Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (32 page)

“Sit down, Josephine.” Grand-mère had covered the
green-clothed table with ledgers, and a cup of freshly sharpened pencils stood
at the ready.

“Did you read the newspaper this morning as I asked you to?”

“Yes, Grand-mère,” Josie lied. Well, she had read a little
of it, but her eyes had begun to hurt and her glasses were in the other room.
And it was deadly boring, those pages about President Van Buren, Congress, and
the economy. She much preferred to sit unseen in her window seat, glasses on,
reading Victor Hugo.

“Then you know Monsieur Beaufort insists the economy is
healthy, and people who say otherwise are foolish doomsayers. What is your
opinion, Josephine?”

Josie swallowed. How was she supposed to know? And who
cared, anyway? Grand-mère ran Toulouse, and Bertrand would take over when they
were married. “Grand-mère, I . . .”

“You didn’t read the financial page, did you?”

“No, but --”

“Laurie, we’ll have a pot of tea,” Grand-mère interrupted
again. “Meanwhile, Josephine, I will try to impress upon you yet again the
importance of reading the financial news. We’ll begin with the ledger for three
years ago. Find the one for 1834 and look up the figures for the year’s
expenses.”

Josie perched her spectacles on her nose and read off the
costs for feeding and clothing the slaves, for fertilizer, for repairs to the
roof, for Monsieur LeBrec’s salary, wine, provisions, Dr. Benet’s fees, gifts
to the church, and so on.

“And the total?” Grand-mère said. “Write it in the
appropriate column on this sheet. We’re going to compare the last three years.”

Josie grudgingly began filling in the assets and debits on
the chart for each year. Naturally there had been little income the previous
year because of the flood. They’d lost most of the crop, and there was the
rebuilding and replanting to pay for. Papa’s gambling losses had also been
substantial. Still, she’d had no idea. They were deeply in debt.

“What is your conclusion, Josephine?”

Josie peered at the chart. “Well, we seemed to be doing
quite well before the flood,” Josie said. She looked at Grand-mère. “Is that
right?”

“Yes, you are correct. And now?”

“We’re in debt. But surely that’s just until the next crop
comes in. Isn’t it?”

“Did you compare the cash realized from the cane crop before
the flood with debt we now carry?"

Josie ran her finger across the page. It would take four or
five good years to erase their debt, even once the new refinery was up and
running.

“But --”

“No foolish optimism, Josephine. Debt grows. You realize
that, don’t you?”

Josie remembered an earlier lecture about interest rates.
She began to wish she’d listened more carefully.

“Which brings us back to the financial pages. Will the bank
hold our paper, or will it not? That depends on the economy. Do you begin to
see?”

Josie hoped Grand-mère would not again fix her with steely
eyes and remind her how much like her father she was, how irresponsible, how
likely to go to ruin if she depended on others to look after her interests.

“Grand-mère, why don’t you just tell me what’s going to
happen?”

“If I had The Sight, you would have known it before now. I
speak of possibilities, that’s all, but I don’t like this heated economy. Too
many people are overextended – as we are.”

“And what am I do to about it?” Josie said as mildly as she
could.

“Do?” Grand-mère snapped. “There is nothing either of us can
do, Josephine. But you must at least be aware of what can happen. Use the brain
God has given you.”

“When I am married to --”

“No one has asked me for your hand, Josephine, not since you
turned down the rich
américain
. What is certain is you will be
responsible for Toulouse and all the souls who labor on it. Married or not.”

Josie flushed. Grand-mère had as usual rubbed her most
sensitive spot. Josie was not engaged. As good as, she thought, but in truth
Bertrand had not spoken of marriage. Not yet.

“You realize, Josephine, your Monsieur Chamard is likely
burdened with large debts himself. He’s bought more slaves, cleared more
ground, replanted old fields. Bertrand reads the financial pages, I assure you.
However starry-eyed you may be, he has a clear eye on the final figures in his
ledger.”

Josie straightened in her chair. Grand-mère might believe
Bertrand was as mercenary as she was, Josie thought, but Josie knew better.
Josie had felt the promise in his kisses. Bertrand wanted her, with or without
debts.

“Is that all?” Josie said coolly. “I need to dress before
Bertrand arrives.”

“You may go. But I shall expect you to have read the
financial news when next we talk of business, Josephine.”

Cleo smoothed her dress when she heard Monsieur Chamard’s
horse in the courtyard. She did not encourage his attention -- she would not be
so bold, nor so hateful to Josie. But Cleo admitted to the pleasure of his
glance.

During noon dinner, Cleo served the baked hen, the fried
okra, and the fresh rolls Louella had baked. Now that Josie was in love, Cleo
thought, she might realize how badly she suffered without Remy. Then again,
Josie had likely forgotten all about Remy. Josie could afford to think only of
herself, to anticipate hopes fulfilled. A slave had no such luxury.

Monsieur divided his attention between Madame Emmeline and
Josie during dinner. He spoke with Josie about horses and manners on the
Continent, with Madame about the latest fluctuations in the market. All three
women in the room, Cleo realized, craved his notice. Madame was lonely since
Celine, Emile, and even Bibi, had died. Few people matched her quick mind, but
Monsieur apparently did. And Cleo herself felt his presence, even when he
seemed to ignore her.

But Cleo had resolved long before to have her own life with
Remy. She did not wish to repeat the role her mother had played in this house,
sharing another woman’s husband, no right to his love nor to his protection.
She was honest with herself about her attraction to Monsieur, and about his
obvious appreciation of her, but she would not seek his attentions -- nor
accept them, if it came to that.

As the three rose from the table, Madame put a hand to her
throat. “It is exceptionally warm today. I hope you will excuse me, Bertrand. I
believe I will lie down.”

Bertrand hastened to take her arm. “Are you all right?
Should you like the doctor?”

“No, no. I’m simply tired, and I foolishly ate too much of
Louella’s sponge cake. You and Josephine enjoy the breeze in the parlor.
Josephine, have Louella make you some lemonade.”

Bertrand handed Madame off to Cleo, who walked her into the
bedroom. Cleo unbuttoned the stifling dress and poured water into the basin to
bathe Madame’s face and neck. “The heat has put me down, I’m afraid,” Madame
said. “Thank you, Cleo.”

As Cleo prepared to leave Madame in order to wait on Josie
and her guest, Madame said, “Perhaps it would be as well if Laurie served
Josephine and Monsieur.”

Cleo avoided the piercing look, understanding its meaning,
and dipped her head. “Yes, Madame.”

She found Laurie wiping the dining table and informed her
she was to serve lemonade in the parlor. Laurie must be mindful not to address
either Mam’zelle or the gentleman, but simply to hand them a glass without
spilling a drop.

“You think I stupid? I know dat,” Laurie said.

Madame had spoiled this child beyond enduring. She grabbed a
pinch of flesh above Laurie’s skinny elbow and twisted it. “Not a sound out of
you, Laurie. Madame’s resting, and you better get to it.” Laurie stuck her
tongue out at Cleo, but she hushed.

While Bertrand entertained Josie in the parlor with stories
of his schooldays in Paris, the mail boat tooted, and Elbow John hustled to the
dock. When all went as planned, the boat slowed enough to catch the mail bag
onto the hook hanging out over the river, but if the boy missed the hook, he’d
try to toss it to John on the dock. More than once John had had to slip into
the river to fish the bag out.

In fact, though, the boy heaved the bag onto the hook with
perfect timing and waved to John as the boat veered back into the current.
Madame Emmeline had heard the boat whistle, too, and roused herself from bed to
watch Elbow John take his time sauntering back from the levee. “Up here, John,”
she called when he came close.

She was vaguely aware of the murmur of Josie and Bertrand’s
voices in the parlor as she impatiently dealt with the knot on the mail bag.
She left the several letters for later and unfolded the
New Orleans Picayune
.
She did not need to turn to the back to find the financial news. The editors had
emblazoned the state of the economy in huge black type across the front page:
“First Bank of New Orleans Closes Its Doors,” she read. Below that, another
headline: “New York in Panic as Investors Riot in the Street.”

It had happened. Even sooner than she’d feared, the boom
time had collapsed. She had lived through the depression of 1792 when she was a
girl, and she knew what lay ahead. Her father had lost half of his estate
before the economy righted itself. Toulouse was at terrible risk.

Emmeline swayed a little as she stood. Dressed only in her
wrapper, she walked lead-footed into the parlor and, without preamble, handed
the paper to Bertrand. At sight of her face, he yielded his seat to her
immediately and looked to Josie to pour her a lemonade.

Emmeline waved the glass away and said, “Read it.”

Bertrand scanned the headlines and sat heavily in the chair
next to Emmeline. “You were right all along.”

Josie took the paper from his hand and read the news. She
raised her head to find Bertrand looking at her curiously.

“Do you know what a panic is, Josephine?” he asked.

“Grand-mère has told me. We won’t be able to borrow any more
money, I think.”

Bertrand looked to Emmeline, who met his eyes and confirmed
what he suspected. Josie had no idea how bad things could get. Nor how the
crash might affect her personally.

Josie looked from Bertrand to Grand-mère. Neither offered
her any reassurance, and their silence frightened her as much as the pallor of
their faces. Bertrand’s gaze on her seemed to be heavy with a meaning she could
not read.

Formal now, as he had not been in all these last glorious
weeks of courting, Bertrand stood. “I must go to New Orleans,” he said.

He picked up his hat from the side table where Cleo had left
it. “Madame,” he said, and “Mademoiselle.”

“How long will you be gone?” Josie said.

He looked at his hat a moment before he answered her. “I
don’t know when I will see you again, Josephine.”

She followed him to the front gallery hoping for a moment
alone with him, a touch of his hand, some gesture of closeness, but he didn’t
turn to her at the top of the steps. Standing on the gallery, Josie watched him
cinch the saddle on the big roan grazing in the shade. She waited for him to
turn and wave, but without looking back, he quickly rode away from her down the
alley of oaks.

The house was quiet the rest of the day as if there had been
another death in the family. Cleo sent Laurie to the gallery to fan the flies
away from Madame. Madame Emmeline hadn’t spoken since Monsieur Chamard left the
house. She sat on the shady side of the gallery and stared out at the oaks and
the levee and the glint of the river on the other side of it.

Supper was cold meat and bread, eaten in silence. Cleo
attended the table unobtrusively. She had read the paper discarded on the sofa,
and though she understood the news imperfectly, she knew Toulouse had to be in
debt, and that even Josie wore a frightened pinched look.

Did it mean Remy would not be able to save as much money?
Would he still find work on the docks in New Orleans? Phanor would know, if
only he would come home to visit, bring her another note from Remy. The longing
and loneliness sometimes swelled inside her until she thought she’d burst.

When the summer sun at last began to sink, Madame called for
Cleo to light the oil lamp in her office. The cheesecloth over the windows kept
out most of the mosquitoes and flies in this room, and Madame said, “I won’t
need Laurie anymore tonight. Send her to bed.” Cleo delivered a pitcher of cool
water and a crystal goblet to the office and left Madame with her ledgers.

In the bedroom, Cleo found Josie writing in her journal by
candle light. After the afternoon and evening in a silent house, Cleo wanted to
talk, but Josie didn’t look up from her page.

From the steps of the back gallery, Cleo peered into the
early darkness and listened for the overseer’s step. His snarly dog never left
his side since Old Sam’s dog Boots had attacked him, and Cleo feared this dog
as much as she did LeBrec. Satisfied they were not about, Cleo crossed the
thirty yards to the cookhouse.

A single candle lit the back room where Louella and Thibault
slept. Thibault lay on his cot in blissful oblivion. Louella rested in the
cow-hide chair leaned back against the wall. “Come in,
chérie
,” she
called when Cleo appeared at the door.

“Whas goin’ on over dere?” Louella said as Cleo lowered
herself into the other chair. “I hear not a sound all day from de house. Madame
got one of dose headaches?”

Cleo shook her head. “It’s bad news from New Orleans. The
banks are closing, and people are worried about their money.”

“Dat’s one worry I don’ never have. Me, nor you neither.”

“Madame is worried enough for all of us, I think.”

“I got me two lemons left in de kitchen. We have us some
lemonade, just like de white folks. You fetch us some cool water from de cistern
while I cuts de lemons.”