"Raccoons, deer, even a fox. It was wonderful. The person showing me was Cajun and knew the bayou, so he was able to take me to special places."
Brett managed to keep his voice even as he asked, "Was he the one you mentioned back at the prison?"
"Yes," she admitted, with only a twinge of pain to remember, for loving Brett made Gator easier to forget. "Like I said, I was so young, only sixteen. I was just having fun, like girls do. He didn't mean anything," she added with a scornful laugh, lest he suspect she was lying.
When he made no comment, lapsing into a stony silence, she teased, "You're jealous, aren't you? I told you, he didn't mean anything to me, but he was a wonderful guide into the bayou, and—" She fell silent, noticing the horse was slowing, at the same time she could feel his tension. Fearfully, she asked, "Is something wrong? What do you see?"
Brett had promised himself as he got close to the Laubache plantation he would stick to the river trail and avoid the temptation to look around. After all, it had been nearly nine years. Still, he didn't want to risk seeing anyone who might recognize him. He had changed into civilian clothes way back in Biloxi, putting his Union army uniform in a saddlebag.
So it was his intent to keep on going. But then he realized he was passing the spot where the Laubache pier had once been. Riverboats had even tied up there sometimes, when loading or unloading guests. Now, however, all that remained were pilings and rotting boards jutting up out of the muddy water.
"Brett?" Anjele prodded behind him, alarmed by his continued silence.
"Nothing to be afraid of," he murmured.
"But what is it?"
"I'm not sure." He reined the horse away from the bank, cutting towards what used to be a flower-bordered path leading beyond rows of meticulously pruned evergreens. Now he saw the flowers were choked by the grasp of rank weeds, the passage tangled and overrun by wild honeysuckle.
He could not believe what he was seeing. Once, a carpet of green velvet had spread up the gentle slope to the mansion. Now, like the path, the lawn was overgrown with stirrup-high weeds. Ahead, he blinked in pained bewilderment at the sight of the once-grand house—doors swung from jambs, one section of roof was caving in, windows broken.
And then he saw the gazebo, or what was left of it. Once trailing with fragrant roses and wisteria, it was now barely held together by briars and bramble vines. He stared at the floor with its gaping, rotting holes and smiled sardonically to envision Margette and him in the throes of the passion he so stupidly thought was never-ending love.
Gone were the endless lines of whitewashed fences with prize horses grazing beyond. In the distance, he could see what looked like the burned remains of the barn.
He told Anjele what he was seeing as he rode on toward the sugarhouses. He merely said he'd known the folks who lived there when he was a boy, not about to divulge the truth.
Peering through a broken window, he could see huge vats, half-filled with soured and crusted molasses. Beyond, he saw the fields of rotting cane.
What had happened? True, the Yankees were pushing up the river, but slowly. Hell, he'd heard only a few days ago about the battle at Labadieville, down at Bayou Lafourche. That was way south of New Orleans, almost to the Gulf at a point between the mouths of the Mississippi and the Atchafalaya. So the Union didn't have total control of Louisiana, and sure as hell hadn't made a serious assault on the Vicksburg, Mississippi area—yet. So what in thunderation had happened to Haskill Laubache's once-splendorous plantation?
He rode past deserted slave cabins, stretching in parallel rows behind the main house. He recalled how, at the time he had worked the fields, Laubache had already replaced the old clay-between-posts structures with new ones of solid brick. Now nature was creeping out from the swamp beyond to devour with tongues of weeds and vines.
Moving back to the house, Brett dismounted at the foot of the marble stairs leading up to the dilapidated porch. He carefully guided Anjele inside. He'd never been in there, had no idea what it had looked like in its day of grandeur. Now the walls were bare, stripped of curtains and adornment.
He led her throughout the house, describing devastation. "It was plundered. Totally. I don't see anything left. Not a piece of crockery, not a chandelier, not even a candle." He took her upstairs to find the same abandonment there, as well.
He paused in what had once been Margette's room, and he knew that, because she'd pointed out the French doors leading to it one night when they were in the gazebo. Where the other rooms had merely been stripped, he noted this one bore evidence of destruction, vandalism. Holes had been knocked in the walls, all windows and the French doors smashed. Bits and pieces of furniture shattered beyond repair. It was as though someone had gone berserk, bent on committing absolute ruin. He described the pathetic scene to Anjele, but of course gave no indication he had known the former inhabitant.
The upstairs hallway formed a gallery, which opened to the entrance foyer below. Brett was about to descend the stairway when he noticed how the rear of the gallery hooked back to a hallway almost hidden from view. Steps there went down to what looked like the service wing of the house, but he also discovered a small bedroom still containing furniture—a bed, a small chiffonier. In one corner, there was a dumbwaiter, which, he decided after opening the door and peering down the narrow shaft, went into a service pantry below. Obviously, a slave had slept there, probably in service to the Laubache children. He recalled that Margette had two young brothers, twins. Whoever had plundered the house had failed to notice the room, or perhaps they weren't interested in what had been provided for a slave.
Brett was mystified but knew they needed to be on their way. Soon it would be dark, and he hoped to reach Black Bayou before then so there'd be time to check out the area while it was still light.
Returning to the river trail, they hadn't gone far when Brett saw the Negro man sitting on the bank with a cane pole, fishing. Three nice-sized catfish, secured by a line, desperately flip-flopped at the water's edge. Startled, the man dropped his pole and scrambled to his feet as fast as his decrepit old bones would allow. "Please, massah, please don't hurt me. I ain't doin' nothin' wrong."
Quickly explaining to Anjele what was going on, Brett assured the man he meant him no harm. "We're just passing through."
"Oh, praise the Lord." The old man's head bobbed up and down. Patting his shirt pocket, he offered a toothless grin to say, "But I was ready for you, for sure."
Brett laughed. "You got a gun in that pocket? Must not be a big one."
"Oh, naw sir, I ain't got no gun. I got my papers in here, so's you'd know I ain't no runaway slave."
"What's your name?"
"It be Rufus. That's the name what's on my papers Mastah Laubache give me. He gimme that name, too."
Brett, jolted, wanted to verify. "You were a slave of Haskill Laubache's? And he freed you?"
"Yassuh. He freed all his slaves, and they all took off up North, afraid somebody would tear up their papers and put 'em right back on the block and auction 'em off to a new owner. But me, I stayed, 'cause I is too old to be making treks like that. Besides"—he lowered himself to the riverbank once more, confident everything was now all right—"Mastah Laubache, he also give me permission to fish this river all I wants, so I ain't goin' nowhere."
"And where is Mr. Laubache, Rufus? The house is falling down. The entire plantation has gone to seed. What happened here?"
Anjele, arms about Brett's waist, was listening intently, not about to ask questions, though she was puzzled by his apparent deep concern.
Rufus saw no harm in telling what everybody around knew, anyway, and said bluntly, "Terrible things happened, that's what. Mastah Laubache, he's dead. Killed himself. Reckon he figured he didn't have nothin' to live for, once them boys o' his got in all that trouble.
"And I knows all this," he proudly declared, "'cause I was house help. I was Mastah Laubache's butler, and I knowed ever'thing what went on in that family."
As Bret
t listened, stunned, Rufus proceeded to recount the tragedies leading to Laubache's downfall. Margette had run away with a married man. When the twins took exception to a wisecracking drunk in a Vicksburg saloon, they were both gunned down. Edythe Laubache died of a broken heart, and Haskill Laubache had then freed his slaves, shut down all operations of the plantation, and finally committed suicide.
Rufus shook his head in disgust and said, "Within a week, the place had been stripped faster than vultures on a stillborn calf."
"Does anybody ever come around here?" Brett wanted to know.
"Soldiers sometimes. Passin' by. Ain't seen no Yankees, yet," he added, frowning. "And I hope they don't come this way. Don't want no fightin' around here. No Sir. I just wants to spend the rest o' my life fishin', not dodgin' bullets."
They rode on, and Anjele couldn't resist asking, "Did you know those people?"
"Not very well," he said, which was not far from the truth. When it came down to it, he hadn't known Margette at all or he'd never have believed her when she swore to love him. And he should have learned his lesson then, damn it, and he wouldn't be in the mess he was in now. It was hell being able to love a woman only because she was blind, and he wondered how long he could go on living a lie.
Anjele did not pursue, it. Brett had lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence. Something was wrong, but she didn't want to ask. Maybe, she thought warily, it was best she didn't know.
When they entered the fringes of Black Bayou, Brett was dismayed to find no trace of the old path leading in. The weeds and undergrowth were nearly saddle high. Above, gray moss rained down as though still grieving over the Cajuns' departure. No doubt they had moved on when Laubache and his plantation crumbled, probably heading farther downriver, as his family had done so many years ago.
He reined the horse about. There was no point in looking for shelter within, for if any of the pirogues or huts remained, they'd be in worse condition than Laubache's mansion.
The idea struck.
Laubache's mansion was the perfect hideout. They could remain indefinitely. He could forage for food, slip into Vicksburg now and then to hear news.
Anjele, unable to stand the suspense any longer, asked, "Will you please tell me what's going on? Why are you turning around? I thought you said we were almost there."
"Well, 'there' isn't there anymore, honey." He reached to pat her thigh. "So we're going back to that house we just went through."
Anjele had felt the weeds slapping at her just before they'd turned around and figured the house had to be more comfortable than whatever he'd intended, but she was so tired of it all and protested, "I don't want to stay there. I think we should try to go all the way to Richmond. We'd be safe there, and if I ever do remember anything about those engraving plates, I could go straight to the government, and they'd find a way to get them."
"It's not that simple. Not since we found out somebody is out to kill you, Anjele. We don't know who to trust, because you can bet the Yankees have spies among the Rebs. Besides, from all the war news we've heard, Richmond isn't all that secure. We'd be heading straight into the war."
Wearily, impatiently, she asked, "So how long do we have to hide?"
He told her had no idea, not ready to confide his plan. Sooner or later, he figured, the Yankees would forget about them, the way the war was heating up. When he felt the time was right, he planned to ask her to go away with him, out West, to make a new life. But he wouldn't propose the idea to her till he felt she'd agree.
He couldn't bear the thought of her rejection—again.
They settled into the little room in the far corner of the upstairs. Brett caught game, or fish, helping Anjele prepare it in what was left of the kitchen building out back. Rufus came around now and then, bringing catfish and crayfish, never needing persuasion to stay and share the feast.
By day, they walked hand in hand across the land. It was November, and Brett described the fading colors of autumn as nature prepared for winter's arrival.
And by night, they made bold, breathtaking love, and Anjele never ceased to be awed by the wonder of it all.
Still, despite the peace and serenity of the world they'd created, she knew it could not last. They would either be found or have to return to civilization. They couldn't hide forever. Yet when she broached the subject with Brett, he refused to discuss it.
"We take one day at a time," was all he would say.
"But what about your assignment?" she wanted to know. "The Confederate government is going to wonder what happened to us."
"Perhaps," he hedged, "but they'll probably think we got killed somewhere."
"And you're hoping the Yankees will think the same thing."
"Exactly."
"And then what?" she cried, exasperated. They were lying in bed in the secluded, out-of-the-way room. It was a chilly night. There was only one thin blanket, but they lay close together, as always, for Anjele felt safest when he held her.
He ran loving fingertips across her face, absently asked what she'd like to do, as he thought how much he adored her.
"Sometimes I think I want to go home. Then again, I wonder if the bad memories don't really overshadow the good, and how maybe I'd be better off to start anew somewhere else."
Brett's heart gave a leap. He'd been waiting for her to say something like that, for it meant the time might be near when he could actually suggest she do just that—with him. The fact was, he didn't really feel he had a stake in the war, never had. He'd been bitter about her, bitter about the prejudice of those who looked down on the Acadians. And while he'd always hated slavery, he just didn't feel as if it was his fight.
"I think about it most of all when I'm standing on the riverbank," she whispered, loving the feel of his hand moving downward to squeeze her breasts. His lips, warm and sensuous, nuzzled hers as she arched against him, pressing yet closer. "I can hear the water, and I think how all I've got to do is float right down that river and in no time at all I'll be right in front of my weeping willow tree. I used to call it my dreaming tree, where all wishes would come true as long as I stayed wrapped up in the long, draping branches. And it was always so sad to come out from under it and find nothing in my life was as I wanted to be.
"With you, Brett"—she boldly reached to encircle his manhood with her hand, delighting in the swollen hardness, evidence of his desire—"I feel as if I'm always beneath my willow tree, and instead of the soft fronds, it's your arms holding me. And then I start believing dreams could really come true, if I could just see you..."
"Look at me with the eyes of your mind," he said huskily. "Let your vision be driven by memory... and desire..."
He kissed her hard, fiercely, as though to seal absolute possession. Gathering her close, he reveled in the feel of naked flesh. His tongue moved inside her mouth, deliciously probing. Anjele could feel the tightening way deep inside her belly, moving on down into her loins as his fingers ever so gently pinched at her nipples. They leaped to hardness, her breasts aching, swelling against his chest.
With a moan, Brett assaulted her neck with his mouth, nuzzling, tickling with his tongue as he moved ever downward. Slowly, he began to trace hot, wet circles around her nipples. She gasped, reaching to entwine her fingers in his thick hair, holding him captive as he divinely assaulted.
"Take me, Brett, please," she begged. "Give me all of you and stay inside me all night long...."
He positioned himself on top of her, the tips of her nipples brushing against the soft mat of hair on his chest. Yet he did not yield to the hunger to enter her, holding back to tease and touch, laughing softly as she squirmed beneath him, wantonly begging him to drive himself inside her.
At last, he could hold back no longer, and she buried her face in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, whimpering with delight as he thrust to and fro. She tilted her hips closer, clinging to him as wildfire raced through her veins. His hips ground into her mercilessly, and she welcomed every jab, willing him to push so deep
ly they fused together into one being, forever and always.
He felt the fever boiling forth from his loins, at the same instant she began to quiver against him, saw how her neck arched back, pressing her head into the pillow, flinging from side to side in wild throes of rapture beyond equal.
In the afterglow, Anjele lay once more with her head on his shoulder. "It's times like this, when I'm content to stay here forever, in this room you tell me is so small, in this house you describe as falling down."
"Suits me," he agreed, turning to kiss her cheek. "The condition this place is in, it's no Garden of Eden, but I'm in no hurry to leave."
"You've forgotten your assignment, soldier?" she charged with mock severity. "All you do is ravish your prisoner."
"Mmmmm." He smiled, playfully patting her bottom as she turned on her side to snuggle. "I think I like it better this way."
"Ahh, but what if I do one day remember?" She sought and found his cheek, pressing her finger against it. "And what if I get my eyesight back? What happens to us then? We can't stay here. We'll have to return to the world."
He had instinctively tensed at the thought of her being able to see him, recognize him.
Nothing had really changed, he was pained to remember. Instead of dreaming beneath the weeping willow tree, grasping fantasies and pretending they were real, she was doing the same thing under a cloak of blindness.
None of it was real or ever could be, for when the day ultimately came that she guessed who he was, they'd be right back in the sugarhouse at BelleClair, from two different worlds, forbidden to love.
Till then, he could only seize the day, the moment....
He froze, instinctively tightening his arm about her, at the same time using his free hand to press against her lips for silence.
"Someone is in the house," he whispered, mouth against her ear. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. Stay right here."
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 32
