Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (37 page)

He crept back to the north field and disappeared among the
cane to the sounds of the refinery crackling, smoking, burning.

The timbers of the burned refinery still smoldered as Josie
rode Beau out to inspect the cane. With LeBrec gone, she meant to ride the
plantation every day, to be her own overseer. Beau snorted at the smoke and
Josie let him circle well away from the blackened ruin.

A knot of young men, who should have been hoeing weeds in
the cane, gathered around the smithy’s forge. Struck by their somber mood,
Josie dismounted. They stood aside for her to see Old Sam’s son Laurent
wielding a huge hammer on an iron contraption.

“I found it in a swampy patch back in the woods,” Old Sam
said.

Laurent had smashed the bells and one of the supporting
struts, but Josie recognized the cage Phanor had drawn for her. She reached a
hand to judge the heft of the thing. She would need both arms to lift it, and
Remy, who had held Cleo so tenderly at the campfire on the levee, whose singing
had been full of moonlight and love, had had to wear this thing. The flattened
bells, though they would never ring again, jangled in Josie’s mind.

She’d been too harsh with Phanor, she thought. Her pride,
that’s what she’d been thinking about at the time. Someday, maybe, she could
tell Phanor she’d been wrong.

Josie nodded to Laurent. “Carry on.” Let them melt it down,
she thought. Toulouse will never use it again.

Josie suspected LeBrec had set the fire, but she had no way
of proving it. No one saw or heard anything that night. Old Sam had smelled the
smoke and raised the alarm only after the flames had already engulfed the
refinery, and the buckets of water the slaves threw on it did no good at all.
Josie had stood as close as the heat would allow, the light from the fire
glistening on the sweating backs of men laboring futilely to put it out, the
smoke roiling into the black sky.

Now that Cleo was recovered, from the rape and then from the
remedy that had prevented conception, Josie concentrated on saving Toulouse.
Not on revenge. And not on her broken heart or her wounded pride. With no
refinery of their own, profits this season would be even slimmer – and the debt
would grow. She’d have to go to Albany Johnston.

The next morning, Josie caught a steamer at Toulouse’s dock.
Elbow John hovered nearby, a fretful escort. The trees showed the first signs
of fall, their leaves worn and dry. Here and there was a maple tossing yellow
flags into the wind. The fine spray from the paddle wheel chilled Josie, but
she couldn’t bear to sit inside.

She wore her best dress, a grayish-green just the shade of
her eyes, and she’d taken extra care with her makeup and hair. She couldn’t
expect Albany to still be in love with her after the way she’d flaunted her
interest in Bertrand Chamard in New Orleans. Still, it couldn’t hurt to look
her best.

The boat let them off at the Johnston’s dock, and Elbow John
settled himself out of the wind. Charles the butler escorted Josie to the house
and into the imposing hallway. She regarded the expensive furnishings and found
herself just as impressed as she’d been the first time she visited the
Johnstons. All this opulence – and security – could have been hers. She ran her
finger over the curve of a Limoges vase on the hall table.

In the sitting room, the ticking of the clock grew louder
the longer Josie sat in suspense. The house might have been deserted for all
the sounds she could hear. Not even the birds twittered outside. Josie had sent
a note earlier in the week asking if she might call, and Albany’s mother had
answered immediately: Abigail and Bertrand were in Paris on their honeymoon,
but of course she should come. Until Josie saw Albany in person, though, she
wouldn’t know what kind of welcome to expect from him.

Footsteps in the hallway at last. Josie stood, smoothed her
bodice, and steeled herself for a cold reception.

The door burst open, and her long-nosed cousin Violette hurried
in. “Josephine! How wonderful to see you,” she said as she crossed the room,
one hand held out. The moment reminded Josie of her first visit to this house,
when Abigail had rushed in with an exuberant welcome.

Her cousin kissed both her cheeks and laughed. “You didn’t
expect to find me here, did you?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, Violette. I didn’t realize you were
acquainted with the Johnstons.”

“Oh, but you introduced me to Mr. Johnston yourself. Don’t
you remember?”

“At Tante Marguerite’s party, of course.”

Violette’s pale lips pursed into a simpering smile, and her
eyes signaled a wordless message. “Can’t you guess, Cousin?”

It came to her then, and Josie said, “You and Albany
Johnston?”

“Isn’t it romantic? There was another young man, of course,
but, well, you can understand how a girl would prefer Albany.”

“Congratulations, Violette. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
Two dull people, Josie thought, fortunate to find each other.

Mrs. Johnston joined them, and the ladies exchanged family
news, Abigail’s wedding trip with Bertrand the foremost topic. Josie bore it
all with a fixed smile. After a respectable interval, she said, “I had hoped to
speak to Mr. Johnston this morning. On business.”

“Yes, so I understood,” Mrs. Johnston said. “My husband is
in New Orleans, but Albany should be home momentarily. He has been out for a
grouse shoot, and I expect him to come clomping in with his muddy boots any
time. Can I pour you another cup of coffee?”

Violette resumed the recitation of every garment and hat her
dressmakers were constructing for the coming season. Josie obligingly inquired
about the bows, ribbons, flounces, and ruffles to be employed, and the morning
dragged on with that ridiculously tinny clock chiming the quarter hours.

The doors from the patio were open for the air, and that is
how Josie first heard Albany’s approach. They hadn’t seen each other since
early the previous spring. She readied herself, and in that she had the
advantage.

“I smell coffee,” Albany boomed. He hardly scraped his shoes
on the mat before he entered the dimmer light of the sitting room. “I’ll have a
pot of that, if you please.”

Josie stood up to greet him. Albany stopped when he saw her.
His hair was mussed, his face tanned, and he’d lost the fleshiness that had
been so distasteful to Josie. He looked very fine, in fact. Nevertheless, it
was an awkward moment. The light was behind him, and Josie couldn’t say whether
there was gladness in his eyes.

“My cousin has come to call, Albany,” Violette said. “Isn’t
that lovely?”

“Miss Tassin,” Albany said. “How do you do?”

“Those disgraceful boots, son,” Mrs. Johnston said. “Well,
you’re in, now. Come and sit with us while I ring for another pot.”

Albany put his hands in his lap. Josie fiddled with an
embroidered flower on her skirt, and Violette’s eyes jumped between her and
Albany.

Josie drew a deep breath. “Mr. Johnston,” she began. “I’ve
actually come on business. I hope you can spare me a few minutes this morning.”

Albany stood abruptly. “Certainly,” he said. “Have the
coffee sent to my study, Mother. Miss Tassin.”

Josie followed his boot prints over the cream-colored rug
and across polished floors to the back of the house. Albany’s office looked out
over the new pecan orchard swaying in the wind. Nearby a gardener whistled while
he hoed the beds. Everything was in order here, everything thriving, Josie
noted, while Toulouse struggled to survive.

Albany invited Josie to sit in his deep leather chair. He
paced for a moment, and then brought himself back to composure. “I had not thought
to see you here,” he said, and looked her full in the face for the first time.

“Your mother didn’t tell you I was coming?”

He shook his head. “She is not so fond of Violette, I’m
afraid.”

“Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Is that what Violette told you?”

“Yes. Are you not betrothed?”

He ran a hand through his pale hair. “I suppose. As good
as.” He sat heavily in a swivel chair behind his desk and stared at Josie.
“You’re looking well,” he said. “I was afraid, when Chamard…Well, I believe he
behaved rather badly toward you. People talk, you know.”

Josie held her chin up. “Not at all,” she said. “We’re
merely neighbors. He and my grandmother are great friends, you see, so I saw
him when he came to visit her. For the few months before his marriage to
Abigail. How is she?”

Albany huffed. “Ecstatic, for the moment.”

The whistling from the garden filled the quiet space until
Josie mustered her courage.

“Albany?” She spoke softly. “Are you willing to do business
with me?”

With one look, Albany revealed that his heart was still
hers. “Of course,” he said quietly. Josie dropped her eyes.

“It’s the crash,” she said. “After the flood, we borrowed to
rebuild. And now, I must repay the loans.”

Albany nodded. “And you can’t make the payments.”

“But I haven’t come to ask for a hand-out,” Josie hurried to
explain. “I wouldn’t have you think that.”

“What do you propose?”

“A limited partnership.”

“And what do you understand that to mean, Josephine?”

“You would finance the rebuilding of the sugar refinery, pay
the interest on the loans, and share in the profits until conditions improve.
At that time, I would buy out your interest in Toulouse. You would have made
money on Toulouse’s cane crops and the refinery, and I will regain full
ownership.”

A small smile came to Albany’s lips. “Is this the same girl
who so poorly concealed her disdain of markets and banks?”

Josie could only smile in return. “As my Grand-mère tried to
tell me so often, necessity is a fine tutor.”

“I heard she’s had a stroke. Will she recover, do you
think?”

Josie shook her head. “It doesn’t seem likely.”

“So you have become the manager of Toulouse.”

Josie knew he had a poor opinion of her business sense, and
rightly so. “I’ve changed, Albany. I’ve had to.”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe you have.” He walked to the
window and stood looking out at the whistler with the hoe. “Josephine, your
proposal is valid. However, I haven’t the cash to do all you suggest. I’ve
similar arrangements with three other plantations at the moment, none of which
can bring a profit for some time.”

“I see.” Josie lowered her face in embarrassment. She stood
up, the rustle of her skirts loud in the little room. “I’ll take no more of
your time, Albany. Thank you for hearing me out.”

“Please. Sit down, Josephine.” Albany turned from the
window, the light behind him again so that Josie found it hard to read his
face. “I haven’t finished.”

“There’s another way?”

He looked at her a long moment. “If you were my wife, I
could save Toulouse. I couldn’t bring it back to full productivity right away,
but I could keep it for you.”

“You mean, if I married you now?”

Albany strode the three steps to Josie and knelt down with
his hands on the arms of her chair. “Will you marry me, Josephine?”

“But…Albany, you’re engaged, or at least you have an understanding
with Violette.”

“I am yet a free man. And understandings can be broken, as
you well know.”

Josie flushed as she gazed into Albany’s face. He was in
earnest, she could see that. He was kind. And he was rich.

“I’ve changed, too, Josephine. I won’t treat you like a
child again.”

Albany’s bulk dwarfed her. Even his head seemed too large,
and his big hands and blunt fingers covered the arms of her chair.

 “Albany, it’s not that.”

He read her answer in her face. “Is it Chamard? Still
Chamard?”

Josie dropped her eyes. It was more than that, but how could
she tell Albany she simply didn’t want to spend her days, or nights, with him.
She couldn’t.

Albany stood up. “You live in a fantasy world, Josephine,”
he said bitterly. “You could have my fortune, my love . . . ”

“I’m sorry, Albany. I really am.”

Josie quietly closed the door of the study behind her.
Violette and Mrs. Johnston’s voices came to her from the sitting room. She
walked to the front door and let herself out.

October’s shorter days and cooler nights signaled the
ripening of the cane. Without an overseer on the place, Josie relied on Old Sam
to organize the work crews for harvesting. Late into the night, she heard men
spinning the grind stone to sharpen the machetes. Before light, she got up to
ring the big work bell herself, and she stood near Old Sam in the dawn as he
assigned the slaves to their jobs for the day.

Josie had made up several large jars of ointment according
to the instructions in the book of remedies, and she had Louella keep water
simmering on the stove all day, ready for the inevitable machete mis-strokes.
She had snake bite remedy on hand too: aloe vera for both a strong drink and an
aid to healing the wound; echinacea from among Grand-mère’s stock of herbs, and
a salve made of castor oil and papaya juice to press on the bite itself.

The cane towered over the slaves’ heads, nine feet tall in
the best field, so close-packed that a man could hardly stick an arm through
the canes. With the warming of the morning air, the mass of towering stalks
rustled and groaned in counterpoint to the thwack of machetes into the crisp
stalks. The more staccato sounds of coughing completed the symphony as the wind
carried black smoke from fields already cleared and set afire.

As the slaves filled wagon after wagon with cane to be taken
to another planter’s refinery downriver, Josie watched anxiously. In her
notebook, she tallied each wagon that passed her on the way to the docks. After
paying for processing the cane into sugar, there should be enough profit to at
least pay the interest on the loans.