by John Jakes
Of course he didn’t dare ask. And even if he had, he suspected she wouldn’t have answered. He sensed a shyness in her, a barrier that hid certain of her thoughts and feelings from the world. Behind that barrier lay the answer to the curious little riddle of the glove placed on his sleeve, then withdrawn with a look of surprise and perhaps a touch of shame.
Even with this mystery confronting him, he felt he had learned a good deal about the charming traveler in a very short time. She was intelligent and a gentlewoman, though something told him that didn’t mean she lacked emotion. Just the opposite, in fact. These fascinating glimpses of her character attracted him even more profoundly than her beauty. For one dizzying instant he had a sense of two perfectly matched people finding each other.
Romantic ass, he thought a moment later. Villefranche made a polite but pointed remark about getting started. Orry cleared his throat. “There’s a crossroads store about a mile ahead. I’ll stop and find you a couple of mules and two or three nigras to lend a hand with putting the coach back on the road.”
He helped the driver collect and stack the scattered luggage, though he didn’t do so with any eagerness. He hated to think of this lovely young woman visiting the owner of Resolute, Justin LaMotte, whom he knew well and disliked.
The LaMottes were an old and aristocratic Huguenot family. The first LaMotte in the Carolinas had arrived more than a year before Charles de Main. Hence Justin, his brother Francis, and the entire clan tended to look down on the Mains, and most everyone else. This was true even though Justin had all but impoverished himself through bad management of his lands and a spendthrift style of life. Many who met him for the first or even the second time thought him exceptionally charming. But Orry knew otherwise.
He wanted to learn as much as he could about the visitor. As he handed another soiled piece of luggage to Villefranche, he said to Madeline:
“From your name, I take it you’re French.”
She laughed. “Oh, nearly everyone in New Orleans has a French name because those in the majority, particularly the churchmen, kept insisting they couldn’t pronounce or remember any other kind. You know the French can be dreadful snobs.”
“Indeed I do. Frenchmen settled in the Carolinas, too.” A comment about Justin leaped to mind, but he suppressed it. “Where did your family come from, then?”
“On the paternal side, Germany. My great-great-grandfather Faber was one of the earliest arrivals on what’s called the German Coast, about twenty-five miles upriver from New Orleans. There are scores of Germans in our part of the world, and in the last hundred years virtually all the names have been changed to sound French. Buchwalter became Bouchvaldre. Kerner became Quernel. I could recite a dozen.”
“But your family now lives in the city rather than on this German Coast?”
A touch of strain returned to her face. “There is only my father.” She explained that he was a sugar factor, like his father and his grandfather. He had wanted to accompany her on this journey but had been unable. Six months earlier he had been felled by a paralyzing stroke.
Orry brushed dried mud from the last satchel, then prepared to leave. “I hope you have an excellent visit at Resolute, Miss Fabray.” He was afraid to say more but knew he must or the moment would be lost. “Perhaps—” He twisted his cap in his fingers. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
“I would enjoy that, Mr. Main,” she answered with a small, grave nod. He was too excited to recognize that she was only being polite.
With a wave he rode off. Elation set him singing all the way to the crossroads store. He didn’t understand why a girl as lovely and sophisticated as Madeline Fabray would want to spend a holiday with people as arrogant and empty as the LaMottes. Could there be a blood relationship somewhere? It seemed the only sensible explanation.
Well, he could stomach being polite to Justin if that was the price of calling on his guest. And call on her he would, at the first possible moment. He would have more than a month and a half at home. Ample time to become a young woman’s beau. He imagined himself presenting Madeline with the embroidered wreath from his cap, saw the two of them at the end of his furlough exchanging ardent promises to write.
How strangely fate worked. If this dismal rain hadn’t washed out part of the road, the chance meeting might never have occurred. But it had—and the result was happiness that was altogether new and wonderful.
Five minutes after he reached Mont Royal, Cooper brought him crashing to earth.
“Fabray, you say? I’m afraid you’ve wandered down the wrong path, brother. Fabray is the name of the young woman Justin’s going to marry.”
After a stunned silence, Orry exclaimed, “How can that be? How?”
Cooper shrugged. They were in the dining room, a place dreary with shadows now that the rain had started again. Orry’s furlough cap lay in a corner where he had flung it joyously after embracing his brother. Cooper was in shirt-sleeves. He had poured two glasses of their father’s best claret. Orry hadn’t tasted his.
“Haven’t a notion,” Cooper answered. He put a booted foot on the expensive mahogany table. “I am not exactly a confidant of either Justin or Francis.”
“I can’t believe that girl would marry Justin. She can’t be more than twenty. He must be fifteen or twenty years older. How long has his first wife been dead?”
“Nine years, I think. What difference does it make? The girl’s father probably arranged the match. That still happens quite frequently. And the LaMottes do offer a pedigree, even if they did run out of the milk of human kindness years ago.”
This was the first time Orry had ever exhibited more than a casual interest in women. He continued to growl and utter lovelorn sounds someone else might have found comical. But Cooper did not. Even though he himself had not as yet been smitten in the same way, hence could not fully grasp the extent of his brother’s pain, Cooper had no doubt that it was hellishly real.
He sipped claret and returned to the diagram of the pounding mill he’d been studying when his brother arrived. Orry paced around the table, and then around again, his expression growing more and more agitated. He halted abruptly next to Cooper’s chair:
“When is the wedding?”
“This coming Saturday. We’re invited as a family, by the way. Reckon you won’t be going.”
“Saturday! Why so soon?”
“I can only speculate. Justin’s mother preferred that the wedding be held in the autumn when it’s cooler. But he’s old enough to say no to her. I don’t know if it’s the young lady he’s anxious for, or her dowry. If she’s as pretty as you say, I can understand the stories I’ve heard. According to the talk in the neighborhood, Justin’s as impatient as one of his own prize stallions—look, don’t start that infernal pacing again. She’s just a girl.”
Orry spun to face him. “She’s a lot more than that. I could tell five minutes after we met that she and I would have made a fine—made—”
He didn’t know how to finish. Or perhaps he feared mockery if he did. Cooper watched his brother retrieve his cap from the corner and touch its ornamental gold wreath with the tip of his index finger.
Then, without another word, Orry walked out.
Cooper sighed and reached for his brother’s untasted claret. Damned if he wasn’t feeling sad all at once too.
Next morning the brothers saddled up and rode on to Summerville. When they arrived, Orry made an effort to give each member of the family a warm greeting. But Clarissa knew her children. That evening after supper, she drew Cooper aside.
“Your brother is no actor. Why is he so unhappy? Isn’t he glad to be home?”
“I’d say he is. But yesterday he met a young woman on the river road to Charleston. She caught his fancy, and then he discovered she’s Justin LaMotte’s intended.”
“Oh, my. The girl everyone refers to as a Creole?”
“I reckon. Is she?”
“Her name suggests it. My,” Clarissa said again. “This poses
a problem. In connection with the wedding, I mean. Your father refuses to attend, but courtesy demands that the family be represented. I was hoping you and Orry would go with me.”
Cooper understood his father’s antipathy for the LaMottes; he shared it. They were shallow, mean-spirited people who worshiped horseflesh and settled inconsequential arguments by resorting to illegal duels. It was consideration for his mother that prompted his answer:
“To be honest, I’d rather not, but I will. We shouldn’t force Orry, though.”
“Of course you’re right,” Clarissa said. “Under the circumstances he surely wouldn’t want to go.”
That night at supper, Orry surprised them by announcing that he would accompany them on Saturday. Cooper considered it foolhardy but said nothing. Tillet ordered Clarissa to take Cousin Charles as well. “The sight of ladies and gentlemen behaving themselves might prove inspirational,” he said with sarcasm. Poor Charles was forever being punished in one way or another, Cooper thought.
Saturday brought clear, mild weather with a brisk breeze to drive off the bugs. Departure for Resolute was delayed about an hour because Clarissa was busy. Just before sunrise one of the house girls they had brought from Mont Royal had gone into labor.
Clarissa helped with every confinement on the plantation, and she didn’t expect compliments or even recognition for her efforts. She was only carrying out the traditional responsibilities of a woman of her position. One day Ashton and Brett would do the same.
The trip by carriage took an hour and a half. Cousin Charles fidgeted and complained the whole way. Clarissa had dressed him in a fine suit complete with high collar and cravat. By squirming and pulling he managed to wrinkle the outfit thoroughly by the time they reached Resolute.
They arrived forty minutes after the end of the marriage service, which had been held in a tiny separate chapel. Only close relatives had attended. Now the reception was in progress. Guests were chatting and laughing under the oaks and magnolias on the side lawn, where four yellow-and-white-striped pavilions had been erected.
The LaMotte plantation reminded Cooper of some Charleston whore who tried to hide time’s ravages under a lot of powder and paint. At first glance the great house looked huge and impressive. Then you noticed planks warping away and extensive evidence of mold. Large pieces of mortar had fallen from the brick pillars supporting the rear piazza—Resolute’s great house faced the river at the summit of a low hill—and many of the shutters showed unrepaired storm damage.
Still, the festive crowd didn’t seem to mind. Counting family members, guests, and all the slaves required for the occasion, Cooper estimated that three hundred people were present. Fine carriages and buggies were parked on two acres at one side of the front lane. Smoke drifted in the air, evidence that barbecue was being served. Barbecue was a tradition at low country weddings.
An orchestra from Charleston began to play. Cousin Charles ran off. A grim-faced Orry searched for the bride. Cooper hoped the punch would be strong; only intemperance would make the rest of the afternoon bearable.
“There she is,” Orry said. “We ought to pay our respects before the line gets any longer.” Clarissa and Cooper agreed. They joined the line and presently moved up to greet the rector, the various LaMottes, and the bride and groom.
Justin LaMotte was a handsome, thick-waisted man with a ruddy complexion and silky brown hair that looked as though he treated it with dye. He accepted the congratulations of the Mains with a smile and some charmingly correct phrases of thanks. But his eyes held no warmth.
Cooper was busy studying the bride. She was breathtakingly beautiful. No wonder his brother had taken a hard fall. Justin didn’t deserve such a prize. Did the girl know much about the man she had married? Poor creature, he hoped so; it would be a tragedy if she only just now discovered what lay beneath her husband’s superficial charm.
Cooper had deliberately gone first in line, so that he might turn back and watch his brother’s behavior with Madeline LaMotte, and he hoped there wouldn’t be any sort of mawkish display. Orry felt bad enough already; he needed no further embarrassment.
He was the perfect gentleman, however. He held the bride’s hand a moment while he leaned forward to give her the ritual peck on the cheek. But as Orry drew back, Cooper saw the young people look at each other. In his eyes—hers, too—Cooper detected sorrow, a swift but stunningly candid acknowledgment of a lost opportunity.
Then, showing a flash of guilt, the bride glanced away. Justin was greeting another guest and missed the little interchange. Thinking of what he had seen in Madeline’s eyes a few moments ago, Cooper said to himself, I hope some woman looks at me that way just once before I die.
The Mains left the reception line. Cooper wanted to commiserate with his brother but couldn’t find the proper words. Anyway, Orry would probably be offended. So, instead, Cooper set out for the punch bowl. On the way he noticed Cousin Charles crawling under one of the trestle tables. The boy was carrying a plate heaped with mutton barbecue and relish. Charles’s shirttails already hung out.
Cooper saw that his mother was served, then left her with three matronly ladies, two of them Main cousins, the third a member of the huge Smith family. He consumed four cups of punch in half an hour. It didn’t help much. On every side he heard compliments about the bridegroom that made him wince. The guests were being charitable, but Cooper’s charity didn’t extend to lying.
He soon found himself reeling around the outdoor dance platform with a good-natured matriarch named Aunt Betsy Bull. Cooper loved to polka, but Aunt Betsy spoiled it by saying:
“Don’t they make the handsomest couple? She’ll be supremely happy. I don’t know Justin well, but he has always impressed me as a kind and charming man.”
“At a wedding party, all men are angels.”
Aunt Betsy tsk-tsked. “How did someone as sweet as your mother raise such a cynical scalawag? I don’t think you care for Justin. You’ll never get to heaven with that kind of attitude.”
I don’t want to get to heaven, just back to the punch bowl, Cooper thought as the music stopped. “Thank you for the dance, Aunt Betsy. Excuse me?” He bowed and left.
With a new drink in hand, he lectured himself about letting his feelings show. He didn’t give a damn what people thought of him, but he shouldn’t and wouldn’t embarrass his mother. Not for anything. Still, it was hard to stay neutral about Justin LaMotte. The man pretended to be such a gentleman, but it was a sham. He treated his horses better than he treated his niggers. Abuse and outright cruelty had been staples at Resolute ever since Justin had taken over when his father died.
The previous summer, after Justin had suffered a defeat in a horse race, one of his black grooms had done something to displease him. Justin’s rage was all out of proportion to the offense. He had ordered nails pounded into an empty hogshead, then put the offender in the hogshead and rolled it down a hill. The slave’s injuries had left him unable to work, useless to anyone else. A month ago he had taken his own life.
Such barbarous punishment was rare in the low country and nonexistent at Mont Royal. Cooper considered it a major reason Resolute unfailingly yielded poor crops and year after year slid a little closer to bankruptcy.
Setting aside all moral questions, Cooper found one great practical weakness in the peculiar institution. The very act of holding a man against his will constituted mistreatment. Add physical cruelties to that, and how could you expect the man to work to the limit of his ability? To give everything and then a little more? Cooper had concluded that the significant difference between the economic systems of the North and South was not in industry versus agriculture but in motivation. The free Yankee worked to better himself. The Southern slave worked to keep from being punished. That difference was slowly rotting the South from the inside.
But try telling that to a Justin LaMotte—or a Tillet Main. Feeling dismal, Cooper helped himself to another cup of punch.
Francis LaMotte was three years ol
der than his brother. He excelled in horsemanship, routinely beating Justin and all the other contestants in the medieval tournaments so popular in the low country. Francis thrilled spectators by charging the rows of hanging rings at a dangerous speed, and he inevitably caught the greatest number of rings on the point of his lance. He always rode in the gander-pulling, too, and nine times out of ten he was first to wring the animal’s greased neck from horseback.
Francis was a small, sinewy man with a suntanned face and none of his brother’s social graces. He looked waspish as he and Justin enjoyed punch, momentarily left alone by the guests. A few feet away, Madeline was chatting with the Episcopal rector.
“I don’t know who will win the election in the fall, Father Victor,” the brothers heard her say. “But it’s obvious the outcome will hinge on the issue of the annexation of Texas.”
“Are you aware that one of South Carolina’s own played a vital role in bringing the question before the public?”
“You mean Mr. Calhoun, don’t you?”
Father Victor nodded. Calhoun was serving as the third secretary of state in the troubled Tyler administration. After receiving his appointment earlier in the year, he had drafted the annexation treaty which the Republic of Texas and the United States had signed in April.
“You’re quite right about the prominence of the issue,” the rector agreed. “Before the year is out every man in public life will have to declare his position.” He didn’t need to add that many had already done so. The support of Polk and ex-President Jackson for annexation was well known. So was the opposition of Van Buren and Clay.
“That’s as it should be,” Madeline replied. “Some are claiming the Texas question goes much deeper than the politicians care to admit. I’ve heard it said the real issue is expansion of slavery.”
