Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (6 page)

Two little girls came
tearing around the house. When they saw him and Mrs. Palmer, they came running,
their little legs kicking up their skirts with abandon. By the time they reached
them, Alistair was grinning and his hound’s tail wagged so hard its whole body
shook.

He recognized  Thomas’s
little sister. The white child must be Maddie. She nearly plowed into her
mother before she could slow down. "Look what we found!" She dipped
into her apron pocket and pulled out a bluebird feather, a glass bead, and a
silver button.

"Show her what’s in
your pocket, Dawn."

The black child was shy,
but she pulled out a cardinal’s bright red feather, a bead to match the one in
Maddie’s palm, and a very small, dead, dried up frog.

Alistair laughed out
loud. "May I see your frog?"

The little creature was
perfectly preserved, right down to the toes. "What a treasure. Where will
you keep him?"

He glanced at Mrs. Palmer.
She was looking at him with an odd expression.

"I aim to keep him
on the shelf above my bed," the child answered.

"And you must be
Miss Maddie Palmer," he said to the other child.

"Make your curtsey,"
Mrs. Palmer said softly.

"Yes, sir. Pleased
to make your acquaintance, sir."

"These dusty
children are my daughter Maddie and her friend Dawn. This is Major Whiteaker."

"Pleased to make
your acquaintance, Major Whiteaker," Maddie said all over again with
another perfect curtsey.

The other child bent her
knees in a perfect replica of Maddie’s curtsey.

"Ladies," he
said sweeping his hat off and bowing, "I am equally pleased to make your
acquaintance." He gestured toward his hound. "As is General P.G.T.
Beauregard. He will answer to P.G., however, if you care to call him."

Maddie giggled and Dawn
smiled at him. He counted himself a great success if he could make one child
laugh and another smile.

"Go wash up,"
Mrs. Palmer said. She didn’t scold them for running like little heathens or for
being dirty as yard dogs. She smiled as she sent them on their way.

An indulgent mother. A
loving mother. He wondered if she would let him call her Lily. Too soon,
perhaps.

"You like children, Major
Whiteaker?"

He raised his brows. "I
suppose I do. I hadn’t thought much about it." He resumed their stroll. "Now
that I do think about it, I am quite fond of my friend Marcel’s three children."

She took his arm again.
He became very aware of his lower leg where her skirts brushed against him with
every step.

When she turned her face
up at something he said, he saw a fine line of perspiration above her lip. He
inhaled and looked away. If he kissed her, if he ran his tongue along the line
of her upper lip – just thinking of it brought the taste of salt on his tongue.

At the front porch she
turned to him and offered her hand. He lingered over it as he bowed. One was
not meant to actually kiss a lady’s hand, and so he didn’t. Both of them were
bare-handed, however, a bow to more informal rural life in a hot climate. Her
hand was a working woman’s hand, yet soft and comfortable in his.

He released it. "Good
day, Mrs. Palmer."

Lily climbed the stairs
to her room. She thought Major Whiteaker had genuinely enjoyed the girls and
their treasures. A lovely man. A lovely, lovely man. But not for her. Next time
they met, she must discourage him. Truly, she had not actually encouraged him,
but neither had she made it clear she was not looking for male companionship.

She went to her mirror to
take her bonnet off and was embarrassed to see beads of perspiration above her
lip. She blew out a breath, resigned. Even in the heat of Louisiana, she
supposed refined ladies did not perspire. But she was not a refined lady. She
had always done her own cooking, her own cleaning.

She knew very well what
the major meant about having a bruised soul. And Major Whiteaker was not for
her anyway. Even if it made her ache to see him gazing at her mouth.

She shook her head and
turned for the stairs. There were peas to be shelled in the kitchen while
Rachel was busy at the wash house, laundry for two more people added to her
chores, one of them a little girl who liked to play in the dirt.

Lily woke with a start,
instantly alert, nostrils flared. She smelled smoke. Yellow light flickered
against the lace window curtain. Then, the sound of hooves in the yard, several
horses moving fast.

She leapt from the bed
and crossed to the window in two strides. Twenty steps from the front porch, flames
crackled around a central tower, yellow and orange and purple lighting the
night, sparks swirling into the sky amid the black smoke.

Uncle Garvey burst into
the room in his night shirt. He rushed for Maddie and grabbed her up. "Get
away from the window, Lily! Downstairs."

Rachel and Peep were
right behind them, Dawn in her daddy’s arms. "I’ll take the shotgun, Peep.
You get the rifle. Rachel, you know where the pistol is."

Lily followed Uncle
Garvey to the kitchen in the back of the house where he passed Maddie to her. He
barred the door, and by the little light coming in from the moon, found a
kitchen knife and handed it to Lily. "Stay away from the windows. Anyone
steps on that porch, you scream! Loud!"

Maddie was awake now, quietly
clinging to Lily’s neck. "Don’t worry, darling. You remember that prayer
you learned last Sunday? You think you can recite that? Say it with me. ‘You
are a shield around me, O Lord.’"

Maddie repeated the psalm
softly, her voice calm and sure. " . . . because the Lord sustains me, I
will not fear."

"That’s right, sweetheart,"
Lily whispered. "Keep saying it and God will take your fear away. Here we
are, see how dark this corner is? You stay put, and no one will even know
you’re here." She kissed her forehead.

Lily collected every
knife she could find and laid them out on the floor where she had an
unobstructed line of sight to the door. The knives gathered around her, she sat
on her knees. She’d heard a woman had no business trying to fight a man with a knife
– he’d take it away from her and use it on her instead. But she could throw them,
one after the other. One of them might even hit him.

Lily heard Uncle Garvey
loading the shotgun in the front room. Peep murmured something.

She hadn’t realized it
until this moment, but her hands were trembling. Fear, her old friend. She
focused on breathing, in and out, in and out, slow and steady. She was a grown
woman, she would not cower, not ever again. If someone stepped on that porch,
she knew what to do even if her hands were trembling.

Rachel eased into the
kitchen. "Come here, Maddie," she whispered.

"Where are you
putting her?"

"She and Dawn be
safest under the staircase. They can hide in the cupboard if those devils get
in the house. And if they come in, they gone have to come through me and this
pistol to get to these girls."

"Go on, Maddie."

Rachel came back and stood
in the opposite corner with a pistol in her hand.

Lily heard the fire
crackling out in front of the house. And nothing else. They waited.

After forever, Uncle
Garvey’s unhurried footsteps crossed the house. "They’re gone."

He reached a hand out to
help Lily rise, but then she froze.

A horse and wagon were
coming into the back lane at a quick trot, the harness jangling urgently.

"It’s Thomas!"
Rachel ran for the back door and flung it open.

Garvey followed her, his
shotgun ready.

"Thomas!"

"He’s alive, Rachel.
But he’s hurt." That was Major Whiteaker’s voice. Lily rushed out behind
Uncle Garvey.

"Here, Lily, take
the shotgun." Uncle Garvey let the backboard of the wagon bed down, and the
major climbed into the back. They got Thomas out of the wagon, carried him into
the kitchen and laid him on the table.

Lily lit the lamps and
then covered her mouth at sight of Thomas’s battered body. His shirt was torn
and soaked with blood. His hair was caked with it.

Rachel didn’t flinch. She
started in cutting Thomas’s shirt off him.

"Miss Lily,"
Rachel said. "I’m gone need a threaded needle."

"Of course."
Lily rushed upstairs for her sewing basket, but first she got the girls out
from under the stairs.

"It’s all right. You
can come out now."

Maddie and Dawn both
grabbed hold of her and held on tight. She smoothed the hair off their faces. "There
were bad men here, but they’re gone now. You’re safe, Maddie. Dawn, you’re
safe, honey."

She led them into the dining
room. "I’ll light a lamp for you and you two stay in here. Thomas has some
scratches need tending in the kitchen and you don’t want to be underfoot, but
I’ll leave the door open so you can see us."

"What’s that burning
in the front dooryard?" Dawn asked.

"Those men set fire
to a post. They were just trying to scare us. It’ll be all burned out pretty
soon and you’ll see it’s nothing but a post."

In the kitchen, Lily held
the needle up to the light to thread it from her best spool of silk, emerald
green like the ribbon she had used to trim Maddie’s bonnet.

"Miss Lily, please
will you run that needle and thread through some of that whiskey?" Rachel
said without taking her eyes from the wound she was pressing on Thomas’s
shoulder.

Thomas hadn’t stirred
since they’d brought him in. Lily got a good look at his face and saw he was
unconscious. Good. He wouldn’t feel the splash of whiskey in the gashes and
scrapes.

When Major Whiteaker came
in with two buckets of water, Uncle Garvey got a fire going in the stove and
filled two pots and a kettle to heat.

Peep started wiping
Thomas down with the cold water straight from the well. He dipped the rag in
the basin again and again till the water was red and they could see just what
was under all the blood.

"A bullet do that?"
Lily asked, looking at a deep wound on Thomas’s shoulder.

The major shook his head.
"Bayonet."

Bruises over both of
Thomas’s eyes. A swollen nose. Busted lip. Scratches all up one arm. Scrapes on
his cheek and hands. A fingernail torn off. Knuckles swollen and red. He’d
fought back, that was clear.

Rachel poured whiskey in
and around the bayonet wound. Thomas didn’t stir.

"What happened?"
Uncle Garvey asked.

Major Whiteaker wiped a
hand across his mouth. There was a slash of crusted blood across his chin, but
he seemed unaware of it. "Thomas was the first speaker, had been talking
about ten minutes, when a gang of riders came galloping in, scattering people,
firing their pistols in the air. Everybody ran for it, but Thomas. He’d been
speaking from the back of a wagon so everybody could see him, and he didn’t
run, he just stood there, staring at the raiders."

"Fool thing to do,"
Peep said softly as he started on Thomas’s head. Blood caked his hair, so there
was a wound there, too, bad enough to knock him out.

"Where were the
damned soldiers?" Garvey demanded. "They’re supposed to prevent this
kind of thing from happening."

"They should have
been there, yes. As it was, they came running at the first shots, some afoot,
some on horseback. If they hadn’t chased the raiders off, it would have been
worse."

"If the Yanks are
going to impose military occupation, then they damned well ought to be there
enforcing the law."

"I agree, Garvey.
I’ll talk to Major Bodell. He’s probably spitting mad his men were not at the
rally monitoring it."

Peep emptied the bloody
water out the back door and filled his basin with hot water from the kettle. "Rachel,
where you got that lye soap?"

"Right there – in a
dish on the sideboard."

"They may have just
wanted to break up a black gathering on principle, or maybe they specially
wanted Thomas. I don’t know. Either way, their aim is to scare the Negroes so
they won’t show up to vote in September."

"I’m gone need a
razor to get the hair off around this gash in his head," Peep said.

"I’ll get it, Peep,"
Lily said.

She found Uncle Garvey’s
razor and shaving soap on his dresser. From his window, she could clearly see
the burning post. Not a post. A cross? They had used the sacred Christian cross
in this desecration? Lily thought she knew all about how ugly a soul could be,
but this, she had no experience with such hate.

When she got back to the
kitchen, Peep had Thomas’s head washed. He took the razor and soap from her. "Miss
Lily, maybe you can see to Major Whiteaker’s jaw," Rachel said.

The major’s hair was
mussed and dusty. His cream colored suit was filthy and torn at the knee. Lily
thought he looked absolutely splendid.

She turned away to collect
herself and gather the cloths and salves she’d need.

"It’s nothing. It’ll
wait."

"It needs to be
cleaned," Lily said. His jaw was swollen and turning a deep purple, and a
bloody gash crossed his chin.

He dragged a chair away
from the table. Lily stepped in between his open knees with her cloth. Under
the sweat and the dust, she smelled that distinctive scent he wore. When she
dabbed at the crust of blood, the wound began to bleed again and she pressed
her cloth against it. "Were there many hurt?"

He shook his head. "Not
many. Everybody got out of the way. And they were mostly interested in Thomas
anyway. They tried to use the lash on him, but he grabbed the whip and yanked
the guy out of his saddle."

Rachel stopped what she
was doing with the bayonet wound to turn Thomas’s hand over. His palm looked
like it had been burned where he’d caught the lash in his hand. She went back
to the wound she was stitching.

"That’s when the guy
with the bayonet lunged at him."

The major’s breath
shuddered out of him. No doubt he remembered other bayonet attacks in the war.

As Lily poured a half
inch of whiskey in a coffee cup and handed it to him, Bertrand Chamard let
himself in at the back door. He stood for a moment, taking in Peep and Rachel
ministering to Thomas, Uncle Garvey standing near with his hands tucked under
his arms.

"How is he?" he
asked.

"Hurt pretty bad,"
Uncle Garvey said. "We’ll see what God has to say, but Thomas is young and
strong."

"He gone be all
right," Rachel declared.

"I’m glad we were
there," Chamard said.

Major Whiteaker nodded,
dislodging the cloth Lily held to his chin. She patted it back firmly and he
winced.

"Be still. It’s
still bleeding."

He gazed into her eyes,
but she was not going to let that soulful look stir her. She was not. She
pressed her lips together and gave him a severe look, but at a slight tug, she
looked down. He had a pleat of her nightgown in his fingers. Dear Lord, she’d
forgotten she was not dressed. Uncorseted, unlaced, her breasts were only
inches from his face. A surge of heat ran through her.

She narrowed her eyes at
him and frowned. His mouth twitched, but he let go.

"If Whiteaker and I hadn’t
been there – a couple of other white planters, too – I don’t know what all they
would have done," Chamard said, "but we – and the johnny-come-lately
soldiers -- ran them off. You know Whiteaker here was a crack shot in the war.
Well, he aimed at a man racing by on horseback thirty yards from him, and he winged
him, too. Never knew anybody who could shoot that good with a pistol."

"Did you kill him?"
Lily said softly. Oh, she hoped he had not. He had enough bruising on his soul.

He shook his head
slightly. "I’m glad," she whispered.

"I imagine we know
who they were, bandanas or not," Chamard said, "Some of them I see at
mass of a Sunday morning."

Lily pressed the back of
her hand to her nose trying to hold it all in. She’d been fine until Mr.
Chamard mentioned the bandanas. Just like that, she could see it all – the dust
stirred up by the horses, people running, screaming, the raiders hiding behind
their red and blue handkerchiefs.

There would have been
children there, and old people, everyone gathered to hear about the laws newly
made and the laws yet to be made.

The major gripped her
arm, whipped himself out of the chair and put her in it. "Here, drink
this." He handed her the cup of whiskey she’d poured for him.

Her hands shaking, she
sipped the whiskey and grimaced. She handed the cup back to him and tried to
get up, but he had his hand on her shoulder. "Sit still a minute."

"I’m fine."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are
you ready to put some stitches in this?" he said and pointed to his chin.

Lily blinked. She’d never
stitched a wound in her life.

The major laughed. "It’s
all right. I thought I’d distract you, that’s all."

"I could try, I
suppose."

He grinned, which tugged
at the gash in his chin.

"Here, let me."
She got to her feet and pressed the cloth against his chin again. Both of them
standing, she was even closer to him, her entire body lined up with his. All
these people in the room, poor Thomas gravely wounded, and still she felt aware
of every inch of her skin and his, of the heated air in the inches between
them.

"I too was graced
with a flaming cross," Chamard remarked.

"Good for you,"
Uncle Garvey said with a grin. Then he sobered. "What about our Miss
DeBlieux? They leave her a cross, too?"

"No. Don’t know why
not, her teaching Negroes to read like she has. I left Valentine with her. I’ll
go back to her in a little bit."

The bleeding had stopped
in the major’s chin. Lily didn’t know whether it needed stitches or not. Rachel
would decide.

"I need to see to
the children," Lily said. She handed the major the bloody cloth. "Keep
that pressed against your chin a little longer."

"Yes, ma’am."

She found Dawn and Maddie
curled up together under the table. Asleep. The night was warm and the hum of
voices in the kitchen must have lulled them into comfort, into security again.
She was glad, but it was going to be a task to get the two of them to bed.