Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (8 page)

Josie shifted her gaze to the other gentleman whose cigar
tip glowed red in the dim candlelight.

“Bertrand, perhaps you remember your cousin from the days before
you went to Paris?”

“Mademoiselle.” Bertrand Chamard removed the cigar from his
mouth and bowed his head slightly.

Josie felt his eyes penetrate the thin fabric of her
nightgown. Awareness of her own body, of her breasts, her belly, her most
private place flooded her senses.

“I believe I do remember a girl with straw in her hair,
missing her front teeth.” His smile gleamed in the candlelight.

Papa seemed suddenly aware of his daughter’s unreadiness to
receive his friends. “Well, excuse us, Josie. I wasn’t sure how close the
lightning had hit. Go back to bed, my dears. I’ll see Mr. Gale watches the
fire.”

Josie’s face burned as Bertrand Chamard’s eyes lingered on
her. And had his eyes not probed the shadows where Cleo stood in her nightdress?

The gentlemen withdrew and Josie moved back to the window to
watch the fire defy the rain. This Chamard, how rude he was. And disturbing.
The candle flame had reflected in his eye, the loosening of his cravat had
revealed the skin at the base of his throat. Though they had not touched, Josie
felt the heat of this man, felt the power of his sex.

Cleo slipped an arm through Josie’s. “How many times did we
sit under that old tree?”

At the touch of Cleo’s warm brown skin, Josie had a sudden
vision of Papa touching Bibi. Cleo was the embodiment of her father’s sin. She
pulled away and retreated to her bed.

In the following days, people recalled the last full moon
had been blue, and others said no, the moon hadn’t been blue, but the river had
had a strange green tinge to it the week before the rains began. Whatever the
cause, the rains swelled the creeks, the bayous, and the river.

Frogs hopped in the courtyard, and one morning Bibi yelled
so loud that Emile came running. On the gallery stairs she’d stepped on a
garden snake looking for a dry patch. Emile kicked the snake off the step and
called to Elbow John to get rid of it.

Josie leaned out her bedroom window to see what the
commotion was. Papa stood close to Bibi, one hand on her arm, his face alight.
“It wouldn’t have bit you, you know. It’s just a racer.”

Bibi leaned into him, her smile forgiving him the mocking
tone.

Josie didn’t want to see them together, especially not when
they thought they were alone. She pulled back into the room and glanced at Cleo,
who was mending a pair of stockings.

“What was it?” Cleo asked.

“A snake on the stairs,” Josie reported. “Bibi stepped on
it, but Papa kicked it off.”

Cleo smiled. “Maman doesn’t like snakes.” Her attention was
on her sewing.

Josie gazed at Cleo’s lowered head. Her hair curled loosely
while Bibi’s was kinked. Cleo’s skin was lighter than Bibi’s, too, and Bibi’s
was lighter than Grammy Tulia’s. Who had been Bibi’s father?

She should have noticed sooner, Josie thought. So many
things made sense now. Papa’s protection of Bibi and Cleo, Maman’s resentment.

That’s why Papa gave Cleo to me. My sister, my slave. So I
would protect her from Maman.

Josie burned. That Papa could do this to Maman. And to her.
That Josie, his true daughter, had to share her own father with his slave
child.

Cleo glanced up to find Josie staring at her. “What’s the
matter?”

Josie turned her pinched face back toward the window.
“Nothing,” she said. Cleo hadn’t seen Papa and Bibi just now. Cleo didn’t know
what she knew. Or did she? People in the quarters would talk. Maybe Cleo had
always known. Maybe Josie was the only one who hadn’t understood. She stared at
the gray sky where more clouds gathered.

Everyone along the river began to watch the sky. While 
Grand-mère and the overseer Mr. Gale worried about the crops, and Papa fretted
that his hunting was spoiled, Josie grieved for Maman and tried to understand
what her father had done. She watched him sometimes as he smoked his pipe on
the gallery or poured himself another brandy in the evening. Who was he after
all? She could not excuse him, and she felt the Papa she’d adored was a
stranger.

The rain let up for a while late in the morning, and Josie
wandered up the knoll to the little family cemetery. Only the sound of the big
river came to Josie through the trees. How lonely for Maman, she thought.

The storms had left their mark on the cemetery. One huge
puddle made an island of the crypt. Mud spattered the whitewashed stones.
Fallen twigs and leaves littered the mucky ground.

It simply wouldn’t do to have Maman’s final resting place so
bedraggled. Josie couldn’t find Elbow John, and most of the slaves were digging
run-off ditches in the fields. Cleo, she didn’t know where Cleo was, but Maman
would not want Cleo at her crypt anyway. Josie would clean it up herself.

Back in the house, Josie unrolled her stockings and rummaged
for her oldest shoes in the back of the wardrobe. She carried a bundle of rags
with her, found a trowel among the gardening tools in the carriage house, and
trudged back up the hill to the cemetery.

Josie sat for a moment on the little stone bench and tried
to feel her mother’s presence. She wanted to tell Maman how sorry she was she
had never understood what she suffered. Maman, humiliated all those years, Bibi
right under her own roof. How awful. No wonder Maman had sometimes been cruel.
Josie closed her eyes. She tried to remember her mother smiling and happy, but
she could not. The strongest image in her mind was of Maman staring at death,
afraid to meet God with bitterness in her heart.

Josie wiped her eyes. She crossed herself and prayed to the
Blessed Mother that Maman would find peace.

She stood up and eyed the little sea surrounding the crypt,
and then plunged in. The water poured into her old shoes, chilling her in spite
of the steamy heat. Forgive me, Maman, for what I’m about to do to my dress,
she thought. Then she dropped to her knees and began to trowel a channel to
drain the puddle.

Worms wiggled in the upturned earth, struggling to escape
from their flooded world. Josie didn’t mind worms. She and Cleo used to poke a
stick in the ground and then rub another stick against it to bring them to the
surface. When they had a pail full, Elbow John would take them fishing in the
bayou. How Maman would have fussed if she’d known, but Bibi had hidden the
soiled dresses from her. So many things she’d done with Cleo and Elbow John,
and Maman hadn’t known. Poor Maman. She had kept to her room so much. Josie was
sure her maman had never seen the early mist hovering over the bayou, or the
flight of a crane startled from its feeding.

“Mam’zelle.”

Josie started. Phanor DeBlieux stood not ten feet away. He
carried his rifle and a full bag over his shoulder.

“
Excusez-moi
,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten
you.”

“No, only startled,” she said. She raised herself from the
mud and hoped she hadn’t smeared dirt on her face when she’d pushed her hair
back. Somehow, muddy pants legs and all, Phanor DeBlieux looked good enough to
… Josie pulled herself back from that thought. “You’ve been hunting?”

“
Oui
. Got myself a possum.” He set his rifle against
the pine tree and gestured toward the slave quarters. “Old Sam, he let me take
his hound with me into the woods, so I come by to bring him back.”

Phanor looked at the sodden ground all around the new grave.
“The rain has been hard on the tombs. My maman’s too.”

“I’m trying to dig a channel,” Josie said. “I don’t know
what else to do.”

“You will let me help you? I’ll show you how I repaired
Maman’s crypt.”

He picked up the trowel and deftly dug a trench all around
the tomb. Josie sat on the little stone bench and watched his long fingers at
work. At higher ground, he led the run-off channels into his trench and at the
lower end, he fanned the trench into smaller crevasses.

“If the rain doesn’t let up, you may need to have someone
haul fill-dirt up here,” he said.

Josie pulled her skirt aside and made room for Phanor on the
bench. As he wiped his hands on one of her rags, Josie said, “Your mother died
in the winter?”

“
Oui
.” He shoved his hat back. Josie saw him swallow
hard. Would she still have trouble talking about Maman in half a year?

“She had bad lungs, for a long time,” Phanor said.

“I’m sorry.”

Phanor breathed deeply. “She was a good woman, my maman.”

“And now it’s only you and your father.”

“
Mais, non
. We are five. Papa and me, my sister
Eulalie, her husband, and the baby, Nicholas.”

“It’s nice you have a sister.”

Josie caught sight of Grand-mère Emmeline crossing the
courtyard. If she should look up the hill and see her sitting with Phanor,
unchaperoned . . . Grand-mère stepped into the cookhouse without looking their
way, and Josie said a quick silent prayer of thanks. “I must go,” she said.

Phanor nodded, a sad smile on his face. “A dangerous moment,
eh?” he said, nodding toward the cookhouse. He tossed the possum sack over his
shoulder and picked up his rifle. “
Au revoir, Mademoiselle
. I will maybe
see you again.”

Josie watched him disappear down the hillside opposite from
the house. She didn’t want him to leave her. Heedless of decorum, and safe from
Grand-mère’s eyes, Josie slipped down the muddy slope after him. “Monsieur,”
she called.

She slid into the grassy patch where he waited for her. When
he held a steadying hand out to her, she took it and her breath caught. His
grip was warm and firm.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she said. “Phanor.” She felt very
bold using his first name, but he had once invited her to. Even so, she knew
her face reddened when she said it.

“You are welcome -- Josephine.”

She should probably not allow him to use her familiar name,
she thought. But she’d just used his, and it seemed a silly formality when the
two of them were muddy from the knees down.

“But,” he added, “Cleo, she calls you ‘Josie.’ Shall I call
you ‘Josie’?” The gentle tease on his lips said he knew it was improper as well
as she did. She was about to insist on “Josephine,” but Phanor reached down and
plucked a wiggly purple worm from her skirt.

Josie had to laugh. It was absurd to be formal with an
earthworm on her dress. “‘Josie’ then. But,” she warned him, “if Grand-mère is
near, Phanor, you must say ‘Mademoiselle Josephine.’”

“This I know. Even my papa is careful with Madame Emmeline.
And they knew each other as children.”

“They did?”

“Oh, yes. Their fathers used to hunt gators in the bayou
together. Papa says in the old days, my grandfather and your grandfather had
big cook-outs at the lake, and the two families would picnic on the shore.”

“Cajuns and Creoles? I mean, my grand-mère . . .”

Phanor nodded. “I understand. I will not forget you are
Mademoiselle Josephine.”

Josie ended an awkward moment. “Do you like possum meat?”

“Mmwa,” Phanor said and kissed his fingers. “My sister, she
roast it with sweet potatoes and apples. I will bring you a possum some day,
and your cook, she will know how to fix it.”

Josie lost herself for a moment in his black eyes. Such
beautiful eyes. Phanor held her gaze and moved toward her. Her breathing
quickened. They were very much alone. Was he going to kiss her?

She tilted her face up in readiness for his lips, his lovely
full lips. She took a step forward, but her smooth leather-soled shoes held no
traction. Before she could catch herself, her bottom thudded onto the muddy
ground.

A burst of laughter escaped Phanor’s lips, the same lips
she’d wanted to kiss only seconds before, and she thought she would kill him.
She glared at the hand he offered her.

He grinned, set his rifle and bag down, then hauled her up
by her arms. She brushed against his body when he heaved her up, but she
stepped away quickly. Could he feel her breasts through his shirt?

She tried to straighten her skirt with all the dignity she
could muster. She wouldn’t look at him. He must think she was a fool, and a
wanton woman at that. She’d been about to kiss him!

“Please, Josie. I’m sorry I laughed, but it happened so
quickly. I couldn’t help it.”

She turned a frown on him, but he only smiled back, his
black eyes merry. “I do apologize, truly I do.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head at
him. “Truly?”

“
Oui
, truly.” He put his hand over his heart and
wiped the smile from his face.

“Well, perhaps I will forgive you then -- someday.”

His moment of contrition was over, and a hint of amusement
played around his lips again. “I will live for that moment.” He picked up his
rifle and bag once more. “Would you like me to help you back to the house?”

“Oh. Oh no. That would look very odd indeed.” She looked
back in the direction of the house where Papa and Grand-mère were going about
their day, confident Josephine was behaving as a young lady ought to. And here
she was alone in the woods with a young man. In a dress covered in mud.
Thinking impure thoughts.

The weight of propriety descended on her once again. “Thank
you, no. I will not require assistance.”

He tilted his hat to her and turned to leave. She’d been too
abrupt. She hadn’t meant to be harsh.

“Phanor?” He stopped and looked back at her. “Thank you,”
she said.

He smiled and headed into the trees.

Josie slogged through the mud toward the house and pondered
whether it was quite proper to be friends with Phanor. After all, he was Cajun,
and poor, and – could he even read? She didn’t know. Imagine not knowing how to
read. Oh, but he was so very kind to help her with Maman’s crypt. And it wasn’t
just that he was handsome. He was smart, too. She liked him, and she wouldn’t
be a snob like Grand-mère.