Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (24 page)

She straightened up,
leaned her broom against the dresser, and crossed her own arms, her chin jutted
out.

"If I lost a leg. Or
an arm. Or a leg and an arm, you wouldn’t love me anymore?"

She was furious with him,
her eyes full of fire. "Losing a limb is not the same thing as being
raped, and you know it."

"All right then.
What if I were the one who got raped. That happens. Men get raped, too."

She blinked. "What?"

"You didn’t know
that?"

"That’s absurd.
There’s no way – " She gestured vaguely at her skirts.

"Think about it. Or
don’t think about it. It can happen. Say it happened to me. I’d be every bit as
terrorized as you have been. I’d be ‘despoiled,’ as you put it. And, by your
thinking, I would therefore be unlovable forever more. Is that correct?"

She threw her hands up. "Just
like you to turn this into an analytical discussion of logic. Logic has nothing
to do with it – I’m talking about how I
feel
, Thomas!"

"Then tell me how
you feel."

"Dirty, Thomas. I
feel dirty. And useless. And ugly. And, and afraid – " She slapped her
hands over her face, and gasped.

Carefully, gently, Thomas
wrapped his arms around her and let her cry. Her whole body shook and it felt
like his heart was being torn out. Those men – if he found them, he would make
them suffer before he killed them. He tightened his arms around her and
swallowed at the enormity of what he would do – it was not an idle boast to make
himself feel better. He talked to people all day long. Someone would see Valmar
and his pals. And if Thomas found them before the sheriff did . . .

He kissed Fanny’s hair
and rubbed her back. When she calmed and put her arms around his waist, he
whispered in her ear. "You are beautiful. Desirable. Smart. Useful. And I
love you."

"How can you,
Thomas?"

"I don’t know. You
are also ornery and stubborn."

"People will know.
They’ll look at you and think, there’s that man whose wife was – " She
gulped air instead of saying it.

"They’ll say there’s
the man who married that brave woman who was attacked, got up, and went back to
work."

"Is that what I
should do, go back to work?"

"I think so."

"Thomas. If there’s
a baby, I don’t expect you to -- "

"Hush." He
kissed her, just the merest brush of his lips over hers. "If there’s a
baby, we’ll take care of it together. We’ll make that baby ours, Fanny, yours
and mine, because we’ll be the ones who’ll wipe his snotty nose and give him a
puppy and make him eat his turnips."

"I don’t deserve
you," she said into his chest.

"Well, who does? But
I’ll settle for you."

"Thomas!" Cabel
hollered from downstairs. "We got to get going."

"All right," he
called.

He gently touched his
forehead to hers. "You know what this means, Fanny Brown?"

"What?"

"Next time I come, I
get a smile. And I’m going to want a hug."

"A smile and a hug.
Yes, sir."

"Will you kiss me
goodbye? Just a peck if that’s all you feel like."

She held his eyes as she
dropped her arms from his waist. "You are a kind man, Thomas Bickell."
She put her hands on his shoulders for balance, stretched up, and kissed first
one cheek and then the other. "Go on, now. You got to see Mr. W."

He touched her cheek. "I’ll
try to come by Friday."

He clattered down the
stairs and blew into the kitchen full of energy. "Let’s go."

His mama handed him a
slab of pound cake to take with him and waved the three of them off.

Alistair took the steam
boat to Baton Rouge and called on his old commander, Colonel Beauchamp. The
colonel had interrupted his career on the bench to become a Confederate
officer, and was now back in his judicial robes. They had noon dinner at
Beauchamp’s home on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi.

"Finest damned
action I ever saw," Beauchamp reminded Alistair. They’d had this
conversation before, and it always embarrassed him.

"Plenty of scenes
just like it on every battlefield, Colonel."

"You always say
that, but I must disagree."

And they ever would
disagree. With an injured corporal over his shoulder, Alistair had rallied a
platoon of panicked soldiers and led a counterattack that routed the Union
assault. The colonel had commended him for bravery and insisted on presenting
him with a letter extolling his actions, but Alistair still maintained that
there was no dearth of courage on any field of battle, men of all colors and
creeds charging into a barrage, the odds of their survival terrifying. And yet
they did it, battle after battle. This was why Jefferson Davis had decided the
Confederacy would not award medals – they were all heroes.

Over coffee, Alistair
explained Lily Palmer’s dilemma. And Alistair’s solution. "Would formal,
signed documents be enough for a divorce and for waiver of custody rights
without the man appearing in court?"

"You want the man
gone as soon as you get him to sign the papers, is that right?"

"Exactly."

The judge had to think
about that for a while. "And your intentions after Mrs. Palmer has her
divorce?"

"I imagine Mrs.
Palmer will need some time to adjust to having the freedom to choose her own
life."

"And you hope she’ll
choose to live it with you."

"Yes, sir, I do."

Beauchamp played with his
spoon, thinking. "This money you’ve offered Palmer. It’s a bribe, no
getting around it."

"Yes, it is."

"Rather distasteful,
that."

"Yes."

Beauchamp lit a cigar,
puffed to get it drawing, and then he asked, "How much you offering him?"

"Five thousand
dollars."

The judge’s brows shot up
his forehead. "You may be the only man in Louisiana who can come up with
that kind of money."

"I sold my interest
in the foundry in New Orleans. Marcel Chamard’s. You know him."

"Of course I do.
Fine boy, Chamard was, but he had a brother, didn’t he, who – well, I’m not one
to call him a traitor – let’s just say he followed his conscience north."

"Yes. Yves, you
mean."

"Well, the Chamards
are neither here nor there." The judge blew a smoke ring, thinking. "That’s
a hell of  a lot of money, Major."

"Yes, sir. I mean
for it to be too much to walk away from."

"Does Mrs. Palmer
know about the money?"

"She knows."

Beauchamp gave Alistair a
shrewd look. "Did she ask you to do this?"

Alistair raised his chin.
"No. She did not."

Beauchamp held a hand up.
"All right. Don’t get hot under the collar. I just want to know what I’m
dealing with here."

The maid refilled their
coffee cups and glided back out of the dining room.

"You have any proof
the man was abusive?"

"There are scars, I
understand. And neither his wife nor his daughter were glad to see him when he
showed up."

"It speaks well of
her that she discouraged you, a rich man, even when she thought she was
widowed."

"She’s a fine
person, Colonel."

Beauchamp looked at him
over his coffee cup. "What did you ever do with that fancy letter you
earned, Alistair?"

"It’s in a drawer
somewhere."

"There are men who would
have it framed, under glass, and proudly displayed on their parlor wall."

"I suppose."

Beauchamp rose and stood
at the French doors looking out over his lawn, the Mississippi rolling along
beyond that.

Maybe he should have
approached someone else, Alistair thought. Someone who would be interested in
an envelope full of cash. He understood the colonel’s colleague, Judge Spooner,
was not above a little favoritism in return for remuneration. But he wanted
Beauchamp’s name on the documents, a name that everyone would accept as
representing a fair judgement.

"It’s irregular,
what you ask."

"I understand that,
sir."

"But not illegal."

Alistair drew in a
breath, his chest loosening.

"Entertain yourself
this afternoon. You can stay here and read if you like. Come by my chambers at
six o’clock. The clerk will have the documents you need waiting for you."

Alistair stood and
straightened his coat. "Colonel." He had to swallow before he could
go on. "Thank you, sir."

Two days later, Alistair
stood at the open doorway into the River Queen Saloon and waited for his eyes
to adjust. Then he stepped over to the bar and leaned his elbow against it
while he scanned the place.

There he was at the far
poker table, a haze of cigar smoke hovering overhead, a brunette in a red satin
dress leaning into his shoulder.

Alistair wondered what
kind of poker player Frederick Palmer was. He got himself a whiskey and
threaded his way through the tables.

"Mind if I sit in?"
he said, gesturing to the empty chair at Palmer’s table. He knew each of these
men. They wouldn’t turn him away.

Palmer scowled, but Ed
Young sitting to his left smiled warmly. "Major. How you doing, friend?"

"I’m well, Ed. How’s
that leg of yours?"

"Long as it’s not
raining and not cold, I’m good. Yankees can’t shoot straight, that’s the truth,
or I’d be clomping around on a crutch instead of walking."

"Glad to hear it."
Alistair sat. "Good evening, Lawrence. What’s the game?"

He took in the piles of
chips at each man’s place. Palmer had been winning – his stacks were the
biggest on the table. So the man knew his cards.

"What are you doing
here?" Palmer said.

Alistair put on a
surprised air. "Looking for a game to while away an afternoon, same as
you."

Palmer shrugged Juliana
off him. Alistair had seen the girl around. Very pretty with her black hair and
dark eyes and skin just a shade darker than, say, an English brunette’s would
be. He wondered if the bigoted Mr. Palmer realized his gal was probably an
octoroon, white enough to pass the inspection of a man from Pennsylvania.

"Juliana deals,"
Palmer declared.

Ed and Lawrence said
sure, they were happy with Juliana.

She moved her chair away
from Palmer and shuffled the cards with finesse.

"Five card draw?"
she asked.

"Fine with me,"
Alistair said.

She looked pointedly at
Palmer.

"Just deal," he
said.

"Ten dollar ante,
gentlemen."

Alistair fished out his
purse and added his ante to the pile. A fairly serious game if they were
starting out with a $50 pot.

As Juliana dealt,
Alistair added up the value of the chips at Palmer’s elbow. About three hundred
dollars. The man had been playing very well indeed.

Palmer’s body vibrated
just the littlest bit. Alistair realized the man was pumping his knee under the
table. Not the behavior of a man who had amassed all those chips. Alistair
smiled to himself. He was making the man nervous.

Juliana gave Palmer a
quelling look and he stilled.

Alistair took two cards
on the draw. Palmer took one.

Juliana said, "Gentlemen,
show your cards."

Palmer had a full house,
sevens and threes. Alistair had four sixes, better than anyone else at the
table. The pot went to Alistair.

Juliana dealt and they
began a new round. Alistair had played poker of all sorts every day for nearly
a year when he was a prisoner of war. The cards were so worn they were limp by
the time the war was over, and by then, Alistair had learned a thing or two. He
watched Palmer without ever directly gazing at him.

Juliana had a hold over
him. Palmer had snapped at her when they began the play, but he also glanced at
her at every point he had to make a decision. Take a card or don’t? As far as
Alistair could tell, Juliana never gave him a sign. She acted the professional
here, but Palmer feared her displeasure.

He supposed it made
sense, a bully being attracted by a stronger personality. And Alistair had no
doubt Juliana, sitting there regally in her tawdry satin and lace, was a
determined woman.

Palmer had not been home in
nearly two weeks, yet he looked fresh. New shirt, shaved and barbered. Alistair
could almost feel sorry for him, afraid to go home and face Lily. Maybe afraid
to face his own sorry self.

Alistair stretched his
legs out under the table. Palmer was here with Juliana, not home with Lily and
Maddie. Palmer just needed a nudge, and he’d take Juliana.

"Ed," Alistair
said, "how’s that boy of yours? Still out in California?"

"San Francisco,"
Hank said, sipping his whiskey. "Hear him tell it, the streets are paved
with gold and silver."

Alistair didn’t miss the
look that passed between Palmer and Juliana. Bless you, Ed.

"Anywhere out west
got to be better than here," Lawrence Mayfield said. "Lawrence
Junior, he’s out in Texas now. Got him a little spread near Fort Worth, raising
cattle."

Ed won that hand, Lawrence
the next. Then Alistair took a pot, and Ed again. Palmer’s pile of chips was
dwindling, his knee pumping under the table again. Juliana’s mouth was a grim
line.

If Palmer had chosen to
show his cards each of those times he lost, Alistair would have a better idea
of how reckless or conservative a player he was, but he was not required to
show a losing hand.

"Will you take
another card, Mr. Mayfield?" Juliana asked.

"I’m good."

"Mr. Young?"

"Two."

"Major Whiteaker?"

"I’ll take one,
thank you."

"And you, Mr.
Palmer?"

There was that nervous
glance at Juliana again. It was overwarm in here, of course, but Palmer was the
only one with sweat popping out on his brow.

"Three."

She gave them a moment,
then called for their tallies.

"I’m busted," Ed
said, displaying his hand. "That queen I was after chose to favor one of
you gentlemen."

Lawrence Mayfield slapped
his down face up and smiled. A full house, three eights, two sevens.

Alistair laid his down,
three jacks, two tens, a full house to beat Mayfield’s. The pot was his, unless
Palmer could beat him.

Palmer slapped his hand
down in disgust, cards face down.

Alistair had watched
Juliana’s hands since she’d shown off her dexterity shuffling the cards. If she
were a man and got caught cheating, somebody would likely shoot her. Might not
want to shoot a pretty woman, but it wouldn’t go well for her either. She
certainly had not fed Palmer any winning hands. As far as he could tell, she
was an honest dealer.

But not a disinterested
one.

"I believe it’s time
for a break, gentlemen. Shall we come back to the table in ten minutes?"

"Certainly, my dear,"
Ed said.

They stood, stretching
their limbs. Lawrence and Ed involved themselves in the usual complaints of
planters these days. The workers wanted too much, they didn’t understand the
basic economics of the plantation system, they thought they could get something
for nothing now they were freedmen.

"They got themselves
all riled up with this voting business. Got a political club they think I don’t
know about." Lawrence shook his head. "Meet late at night, talk about
voting and that nonsense. Just keeps them confused. Politics is white men’s
business, I told them, the business of Negroes is to go into the fields and
work."

Alistair watched Palmer
over by the staircase with Juliana. They were standing very close, Palmer’s
head down as Juliana spoke. She wasn’t whispering endearments in his ear, not
with that look on her face. Alistair hoped she was telling him how little use
she had for a man with no money.

"Course they don’t
listen to me when they’ve been taken care of their whole lives," Lawrence
said.

Alistair hardly listened.
He had heard it all before.

He supposed it was to
Palmer’s credit that he couldn’t bring himself to accept the bribe. Awful
thing, to take money to leave his wife and child. But losing that stack of chips,
maybe losing Juliana – that might be enough to overcome his reluctance. Lily
wasn’t taking him back, she’d made that clear. He ought to take the stake and
Juliana and be gone.

Alistair touched his
breast pocket, the fabric stretched over the documents and an envelope
containing $5,000.

Juliana seemed to have
changed tactics. Through with her scold, she tenderly lifted Palmer’s chin with
her forefinger. He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers.

Well then.

Juliana sashayed her way
back to the table, Palmer trailing behind her.

"Gentlemen?"
she said.

They took their places.
Juliana dealt.

Palmer won the first hand
with four jacks. He flashed a grin and raked the chips in.

Ed won, then Lawrence.
Palmer again. Then Alistair. Slowly, Palmer’s chips dwindled. His knee was
pumping, and Juliana’s face was tight. At some point she had quietly shifted
her chair away from him.

Palmer’s face shone with
perspiration. He licked his lips. As often happened with desperate men, he
became reckless. "Winner takes all," he said, and shoved all his
chips into the center of the table.

"Well, I don’t know
about that, Palmer. I got me a nice little pile here, and yours is about a
quarter what mine is."

"I’ll sit this one
out, too," Lawrence said.