Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (20 page)

But by now Bertrand would have forgotten all about her. The
kiss on the gallery stairs – it meant nothing to him.

Tante Marguerite stepped onto the balcony. She spoke a few
words with the other guests enjoying the cool air, and then sat down next to
her niece. “Bertrand has arrived. Late, as always, but what can you do with
these fascinating men? Alphonse, you must promise to be more punctual when you
are an independent bachelor on the town.”

“With such charming company, Tante, how could one not be?”
he said.

“Ah, watch that Monsieur Alphonse doesn’t sweep you away,
Josephine. He has all the charm of Creole manhood, and none of its vices.”

“Then he is the paragon we all seek.”

“Yes, he is. But, nephew mine, paragon that you are, your
father is complaining of his rheumatism again. Perhaps he is ready for his
bed.”

Alphonse rose and bowed to the ladies. “You will excuse me,
Mademoiselle Josephine. Mon Père has not been well. I hope to see you again
soon.” He lingered over Josie’s hand and took his leave.

Tante Marguerite pulled her chair closer to Josie’s. “Your
cousin has asked after you,
chérie
.”

Josie felt the flush rising. “Bertrand?” she said.

“Yes, that cousin,” Marguerite said with a wry smile. “Why
don’t you come inside and say good evening?”

Josie trailed Marguerite into the parlor, the band still
playing in the other room. Bertrand stood with his back to them, talking with
an old gentleman with white side whiskers. Now the moment had arrived, Josie’s
hands were damp.

“Here she is, Bertrand. I found my niece captivating young
Alphonse on the gallery.”

Bertrand broke off his remarks to the elderly man. When he
turned his attention full on Josie, she forgot anyone else was in the room.

“Monsieur, perhaps you would sit with me on the gallery?” Marguerite
said to the elderly guest. “It’s just the remedy for this over-heated parlor.”
She walked away with her arm on the old gentleman’s, leaving Josie gazing into
Bertrand’s whiskey-brown eyes.

Bertrand smiled at her. “Josephine,” he said as he kissed
her hand, “you look lovely.” His eyes lingered on the creamy skin above the
neckline of Josie’s gown. She felt her breasts rise and her blood warm.

A couple rose to join the dancing in the other room and
Bertrand nodded toward their chairs. “Will you sit with me a while?” From his
breast pocket, Bertrand withdrew a letter and presented it to Josie. “From your
Grand-mère. Please, open it. I’ll find us something to drink.”

Grand-mère wrote that the peas and collards were growing
well though the potatoes had all rotted. In the quarters, they’d lost a child
to a bowel ailment, little Angelite that belonged to Louella’s son, so
Grand-mère had dosed all the other children with garlic and rue. The new
overseer proposed a fish pond, but Grand-mère couldn’t see the sense of it with
the river at their front door. LeBrec had confiscated all the knives from the
slaves. What they’d cut their meat with Grand-mère didn’t know, but she
supposed they’d manage.

Oh, and they’d had a runaway, that boy they call Remy. He
was worth eight hundred dollars at least, but LeBrec had put out a Hue and Cry,
and Grand-mère was confident the patrols would catch him.

Josie pictured Remy in the fire glow that night on the
levee, heard his voice. How could he have left Cleo? She must be frantic with
Remy in danger.

Bertrand appeared with two glasses of punch and studied
Josie’s face. “Not bad news, I hope?”

“We’ve had a runaway. I can’t remember the last time a slave
left Toulouse like that.”

“They’ll catch him, or he’ll tire of the woods and drag
himself back in hungry and sick.”

“It’s just that…he’s my maid’s sweetheart.”

Bertrand raised an eyebrow. “You’re very attached to your
servant?”

“My father gave her to me. We grew up together, Cleo and I.
Almost like sisters.”

Bertrand watched the dancers in the other room. “Yes, I
understand. I have a man like that. Been with me since we were tykes. But I
haven’t told you how I have your letter.”

“You’ve been to Toulouse?” She admired the whiteness of his
shirt, his carefully buffed nails. His scent…she would have liked to put her
face next to his ear and inhale him.

He nodded. “I’ve bought the Cherleu place next to yours. We
shall be neighbors.”

“Then we can see each other every day,” she blurted.

Bertrand’s eyes continued to rove the party, and she’d have
given anything to pull those words back into her mouth. Here she was in a party
full of elegant women, two of whom had smiled at Bertrand from across the room.
She was just another female cousin to him, and she felt like a fool.

Bertrand seemed to remember his manners. “Certainly,
chérie
.
As duty allows. But Monsieur Cherleu has let his place run down these last
years, and there was the flood, so there will be many days of work.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

Bertrand stood up. “My dear, let me return you to your aunt.
I have another engagement this evening, but I am so glad to have seen you.”

Josie felt abandoned. This was not the romantic encounter
she’d imagined. Deflated, she took his arm. Again Bertrand’s eyes ran over her
bare shoulders and neck, and he led her across the room where Marguerite
chatted with friends.

Josie’s aunt held a hand out to her to sit on the sofa next
to her. “Are you leaving us so soon?” Marguerite said to Bertrand.

“
Oui, a mon grand regret
. But perhaps you will ask me
again when your lovely niece is with you?”

“I will do so,” she said, accepting his kiss on her cheek.
“Good night, Bertrand.”

“Josephine,” he said, and once again she felt the full force
of his attention, however briefly. It was very confusing. A moment before she’d
felt he had no interest in her after all, but when he looked into her eyes, she
was certain they had a secret connection.

The music and the lamp glow lost their charm after Bertrand
left. Josie wondered if she could decently excuse herself from the rest of the
evening. She wanted to retire to her room upstairs, to write in the journal she
had begun when she left home. She needed to sort out this frustrating encounter
with Bertrand, and her diary was her only confidant.

In the next days, in the odd moments when Josie didn’t dream
of Bertrand, she worried about Cleo. Surely she hadn’t been foolish enough to
help Remy escape. That could put Cleo in jeopardy, especially with this unknown
new overseer, and only Grand-mère there to protect her. Josie wished she could
be certain Grand-mère would intercede if Cleo were accused of aiding a runaway,
but she had never seen Grand-mère show any special attachment to Cleo.

She wished she were home. Cleo belonged to her, and no one
could harm her if Josie asserted herself. But Josie was a day’s journey from
Toulouse.

Thinking of home reminded Josie of music on the levee, of
Phanor’s slow easy smile. Grand-mère hadn’t mentioned him in this letter. He
could still be in New Orleans. She remembered the flute packed in the bottom of
her trunk and dug it out. She played softly, just for herself, and found it was
true: music did soothe the soul, and she felt less lonely conjuring memories of
Phanor, Cleo, and Thibault on the levee.

As so often happens in life, thinking of Phanor seemed to
conjure his actual presence. Abigail and Albany called for Josie on Sunday
afternoon. The three of them strolled through
Le Vieux Carré
enjoying
the sunshine when a well-dressed young man presented himself in front of them.

Josie recognized him instantly. Even a well-cut jacket and
new leather shoes did not disguise Phanor’s easy grace.

“
Excusez moi
, Monsieur,” he said. He addressed Albany
only, as if unaware of the two ladies present. “I am Phanor DeBlieux, an
associate of Monsieur Cherleu’s. Perhaps you know the gentleman?”

“Monsieur Cherleu? Yes.” Albany said.

“I am known to Mademoiselle Josephine. Would you permit me
to renew our acquaintance?”

Albany held Josie’s elbow as if to protect her from the
dangers of a well-dressed, well-mannered man speaking to her in a public place.
“Very well,” he said to Phanor.

Josie wanted to throw her arms around Phanor’s neck, but she
was as sly as he in manipulating the social intricacies. She merely held her
hand out to Phanor, who performed the bowing and kissing ritual with aplomb.
“How nice to see you, Monsieur,” she said.

“I am delighted to find you well, Mademoiselle. Monsieur
Cherleu has me in New Orleans for the winter, as you see.”

“Then you are still selling wine?” Josie said.

“Oh, so you are the wine agent,” Albany said. “I have heard
Cherleu speak of you at the club. You seem to have a head for business,
Monsieur DeBlieux.”

Phanor tilted his head in acknowledgment. of the compliment.
“Monsieur and I, we have done well.” He turned back to Josephine. “It is a
pleasure to see you here. I am most often in the cathedral square on Sunday
afternoons, so it is my good fortune to have been on the
Rue Royale
today.”

There was a short moment of awkwardness. When Albany issued
no invitation to join their party, Phanor raised his hat. “Mademoiselle
Josephine,” he said. He nodded to Albany and to Abigail. “Monsieur,
Mademoiselle.”

Phanor strolled on, his ebony walking stick swinging in his
hand.

Abigail leaned behind her brother’s bulk to raise her
eyebrows at Josie and purse her lips as if to whistle. Josie shared a quick
grin with her, and then resumed the sober expression appropriate to one in the
company of the august Albany Johnston.

In the cathedral square on Sunday afternoon, Josie thought.
Perhaps she could find a way to meet him there. She wondered if Phanor played
his fiddle anymore, now he was in New Orleans.

After a week of dreary gray days, Sunday morning dawned
bright and clear. It was cold, but at least it was dry. Oncle Sandrine proposed
they walk to mass on such a fine day. Josie looked up at the few leaves left on
the trees and filled her eyes with yellow against blue sky.

Inside the cathedral, the candles burning in every nook did
nothing to dispel the chill. Josie prayed to The Virgin for her maman and
papa’s souls, and she prayed Mary would protect everyone at Toulouse. Josie’s
feet were numb with cold by the time mass was over.

She blinked when she walked into the bright square outside
the cathedral doors and then stood mutely as her aunt and uncle chatted with
their friends. The square outside the church bustled with vendors selling hot
chestnuts and pralines. The red-headed Irishman juggled in front of his
upturned hat on the ground. He was much improved, Josie noted, as she saw him
toss a fifth ball into the air.

Through the noise of people crying “Hot peanuts!” and “Me, I
got fritters here!” Josie heard a fiddle. She listened intently over the sounds
of the crowd: it was the same melody Phanor had played for her the morning he
left the plantation. She stood on her toes to see over the crowd, but there
were so many people. He’d said Sunday afternoon, and it was only just after
eleven, but it could still be Phanor.

Josie had to make up her mind. If she left with her aunt and
uncle, she didn’t see how she could get back to the square that afternoon.

Josie’s enthusiasm joyfully routed reason. She slipped
through the throng exiting the cathedral and hurried toward the sound of the
fiddle. If her aunt fussed at her later, she’d tell her she’d been abducted by
Portuguese sailors, and Tante Marguerite would smile and forgive her.

There he was, one foot propped on his fiddle case. Phanor’s
shock of black hair gleamed nearly blue in the sunlight as he bowed a tune. Phanor,
radiating joy. Josie could hardly wait until he finished playing. Then she
would run to him, heedless of all these people, and they’d laugh to be together
again.

Phanor didn’t see her in the crowd, and so she studied him
as he played. The fine wool coat he had worn when she last saw him was replaced
by a simpler brown frock coat, a little threadbare, whose sleeves stopped short
of his wrists. He was neat, but not so prosperous looking in his old clothes.
Still, it was Phanor and she’d known him in far more rustic clothes, and
barefoot as well.

The people grouped around Phanor were clapping their hands
and tapping their feet. An elderly man with holes in the knees of his trousers
found a little space in front and danced a spry jig to the music. Another man,
standing just beside her, reeked of whiskey and urine.

No one among Phanor’s audience seemed at all proper, not one
of them. She edged behind a woman whose hair straggled from under her dirty
gray cap, a baby on her hip. Josie raised a hand to her nose at the odor from
the child’s soiled pantaloons. She shifted to keep her fine velvet cape from
being touched by anyone in this grimy, squalid crowd.

Her eyes fell to the straw hat at Phanor’s feet. Coins
glinted in the sun light. Phanor was playing for money!

She was appalled. Playing for money on the street, like
a…a…common…He was no better than the Irish juggler!

She didn’t belong here, with these people. She didn’t belong
with Phanor. She backed out of the circle and ran toward the doors to the
cathedral, the music following her over the heads of all those unwashed people.

She pushed through the crowd to find Tante Marguerite, who
didn’t seem to have missed her. During the walk back to the townhouse, Josie
lagged behind. Phanor was back there, in the square, in a world she didn’t
belong in. With a heavy heart, she trudged along behind her aunt and uncle,
feeling she’d lost something precious.