Authentic Storm: An American Civil War Novel (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 5)

by Gina Danna

  “Mrs. Wainwright, you brought a guest.”

  “Good evening, Miss?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Mrs. Wainwright cajoled with a smile, stepping closer to Jaquita, almost like a shield against the storm. “Miss Fontaine, I am sure, would love to make your acquaintance, though you have descended on her like vultures. Mr. Johnson, please, have a word.”

  Jeremiah Johnson snorted as he stepped forward. Jaquita blinked. The main speaker stared into her eyes, his dancing with a gleam as he stood there, in his fancy clothes. Made her wonder how a former slave, light enough he could mimic a white person in a pinch, could afford such an outfit. Then she laughed inwardly. He no doubt thought the same about her, though her skin wasn’t as pale.

  “Miss Fontaine,” he started. “Please excuse the excitement. We have a tendency to swarm over new attendees as if they might be angels from up high. Please accept my apologies for the mob.” He took her gloved hand and kissed it.

  She gave him a tight grin, not deciding if he was sincere or jesting. However he meant it, the crowd adored his attention to her from the sighs and claps she heard.

  Glancing up from her hand, he winked at her. That slightly irritated her, so she yanked her hand away. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”

  “It was,” she started. “Not an evening like I would have normally planned.”

  “No, I’d bet not. Here, if you’ll take my arm, I’ll get you out of this mess.” He offered her his bent arm.

  Placing her palm on it, she queried, “And to where would you take me?”

  He laughed. “The doorway, if it is your pleasure to leave.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “This way, then.”

  The path was hard, with him stopping periodically to introduce her. “Where do you hale from, my dear?”

  She swallowed hard. “Louisiana.”

  He stopped and turned. “You do say? New York is a trek from there.”

  How was she to tell him she stayed here often with her family? That many Southerners stayed in the North during the summer if they could afford it. “I had an invitation, so I came.” Invitation wasn’t the right word, but he’d never know.

  He gave her a sly grin.

  As they slid through the crowd, she noticed a young man over to the side, slinging his hat back on and turning toward them. It was the man who’d helped her in the market. She lost her breath when his gaze locked on her. Then she stumbled on her step. Jeremiah caught her.

  “Miss Fontaine, are you all right?”

  Flustered, she swallowed hard and tried to refocus, though when she saw the man take a step in her direction, her steeled resolve started to crumble.

  “I’ll be fine. Please, can we continue?” She knew she sounded desperate but she needed to move.

  Jeremiah started when the man caught up to them.

  “Miss Fontaine?”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Thomas McHenry, she recalled his name. He was handsome, standing there all in fine black wool frock and trousers, his waistcoat a turquoise blue and the shirt pristine white. He was still so debonair, with his hair pomaded back, his blue eyes sparkling under the candlelight. She couldn’t help when her heart puttered at a quickened pace thanks to him.

  Forcing a smile on her face, she turned. “Why, Mr. McHenry, what a pleasure to see you.”

  He took her hand and kissed the backside of it. Made her wish they were not gloved, and that realization made her struggle not to swoon. The sly smile he gave her as he pulled away from her hand virtually mesmerized her, making the slight tension of Jeremiah’s arm hardly noticed.

  “Mr. Johnson, a striking lecture.” His quick acknowledgement of her escort shook her out of her infatuation and added to admiration of him even more.

  Jeremiah nodded. “Thank you, sir. To hear from one of our major patrons is so rewarding.”

  She raised her brows in surprise. So McHenry wasn’t only handsome, he had the wealth to support abolition. Made her like him just that much more….

  “Posh. A man of your speaking style will go far, as will the movement.”

  “Again, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Miss Fontaine has urgent business—”

  Urgent, huh? She blinked. If nothing else, she suspected Jeremiah didn’t like the attention McHenry gave him, or more likely, from the look on his face, her.

  “Ah, yes. Apologies. Again, wonderful talk and,” he turned to her with a slight wink. “’tis great to see you again.”

  As the man walked away, leaving her speechless, Jeremiah started them for the door. One thing was for sure. His speaking to them now had all eyes focused on her. She squirmed.

  Chapter 5

  “[I]f we are to die, let us die like men.”

  —Maj. Gen. Patrick Cleburne, C.S.A.

  Jaquita pushed the needle through the fabric and right into her thumb—for the third time in the last hour. The pain seared into the delicate tissue and with a yelp, she threw the fabric, needle and thread across the room. Suckling on her wound, she stood, shaking her skirt out and glared at the piece she’d been working on. Tatting. Tatting a pillow case. It was a task a lady would do to bide her time. She growled. It was what a white lady would do, to keep her hands busy, so the devil wouldn’t use them. Fiddlesticks!

  She picked up her work and in doing so, got a dot of blood on the fabric. That made her growl, putting it down and started to pace. Here she sat, at the Fontaine residence, following the rules that had been driven home on how ladies should act but now, what good was that, other than a way to waste time? She wasn’t white. No one here would view her as a ‘proper’ lady, requiring her to act as one. Each step made her madder and madder until finally, she found herself at the window, staring outside at the backyard. The sun called to her, as did the earth. There, being outside, might bring her the peace that she desperately needed as being ‘freed’ and in New York wasn’t what she expected.

  She skidded to a halt. Just what had she expected? Searching for an answer only resulted in one—to act as a lady of the Fontaine dynasty. The mere suggestion of that made her laugh out loud. Those ladies, her ‘sister’ and ‘mother’ were white. No one, not even in French Louisiana, gave a colored lady a second thought.

  The hint that she was less of a person because of her skin color made her blood boil. Grabbing the first object she saw, she hurled the ceramic figurine at the wall. It broke into a million pieces with sharp edges and that, somehow, took the edge off her anger. Yet the pieces made her realize she better scoot before Clarence came.

  She raced out of the parlor and headed toward the staircase. Flying up the stairs, a rush of excitement flooded her. Into her room, she pulled the trunk open and found the working dresses she’d thrown in were still there. At the time she left Bellefountaine, she wondered why Fanny had her pack those but, perhaps, the house slave knew her better than she did. In a flurry, she shed the morning dress with its layers of petticoats and crinoline and replaced them with her corded petticoat, the worn over petticoat and a calico working dress. She sighed as she buttoned the bodice. The comfort of this dress seeped into her bones. Changing into a pair of older boots, she exhaled with renewed excitement and headed outside.

  The back lot to the house stretched back as a somewhat narrow yard, way too close to the neighbors. Made her want to laugh, considering home…with a deep sigh, she got to the garden and stopped. The ground was rich and black, the scent like deep dark coffee, alluring and beckoning.

  The young maid working in the ground glanced at her with a quizzical look on her face. It made Jaquita giggle as she sank to the ground, running her fingers through the tilled earth.

  “I guess you haven’t seen many people come and just enjoy the feel of the soil.” She grinned broadly.

  The girl looked puzzled. “No, Mistress, not around here.”

  “And who are you? Not sure that I’ve seen you before.”

  “I’m Shelly. Related to Aunt Lila. She gets me a few
jobs to do, tide me over a bit.” The girl swiped at her nose, her dirty hand leaving a mark of soil on the bridge of it.

  “Well, Miss Shelly, I’m Jaquita Fontaine. Nice to meetcha.” She wanted to offer her hand but knew better. “What are you planting?”

  “Oh, just some lilies and such. Aunt Lila likes to make the house pretty.”

  Trying to pool the now filthy skirt so she could move, she reached out. “Here. Hand me that bucket and I’ll help.”

  “No!” the girl squealed, pulling upright. “Aunt Lila rather particular about who does her planting.”

  “I think she’ll let me. I may be new to the house, but from where I come from, tilling the soil runs in my blood.” She smiled.

  Shelly still peered at her funny but passed her the bucket. Jaquita wanted to laugh but didn’t. Digging her bare hands into the earth, she relaxed, finally feeling at home.

  Larissa Wainwright tugged on her gloves as she readied to go knock on the door to the Fontaine mansion. She had spent all night contemplating how she could approach the young lady here and finally drew a conclusion to arrive at her door, during morning visiting hours. She glanced at her companion.

  “Mrs. Douge, I’m so pleased you could accompany me today. I think this lady will be a grand help to the movement.”

  Susan Douge looked out at the tall house front with a critical gaze. “You say she is a freedwoman. From Louisiana?”

  “Well, the Fontaines are from Louisiana. I have met Mr. Fontaine once, years back at a lawn party. They are French, perhaps the reason for Miss Fontaine’s status.”

  Susan nodded her head. Larissa couldn’t tell if that made Albany’s abolitionist queen pleased or what.

  “You say they denied her at the bank?”

  “Yes, yes they did. I witnessed it and she handled it admirably. Her character, I think, will add greatly to the cause.” Now they had to convince her, Larissa failed to add.

  “If she’s freed, perhaps she will have nothing to do with us,” Susan argued, disembarking the carriage.

  “Or, perhaps if we help her in the banking issue, she might return the favor.”

  “Perhaps.” Susan’s tone sounded vague.

  Larissa straightened her shoulders. She had sent word to the lawyer about the situation and had yet had a reply. But she knew Thomas well. Surely he’d help. Confidence flooded her and with each step up to the main door, her determination that this visit was successful won.

  The butler opened the door before they got there and it surprised her.

  “Is Miss Fontaine home?”

  The elder Black man stood back to allow them room to enter. When she pulled her card from her reticule for him, she said, “Please inform her Mrs. Wainwright and Mrs. Douge of Albany are here to see her.”

  But before he moved, a young boy entered, wearing livery of the stable. The butler stopped him.

  “Alex, have you seen Miss Jaquita?”

  The boy nodded. “Yessum. Out in the garden.”

  “Ah, yes. Would you escort these ladies to her?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes sir.”

  As the boy led them through to the back of the house, Larissa’s curiosity grew, as well as her concern. The woman said she was freed, yet they were now in the servants’ quarters. Puzzled, she opened her mouth right as the boy led them to the back doorway.

  “Miss Jaquita right out there.” He pointed out to the garden. “Miss Jaquita! Ya got company!”

  Larissa expected she’d be sitting, enjoying tea perhaps, but she wasn’t ready for what she was doing. Even Susan gasped.

  “Now, Miss Jaquita, I understand you’re a might upset over the situation,” Aunt Lila started. “But these are calling hours. Ladies don’t take those hours to dirty themselves in servant chores.”

  Jaquita pulled the stick out of the earth and slid the lavender plant into the slot and gently filled in the remains of the hole with the loose soil. Rolling back on her bent legs, she wiped the perspiration off her forehead as she looked up at the cook.

  “Thank you, Aunt Lila. I appreciate your concern. But I assure you, I’m expecting no callers. And I have no one to call on, therefore,” she pushed the locks of hair that had freed itself from her hairpin back into place. “I have my time.”

  “Yes, but surely you have other, more ladylike, duties you could indulge in,” the cook prodded.

  Jaquita gave her a half smile. The old woman looked so exasperated that she was digging in the earth over planning a tea that Jaquita wasn’t sure if she should apologize for not following some innate rules that white women followed, or should laugh at the thought.

  “I was embroidering this morning,” she admitted, bending back over the earth. “But why? Its mind-numbing work. Pretty, yes, but to what good?”

  Aunt Lila frowned. “It’s more fitting—”

  “For Mrs. Fontaine, or Miss Cerisa Fontaine,” she interrupted. “But for the mulatto half sister at best, not required.”

  “Miss Jaquita! Ya got company!”

  “Oh, my,” Aunt Lila moaned.

  Jaquita looked up at the doorway to the rear veranda and found Mrs. Wainwright and a Black lady, both dressed in fine day dresses, fanning themselves in the summer heat. Biting her inner lip, she put the stick down and got up slowly, flattening her skirt with dirty hands as she stood. She bet she was a sight for them, hatless, in a calico work dress with mud stains. She swallowed deeply.

  “Good morning ladies, I wasn’t expecting a soul.”

  Mrs. Wainwright had a mixed expression, as if she disapproved but not completely. The other lady’s brow rose quizzically.

  “Please excuse us. I just wanted to the take the chance to introduce you to Mrs. Douge. She and her husband are quite the movers and shakers in Albany’s Anti-Slavery Society.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss?” Mrs. Douge cocked her head.

  “Fontaine. Jaquita Fontaine, from Louisiana. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Douge. What a pleasant surprise.” She smiled. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I thought you two ladies might have a lot in common,” Mrs. Wainwright stated. “Mrs. Douge wanted to meet the newest member to our community. I had taken the liberties to tell her I believe your arrival from the Deep South will add to the cause.”

  Jaquita frowned. “I do hail from down South, though my experience might be not as motivating as you believe.”

  Mrs. Douge tilted her head. “May I ask, why you are out here, tilling the soil, as it were?”

  Wiping her dirty palms on her skirt again, Jaquita snorted. “Well, I had been all prim and proper, embroidering pillow cases, but that was hardly fulfilling. I was—” how was she going to explain how anxious that had made her? All cooped up, acting a role she was hardly comfortable with?

  “Distracted?” the guest offered.

  Jaquita instantly relaxed, as if this woman, this Black woman, understood somehow. “Yes, you could say that. Seemed rather mundane. After all, who would see them? But flowers and working in the soil, feeling the earth shifting through your fingers is so fulfilling. Therefore, I changed and came out here, throwing myself into it. And the flowers…” She inhaled deeply, a slow grin forming. “Smell so lovely.”

  Mrs. Douge nodded while Mrs. Wainwright’s lips thinned, as if the answer surprised her.

  “Yes, I’m sure they will. A left over from days in the field?”

  Jaquita blinked hard. “As a field hand?” The thought made her anger flare. Did she look like a field hand?

  “Hardly, Miss Fontaine,” Mrs. Wainwright quickly responded, interceding between the two women. “Obviously you learned gardening somewhere.”

  With a hard stare at them, Jaquita gave them a half nod. “True. I did. From Fanny, our house head slave.” She smiled. “She drummed the art of plants into us all.”

  Neither Mrs. Wainwright or Mrs. Douge returned the grin. Jaquita struggled not to react to that, or the fact that they were making her uncomfortable, like she was a slave.

&nb
sp; Mrs. Wainwright shot a glance to her companion. Whatever the message was, Jaquita couldn’t tell but the shift in their complexions was undeniable. They were through here.

  “Miss Fontaine, thank you for receiving us. We apologize for taking your time. We were not aware that you were not receiving guests now. Perhaps another time would be better?”

  Jaquita wanted to growl. They decided her attire and what she was doing scaled her acceptability down. How dare they!

  “Miss Jaquita,” Mrs. Wainwright started. “I did want to share that we may have a solution to your bank situation.”

  That snapped her out of scowling. “You do? I would be most pleased to hear it.”

  “We know a lawyer who has had some experience in helping freedmen in situations similar to yours. Of dealing with companies that deem it necessary to keep us in our place,” Mrs. Douge stated. “If you would like, Mrs. Wainwright knows him better than I and, I’m sure, would gladly make an appointment for you two to meet.”

  Biting her bottom lip as she rubbed her dirty palms on her apron again. Jaquita nodded. “Yes, please. I would appreciate it.”

  “It would be my pleasure. I’ll send word when I can arrange it.” Mrs. Wainwright was all smiles.

  “Thank you.”

  “Til then, it was nice to meet you,” Mrs. Douge said. “Good day.”

  Jaquita watched the ladies leave. Slowly she glanced down at her hands. They were filthy. Somehow these two women had managed to make her feel beneath them and that, she could not take. With a brief call to Clarence to have a bath sent to her room, she hurried in. All thoughts of tilling the soil fled from her mind.

  Chapter 6

  “…Whatever may be the result of the contest I foresee that the country will have to pass through a terrible ordeal, a necessary expiation for our national sins…”

  —Robert E. Lee wrote in a farewell note to a northern friend when he accepted command of the Army of Virginia on April 23, 1861, upon Virginia’s secession.