Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (3 page)

They walked on, Thomas
thumbing through the book.

Musette said, "There
are other poems in that book I don’t understand, but I remember one he wrote
about going with the slaves of the earth the same as with the masters.
Something about entering into both."

Thomas gently closed the
book. "He’s a great man."

Musette laughed. "Not
everybody thinks so. Some people would have him horse-whipped. But yes, I think
he is a great man."

He held the book out for
her to take.

"You keep that one.
Simone left a copy in her bedroom."

"Thank you. I’d like
to read this to the others."

For these last ten
minutes Musette had breathed happiness. Thomas talking to her, thinking with
her, walking with her. She could smell the clean linen of his shirt, the
lingering sweat on his back. Her heart beat so hard she feared it would make
her bodice tremble. She wanted to touch the hand that held the book. To look
into his eyes and have him look at her with the same wanting.

They were at the turn-in
to Toulouse. "I’ll go on back," he said. He held the book up. "Thank
you for this. I will share it, and I will remind the others how generous you
are."

He had not said her name
again. "You’re very welcome to it. All of you," she answered, just as
if she felt nothing at all.

Lily opened her eyes and stretched.
She felt … rested. That had not happened in a long while, especially not since
she’d left Philadelphia. By the time they’d made it to Toulouse Landing, she’d
been a brittle shell, smiling and serene on the outside, empty and dark on the
inside. After what she’d done to Frederick … She had not intended … God knew
she had not intended.

She covered her face with her hands.
Maybe she should have stayed in Philadelphia. Maybe the courts would understand
she’d only meant to save herself. But no, the courts would not take her part.
She’d heard too many tales of a woman beaten beyond endurance who finally appealed
to the court, but because the man who hurt her was her husband, the judge sent
her back home with him.

There had been Maddie to think of,
too. When Frederick had turned on a six year old child, had struck his own
daughter – he’d never done that before. She could not trust him to never strike
her again. And so she’d prepared to leave him.

They were safe now. No one in Philadelphia
knew about Uncle Garvey, no one knew she had any ties to Louisiana at all. And
if they traced her to Gillian’s house in Parkersburg, her sister would say Lily
had gone to Minnesota. They had a great-uncle near St. Paul. She had no idea if
he was still alive, but the connection was real.

She rose without waking Maddie and
walked to the window to greet the early morning. The air was sweet with the
scent of petunias, the shrubs and trees every shade of green from dusty olive
to deepest forest. It was hot here, dear God, it was hot. But beautiful. Maddie
could be happy here. Lily did not expect happiness for herself. In fact, she
did not deserve it, but maybe she could find peace.

Peaceful or not, she meant to make
a life here. Today, at Bertrand Chamard’s picnic, she would smile and she would
mean it. If there were dancing, she would dance. She pulled on her best day
dress, a pale green calico with tiny yellow flowers pressed into the design.
Around her neck she wore a green ribbon. Not a glamorous look, but she would
do.

When they arrived at the
picnic the sun was high and hot. Tables with linen cloths were laid out under
the shade trees. Pitchers of lemonade and bowls of punch shared the table with
a coconut cake, a pineapple cake, and tarts made with last summer’s peach
preserves, everything covered with fine gauze to keep the flies off. The other
tables displayed all the bounties of a summer garden.

Maddie and Dawn had no
interest in the food. They raced off toward the children playing Red Rover on
the lane running beside the house. White children and black children, Lily was
surprised to see, but the only black adults she saw were women serving drinks
and plates of food and men setting out more tables and chairs.

Musette met her and Uncle
Garvey with hands extended in welcome. "Isn’t this the perfect day for a
picnic? Come and meet everyone."

Mr. Chamard was a
handsome man for all his sixty years. His hair was still thick and more dark
than gray. His eyes gleamed with intelligence and good humor.

"Hello, Bickell. I
see you’ve brought your family." He took Lily’s hand and bowed over it
with more gallantry than Lily had ever seen in Philadelphia. "Mrs. Palmer,
I believe."

Lily dipped a curtsey. "Mr.
Chamard. Thank you for including us in your lovely gala."

"I expect to see a
great deal of you since we’re neighbors. Bickell and I play poker now and
again, but we could be persuaded to more gentlemanly pursuits if a lady were
available to keep us company." This welcoming speech was accompanied by a
kiss of her hand, which he had somehow not yet relinquished, and the open
appreciation of very warm brown eyes.

Musette laid her hand on Lily’s
arm. "I’m taking Mrs. Palmer to meet Nicolette, Mr. Chamard. Perhaps you
will entertain Mr. Bickell with talk of, oh, I don’t know, guano?" She
gave him an impish smile and drew Lily toward a cluster of people sipping punch
in the shade.

"I thought if I
didn’t get you away from our host, he would charm you half to death."

Lily grinned. "But
you like him."

"I adore him. Every
female in the parish adores him. I believe my mother … But yes, I like him. He
and Maman and I are sticking together to figure out how to run a plantation with
wage laborers. But now I want you to meet my cousin."

A fashionably dressed
woman in white muslin and two handsome men in light linen suits turned at their
approach. The woman greeted Musette with a big smile and a hug, carefully
holding her glass of punch to the side. They kissed cheeks, then Musette introduced
them.

"Nicolette is
Bertrand Chamard’s daughter. This is her husband Captain Finnian McKee, and our
friend, Major Alistair Whiteaker. This is Mrs. Palmer. She is Garvey Bickell’s
niece come to stay, I hope."

One seldom saw a true
beauty in this world, but this woman’s face was a perfect oval with a generous
mouth, creamy skin, and gray eyes under dark eyebrows. She looked to be about five
months pregnant. She smiled as she shook Lily’s hand. "I’m sure my Aunt
Josephine – Musette’s maman, you won’t have met her yet – I’m sure she also
will be very happy to have another woman in the neighborhood."

Captain McKee, Nicolette’s
husband, was a fine looking man with dark eyes and a black moustache. "Hello,
Musette. How do you do, Mrs. Palmer."

Lily felt the tall blond
man’s attention on her. He was observing her intently from eyes of a startling
blue. She made herself look away.

"Do I detect a
Boston accent, Captain McKee?"

"You do. I fear I
will never sound like a man of New Orleans, but that is what I am now.
Alistair, however," he said gesturing to the blond man, "is
Louisianan born and bred."

"Good morning, Miss
DeBlieux. You’re looking lovely as always," Major Whiteaker said. Then he
offered his hand to Lily in chivalrous style, palm up for her to place her hand
in his. Quite formally he bowed. "Mrs. Palmer."

Lily swallowed hard. The
skin of her hand, bare in this heat, felt the slight pressure of his fingers
long after he let go.

"You are here with
your husband?" Major Whiteaker enquired.

"No, sir. I am a
widow." It was merely the truth. Frederick was dead. She was a widow now.

Major Whiteaker executed
a half bow. "My condolences."

She inclined her head. "Thank
you."

"Let’s sit down."
Musette motioned to a servant standing nearby. "James, will you bring a
tray of drinks, please?"

They arranged themselves
in a circle of five, the major sitting directly across from Lily. She began to
feel uncomfortable under his gaze. If she met his eyes, he did not look away.
If she talked with someone else, she felt his gaze on her. He was sandy-haired
and long of limb. Most men she knew had a beard or a moustache or both, but Major
Whiteaker was clean shaven. He might be the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
But her husband had been handsome, too.

Captain McKee perhaps was
one of the many Northerners who came to the South after the war now that land
was cheap. "You have a plantation, Captain McKee?" she asked.

Lily hoped the heat would
explain her flushed face. Major Whiteaker’s steady regard both embarrassed and
animated her. If she let herself, she believed she would simply gaze back into
his eyes with her mouth agape, losing herself in those deep sapphire irises.

A yellow hound sprawled
at his side and Major Whiteaker’s hand lazily stroked its ears.

It had been a long time
since Lily had felt any joy in sensuality, but the sight of this man’s long
fingers stroking the dog’s velvety ears roused thoughts of those fingers moving
over her skin. She blinked and forced her attention back to Captain McKee, who
was answering her question.

"Not I. Nicolette
and I come upriver to visit her father as often as we can. We have a book store
in town. Are you a reader, Mrs. Palmer?"

"Oh, yes. I have
already begun borrowing books from Musette."

"What do you like to
read?"

"I tend to avoid the
history and philosophy tomes," she said, feeling as if she should
apologize for her lack of serious intent. "I like novels and plays, both
comedies and dramas."

Major Whiteaker’s blue
eyes lit up. "I prefer fiction myself. Have you read Molière?"

"Oh, yes.
Tartuffe!
I read it aloud to my father when he was still alive and we laughed ourselves
silly."

Captain McKee grinned. "A
kindred spirit then. Alistair and I, and Nicolette if she can be persuaded to
sit still, entertain ourselves reading plays aloud. Nicolette of course makes
each of us feel quite drab, and she is prone to giggles when one of us attempts
a female part.

"When the season
starts after Christmas, Musette, bring Mrs. Palmer to town," Mr. McKee
said. "I’ll find us a play that three women and two men can read together.
We’ll put all of New Orleans’ finest actors to shame."

Nicolette grinned at Lily.
"We three could shop together, even if all we need is ribbons." She
shot a smile at Musette. "We always need ribbons, do we not?"

Musette said, "We
should circulate. Lily needs to meet everyone."

The gentlemen stood.
Finnian McKee smiled warmly. "Until we see you in New Orleans, then."

Lily felt she must turn
to Major Whiteaker, it was only courtesy, but not until she had drawn a breath
and held it.

He angled his head in a
gentlemanly bow. "I shall look forward to it."

Musette took Lily’s arm
and walked her toward another group of people across the broad yard. "I
think you’ve made a conquest," Musette whispered.

Lily looked at her in
alarm. "Of course not."

Musette indulged in a
smirk. "I see you don’t ask whom I mean."

"Of course I know
whom you mean. His attentions were not subtle."

"Behavior most
unlike our Major Whiteaker."

"Is it?"

"Oh, he’s always
perfectly courteous. Friendly even. But there is always an air about him of
being here only in body. Today the whole of him was present."

"A dreamy sort?"

"Exactly. And I
often think he looks sad. Perhaps he’s lonely." She looked sideways at Lily.

"Stop that. I have
no room for a man in my life. Maddie is quite enough for me."

"I see,"
Musette murmured. "Here are the Johnstons. Let’s go and say hello."

His hands clasped behind
his back, Alistair watched her walk away with Musette. The sway of her hips set
her green skirts into a gentle oscillation.

"Lovely woman. Don’t
you think, Alistair?"

"Hm? Yes, yes she
is." He couldn’t say he’d been thinking, as Nicolette implied. He’d been
intent on looking at her, that’s all. Not that she was the most beautiful woman
he’d ever known. He supposed Nicolette held that title. Mrs. Palmer was a bit
thin – a recent weight loss, he thought, since her dress seemed a little big on
her. Maybe travel did not agree with her. But she was lovely, as Nicolette
said. And there was a sweetness about her, and the hint of depths to explore.

He surprised himself. He
had not been interested in any particular woman for a long while. Not since
he’d realized Nicolette would never be his. He still loved her of course,
always would. But he no longer craved her, or needed her like he needed air. He
paused. Was that true, that he no longer was in love with Nicolette? He looked
at her smiling face as she exchanged a glance with Finn. No, it didn’t hurt
anymore to see her happy with another man. He had lived through the enchantment,
perhaps the bewitchment, she had never meant to impose on him in the first
place.

Alistair took in a
breath. He hadn’t thought of it until now. Free of Nicolette’s enchantment. He
felt lighter at the realization. He had become accustomed to the role, at least
in his own head, of disappointed bachelor. Perhaps now he was simply, a
bachelor.

Nicolette took his arm. "Do
you know Lily’s Uncle Garvey, Alistair?"

"Of course. I
thought he meant to join Avery in California."

"He does. He wants
to leave the farm to his niece if she agrees to stay. She’ll be Papa’s
neighbor, a stone’s throw from Cherleu."

Alistair gave her a look.
"Within calling distance, is that what you’re saying, Nicolette? I believe
we’ve had this conversation before. You are not to play matchmaker with me."

She widened her eyes in
innocence. "I wouldn’t think of it, Alistair." The gleam in her eye
said otherwise though.

He gave her hand resting
on his arm a quick squeeze. "I think I smell fried chicken. Smell it,
Finn?"

"Yes, thank God. I’m
afloat in punch. They’re laying it out on that table under the chinaberry tree
if I’m not mistaken."

The three strolled their
way through friends and neighbors, some of them standing in earnest
conversation, some settled on blankets with their hats over their faces. More
energetic picnickers ignored the sun beating down on them and engaged in a
lively game of horseshoes.

Alistair spied Mrs. Palmer
talking with Albany Johnston. Johnston had several plantations up and down the
Mississippi, but he was having trouble just as they all were in figuring out
how to make a cane plantation work now that he had to pay wages to his workers.
Alistair himself had other financial interests, railroads, for one, to tide him
through these times of adjustment. He saw himself as the willow bending with
the winds, not a rigid hickory to be toppled by the storm of changes sweeping
the South.

Mrs. Palmer looked happy talking to
the Johnstons. Happier than she’d been talking to him. He supposed that was his
fault. He’d had a hard time not staring at her. As, he realized, he was doing
now.