One morning she arose at dawn to dress quickly and hurry downstairs. As expected, her father was in the breakfast room, enjoying his usual cup of hot chicory coffee with a platter of eggs, hominy grits, and fried ham.
He was pleasantly surprised to see her. “It’s been a long time since you joined me for breakfast, Angel. What’s the occasion? I haven’t forgot my own birthday, have I?” he teased.
“I’m bored.” She indicated to Kesia that she’d like juice and toast. “I swear, Poppa, if I have to spend one more day in this house, I’m going to lose my mind. Bad enough, I’ll have to move into town once I’m married, so why can’t I enjoy what time I’ve got left here?”
He laughed. “You make it sound like you’re dying.”
“Maybe I am.”
Pity widened his eyes. “Raymond is a fine young man. I’m sure he’ll do his best to make you happy.”
“Then he should be willing to move to BelleClair. This is the only place I’ll ever be happy.”
“Your mother doesn’t want that, and you know it. She feels it best you move into town and live with Ida and Vinson, for a little while anyway. Long enough to get your marriage off to a good start.
“I shouldn’t be talking like this,” he continued reluctantly, “but we both know Claudia fancies herself in love with Raymond, and frankly, she might cause problems if you-all moved in here.”
“I’m glad you said that,” Anjele said gratefully. “It’s nice to know you don’t share Mother’s opinion that I’m always the villain.”
“Well, we both know how she is, and she’ll never change. Hard as it is, we’ve got to accept it.”
Anjele took advantage of his sympathetic mood to plead, “Can I go with you today? Please? It’s been so long since I made the field rounds with you, and it’s such a nice day.”
“You know your mother wouldn’t like it.”
“Let her grumble,” Anjele said, adding quickly so as not to sound insolent, “Poppa, you just said we had to accept her as she is, and we both know she’s going to be upset, no matter what I do. Besides, one day won’t matter.”
He grinned and threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay. You can go. But don’t blame me when your mother gets mad, and another thing—” He reached to catch her hand as she was about to spring from the table. “It’s only for a little while. There’s not a cloud in the sky today, which means it’s going to be blistering hot. After ten, I want you somewhere cool. I heard yesterday that Mrs. Pott’s son is down with the ague. It’s that time of the year, darlin’, and I don’t want you afflicted.”
She kissed his balding head, assuring him she’d find respite from the heat at the requested hour, then hurried out to the stables to have Sam, the stable boy, saddle her mare. Though her mother usually didn’t venture out of her room till nine, it was her routine to have coffee by the window as she went over the day’s schedule. Anjele didn’t want to risk being seen and forced to go back.
She needn’t have worried, for soon they were on their way.
As always, it was with a great sense of pride that she rode beside her father. He sat tall in the saddle astride his magnificent black stallion, and when he paused to speak to overseers or workers, they would remove their straw hats in a gesture of respect.
Anjele knew he was thought of as a kind and fair man, although everyone around was well aware that he could be stern and severe, if need be. And, while a good portion of his life revolved around his position as planter, he was also involved in politics, actively supporting the Democratic Party. She knew this from their talks while riding on days like this, for her mother never allowed such discussions, saying they were of no importance to women. But Anjele loved to listen to him explain the difference in political parties—how many slave owners were urged to support the Democratic Party, because it appeared to lean more towards slavery, despite the growing numbers of Northerners opposed. But the Whigs were winning over planters, due to the hope of aid from the North to construct and maintain levees. Her father, however, staunchly asserted that slavery was a Southern issue, and the North should mind its own business.
They rode first by the cotton fields, where Elton stopped to speak with each overseer. Anjele secretly thought his appearance was merely an expected formality, for BelleClair was the epitome of efficiency in all areas. Her father made sure he had capable men in supervisory positions, putting them through an apprenticeship for several years before promoting them to authority.
It was nearly ten o’clock when they reached the last field. As far as the eye could see, the browning plants exploded with white puffs of cotton like baby clouds drifting down from the sky to dot the landscape. The slaves were bent double as they moved doggedly between the rows, huge gathering sacks slung about their shoulders, dragging behind in the dust. Those close by did not glance up at the sound of horses approaching, for they had their day’s quota to fill, and few wasted time. It was known far and wide that Elton Sinclair treated his slaves better than any other planter in the labyrinthine riverland. During the grinding season and the most relentless labor of the year, he boosted their morale with generous portions of food, whiskey, coffee, and tobacco.
As a heavyset man stepped among the rows to come toward them, Elton said, “It’s nearly time for you to get in out of this heat, Angel. Maybe later today we can go for a ride when it’s cooler.”
Anjele had to admit to herself that she’d been hoping they would reach the cane fields before she had to leave. Foolish though it might be, she’d been hoping to see Gator.
Her father dismounted and went to discuss something with the overseer, and when he returned, she was surprised at his grumbling comment, “I’ve always tried to have an open mind about the Cajuns, but there’s something about that one that bothers me. He’s been a good overseer in the past, but I’m starting to suspect he may be mistreating some of the hands, though I can’t prove it.”
“Wouldn’t they tell you?”
“Not if he put a fear into them of what would happen if they did. I’ll be keeping an eye on him, though.”
Anjele turned to look at the man staring after them. He was not an ugly man. Far from it. In fact, if he were cleaned up, dressed up, he might even be called attractive. Yet there was something about him that evoked a feeling of foreboding. It was, she decided, his eyes, black and cold…and mean. Yes, she silently agreed with her father’s suspicions, his overseer was probably capable of cruelty. Suddenly she wanted to know, “Why is it you’re so tolerant of the Cajuns, while others regard them as
habitans—poor
whites?”
“Well, some of the planters think it’s demoralizing to their slaves for the Cajuns to get paid for what they do, but I don’t feel that way. If that were the case, they’d have to feel the same towards the Irish, too. I think the discrimination comes from the way they’re regarded as vagabonds, having been expelled from their own colony. And they’re a bit clannish and keep to themselves.
“Now be off with you,” he ordered cheerily, “and get out of this heat.” With a wave, he reined his horse about and headed for a pavilion where he could have a few moments in the shade, as well as a dipper of cool water.
Anjele did start back to the house but, on impulse, decided to cut along the levee and skirt the cane fields. There was very little chance she’d see Gator, and she told herself that wasn’t the reason she was going that way anyhow, her motive being to delay returning home as long as possible.
In the first field, she was delighted to see Emalee waving excitedly from the edge of a row. Putting aside her mother’s edict, Anjele turned her horse in that direction.
“Where you been?” Emalee demanded, wiping perspiration from her sunburned face. “Nobody see you since that night Gator fish us out of water. Next day, he say you get home all right, and we no hear nothing else. We ask, but he just give us that look o’ his.” She scowled in imitation.
Anjele giggled. “You didn’t mock him that night, as I recall. You were scared to death of him.”
“Ah, it don’t matter.” Emalee shrugged. “So, answer me. How come we not see you?”
“Busy with wedding plans.” Anjele shaded her eyes with her hand and scanned the waving stalks of cane, but they were nearly six feet tall and it was impossible to see anyone between them. She had only spied Emalee, because she’d been outside.
Suspiciously, Emalee asked, “Who you be lookin’ for? Gator? Don’ worry. He be in there workin’ somewheres. Want me to tell him you out here lookin’ for him?”
Anjele was embarrassed, because she had been, but wasn’t about to admit it. “Of course not,” she said, sharper than intended. “I was looking for Simona.”
“Well, she not working. She sick.”
“Sick?” she echoed, alarmed. “What’s wrong with her?”
Emalee grinned mysteriously. “She have to be the one to tell you.”
Anjele seized the excuse to keep from going home yet. She was going to be in trouble, anyway, once her mother discovered she had sneaked off to be with her father, so it didn’t matter what time she got back. “I think I’ll go see about her. I can find the way if I stay on the path, and there’ll be lots of boats tied up on this side.” The idea was intriguing, and the path, by day, well defined. She’d gone as far as the swamp with the girls too many times to count, and the distance by boat was a straight course. All she had to do was use a pole to push the craft along, steering among the swollen, waterlogged trunks of the cypress.
Emalee didn’t mirror her optimism. “It not good idea. You maybe get lost.”
“Nonsense. The other night, it was pitch dark, and you hit something in the water that flipped us over. Otherwise we’d have been fine.
“Besides, it won’t be long before I won’t have a chance like this to go into the bayou, or do anything adventuresome or daring, for that matter.”
“Ah, Anjele.” Emalee swung her head from side to side in sympathy. “When I see you so unhappy, it makes me glad I am just a
habitan
.”
And sometimes I wish I were, too, Anjele silently lamented, although she knew it was only the mood she was in for the moment.
She rode to the edge of the dense forest. Making sure no one was about, she dismounted and led the mare to a shady spot beneath an oak and tied her there. Riding her along the path would be dangerous, for the horse might be spooked by the strange smells and noises of swamp creatures and run away, or, worse, rear and make her fall.
Picking her way along the shrub-lined trail, Anjele marveled as always at the trees towering above—stands of pine, oak, red buckeye, and magnolia. Ever alert for snakes or alligators, she hurried to the edge of the swamp and its covering of golden club, swollen bladderwort, and clumps of pitcher plants.
She chose the first boat she came to, carefully stepped in, and picked up the long pole, stabbing down into water lilies the size of dinner plates. The thick, brackish water barely rippled as the craft moved along.
She delighted at the variety of wildlife—long-legged cranes, great blue herons, and a red-tailed hawk, which swooped down to take a cursory inspection of the intruder into his domain.
Lost in the ethereal beauty and the tranquil peace, Anjele did not notice when the little boat began to glide off course. No longer was she poling it along in a straight line, for after each sweeping thrust, it was cutting closer and closer to the edge with its dense undergrowth of saw palmetto. She didn’t realize what had happened until sharp blades lapped her across her eyes. Stumbling backwards, she lost her balance and fell down into the boat. The impact of her weight sent it skidding sharply into a blowup, where gas had forced clumps of decayed peat and roots to the surface.
Anjele, flesh smarting from the palmetto’s assault, thought she had reached land, albeit overgrown and barely passable. With her dress soaked from the water standing in the bottom of the boat, and mosquitos attacking, she decided to abandon water travel and instead follow along the edge. It couldn’t be much farther to the little village, she figured, even though she had foolishly lost her concentration.
Just as she was about to step out onto what she thought was solid ground, a sharp, masculine voice boomed out in the stillness, “Don’t! That’s quicksand.”
With a ripple of terror, she whipped about to see Gator gliding silently up behind her in his boat.
“Didn’t I tell you to let me know the next time you wanted to come in here?” His voice was stern, but as he drew closer, she could see the amused twinkle in his dark eyes.
“It was a whim.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. She accepted his hand to step into his boat. Unable to resist, she coquettishly pointed out, “But you always seem to be following me, anyway.”
“Somebody needs to. As it happened, I was coming out to get water when I saw you walking away from Emalee, heading for the woods. She said you were going to visit Simona, so I figured you were heading for trouble—again.”
She responded by suggesting demurely, “Maybe you’d like to go to work as my bodyguard.”
He pretended to be seriously considering the idea, touching fingertips to his chin before finally, firmly shaking his head. “No. I think I like working on the hoe gang better. Less work than trying to keep you out of mischief.”
At that, she gave his shoulder a playful tap with her fist and promptly reminded him, “That night beneath the willow, I was no problem.”
“No, you weren’t,” he admitted softly as the image at once came to mind. Her beauty had been ethereal, and it was only with great effort he’d been able to resist gathering her in his arms, and…he shook his head to dismiss the vision, all too aware of the sudden warm stirring in his loins.