Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (25 page)

“May I point out that as of now,” Yves said, “no one of our
circle knows of your present adventure? No one knows Albany Johnston’s daughter
is traveling in the rain with a man with a reputation, quite undeserved, I
hasten to add, as a womanizer.” He looked at her sideways. “You know Lindsay
Morgan?”

She tipped her chin up and met his gaze. “I do indeed.”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Well, as I said,
not the womanizer I’m reported to be. However, the planter society is small. If
we stop at a plantation, soon everyone will hear that Marianne Johnston showed
up at nightfall, wet, muddy, and in the company of that disreputable rake Yves
Chamard.”

“Um. Yes, I take your point.”

“So, it’s up to you. You can hope to retain your covert
status by passing an uncomfortable night in the woods, or you can willfully
blemish the reputation required of a young woman of your position.” The quirky
smile lit his face. “Do you require my advice, Miss Johnston?”

“I do not.” She stood up and collected Eleanor’s sacks. “The
woods it is.”

Yves found a clearing far enough from the road that they
would not be seen nor heard. Traveling at night practically invited ruffians to
take whatever you had and leave you with your skull crushed in, so they had no
fire; the wood was too wet anyway.

They had one bedroll for the three of them. Only Yves had
thought to include that in his kit. The ladies stretched the slickers dry side
up and then lay down, Yves’ blanket over them. Yves, well, Yves could spread
his slicker between him and the wet ground, or he could swelter in it but save
himself a dozen or two mosquito bites.

And so they passed a miserable night.

Marianne woke to the smell of meat cooking. She was so hungry
she was delirious. She sat up and there was a spitted hare over a small smoky fire.
How had Yves killed a rabbit? She hadn’t heard a gun. Then she remembered
Monroe and the other men yelling out when the rocks hit them. Yves had a very
accomplished way with a sling.

Pearl slept on, and Marianne left her to get all the rest
she could. Stiffly, her legs and seat sore, she bent over to check the meat.
Didn’t look done to her, but what did she know about cooking?

She put a hand to her hair. Why hadn’t she brought a comb?
It was still mostly up except for those tendrils that would not be tamed. She’d
put her bonnet back on later.

She looked for Yves. Thirty yards away he stood on the edge
of a pond. She crossed a carpet of pine needles and stopped a distance behind
him. He was in his shirtsleeves, no coat tails to obscure the line of his long
body. His shoulders tapered down to narrow hips and long legs.  Marianne leaned
against a pine tree, her cheek resting on the bark, imagining those muscled
thighs under the fabric.

Yves had a handful of stones and was skipping them across
the surface of the pond, watching the series of plops between throws. Seven,
eight! He was good. She and Adam had thrown stones all one summer when they were
children. She could never make it past the third plop before her stone sank.

She walked over to the pond, picked up a stone and threw it.
Two, three, four!

He smiled. “Not bad. For a girl.” He threw another. Only
six.

“Having an off day?”

He looked at her, and she knew what he was thinking. He was
taking her dress off again, only in his mind of course, but she could feel it.
“Stop that,” she said.

Yves grinned, tossed a stone in the air and caught it. “Yes,
ma’am.”

His two-day beard framed his mouth, outlined his chin. The
whiskers would probably be scratchy if he kissed her, she thought. She’d like
to find out.

He reached over and plucked an errant caterpillar off her
shoulder and held it up for her to admire. “Know what we used to do with
caterpillars when we were boys?”

“What?”

“Marcel and I would round up all the little girls we could.
We’d hold up the greenest, juiciest worm, caterpillar, whatever we had, and
then we’d eat it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yes, we did. The girls invariably screamed and ran. Gabe’s
cousins lived next house up from his mother’s and we managed to entertain them
many a summer. Until Marcel couldn’t stomach the worms anymore.”

“But you never tired of eating them?”

“Nah.” He held the caterpillar up. “Wanna see?”

“Oh, please don’t. I’d carry that image with me forever.”

“And then you wouldn’t let me kiss you again?” He moved
closer.

“Absolutely not. Never.”

He flicked the caterpillar away and stepped closer still. “I
haven’t eaten a worm in years and years.”

“Not even one?”

His mouth was on hers. He tasted of blackberries. He’d been
holding out on her. Then she tasted only his lips, his tongue. His shirt was
thin over the hardness of his chest. She slid her fingers around his ribs to
the tight muscles of his back. Feeling him with her
hands, her own skin came alive under his. He caressed her neck, slowly traced
her spine to her waist. Then he spread his fingers and pressed her lower back
against him. She opened her mouth. She would have inhaled him if she could.

Yves pulled his mouth away from hers, keeping her body close
to his. “You know what?”

Marianne pressed her face against his chest. She could hear
his heart, beating as fast as hers. “Um?”

“It’s a good thing you brought Pearl along.”

It certainly was. Marianne sighed. Keep your head, Marianne.
It was only kisses. They don’t mean anything to him. And she knew better than to
think otherwise.

He turned her face to look at the bruise where Wilson had
socked her. “Hurt?”

“A little.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Let’s eat.”

They walked side by side, their hands brushing now and
again. Marianne looked at him from under her lashes. “You’ve been eating
blackberries.”

He laughed at her. “And I thought you were thinking about
me.” Back at the fire, he pointed to a giant lily pad he’d filled with berries.

She dropped one luscious shiny berry in her mouth. “Hmm. You
are
mon beau idéal
.”

“You speak French?”

“
Mais oui
. Was not my own Maman a Creole daughter?”

Sensual, sensuous, seductive. And smart. French and English
both. Yves tested the rabbit on the spit. Done enough. He struggled to get it
off the stick without burning his fingers. Then he realized what he’d been
thinking. Hell. Most everybody he knew spoke French and English. You idiot.
Watch out, Yves, before you make a fool of yourself.

Marianne knelt down to Pearl and touched her shoulder.
“Pearl?”

Pearl opened her eyes slowly, clearly befuddled for a
moment. Then understanding brightened her face.

“We need to eat and get on,” Marianne said. “You sore? Can
you get up and walk around?”

She did. By the time she had moved and stretched for a few
moments, Pearl seemed all right, and Marianne was relieved. They’d spend
another day in the saddle and another as well before they even reached Natchez.

Mid-day they stopped at a prosperous looking inn. Marianne
took a room for her and Pearl to repair themselves while Yves saw to the
horses. The three of them enjoyed a hot meal, Pearl in the kitchen, Yves and
Marianne in the dining room. Then Yves purchased supplies and a frying pan, and
they were off again within the hour. With good weather and the road drying up,
the traveling was easier. And with every mile they were closer to Gabriel.

That night they found another inn. After a luxurious wash up
with hot water and soap, home-made and harsh as it was, they dined on venison
pie and fig pudding, then eased their bones in clean sheets and blankets. Pearl
slept on a pallet on the floor in Marianne’s room, and Yves was across the hall
in his.

Two more days on the road and they began to see signs
Natchez was near. Twice they passed coffles of slaves on their way to the
Forks-of-the-Road market. The unfortunates walked in double file, their necks
in iron collars, their wrists in chains. Yves watched Marianne, wondering how
the sight would affect her. Most of the young women Yves knew would simply have
averted their faces from the unpleasant sight, but Marianne could not pull her
eyes from the black men who shuffled along, their heads bent in fatigue and
defeat.

Pearl examined every poor soul, and Yves wondered whether
she searched for Luke in hope or dread. Surely by now he was farther north than
this.

As for himself, Yves labored to keep his face blank as they
passed the captured slaves, but anger stiffened his body. Some of those bound
in iron might have been sold to the slavers for ready cash, he thought, but
likely most of them had been runaways. Brave men, to have dared to run with no
money, no map, no horse. Hope, that was what they had run on, and courage.

The trail curved here and cut them off from the jangling
harness of the slaves. Only the sounds of their own horses overlay the buzzing
of bees.

They rode on, and Yves thought through how to describe the
scene in the next essay he would send to Rochester, New York. Frederick
Douglass ran a newspaper there, and under its masthead was printed Right is of
no sex, Truth is of no color, God is the Father of us all, and we are all
Brethren. Yves had contributed half a dozen articles over the last year. Marcel
composed poetry; Yves wrote accounts of slavery. Under his pen name Daniel
Rivers, he had developed a following among the northern liberals. Of course, no
one, not even Douglass, knew his identity. That would be tantamount to suicide,
to be known in his home state as an active abolitionist.

Thinking of his own risks reminded him that Marianne needed
tutoring in secrecy. She was entirely too open, and too naïve to see the
dangers. There were people in Louisiana, even people whom she knew and liked,
who would damage her and her family if they knew what errand had led her to
Ebenezer’s corn field. Not simply snubs and shunning. Assault, murder,
burn-outs -- all were possible, and no recourse to the law, which at this point
already favored the slave holders beyond reason, as Yves saw it.

They reached the bustling city of Natchez and agreed to
split up on Main Street. While Yves went to the stationers to write to his
father and to Gabriel’s mother Cleo, Marianne was to find the herbs and other
medicinals she might need for Gabe, then visit the dry goods store. Pearl’s
boots had disintegrated in the rain, and Marianne meant to buy her a pair of
leather shoes, as well as ready-made clothing for the both of them.

Yves imagined Marianne in an ill-fitting, inexpensive frock.
Bet the mistress of Magnolias had never worn a dress not made and fitted
especially for her.

Once his letters were mailed, Yves found a stable with a
full corral out back. He bargained as shrewdly as he knew how and came away
with a black mare without having paid any more than he should have. He returned
to the corner where he was to meet Marianne and waited.

And waited. Across the street was a fine-looking barber
shop. William Tadman, proprietor, it said on the glass window. Mr. Tadman has
done well for himself, Yves thought. Yves’ father and Tadman’s were old
friends, and the son, William, was like Gabriel, a freed man with a white
father.

Several well-dressed men went in with hair over their ears
and came out neatly barbered. Yves considered going in to say hello to William,
but as surely as he did, Marianne would wander up. No need to give her an edge
in moral superiority, he thought wryly. She already had him where she wanted him.
In fact, he was next thing to ravishing her, and if he weren’t careful, he’d
blurt out a proposal. He probably would propose, but not yet. Not with war
looming and his not having decided what he would do in that event. Too much
uncertainty to ask a woman to hook her fortune to his star.

At last Marianne appeared, Pearl hurrying along behind her,
brown paper bundles in both their arms. They each wore new bonnets and decent
though not fine dresses. Not what Marianne was used to, certainly, this light
calico. But she was as radiant in cotton as he'd ever seen her in satin. And all
the more alluring, for he didn’t believe she knew it.

“You haven’t waited long?” she said, out of breath.

He’d meant to scowl at her, but she was irresistible. Her
new bonnet, a simple straw with the minimum number of the requisite ribbons,
couldn’t contain all that unruly hair curling in the Natchez humidity, and her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliantly blue. He smiled, the reproach he’d
been framing flown from his mind.

“Not long. Are you ready?”

“We’re ready.”

“Then let’s ride.” At the stable, he stowed their bundles in
satchels, helped them mount, and led them north on the Trace. Only two days,
Sonny Birch had said. It was hard not to break into a gallop, so urgently did
Yves want to find his brother. But neither the horses nor the women could
sustain a gallop for so many hours, so he tried their mounts at a slower but
mile-eating canter.

In earlier days, the Natchez Trace had been a well-traveled
route for the river men on their return trek to homes in Tennessee, Kentucky,
or Ohio. With the rising prevalence of steam boats to get them back upriver, however,
those men now saved their shoe leather, and the Trace had become no better
traveled than most of the roads in the South.

They overtook a farmer returning from the market in Natchez
with a wagon load of flour, salt, molasses, whatever the man didn’t make on his
own place. It was an hour before they encountered anyone else.

Yves kept his company on the move, glancing back now and
then at Marianne’s and Pearl’s faces to be sure he wasn’t asking too much of
them at this pace. The trees arched over the road, dappling them with leaf
shade, and Marianne’s countenance showed she was game. Pearl, too, betrayed no
discomfort. Admirable women, he thought.