Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (17 page)

How quickly despair
became routine, Lily thought. She didn’t fear Frederick would abuse her, not
here in Uncle Garvey’s house. But she worried about what he wanted. About how
he tried to get close to Maddie. But that she would not allow. She kept Maddie
at her side from the time she woke until she was tucked into bed with Dawn.
Lily herself slept in what had been Thomas’s room.

She watched, waiting for
Frederick to reveal himself with impatience or even boredom. Instead, he seemed
quite content to relax and enjoy Rachel’s cooking and the quiet life of Uncle
Garvey’s farm. Not that he offered to contribute a moment’s work in the garden
or the barn or even in the simplest tasks like drawing water from the well.

But a week after his
arrival, a week after Alistair had gone to New Orleans to get away from her and
the mess she’d made, Frederick politely asked Uncle Garvey for the use of a mule
to ride into Donaldsonville.

"These are work
animals, Mr. Palmer. Peep needs one in the field. I need one to pull the wagon
to the levee with my produce."

Frederick smiled. "That’s
fine, Uncle. I’ll wait until you have made your delivery to the steam boat."

Uncle Garvey glanced at
her. She only shrugged. They were Uncle Garvey’s animals.

"You can borrow Rosie,"
he said. "Have her back in the stable before dark, rubbed down and fed."

Frederick gave him a mock
salute and another oily smile.

Lily stood on the back
porch, Maddie at her side, and watched him ride away. She drew in a huge
breath. He’d be gone the rest of the day.

"Where’s Daddy
going?" Maddie asked.

"Into town."
Lily watched her closely. "Will you miss him?" She had allowed
Frederick to see Maddie only in her own company. She didn’t think he would hit
Maddie, but making her love him again would be hurt enough.

"Is he coming back?"

Maddie’s little face was
far too solemn. "Yes, he’ll be back."

"Can I go play with the kittens?"

Lily let her go and sank
into the ladder-back chair with a sigh. Uncle Garvey joined her on the porch.

"That man a gambler?"
he said.

"Sometimes."

"He got any money?"

"He sold the house,
he said."

Uncle Garvey pulled a
chair over and sat with her. "I been thinking, Lily."

"Me, too, Uncle
Garvey. I don’t want you to give me the farm. Not now."

"Well, honey, I
think you’re right. Transferring the deed to you now would be like tucking it
in that man’s pocket. There’s no hurry in my getting to San Francisco. It’ll
wait. And there’s other ways to make this a home for you and Maddie."

"So you think that’s
why he’s here, too? For the property?"

"He knew all about
our arrangement before he got here, didn’t he? Your sister told him. Not that I
blame her. He’s your husband."

"I don’t blame her
either, Uncle Garvey. Frederick can charm the ants out of a honey jar."

They listened to the
sounds of the farm, Rachel’s hoe chopping into the ground, a blue jay
squawking.

"Might be, Lily, that
he just wants you back, you and Maddie."

For a short time, lying awake
that first night, she’d almost softened toward him, thinking he’d missed them,
that in spite of everything, he loved them. But he hadn’t promised things would
be better, that he would treat her right, that he would stop the drinking. "I
don’t think so. I don’t trust him, Uncle Garvey, and I’m glad you don’t either."

"Well then, we’ll go
on as we are for a while. I’ll write Avery and tell him I’m needed here for
now."

"Thank you, Uncle
Garvey. You are the truest friend I’ve ever had."

Alistair arrived that
afternoon, P.G. trotting along beside his horse. Maddie and Dawn came running
out of the barn, yelling. "Major Whiteaker, Portia had kittens!"

Lily came onto the porch
wiping her hands on a dish towel. So he had come back. He threw her a smile and
let Maddie pull him along by the hand to see the kittens.

What was he doing here?
He’d left quickly enough the night Frederick arrived. Once he’d satisfied
himself she was a liar, he’d taken himself off to New Orleans, a city famous
for its beautiful women, and for its brothels. She wondered if he had spent his
time with one of those renowned quadroon beauties. But here he was, looking at
kittens.

It was none of her
business, what Alistair Whiteaker did, but she followed to the barn anyway.

He was kneeling in the
clean straw where six kittens dozed near their mama.

"You can pick one up
if you’re careful," Maddie said. "Like this, so his baby head doesn’t
flop over."

Alistair slid his fingers
under a sleepy tan and white. "Like this?"

"He knows how to
hold a kitten, silly," Dawn whispered loudly.

P.G. nosed in beside
Alistair’s knee and sniffed at the pile of kittens.

Alistair looked up to
share a grin with Lily, but his smile faded as he held her eyes. They really
didn’t have much to smile about, she and Alistair.

Maddie squealed. "P.G.!
Don’t eat the kittens!"

Alistair placed a gentle
hand on P.G.’s head. "He won’t hurt them, Maddie. He likes kittens, don’t
you, P.G.?"

Alistair stood, the
kitten still cradled in one hand.

"You want a glass of
tea?" Lily asked.

He gave his kitten to Dawn.
"You look after P.G. for me?"

He shortened his stride
to walk across the yard with her. She kept her distance, careful not to touch
him. But she wanted to.

"Sit out here where
there’s a little breeze. I’ll be right back."

He held himself very
still while she was gone. He couldn’t let himself feel anything, not even hope.

She came back with
glasses of tea, cooled in a bucket of well water all morning. "How was New
Orleans?"

"Hot. Have to wear a
coat and tie in town. Don’t know how the city folks bear it."

They drank their tea in
silence, their glasses half empty before he spoke. "Where’s your husband?"
he said quietly.

"He rode into
Donaldsonville."

"Are you all right?"

"Of course."
She didn’t meet his gaze. "Really, we’re fine. Thank you."

"I saw a friend of
mine, in New Orleans. A lawyer."

She turned to him. Was
that hope in her eyes? She was stronger than he, then. "What about?"

"Lily, a divorce will
be difficult to get."

That little flame in her
eyes was gone. "Yes. I thought it would be."

"Lily, I know people
all over this state. A lot of them owe me favors. I’ll find a judge, one who
understands, who’ll –"

"You can’t fix this,
Alistair."

He pulled back in his
chair. "Then you’re -- " He looked toward the barn where he could see
the girls moving in the shadows, he looked toward the fields, anywhere but at
her. "Are you --?"

She would know what he
was wondering. Was she sleeping with her husband.

"No, Alistair. I
will not be his wife again. The law may define me that way, but it is not who I
am. I am not his."

He took her hand. "But
Maddie is his."

She closed her eyes. "Yes,"
she whispered. "Oh, Alistair, I’m terrified. What if he tries to take
Maddie?"

"We won’t let him."

She held on to his hand
with both of hers. "The law . . . "

"I am a very rich
man, Lily. It isn’t right, but for once, I will be glad to bribe and coerce any
judge or attorney to keep you and Maddie together, to get you free."

"You’d do that?"

"Palmer can get a
divorce much more easily than you can. I came so I could talk to him today. To
see how much he’d take to let you go. But, yes, I’m prepared to bribe judges if
he doesn’t want money more than he wants you and Maddie."

Every man has his price,
isn’t that what the adage says? Alistair had seen Frederick Palmer only the one
time, but it was also the first meeting between Palmer and Lily. There had been
no evidence of love. Not even of regard or respect.

In spite of the years
spent killing Union soldiers, Alistair was not at heart a violent man. But if
Lily were his wife and he’d come upon another man kissing her, he would have
pounded that man into the ground. And if he’d seen her kissing that man back,
his heart would have cracked. He would not have said with cool indifference, "That
is my wife you’re handling."

The man would have a
price. Alistair would pay it. And then he and Lily would plan their future. He
was profoundly grateful in that moment that he’d invested in steam ships and
railroads before the war. Whatever Palmer wanted, he could afford it.

She brought his hand to
her face and pressed it against her cheek.

"Lily," he
said, his voice hoarse. "Darling." He gently pulled his hand from
hers. "I can’t . . . I better go."

Thomas and his supporters
had put up fliers all over town to announce the rally. They had a good crowd
here on the western edge of Donaldsonville. He climbed onto the back of a wagon
and looked over the people who’d come to hear him speak. Saturday afternoon,
they’d mostly come straight from the fields on their half day off. They were
dusty and their clothes had patches on patches, but they were men and women who
meant to take control of their lives, who needed only information. Considering
the posters announcing the rallies were usually torn down the same day they
were put up, Thomas was always surprised as many showed up as they did.

Cabel climbed onto the
wagon and leaned in to speak into Thomas’s ear. "They gathering at the Blue
Bird Tavern, like we thought. Most of them on horseback."

Thomas glanced around the
perimeter of the growing crowd. Musette DeBlieux sat in her carriage with
Carrie Ann under a chinaberry tree. She should not be here, certainly not with
only Carrie Ann for protection. The woman had no sense. She put herself in
danger, and did her reputation no good, to be hovering around these rallies.

Major Bodell had sent
half a dozen cavalry to monitor the rally, for which Thomas was grateful. Thomas
also had his own guard, four mounted black men, rifles at the ready, placed
around the edge of the crowd. Whether they’d be enough to keep the White
Camellias from disrupting the rally, well, they’d just have to see.

They’d had heated
discussions well into the night the past week about whether to arm their own
sentinels. Mr. Chamard, Major Whiteaker, even Garvey Bickell argued for unarmed
guards. Thomas understood -- if trouble erupted and they killed white men –
that would not help them win the election in September.

But Thomas had decided
Cabel and Reynard were right. They were men, and they would not allow other men
to intimidate or prevent them from acting. If they wanted the vote, they had to
be prepared to fight for it. Even so, Thomas had insisted the four guards keep
their fingers off their triggers. They were not to shoot at anybody unless they
were shot at themselves – mere firing into the air by the raiders was not
enough provocation to shoot back, he’d warned.

Cabel hopped down from
the wagon, and Thomas addressed the people. "Friends," he called, his
voice carrying over the mild wind and the shuffle of feet. "Five weeks
from now, we elect our delegates to the state convention. Once we have our
people represented, fully represented, by people we ourselves have chosen, we
will march on into full, unabridged citizenship in this country. We will have
the vote!"

The Knights were here, as
always, engaged in their usual tricks, trying to intimidate people who dared
come to these political rallies. One of them made a show of looking at faces
and then writing on his clipboard, taking names of those he would not hire for
a season’s work. Two stood near the wagon, their heads together. Now and then one
would point at a face in the crowd and murmur. Thomas saw one black man, then
another, leave the rally after being singled out. Sometimes intimidation worked
very well.

The soldiers saw all that,
but there was little they could do about that kind of harassment.

"What will that mean
to you and me?" Thomas asked the crowd. His complete attention was on the
faces below him now, on his fervent desire that they understand this was their
chance.

 When the first shots
rang out, he was as startled as the people with their backs to the oncoming horsemen.
These were not the ragged scoundrels who’d raided the ice cream social – these
men had fine mounts, their boots were polished, their rifles gleamed. Knights
of the White Camellia.

The Camellias’ rifles
were pointed into the air. The real danger was from being trampled as the men
masked with white kerchiefs spurred their horses into the crowd. People
screamed and dodged the horses, dust rising thick into the air.

A black man grabbed the
reins of a horse and was lifted off his feet for a moment, but he dragged that
horse to a halt. Other men pulled the raider off his saddle.

Thomas leapt from the
wagon, pushing his way to the downed man. If his people killed him, there would
be hell to pay. "Stop!" he shouted. "Hold on – Stop!"

The soldiers were using
their horses to herd the Camellias like cattle, shouting and jostling the
raiders. Through the dust, the confusion and noise, Thomas shoved through the
churning crowd and grabbed the collar of the black man bent over his captive,
pummeling him with his fists. "John Berry, stop, I say!"

Berry, his chest heaving,
a wild look in his eye, reined himself in.

Thomas recognized the man
John Berry had been about to knock out -- Moltrey, the tailor who had refused
to make Thomas a suit.

"Thomas!"

He raised his head, spied
Cabel pointing toward the chinaberry tree. Two men on horseback were charging
round and round Musette’s carriage, yelling at her. Thomas sprinted through the
crowd to reach her.

"Nigger loving
whore!" they shouted.

Carrie Ann screamed. When
two soldiers peeled off from the main fracas and headed for the carriage, the
raiders sped down the road with the rest of the Camellias, hooting and yelling
from behind their white masks. The soldiers followed them, not bothering to
spur their horses enough to catch them.

Musette’s hands were
clutched around the reins as her horse stamped, rattled by all the confusion. Cabel
grabbed its halter to settle it down.

Thomas gripped the hand
rail of the carriage. "What the hell do you think you’re doing here?"
He heard the snarl in his voice, hardly the respect he owed her, but he was
angry and scared at the same time. Stray bullets didn’t care if they pierced
black hide or white hide.

"I am a citizen, am
I not, even if I cannot vote." Her face was pinched and gray, but she had
on her pointy-nosed superior air.

"These rallies are
opportunities for mayhem, you know that! And now the White Camellias have seen
you here, what do you suppose they will tell everyone about Musette DeBlieux
mingling with the coloreds?"

"I am here in my
carriage, come to town to shop. The coloreds, as you so astutely call them, are
gathered over there."

"Don’t split hairs
with me, Musette."

"Don’t tell me what
to do."

He dropped his hands from
the rail, startled by the venomous flash in her eyes. "Miss DeBlieux,
please don’t come to another rally," he said, coldly formal. "I
cannot protect you."

She opened her mouth to
spew a retort, but Carrie Ann gripped her arm. "We’re going, Thomas. Right
now. Miss Musette, you let me have them reins and I get us home."

Musette turned her face
forward, chin held high. With a stiff back, she allowed Carrie Ann to drive
them away.

The raiders were gone.
People began to disperse, except for those around the man John Berry had been
punishing. Reynard had a grip on the white man, who could hardly stand on his
own from the beating he’d taken.

 "Sheriff will just
let him go, you know that," Cabel said.

"No," Reynard
argued, "I don’t know that -- "

Thomas interrupted. "He
hurt anybody, his horse hurt anybody?"

 "Knocked my woman
down."

Good, Thomas thought,
aware how callous that was, and how necessary if they were to get the law
involved. "Where is she? She back on her feet?"

"Come here, Sarah.
Show him."

A slight woman of middle
years stepped boldly around her husband and spat at the masked man. She held
her arm close to her side and already the wrist was swelling. "He broke my
arm, the devil." She spat at him again.

"Then you come with
me to the sheriff. Fill out a complaint. Then the law has to charge him."
He shouted to the crowd. "Anybody else hurt?"

Another woman, bent with
age, and a boy nearly grown were brought to the center. The woman’s face was
covered by a sheet of blood still pouring from the gash on her forehead. The
boy was merely dusty and bruised.

"You three, and as
many of you as can, come as witnesses, come with me to the jail. We have the
right not to be assaulted, and the law will be on our side."

"You a dreamer,
Thomas Bickell!" someone shouted.

"Yes. I am a dreamer,"
he shouted to the crowd. "And we’re going to make that dream come true!
Together!"

Sheriff Paget didn’t seem
surprised to see them filing into his cramped office. Agent Witherspoon from the
Freedmen’s Bureau was already there.

"Mr. Bickell,"
Mr. Witherspoon said. "Are you harmed?"

"Not me, but others
are. You can see we need more than six soldiers at these events, Mr.
Witherspoon."

Thomas watched the man
think. This should not have happened – it was the Bureau’s responsibility to
see that elections were conducted fairly.

Witherspoon nodded. "I
will speak to Major Bodell. In the future, you can count on a dozen soldiers,
Mr. Bickell."

"All right,"
Paget said. "Let’s hear it." 

"Sheriff, this man
was directly involved in injuring these people. They wish to press charges
against him."

The sheriff eyed the
White Camellia. The pristine white mask he’d worn hung around his neck, grimy
with blood and dirt. His face was swollen and his eyes were already black.

"Mr. Moltrey,"
Sheriff Paget said. He shook his head. "You’re a sorry sight."

"You see what they
did to me, Sheriff. I’m pressing charges against every one of them."

Thomas didn’t blink. "Unfortunately,
Mr. Moltrey was somewhat battered when he fell off his horse in the midst of a
stampede of frightened people, a stampede he is responsible for. Also, most
unfortunately, there is no knowing who among the hundred men attending the
rally accidentally rammed his fists into this man’s face. Purely in reaction to
the damage Mr. Moltrey caused these two women."

Paget gave him the eye,
but Thomas had not grown into his leadership without courage.

"That’s the same
nigger come here with Chamard, ain’t it?" This was Valmar shouting from
his cell, the same cell he’d been in for weeks, ever since he’d set fire to Alfie
and Annie’s cabin.

If not yet tried, at
least the man was still locked up. Getting free room and board while his leg
healed.

"Charge your pretty
boy with something, why don’t you, Paget," Valmar yelled. "He causing
a lot of damned trouble. Damned nigger getting away with everything and Moltrey
there an upstanding citizen."

"Pipe down, Valmar,"
the sheriff said. "All right, let’s get on with it. Deputy?" At his
nod, the deputy helped Moltrey into a cell and stowed him on a cot before he
clanged the barred door shut.

"You’re going to
cost the parish another doctor bill, Thomas Bickell."

"Yes, sir."

Paget sat down, rummaged
through desk drawers, and came up with the forms he needed.

"Sheriff," Witherspoon
said. "I may be able to save you the trouble of all that paperwork. This
man is accused of interfering with an election. The Freedmen’s Bureau and the
U. S. Army are charged with preventing just such an action. We will take the
responsibility of trying him and meting justice if that is appropriate."

The sheriff thought that
over. Thomas wondered if Paget resented Witherspoon looking over his shoulder
all the time. Maybe not – he wouldn’t be sheriff if the Bureau’s agent and
Major Bodell hadn’t approved him.

Paget passed a hand over
his mouth, but Thomas detected the beginnings of a smile under that hand.

"Mr. Witherspoon,
that’s the best offer I’ve heard in many a day. Mr. Moltrey is all yours."

"Thank you, sir. I
will arrange to transport him to New Orleans and see that our clerk comes
promptly to take statements."

Thomas saw Reynard giving
Cabel a triumphant look, which of course made Cabel scowl. As for himself,
Thomas smiled.

Musette arrived home
shaken and dusty. She bathed and changed, and still her hands shook. The
raiders had frightened her. They’d shamed her. And then Thomas had treated her
like a stupid child.

She hated him. He was the
one who was stupid. He’d come striding from the melee like some avenging angel,
unarmed against wild men with horses and rifles.

He’d been splendid. He’d
been frightened for her. And he’d called her Musette again. Before he turned
cold and ugly and called her Miss DeBlieux.

She pressed her forehead
against the window glass. She never wanted to see him again. She could go into
the convent. The Ursalines would take her. She’d never marry anyway. Now her
reputation was ruined, and there were hardly any men left to marry after the
ravages of war anyway.

What would her mother
think about having a nun for a daughter? She was a good Catholic. She ought to
be proud of her. But she knew her mother would not be pleased. She expected her
daughters to make happy marriages, as her own had been with Papa. That wasn’t
going to happen though. There would be no happy ending for her.

If she were a man she’d
go into Papa’s study and get drunk. As it was, she sipped a glass of sherry and
lay down on her day bed.

She wakened when she
heard voices in the parlor. Mr. Chamard had come to call. What time was it? Nearly
dark. Carrie Ann had let her sleep through supper time. She splashed water on
her face and tidied her hair.

Mr. Chamard stood when
she entered the room.

"I see Carrie Ann
has taken care of you," Musette said, nodding at the whiskey decanter at
his elbow.

"As always. How are
you, my dear? I hear you had a trying day."

She tried a small smile. "Yes.
It was trying."

She sat on the sofa. He
settled back into his favorite chair, the same one her papa had used to sit in
after supper.