Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (43 page)

“You owe these men your most abject apology, Abelard.”

Mr. Abelard looked from under his bushy brows at Marcel, at
Alistair Whiteaker and the other young men. Then he glared defiance at his old
friend Presswood.

“Like hell.” He stabbed a finger toward his daughter and
then, in a sweeping gesture, toward the door. He stomped from the room without
waiting to escort the girl, who followed him with a triumphant glance at her
hostess. 

Miss Deborah Ann was the first to recover from the stillness
following the disgraceful exit. “Mademoiselle,” she murmured, and Nicolette
resumed playing. She chose a sweet, simple minuet to soothe the party, and the
guests began to move about and talk softly. As far as Nicolette could discern,
no one discussed the outrageous scene that had just occurred. Of course, once
they left the Presswood mansion, these same people would talk of nothing else
for days.

A handsomely clad Negro appeared at the door and announced
that supper was served. The gentlemen escorted the ladies into the dining room,
and the butler closed the high double doors behind them.

“Will you take your supper on the terrace, Mam’selle?” the
butler asked with hand outstretched to guide her to her own table.

Moonlight filtered through the scudding clouds, shifting the
shadows among the roses and hedges. Nicolette enjoyed the light breeze, the
excellent food, and the very good wine the butler poured for her.

“Good evening, Nicolette.” Alistair Whiteaker, elegant in
white tie and tails, stepped onto the terrace. A little light from the house
lay gently on Alistair’s pale wavy hair, casting one side of his handsome face
in darker shadow.

“Mr. Whiteaker. Have you abandoned the gentlemen with their cigars?”

“I have. Can’t abide the reeking things.” He smiled at her
appreciatively. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that gown before. You look lovely.”

Nicolette hoped he would not sit down. It would do neither 
his reputation nor hers any good to be seen alone together. On Lake Maurepas,
at a resort New Orleans society ladies did not attend, it was acceptable for a
gentleman to be seen with a mixed race woman. More than a year ago now,
Nicolette had in fact been dining with Alistair when Adam Johnston saw them together.
Only an hour after that, Adam had pushed his way into her house and lost
himself in a jealous rage.

While she recuperated, Alistair had called on her
faithfully, reading to her, taking her for drives through the tall pines. His
courtship had been sweet and undemanding, like Alistair himself. He would never
marry her, of course, no matter how dilute her African heritage. The seven
eighths of white blood in her veins were tainted by the one eighth of black,
and Alistair was not a man to defy convention. He would never offend his
mother, risk his little’s sister’s happiness, or compromise his position in
society. Even his proposal to keep her as his plaçée had been a struggle for
him, a contest of his desire winning out over his straitlaced expectations for
himself. Of course Marcel kept a plaçée, even had two little boys with Lucinda,
but Marcel was a Creole. Alistair was only a second generation Louisianan and
retained his New England forbears’ stiff righteousness. 

Fond of Alistair as Nicolette was, she had not consented to
being his mistress. Many quadroon women saw being a rich white man’s mistress
as their fate. Indeed, many of them aspired to it. But Nicolette’s mother had
supported herself and her children with talent and hard work. With that example,
Nicolette could not see herself as a mere appendage, her days only a slice of
her protector’s life stolen from his wife and legitimate children. Even dear
Lucinda, to whom Marcel was genuinely attached, was about to be supplanted by
Miss Deborah Ann Presswood.

Still, Alistair was presuming on their friendship now. “Mr.
Whiteaker --”

“Don’t trouble, Nicolette. The men are reviling the Yankees,
and no doubt the ladies are doing the same. They’ll be an age yet.”

Alistair moved around the table, into the candle glow.
“General Mouton is pleading for reinforcements to hold the west. Your brother
has collected a unit of soldiers. Did you know?”

Nicolette shoved her wine away. Marcel was going to fight
then.

“He’s asked me to join him,” Alistair said.

“You, Alistair? I didn’t think you would put on a uniform.”

His smile was part grimace. She’d hurt him, she realized. “I
never doubted your courage, Alistair. I only was uncertain of your commitment.
You’ve said nothing about the war, all these months.”

“No. I’ve just wished it would all go away. And yet it
hasn’t.”

“And so you’re going to fight?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Alistair walked a few steps into the shadowy darkness, his
hands behind his back. “I don’t think my courage is so much less than other
men’s, but I don’t want to fight.” He leaned his head back to look at the moon.
“I have nightmares, Nicolette. Visions. Shoving a bayonet into a man’s gut,
opening up his chest. Seeing the light in his eyes . . . die.”

He turned around, his face strained. “How can I do that,
Nicolette? How can I take a man’s life? And for what? To make rich men richer?”

She’d wondered if Alistair felt anything deeply, had wished
at times for more than the restrained, bloodless kisses he’d given her. But
here was real feeling. Perhaps he was poised to make the leap to the other
side. Yes, Alistair owned slaves, many of them, and like every plantation
owner, he worked them through the hot days in the cane and cotton fields. She
knew this. For a moment, though, touched that Alistair revealed his feelings to
her here in the night, she believed that Alistair needed only a little
encouragement and he would do the right thing. He was a good man. He would
reject Marcel’s call to arms and join the Federals instead. She leaned across
the table as if she might reach him.

“If the North wins the war, Alistair, the government will
bring justice to Louisiana. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

He made a dismissive sound and gestured with his hand,
discounting her.

Stung, Nicolette drew back. So he was more like Marcel than
she’d given him credit for. She’d been a fool to think he, a slave-holding
planter, cared about justice. Why had she accepted this man’s friendship? He
was worse than Marcel. At least her brother acted on deep conviction.

“This war’s not being fought over slavery, Nicolette, you
should know that.” His tone was flat, resigned. “We have powerful men in the
Southern states, and the North profits from what we do down here. There’ll be
no end to slavery in our lifetimes.”

Anger rolled from her belly and prickled at her scalp. She
stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “Do you even have the capacity for
fervor, Mr. Whiteaker? Does nothing rouse you?” She meant for the disgust in
her voice to wash over him, to shame him and hurt him. “The complacency of men
like you is the very reason slavery endures to this day!”

Nicolette marched away, leaving him to stew in his own
lassitude.

1. One of the dilemmas Marianne faces is the question of loyalty vs. principle. Her life is made possible by the slave culture. Her livelihood, her fine clothes, her education, her security all depend on those hundred or so people toiling for the merest compensation of a bare cabin and scanty sustenance. Her father and brother, their home, their livelihood also depend on slavery. Yet she undermines that existence. Her actions helping escapees subverts her family’s entire foundation. Can you justify choosing principle over loyalty? Should she have chosen another way to act on her principles?

2. The notion of a plantation mistress leading an idle, frivolous life is a myth. In what ways did real mistresses labor to keep the house and slaves and plantations running smoothly?

3. Adam, Marcel, Yves, Gabriel and Luke. What are the weaknesses of each? What are their most admirable qualities? And whom do you feel closest to? (That may be loaded since Yves is written as the hero, but still . . . I’m very fond of Gabe. And Marcel. And Luke.)

4. By the time Marcel challenges Adam, dueling was already becoming passé. In an era when justice was often circumvented (even more than it is now) by wealth and influence, can you justify dueling as a way to achieve, not just satisfaction as they used to say, but justice? Can you imagine a circumstance that would make you willing to kill?

5. The next three are closely related:
One of the puzzles of humanity, to me at least, is how people who are starving, whose bodies are weakened and malnourished, continue to have children. Corollary to that, people in the most desperate circumstances in terms of hope, for example slaves, choose to have children. What is more sensible, or realistic, to have children or not to (Pearl vs. Luke) in those situations?

6. The Nazi doctors and camp commandants did atrocious things “at work,” then went home to their wives and children and were doting husbands and fathers. Or so it seems. How is it people, like slave owners, are able to be immoral and even cruel in part of their lives and compassionate and loving in others?

7. Many slave owners felt responsible for the well-being of their slaves, not just because they were protecting their investment, but out of compassion. And yet they continued to enslave people, some of whom they actually cared for personally. What went on in their heads that made that not seem contradictory to them? How did they view slaves in general?

Gretchen's award-winning novels, rich in memorable characters and historical detail, are profiled on her website at
www.gretchencraig.com
. Further details are available at her
Amazon Author Page
.
Gretchen also invites you to visit her blog at
glcraig.wordpress.com.