Day Dreamer (17 page)

He finally tore his mouth from hers. With his hands on her shoulders, he stood there breathing hard, staring down into deep violet eyes wide with shock. He had to get away before he took her there on the threshold.

At the hitching rail, his horse whinnied. The sound was just enough to break the spell. He let go of her and walked away without a word.

Celine watched Cord stride off. His footsteps pounded so heavily over the veranda’s rotted floorboards that she thought it might give way. He cleared the steps and jerked his horse’s reins free of the hitching post. Without pausing to glance back, he mounted the white horse and rode off down the lane.

Still trembling in the aftermath of the shocking sensual assault, she reached up to trace her lips, then pressed her hands over her frantically beating heart. Her flesh burned where his fingers had touched her. She knew a frightening hunger that pulsed through her, flooding her with longing. He did not love her. If she gave herself to him, if she went to his bed, would he open a Pandora’s box of desire that might never be closed? Would he awaken in her whatever need had driven her mother to ply her trade?

Cord had not said a word, but there was no mistaking the message behind his kiss—he wanted to do much more than plunder her mouth, he wanted to touch more than just her breast.

She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she had no knowledge of carnal acts between a man and a woman, tried to forget the tarnished memories of her mother with her lovers.

She tried to dismiss the abandoned way Cord had just kissed her, but it was as impossible as trying to forget to breathe. His touch, his scent, his taste were still upon her. Not to mention his spell.

Celine could not move. She could not think beyond the moment. The road that disappeared into the thick foliage was deserted, but in her mind she saw Cordero riding away. She closed her eyes and saw him standing over her, brash and naked in the small cabin aboard the
Adelaide
. She experienced him as caring enough to hold her throughout the storm, bold enough to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

She was willing to give herself to him as wife. But thinking of him now, all too aware of how easily her body had responded to his touch, she realized for the first time that giving herself to Cord would put her in danger of losing her heart to a man who might never learn how to love in return.

Twelve

C
ord stood in the shade of a stand of banana trees watching the inhabitants of the slave village go about the business of life. Although none of them paused to stare at him directly, he could feel their eyes watching him—the eyes of those he owned through a mere circumstance of birth.

Overhead, the tattered leaves of the banana trees whispered on the trades as naked children of dusky hues played in the dirt among the cluster of crude shacks gathered near the sugar mill. The children spoke in a mixed patois of African words long ago corrupted by English and Carib. Cord could not help but call to mind other words that bespoke the origins of the slaves—Ashanti, Fanti, Dahoman—names of languages and tribes intermingled and mistakenly used by slavers to identify people brought to these islands in chains.

From where he stood, Cord could see women tilling the soil in gardens of corn, sweet potatoes and cassava planted behind their homes. In a lean-to not far away, three women sat on a grass mat weaving baskets while a man beside them fashioned a length of rope.

His grandfather, Cord knew, would never understand the Caribbean planters’ custom of giving their slaves house plots on which to grow their own cash crops and raise small livestock and poultry. On Sundays the slaves were allowed to move freely about the island, to take their extra produce to the marketplace to sell or barter for clothes, rum or cash. Nor would Henre understand his need to draw up the paperwork to set these people free as soon as his father’s solicitor returned.

Cord moved out of the shade and crossed the open space before the mill. The main house was visible at the crest of the hill behind him, but out of necessity, he put it and Celine out of his mind for the moment. A few of the children stopped playing and ran over to him, while others stood shyly watching from afar. Within a few seconds, he saw a tall, well-built man in his early thirties duck below the doorjamb of a shack and begin walking toward him.

The man was dressed in blue, coarse canvas pants cut short at the knee. Although some of the men wore shirts on Sunday, this one was bare-chested. He was thick-necked, with powerful shoulders and arms. There was mild curiosity on his face, but no greeting smile.

“You are Moreau, owner of Dunstain Place,” he said. It was not a question.

“I am,” Cord replied.

“I am Bobo. Chief gang boss and boiler.”

“My aunt says that since the manager left you have been overseeing things here.” Cord watched Bobo carefully. He wanted to be accepted without upsetting the workings of the place. His success depended upon how he dealt with this man.

“Miss Ada been runnin’ dis place.”

Cord could not fathom any such thing, but for the moment he was content to go along with what Bobo said.

“How many slaves are still here?”

Bobo looked up at a passing cloud that stood out in white relief against the azure sky.

“Maybe one twenty. Broke in tree gangs. Some workin’ sugar, some in the tobac and corn, some wid the animals. One work in the house for Miss Ada. Gunnie be her name.” Bobo sized up Cord, his deep-set ebony eyes studying the newcomer intently.

“Tobacco and corn, you say?”

Bobo nodded. “An’ cattle. Some horses.”

Cord folded his arms and glanced at his horse, grazing on the hillside. “You mean to tell me my aunt has diversified?”

“I don’ know ’bout dat. I mean to tell you de truth, is all.”

“There’s been no outside help?”

Bobo shook his head without hesitation. “Nobody help.”

“I heard in Baytowne the slaves had all run off.”

“A few mebbe. Half dozen. Long time ago now.” Bobo added with a shrug, “Mos’ like to stay on de place where dey born, de place dey kin buried. Dis an island, mon. Where dey go?”

“I’d like you to show me around the place. I’d like to see what … my aunt … has accomplished.”

Bobo proceeded to show him the mill where the sugarcane was ground between a set of three huge, cogged rollers. It was exactly as Cord remembered it, down to the deep furrows worn in the earth by the plodding cattle that powered the mill.

During production, dark brown cane juice flowed into the trough between the rollers. Piped through a cistern to the boiling house, it was clarified and evaporated into crystallized sugar. Bobo’s task as a boiler was to ladle freshly extracted juice from a cistern into the first copper, skim off the impurities that rose to the surface and then ladle the remaining liquid between copper pots graduated in size.

As the juice passed into progressively smaller, hotter coppers, with constant skimming and evaporation, it became thick and ropy, dark brown in color. A gallon of juice contracted into a pound of
muscovado
, or crude sugar, which then had to be refined.

As the complicated and dangerous skimming and pouring continued until the sugar crystallized, the boiler had to be not only an expert but somewhat of an artist. Not only did he endure suffocating heat and the stench of scalded sugar, he had to avoid being scalded himself. The boiling sugar had cost many slaves a limb or a life.

A planter’s fortune depended not only on his field hands, but on his millers and boilers. Cord knew that Bobo must have earned his way into his position of authority. Cord also knew that ultimately, the sugar had to be warehoused and sold. And he knew that times had not changed so much that the warehouse merchants would welcome conducting business dealings with a slave.

“Does my aunt handle the sale of the sugar and rum?”

Cord felt as if he were moving through an intricate dance around the truth. Bobo obviously knew the steps well.

Bobo’s brow knit. He rubbed his hand over his hair, scratched his head and then shrugged. “De neighbor, de man over de next place, he store and sell sugar for her.”

“And this neighbor, do you know his name?”

Bobo rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Reynolds.”

“Reynolds.”

“His name be Roger Reynolds. But he nevah dere,” he added quickly.

Although he hated to be beholden to any man, Cord was thankful that there had been someone to oversee his property. Most of the island’s land was tired, worn out as year after year sugar was planted in overworked soil. Dunstain Place could boast of still fertile land that had not been burned and rutted with troughs for cane. Here tobacco, cattle and sugar all thrived.

“So my aunt is not really in charge, is she?”

Bobo was hesitant to admit anything, but finally he nodded. “She been tink so for years. Now you de boss.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be any better at it than Ada Dunstain.” He wanted to try, though. God knew he wanted to succeed, and not only for himself or to spite his grandfather. Cord had promised to dedicate his efforts to Alex, and it was mainly for Alex that he wanted to succeed.

Within an hour she had fallen in love with the old house.

Because the breeze rose above the trees, the place was cooler on the second floor than on the first. Almost a dozen bedrooms opened onto a long hall on one side and a wide balcony that connected them all on the other.

Although in need of paint, new fabrics and many personal touches here and there, the room she chose for herself was nearly as large as the entire house she had shared with Persa. Double doors opened onto the
galerie
that overlooked the sea. The view beckoned her so profoundly that Celine found herself continually walking back to the open doors and staring out to sea.

“Miss?”

She recognized Foster’s voice and found him standing on the threshold. Edward hovered behind him, looking anxious.

“Come in,” she said, turning her back on the view. She waited while they carried in a heavy trunk and set it in the middle of the floor. “What’s this?” She walked around the old, rolled-top trunk. They had already unpacked the clothing she’d inherited in Jemma O’Hurley’s trunk.

“Some of Cord’s mother’s things. We thought there might be something in here more suited to the climate that you might like to wear,” Foster told her.

Celine watched while he knelt before the trunk and opened it. Edward hovered nearby and when Foster lifted the lid, he clasped his hands over his heart and sighed.

“There’s that wonderful sky blue gown she always loved so.” Edward reached out to touch the lightweight gown. “It matched her eyes to perfection.”

Foster and Edward leaned over the trunk, exclaiming in remembrance as they pulled out gown after gown along with matching hats and shoes that gave off the musty scent of time.

“Everything is so beautiful,” Celine said as she ran her fingers over the blue silk dress Foster had just handed her.

“Some of them are a bit old-fashioned, but we’ll air and press the ones you might like to wear,” Foster told her. “I can see your feet are much smaller than Miss Alyce’s were,” he added as he began to reverently repack the shoes in the bottom of the trunk.

Celine held the dress up to her shoulders and swayed from side to side. “It will certainly be much cooler than anything I have with me,” she agreed.

At that moment, Ada stepped into the room. The absent look on her face turned to one of confusion as she stared at Celine and the gown she held up to herself.

“Alyce?” Ada whispered. “What have you done to your hair?”

“No, Aunt Ada, it’s Celine. Cordero’s wife.” Concerned, Celine handed the dress to Foster and stepped toward Ada. The older woman had perched herself on the bed, which was covered in a faded spread of tropical flowers worked in crewel embroidery.

Ada shook her head and smiled. “Of course you are, dear. But for a moment there I thought you were Alyce and that you had done something to change the color of your hair. Although, come to think of it, I’ve never spoken to her in this particular room.”

Celine glanced at Foster and Edward. The taller man appeared merely puzzled, but Edward’s eyes went wide and he pressed his fingertips to his lips. Both men waited expectantly to hear more.

Celine had a niggling feeling that Ada would have an explanation. The logic would be apparent only to herself.

“She always slept in the master suite with Auguste. They were very much in love, you see. What I should have said was that I’ve never heard her spirit speak to me in this room. Of course, I’m not in here very often, as there are so many things to see to in the house.”

Edward stepped just to the right of Foster’s shoulder. They were both looking expectantly to Celine.

“Her spirit?” Celine said.

Ada tried to fluff her hair, which was limp from the humidity. “Alyce’s ghost, I suppose. The slaves call her a
duppie
…”

“Is that the same thing as a
jumbie
?” Celine wanted to know.

“I believe so. Such wonderful words, don’t you think?”

“You’ve spoken to Alyce in this house?”

“Oh, yes, and in the gardens.” Ada looked toward the open doors and the sea beyond. “She loved the gardens so. I’ve tried to keep them up the way she would have liked, but it’s too much for one person and the slaves always seem to be so very busy with the crops and their own gardens that I’m hesitant to ask them for help.”

So, a ghost walked the halls of a house where the mistress of over ten years was afraid to bother the slaves. It was all too curious. Celine walked over to the bed and sat down. Foster and Edward didn’t even pretend to be working as they stood there waiting for the exchange to continue.

“Do you hear her often?” Celine asked, hoping the voice of Alyce Moreau was nothing more than a figment of Ada’s imagination. If the spirits of the dead
could
roam the earth, it might mean that Jean Perot’s—not to mention Captain Dundee’s—might find her here on St. Stephen.

Ada shook her head. A smile twinkled in her eyes. “Only when I need someone to talk to.”

“Does she talk back?” Edward could hardly contain himself. He was practically quaking with fear.

“Of course.”

“Oh, my,” he said.

“Obviously Alyce’s presence means no harm,” Celine said, more for Edward’s reassurance than her own. She had more to fear in her present situation than Alyce Moreau’s ghost.

“That’s exactly what I told the obeah man, but he didn’t care to listen.” Ada’s smile faded. She shook her head.

“The obeah man?” Celine asked.

“An old man the slaves believe is some sort of a magician or sorcerer. He holds a very powerful position among them. I’ve seen him try to cure the sick by waving a bone rattle around and throwing vile-smelling potions into a fire. When I first arrived, I couldn’t get anyone to work in the house. The place had been closed since poor Alyce died and Auguste committed suicide at sea. The slaves were convinced the house was cursed. Finally, I think because he was afraid of a slave insurrection, Bobo convinced me to let the obeah man come in and impart some incantations. But Alyce is still here.” Ada’s beatific smile showed her joy.

Edward whimpered.

“You’ve no need to worry, Lang. Alyce always liked you,” Ada assured him. “Besides, I’m the only one she talks to.”

Celine brushed off her skirt, then pushed her hair back and fanned her hands to cool her face.

“Now, I came up here for a reason. What was it?” Ada muttered to herself, then snapped her fingers. “You don’t intend to sleep in here, do you Celine, dear? If Cordero is anything at all like his father he will be very upset when he finds you have set up camp, so to speak, in this room. Why don’t you have Lang and Arnold take your things into the master suite?”

Celine colored immediately and looked at Foster and Edward.

“I think she’s right. Don’t you?” Foster nudged Edward.

“About the ghost?” Edward still appeared chagrined.

“No, about moving into Cordero’s suite,” Foster explained, a bit impatiently.

“Ah. Yes. Much better idea.” Edward nodded vigorously.

“I’m staying right here in this room,” Celine said in a tone that she hoped sounded convincing. “Cordero will be busy with the duties of running this place and adhering to a schedule. I’m sure he won’t mind in the least if I prefer not to be disturbed.”

Ada stared at her with a look of shock.

“But you’re newly married. Don’t you want to …”