by Marian Wells
Crystal’s smile faded as she watched the trembling fingers fumble with the ribbon. Whispering, her mother said, “Just some old things. Don’t be curiosite.”
“Of course, Maman.” Crystal got to her feet and added, “I’ll just put the rose in water. Do you want me to help you?” Her mother shook her head. Crystal watched the short plump woman struggle to her feet. The flushed cheeks and the drift of white through her mother’s hair gave Crystal a pang of remorse. “Your hair looks as if it’s been left out in a Boston snowstorm.”
Impulsively Crystal reached for her. “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you, Mama. Now that you are better, let’s go shopping or have Papa take us out to Uncle Pierre’s.” She paused, then said in a rush, “Sometimes I wish we still lived on the plantation instead of here in town. I miss the fields and horses.”
Mama gave her a quick look. “You are much too old to be playing with the pickaninnies.”
Crystal sighed, “No matter. What would you care to do today?”
“I have an appointment with Dr. Oliver again this afternoon.” She hurried on, “You’ll just have to amuse yourself. Why don’t you get in touch with one of your friends? You never see them anymore.”
When Crystal walked back to her bedroom, Tammera was still there. The slave lifted an armload of frocks saying, “These all need a mite of stitching or a freshening up.” She paused. “Weren’t gone long. Was she asleep?”
Crystal shook her head. “Auntie T, I think you need to tell me something. Why was Mama so upset last year when I helped myself to some jewelry from her case? And why wouldn’t you tell me anything about Evangeline Cabet?”
The woman threw up her hands. “Missy! Don’t you go backing me in the corner. I’ll not tell you a speck. Now don’t give me no trouble.”
“Then I shall be forced to ask Mama, and she was very upset when I found her looking at those same papers today.” Crystal watched in amazement as the slave dropped her hands.
With a trembling chin she touched Crystal and whispered, “Missy Sugarlam, don’t you go say nothing. I tell you it will kill your mama to know you’ve been pryin’.”
“Then you should know something. In Boston I went to the house—the one whose address was on the papers.” At the look of dismay on Tammera’s face, Crystal added, “You might credit me with not reading the letters when I found them.”
The woman nodded. “I do. But that address. You didn’t find out anything.” The black chin jutted out. “It’s been years ago, and I’m sure the old lady is dead.”
“You are wrong. She’s very much alive. She kindly took out an album and showed me a picture of Evangeline.”
Tammera clutched Crystal’s arm. With her face close, she whispered, “Missy, don’t you ever let on to your mama that you’ve been to that place. It was for that reason you had to come home!”
She paused, wiped the perspiration from her face, righted the mob-cap, and then leaning close she whispered, “After your mama come back from Boston, they got to having second thoughts about you being so close to that place. Your mama worried herself sick, wouldn’t give your papa no rest until he fetched you home.”
“Then why did they let me go to Boston?”
“All these recommends.” She shook her head sadly. “Even Father Celeste thought it would be safe to send you there.”
“Is Evangeline my aunt?”
Tammera studied her face. The worry lines lifted, and slowly she said, “Then you really didn’t find out a thing. And sure enough you won’t find out a smidgen more from me.”
As Tammera hurried out of the room, Crystal watched, saying, “I know only that the mention of her name is enough to make everyone act very strange.”
****
Crystal’s father put aside his newspaper during breakfast the following week and said, “The weather is fine enough for you young ladies. Will you accompany me to the plantation? Pierre has asked me to go over the books with him, and I see no reason why we can’t make this an outing. Pack a case; we’ll be gone at least two nights.”
Mama carefully replaced her fork and said, “Oh, my dear husband, I think it is best we don’t. I have business to detain me, and most certainly it will be an undesirable trip for Crystal.”
“Oh, Maman, I do desire it!” Crystal leaned forward to implore her father. “Oh, please! I won’t create a problem. Spring in the country! The azaleas are in bloom. I want to walk among the dogwood and smell the wet forest again. It’s been so long.”
In between her long imploring looks and quick words, Crystal knew she would go. Later that morning, settled beside her father in the carriage, she murmured, “Thank you! I’ve missed being with the cousins nearly as much as I’ve missed the horses and pasture!”
He laughed. “Be grateful! I consigned myself to this pace when I could have been on horseback. And don’t do anything to cause Maman alarm, or I will answer for it.”
Crystal smiled up at him. Touching his cheek, she caught her breath, noting the new lines on his face. “Papa, you need this, too. You seem tired.”
“Just old.” He paused and said reluctantly, “Very old. Sometimes it seems as if there’s too much of life to regret. Daughter, live carefully. The French in us leads to impetuous acts.”
“Regret? Papa dear, I can’t see you regretting anything, you are too sure, confident.” He winced, opening his mouth as if to speak, and then merely smiled.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “it is good to be with you. Let’s enjoy the day. I’ve already planned to stop at an inn that serves the best gumbo I’ve ever eaten.”
They did enjoy each other’s company and when they stopped at the inn, Crystal ordered some of the gumbo and decided that her father’s assessment of it was correct.
After lunch their route took them deeper into bayou country. The road wound along the river bank, beside stately trees dropping curtains of Spanish moss across their path.
When they arrived at Twin Oaks, Crystal’s happiness was dampened only slightly when they discovered Aunt Belle and the cousins were away from home for the week. Kissing her uncle she assured him, “Never you mind. Just let me have a groom and a horse, and I shall ride to my heart’s content!”
****
In the morning, with dawn only a rosy glow in the east, Crystal tiptoed into the kitchen. The cook blinked in surprise, and then nodded as Crystal said, “Just coffee and pain beurre.” Carrying her bread to the kitchen table Crystal said, “This is a treat! I don’t often eat in the kitchen.” She hurried and finished the meal. “Now, tell me where to find my groom, and I shall head for the stable.”
The cook widened her eyes and shrugged. “Missy, I’ll call someone to take you to the stable.”
“Never mind,” she said hastily, “I know the way.” Flicking the last crumb off her riding habit, she headed for the door.
The dew was still heavy. She observed the last of the spring blossoms drooping under the weight of the dew while the budding roses and azaleas cupped droplets of water. Pulling a rose from the brush beside the pasture fence she went into the stable. The horses were being curried. “Hello!” she called. “Nexus, are you here?”
A dark face peered over a horse in the nearest stall. “No, ma’am, Nexus took a colt down the way. Want I should get him?”
She peered through the gloom. “Uncle Pierre said he would have a groom to ride with me. But you’ll do. Will you saddle up for me? My name is Crystal.”
He stepped out of the stall, touched his forehead and with a troubled voice said, “Ma’am, miss, I—” His voice faded away, slowly he stepped forward. With a strange expression on his face, he said hesitantly, “If you’ll wait for me to ask—”
“Of course,” she said, impatiently turning away. In a moment the door closed. Walking to the window she watched the Negro striding down the lane. A door slammed behind her and she turned as a slave hung his tack and asked, “Joseph went to find Nexus?”
“Oh, Tim, I didn’t know you were here. Joseph?�
�� she questioned. “That is the slave’s name? He’s new?”
“No, missy, Joseph’s been here as long as I remember. He’s been working in the fields until this spring. Had troubles, and Massa say he too old to work the fields any longer.” He looked puzzled as he added, “He’s your Uncle Pierre’s best hand. But I reckon you don’t know Joseph belongs to you folks. Yes, missy, he been here a long time.” The low voice went on as he moved about the stable, replacing tools and getting out the bridle.
“You want one of them lady saddles? All growed up now, you can’t be comfortable on a horse fer the rest of your life.” His chuckle was low and easy.
She smiled at him. “Tim, you must admit ladies look elegant sidesaddle.”
The door opened. Tim said, “Joseph, what’s the matter with you? You look all blowed out.”
Joseph shook his head slowly, reminding Crystal of a colt trying to shake off a confining halter. “Nexus says I’m to take missy Crystal riding.” Tim turned slowly, and Joseph said, “It’s all right; Nexus says so. He needs you for the day.”
By the time they rode out of the pasture the sun had dried the dripping flower stalks and set them upright. When Crystal rode ahead, she flipped her reins and called back, “Joseph, I’m heading up the trail; I want to ride into the timber.”
He nodded. She noticed he was still watching her in that uncertain way as if he had to memorize every detail of her. For a moment she hesitated, frowning as she bent forward to look at his face. As he rode close he murmured, “Missy, it’s all right.” Again she saw his troubled eyes and noted the timid touch of his hand to his forehead.
“Yes,” she said slowly, wondering both at her confidence and this strange expression on the man’s face. “Tim tells me that you are Father’s slave; I wonder that I’ve never seen you before.”
“Father?” he said slowly. “You must be Crystal Cabet.”
She saw in his face what she had missed in the dusk of the stable. His skin was light and his eyes gray. Sometimes these kind are arrogant, insolent; the white blood ruins them. They don’t know where they belong. Crystal hesitated, watching his humble but honest gaze. Somehow confidence that she could trust this man grew in her.
In silence they rode the dim trail beyond the pasture and cotton fields, deep into the timber and on up a gentle rise. She knew from past excursions that the trail led to a bluff overlooking the river, and she turned the horse on to it.
When she reached the bluff, she tugged at the reins and held her mount motionless. Gradually, over the restless chatter of birds and the rustle of creeping things, she heard a new sound.
Finally she whispered, “Joseph, do I hear a steamboat?”
“Yes, missy,” he answered. “I hear them all the time from up here.”
She turned. “That sound is exciting. It makes me want to go. Do you—” He turned away, but she had seen the haunting desire. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “sometimes we forget.”
“That we have those kind of feelings too?” For a moment the timbre of his voice changed. She looked into his face. He turned away, but not before she saw the expression in his eyes.
Trembling, she tugged her horse around, asking in a low voice, “Do you want to be free?” Rushing on she said, “I can’t believe it. You Negroes seem content, even happy. Certainly you’re well cared for.”
He pointed at the small brown bird overhead. “‘Spect if you grab that bird he won’t want to be free?” When his eyes met hers they burned.
“You hate us, don’t you?”
Unexpectedly the expression in his eyes softened. He held out his hand. For a moment she thought he would touch her. “Missy, no one on God’s earth could hate you, and He won’t let me hate—” he hesitated, added lamely, “the others.”
“You have a reason to hate?”
His head drooped. When she could bear the silence no longer, he said, “Most of us can find a reason.”
Crystal flipped the quirt and turned her horse down the trail.
They didn’t speak for the remainder of the ride. When they reached the pasture, Crystal reined in her horse. “Help me dismount. I’ll let you take the horses in from here.”
He avoided her eyes as he knelt on one knee and extended a hand. Taking his hand, she jumped lightly, barely touching his knee with her foot. “Thank you, Joseph,” she murmured, walking away.
Crystal had crossed the deeply shaded veranda and entered the hall before she heard her father’s voice, coming from Uncle Pierre’s office. As she hesitated, her father’s voice, loud but carefully controlled, said, “Pierre, Nexus told me Joseph rode out with Crystal. I’ve given you strict orders to keep that slave in the field.”
“Settle down, Brother,” came Pierre’s soothing voice. “I expect a little jurisdiction over a slave working for me. Joseph is totally trustworthy. He will not contaminate Crystal by his presence. If anyone is to be trusted around her, surely it will be—”
“I will not allow you to address the subject,” came her father’s angry voice. “Why were my orders disobeyed?”
“Because Joseph is getting to be an old man. He is no longer able to work the fields and keep up with the younger hands.”
“Then keep him there until he drops, and then send him to the manure pile. If he can’t lift, he can use a shovel until he dies.”
Pierre’s voice came, now strangely calm. “This is all out of proportion. Joseph is a good man. If there is blame to be placed, then it is only fair to place it on her.”
There was silence. From Crystal’s stance with one foot on the stairs, she watched the kitchen slaves melt back into the shadows. Controlled, low, and brittle, her father’s voice said, “If you were not my brother, I would call you out for that.”
“Then let there be no more said between us.” Pierre dragged out the words. “It shall be as you say, although it would seem more humane to sell him now.”
“Perhaps.”
Crystal came off the stairs and started for the office. There was a firm hand on her arm. “Missy.” The cook looked at her with a troubled face. “You say anything to your father, now or ever, and Joseph will die for it.”
“For what?” Crystal whispered. The woman shook her head and trotted toward the kitchen.
Chapter 11
The late autumn rain had soaked the South Carolina landscape from pine forest to rice fields. As Alex bent his head against the slicing rain, he noticed water puddled in the roads. It spilled over the embankments, drowning the low vegetation miserably beaten by the week of rain.
When he reached home his mind still held that view of nature, powerless and defeated before the onslaught of rain. Handing his horse over to the groom, Alex muttered, “Only rain can successfully dominate thistles. Wonder what Shakespeare had to say about the arrogance of man against nature?”
With a shrug, Alex carried the newspaper and the letters into the library. Dropping them on his father’s desk, he hung his dripping jacket by the tiny fire burning for the sole purpose of drying the air.
“How did you manage to keep this newspaper dry?” the senior Duncan asked as he sorted through the mail.
“By resisting the urge to drape it over my head. It rode home under my jacket. I thought you’d be interested in the headlines.”
“Without a doubt.” Duncan unfolded the paper.
Alex quoted, “‘Republican Convention of 1856 nominates Colonel Fremont as presidential candidate.’”
“So Fremont wants to be the President of these United States,” the elder Duncan mused.
“We were getting wind of this before I left Boston.” Dropping the paper, his father glared at him. Wincing, Alex murmured, “I know it’s a sore spot, but Father, what’s done is done.”
“You could refrain from mentioning Boston. But it shall be undone, young man. Fortunately, with your standing in the class, it will be possible for you to return, take your punishment—which will be less work than you deserve—and be ready for your examinations before
the New Year rolls around.”
“Father, it wasn’t a pique. I’d been having trouble swallowing Mallory’s line from the beginning. I don’t like being coerced into supporting any cause under the semblance of obligation, and in a mindless fashion. And he seemed to imply that I’m one of the boys without enough brains to be able to plot my own course in life.”
“Mm,” came the murmur from behind the paper.
Alex tried to keep his exasperation under control with a quick pace across the room and back. He addressed the newspaper, “It seemed the only way I could get out of it without hurting you and your relationship with Mallory.”
The newspaper came down. The elder Duncan smacked his fist against it and said, “I don’t agree with the thinking behind this. Seems Douglas opened a can of worms when he pushed the Kansas-Nebraska Bill through. It was premature. There’s been nothing but trouble. First, the Missourians stepped out of line just long enough to give us all a bad name. States’ rights must be honorably won.”
Alex nodded, “I agree, Father, but on the other hand, perhaps another political party won’t be all that bad.”
“Well, we soon find out. This convention of the newly formed Republican Party, according to this article, is ’comprised of abolitionists, Whigs, and every trouble-monger alive.’”
Alex chuckled, “Definitely written with a Southern flavor. Well, a good political fight will probably clear the air.” He paused and then leaned forward, “Seriously, Father, for the past two years I’ve been hearing the Kansas-Nebraska Bill discussed by everyone, from tavern keepers to preachers.”
The senior Duncan leaned forward and said slowly, “You didn’t mention it to me.”
“I didn’t know what to think of it.”
“Well, what did you hear?”
