The black swan (2 page)

"Fetch me the anisette, Jarvis. An' fetch over that big spittoon, 'cause I declare I'm gonna need it."

"Don't drink dat stuff, Mastah Tom. It look like watah, but dat bottleful gwine kill you."

"Won' hurt me." Tom took a few sips. His stomach rolled in rebellion.

Jarvis's face puckered. "Mastah Tom, you ain't lookin* so fine. You already won de bambache, but you cain't coUec' if you dies."

"Fair's fair." Suddenly Tom's words slurred, his head reeled. "Got to drink the res'. Made a deal."

Tom rocked himself desperately back and forth to stay awake. He sipped the anisette. Behind the bar, Jarvis and the other waiters whispered. Jarvis came toward him smiling. To Tom the black man's face looked like a big dark moon glaring hideously. He shut his eyes to blot out the distortion.

Jarvis touched him, making him jump. Had he almost been asleep?

"We made a 'rangement, suh. We gwine keep de bottle an' bring it you w'en you ready. Yassuh, we gwine he'p you win dat nigger."

As time slid by, the liquor seemed to lose its usual tang and odor. It looked like water. It tasted like water. The whole world was going crazy. The waiters seemed a-bustin' to take turns serving him, but then they giggled and spilled things. Not a one of them was walking straight. He'd almost think they were getting drunk too.

Tom's real prize was Ullah. UUah, his caramel-and-cream quadroon love. At first he'd just used her as Edmund's guests were invited to do. But he had been her first man. He remembered Ullah's sweetness, her innocent love when she told him she would bear his child. "Only gwine be one man Ah 'Hows give me children, Tom." Her shy humor, her patience, and her unending affection overwhelmed him. Long before Angela was bom, Tom was slaphappy in love with Ullah.

Yet he did nothing. He knew Edmund. If Tom asked to buy Ullah, right quick Ullah would become too valuable for Edmund to part with. Worse, Edmund might sell her.

But tonight! Edmund would never remember, but he'd take Tom's word. And bet your boots, Edmund would ask Jarvis, just to make sure.

"Jarvis!"

"Yassuh!" Jarvis beamed fit to blind Tom. "You ready fo' de las' glass?"

Tom's stomach jumped uneasily. "Hoi* off on that. Lis'n, Jarvis, 'member how much I 'greed to pay Emmun' for my house nigger?"

The black face took on a crafty look. "Ah wa'n't lis'nin', Mastah Tom."

"Grea' day, Jarvis! It's yo' duty to lis'n! Emmun' gon' ast you!"

" 'Spect Ah do 'member," Jarvis smiled happily. Tom shut his eyes against the flash of teeth. "Fo' thousan' dollahs, gold. She mus' be some fancy house nigger!"

Two of the waiters were circling slowly in a dance, while a third beat rhythm. As Tom watched, one of the dancers fell over. The others burst into hilarious laughter, picked him up, and staggered out with him.

Tom pointed. "Wha—?"

Jarvis laughed richly. "He plumb tuckered out, suh. This yo' las' glass."

"Po' it on out, then, an' hoi' that gobboon up heah, 'cause it's comin' right back up. Then you get us in the carriage, so's we can go to Emmun's."

"Mastah Ross an' Mastah Edmun', dey's asleep, Mastah Tom."

"They won't gi' you any trouble." Tom shut his eyes tight and downed the anisette, as choky-strong as ever. He felt as if he'd been hit with a mallet. But he had won.

Chapter Two

The soiree at Pickett's plantation was in full swing. Miss Carrie's beautiful old rosewood piano tinkled accompaniment to her silvery soprano voice, raised in a haunting new tune, "My Old Kentucky Home." She'd be going back to Kentucky soon.

She hadn't been able to make her late husband's plantation pay. She didn't lack the spirit. Though she had tried hard for three years, a succession of overseers and factors had taken advantage of her ignorance and good nature, robbing her shamefully. But for Edmund—who must have been a little sweet on her—she'd be sitting on the doorstep of the poorhouse.

Tom handed Sable's reins to a black boy and flipped him a large penny. The boy stuck the penny into his mouth for safekeeping. Tom mounted the steps to the broad, shady veranda.

"Tom! I was beginnin' to think you were goin' to insult me, not comin' to my pahty!" The Widow Pickett wore a low-cut dress of magenta silk that complimented her black curls and creamy skin. She put a dainty hand on Tom's arm.

Tom bowed low, kissing her hand longer than politeness demanded. His practiced gaze skimmed her small waist and bosoms, laced into complaisant prominence.

He looked deep into her eyes. "Miss Carrie, if I insulted you, may I pick the weapons?"

She laughed, a happy gushing sound. "What might youah weapons be, Tom?"

"Would you accept sweet nothings at two paces?"

She blushed clear down to the top of her gown. "Tom, youah awful! Merton better fetch you a drink, so's you'll have somethin' to hoi' besides mah hand!"

Tom squeezed her hand gently. "Miss Carrie, you're pretty as a hibiscus blossom today. I plumb lost mastery over myself."

"I've taken off my mournin' for the pahty." She cast down her eyes. "I'll always miss deah Calvin, but life goes on, doesn't it?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if you'll get a whole raft of proposals this evenin', Miss Carrie. You're enough to make a sane man wonder why he's single."

She giggled. "If I don't sound too bold, Tom, I been meanin' to ask you that myself." In her long-lashed dark eyes there was invitation.

"I don't believe I rightly know, Miss Carrie. Maybe I've had my eyes shut."

Ross's grating voice cut in. "Wish you had, Tom boy. I was jus' beginnin' to think I was the one makin' time with the lady. Miss Carrie honey, the gentlemen have been ask-in' if you'd favor us with another song."

"I certainly will if you ask me, Ross." Carrie gave him a melting look and drifted inside. Presently she was heard singing, "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge . . ."

"Who won the purse, Tom?"

"Thought you said you were goin' to win it."

"Only thing I won was a bustin' head. You don't know, then?"

"Sure I know. I won it."

Ross's jaw dropped. "Well, I'll be damned!" He gave Tom a hard, appraising stare. "Edmund's not in the habit of losin'. He's gonna have a real blood rush."

Tom said uncomfortably, "What happened to you last night? You must have had a lot while we were at brag."

Ross shrugged. "Three, four drinks. Did you slip me a Mickey?"

"I never did before, did I?"

"You never won before."

"Jee-hoshaphat, Ross! Once in my life I do every thin' right—"

"Cheer up, ol' frien'. Here comes Edmund."

Edmund, Tom observed, looked peaked. "I see you survived," he said heartily.

Edmund's smile was bleak. "The carrion crows are welcome to my mouth. Pfaugh!" Tom and Ross laughed. "You're lookin' suspiciously well, Tom."

Tom braced himself. "That anisette must have cleared my head."

Edmund's nostrils flared. "Congratulations, Tom!"

Tom's heart raced as he accepted Edmund's handshake. "Thanks, Edmund. I'll give you a bank draft for that four thousand."

"Four thousand?" Edmund's eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

Ross said, "I don't recall you losin' money to Edmund."

Edmund had never taken his eyes off Tom. "What four thousand?!" -

"You sold me a house nigger. Sho'ly you recollect that. Ask Jarvis."

Edmund's face grew pinched and pale.

Ross laughed softly. "Son of a bitch! You're talkin' about Ullah, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Tom, smiling. He told Edmund how it had happened. "I kept my end of the bargain."

"And so shall I." Revanche's eyes glittered.

Ross said, "We got to toast ol' Tom for outfoxin' everybody."

They touched glasses just as the laughing crowd came from the parlor.

Tom took little part in the soiree. His mind was already

in the future, when the dancing would have grown wearisome. He endured the gala midnight supper and the final gallantries in honor of Carrie Pickett's departure.

It was one o'clock by the time the three men were seated in Revanche's study. Though Tom was anxious to be with UUah, he talked and joked with Ross and Edmund. "I b'lieve we all had a narrow escape. Miss Carrie looked ready to take up the first proposal."

Ross laughed. "I nearly made her one myself. And hey, Tom, did you?"

Edmund Revanche was not listening. Drink in hand, he lounged in a high-backed chair, booted legs crossed. His full-lidded brown eyes roved over the numerous rows of books, bound in finest Moroccan leather. Mentally he approved the meticulously waxed sheen of the Chippendale chairs and the parquetry floor.

He had made himself a rich man, and he would soon be richer still, with holdings far beyond the South. Already he had begun carving out a foothold in the lucrative North. Not even Tom or Ross knew the extent of his ambition. Edmund believed he saw the weaknesses of the South in a way neither of his friends would. The slave system would not go on forever. One day, Northern fanatics—helped by Southern traitors—would see to it that labor had to be hired.

He couldn't stop that, but by the time it happened, he'd be well entrenched in Northern manufacturing. It would be Abolitionist money he'd use to pay his Southern hired help. His lands would m6st likely be worked out anyway. He'd still have the best of it. Then he'd take up something else. Politics? Governor Edmund Revanche. That had an impressive ring to it . . .

Ross Bennett's raucous laughter shattered Edmund's pleasant reverie, jerking him abruptly back to his guests.

"Hey, Edmund, you heah that? Tom says he is tarred, and wants to go to bed!"

Revanche, his earlier fury well hidden, joined in the laughter. He said too solicitously, "Hope nothin's wrong, Tom. Not feelin' poorly or anythin', are you?"

Tom laughed ruefully. "I don't know how you do it, Edmund. It's been a long night—"

"Now Tom's fixin' to make it a longer night! Pour yourself another drink, Tom boy."

Grinning broadly, Tom said, "Ross, why don't you go to hell?"

Edmund's and Ross's eyes met in amusement. Edmund said, "I'll see you to the staircase."

"Sleep good!" Ross called, still smiling.

At the foot of the stairs, Tom turned. "You'll send her up, Edmund?"

The taller man clasped Tom's shoulder. "I've never left you wantin', Tom."

Half an hour later Edmund summoned Ullah. He motioned her toward the stairs and watched as she climbed slowly, gracefully, her head with its pale brown curling hair held proudly, her breasts and full buttocks moving provocatively under the cotton shift. A handsome wench, he thought. Why had he never thought so before now?

Ross was sprawled comfortably across the leather sofa. "I made myself at home in your liquor cabinet." Airily, he waved a glass of absinthe at his host. "My God, Edmund, I've heard of men being faithful to their wives— but to a quadroon slave? How long has it been this same nigra?"

Edmund shrugged. "Three years . . . maybe four."

"Why don't you give him a different one? You gettin' miserly, Edmund?" Ross grinned, holding out his empty glass to be refilled.

"Tom can have any wench he wishes. He doesn't want anyone else. What about you? Is there one you haven't tried, Ross?"

Ross's face grew still. "Just one,"

Edmund sat back in his chair.

Ross prompted him. "Aren't you goin' to ask who?"

"I already know."

Ross jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "Tom won't share her. But damn my eyes if I wouldn't like to try that Uttle nigra."

"You'll have to ask Tom, since he's buyin' her."

Ross sighed. "Well, I guess I'll never know what Ullah's got."

Revanche smiled slowly. "Tonight she still belongs to me."

Ross sat up, excited. "What a joke on old Tom!"

His host shifted irritably in his chair, his good humor suddenly soured. His anger was back, anger at Tom for

making a complete fool of him. "If you want her, take her. I haven't seen Tom's money yet."

"You're gettin' het up at the wrong person, Edmund. It wasn't me that fast-talked, you into sellin' her. Besides, this is a joke . . . somethin' to laugh about in the morn-in' . . . among three old friends—"

"She's a slave! Property!" Revanche snapped. "If you want her, take her! Good night, Ross."

"Ahh, Edmund, don't be like that. I didn't mean to insult you. Have a nightcap with me. Like you said, she's of no account. Sit down, now."

In his room Tom Pierson was trembling with anticipation. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tight, his heart pounding in joy and rehef. Edmund had given his word to sell Ullah. Tom hadn't mentioned the child. Surely Edmund would realize that if he wanted Ullah, he would want Angela, the child that was his out of her.

Abruptly his mind veered to Ullah. What words does a man use to tell his woman that she was free now—and his?

Tom shivered, glancing anxiously at the door waiting for the moment Ullah would appear there, knowing that with her securely in his arms the right words would come. Somehow then, close to her, one with her, he'd know how to tell her. To him she was a woman, neither black nor white, slave nor free, but a woman he loved with all his heart.

Lost in his dreams of her, he didn't hear her light steps across the room, didn't know she was there until she knelt before him, her eyes wide and love filled.

"Sleepy, Tom?" she teased. Her voice, like all the rest of her was soft, gentle, inviting.

Tom stood, catching her up into his arms and whirling around the room holding her, laughing until she laughed with him. 'Til never be sleepy again!" he declared, and laughed again. His breath grew short as her scent flowed into his nostrils. He buried his lips in her neck, her hair, and felt her warmth against him.

Quickly he untied the cord that bound her shift, and slipped the rough garment over her head. She stood proudly before him, knowing how he loved to gaze at her naked body. Almost reverently his hands lifted her small breasts. Hungrily he kissed each one until the dark nipples became erect.

"Shall Ah draw yo' boots off, Tom?" she asked. It was the start of their familiar love ritual.