Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (15 page)

Musette came down the
stairs of the back gallery with Lily so as not to say goodbye just yet. When
she left, it’d just be her again in this empty, quiet house.

"When I finish it,
I’ll save it for you," Lily said.

"Wonderful. I’ve
read all her other books, but somehow I’ve missed that one."

"See you soon,"
Lily said.

Out of the corner of her
eye Musette saw a man moving erratically, like he was drunk. She squinted to
see who it was, then broke into a sprint.

"Uncle Thibault!"

When he saw her, he
started crying. His pants were stained down the front where he’d wet himself.
His face was bloody and one eye was swelled.

Musette grabbed him in
her arms and held him tight. Lily came running.

"He’s been beaten?"

"Help me get him inside.
Clementine keeps all our ointments. Johnson," she called to a man coming
around the shed. "Get Mr. Gale."

"I don’t know why
they had to go and do that," Thibault cried. "I didn’t do nothing, I
know I didn’t. I’d remember if I done something wrong, wouldn’t I, Josie?"

At Lily’s glance, Musette
said, "I look like my mother." She squeezed him. "I’m sure you
didn’t do anything wrong, Uncle Thibault. You’re the best man I know."

They got him to the
cookhouse and Clementine set him down in a chair. She washed his face and his
hands, and she told her girl, "Run get Calvin, honey."

"Lily," Musette
said. "Will you tell Mr. Chamard, and your uncle?"

"Of course,"
Lily said and hurried out.

Musette knelt down next
to Thibault. "Calvin will be here in just a minute. When Clementine gets
you bandaged up, he’ll take you down to the quarters and put you to bed. I’ll
bring you something to take the pain away, too."

Mr. Gale, the overseer,
stepped in. "What happened?"

Musette had to steady her
voice before she could answer him. "Somebody beat Thibault. I haven’t
asked him about it yet."

Mr. Gale crouched down so
Thibault could see him. "You know me, Thibault? You know who I am?"

"Sure, I know you.
Knowed you since you was a little feller."

"Can you tell me who
did this to you? If I can find them, I’ll . . . take care of them for you."

"One of them was
that fella, hair yellow as a buttercup. Used to bring crawdads around here. And
sometimes he’d have a mess of fish to sell – Ow, Clementine," he said,
pushing her hand away.

Musette patted his hand. "Uncle
Thibault, can you let Clementine get a little paste on your lip so it’ll heal?"

Thibault gulped a breath
and shook his head. "It makes it hurt worse, Josie."

"I know it does."

"Here,"
Clementine said, all business. "You let me get this medicine on you lip,
I’ll give you a biscuit with honey on it. Sit still now."

Thibault closed his eyes
tight and grimaced, but he let Clementine smooth the ointment on his busted
lip.

"Thibault, there was
another one?" Gale asked.

He looked at Musette. "The
other one skinny as a beanpole, and he stunk bad, Josie."

"So you recognized
the blond man, but not the skinny one?"

"He ain’t from
around here."

"How do you know
that, Thibault?"

"He talk funny,
that’s how. He ain’t from around here."

Gale looked at Musette
and frowned. "What’s wrong? You know these men?"

"They’re the ones
who accosted me in town."

Mr. Gale stood up and
scowled. "You mean to say you were accosted in town and you didn’t tell
me? Damnation, Musette." He never called her Musette, not since they’d
been children. It was always Miss DeBlieux. "With everything that’s going
on in this parish – hell, you should have told me."

"I’m sorry, Andrew."

"Well, who are they?"

"
One of them
was called Fisher. He had a Yankee accent. That’s all I know."

"Why did they bother
you?"

Musette fingered the
broach at her throat. "I have no idea."

"What about you,
Thibault? Why’d they bother you?"

"They asked me where
that boy Thomas staying. I told them wadn’t he down at the Bickell place, and
they say no he ain’t, where he staying? Every time I tell them I don’t know
where, they just hit me again."

Calvin, a tall slender
man, dark as night, came in and took it all in without comment. He walked over
to Thibault and put his hand on his shoulder. "Daddy? You all right?"

"Don’t tell your mama,
Calvin." He started to cry again. "She fuss at me if she find out I
got myself beat up." His mama had been dead for years, but Calvin didn’t
remind him. He just rubbed Thibault’s shoulder and stayed close.

Clementine said, "He
be right as rain soon as you all get out of the way and let me doctor him some.
Ya’ll get on now."

Mr. Gale and Musette
shared a look and a smile.

"Clementine, what
have I told you about your impudence?" Mr. Gale said.

"Don’t know no big
words like
impudence
," she said, pronouncing it perfectly. "Calvin,
get your daddy’s shirt off."

Once Clementine had
finished and they got Thibault in bed, Musette gave him a spoonful of laudanum
diluted in a cup of water.

"You sleep, now,
Uncle Thibault. You staying with him, Calvin?"

"I’ll be here when
he wakes up. Me or my wife."

Calvin was another man on
the place she’d known all her life. She was grateful he’d stayed when the war
was over. He could have gone anytime in the last two decades – her mother had given
all Thibault’s children their papers soon as they were old enough to make a
living on their own. Calvin had set up a carpentry shop on his Aunt Cleo’s
little plot of land next to Toulouse and made furniture for everybody in the
parish. His two brothers were both in New Orleans, one a musician, the other an
accountant.

"Call me when he
wakes up?" Musette said.

Calvin nodded, his eyes
on his father lying in the bed, bruised and half asleep.

"Andrew, you need to
be there when I talk to Mr. Chamard."

"Certainly, Miss
DeBlieux."

She smiled at him. "So
we’re back to that. Very well, Mr. Gale."

They convened in
Musette’s sitting room, Mr. Chamard, Mr. Gale, Alistair Whiteaker, and Garvey
Bickell.

"Thomas needs to
know they’re after him," Musette said.

"He knows."

"He doesn’t know
about Thibault."

"I’ll go by and tell
him," the major said.

Musette poured a brandy
for Mr. Chamard and hoped she seemed only mildly curious. "Where is he
staying?"

She caught Chamard
exchanging a look with Alistair Whiteaker.

"The fewer people
who know where he is, the safer he is," Chamard said.

She bristled at that. "You
can’t think I would tell anyone."

"Of course not."
He sipped the brandy. "Very nice. Gran Reserva?"

"Yes," she
snapped. She stepped close and spoke only to him. "Don’t treat me like a
child, Mr. Chamard."

He raised his eyebrows. "Musette,
my dear," he said quietly, "I know you are not a child. You are
running Toulouse with the same shrewd wisdom as your great grandmother, whom I
much admired." He raised his glass in salute.

"But you’re not
going to tell me where he is."

He sniffed his brandy
before he looked her in the eye. "No, I’m not."

She crossed her arms. The
others were talking, not paying any mind to her little drama. She could stare
at him and wait him out.

"He’s safe enough
where he sleeps, Musette. But he can’t stay there all day. He has his speeches
and his campaign, talking to people, riding all over the parish."

Chamard knew her as well
as her own mother did, Musette thought. He knew why she asked.

"He’s armed,"
Chamard said. "Let it go."

He meant let Thomas go.
And he was right. He was marrying Fanny Brown. He had his life, she had hers.

"That scum Valmar still
locked up?" Bickell asked.

"Yes, he is. Claims
he can’t make bail, can’t get around yet with that hole in his leg. But he
won’t give up his friends."

"You’re surprised,
Alistair?"

"I am. I expected
him to sing loud and clear if it meant he’d get a break from the prosecutor."

"And you’re thinking
these two, whoever they are, helped Valmar burn out Alfie and Annie and
attacked Thibault?"

Gale said, "I know who
they are."

Chamard looked at him in
astonishment. "We’ve had men slyly asking questions all over this end of
the parish, and all we had to do was ask Andrew Gale?"

Gale laughed. "Thibault
said the blond is the man comes round sometimes selling crawfish. That’s Harry
Shipton. The other one is Otto Fisher, down here from New Jersey to make easy
money. I met him when I played poker with him and Shipton at the Blue Bird."

 "If they’re the
ones helped burn out Alfie and Annie, then they’ve murdered two people. They
don’t fear the law."

"We need to
do
something," Musette said.

"These men are not
blessed with big brains, Musette," Chamard said. "They’ll do
something else, something stupid, and we’ll have them."

"At least we have to
get Thomas some protection. Get him armed."

"He’s a terrible
shot," Garvey said. "Don’t know what’s the matter with the boy."

"He’s not blind,"
the major said. "I’ll take more ammo and he can shoot cans till he gets
the knack."

Thibault, that poor old
man, was laid up, beaten and confused, because two men wanted Thomas Bickell.
Alistair felt anger and helplessness in equal measure. He couldn’t stomach
going after Fisher and Shipton himself – even if he could find them -- and
violently exacting vigilante justice. The country had had enough of that kind
of retribution. He wanted the law to make things right – but the level of proof
required had to be unimpeachable. They didn’t have it yet.

At least Thomas would be safe
in the dilapidated cabin at the very far end of Bertrand Chamard’s plantation. They
had made a party of four to go have a look at it. Weeds obscured the old paths, and
the roof looked like it could slide off given a good push.

"How old is this
place?" Thomas asked. He looked to Chamard with his question since it was
his property.

Alistair saw Chamard had
tears in his eyes before he turned abruptly, "I’ll see you back at the
house," he said, his voice thick. He mounted his horse and headed home.

Alistair looked at the
old shack and back to Valentine. Thomas was less discreet. "What happened?"

Valentine shook his head.
"Bertie had this cabin built for a place to meet the woman he loved most
in all his life. Still loves her, in fact."

Thomas looked at the ramshackle
cabin. "Here?"

Valentine laughed. "This
cabin old now. Built about the time you was born, Major."

Alistair knew who
Valentine meant. Bertrand Chamard and Nicolette’s mother Cleo had been talked
about even when he was a young man. One of the great romances in Louisiana, his
Aunt Adeline had told him -- when his mother was not in the room to hush her.

"I guess she was a
slave," Thomas said. Alistair could hear the disappointment in his voice
that Bertrand Chamard, his mentor, had been one of those planters who took his
pleasure from among the women in the quarters.

"Not like you
thinking," Valentine said. "She was a slave, but she wasn’t Bertie’s
slave. She‘d meet him at this cabin because she wanted to, but finally she run
off and lived a free woman. When Bertie found her in New Orleans, they made a
life together, raised two children."

Yes, Gabe and Nicolette,
all the while Chamard had a first, then a second wife and a son with each of
them. Alistair knew the story well because one of those sons was his best
friend. But Cleo was with someone else now. She’d wanted a real home, a husband
who was with her every night. According to Alistair’s friend Marcel, Chamard
took it hard.

Valentine gave his head a
shake. "What am I doing telling any of this? Ain’t none of ya’lls
business. And ain’t mine to tell."

He stepped onto the
weathered porch and scraped the warped door open.

Alistair jumped aside
when a raccoon scooted out. Inside  they found a dried up snakeskin, a rat’s
nest, and droppings of who knew how many animals. Didn’t smell very good, and
they could see daylight through the ceiling.

"I’ve got a tent you
can set up in here," Valentine said. "Nobody will see it, and it’ll
keep the rain off you."

"Thank you, Valentine.
I won’t be here except to sleep some of the time, anyway."

Alistair stared at him,
wondering whether he appreciated the danger he was in.

Thomas put his hands on
his hips. "Major, you didn’t think I was going to hide out here
indefinitely?"

"Course not,"
Valentine intervened. "But you doing the right thing to get out of the
house where you got women and children."

"Should have done it
before now," Thomas muttered.

Alistair had agreed.

The day after Thibault was beaten, Alistair
wrapped two rifles and two handguns in oiled cloth and placed them in the back
of the wagon.

Valmar still sat in the
jail, but he hadn’t talked. Even if they could prove Valmar knew Fisher and
Shipton, neither the sheriff nor the prosecutor accepted acquaintanceship as
evidence. "My Uncle Bob knows Valmar, too," the sheriff had said. "That
don’t mean he’s guilty of a crime."

And why were these two
making it their business to take up mischief for Valmar’s sake? What did they
care if Thomas, or Thibault, had made an enemy of Valmar?

He guessed he knew why.
He had known men in the army, weak men, who’d follow a bully around, laughing
when he wanted them to laugh, punching somebody if the bully wanted them to.
Like they had no sense of themselves except as the bully’s creatures. Sometimes
they’d been more dangerous than the bully. So even if Valmar was locked up,
Shipton and Fisher could do a lot of damage.

Alistair joined the
Bickells for supper even though Lily had asked him to stay away. But this
wasn’t about the two of them.

Rachel fed them a feast,
everything fresh picked from the garden, the chicken plucked an hour before
supper.

"Rachel, how good a
shot are you?" he asked as she set a bowl of beans on the table.

"Tolerable, Major
Whiteaker. I can hit what I want to."

"With a rifle?"

"Yes, sir. Rifle or
shotgun. Course with a shotgun you don’t have to do nothing but point it and
pull the trigger."

"And you, Mrs.
Palmer?"

"I’ve never shot a
gun."

"After supper, I’d
like to teach you how."

He watched thoughts flit
across her face. This wasn’t courtship. Lily would understand that. She knew
what was at stake.

She nodded. "Thank
you. I would like to be prepared."

After supper, Lily walked
with Alistair to the end of the lane where the woods began.

"You aren’t nervous
about this, are you?"

"A little, but I’ll
do my best. If those men come again, I want to be ready."

"Well, they may. The
Knights are stepping up their dirty deeds the closer we get to the election."

"The Knights? I
thought you said they weren’t the ones who attacked us."

He shook his head. "The
Knights of the White Camellia won’t have riff raff like Valmar with them, but
they no doubt inspire them and even offer some cover for their activities. What’s
more, the Camellias get up to their own mischief." He held the pistol up. "So.
You’ll learn how to shoot."

He loaded the pistol with
one bullet and handed it to her.

Lily looked it over,
weighing it, fitting her finger in the trigger guard.

"Alistair."

He smiled. She had
forgotten the Major Whiteaker edict.

"I don’t know if I
can shoot a man."

"I understand. But
we’re not talking about killing in cold blood, Lily. We’re talking about
protecting you and Maddie."

She didn’t look
convinced.

"All we need do now,
Lily, is teach you how not to shoot yourself in the foot. Let’s don’t think
past that today, all right?"

"All right."
She raised the pistol with one hand and pointed it toward the woods, the barrel
of the gun drooping.

"Wait!" he told
her. "There’s going to be a kick. You have to allow for that. Number one,
hold the gun with two hands. Higher. So your eye can sight on the notch. See
it?"

She took in a deep
breath, steadying herself.

"Good. You’ll want
to be still, not even breathing, when you pull the trigger."

He stepped behind her and
put his arms on hers. "Because the gun will kick up, you want to aim just
a little lower than where you want to hit. You see the gourd? Close one eye.
That’ll help."

"All right."

He stepped away from her.
"Fire away."

She jerked the trigger.
The gun fired, flew up and knocked her back a step.

"I brought the
smallest pistol I have, Lily."

"I’ll get used to it.
Where did my bullet go?"

Alistair squinted down
the lane. "See that pine tree about ten feet to the left of the gourd? The
one with the branch hanging on?"

"That’s what I hit?"

He grinned at her. "That
branch wanted lopping off anyway. You aren’t near sighted are you?"

"Alas. No excuse in
that direction."

He took the pistol and
loaded in another single bullet. He’d been a soldier for four years. He knew
too much about what a raw recruit could do with a weapon without meaning any
harm at all.

He adjusted her grip on
the butt, put her right forefinger at the trigger. "You’re going to
squeeze, not yank at the trigger. And this time, don’t lock your elbows."
He had his arms around her again, loosening her arms, straightening her wrists.

Her hair smelled of
rosewater. His mouth was only inches from the tender flesh below her ear, the
skin dewy and inviting – but he’d promised not to press her. He dropped his
arms and stepped away.

"Now, put one foot
back a bit. Like that. Bend your front knee a little."

She took her time,
adjusted her stance, sighted, drew in a breath, and fired. This time they heard
the bullet thunk into the tree. Alistair walked down to check – she’d missed
the gourd by a foot or so, but she was getting there.

On Lily’s eighth try, she
blasted that gourd into a thousand pieces.

She whirled to him,
triumphant and grinning. He grabbed her up and whirled her around.

He meant to let her go
when he set her down. But once her feet were on the ground, her arms still
circled his neck. Her face, glowing and happy, was still turned up to his. He
could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t thinking about pushing him away. She
wasn’t thinking about how he shouldn’t come here anymore.

She leaned into him, and
he wrapped her in his arms. Her fingers slid into his hair as he kissed her.
Whatever had made her tell him no, she’d forgotten it because she relaxed
against him and opened her lips to him.

"Ah, here you are."

They broke apart,
startled.

Lily staggered back,
three, then four and five steps. "No." The word seemed forced from
her lungs, hardly any sound behind it. "No." Her face was white as
bone, her mouth hanging open.

"Lily?"
Alistair started for her.

"No need for you to
comfort my wife. I believe that will fall to me. Hello, Lily."

Alistair grabbed her, to
keep her from falling. Both of her hands were stretched in front of her, palms
out, like she could stop disaster from coming.

He had said
my wife.
Alistair put his arm around her waist. "I’ve got you," he whispered. "I’ve
got you."

The man stared at them, a
smirk quirking his lips. He was tall and dark, neatly dressed if a little
travel worn. "Come, Lily. Doesn’t your husband deserve a better welcome
than this?"

He spread his arms out as
if to welcome her into his embrace.

Clinging to Alistair’s
arm, Lily opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her breathing was fast and
erratic. She was going to faint if she didn’t get her lungs under control. "Easy,
Lily. Just breathe. I’ve got you."

 "Well, I’ll
introduce myself to your gallant friend if you are disinclined. I am Frederick
Palmer. That is my wife you’re handling."

The man expressed no
indignation at having found his wife embracing another man, kissing another man,
but there was a nasty gleam in his eye.

Lily turned her face to
Alistair. Her eyes teared and her mouth trembled. She still clutched his
forearm. "Oh, God. Alistair."

Garvey came up behind
Palmer. "I suggest we go back to the house. Mr. Palmer, after you."

Palmer gave his wife and
Alistair another look, amused if anything, Alistair thought, but there had been
that glimmer of rage.

Alistair bent to her ear.
"Can you walk?"

Her whole body shuddered
as she let out a breath. She took hold of his hand and gripped it with both of
hers as they followed her husband to the house.

"You thought he was
dead?" Alistair asked quietly.

"I thought I’d
killed him." She let his hand go and wrapped her arms around her middle, a
declaration that she would not lean on him.

But he wanted her to. "Lily."
He stopped and waited until she looked at him. "You are not alone."

She squeezed her eyes
shut and shook her head. Shoulders hunched, she hurried on ahead of him.

When Alistair entered
through the kitchen, he heard Palmer saying, "And here is my beautiful
little girl."

Alistair stepped into the
sitting room where Garvey had a hand on Maddie’s shoulder.

"No kiss for your
father, Maddie? Come here, darling."

Maddie turned her whole
body into Garvey’s. So even his own daughter was not glad to see him. What kind
of man was he?

"Mama?"

Lily seemed to grow three
inches as she straightened her back. She took Maddie’s hand and drew her close.
"You may recall the last time you greeted your daughter it was with a
blow."

Of course. Now Alistair
knew everything he needed to know.

Palmer gave a sort of
baritone giggle, like nothing Alistair had heard before.

"You misunderstood,
Lily. As you so often do." He looked at Garvey, even glanced at Alistair. "Lily,
her imagination gets away with her. At least I have always preferred to call it
imagination. Mad is such a frightening concept." Now he looked directly at
Lily. "They lock up mad women, don’t they, dear?"

What little color had
returned to Lily’s cheeks drained again.

"What do you want,
Frederick?"

He held his hands out. "Why,
I want a little time with my family. It’s been months since I’ve seen either of
you."

Palmer looked at Garvey
and then pointedly at Alistair. "Gentlemen, perhaps you would give a man a
little privacy for such a poignant reunion."

Alistair watched Lily.
She lifted her chin and gave a slight nod to Garvey. "Maddie, go with
Uncle Garvey."

Then Lily looked at
Alistair, her chin still up. Her mouth was firm and her stance tall and
straight. That she kept her hands clasped together to hide their trembling
Alistair didn’t doubt.