Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (10 page)

"All right. Turn him
around." They tied the rope around his neck and his knees, his arms pulled
back to surround the trunk behind him.

Pine tar, then feathers.

"Leave the feathers
off where there’s red paint." The only other place they left unfeathered
was the soles of his feet.

The four of them stood
back to admire their work. Most of the feathers were white, but there were some
nice reddish-brown ones too. Made a nice effect.

Cabel stepped up to him
and hissed into his ear. "You ever touch another colored woman, even if
it’s just her elbow, I will cut your pecker off and stuff it down your throat.
You’ll wish you’d bleed to death, but I’m gone make sure you don’t. And you can
be sure everybody in the parish gone know there ain’t nothing in your pants no
more."

Valmar’s eyes rolled at Cabel,
then rolled right back into his head.

"Put him back in the
quilt so the feathers don’t rub off against the wagon bed."

They left Alfie to stomp
out the fire and scatter the ashes. By the time they got back to town, it was
maybe an hour before daylight. They tied him upright to the bell post in the
square. "Reckon we better leave the gag in," Valentine said. "No
need to wake folks up before dawn."

"What about them
boots?"

"We ain’t thieves. Leave
’em there."

They slipped out of town
and were half way home by the time the first citizens of Donaldsonville
discovered the monstrosity in the center of town.

Lily enjoyed Rachel’s
company, whether they were working in the garden or the kitchen or sitting on
the back porch watching the fire flies of an evening. In Philadelphia, she’d
never known a Negro personally, but she’d had the same preconceived notions most
people did, she supposed. She hadn’t expected the wisdom and humor of a Rachel
Bickell. And after the years that Frederick had tried to keep her for himself,
after the isolation and loneliness, Lily was so very glad to find a friend in
this kind woman.

With the dawn sky still
rosy, Lily tied an apron over her work dress and headed to the garden to help
Rachel hoe weeds. Here in this rich earth, in this sun, it was a challenge to
keep the weeds from overtaking the beans and corn and squash.

Lily now knew just how
many plantings they could get in a season. Just how many bushels of beans
they’d sold in New Orleans last year, and how many in Donaldsonville. The same
for melons, tomatoes, okra, squash, corn, and even scuppernongs. Uncle Garvey
kept meticulous records, and he set her down in the evenings for tutorials in
running a farm.

She went to bed every
night exhausted and actually slept straight through the night. No waking in the
dark, remembering and regretting. She woke in the morning eager to be up and .
. . just living. Every day presented new challenges like training her body to
endure the rigors of bending and stretching and hefting bushel baskets.

Maddie’s little face had
lost that pinched look that had come on her so gradually the last year that
Lily didn’t know when it had first appeared. Probably when Frederick’s drinking
got so bad and he was as likely to throw things at Lily as talk to her. Now
Maddie was sun-browned and having grand adventures with Dawn.

The Lily who had never
been cowed, never been hit, never been screamed at re-emerged. She laughed and
smiled. She welcomed every sunrise. The fear she’d lived with for years was
just gone.

The guilt that had
threatened to overwhelm her the first few weeks – that was not gone, but it  had
retreated to a background hum. Sometimes she
was so overcome with gratitude she had to hide tears from the rest of the
household. Sometimes she closed her eyes to pray silent thanks to God. And
sometimes she just found Uncle Garvey in the barn or the shed and put her arms
around him.

It wasn’t wrong to just
let herself live. She had not planned that awful moment, she had not meant it
to happen. God would forgive her even if a jury wouldn’t.

Since the day Rachel had
sent her away, Musette had not returned to the house, but Lily went to Toulouse
to sit on the gallery and sip lemonade when it was too hot to work. Nothing was
said about Thomas, not a word. But they had plenty to talk about. Farming,
books, fabrics, New Orleans society. As a Creole belle, Musette remembered how
gay everyone had been before the war. At Mardi Gras, people danced all night
and ate crawfish and étouffée and gumbo and oysters at dawn.

"The papers were
full of talk of war, of course, but that last season, we celebrated as if
nothing in our world would ever change. We ladies had extravagant gowns made of
yards and yards of silk, the gentlemen smoked their cigars and bet on their
favorite race horses. But we knew what was coming."

How easy it must have
been, Lily thought, to forget, for a moment, that all that good living, all
that good fortune, was gained from the misery of black slaves. Did Musette
think of that? Lily thought she did. How could she be in love with Thomas and
not think of that?

Two weeks passed before
Lily saw Alistair again -- she no longer thought of him as Major Whiteaker,
simply Alistair. Of course he stayed away, she told herself. She’d as much as
told him to. She had no business missing him.

She had done the right
thing, telling him she was unavailable. It hurt, though, at the time, and
still. He was a man she could love, and she yearned to love again. But to marry
him, she would have to tell him she had killed, and that she would not do. She could
not bear the look on his face if he knew the worst of her, and she had to think
of Maddie. No one must ever know Frederick did not die in a traffic accident.

And then there he was
Sunday morning at church. She was already seated when she heard his voice
behind her, greeting friends and acquaintances. He appeared at the end of her
pew. She tried to look only marginally glad to see him, but his gaze was quick
and penetrating. She didn’t think many people kept secrets from Alistair
Whiteaker.

"Miss Maddie, I see
you have space for one more person in your row. May I sit with you?"

"How do you do, Major
Whiteaker," Maddie said, scooting closer to Lily to make room for him. "Do
you see?" she whispered. "I have my best shoes on. I polished them
myself."

"Did you indeed?"
he said as he settled and propped his hat on his knee. He leaned over and spoke
to her ear as if they were conspirators. "They may be the shiniest shoes
in the whole church. Do you think people can see them from the back pews?"

Maddie laughed. "Oh,
silly."

They hushed as the sermon
began. Lily had never seen him in church. Was he not Catholic like most
Louisianans? But his was an English name, not French Creole. And might a
Catholic not come to a Protestant church if he wished? Had he come to see her? Of
course not. The parish was full of women who would welcome his attentions, and
she had not. Then why was he here? She argued with herself long enough that she
had no idea what Reverend Tyrone droned on about.

Maddie had grown very
still sitting between her and Alistair. In fact, she was asleep, cuddled
against Alistair’s side, his arm around her.

He looked up and met her
gaze. The small smile and the tender look in his eyes near broke her heart.

Alistair knew Garvey and
his family would be at the Baptist church. Chamard had let that slip, inadvertently
of course. Alistair smiled grimly. His friends had decided he needed a wife,
and they’d even chosen her for him. He glanced at Lily sitting there, her
damned bonnet obscuring her profile. They’d chosen right, this time.

She’d looked him full in the
face for an instant before she adopted an expression of only mild friendly
interest when he appeared at the end of her pew. But in that instant, the look
in her eyes had fed every one of his hopes. And now little Maddie had trusted
him with her sleepy self.

He was afflicted with
moist eyes this morning. Dust, or pollen, probably. He cleared his throat and
tried to listen to Reverend Tyrone. Ah, now he remembered why he hadn’t been to
church for months. And months and months. If Alistair didn’t watch himself,
he’d be snoring next to Maddie.

At the final "amen,"
Lily stroked Maddie’s arm. "Wake up, sweetheart."

On a great sigh, Maddie
pulled herself upright and looked around. "Did I miss it again?"

"What’s that,
Maddie?" Alistair said.

"The angels singing.
Uncle Garvey said if I could stay awake this time I’d hear angels singing."

Alistair glanced at Garvey
who raised his eyes to the ceiling in a very poor semblance of innocence.
Lily’s mouth was twisted in a vain attempt not to laugh.

"You can ask your Uncle
Garvey all about it on the way home."

They collected Rachel and
Peep and Thomas from the back of the church as they exited. Alistair was not
surprised to see Fanny was with them. She had no family, and Rachel seemed to
have decided that she was the one for her son. Thomas looked pretty pleased
himself. Fanny’s head was bent to the side, Thomas whispering in her ear. She
smiled and he smiled.

Sometimes things did work
out so that everybody was happy. Sometimes Cupid got it right without putting
two people through torment before letting them find each other.

In the churchyard,
everyone lingered to talk to their neighbors, squinting against the bright sun.
P. G. got up and stretched before he wandered over to stand with his master.

Alistair stood next to Lily
wondering what to say. He couldn’t see anything but her chin from this angle.
She was too short. Or he was too tall. Anyway, the brim of her bonnet hid her
face again.

Lily spoke first, thank
heavens. "We haven’t seen you here before. Is this not your church?"

He gave her a rueful
smile. "It is. But, you know . . . " What did she know? What was he
going to say? She was looking right at him, waiting for him to finish his
sentence. "Sundays are a good day for sleeping in."

She raised her eyebrows
at him. "You, Alistair? I’d thought you filled every minute of every day
building or planting or . . . " She waved her hand vaguely.

That made him feel
better. She didn’t know what to say either. Like a couple of kids.

Musette
emerged from the sweltering church into the bright sun and pulled the lace
mantilla from her head. She dabbed at her face with her handkerchief, her hair
curling in unlady-like tendrils against her sweaty neck.

The church yard was full
of her fellow Catholics, French Creoles, Cajuns, a few Irish families, and a
number of German families who had been in these parts as long as her own. She
visited with people she’d known all her life, nodded at others too far away to
chat with, and strolled on toward the shade where Thibault had settled and
snoozed during mass. She knew everyone here, yet she felt herself a stranger.
Maybe it was just that she missed her mother and Ariane. She was unaccustomed
to being alone so much.

It wasn’t that, though.
She was lonely all the way to the bone. If her mother and sister were here,
she’d still feel apart, still feel adrift.

Twenty-two. A spinster.
She only wanted what other women wanted. A husband, a family of her own. But
she wanted it with Thomas Bickell. What a fool she was. Sometimes she indulged in
the fantasy that once Thomas had achieved suffrage for black men, he would be
ready to move on. They could live in New York. He could practice law. They
would read books together, talk to new friends about ideas and plans, make love
every night. They’d be happy.

"The flowers were
lovely, Miss DeBlieux," the priest said, intercepting her. "Thank you
again."

She supposed Father
Antoine was not a bad looking man if you could overlook his yellow teeth. But
she found his sermons condescending and trite, and worse, he was as bigoted as
any man she’d ever known. "You’re very welcome, Father. Have you
reconsidered your thoughts on supporting Thomas Bickell as a delegate to the
convention? He is going to be a strong leader in this parish."

Father Antoine’s smile was
as real as crocodile tears. "I’ve been so busy, you see. Three funerals
since I spoke with you. And two weddings. And a christening."

"Yes, you do have a
great many of us relying on you, Father. Which is why people listen to you.
They know your leadership and they know you as a wise man of discernment."

Father Antoine wagged a
finger in her face. She could have snapped her jaws and bitten it off. The man
was a weasel, always was and always would be. But he was the most important
priest in the parish.

"Now, now, Miss
DeBlieux. You needn’t try to flatter me." He gave her another of his
crocodile smiles. Odious man. "I’ll make up my mind in my own good time."

"Of course, Father,"
Musette said, trying to look chastened. She doubted it was convincing. "I
know you see everyone in the parish as God’s children and want what’s best for
everyone, white and black. We need fair-minded men like you in such tense
times."

"You’re doing it
again, Miss DeBlieux." No crocodile smile this time. No smile at all.

With that, he sailed off,
his black cassock swinging round his legs. She hoped his starched collar rubbed
his neck raw, she hoped his wool robe would be so drenched with sweat that his
stink would radiate for miles.

The problem was, she
didn’t have the gift of charm. She should have left it to Mr. Chamard to speak
with Father Antoine. He could spend five minutes with a man, hand him a cigar,
put an arm around his shoulders, and the man would be his. Took only two
minutes with women, and that without the cigar.

She supposed she should
have left it to Thomas himself. Had he spoken with Father Antoine yet? Would he
think it worth his time? How likely was it a Catholic priest, whose most
important congregants were white planters, would favor a black delegate?

Feeling useless and
frustrated, Musette climbed into the carriage by herself.

She really should just
hush. Everyone knew her sister had married a mixed race man. And that man’s
white half-brother had been a shepherd in the Underground Railroad, an
institution her white neighbors were only just learning about, greeting the
news with rage and indignation.

She had no credibility. "Of
course she’d side with the Negroes," she supposed they would whisper. She
had no trouble imagining a sneer on their faces when they said it.

She gently touched
Thibault’s shoulder. "Wake up, Uncle. Time to go home."

He startled and shook his
head. "I think I must have dozed off."

"Maybe you did. You
ready to go home?"

"Let’s do that,"
he said.

Thibault flicked the
reins and got the horse moving. Musette opened her parasol as the carriage made
a little breeze trotting down the river road.

Wild honeysuckle grew
alongside the road to sweeten the air. Musette inhaled and willed herself to
lighten her mood. She was prone to feeling sorry for herself, that’s all. She
was a realist, wasn’t she? After four years of war, how could there be any
idealists left in the South? Any white ones, anyway.

She forced herself to pay
attention to the fields they passed, how far along the cane was growing, was it
higher than her own, thicker, greener? None of the houses on the river road
shone in their former splendor. They all needed paint, some of them needed
windowpanes replaced. Where raw wood showed, she knew the owners had had some
capital left to repair the damage the Yankees had done.