Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (14 page)

She touched her fingers
to her nose. "Good morning."

"Did I plow into
your nose?" Should he move her fingers to have a look? No. He really
needed to keep the touching to a minimum.

"Quite all right,"
she said. "I wasn’t paying attention."

Carrie Ann was right
behind her. He knew Carrie Ann from the Toulouse quarters when they were
children. She was one of those who stayed on the place when the war was over,
working for wages now. She had five packages clutched to her chest, one of them
threatening to slip out from under her littlest finger, another tipping
precariously under her thumb.

Thomas stepped quickly to
gather the two about to fall.

"Thank you, Thomas,"
Carrie Ann said. "I was about to lose that one."

And there was Musette
with her lacy bag and her parasol, unencumbered by brown paper parcels. Well,
it was going to take time for people to adjust. He really did not want to
criticize Musette even to himself after all she had done for black people. For
him.

He smiled. "I’ve got
it." He turned back to Musette. "Are you on the way to your carriage?"

"Yes, I’ve got
everything I needed."

And now Thomas had a
choice. If he offered to carry the packages and escort her to the stables, he
could walk beside her, like a white man would, or he could trail along behind
her with Carrie Ann like a two-legged beast of burden. Neither option was
comfortable. Walking beside her would be noticed, of course. She would become a
subject of gossip and it would not be kind. But his pride had legs of its own.
He would not be her servant, however much she had done for him.

Carrie Ann solved his
dilemma. "I’ve got them sorted out now, Thomas. Let me have them."
She took the two packages from him and held them securely with the others.

"Carrie Ann, you may
go ahead to the carriage," Musette said.

This was not a good idea,
for the two of them to chat on the sidewalk where anybody could see them.
Musette ought to know better than to show a black man any interest in town. He
was not some gray-haired uncle in slave’s clothing, dipping his head, saying
Yesum, Yesum. Not good for her, and dangerous for him. He should tip his hat,
bid her good day, and go on to Tafferty’s.

"How are you,
Thomas?"

He was rather startled.
She had never before spoken to him with such cold formality. "Very well,
thank you, Miss Musette. And you?"

She seemed uneasy,
twirling her closed parasol, looking over his shoulder. He was sorry for it. He
knew she was attracted to him. And what man would not be attracted to Musette
DeBlieux? But he was not in love with her. Sometimes, at odd awkward moments,
he thought she had been foolish enough to fall in love with him. Other times he
couldn’t credit such a foolish thing.

But she was lonely in
that big house, her mother and sisters away.

He couldn’t think of a
thing to say. He put his hands behind his back, waiting. Finally, he said, "Not
too hot today, for July."

"I saw you Sunday,
when church let out. I was passing by on the road."

"Did you? You didn’t
want to stop and visit? Mrs. Palmer and Major Whiteaker were there, and of
course Mr. Bickell."

"You’ve developed a
friendship with that teacher. Fanny, is that her name?"

"Fanny Brown."

Her eyes seemed to glance
at him and then away. She still had not really looked at him. She opened her
mouth, then closed it. Finally, she met his eyes. "Are you going to marry
her?"

"Yes. In the fall.
After the elections."

For a moment, her face
was stiff and her eyes unreadable. Suddenly, as if the sun had come from behind
the clouds, her face brightened, her eyes shone, and she gave him an ear-to-ear
smile. "Congratulations. What wonderful news."

"Thank you, Miss
Musette. Thank you very much." That smile wouldn’t have deceived a child.
She was jealous? Hurt?

"Excuse me. I need
to get home." And with that, she opened her parasol and strode off.

He watched her cross the
unpaved street, striding so hard little puffs of dust shot out from behind her
feet.

Was this his fault? What
should he have done differently these past months? He walked on toward
Tafferty’s, thinking of all the time they’d spent together. Not just these past
months – off and on for several years now. From his first lessons in reading to
the days when they talked about Thomas Paine and John Locke and John Adams,
then Wordsworth and Whitman. He had let his guard down, had forgotten to be the
subservient black man and had just been . . . himself. And he guessed that was
what had happened to Musette, too. She had forgotten to play her role as
gracious white woman bestowing the privilege of her attention on a subservient.
She’d just been a young woman with a man she could talk to.

He had heard his mother
through his bedroom door that day she’d hissed at Musette. "You could get
my boy killed," she’d said. It was still true. He didn’t want to hurt her,
but he’d have to stay away from her.

At Tafferty’s he went
inside to see if his boots were ready. He wished he’d told her about Annie and
Alfie, about the men terrorizing his family that morning. Living so close, she
needed to look out for trouble.

Musette marched on to the
stables. What did she care if Thomas married that woman? She wasn’t going to
marry him herself. That would be ridiculous – she was rich, she was white, and
he was only – she pressed her hand against her mouth. She was a fool. She hoped
he married his little school teacher right away, that they had a baby together
right away. Then she could put him out of her mind.

Two men stepped in front
of her. She stopped so suddenly her hoop skirt swayed forward and back. They
smelled foul and they leered at her. She moved to step off the plank sidewalk
to get around them.

"Hold on there."
A tall beanpole of a man held his hand up to stop her. The other man, with greasy
yellow hair and bad teeth, side-stepped to keep her on the sidewalk.

"Stand aside, sir,"
she told the yellow-haired man. She had donned her cloak of superiority. She
would not be afraid of this riff raff.

"Oh, look, Fisher,
she’s gone all hoity-toity on us."

"Don’t see what she
got to be hoity-toity about, a nigger-loving bitch like her. Not when she lie
down with a black nigger."

Musette gasped.

"You will get out of
my way at once," she said. She held her parasol up in warning.

The one called Fisher
giggled at her. "Look at that. She gone whip us with that frilly little
thing." He grabbed it right out of her hand.

The blond man ogled her. "We
seen you with that nigger boy, smiling big, pushing your tits out – "

Musette slapped him hard
as she could.

Fisher grabbed her arm
and pulled it up behind her. That fine cloak of superiority slid right off her
shoulders. Musette’s heart pounded against her ribs and she cried out as he
wrenched her arm further up her back.

"Hey hey hey!"

An Army officer rushed
across the street. "Get your hands off that woman!"

Musette’s assailants fled,
the man Fisher throwing a last leer over his shoulder.

"Miss? Are you hurt?"

She was too stunned to
object when the officer took hold of her arm and ran his hand from shoulder to
wrist.

"Nothing broken,
thank goodness," he said. But he didn’t release her.

Musette stepped back,
afraid she was going to be sick.

"Do you know who
those men were? I could call out a squad and probably find them within the hour."

She shook her head. "I
don’t know them."

"Miss?" he
said, bending his head as if he hadn’t heard her.

Musette took in a breath.
"I don’t know them."

"Why did they accost
you?"

"I have no idea . .
. Lieutenant," she said, seeing the insignia on his collar.

"You’re quite
shaken, aren’t you? Let me escort you to – where shall I take you?"

"That’s not
necessary. I’m only going around the corner to the livery."

"You are in town
alone?"

"Oh, no. Of course
not. My maid had packages to carry and went ahead to the livery stable."

The lieutenant placed her
hand on his forearm with a rather direct informality. "This way, I believe,"
he said.

Amid the cauldron of
shame and fear and anger, she was embarrassed this Union officer had witnessed
her humiliation. But she could breathe more easily now.

"I should introduce
myself," he said. "I’m Colin McKee, from Boston, First Lieutenant, U.
S. Army, though that part you deduced on your own." He dipped his head in
recognition that this was an occasion for a bow, however abbreviated. But the
Yankees were notorious for their lack of propriety.

"How do you do?"

When she said nothing
else, he said, "May I ask for your name?"

"Why?" she
said, startled. Was he going to write a formal accounting of the incident?

He blinked at her. "Merely
getting acquainted, Miss . . . "

"Oh, of course. Musette DeBlieux."

"How do you do, Miss
DeBlieux."

After a few more awkward
steps, she said, "I know a Finnian McKee from Boston."

The Lieutenant stopped
right in the middle of the boardwalk. "Do you indeed?" he said with a
big smile. "Finnian McKee, late of Boston, now a citizen of New Orleans,
is my cousin and best friend in the world."

Now Musette had the wits
to notice, she could see a strong resemblance. Dark hair, a dark moustache much
like Finn’s, tall and well-made. "This is quite a coincidence. Finn is
married to my cousin Nicolette."

"Yes! I’ve just come
back from New Orleans and stayed with them for the two days my business
required."

Nicolette was well into
her pregnancy and no doubt was suffering with the heat, but how did one ask a
gentleman about a pregnant woman? Well, one didn’t, that’s all. "They are
both well?" That should be acceptable.

"Quite, though of
course Nicolette suffers from the heat in her condition."

Musette managed to retain
a blank face in spite of the man’s blunt impropriety.

"Here we are,"
she said. They were at the livery where Carrie Ann waited with the carriage.

"May I – "

"Thank you,
Lieutenant. Let it never be said that Southern gentleman have the only claim to
gallantry. Good day to you. I’m most obliged."

She left him quickly and
hurried into the shady interior of the livery stable. He had been about to ask
if he could call on her, and she didn’t want to see him again, ever.

Alistair came to supper on
Wednesday. Dinner on Sunday. Supper again on Tuesday. Lily suspected Uncle
Garvey, with Rachel’s connivance, was matchmaking. And on her part, every time
she saw him, she came that much closer to forgetting why she could not have
him.

She was tormented
remembering his kisses in the barn, but Alistair himself showed no sign he ever
thought of it. Had it meant so little to him, kisses that had turned her inside
out, that kept her awake -- could he just dismiss it from his mind? Had he
always visited Uncle Garvey so often and now she was simply
also there?

She was a young woman who
had not been loved in a long time. But to allow him any closer, she would have
to tell him what she’d done. And that she could not do. If anyone ever knew,
ever found her or recognized her, they would take Maddie away. Besides, she did
not want to see the look on his face when he realized what she was.

Running this farm,
raising Maddie. That would be enough. She would be happy here, and oh so
grateful to Uncle Garvey. She would simply have to accept that Alistair would
be part of their lives – as a friend and a neighbor, nothing more.

Sunday, the family was
arranged in their pew, Uncle Garvey was nearest the wall, then Maddie, then
Lily. Alistair slipped into the pew just as Reverend Tyrone began the service.
When Maddie peered around her, Lily placed her hand on her knee to settle her,
but Maddie paid her no mind. She quietly, determinedly crawled over her and
wedged herself next to Alistair.

The smile that lit his
face put the sun to shame.

This would not do. Maddie
was becoming far too attached to him. She was going to have to explain to Uncle
Garvey that she didn’t want him encouraging Alistair to visit. And she would
have to tell Alistair not to come to church, not to come to dinner or supper,
not to come at all.

That’s what she had to
do.

He came home with them
for dinner. Afterwards, he and Lily and Uncle Garvey sat in the sitting room,
the talk ranging from farm matters to the coming convention to gossip about Bob
Andry’s oldest boy heading to Brazil to study trees.

After an hour, Alistair
raised himself out of the deep green chair. "I’d better get on."

Good, she thought. She
couldn’t relax with him sitting there, the light from the window catching the
gold in his hair, his blue eyes finding hers much too often. And when he
laughed in that rich baritone, she just wanted to cry.

She followed him into the
hallway to tell him not to come back.

"Lily," he said
as she handed him his hat.

She took a breath,
determined. "We must go back to Mrs. Palmer and Major Whiteaker."

"Must we?" he
said softly.

"And you shouldn’t
come here anymore."

Her eyes were back on his
neckcloth. She heard him take in a breath and let it out.

"Why is that, Mrs.
Palmer?"

She had to swallow before
she could speak. And she still couldn’t look at him. "You know why."

"I haven’t pressed
you, Lily. And I won’t."

She covered her mouth
with her fingers. If she cried now, she would despise herself for evermore.

He took her other hand. "Clearly
there is something I don’t know, Lily, something I don’t understand. Maybe
someday, you’ll trust me enough to tell me. All I want now is your friendship."
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I won’t press. I promise. Just don’t
shut me out."

He dipped his head to
make her look at him. He had the dearest soft smile and his eyes were kind and
very blue.

"Mrs. Palmer?"

She wanted him to wrap
his arms around her. She wanted to pull his head down so she could kiss him.
She was about to cry.

She turned on her heel
and fled.

Upstairs, she flung
herself on her bed and sobbed like an adolescent girl who’s been jilted by her
first love.

What a fool she was. When
she’d run from Frederick lying on the floor, she’d been terrified. Then they
didn’t come looking for her, didn’t find her. Even with the guilt, she’d been
elated. A new life ahead of her, a place to call home. Peace.

And now this. She surely
had been more miserable the last years of her marriage, but it had been a
constant, nearly comfortable kind of misery with the occasional moments of
violence to remind her it could indeed get worse. She had endured, she had kept
trying, until the end when she’d decided to take Maddie and leave him.

This was a different kind
of misery. She didn’t know how it could hurt worse, but it did.

The bedroom door opened
and Uncle Garvey stepped in without knocking. Horrified he should find her like
this, she wiped at her face and sat up. "I just have a headache, Uncle
Garvey. You don’t have to worry."

"Not dying, huh?"
he said. Sitting next to her on the bed, the mattress tilting her toward him, he
opened up his arm and pulled her in to his shoulder.

"Sugar, Lena and I
didn’t raise any daughters, but I think I know what a headache sounds like.
You’re crying like you lost the love of your life, and far as I can tell, he
keeps coming around here like he’s just waiting for the littlest sign from you."

"I can’t have him,
Uncle Garvey, I just can’t."

He patted her arm. He
gave her a squeeze. "You’re going to tell me it’s none of my business, but
Lily, I’m going to ask anyway. Is your husband dead or not?"

She closed her eyes and
leaned against her uncle. "He is, Uncle Garvey. He’s dead."

"Then what, Lily?
Alistair looks at you like you’re made of sunshine and honey, and you look at
him like he’s made out of, what, moonbeams?"

"I can’t marry
again, Uncle Garvey. Please, don’t ask me anymore."

He kissed the top of her head.
"All right, honey."

She washed her face and
went downstairs. Maddie and Dawn were still having a tea party with their dolls
on the back porch. To tempt their wooden-headed guests, Rachel had cut slices
of cake into tiny little squares.

Lily feared Rachel would
notice her reddened eyes, so she kept her head down while she tied her apron
on.

"Miss Lily,"
she said. "I got a big slice of coconut cake for Miss Musette, you want to
take it to her. These gals gone be busy with their dolls for a while yet."

She wondered if Uncle
Garvey had said something to her, or maybe Rachel saw on her own how raw Lily
was. Or maybe Rachel was just offering a piece of cake to Musette. She might
not want Musette to have anything to do with her son, but Rachel had known her since
she was a girl. She wouldn’t forget that.

"You go on. These
gals get restless, I’ll set them to cutting up cucumbers for pickles."

Lily walked up behind
Rachel standing at the dry sink and put her arms around her. She gave her a
quick hug and went for her bonnet.

In the hallway, Lily eyed
that bonnet resting on its peg. She’d left off wearing it most of the time.
What did it matter if her face turned brown as a walnut? She was free to do as
she chose, wasn’t she? But it was what women were supposed to do, wear bonnets,
worry about their complexions. She snagged it off its peg and tied it on. She’d
go see Musette and they could not talk about Thomas and not talk about
Alistair. They’d have a fine visit. As long as they didn’t talk about anything
important.