“And always remember,” Twyla concluded with a firm hug as she attempted to blink away her own tears, “God loves you, and so do I.”
And, as her mother held her tightly, Anjele silently avowed, “Wherever you are, Gator, I hope you can feel how much I love you.”
Brett felt a stabbing chill. He shook himself, thought it ridiculous to be cold on the sultry August day, and figured it was some kind of reaction to the wounds on his back. Some of them were deep and would be awhile healing.
He went to the railing and stared out at the muddy, rolling river. How like his own life, he thought. Recklessly going along, dirtied by stupid mistakes. Like falling in love. Never again, he vowed for maybe the thousandth time since that fateful night. He’d make no promise to a woman beyond pleasuring her in bed. Where love was concerned, his heart had turned to stone.
Another passenger on the packet stepped up to the railing. Amiably, he asked, “Where you be headed, friend?”
Brett mumbled he wasn’t sure.
The stranger placed his hand on Brett’s shoulder in a friendly gesture but withdrew it when Brett shot him an icy glare. “Well, I was wondering,” he said, “if you might be looking for a job.”
Brett shrugged. He figured he’d wind up going back to sea.
The stranger persisted. “This job would pay well. Allow me to introduce myself. Gilbert Samuels. St. Louis.”
He held out his hand. Brett merely nodded. He was about to walk away.
“I work for a company that’s starting up a stagecoach line to take mail out west. From Missouri all the way to California. It’s going to be rugged and dangerous, and that’s why we’re paying top wages. You look like a strong and courageous man, and you might be just what we’re looking for.”
Brett felt a spark of interest. Missouri to California. Virgin country. Rough and wild. A challenge. Good pay. But, most of all, a chance to forget while trying to stay alive. What more could he ask for at such a miserable time in his life? With a crooked smile, he suggested, “Let’s have a drink and talk about it, mister.”
He headed for the saloon, the stranger eagerly following on his heels.
Chapter Eleven
England
1862
Miss Deagon
walked into the room.
She was holding an envelope, which she kept pressed to her bosom as she took her place behind the walnut desk.
Anjele had been dreading the meeting with the headmistress. Swallowing hard, she began, “Miss Deagon, I want to apologize for what happened. I know I wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen after hours, but some of us were hungry, and it was just a lark, really. And I had no idea that cake was for your tea this afternoon. I thought it was leftover. Seems I’m always in trouble, and I’m truly sorry. I only have a few months left here, and—”
“You may have longer than that.” Miss Deagon fingered the envelope thoughtfully.
Anjele was stunned she could even consider such a horrible possibility. “What are you talking about? I’m going home in a few months. It’s understood. My parents are expecting me. Surely you won’t try to keep me here as punishment. They’d never allow it.” She leaned forward to clutch the edge of the desk.
Miss Deagon sighed and turned in her chair to gaze out the window at the gray, depressing day. The very last thing she wanted to do was keep Anjele Sinclair at her school one hour more than necessary. Already, the girl had been in her charge longer than was customary, but her parents were quite wealthy and had been willing to pay the price to board her. Still, Miss Deagon had been counting the days till it was time for her to leave. Anjele’s independence undermined the school’s strict code of decorum. Her indomitable spirit served as a beacon of inspiration to other girls to resist obedience.
Yes, she had been truly looking forward to her departure. Still, she did not like having to be the one to break the terrible news. Wanting to ease into it, she began by reminding the girl, “There is a terrible war going on in your country.”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with your implying I have to stay here?”
Miss Deagon continued to hedge. “The latest I heard was that it’s feared New Orleans may be attacked.”
“My father wrote me about that,” Anjele said stiffly. “He said President Davis is worried because the Yankees are now on an island off the coast of Mississippi, and there’s talk they might attack either New Orleans or Mobile, but we’ve got troops ready to defend both places, and I’m not really worried. In fact, I’m anxious to get home and be with my family and help fight for BelleClair, if need be.”
Miss Deagon winced at the disgusting thought of one of her young ladies engaged in combat with anyone for any reason.
“Queen Victoria has said our country will maintain neutrality,” she remarked. Anything to stall, while she carefully framed what needed to be said.
Anjele knew all that. Probably knew more about the war than Miss Deagon, because her father wrote often. Exasperated, she pressed, “Would you please tell me what’s going on here?”
With a resigned sigh, the headmistress turned to face her once more. “Yes, I—”
“Miss Deagon.” The door opened and Miss Maples apologetically peered in to interrupt, “I am so very sorry, but there’s a matter that needs your attention. One of the cooks has cut her hand rather badly in the kitchen, and the other workers are hysterical. Can you come, please?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Miss Deagon rose and rushed out.
Wearily, Anjele slumped back in the chair, with no choice but to wait longer to hear what her fate would be. But if Miss Deagon thought she was going to punish her by keeping her here, she was wrong. Anjele knew she’d run away if need be.
She thought back to last year, when her parents had come to England for a brief visit. Her father had described how all of New Orleans was reverberating with the question uppermost in all Americans’ minds—whether Southern states would secede from the Union. And he, like all the other planters, as well as brokers, debated as to whether they should sell their crops immediately at a good profit or hold cotton and sugarcane for the higher prices they would surely command in the future.
Shortly after they’d returned home, secession did indeed begin, with Louisiana the sixth state to pull out in January, 1861. Her father wrote he’d been involved in helping to secure all United States property, and, by spring, the city of New Orleans was like a garrison. Encampments appeared, and the air was one of martial splendor and holiday festivities. Yet, despite all the preparations, and even after the firing on Fort Sumter, he felt war was still far away.
Then came his letter telling how Ship Island, Mississippi, had been seized by the Union navy, which meant the blockade of Southern ports was tightening. However, blockade runners, he said, still managed to sail into the crescent city about once a week, and when one was sighted, everyone crowded the levees to see what had been smuggled in. And even though prices were exorbitant, her mother wrote she didn’t hesitate to pay them for a new pair of soft leather slippers from France or fine silk for a dress.
As for food, there was no real shortage yet, but other items like glass canning jars were impossible to find. Supplies from Northern factories had been cut off and none were being made in the South.
In the last communication received from her father, written in early February, he’d reported that things were becoming increasingly tense. Some slave owners reported rumblings of discontent and threats of revolt by various groups of slaves, especially among those who’d been volunteered by their masters to work on fortifications. Some had even run away. But he was proud to report BelleClair’s slaves were content to stay right where they were. While some probably did dream of freedom, they feared the unknown as opposed to the security they now enjoyed.
Anjele wasn’t the least bit afraid to return with the war moving ever closer to her homeland. There was nothing she could do, but at least she’d be there in case there was. Most of all, she was more than ready to leave her depressing surroundings.
On a positive note, she was pleased to reflect on how she wouldn’t be going back to marry Raymond Duval. The apologetic letter came from her mother only a few months after Anjele’s arrival in England. Raymond and Claudia had been quietly married in New Orleans and were living with his family. Twyla hoped Anjele would not be bitter. Claudia had always loved him, she’d written, and Raymond had obviously realized he also loved her.
Anjele had laughed over such a ludicrous theory. Claudia had no doubt wasted little time in relating the scandalous story of Anjele’s escapades to Raymond. And of course, he was hurt and angry and allowed himself to be cajoled and manipulated into marrying her.
God help him, Anjele thought. He’d done nothing to deserve such a fate.
Her mother had urged her to encourage the attention of other young men. Miss Deagon was always hosting tea dances to expose her girls to social situations with the opposite sex. Twyla had said both she and Elton would be pleased if Anjele married a distinguished European, but Anjele scoffed at such an idea. Her dream was not to marry but to return to BelleClair.
The door opened, and Miss Deagon re-entered her office, the envelope still in her hand. Anjele watched expectantly as she settled into her chair and adjusted her glasses. Carefully, slowly, she took a piece of paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.
Anjele recognized her father’s handwriting. “That’s from my father. Why are you keeping it from me?”
She leaped to her feet and held out her hand, but Miss Deagon drew back with a frown. “It was sent to me, Anjele, not you. And if you want to know what he said, sit down and be quiet.”
With legs beginning to tremble, she sank to the chair.
“It’s unfortunate to have to tell you this now, because the purpose of this meeting was to discuss your inexcusable behavior—”
“I know that, Miss Deagon,” Anjele interrupted, “but will you please tell me what is in that letter? You’re being unnecessarily cruel.”
Miss Deagon felt a flash of annoyance. To think of having to endure another year of Anjele’s insubordination was almost more than she could bear. “Very well,” she said with a curt nod. Dismissing any feeling of compunction, she told her bluntly, “Your mother is dead.”
From somewhere far, far away, Miss Deagon’s voice droned on, reading that it was sudden, pneumonia, the doctor thought. It was over quickly. She didn’t suffer. But then through the great roaring within, Anjele heard something else—cold, frightening words that brought her up out of the drowning pit of sorrow.
“…and regretfully,” Miss Deagon was reading aloud from the letter, “I feel it is best that my daughter remain in your charge until such time as it is deemed prudent for her to return home. She is safer where she is than here, in a country rife with war. Please convey to her my love and tell her I will write to her quite soon.”
Anjele swallowed against the cry of protest. Through lowered lashes, she could tell Miss Deagon was watching for her reaction. In the bowels of the monastic building, there was a chamber reserved for girls who, Miss Deagon felt, needed time alone to meditate. It was known as “The Pit” and was actually the cruel and unjust punishment of solitary confinement. Anjele had spent many days there, and knew now if she weren’t careful, would find herself an inhabitant again. All she had to do was indicate, in any way, that she was not in compliance with her father’s request.
“Yes,” she finally mustered her voice to whisper, as though talking to herself, “he’s right. It’s not safe over there, and I need time for grieving.”
Miss Deagon smiled with pleasure. Perhaps this was what was needed all along to break the girl’s spirit, the harsh reality of realizing that nothing in life is forever. “You have the sympathy of everyone here, Anjele. Losing one’s mother is a tragedy, and I think you’ll honor her memory by future obedience to our rules here.”
The other girls politely left her alone, and Anjele succumbed to tears till there were none left—only the empty, aching pain of realizing she’d never again see her beloved mother.
Finally, with cold, chilling resolve, she began to make her plans to run away. Her father was the only person left in this world she truly loved, and nothing was going to keep her from being with him to share his grief.
She was going to need money for passage across the Atlantic, which was a problem, because she didn’t have any. She had never had an allowance, since all her needs were taken care of. Her father paid tuition and board directly to Miss Deagon.
Suddenly she remembered the jewelry she’d worn recently to the opera and leaped up to rush to her dresser and make sure the gold and pearl tiara and earbobs were still tucked into the top drawer. Miss Deagon demanded that all the girls keep their jewels locked away in her safe and dispensed them when needed, but had not yet had Anjele’s collected. The pieces were not nearly as valuable as others on deposit, but surely they’d bring enough to pay for passage home.
The day passed slowly, and Anjele’s heart was heavy as she dwelled on her loss. Finally night came, and she joined the other girls in the dining room. As she accepted their condolences, she said a silent good-bye to each. They didn’t know it, but this was to be her last night behind the cold, gray walls.