Windswept (37 page)

Lloyd Walker, for one, wouldn’t be happy, but he was Davis’s concern, not hers. Davis would explain how the secret was out now and covering up the past never worked. Besides, they had an agreement: no censorship of her work. A brief flurry of excitement on the part of the family shouldn’t make any difference to her project.

And what a project! Few historians ever had such an opportunity before them. The journals were so rich, so detailed, so complete. Added to all the other papers? She knew now how treasure hunters felt when finding a gold-laden Spanish galleon. She’d do a complete biography of Mary Maude, detailing her change from a demure bride to strong matriarch of the family, despite everything from a cheating husband to war and reconstruction. Set her in her times, bring in everything from medical to legal practices, tie in the politics to day-to-day life.

She scrutinized her image in the mirror while drying off. She was looking more human now, and she grinned in exultation at the future before her.

What a story, what history she’d write.

What a glorious beginning for her career.

She finished dressing and hurried downstairs, eager to read more of Mary Maude’s journal.

***

She was sitting on the couch in Davis’s office with one of the journals on her lap when Davis walked in about two o’clock. She watched him as he put his briefcase on the desk, took off his coat, and dropped into one of the chairs across the coffee table from her.

His face was drawn, his eyes hooded, and he looked more like the Davis she’d first met than the lover with whom she shared a bed. He definitely had not liked her news about Mary Maude. Or maybe he was just tired from lack of sleep.

“Hi.” She gave him a welcoming smile. Better to assume the best than a looming disaster.

He gazed at her for a long moment and, despite her optimism, a shiver of unease crawled its way up her backbone to lodge as a cold spot between her shoulder blades. He returned a smile more resigned than pleased, but the change to his face from implacable negotiator to more of an interested neutral eased the chill.

He leaned back, tented his fingers under his chin with his elbows on the chair arms. “Tell me the story again,” he said in a low, dead calm voice.

She repeated what she had told him in the early morning and closed with, “I’ve skimmed the next two volumes today, going through the war. No one questioned Edgar’s death. Ever.” She made a negating gesture with her hand to emphasize her point.

“Not while Edgar Jr. was off at college, not after he returned and took over his father’s place in running the plantation. Then the war came and I doubt anybody, except for family, even thought of Edgar. Mary Maude never mentions her husband again.”

She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact, tried not to let her enthusiasm show, but she was fairly bursting to tell him how Mary Maude and Windswept had survived through the war. Those years alone would fill a book. They, however, were not the point of this discussion. She folded her hands together on top of the journal and waited for his response.

“This story has to be what Lloyd and his mother have been talking about,” he finally said, looking straight into her eyes. “How Grandmama and Aunt Cecilia came up with their idea of a long-ago scandal lurking in the papers, I haven’t been able to find out. Maybe it was Granddaddy’s mother who got it from her mother, or somebody in the past read the journals and passed it on. Something said at the funeral may have set off a recollection for Aunt Cecilia, but if she had real knowledge, Lloyd would have gotten more out of her than he did. I’m sure no other member of my generation or the previous one ever heard a whisper otherwise.”

He frowned, looking more puzzled than angry. “What I don’t understand is . . . Granddaddy read every piece of paper in the collection. He must have read these journals, must have known about Mary Maude and Edgar. If he was protecting the family from the truth, it might explain why he didn’t open the papers to scholars. Yet he never said a word, never hinted at Mary Maude’s deeds to me or to you. He kept the family secret truly secret.”

“Yes, he did,” she agreed. “And then he let me in.”

“What do you intend to do?”

She couldn’t contain her excitement when she answered, “Write a full-fledged biography of Mary Maude, incorporate all the documents, letters, the Herbarium, the journals. As I go, I’ll produce my already planned articles: the correspondence with her mother and sister, the working life of the planter’s wife, the dynamic development and interaction of the plantation community over time. Everything added together will be a complete study of her, her life and her times.”

He rubbed his finger along his mustache for a few seconds. “What do you think will be the response to the story of the murder?”

She studied him carefully. He was back in negotiator mode--showing no emotion, offering no observation of his thoughts. She had an answer to his question, but he had probably come to the same conclusions. All she could do now was bring the problems out into the open. “I imagine it will cause quite a bit of excitement in several circles. First, your family. Second, the media, both mass and scholarly. Third, feminist and anti-feminist organizations and advocates. Fourth, historians of nineteenth-century America with any number of specializations, from legal to social history. I’m sure there will be more.”

“That’s pretty much what I thought. A circus.” He said the last word with utter conviction--and disgust.

“But I believe it can be a manageable and short-lived one,” she countered. “The tale is a very old story. The participants are long dead. After the initial announcement, interest should die down quickly. The only people then studying Windswept should be the academics.”

And if not? Davis’s expression implied even the slightest bit of “excitement,” scholarly or not, was unacceptable. What did his disapproval mean for her purposes? Her unease turned to dread, and the chill in the middle of her back dropped ten degrees.

“Lloyd, his mother, and a couple of other aunts and uncles are going to hit the ceiling,” he said in a voice she thought suspiciously bland. “They’re going to claim you’re bringing shame and ridicule down on the family by publishing such a tale.”

“It’s not my intention to hurt the Jamison family, but I can’t do anything about their feelings, or about what others may say or write.” She put the volume on the coffee table and leaned forward. What she said next was the crux of the matter and he needed to understand it--and her. She put every ounce of conviction she had into her next words. “All I can do,
all I will do
is tell the truth. All I can do,
all I will do
is write good solid history, put Mary Maude in the context of her culture and environment, and let her speak for herself. I don’t want to have my narrative or interpretation become a diatribe for or against any cause. I’m not going to write lurid, melodramatic books or articles. Hers is an important story even without the murder. But I can’t gloss over her actions. I can’t pretend they didn’t happen.”

“What if I asked you to?” Again that low tone with no inflection.

“What?” She sat up straight as an icicle of shock stabbed her in the back. “What do you mean?”

“What if I asked you to leave out the murder?” His expressionless face and voice gave her no clue where he was going or what answer he wanted.

She almost couldn’t believe he had asked the question, and she heard her outrage tinge her reply despite her attempt to keep her voice level. “I’d refuse. I won’t whitewash the story. I was explicit on the point when we first met. You agreed I would decide what goes into any of my writings with no censorship from you. To ‘leave out the murder’ would be a great disservice to Mary Maude. Not to tell her complete history is to disparage the woman, make her less than she was. Davis, these events happened over one hundred and fifty years ago. What could possibly impact the Jamison family now? Or is it . . . ”

He didn’t ask what, just waited.

“Does your request have anything to do with the Jamison branch of the family you didn’t know you had?”

“Edgar Sr.’s progeny who were moved north? No,” he said, “we’ve all come to terms with the reality of bi-racial relations. No family with a history of owning slaves could do otherwise. The white side of the family has always known about Edgar Sr.’s proclivities. They extended to more than the two women Mary Maude knew about. A number of African-American Jamison descendents still live in the area.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about them?” She felt more puzzled than angry at his omission.

“I didn’t think about it before,” he said with a shrug. “Their existence has never been a secret. But it’s not my ‘distant cousins’ who are the problem here.”

“Then what is? Are you asking me to leave out the murder? Are you going back on our verbal deal? Even if it’s not part of the formal grant agreement?”

His eyes turned to hazel granite at her question. All her research on the man, all her observations of him had convinced her he was a man of integrity who stood by his word. Even to suggest he would renege on a deal would insult him. She, however, needed to make sure the rules between them were as clear as the evidence in the journal.

“I’m asking you to give me some time to think about it, to come to terms with it, and to tell the family first,” he answered.

She pondered the request for a moment. The situation wasn’t as simple as his appeal made it out to be, and she had to be sure he understood and acknowledged her point of view, her purpose, so she said, “Consider this too, then. I am here to write
history
, not sensational articles for the tabloids. I would agree to keep the murder a secret until publication, but I have no control over what a publisher might want to do.

“You mentioned your grandfather’s knowledge of the collection, of the ‘family secret.’ I think you’re correct--he must have known the whole story. But
he
made no limitations on my research in the deal I had with him, and I do
not
believe he would have hidden the journals from me. If he were alive, I’d be publishing Mary Maude’s entire story.”

When Davis didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even blink, Barrett knew further discussion would be fruitless. They could go round and round on the topic and never come to a conclusion satisfactory to both of them. She needed to know he would not stand in the way of her writing the complete story. He needed to know not only how the other Jamisons thought, but also, and more importantly, to determine if he wanted the truth to come out at all. She’d stated her position. Good negotiating tactics said now was the time to let him think.

What had Martha called him?
The protector of the family?
He was certainly playing the part now.

She rose and picked up the journal volume. “Let me know what you decide. I have an inventory to work on.” She walked out of his office and closed the door softly behind her.

She crossed the room slowly and laid the book down on the table where Mary Maude’s journals were stacked. Looking out the glass at the shimmering pool, she hugged herself and tried to force her mind to think around the ice that had permeated her brain at his request.

He hadn’t given her an absolute answer when she’d asked him point blank if he was going back on the deal; he’d only asked for time to think about it. In her experience, when a person made such a wishy-washy statement, he was looking for a way out.

He was going to protect his family. He was going to ask her to at best ignore, at worst actively hide, Mary Maude’s crime.

And she’d refuse and he’d kick her out, not only of the papers, but of his house and his life.

Where did it leave her? If, to stop her publication, he shut her off entirely from the collection, she would see her career ambitions come crashing down. Oh, she could write about the murder, but without the actual documents to back her up, the original documents any scholar could look at, how could she prove it?

And any possibility of tenure would go, too. She couldn’t even imagine the difficulty of making tenure with superficial articles or a biography with a gaping hole at its core--whether or not anyone knew of the falsehood.

She wouldn’t falsify the record. She flat refused to lie about Mary Maude in print or any other mode of communication. To do so went against every fiber of her being, both her personal code of honor and her responsibility as a historian. She had to tell the truth.

It all came down to Davis now. What would he decide? Why was he hesitating?

What was “the problem,” the real problem, if not African-Americans with Jamison blood or a murderess in the family? He had not explained his statement. Why would he refuse to let her tell the truth?

Didn’t he understand her publishing a lie would be the equivalent of his putting out false financial information to an investor?

Was he trying to protect his family? From what? Some negative publicity only lasting until the next scandal came along? She knew from her research and her friends who grew up in them that small towns could be hotbeds of gossipy backbiting, but this was the twenty-first century. Did anyone really care about what their ancestors may or may not have done? She knew a couple of people who took positive delight in their rapscallion forebears.

Or was it because he didn’t trust her? Did he think, despite her promises, she would publicize, sensationalize Mary Maude’s transgressions? Would write hurtful, spiteful words about Edgar Sr.? Would run his family name through the mud, just to sell a few books and make a big name for herself?

The man didn’t know her at all. What was the matter with him? Had he been deaf and blind to her all this time to come up with such a crazy notion? Or, was she just one of his staff like Peggy or the Gonzaleses whom he didn’t really know? Or, worse, did he think she’d betray him somehow?

He’d trusted her enough to take her to bed. Or was that just about sex? Was she simply a convenient bed partner? She began to feel warmer as the heat of anger replaced the cold of rejection.

And to think, she was in love with the man.