Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (3 page)

“Need help with your tignon,
cherie
?” Cleo leaned in the door.

“I’ve done it, Maman. What do you think?”

“You’re going to smell like smoke. And such a pretty dress.”

“Maman,” Nicolette breathed. She’d heard it all before.

She stabbed her smoke out in the ash tray and grabbed up her
shawl. “Don’t wait up.”

Downstairs, Nicolette called out for William. A burly black
man emerged from the kitchen, his left eye milky brown and useless. A wide
scar, still pink and angry, scored his face from brow to opposite jaw, cutting
across his nose. He had been an intractable presence in the cane fields,
continuously defying the overseer in spite of shortened rations and brutal
whippings. At last, in frustrated fury, the overseer had raised his whip and
slashed it across William’s face.

The man had come to Nicolette when Marcel arrived one
afternoon and announced he had a surprise for her. Nicolette had expected a
packet of hair ribbons or some trinket in a little box. He still treated her as
if she were a child. But Marcel had led her and Cleo to the back courtyard
where this scarred man waited.

Involuntarily, Nicolette had put a hand to her heart at
sight of his face. My God, she’d thought. What had been done to the poor man’s
face? Then she’d realized: Marcel’s gift was this man. No. Surely Marcel would
not --

“This is William. He’s big, he’s strong, and he’s
intelligent for a black.” Marcel handed her a folded document. William’s
papers.

How could he have eaten at Maman’s table countless times,
have argued with Nicolette relentlessly about liberty, and still believe she
could own another human being? How could he be so thick-headed!

“Now you’re performing on your own, you’re out late. Alone.
And that’s madness. You take William with you from now on.”

She forced herself to be calm. “Marcel, I don’t want a
slave.” She handed the document back to him.

Maddeningly, Marcel simply handed it to Cleo.

“You aren’t expected to work him half to death and then whip
him on Sundays, Nikki. Just keep him with you, that’s all.”

Nicolette fisted her hands, ready to erupt. “I told you -- ”

“Thank you, Marcel,” Cleo interjected. “You’re very kind to
think of Nicolette’s safety.” She put her hand on his arm. “You’re a good
brother.”

Nicolette opened her mouth to argue, furious with her mother
for taking his side, with Marcel for disregarding her express wishes. But Cleo
shot her a look that said hush, and then her mother darted her gaze to the
black man standing mutely before them.

Nicolette was as guilty as Marcel, talking about the man as
if he were invisible. She looked at him, truly looked, and saw a proud man, his
chin up, his gaze straight ahead. A man who deserved a better life than he’d
had in the fields.

He would be better off with her. Far better off than being
with an owner who saw a black man as God’s gift to him for being born white.

She’d been too quick to take offense. She often was these
days. Marcel had probably saved the man’s life, buying him away from that
place.

“All right.”

Marcel’s grin was insufferable. “Thank you. Now, Nicolette,
William is to be your shadow. The war will come to us here in Louisiana, sooner
or later, and you’re going to need protection.”

So Nicolette and William had forged an alliance. He worked
during the day doing the jobs a one-eyed man could do, and he pocketed what he
made. In the evenings, in exchange for room and board, he kept up the yard, saw
to the chickens and escorted Nicolette to and from her engagements. He might
have only one eye, but ruffians chose easier marks when they saw the coal black
giant marked with the tattoos of an African warrior.

William went into the streets to whistle up a conveyance and
returned almost at once. “It been raining, missy. You best let me lift you into
the carriage.”

“There’s the board over the gutter, William. It’s not necessary.”

Ignoring her protest, he swept her into his arms. Nicolette
instantly drew into herself, her body taut and trembling. She’d told him not
to, dammit. He’d just grabbed her up. She hadn’t had time to prepare herself.

She squeezed her eyes closed against a vision of herself
lying on the floor of the cottage at Lake Maurepas, curled into the crumpled
heap of skirt and crinolines.

William sat her gently down in the cabriolet. “Now settle
down, missy. You just breathe in and out real big and let it go. I ain’t hurt
you none.”

Her voice trembled with anger. “I’ve told you, don’t grab at
me.”

William drew up to his full height. “Yes’m, missy.”

Nicolette’s lips pressed into a white line. She knew it was
unreasonable to expect never to be touched, but she couldn’t help it. She’d
felt powerless when William picked her up, powerless and weak. She passed her
hand over her eyes. Tomorrow, she would make him a pudding as a peace offering.
She’d put coconut in it, the way he liked it. He’d forgive her, again.

The cabriolet moved on through the Vieux Carré, each
streetlight casting an island of light in the long dark stretches where
brigands waited for the incautious. But she had William and his stout club. She
willed herself to relax. New Orleans could be lovely in the evenings. Gas
lights from the upper galleries twinkled like yellow stars in the puddles on
the street. Jasmine and roses perfumed the air.

Here in the shadowed streets, Nicolette had no need to hold
her head at an arrogant angle, to sing and preen for an audience, to pretend to
Maman and all her family that she was the same Nikki she had been before Adam
came into her life. For now, she could simply be.

At the Presswood mansion, the butler’s boy ushered her
inside. The cypress pocket doors were open between the two parlors. The upper
walls were covered in green damask, the mahogany furniture shone softly.
Nicolette took her place at the carved Chickering and spread her music on the
piano. Admiring the fine tone and the responsive keys, she began with a soft
minuet, something that wouldn’t distract the guests. As Nicolette played, she
discreetly watched the ladies and gentlemen arrive. Miss Presswood wore an
enormous skirt, the latest fashion, so large it made her seem to float across
the floor. Her cheeks were feverishly pink with excitement. A fairy-tale
princess impatient for her beloved, Nicolette thought.

Ah, the Betrothed. Marcel entered the parlor with a relaxed,
confident gait, assured of his welcome wherever he went. It was part of his
birthright. White. Male. Wealthy. Why would he not be confident and at ease?

When Miss Deborah Ann rushed to greet him with both hands
outstretched, Nicolette switched to a bawdy drinking song about avid young women,
but played it softly and slowly as if it were merely a ballad. Only Marcel was
likely to notice or to take her meaning. Yes. He raised his head from kissing
Miss Presswood’s hand to give Nicolette a quick look with an arched brow, an
amused glint in his eye.

Knowing that would be the only acknowledgment of his
tainted sister tonight, Nicolette yielded to a little streak of meanness
imagining the cosseted Miss Presswood’s discomfort if she were to grasp the
connection. Nicolette had nothing against Miss Presswood herself, other than
that she stood for the usual proud, smug, thoughtless girls of her class. But
oh, how delicious the revelation would be: Miss Deborah Ann Presswood’s
debonair fiancé, and the hired colored help, of one family!

Wasn’t she in a vinegar mood. She had no cause for it. She
loved her brother, and he doted on her. Miss Presswood paid her well, and she
had this lovely piano to enjoy. Behave, she told herself. She drew in a deep
breath and concentrated on the sweet tones of the Chickering.

The guests mingled, kissing cheeks and admiring gowns as
they waited for supper to be called. The room looked as though it were graced
with a dozen silk butterflies as the ladies fluttered their fans. According to
the code, a fluttering fan indicated the young lady encouraged a gentleman’s
advances. An ardent gathering, then, Nicolette mused, smiling to herself, and
began a more sensual, teasing number. The evening might be entertaining after
all. The party’s attention would not be on her. She could observe the elite
carrying on as though their city had not been overrun by the enemy.

A young woman with sausage curls hanging over each ear
fanned away at Alistair Whiteaker. She knew Alistair would rather be in the
library with a book than flirting with a belle. Just the same, he’d probably
end up proposing to someone very like this girl. She hoped for his sake that
he’d choose someone less irritating. The unfortunate girl’s voice might have
been quite effective at calling chickens, but the over-eager twang did not
please in the drawing room. In her rustling taffeta, the girl minced across the
parlor to join Marcel. Nicolette noted the fluttering fan as she spoke, gazing
up at him with wide eyes.

Marcel stiffened. He said something Nicolette couldn’t hear,
but she saw his lips form the words
Miss
Presswood
.

The girl might have been assaulted by an icy breeze the way
she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She pivoted, and blushing
furiously, rejoined her innocent friends seated like a bank of flowers on the
sofas. Nicolette was wild to know what the girl said to produce such a cold,
dismissive nod from Marcel. She’d weasel it out of him next time she saw him.

The same unlovely, peevish voice cut through the general
conversation. “I cannot think why there are any young men left in New Orleans.
I could never accept a man who refuses to carry a saber, a man who declines to
wear our dear Confederate gray.”

Instantly, the room silenced. Several very young men, clad
in their black tails and white ties, flushed scarlet and stared at their highly
polished shoes.

Nicolette’s hands of their own accord fell to her lap. She’d
never heard such insulting remarks in fine company. The girl’s father stood. No
doubt embarrassed by his daughter’s remark, he would surely rebuke her and take
her home. But when he broke the horrified silence, it was not to chide his
daughter.

Righteousness drew him to his full, quite modest height.
“Indeed, my dear, you are quite right,” he declared. “Every able-bodied son of
Louisiana should be defending her against these damned Yankee invaders!”

Mr. Presswood’s face bespoke gathering thunder clouds.
Ladies whispered to one another behind their fans.

“There are men with traitorous connections in this very
room!” the father brayed, stiffening his sanctimonious backbone. He turned
directly to Marcel. “Where is your brother, Chamard? Writing anti-Southern
tracts as we speak, aiding the enemy?”

Marcel’s brows drew together, his face darkening. At sight
of his mouth setting into a tight slash, Nicolette rose to her feet, afraid
Marcel was going to call the man out. As unfashionable as dueling had become,
her brother had certainly not renounced it. The man had no idea how dangerous
Marcel was.

Mr. Presswood, a vein pulsing at his temple, attempted to
take control of his parlor. “Abelard, that is quite enough. I would ask you to
consider you are in my home, insulting my guests -- ”

“I will answer him, Mr. Presswood, if you please,” Marcel
said.

Miss Deborah Ann’s hand clutched at his arm, her eyes
pleading with him. Nicolette hoped she could restrain him, for no man had ever
offered such brazen insults to a Chamard and walked away.

Marcel’s body seemed relaxed if one did not notice the fire
in his eye. In a cool, deadly voice, he addressed the insult. “My brother Yves,
Mr. Abelard, has my greatest respect. He had a difficult choice to make. It is
not my choice, nor my father’s, but he has followed his conscience. I admire a
man of integrity, of whatever conviction. Do you not?”

“No, sir, I do not,” Abelard declared hotly. “He’s a traitor
to Louisiana, and there’s no white-washing it!”

Mr. Whiteaker, dear gentle Alistair, stepped between the two
men. “Perhaps your remarks might be more appropriate, Mr. Abelard,” he said,
his voice mild and soothing, “if you confined them to those gentlemen who still
consider themselves Southerners, and who are here to defend themselves.”

“Well, Whiteaker, here you are, you and Chamard, in your
coat and tie, by God, when good men in Confederate gray are fighting and
dying!”

Mr. Presswood asserted himself. “Abelard, you would do well
to know what you are talking about before you open your mouth in another man’s
home. Monsieur Chamard is not in uniform, but even you would have to admit that
raising $20,000 for President Davis’ coffers in the last twelve months is a
more important service to the Confederacy than adding another uniform to the
ranks.”

Mr. Presswood pointed a finger at his guest. “Furthermore,
sir, the iron foundry which has so patriotically been building ships and
machines for our cause belongs to Marcel Chamard. Perhaps you did not know that
Marcel personally saw to its being sabotaged before the Union forces
confiscated it. A very grand sacrifice, indeed.”

Abelard’s face looked like a boiled crawdad. Nicolette
feared she was about to witness a fit of apoplexy. She looked to the daughter
to calm him, but she remained on the edge of the confrontation she had
instigated, her posture a curious mix of chin up and eyes down with a slight
smirk on her lips.

“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.