He wanted Randi back. She'd come to him through a replica of this plantation house, but he had nothing similar through which to contact her. She'd mentioned her sketches, but he doubted they would be powerful enough to carry a message through time.
He needed to try, though. With his affairs in order, the servants celebrating their fate with a fire-pit outside, and the quietness of the afternoon pressing around him, he picked his daughter up from the quilt on the floor. Suzette had just fed her, then left to join the festivities.
"Let's go see what Miss Randi left in her room," he told Rose.
The baby babbled into his ear, tugged at his hair, and played with his collar as he carried her downstairs to the second floor. Despite his heavy heart, he smiled at her antics. She was much happier than she'd ever been before. A sad realization hit him; Rose would not remember her loving, unique governess.
"Maybe we can find a sketch of her," he said as they walked into Randi's bedroom. "I'll tell you about her when you're older."
He saw her drawings immediately, scattered haphazardly across the chair. After lowering Rose to the hooked rug, he sat down on the floor and started going through the pages.
He wasn't surprised to see Rose's likeness in many of the drawings. Randi had obviously spent many of her hours upstairs with pencil and paper, documenting the baby's play and rest. He also found several of him. One was very odd, with curling lines and circles that appeared to looked as though she'd swirled the pencil without thought or plan. Sketches of each room of this house did surprise him, since she hadn't talked about those. And he found one that he didn't recognize, which must be the museum where she worked.
The room looked very similar to furnishing he had around the house. The replica Randi had talked about stood in the center. Whoever had crafted the house had done a good job, because the proportions looked very accurate.
He also found a sketch of another room he didn't recognize. It contained a plain bed with only a small headboard, a chest of drawers, several paintings on the walls, and several other objects he didn't recognize. He supposed this was Randi's bedroom, the place where she lay down each night and awoke each morning. With one finger, he traced the details of the drawings, trying to imagine Randi in the room. What he wouldn't give for her likeness instead of the lifeless paper with the lines she'd so painstakingly drawn.
Rose crawled to him, grabbing his knee. Jackson pushed the papers out of her reach, then lifted her into his lap.
"I miss her so much," he told the baby. "Why did she have to go away? She could have stayed here. We're safe now. The flood didn't take the house."
Rose babbled as though she were answering all of Jackson's questions. But unfortunately, life wasn't as simple as a baby's first attempts at speech. What he really wanted to know was why Randi had been thrust into their lives, only to be taken back again. Was this a cruel trick of fate, or the vengeance of an angry God?
If he was being punished for his wrongs, he wondered which ones were the most offensive. His desertion of his family? His arrogance when he claimed he would gain great wealth? His luck--and his "skill"--with cards and dice?
Or perhaps the problem went deeper, he mused. Had he been so determined to succeed that he'd denied some of the most important lessons of his youth? When his family had no money, they shared stories and memories. Until Randi came into his life, he'd been so sure that money and position would ensure Rose's happiness. If he just had enough money, he could do anything. If other planters chastised or shunned him, he would be able to destroy them through the economics of the cotton market. He'd bribe or buy out whatever broker or transport necessary to break them.
That was not the way his mother had taught him to live his life.
And then there was Randi's deep aversion to slavery. He understood her feelings. He didn't like the reality of owning other people, but since he'd acquired his first plantation, he'd accepted the necessity of having slaves work his fields. He'd done his best to be a good owner, providing good quality food and comfortable cabins. He'd supplied more than adequate clothing and shoes, and allowed church services despite sanctions against teaching slaves to read and write.
He recognized the hunger for learning in the eyes of the children. He knew from his own poor upbringing, when books were cherished and rare.
Despite his efforts to make the best of a bad situation, Randi still condemned the practice of slavery. Had he forsaken his ethics to be accepted by planter society? Yes, he had. He'd sought the approval of people he neither liked nor respected simply because they were the ones who had money and power.
He'd worked hard for the past fifteen years to achieve all he wanted in life, only to realize that the two women he'd ever loved--his mother and Randi--could not accept the choices he'd made. He wasn't the man they wanted him to be.
And, he realized with a flash, he wasn't that proud of himself either.
"So where does that leave me?" he asked Rose, hugging her close. She squealed in protest, then settled back into his lap.
With a sigh, Jackson pushed himself up from the floor. The sun was setting. Embers from the fire pit, dug at the corner just inside the levee, glowed as brightly as the colors of sunset. The aroma of sizzling pork, sacrificed for the special occasion of surviving the flood, wafted through the air. The sounds of merriment and laughter helped fill the emptiness in his heart.
Randi would enjoy watching the happy event. If she were here, they could stand together with Rose at the window. Then they'd have supper together, put the baby to bed, and snuggle together beneath the sheets on his wide mattress. Making love would be sweet, so very sweet, like nothing they'd experienced before. If only he could have her back, he vowed he'd become the kind of man she wanted him to be. The kind of man he'd been raised to become.
"Can you hear me, Randi?" he whispered, hugging Rose close. "Come back to us. I'll listen to you now. I'll do whatever is necessary to make you happy. Just come home."
With watery eyes, he watched the sky for some sign. A shooting star, perhaps, or a special cloud. But he saw nothing that showed she'd received his message.
With a sigh of resignation, he turned away from the window, deposited Rose on the hooked rug once more, then lit a lamp. When a golden glow filled the room, he began searching for the rest of Randi's belongings. Perhaps something she'd left behind would be a key to reaching out to her.
She'd hidden the "fanny pack" under the bed, so he got on his hands and knees to located the odd pouch. Sure enough, it was there, suspended between the bed slats. He pulled it loose, then sat beside Rose and examined the item closely. He remembered a special closure, once he'd never seen before. She'd called it a zipper, he thought. After fiddling with the small metal clasp for several moments, he managed to separate the edges of the pouch.
He pulled out a thick, folded leather wallet, knowing this is where Randi would have kept her treasures. He'd never seen a wallet such as this one, with shiny coverings like soft glass that showed the contents. Neatly printed documents with a painting of her that was so clear, so accurate, she appeared to be alive on the paper. With wonder, he carefully removed the item titled, "Tennessee Driver's License."
"Randi," he whispered. Her smiling face stared back at him, so realistic that he touched her likeness again and again. His heart swelled with relief, because if he didn't have her, at least he had this. When Rose was older, he could show this likeness to her and tell the tale of the governess who had loved her, cared for her, and left her after a few short weeks.
He replaced the license, then turned to other colorful paintings of people. He supposed these were her family. Parents, looking happy and healthy. A family, probably her brother. A grinning child. What a marvelous time Randi must live in to produce such likenesses which could be carried with a person, pulled out to view and remember. How he would have loved to have the treasures from his family, but the poor leave no grand portraits.
The sketch she'd made of him faced Rose's likeness in he wallet. She must have put them there just before she left. She wanted them to be a part of her family.
Jackson went through each item in the wallet, not recognizing some of them, but knowing they were important to Randi. The other things in the pouch were easier to identify. Keys, formed into strange shapes, dangled from some metal ornament called "Elvis."
Two tubes of face paint rested in the bottom of the pouch. These Randi had used to enhance her eyes and lips. He brought the lip paint to his nose and smelled the fragrance, then touched the smooth texture with his finger. He tasted the substance. The memory of a kiss came flooding back, and he closed his eyes against the pain. This is what she'd tasted like, another way he could remember Randi.
The sense of loss he felt overwhelmed him as he repacked the pouch and placed it on the table beside the bed. He leaned down and picked up his daughter, hugging her, needing her warmth and affection now more than ever. She yawned, snuggling close under his neck.
She needed her rest, so he reluctantly left Randi's belongings on the bed and walked up to the nursery.
"Suzette?" Silence greeted him. The room was dark, the pale curtains billowing in the breeze. He looked in the small bedroom next to the nursery, but it was empty also.
"I'm not leaving you up here alone," he said to Rose. As he spoke she wet her diaper. Jackson held her away from his body and frowned. "I suppose I'll have to change you, won't I?"
He lit a candle on the chest beside the window, noticing that the revelry still continued. Suzette was no doubt enjoying the company of her friends, as relieved as everyone else the house had been spared.
Aided by the candlelight and Rose's sleepy state, Jackson was able to fasten a diaper around her with a minimum amount of difficulty. Proud of his accomplishment, he picked up his daughter again and went downstairs. He turned toward his bedroom, but then changed his mind and headed back to Randi's room.
"Let's rest here," he said softly. He needed to be close to Randi tonight. Where better to feel her presence than in the bed where she'd slept?
He blew out the lamp. The fire pit lit the night with a red glow. Taking a last look outside, he was surprised to see Lebeau's tall figure standing at the edge, as though reluctant to approach. They'd talked earlier. Jackson understood that Randi had created a strong impression on Samson Lebeau, who had expressed a growing interest in both the people who worked the halls and fields of Black Willow Grove, and, in a larger way, the future of the South.
Perhaps his friend had decided to end his long, solitary journey. A good woman would help Lebeau heal from the painful loss of his family. Tonight would be a good opportunity for him to begin looking for someone to spend the rest of his life with. And since they'd signed the papers earlier, Lebeau would be assured the security few freeman could enjoy. He knew that if he found a woman he loved, Jackson would immediately sign her manumission papers.
Thinking about his friend's love life did little to relieve Jackson's pain over losing Randi. He turned away from the revelry below and pulled the window closed against the night's chill. "Go to sleep now," he whispered to his drowsy daughter.
A feeling of uneasy resignation weighed him down as he placed Rose on the bed, then lay curled around her small body. He pulled Randi's pillow close, inhaling her scent once again.
"Come back to me," he prayed as his eyes misted over once again. But the night was silent, and sleep was a long time coming.
#
"Mas'r Jackson! Mas'r Jackson!"
The sound of yelling woke him from sleep. He felt disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was or with whom. Then he remembered; he'd fallen asleep in Randi's bed, snuggled next to Rose. His daughter slept deeply beside him.
But something was wrong. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the sting of the fire pit outside. Odd that the smell should be so strong inside the house. He'd shut the window against the chill .
"Mas'r Jackson!"
He rolled from the bed and walked to the door. "In here," he called out. The sound of footsteps running through the house sent a jolt of fear through his body. Had the levee broken after all? Was the flood upon them once more?
"Lebeau!" he yelled.
"Jackson!" He heard his friend's voice in the dark hallway, and soon he was there, breathing hard, a look of alarm evident even in the faint light.
"What's wrong?"
"The house is on fire. We can't stop the flames. You've got to get out now!"
"The house?" Jackson inhaled, knowing that he didn't smell the fire pit, but rather the aged wood, paper, and fabrics in his home.
"Where did it start?"
"Upstairs, in the nursery. But we didn't see Miss Rose there. Where is she?"
"With me, in here." Jackson spun and ran into the room, snatching up his sleeping daughter, then Randi's pouch and drawings. He couldn't carry everything, though, as Rose began to squirm.
"Take these," he said to Lebeau as he handed him the sketches. "Make sure they stay safe." He kept the pouch with him, unwilling to risk the precious portrait of Randi to anyone else.
They ran down the steps. Everywhere he looked, servants were carrying out furniture and books, his personal papers and the fine china. The clock in the hall was striking, again and again, as if to sound the death knell. The implication finally hit him; his house was burning down, and there was nothing he could do but salvage his most important possessions.