Wild Star (36 page)

Laurel walked lazily into the bedroom.

“Doesn’t one knock in the South?” Byrony asked, pushing back wet hair that had escaped the cluster tied atop her head.

“I told you what would happen,” Laurel said, disregarding Byrony’s words. “I can’t imagine Brent appreciating you mucking in his affairs.”

“Laurel, these people are wretched. It staggers me that human beings are treated worse than animals.”

“What is Brent going to do with Wakehurst?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Oh, I will, you may be certain of that. Where did you grow up, anyway, to be such a pious little preacher?”

“In Boston.”

“Ah.” Laurel gave her a long look, then turned to leave. At the door she said over her shoulder, “You do realize, don’t you, that several of the slaves who spoke to you today are field slaves. Each field slave has so much to accomplish every day. If they don’t complete their work, they’re flogged.”

Byrony was out of the bathtub in but a moment, her heart pounding. Lizzie stood gaping at her as she quickly toweled herself dry and began to jerk on her riding habit.

“Missis,” Lizzie wailed, “you suppose to call me for help.”

“I will, Lizzie, next time.” Ten minutes later, Byrony was racing out of the house.

Oliver, a bent old stablehand, saddled a mare, muttering under his breath that the massa went to the fields with Mr. Paxton.

He pointed toward the north. Byrony click-clicked her mare, whose name was Velvet, in that direction. Dear God, what had she done? She rode beneath thick-branched elm and oak trees that allowed only slivers of late-afternoon sun to knife through the green leaves. There were horse paths into the fields. She’d seen them on her ride with Drew. She veered onto the one that was nearest to being toward the north. The cotton fields were flat and seemed to stretch endlessly. There were small trails between the rows. She was beginning to wonder if old Oliver had sent her astray when she saw a group of black men clustered in a small clearing.

The sun was setting when she saw Frank Paxton, the only white man present, coiling up his whip. Ragged slaves stood in a loose circle about an oak tree. She felt her stomach turn as she reined in the mare. Sabilla, the pregnant young woman who had begged her for fewer hours in the fields, was hanging by her bound hands to a low branch, naked to the waist. Her back was crisscrossed with bloody welts. From Paxton’s whip. Byrony heard her soft, keening moans.

She slipped off the mare’s back and rushed to Paxton. “Cut her down, this minute.”

“Mrs. Hammond,” Frank Paxton said, closing his fingers over her arm, “the woman deserved the punishment. Don’t interfere in things that don’t concern you.”

“Don’t concern me?” She shook her arm free of him. “This woman is pregnant, Mr. Paxton. Cut her down this instant.”

“No, ma’am,” he said finally. “She will stay as she is until dark. Those are the rules.”

“Then animals made the rules.” She started toward Sabilla.

Frank Paxton moved swiftly to block her way. He said, his voice deadly soft, “Listen to me, Mrs. Hammond. You will get back on your horse and ride out of here, back to the house. I will not tolerate any interference from you. White people don’t argue in front of slaves, do you understand?”

Byrony heard the soft rumbling sounds from the dozen or so male slaves. She didn’t know what to do. Oh God, it was worse than a nightmare.

“What is going on here?”

Byrony could have yelled with relief at the sound of Brent’s voice. She turned to watch him gracefully dismount from the back of a huge black stallion.

“Nothing at all, Brent,” Frank Paxton said easily. “I was just telling your wife that she should return to the house.”

“Brent,” Byrony said quietly, “he’s flogged Sabilla. I must help her, for it’s my fault. She’s pregnant.”

There was a long moment of silence; then Brent said in a calm, emotionless voice, “No, Byrony. She isn’t, not any longer.”

“No.” Byrony’s eyes fell to the rivulet of blood that streaked down Sabilla’s legs. So much blood, making splotches on what remained of her coarse wool dress.

“Get on your horse and ride back to the house now.”

She raised her eyes to her husband’s face. “But, Brent—”

“Do as I tell you. I will see that the woman is taken care of. I promise you. Go, now.”

Slowly Byrony walked to her mare. She felt Brent’s hands close about her waist and lift her into the saddle. She let the mare gallop wildly back toward her waiting stall.

 

The lamp flickered, then filled the room with light.

“Get up and get dressed now. You will not miss dinner.”

Byrony stared at her husband, but didn’t move. “Sabilla?”

“We will speak of it later.” He turned and walked to the door and called, “Lizzie. Get in here and help your mistress.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt like a perfect fool. He couldn’t very well bathe and change with the girl in the room. When she came skittering to a halt in front of him, her eyes wide on his face, he said, “Never mind. Have water sent up here, now. That’s a good girl.”

He said over his shoulder. “You can hide in bed for a while longer, I have yet to bathe. Lord knows I need it.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Oh? Are you ill then?”

“No, not in the sense you mean. Please, Brent, what about Sabilla?”

“She’s all right. She’s weak, of course, but she will be fine, I promise.”

“It was my fault that she was flogged. She came to me to beg for fewer hours in the field. It was her first child, Brent, and she was in pain. I can’t believe that things like that happen.”

Brent very carefully folded his coat and laid it on a chair back. He said over his shoulder, “Byrony, stop blaming yourself. It isn’t your fault, what happened. You can believe me that I’ve spoken to Paxton. There won’t be any more floggings.”

She sighed deeply, and watched him strip off his clothes. The differences between them hadn’t really struck her before. They did now. His tall body was powerful, strong, and muscled. But even if he were short and flabby, she thought, veering back to the horrible incident, he would still control everything and everyone in his little kingdom. It was because he was a man that he was powerful, and because she was a woman, she was nothing more than a supplicant. She could do nothing more than beg, perhaps cry to get her way. She wanted to demand that he flog Paxton. She thought of her father. He had no kingdom, yet he was all-powerful to his wife. He could beat her, curse her, throw things at her at will.

“I will not be a party to this,” she said.

Brent turned to face her, naked, but oblivious of it. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

Two black boys carrying wooden tubs of hot water came into the bedroom. Byrony slipped deeper under the covers until they left the room.

She silently watched her husband climb into the tub.

“I’m waiting.”

“I want to leave.”

There, she’d said it.

Brent said nothing until he’d finished bathing. When he stepped from the tub, he slowly began to dry himself. “I was quite smelly,” he said. “I don’t suggest you use my water.”

“I bathed earlier.”

“Then get out of that bed and dress yourself.”

“I am also tired of taking orders from you. I am not one of your slaves. I will stay in bed if I want to.”

He laughed. Damn him, he laughed. She grabbed a small clock from the bedside table and flung it at him. It struck his arm and bounced on the carpet.

His laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He rubbed his arm, a thoughtful expression on his face. “So you want to stay in bed, do you?”

“No, Brent, I don’t want any of that. I’m angry and I feel guilty—and—no.”

“There’s one thing a man’s entitled to, and that’s obedience from his wife. Haven’t I mentioned that fact to you before?”

He joined her in bed and when he took her cries into his mouth he felt her words to his soul. “I love you.”

“Brent. I’d heard you were home. Welcome, son.”

Brent took James Milsom’s offered hand and shook it. For an instant he stared at the man who was one of his father’s closest friends, one of his father’s contemporaries. He looked old, his face wrinkled, his iron-gray hair thin. Had his father looked this old when he’d died? He swallowed. Nine years was a long time.

“Yes, I returned to Wakehurst just last week. I must speak to you, Mr. Milsom.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Brent. Sit down.”

Brent eased down in a large leather chair opposite James Milsom’s mahogany desk, and looked about the dark-paneled office. “I remember your desk and those pictures so well,” he said. “Do you still race your horses, sir?”

“Yes, indeed. There’s a new picture added to the lot—” Milsom pointed to a painting of a roan quarter horse. “His name is Bullet. Poor old fellow died several years ago. I’m pleased I had him painted before he went down. I suppose it was for the best—a race, you know, and he broke his leg. But, enough of that.”

“Natchez has changed a bit also,” Brent said. “New buildings, more bustle on the docks, many more boats on the river.”

“True.” He shook his gray head. “The steamboat you traveled on for a while—
Fortune’s Lady
—blew up some five years ago. The idiot captain was racing, of course. Killed some fifteen people. I understand you’re newly married. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

James Milsom sat back at his desk and studied the young man across from him. He was a man now, he thought, shaking off the memories of the handsome, arrogant youth he remembered. He said abruptly, with no preamble, “Your father regretted what happened, Brent. Oh, not at first, he was too enraged.” He watched Brent raise his fingers to the scar on his cheek.

“I gather he told you. All of it?”

“Yes, but only I know what happened. Forgive me if I’m probing at old wounds, Brent. But you came to talk to me about your father, did you not?”

“That and other things.” Brent sighed. “Had I been in my father’s shoes, I would have probably killed me. I was an excellent son to him, was I not?”

“It’s over and done with, Brent.”

“Yes, he’s dead, too late for me to make reparations.”

“Did you know that he devoured your letters to your brother? He followed your progress, you know. When you bought your saloon in San Francisco, he was pleased. I remember him telling me that at last you’d settled down, finally come to terms with yourself.”

Brent remembered that letter, the last one he’d written. He realized now that it had been filled with his excitement, his satisfaction, his hopes. And his father had read it.

“It’s a pity he didn’t live long enough to learn of your marriage. That would have pleased him greatly.”

“Would it? I wonder. Perhaps he saw my son sometime in the future in bed with his father’s seductive new young wife. The final irony, the final justice.”

“I can’t imagine that your young wife has any intention of dying,” James Milsom said.

“I can’t imagine that my mother did either.”

Milsom frowned as he leaned back in his chair. “I believe it’s time to cease this spate of guilt, Brent. I certainly don’t blame you, and your father ceased to very shortly after you left.” He paused a moment, carefully choosing his words. “I do not believe it is wise for a man or a woman to marry outside his generation. Your father realized his mistake very quickly. It’s just that he couldn’t admit it to himself until after he found you in bed with Laurel. He never approached her as his wife after that.”

“Why? Because I’d defiled her?”

“No, because he was sick at his own foolishness, his own blindness. Listen to me, Brent. Your father didn’t spend those last years alone. He found someone, and he was happy.”

Brent started forward in his chair.

“I won’t tell you the lady’s name. Suffice it to say that he was discreet, and again, I am the only person who was in your father’s confidence.”

“I am relieved,” Brent said. “Lord knows he deserved it. If only I hadn’t been such a selfish little bastard, if only I’d understood.”

“I haven’t met any young men of eighteen who were saints, Brent. Now, I have something else to tell you. I was with your father just before he died. He wanted to write you a letter to relieve his own conscience and yours, I believe. But there wasn’t time. A pity. As to his will, he did disinherit you, but only briefly. It was changed back some eight years ago.”

A letter. Yes, Brent thought, clenching his hands, it was a pity. “Had I been my father, I should have made Drew my heir.”

“Your brother cares only for his painting—you know that. As for Laurel, I find it quite interesting that he left her in your hands, so to speak.”

“A problem I haven’t yet resolved.” Brent paused a moment, then said carefully. “There’s another reason why I’m here, sir. It’s about Frank Paxton.”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

“I believe Wakehurst’s overseer has been lining his pockets over the years, particularly after my father became ill.”

“It’s probably true, but I have no proof. An ill master or an absentee master allows for that sort of thing, you know. Were I you, Brent, I’d simply fire the fellow.”

“I’d rather wring his neck first. Does Paxton bank with you, sir?”

“No, he’s not stupid. Is your new wife a Southern lady?”

Nor am I stupid, Brent thought, realizing well what Mr. Milsom was getting at. “She spent her formative years in Boston, then returned to California last year.”

“Then she doesn’t understand our ways.”

“No, not at all. But as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t either, not anymore. To be perfectly frank, I don’t know what to do.”

“About Wakehurst?”