Property (Vintage Contemporaries) (20 page)

“Yes, you should do that,” I said. “You might want to take a glass of whiskey with you, to brace yourself against the shock.”

“My poor brother,” he said, considering the full extent of my husband’s folly, which included having a wife who knew what he was worth.

“Fortunately, I have my mother’s estate,” I said. “I will move into her house in town. The income from her investments will be sufficient for my needs, so I should have no occasion to call upon the charity of my husband’s relatives.”

He frowned. “I am pleased to learn that you will be independent,” he said. “I think you couldn’t be at peace any other way. But it is wrong for you to speak of the solemn obligation I bear my brother’s widow as charity. If you were penniless, I would consider it both my duty and an honor to provide for you.”

It was the first time anyone had called me a widow to my face. I liked the sound of it. I pictured my fate in this man’s house if I were forced to rely upon his honor—the widowed aunt, sulking about with an embroidery hoop, called upon to play the piano when the young people wanted to dance—and I sent a heartfelt message of gratitude to my mother for her sound investments, her excellent financial sense.

“Thank you, Charles,” I said. “May I rely upon you to see to the sale?”

“I will speak to my agent today.” He looked about the room, valuing the furniture with what I suspected was an expert eye. “He will want to make an inventory.”

“I’ll take a few small pieces,” I said. “The dresser and carpet in my bedroom. Delphine will doubtless want some indispensable pot or spoon.”

“Of course,” he said.

“If there is anything you want for yourself, or that Maybelle might want, please feel free . . .”

“No,” he said. “That would not be correct, unless I deduct the value from my poor brother’s debt.”

“At least take his pistols,” I said. “He would want them to stay in the family.”

His eyes settled upon me, full of sentiment. “A thoughtful suggestion,” he said. “I will take them with pleasure.”

My shoulder had begun to ache and I longed to terminate the interview, yet I couldn’t resist one final test of my relative’s goodwill. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to take Walter off my hands,” I said.

His cheeks flushed and he gave a nervous cough. It was with difficulty that I maintained a frank, interested expression. “Manon . . .” he said, searching for words. This was one piece of his brother’s property he wanted nothing to do with. I pictured Walter running across the veranda at Chatterly to greet the guests at the annual ball. “My little nephew,” Charles might explain, while Walter rubbed mud into some elegant gentleman’s waistcoat. “Maybelle . . .” Charles continued. “She hasn’t been well . . .”

“It’s all right, Charles,” I said, taking pity on him. “You’ve no obligation to take him. Delphine is the only one who can manage him and for some reason she’s attached to him.”

“Then it would be for the best . . .” he stammered.

“It would be for the best if that child had never been born,” I said.

My brother-in-law nodded sagely. “I understand the mother has run away.”

“She has,” I said. “But I expect we will find her soon. Don’t put her name on the inventory. I don’t plan to sell her.”

He gave me a questioning look. I could no longer bear the pain in my shoulder. I eased my elbow from its support and winced as my arm fell limp across my lap. “If I have to live with Walter,” I said, “so does she.”

Part IV

En Ville

YOUR UNCLE IS persuaded that we should engage Mr. Leggett,” my aunt said. We were seated in the parlor of my cottage. It had taken me barely three weeks to be resettled in this agreeable domicile. My aunt was eager to return to town, and, as I couldn’t be expected to spend a night alone in my husband’s house, I had come down with her, leaving Rose and Delphine to pack my clothes and follow. I was propped up on pillows on the settee, and my aunt had turned the chair of Mother’s desk to face me. It was chilly outside, but we had a fire in the grate, the curtains drawn, the lamps lit.

“How could she have disappeared so completely?” I said.

“Your uncle believes she is no longer in town. His inquiries usually result in some leads, but in this case he has come up with nothing.”

“I assume Mr. Roget has been interviewed.”

“Repeatedly, though not by your uncle. They are not on speaking terms.”

“Is Mr. Leggett a trustworthy person?”

My aunt sent a dismissive puff of air through her nostrils. “None of them are trustworthy,” she said. “They are the worst sort of men. They inflate their expenses past all reason and there’s nothing to be done about it. But your uncle has employed Mr. Leggett in the past with some success. He will want twenty-five dollars in advance, against the reward.”

“And if he fails to bring her back?”

“The money is forfeit,” she explained. “There is no guarantee that he will find her. He is complaining that we have allowed too much time to pass. If she is, as your uncle suspects, making her way north, she may have gotten quite far by now. Mr. Leggett has retrieved runaways from as far away as Boston, but it takes time. Once she is in a free state, he can’t rely on cooperation from the authorities, though there are always those who will assist in a capture for a price.”

“Boston!” I said.

“It does seem unlikely,” my aunt agreed. “Mr. Leggett wants to know if she has any relatives in the North who might assist her.”

“Not that I know of,” I said. “She never spoke of anyone. Do you know where she was born?”

“Mississippi, I believe. She was from a plantation near Natchez. I assume that’s where she was born.”

“Perhaps she has gone there.”

“I think not,” my aunt said. “She was sold as part of a bankruptcy settlement.”

“Is that where Uncle Emile bought her?”

“No. He bought her from a sugar planter in St. John Parish. Actually, he took her in payment of a debt. He knew I was in need of a housekeeper. She was just fifteen or sixteen, very bright and willing, though she had a stubborn streak even then.”

“She is stubborn,” I mused.

“I still believe Mr. Roget knows where she is.”

I recalled my one sighting of Mr. Roget as he turned from Sarah, lifting his hat to me and walking away. “She told me she had a brother,” I said. “I didn’t believe it at the time, but perhaps it is true. She said Mr. Roget came here to give her the message that her brother had been leased to work on the docks.”

“Did she say the brother’s name?”

“Clarence,” I said. “But why would she tell me if she planned to escape with his help?”

“Perhaps she had not yet formulated the plan.”

“Could she have boarded an ocean vessel?”

“If she were in disguise, if she had money and passed as a free negro? I think it entirely possible.”

“But she speaks so poorly. Surely someone would notice.”

“Sometimes the dullest negro is discovered to have a perfectly good wit when it serves his purpose. And she might not be called upon to speak very much.”

I imagined Sarah, dressed in some borrowed finery, her hair pulled up in a good bonnet, her elbows propped on the rail of a ship, while the water churned below her and the miles between her and the world she knew slipped away.

“You are right,” I told my aunt. “We must tell Mr. Leggett about this brother and bid him make inquiries on the docks.”

JOEL BORDEN SENT flowers on the day I arrived, and again a week later, this time with a note asking if he might visit me. I examined my face in the mirror. The swelling and redness were largely gone, and a normal color had returned to my complexion. My shoulder ached, especially as the weather turned cooler, but the wound was closed over. I kept only a thin bandage on it to keep the cloth of my dress from rubbing against it. Yes, I decided, I would see him. I sent Rose with an answer, suggesting four the following afternoon as the hour for our tête-à-tête.

As that hour approached, I was giddy with excitement, a condition completely inappropriate for one so recently widowed. I had Rose take Walter out to the levee with strict orders to stay away from the house for several hours. Rose liked nothing better than strolling about the town with the poor idiot on a halter and leash that Delphine had fashioned for him. I had Delphine move an armchair close to the settee and put the coffee urn on a table in reach of my good arm. Then I waited for the bell, which sounded promptly at four. Delphine passed through the room to admit Joel, then scurried back to the kitchen while he stood in the parlor doorway smiling down at me. “At last,” he said. “I have tried to be patient until you were well enough to receive visitors, but I have not had an easy moment until this one.”

“I fear you will find me sadly changed,” I said.

He came in and took the chair near me, leaning forward to look into my face. “After what you have been through,” he said, “how could you not be changed?” There was no trace of revulsion in his scrutiny, only a fascinated admiration, such as I had seen in my uncle’s eyes when he visited. I had survived that which we all in some degree feared. “Your aunt told me that you spent the entire night hiding in the forest, wounded by a gunshot.”

I lifted my useless arm by the wrist and let it fall back into my lap. “This is the result,” I said.

“My dear,” he said.

“I try not to think about any of it.”

He sat back in his chair. “You are right. You must go on with your life.” He looked around the room at the fire, the paintings, the vase of flowers on the side table. “What a comfort it must be to you to be back in this house.”

“It is,” I said. “It makes me think of happier times.” I turned to the coffee urn. “Will you have coffee? Or would you prefer a glass of sherry?”

“Let me serve you,” he said, getting up. He busied himself with the cups and saucers, pouring the coffee and milk together expertly and talking all the while. “I have visited your aunt regularly to keep up with your progress. She tells me your brother-in-law is handling the sale of your plantation and that an American has offered to buy it outright with everything in it.”

“Mr. Kenilworth,” I said. “He has come out of the North like a god, possessed of more money than sense and a fantasy about being a planter that I’ve no doubt will rob him of both.”

“Poor Mr. Kenilworth.” Joel chuckled, handing me my cup. “You know, I’m never certain if it is your wit or your beauty that pleases me most.”

“You are easily pleased,” I said. “Perhaps as easily as Mr. Kenilworth.”

“I care nothing for him,” Joel said, “but that he serve the purpose of making you rich.”

“Alas, I fear that’s something even Mr. Kenilworth cannot do.”

Joel resumed his seat, and stirred his coffee, looking puzzled.

“My husband was heavily in debt,” I explained. “Mr. Kenilworth’s offer will barely cancel it.”

“I didn’t know,” Joel said somberly, as if he’d just heard of the death of a favorite dog. He looked up, then back down. For the first time in my memory, he was at a loss for words. All this time he has been thinking I would be rich, I thought. For a moment we sat silently, staring into the reality of his requirements and my resources.

“Fortunately,” I said, “Mother’s estate is adequate. I’m not rich, but I am independent.”

“And well out of sugar,” Joel responded, rousing himself. “I’m sorry to hear that your husband was unsuccessful, but he was certainly not alone in that.”