Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (10 page)

They mounted their horses. “I don’t believe I’ve ever ridden
to the far reach of Magnolias,” Yves said to Adam. “What kind of property you
have on your eastern border?”

“It’s good back there. Higher than the land west of the
river. We should ride back there some time.”

“How ’bout now?”

Adam and Marcel looked at each other. Yves knew they’d no
interest in prolonging the expedition in the coming heat. “Unless you’re too
tired?”

A very mild challenge, but of course they couldn’t admit to
being tired from a morning’s fishing, not even Marcel who’d spent the night
crossing and recrossing the river fetching Gabriel. It was simply part of the
rich young man’s code to be ready for any and all amusements.  “All right
then,” Adam said.

They followed a pair of wagon ruts through woods and past
fields until they stopped on a high knoll. “Wonderful country.” Yves hadn’t
spotted a likely place for McNaught to have hidden the pack. “Let’s go back
this way,” he said and gestured to a more southerly path back toward the river.

As they rode through a shady copse, warning barks fifty
yards away told the location of McNaught’s dogs. Yves, leading the trio, looked
back at Adam, who merely shrugged.

At their return to the mansion, they found the house quiet.
They cleaned themselves up and met in the parlor, ready for noon dinner, but it
seemed a long while before Charles called them to the dining room. Miss
Johnston did not join them.

Adam gestured to Charles, who leaned over to hear the young
master. “Is my sister ill?” he asked.

“In a manner of saying, yessir,” Charles said, bending near
Adam’s ear. “The child died this morning. Miss Marianne took it awful bad.”

Yves watched his host receive the news. A line appeared
between his eyes, but was Adam vexed that Marianne did not appear to play
hostess or that the poor child had died from her injuries?

“How old was she?” Adam asked.

“She just ’bout three,” Charles said.

Adam nodded, his eyes downcast. After a moment he opened the
napkin over his lap. Yves thought, He does care. But not enough.

Charles ladled a cold soup into Adam’s bowl and leaned over
again to his master’s ear. “She kill dem dogs, she did. Wid Master’s shotgun.”

Adam looked up sharply. “The devil she did.”

Charles’ face closed down. “Yessir.”

Yves ended the charade that he could not hear the exchange.
“Bad news, Adam?”

“Domestic matters. Please, help yourself to the wine.”

Just as Charles had hidden himself behind a blank face, Adam
too allowed the mask every slave owner wore to slip into place. The death of a
child, a slave child, was simply a “domestic matter.” What ownership did to the
owners – Yves felt it in his soul. The twisting of reason, of compassion and
morality – deforming the minds and hearts of the people who lived by the labor
of their fellow man. Soul killing to be a slave; soul killing to be the master.
Though the master’s soul rotted in comfort and self-satisfaction.

The gentlemen amused themselves throughout the afternoon. Adam
had accounts to look at; Marcel sought the quiet of his bedroom, no doubt to
write down a poem he’d been composing. Yves gathered the
Times Picayune
and
the Bee
, both from New Orleans, and the most recent
Natchez Courier
. He even found
an old paper from Richmond in the library. He sat down to digest the
conflicting accounts of the Republican nominee, Mr. Lincoln.

The election was not six months away, and the country was in
turmoil. The issue of slavery and the states’ right to practice it had even
split the Southern Democratic Party. Mr. Lincoln remained strangely silent on
the issue of slavery. How willing would he be to curb the Southern states’
eagerness for more slave territory?

Yves wished he had a
New York Tribune
. His own clandestinely
written essays often appeared in the
Tribune
and other Northern papers. The
Southern publications he had regular access to made little effort to print a
balanced picture of what was happening in the North, nor even in Washington.
Just how seriously did the Northern pols take the persistent rumors and threats
of Southern secession? And how committed were the Southern movers and shakers
to the sovereignty of the state?

He heard steps in the grand hall. Lowered voices, but Yves
had no compunction about listening in. Why on earth not? Curiosity was no more
than a healthy interest in one’s fellow man, as long as one didn’t engage in
sly talk. And Yves never gossiped.

“Where you want I should put the doctor?” Charles said.

A pause. Adam’s voice. “Hm. He’s octaroon. Nearly white.”
Another pause while Adam wrestled with the finer points of the culture’s racial
policies. “What does Miss Marianne think?”

“I tell her the room under the back stairs be ready for the
traveling men dat come by. He could stay there.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She say put him in him in you father’s, Master Johnston’s,
room.” Charles didn’t make any attempt to hide his disapproval.

“Yes, well. Perhaps that is going it a bit far. No more
guest rooms, are there? No. I’ll speak to Yves. He’ll share a billet with his
brother.”

“Yessir,” Charles said.

Adam walked into the library. “Ah, there you are,” he said,
spotting Yves behind a held-up paper, apparently engrossed in the news.

“Your brother is staying the night,” Adam said. “Perhaps he
could share your room?”

“Certainly,” Yves said. “We’ve shared a bed before now.” He
stood up. “I believe I’ll stretch my legs.”

Adam glanced at the gilt ormolu clock on the mantel. “Then
I’ll finish my correspondence. See you at supper.”

Yves crossed the wide veranda. and walked into the garden.
Marcel might be the poet, but Yves appreciated the beauty of a rose as well as
the next man. Besides, he’d like to talk to the gardener again. Joseph, his
name was, his underground contact here on Magnolias. Yves walked with his hands
behind his back, his mind on the politics raging through the land. He feared
there would be war before it was over.

He came to a nook off the path and would have passed right
by it had he not spotted a slippered foot peeking from a tent of skirts. He
paused, and Freddie gave a sharp yelp of greeting.

“Miss Johnston,” he said. “I believe you are hiding.”

Freddie squirmed and wiggled in her arms, thrilled to see
him. Marianne, however, did not greet him with a coquette’s assurances and
wiles. She really had been hiding from him. “Would you like me to pass on?” he
offered.

She stepped out from the camellias and sat heavily on the
bench behind her. She was dressed for the evening in a blue silk gown that
managed to do justice to her bosom, Yves noted, at the same time it covered the
deep bruise he knew must be on her shoulder from the shotgun’s kick. She moved
her skirts aside. “Excuse my appalling manners,” she said. “Please, sit down.”

Not a sincere invitation, but enough for Yves. He had hoped
he might come across this newly discovered, intriguing person. Marianne
Johnston had twice the allure now that he’d seen her in a role besides that of
belle of the ball. Here was a woman of spirit, of muscle and tissue and fire.

Her hoops afforded him a seat near enough to breathe in the
expensive scent she wore. The blue silk brushed his leg. He’d have preferred
the feel of her thigh next to his, but quite enough stimulation, Yves thought,
considering the circumstances.

Marianne set Freddie down, and he promptly came to attention
at Yves’ feet, panting and staring in adoration. One conquest, at least, he
thought.

He touched his pocket.

“Yes, you may smoke.”

“Among your many attributes I now must count prescience?”

“If only that were so.”

Yves examined her profile as he lit his cigar. “You’d have
prevented what happened to this child.”

“Yes.”

Yves was no fan of small talk and clearly Marianne was in no
mood to banter. He merely kept her company. If she wanted to talk, she would.

His cigar was half smoked when Marianne broke the silence.
“You visit other plantations. Who else keeps dogs that track down slaves and
attack them?”

He tapped the ash off. “There are some. You probably know
most of them.”

“Father would not have approved, had he understood. But most
of the dogs came with this man McNaught, and Father thought he was getting the
value of a trained pack of hunting dogs along with the overseer. He couldn’t
have known they were for slave hunting. He didn’t know.”

Yves hoped she had herself convinced. It was a sad thing to
find one’s father was no more noble than other men.

The heat, even at this hour, brought a fine sheen to
Marianne’s complexion. Moisture beaded her upper lip, outlining its curve. He
liked a full mouth, especially a salty one, and Miss Johnston’s looked
luscious.

Her face was a bit tanned, rather careless for a lady of
marriageable age, Yves thought, but he wasn’t like the dandies he consorted
with during the season in town. They expected flawless white skin, a perpetual
shy smile on a reddened mouth, a submissive and attentive demeanor. How boring
the belles were. He’d seen Marianne Johnston play that role, though without
much enthusiasm. Clearly it was not her true character.

So tempting to gently wipe her lip, to trace its shape with
his thumb. But she would no doubt never forgive him. It wasn’t love-making she
needed. At least, not today.

“Do you follow the news, Miss Johnston?”

She nodded, her eyes on Freddie as he explored around their
feet.

“This may all change in the next few years.” He gestured
with his smoke to indicate the plantation. “How would you feel about that?”

“To the end of slavery?” She surprised him with her
directness, and again with her answer. “It is an evil. It cannot go on.”

“Few slave holders would agree with you.” They were on
dangerous ground now. She had no idea of his opinions; another man might spread
the word of her radical declaration, might blacken the Johnston name up and
down the river. She really must not speak so freely.

He took her hand to caution her, neither of them protected
from skin to skin contact by the requisite gloves. Marianne started at his
unwarranted familiarity, and did he deceive himself, with something else? And
she looked at him, so strangely. With . . . could she be aroused merely by his
touch? He’d be delirious to find a woman so responsive.

Marianne had been mired in her own thoughts, of Sylvie, of
Peter, of Father. The grief and the rage of this day had left her feeling
bruised, convalescent, and vulnerable. As if all her nerves were raw, her
defenses depleted. She had not been prepared to be touched. She had not been
prepared for that touch to rush through her body, warming her, disturbing her.

She looked at Yves, expecting him to laugh off her start.
Make some pleasantry. But he didn’t. He met her gaze, and what she saw in his
gold and green eyes brought the blood to her face. Suddenly she was aware they
were alone, far from the house, and secluded in the garden. She touched the
bare hollow at the base of her throat, and Yves’ eyes followed her gesture,
reminding her of her low-cut gown and the expanse of bosom it revealed.

Marianne riled at his frank gaze. He was no gentleman, that
was clear. She grabbed her skirt away from his long thighs and rose to her feet.
Her mouth pulled tight, she strode from the bench into the path.

“Miss Johnston.” Yves caught up to her in two strides.
“Please pardon me. I merely wanted to impress upon you that you should be more
circumspect in delivering your opinions. I had no intention of offending you.”

Even now, she felt where his fingers had grasped hers.
Outrageous behavior. It’s probably true, what Lindsay Morgan boasted about --
his stealing hot swooning kisses and they not even betrothed. The injustice of
that thought, in light of her own few stolen, and disappointing, kisses, did
not trouble her.

 Freddie, his tail waving like a flag, scampered at Yves’
heels. Marianne stopped, and Yves nearly barreled into her. She brushed his arm
aside and reached for Freddie.

The puppy-faced spaniel reclaimed, she faced Yves Chamard.
“As I recall,” she said, “you asked for my opinion. I was not aware compliance
with your own was required.” Marianne pivoted on her toe and strode away from
him.

Yves wisely did not attempt to catch her. He followed her at
his leisure, content with admiring the tapering vee from her shoulders to her
narrow waist. No amount of corseting could achieve a waist that small, or allow
the breath to walk that furiously. Adam’s little sister.  He shook his head.
Not just a Southern belle bred to be sweetly subservient to the men in her
life, not this young woman.

The next morning, Gabriel endured another crossing of the
Mississippi in a small boat. The men rowed upstream along the eastern bank to
half a mile north of the Toulouse dock. Then they began to cut across and down
to their destination. At least the day was sunny and the current propelled no
errant logs against the boat.

On the whole, Gabriel reflected, the population of the
Magnolias quarters was healthy enough. Far better nourished and no harder
worked than most slaves. Good management evidenced by the cleanliness of the
place. The privies no more odorous than they had to be, no debris littering the
ground around the cabins. Yet, even here, a child died because the man kept
dogs to hunt runaway slaves.

The evening before, the talk had turned to politics. Yves
was convinced there would be war. Marcel and Adam denied it. Gabriel feared it
and hoped for it at the same time.

What will I do if it does come to war? Where will my place
be? With my Chamard brothers? Or fighting for the freedom of all my brothers?