your time.”

Grand-mère had wrinkles. Grammy Tulia had wrinkles. They
looked fine. They looked like themselves. But, Josie had to admit, Maman was
much prettier than either of them. Maman’s parents were both German, and her
hair was buttery yellow, her eyes the color of morning glories. That’s why
Josie herself was not as dark as her Creole cousins.

The sweat on Josie’s hands made the needle hard to hold on
to, but her mind was not on sewing anyway. Cleo was probably fishing in the
bayou with Elbow John. Or she might be in the quarters playing with Thibault.
Whatever she was doing, Josie was sure it was more fun than embroidery.

“Let me see what you’ve done.” Maman shook her head. “Josie,
your stitches are quite irregular. I’m sure other nine year olds sew better
than this. You simply don’t try.”

“I do try, Maman,” Josie said softly.

“You’ve given me a head ache,” Maman said. “Leave me now.”

Josie carefully tucked her needlework back into her basket,
curtsied to her mother, and sedately crossed the room. Once out of sight, she
ran through the house, heedless of the clatter her shoes made on the cypress
floors.

From there, Josie ran to Grammy Tulia’s, but no one was
home. Her shoulders slumped until she saw a blueberry bucket on the porch like
it was left there just for her. She grabbed it and hurried through the quarters
to the blueberry patch. That’s where she found Cleo, Grammy and little
Thibault, picking berries.

“Louella said we could make a pie, you and me,” Cleo said.
Hours spent in the cookhouse with Louella were more fun than anything, even
than fishing with Elbow John.

Louella had her oven hot and ready. “I done got the crust
rolled out. You two gals pick through dem berries, put some sugar and cinnamon
on ‘em, and we make us a pie for M’sieu Emile.”

“Maman likes blueberry pie, too,” Josie offered.

“Um hm,” Louella said. “Go easy on that salt, Cleo. A
pinch’ll do.”

Josie measured out the sugar and stirred in Cleo’s spoon
full of cinnamon. “Does it need a dab of butter?” Josie said.

“Dat it do. You know where de butter is.”

Cleo laid the bottom crust in the pie pan, Josie poured the
berries in, and they both crimped the edges of the top crust.

They left Louella to watch their pie in the brick oven, and
all through the afternoon, as she and Cleo followed Elbow John down to the
bayou for him to check his traps, Josie imagined how proud Papa would be of her
for making him a pie. And Grand-mère too. Grand-mère believed Creole women
should be capable, useful members of the plantation. Maman did not agree. She
told Josie to be a lady, to keep her hands clean and her hair tidy. Josie
labored every day to please both Grand-mère and Maman.

It was much easier to please Papa. He smiled at her whether she
was messy or clean, idle or busy. He’d love the blueberry pie.

“Hold still,” Cleo insisted, muttering around a mouthful of
hairpins.

Josie met Cleo’s amber eyes in the mirror. Cleo had a way of
making her feel like a child sometimes, but Josie let it go. She didn’t want to
quarrel today.

Cleo labored to fasten three pale pink rosebuds in Josie’s
upswept hair, but their weight inevitably pulled them loose. She had tried pins
and ribbons and was resorting to the thin green wire they used for corsages.

“I don’t want green wire in my hair!” Josie said.

“Do you want these flowers or not?”

Josie eyed Cleo’s black curls. When she’d taken a turn at
hairdresser, she’d had no trouble fastening roses in Cleo’s thick hair. She
suppressed a sigh. Her own hair was not nearly so luxurious, nor as glossy. But
it wasn’t an ordinary brown either. More like dark honey, she decided.

Josie sat up taller and inspected herself in the mirror.
Nice looking. Not bad at all, really. But she’d be more careful about freckles
this summer.

Papa stuck his head in the door. “Is there some grand ball
tonight I don’t know about?”

Josie, as always, brightened in her father’s presence.
“We’re practicing, Papa. For all the balls in New Orleans next winter.”

Papa’s eyes drifted to Cleo, and Josie felt the old ache.
Always her father’s attention shifted to Cleo, but he was
her
papa.

Papa leaned against the door jamb. “
Tu est tres belle
,
Cleo,” he said. “Did Josie fix your hair like that?”

“
Oui
, Monsieur.” Cleo smiled and turned her head to
show him the elaborate hairdo.

Josie felt invisible. She sat very still until her father
remembered to look at her again.

“I like your hair like that, Josie.”

Josie tilted her head and put a hand to her curls. “Do you,
Papa?”

Papa checked his breast pocket for a cigar. “You’re more
beautiful than the queen of France,” he told her.

Josie laughed, but she suspected it might be so. Her Papa
had actually seen the queen when he was in Paris, and he’d said she was small
and dark. Josie was already taller than her mother, and no one would ever call
her dark.

He bit the end off and stuck the cigar in his mouth. “The
two of you will turn every head at the ball,” Papa said and left them.

Papa had done it again. He seemed to forget, now and then,
that there would be no balls for Cleo. Josie glanced at her in the mirror, but
Cleo’s face was closed. A curtain covered her eyes whenever she was reminded of
her place. How could Papa be so thoughtless?

Maman often scolded Josie about treating Cleo better than
she deserved. “Cleo is your servant, not your friend,” she harped. But Cleo was
so much more than a servant. Josie hated it when Cleo was put “in her place.”
Yet Maman was right. Cleo’s lot in life was God-given, and she, and Cleo, would
have to accept that.

As for Papa…How could he pay as much attention to Cleo as he
did to his own daughter? Josie knew the answer. Papa loved her. Josie didn’t
understand it, but she knew it was true. And it wasn’t fair. Papa belonged to
her, not to Cleo.

Josie’s mouth grew tight and she avoided Cleo’s eyes in the
mirror. When Cleo tried to twine the roses in the honey-colored hair again,
Josie said, “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

Cleo’s arms dropped to her sides.

“You must have chores to do,” Josie told her, pretending
interest in the brushes on the dresser.

Cleo left the room with that wordless resistance Josie
hated. When Cleo closed her face and retreated into the slave’s protective
silence, Josie felt she herself had been put in her place.

Josie picked up the roses. “Drat,” she said under her
breath. She could not get the flowers to stay in her hair, and she regretted
having been so cold when she sent Cleo away. She gave up on the flowers.

She shouldn’t be so jealous. It was a failing, she told
herself. She didn’t watch out, she’d end up mean and suspicious like Maman.

Poor Cleo, Josie thought. For Cleo, there would be no silk
gowns, no twirling around the room on a handsome gentleman’s arm.
Maman
wouldn’t like it if she said she was sorry
. But she could ask Cleo to go to
the cookhouse with her. They could make divinity together.

As Josie rose to find Cleo, she heard the first notes of a
minuet. Ah, this was Cleo’s revenge. Cleo knew Josie wanted more than anything
to play beautifully, but somehow the feeling in her heart could not reach her
fingers. Now Cleo breathed life into the minuet Josie had been plodding through
for weeks. Josie had the lessons, Josie read the notes, Josie practiced – but
Cleo somehow made the music shimmer and sing.

Josie sat down again and fingered the lovely pink rosebuds.
Papa’s footsteps crossed the parlor floor. His booming baritone burst into
accompaniment as Cleo began a piece she’d heard Josie practicing.

Josie pressed the roses in her hand until the thorns pierced
her palm. The swelling ooze dripped onto her white lawn dress.

In a few days, Josie and Cleo’s hard feelings forgotten,
spring time eased toward summer like the seamless flow of the Mississippi. As
the morning sun warmed the roses, their scent spread to the gazebo where Josie
sat with her mother. Josie dropped the embroidery to her lap and watched the
shadows of the oaks play on her mother’s face. Maman seemed to be listening to
some inner whisper as she gazed at the rose garden.

“Does your back hurt you, Maman?”

She smiled. “A backache is a small price to pay for a baby.”

“Bibi, would you bring the footstool, please?” Josie said.