Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (29 page)

She woke in the mornings,
ill-rested, her hair sweat-soaked, and plunged into the life of the farm. She
had what she’d prayed for – she hadn’t murdered her husband, and she needn’t
ever fear him again. Anything but gratitude was nothing more than self-pity. It
would stop.

And she needed to stop
thinking about Alistair Whiteaker. Yes, she’d fallen in love with him. Yes, he
was wonderful in too many ways to count. But there was to be no happy ever
after for them. She needed to shake off this lethargy. She needed a diversion.

And yet, when the
invitation came, Lily was not pleased. Mr. Chamard’s party would include
Alistair, of course. She wanted desperately to see him, and she didn’t want to
see him. He would take one look at her and know she was weakening, know how
much she wanted him.

She lay the little
envelope on the mantle in the sitting room and found Rachel on the back porch.
There was always work to do if you were with Rachel, and that’s what she
needed.

The girls played under
the chinaberry tree serving tea to their dolls. Lily had shown them how grand
ladies crooked their little finger as they held their cups, and clearly Dawn
and Maddie had become grand ladies.

Rebecca was in sad
condition. Her dress was filthy and the hem was torn. Her pretty blonde curls
were tangled and leaf-strewn. Lily knew Dawn would carefully lay her Miss Pitty
Pat in a patch of grass when they finished their tea. Rebecca would be left
wherever she happened to lay, in the dirt or among the sandspurs.

She’d be glad if Maddie
were as responsible and careful as Dawn, but she was glad, too, that Maddie
didn’t treat the doll her daddy gave her like it was a sacred object. It was
just a doll, and she treated it much as she did her other toys.

With a basin in her lap,
she picked the last of the season’s peaches out of the bushel basket at
Rachel’s feet and set to peeling. Eventually, she fell still as she often did
these days, the visions in her mind more vivid than the bowl of peaches in her
lap. She’d see his long-fingered hands in her mind’s eye, see the kindness, the
vulnerability when he laughed with Maddie.

She touched her lip. No
one had ever kissed her like that.

She shook her head. Him
and his high-handed interference. His assumptions. His superiority. Throwing
money at every problem.

"You mad at the
major about the money, ain’t you, Miss Lily?"

Lily’s head jerked around.
Was her heart and mind so easy to read?

"Wouldn’t you be
angry?"

"When I was a girl,
a pretty blond man like Major Whiteaker bought me," Rachel said, her eyes
on the peach she was peeling. "Took me from my mama and my sisters. I had
a sweetheart, too. He probably old and fat now, maybe got him six or eight kids
with that girl Portia that kept sniffing around him."

"I’m sorry, Rachel."

"Anyway, this man,
he put me in the back of a wagon with some other slaves he bought and drove,
seemed like a thousand miles. The men had irons on their feet. We women just
had the bracelets. I never seen my mama nor my sisters to this day."

Rachel looked at Lily. "That’s
what bought means. Your Major Whiteaker, what he did looks more like rescue, to
me. You sit here on this porch, free to do whatever you want. You could go back
to Pennsylvania, he wouldn’t stop you. Miss Lily, you ain’t bought."

Finally, Lily said, "But
it was ugly. It broke a man."

"That man was ugly,
way I see it. And he broke hisself."

Nothing like an ex-slave
to put things into perspective for you. Just like that, Rachel made Lily’s
reservations and disappointments seem petty. Even silly.

"Dawn," Rachel
called. "You and Maddie get washed up and I let you roll out pie dough."

"I think we’ll have
enough for four or five pies," Lily said.

"Maybe we’ll stew
some. And while the oven’s hot I’m gone put the iron on to heat so you can
press that pretty green dress."

Well, then. She was going
to a party.

The scent of rosewater
surrounded Maddie and Lily as they sat at the window while their hair dried. It
was Maddie’s task to comb through the snarls in her doll’s hair. Lily’s job was
to hem Rebecca Palmer’s new dress.

"If Major Whiteaker
were here, Mama, I’d let him smell my hair."

Lily laughed. "I’m
sure you would be much admired."

Maddie set her comb down.
"Do you think he forgot me?"

Maddie had not worried
that her father might forget her. She had not mentioned him at all.

"I’m sure he has not
forgotten you."

It had been twenty-two
days since Lily hurled those angry, hurtful words at Alistair. If she’d waited
until she’d had a few more days to calm down, to think -- but she had lashed
out at him while she was still struggling with the end of her marriage, the
shame of divorce, the guilt of having turned Frederick into a man with remorse
riding on his back.

Uncle Garvey knocked and
poked his head in the door. "You be ready in an hour?"

Maddie jumped off her
little stool and raced to him. "Smell my hair, Uncle Garvey."

"Hmm. What is that
smell? Apple pie?"

Maddie favored him with
her delighted giggle.

Uncle Garvey picked her
up and gave her neck a giant sniff. "Roses it is. Red ones, I think."

"I’ll be ready,"
Lily told him.

"Maddie, you come on
down stairs with me. Dawn and I are about to cut a pumpkin or two."

Without Maddie to
distract her, Lily’s nerves took over. She felt like a young girl going to her
first dance. Her white shoes were worn out and she fretted that she’d have to
wear her sturdy brown ones with her pale green dress. "Nobody will care but
you," her mother would tell her, but that had never been much comfort to
Lily when she’d had a growth spurt and her dress was too short.

She pinned her hair in a
twist on the back of her head. That was as fancy as she knew how to fix hair.
She stepped into her freshly pressed dress and tied a green ribbon around her
neck. She’d have to do.

She collected Uncle
Garvey from the kitchen and together they strolled down the lane toward Cherleu.
It was a pretty day, but still hot. Back in Philadelphia, the October air would
be crisp and the trees would be turning colors.

"Lily, I know I’m
not your father," Uncle Garvey said, "but if your father were alive,
I think he’d tell you the same thing. Don’t go being hard-headed and stubborn. Alistair’s
a good man, and he didn’t do anything wrong."

"Uncle Garvey, I
think we both did something wrong. Tempting a weak man to destroy himself."

Uncle Garvey stopped
right in the middle of the lane and looked at her. "You giving yourself a
lot of consequence, Miss Lily Palmer, crediting yourself with destroying a man.
From where I stand, the man made a choice, nobody put a gun to his head."
He took two steps and turned back to her. "Lily, you saw a sad man, a
distressed and maybe confused man when he left here. But you know Frederick
Palmer better than anyone. How long you think he’s going to stay sad and
distressed with a pocket full of money and a fancy gal on his arm?"

"But how can he go
on carrying all that guilt? The remorse he must feel?"

"I never saw a thing
to make me think the man was one to dwell on guilt or remorse. Self-pity,
plenty of that. Look, he’s on his way to a new life. Don’t drag yourself down
imagining how you would feel if you’d taken the money. He’s not you. And he
sure as hell is not Alistair Whiteaker."

They took another ten
steps in silence, then Lily stretched up and kissed his cheek. "Thank you,
Uncle Garvey."

"You’re welcome.
Let’s get on and kick our heels up a little."

"Is Musette back?"

"Supposed to be.
Supposed to bring Chamard’s daughter Nicolette with her. You met her and Finn
McKee at the picnic."

"I remember."

Lily had not worn her
bonnet – Alistair told her he didn’t like bonnets – and the sun overhead was
punishing. It was a relief to climb the stairs and step onto the cool, shadowy
gallery of Chamard’s home. The doors were open, and the alley of poplars
funneled the breeze from the river to the house.

Musette met them as they
entered the parlor, her hands stretched out to grasp Lily’s.

"How was New Orleans?"
Lily asked her.

She saw Alistair standing
at the punch bowl with Mr. Chamard, his back to the door. Mr. Chamard’s eyes
flicked toward her and then back to Alistair. Alistair began to turn, but Lily
looked away.

Musette squeezed her
hands. "New Orleans was hot, humid, and smelly. Come say hello to Finn and
Nicolette."

Lily felt Alistair
watching her as Musette pulled her across the room. She’d tied her corset too
tight. She wanted to gulp air.

"Mrs. Palmer,"
Finn said with a big smile. "How have you survived your first Louisiana
summer?"

Ah, she could talk about
the weather, that was easy enough. "The heat is unrelenting, isn’t it? But
the air is so soft here, and fragrant. I won’t complain."

Musette’s cousin
Nicolette wore a light-weight muslin gown with very short sleeves even though
it was mid-afternoon. A very sensible accommodation to her need to keep cool in
her advanced pregnancy. The four of them engaged in amiable chat until Lily
noticed Musette suddenly go stiff and still. She turned to see what had
affected her so. A tall uniformed officer entered the room, removing his hat,
and looking around.

Finn strode across the
room, his hand outstretched. "Colin!"

They greeted each other
warmly and then Finn brought the officer over to the ladies.

"Colin, how are you?"
Nicolette said, her hand in his. He bent to kiss her cheek.

"I am amazed, I am.
Here it is October, and it’s still hot."

"Yes, well, we may
get a few cool days later this winter," Finn said with a grin. "Let
me introduce you. This is Mrs. Palmer, my father-in-law’s neighbor. Lily, this
is Colin McKee."

"How do you do, Mrs.
Palmer," the officer said.

"Very well, thank
you."

"And this is
Nicolette’s cousin, Musette DeBlieux. Musette, this is
my
cousin, Colin
McKee."

Musette looked quite
pale, Lily noticed. The officer smiled broadly.

"Miss DeBlieux. I’m
pleased to see you again," executing a proper bow.

 "You know each
other?" Finn said.

"I met Miss DeBlieux
in town."

Lily had not expected
Musette would ever be uncomfortable in a social situation, she being the
consummate belle, but she held herself stiffly, her hands clasped at her waist.
It was curious, but Lily could spare no more than a thought for Musette and the
handsome lieutenant.

By turning her head
slightly, she could see Alistair in the corner of her eye. He sipped from his
punch, nodding to Mr. Chamard, but even from across the room, she felt the
weight of his attention on her. At the moment, he seemed focused on her
hemline.

She knew when Mr.
Johnston crossed the room to join his host and Alistair, but Alistair didn’t
seem to notice him. His attention had moved to the ruffles on her lower skirts.
She didn’t imagine he was interested in ruffles, but she was thrilled he looked
at her at all.

She had been unfair when
they last talked. Cruel, even. What if he’d made up his mind to dismiss her
from his mind, to cut her from his heart. But having a man stare at the ruffles
along your hem didn’t suggest indifference.

Musette and Lieutenant McKee’s
polite conversation was no more than a drone. Lily faced Alistair squarely. His
eyes immediately found hers.

Mr. Johnston was speaking
to him, but Alistair left him mid-sentence. He crossed to her, paying no mind
to the other people in the room.

With a stiff bow, he
said, "Mrs. Palmer, how do you do?"

"Very well, Major
Whiteaker. And you?"

"Perhaps you would
like a glass of sangria."

He took her elbow, still
not having acknowledged the other guests, and directed her to the punch bowl.

He didn’t speak, nor did
she, as he ladled the sangria into a cut crystal tumbler. He handed it to her
then took her other elbow and steered her toward the gallery.

At the far end, away from
the parlor doors, he backed her up against the carved post and stepped a pace
away with his hands behind his back.

He looked very grave,
Lily thought. There were lines around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe
he had trouble sleeping like she did.

"How is Maddie
doing, with her father – "

"She’s happy, I
think. She doesn’t seem to miss him."

"And you?" His
eyes were dark, his mouth unsmiling. "Do you miss him?"

"I think of him,
Alistair."

He straightened and looked
over her shoulder.

"But that’s not the
same thing as missing him," she said.

He drew a deep breath. "I
see."

Lily turned to lean
against the gallery rail, looking toward the river. He joined her there,
setting his hands near hers. They could just see the river beyond the levee,
the trees obscuring their view.

"You heard about
Valmar and Shipton?" he asked her.

She didn’t want to talk
about dead men. She doubted he did either. But it was difficult to say what she
wanted to say.

"I heard."

"And Thomas has won
his seat to the convention."

"Yes. That’s good
news, isn’t it?"

"Yes. I’m very
pleased."

"Alistair . . . "

His hands tightened
around the gallery rail and he kept his face turned toward the river.

"I was harsh with
you," she said. "I was unfair."

"You weren’t unfair."
He straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind his back. "My
actions were arrogant, and meddlesome. I’m sorry I pulled you into actions you
regret."