Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (24 page)

“Yes sir, we get you well, and then you get to hauling and
hoeing. That’s what I need around here, someone to haul and hoe.”

“Ginny, thanks to you, I’m alive. But when I can, I’ll go
home to my family.”

She sat back on her heels, a beam of sunlight making a halo
of her white hair once more. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You were
left on my property, not more than fifty yards from the house. That makes you
mine, it seems to me. God knows I need help, and He sent you.”

“Ginny, I’m not a slave.” He rubbed at the dye they’d
smeared all over him down in New Orleans, trying to find a buyer for him.
“Look, see? This stuff is darkening my skin. I’m a free man, Ginny.”

Ginny spat a stream of tobacco juice over her shoulder. Then
she raised herself on creaky knees and left him without another word.

Gabriel spent a long day in the shed alone. He was too weak
and his foot too damaged to go out, but he slept less. The poultice dried out
and he poured a little from his water jug on it. He sat up a good part of the
day and watched Ginny through the open door as she slopped the hog and threw
corn to the chickens. There was a garden beyond the chicken yard. He saw her
tote a hoe in that direction and come back later with an apron full of
pickings.

She likely did need help. No telling how long she’d been
working the place alone, barefoot and aging. In a few days, maybe he could
stand on his foot and start doing a few chores. But more important, next time
she came in, he’d ask for paper and pen. Maybe she’d learned to read in the
lifetime that had shaped those once lady-like feet. He’d write to his father to
come after him, Papa and his brothers. And he’d send a letter to his maman.
She’d tell Simone he was coming for her.

When Ginny came in at twilight, she brought him boiled corn
and tomatoes and butter beans with a slab of bacon in it. She also brought in a
new poultice and another small jug.

“Go on and eat while I see to your foot,” she said.

He picked up the bowl and set it down again when Ginny
peeled the old compress off his foot. It hurt like hell itself and he hissed between
his teeth.

“Can’t even tell what’s broken and what’s not, it’s so
swole,” she muttered.

Trying to steady his breathing while she worked, Gabriel
said, “How long have you been out here, Ginny? You came from Pennsylvania?”

“Pittsburgh,” she said. “My husband, three daughters and
three sons. They’re all buried out there.” She motioned with her head toward
the fields. “Small pox.”

“You didn’t get it?”

She shook her head. “I asked God to take me, too, but He
didn’t give me a single pox.” She looked at Gabriel in the failing light. “Now
I ask you. Does God love me more or love me less than the others for leaving me
here on my own, struggling, but alive?”

Gabriel smiled faintly. “That is indeed a question.”

“I’m through hurting you now. Go on and drink your maypop
brew. It’ll help you sleep and maybe it’ll ease you some too.”

“You added alcohol?”

“Thought you might be tired of the pain.”

“That I am,” he said and took a long draught.

She lingered while he ate and drank.

“Ginny, if you have paper in the house, a pen or a pencil,
I’ll write my family to come for me. They’ll take me off your hands. They’ll
want to thank you, to reward you.”

She shifted the chaw in her cheek and looked into the dusky
corner of the shed. “No paper in the house.” She picked up the bottle of maypop
and alcohol and shook it. It was empty. She struggled with her old knees to
stand, then opened the creaky door to fireflies in the dark. “Good night,
Caleb.”

“Good night, Ginny.” He’d find another way to send a
message. When he was up and about, he’d stop a passerby or walk to a
neighboring farm.

Gabriel soon succumbed to the alcohol and the sedative
effects of the maypop. He needed the sleep, and he entered a deep and dreamless
state.

The moon rose and lit the yard from the farm house to the shed
where Caleb slept. Ginny walked softly, not wanting to waken the chickens. She
carried the bushel basket in her arms. As she opened the shed door, it creaked.
She stopped to listen. Caleb didn’t make a sound. There had been more than
alcohol and maypop in that brew.

Moonlight flooded through the door, clearly lighting Caleb
where he lay stretched out on the floor. His breathing was deep, sonorous. He’d
been real sick, but she could tell he was a strong man. She’d get a lot of work
out of him, even crippled up like he’d be.

Had to do it. She knew what those black toes meant.

From the basket, she removed a chunk of wood. This she
shoved beneath and behind Caleb’s injured foot. She watched him, and he didn’t
stir. Then she took a small axe from the basket.

Marianne spurred her horse down the road, rain rolling off
her slicker in rivulets, mud splashing as high as her skirt. She kept her eye
on Pearl, but if Pearl had pain, it didn’t affect her riding. She moved
gracefully with her horse, her gelding’s nose just at the mare’s flank.

Yves couldn't be that far ahead. They should see him in a few
minutes. At least she hoped so. Even as she rode boldly down the deserted road,
a voice in Marianne’s head nagged at her. What do you think you’re doing?
Riding astride, only Pearl for an escort, and her injured just last night. I’m
selfish bringing her out in this rain, chasing a man who doesn’t want me along.

But it was Gabriel Chamard she was going after, she reminded
herself. If he was sick, she could help him far more than his brother could. She was not chasing Yves Chamard.

She began to think about her pharmacopoeia back home. As she
kept an eye out for plants she could use if Gabriel were fevered or in pain,
her attention was not on the open road ahead of her.

A rider rushed out of the woods, his hat covering his face,
a slicker concealing his shape. Marianne’s mare reared up and neighed in alarm.
She held on, squeezing her knees into the horse’s sides to keep her seat. The
rogue grabbed for the bridle, and the traitorous horse immediately yielded to
his hand. Marianne hauled on the reins with all her strength to pull the horse
away.

“Marianne! It’s me. Marianne!”

She continued backing her horse away from him, furious.
“What are you doing? You could have got me killed!”

“Get off the road. Follow me.”

Pearl turned her gelding to leave the road, but Marianne was
still calming her horse with firm hands on the reins. “I will not get off the
road. I have as much right as you have --.”

Yves reached for her horse again. “Get off the road.”

She could see his face now. He had no business being that
angry. She knew he was an ill-tempered, arrogant . . . Oh. He wasn’t just angry.
“What’s wrong?”

“Follow me.” He urged his horse into the bracken and through
the trees until the oaks and hickories and brush screened them from the road.
He dismounted and quickly helped her down, then Pearl. “Keep a hand on your
horses. Keep them quiet.”

Rain trickled down Marianne’s neck. The mare began to graze.
She could hear nothing from the road. She looked her question at Yves, but he
shook his head for her to be quiet.

Finally she heard harness and hooves, the jangle and thud
muffled by the rain. Through the leaves, she could make out a company of riders
filling the road. Eight, nine of them? Some of them were merrily singing a song
so bawdy she nearly laughed. She looked again at Yves, who had his rifle out.
What on earth?

He held his weapon at the ready until the men were well
away.  When he shoved it back into its sheath, Marianne put her hands on her
hips.

“What was that all about?”

Rain poured off his hat brim, dripped off his nose. The air
itself was sodden and cool and reviving. All the colors of the forest were
refreshed and deepened. As deep and green as Yves’ glaring eyes.

“Did no one ever tell you about women traveling alone? About
bad men? About --.” He looked at Pearl and stopped abruptly. Marianne knew what
he’d been about to say. About rape.

Lamely, Marianne said, “I have the shotgun.”

He blew out his breath in contempt.

“They were just traveling men,” Marianne argued. “Why do you
assume they were bad? I could have - -.”

“You could have gotten yourself dead, you and Pearl both.
What do you think they would have done when they’d finished with you?”

He tipped the rain off his brim and drew a breath. “Look.
They were rough men. They were drinking. They might have said ‘Good day’ and
ridden on by you, but I don’t think that’s the way it would have happened. All
right?”

Marianne thought it over for a moment. Then she smiled. He
was rude, and abrupt, and imperious. But he’d just saved them. Or as good as.
When Yves continued to frown, she smiled even more broadly.

“Good grief, woman. Get on your horse.”

Pearl put one foot against the trunk of a pine tree and
levered herself into the stirrup. Marianne was about to try that when Yves
cupped his hands for her foot, his mouth a grim line.

Marianne hesitated, willing him to look at her. When he did
look up to see why she hadn’t put her foot in his hands, she said, “Thank you.
Again.”

He shook his head, defeated. “You’re welcome. Again.”

“We won’t hold you back, Yves. I promise.”

“Uh huh.” He mounted and led them back to the road. They
splashed through the puddles and the mud, making better time than the wagon had
the day before. They reached the river road and turned north toward Natchez.

Yves rode them hard. Mid-afternoon, they passed an inn, and
Marianne desperately wanted to stop. By now she was sick of the rain. She was
wet, cold, and hungry. She thought about the bundle of provisions from Eleanor
tied to Pearl’s saddle horn. But Yves hadn’t eaten his yet, and she wouldn’t
give him the satisfaction of breaking into hers and Pearl’s before he did. But
her stomach rumbled and she imagined those buttery biscuits, the salt of the
cured ham, the crispy apples. She stared at Yves’ back and hated him.

Before sunset, the rain let up and a patch of blue sky
promised better weather. The road led them to a bluff overlooking the
Mississippi. A steamboat, gay with its gingerbread and paintwork, paddled far
below them. Yves turned in his saddle to look at his bedraggled entourage.
“Ready to stop?”

Marianne could have whimpered she was so ready, but she
nodded reluctantly as if she would stop only if he needed the rest.

She rode the mare over to a boulder and dismounted by
herself. Her crotch ached and her right leg twitched. She moved out of the way
so Pearl could use the same boulder and waited to see how stove-up she was.
Poor Pearl. I should never have brought her. In the privacy behind their
horses, Marianne took Pearl’s arm and turned her around.

“Pearl, are you in pain?”

“It hurt some.”

“Are you bleeding? Either place?”

Pearl pulled up the slicker to see if her side had bled
through the bandage. It must have scabbed over. Marianne checked the back of
her dress for blood, but didn’t find any.  She pulled Pearl to her and hugged
her. “I’m sorry, Pearl. I should have left you with Eleanor.”

“No’m. It not bad. Way I figure, you can’t come out alone,
and I be sore sitting in de house or on de horse, jest the same.”

“Thank you, Pearl. Dr. Chamard will need us, I’m sure of
it.”

They retrieved their bundle of food and joined Yves on a
flat outcrop of rock. It was wet, but Marianne couldn’t see it made much
difference in their present state. Yves took their bundle and along with his
provisions, he laid out their supper. Pearl gathered her biscuits and ham and
apple and retreated to a nearby boulder. Yves helped Marianne to settle on
their rock.

“What, no candles?” she said.

He laughed. Thank heavens his humor had improved. They
watched the paddle boat make its way upriver. What a marvel to have the power
to fight the mighty current. “Have you ever been on a steamer?” she asked.

They passed a pleasant twenty minutes over their meal. Then
Yves turned sober. “Miss Johnston,” he began.

Oh, so we’re back to Miss Johnston. “Yes, Mr. Chamard?”

He did not acknowledge the mocking smile on her face.

“We are about to experience nightfall.”

“I am familiar with the phenomenon.”

“And what arrangements did you have in mind?”

“An inn would be nice. Or perhaps we will find a planter’s
home along here. Whoever lives there probably knows my father. And yours. We
could impose on their hospitality for one night.”

Yves sighed. “You really haven’t thought this through,
Marianne.”

She bridled at the insult to her good sense. “Well, I’m
thinking now,” she snapped. She gathered her skirts to get her feet under her,
but Yves put his hand out.

“Hold on.”

She sat, waiting.

“Shall we consider your reputation for a moment?”

“My reputation is just fine. Pearl has been with us every
moment. We have done nothing untoward at all.”

Yves waggled his eyebrows. “Not yet.” He grinned at her. She
moved to get up again.

“No. I’m sorry. That was rude.” She still wasn’t smiling.
“That was unforgivably rude and crude and I should be hanged for it.” Now she
smiled a very little. “I should be shot first and then hanged.”

“I’d prefer that, the shooting and then the hanging.”

“First, however, let’s decide how we are to spend the night.
I know of no inn for miles either direction. And as for our finding a home to
let us in, I am dubious that we will be received as the innocents we are.”

She looked at their sodden clothes. Her hair must be tangled
as well as wet. Mud all over her. She weighed her appearance against the desire
for a warm fire and a dry bed. The dry bed was winning.