Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  Hanging. Ranny.

  The idea was so unthinkable that she got out of the chair and began to pace with her skirts swinging about her ankles. It couldn't happen. It couldn't.

  But if it did, she would be to blame.

  The thought of it was intolerable.

  She stood with her hands clenched to her stomach as if that would still the ache of guilt and fear and misplaced caring that she refused to call love inside her. Nothing could. It was possible that nothing ever would.

  One thing that would help for the moment was to see Ranny again. To see if he had forgiven her. She would go as soon as the others had left Splendora, as soon as the way was clear so she need not explain what she did not entirely understand herself.

  Lettie pulled the buggy up in front of the big, old two-story house that had been taken over as headquarters for the occupation army. She took out her handkerchief and blotted the perspiration from her face, then flicked away the dust that had settled on her clothing. The afternoon was so hot that the sky seemed to have a brassy sheen and the leaves hung limp on the trees. The streets of the town were deserted. The proprietors of stores stood in their doorways, fanning themselves. Here and there, on the shady side of a building or under a tree, a man was lying asleep. The cats and dogs had withdrawn to the cool crawl spaces under the houses where they lay stretched out, panting, waiting for sundown.

  Inside headquarters, a clerk at a desk in what had once been the hall sat with his feet up and a piece of newspaper over his face, snoring mightily. Lettie's clearing of her throat failed to rouse him. With a look of irritation, she moved to open the nearest door.

  An officer looked up from a desk littered with papers. His hair looked as if he had been scratching his head and there were inkstains on his fingers. As he got to his feet, a paper clung to the underside of his forearm that was beaded with sweat above his rolled sleeve, and he snatched it free and flung it down before coming around the desk toward her.

  "May I help you, ma'am," he began, then exclaimed, "Miss Lettie, what are you doing here?"

  He was one of the men who had been to Splendora that summer. He was from Kentucky and had a sister named Marcy, Lettie knew, but she could not recall his name. She smiled at him with warmth, however. "I was looking for Colonel Ward."

  "Sure thing. This way, Miss Lettie."

  The lieutenant put on his uniform jacket before he led the way back out into the hall. As he passed the sleeping clerk, he swept the man's feet from his desk without ceremony, then moved with quick strides to open a door farther along. Thomas Ward's office had once served as a dining room, if the punkah hanging from the ceiling was any indication. The punkah was in motion, swinging back and forth as a small Negro boy sitting in a corner pulled on its rope. Two men stood near the windows at the far end of the room. One was the colonel, the other Samuel Tyler. They turned as Lettie entered.

  "Miss Lettie to see you, sir," The man from Kentucky announced, then with a smile and a wink went away again.

  Tyler said a few last words, only one of which Lettie caught and that was the word money. No doubt they were discussing some detail of the mortgage on Elm Grove.

  "If I intrude," she said, "I can wait outside."

  "Not at all, I was just going," Sally Anne's father said. He nodded to the colonel and Lettie before replacing his hat. "Good day, Thomas. Miss Mason."

  The door closed behind him.

  Thomas Ward came toward Lettie and took her hands. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "I won't keep you long. It's about Ranny."

  "You want to see him? My dear girl, you and half the rest of the world. The other half of his well-wishers have sent him some kind of food or other comfort. I'm about worn out with looking through everything for files and keys and whatnot."

  "Have they convinced you yet that you have the wrong man?" Her tone was rallying, but beneath it ran a thread of hope.

  "Not entirely."

  Lettie lowered her lashes to hide her disappointment. "I suppose you have questioned him?"

  "I have, between visits."

  "What does he say?"

  "Say? Next to nothing. He sits there and smiles and looks as innocent as a choirboy at Christmastime, but having been a choirboy myself, I refuse to be taken in."

  She played with the strings of her purse, which hung on her arm. "Suppose he never says anything? What then? You wouldn't—that is to say—you would not allow him to be questioned too harshly, even mistreated, would you, Thomas?"

  "Is that what's worrying you? Is that what you think of me and of the United States Army?"

  "You won't, I hope, try to say that it never happens."

  "You and Sally Anne. The two of you must think I'm a real bas—a real brute."

  Lettie supposed that the other woman had as much right to be concerned about Ranny's welfare as she did, more in fact. It was completely illogical for her to be annoyed.

  She ignored his near slip of the tongue. "I think that you are a fine officer, but you are under a great deal of pressure to put an end to the Thorn's activities and to the atrocities that have been committed in his name."

  "That sounds as if you think the Thorn may not be the guilty party, whether or not Ranny is our man."

  "I don't know. I don't know!" she exclaimed.

  He was silent for a long moment, watching her, his gaze on her flushed checkbones. "Just what is Tyler to you? Sally Anne I can understand, she's related to him, but I don't see why you're so upset."

  "I hardly see that my relationships are any concern of yours."

  "Strictly speaking, no, but it isn't just idle curiosity. I get the feeling that you just may be regretting what you've done and I'd like to know why."

  Lettie lifted her gaze, staring at the open window and the empty, sunbaked street. "If I am, which I don't admit, it's because of Ranny, because he was caught. He—he's like no one else I've ever known. He's kind and generous, and there is a sweetness to his nature that catches at the heart. He's sensitive, with a soul that is somehow not quite as protected as the rest of us. He's funny and gallant and sometimes so tragic that I can't—"

  "It sounds to me that if he were normal you would be in love with him."

  She sent him a quick, startled glance, her color deepening. "I will admit that I'm fond of him. I suppose it's natural; a teacher is often fond of certain pupils."

  "Fond?"

  "What else, pray?" She lifted her chin to give him a challenging look.

  "Nothing, if you say so," he answered, but there was a considering expression in his eyes.

  "I will remind you," she said, her tone even, "that Ranny stepped in once to save you injury, that day at Splendora with Martin Eden."

  "I haven't forgotten. Nor have I forgotten how he brought me to my senses at Elm Grove when I came so near to ruining my chances with Sally Anne."

  "Well, then?"

  "Well, then, you have my word that I will handle him with kid gloves. This may come as a surprise to you, but I never intended to do anything else."

  A smile curved her lips, rising to her eyes. "And I never expected otherwise, but it's nice to hear you say so."

  "Yes, well, I would have mauled him about a bit for the fun of it, and maybe battered him here and there, but he has too many friends. Though it makes me sound like a damned coward to say so, I'd rather not risk having my neck stretched some dark night—the fate Samuel Tyler was seeking to warn me of just now."

  "That is, of course, your only reason."

  "What else?" he said, and as he moved to open the door and then hold it for her, the lift of his brow dared her to accuse him of kindness. "Shall we visit the prisoner?"

  The jail was in the raised basement under the main floor of the house, the same small room with a single barred window and door that had been used to hold dangerous or unruly-slaves in years past. To reach it, they went along the hall to the back doors, then down to the ground-floor veranda. Thomas unlocked the double doors that led into this low
er floor and escorted her along the hallway that bisected it to the jail room in the righthand front corner. There were a few rooms in this area that were ordinarily used for storage. The basement was dim and smelled faintly of mildew and dust, but had the advantage of being much cooler than the upper rooms.

  Thomas stopped at the barred doorway of the jail room where the outline of a tiny window crossed with bars, a washstand, and a narrow cot with the figure of a man lying upon it could just be seen. The colonel rapped on the wall with his knuckles. "Someone to see you, Tyler." He turned away and went down the hall, saying over his shoulder to Lettie, "Five minutes. I'll be back."

  Ranny got to his feet, a solid yet indistinct figure in the gray light of the room. He was silhouetted against the window as he turned to her, his broad shoulders nearly blocking the light, the tilt of his head inquiring. He began to move toward her with his easy, swinging stride, coming out of the dimness.

  Lettie saw the shape of his body, the molding of his head and neck, the way he moved, and felt her heart turn in slow and aching pain inside her. She could not think, could not speak. The blood in her veins seemed congealed, so thickened that she felt she might never move from that spot.

  Ranny came nearer. The light from the doors at the end of the hall picked up the soft gold of his hair, the bronze of his skin, the gentle curve of his mouth. His big hands closed around the bars of the door. He said softly, "Miss Lettie."

  "Oh, Ranny," she whispered, her voice breaking.

  "You came. I didn't think you would."

  Tears rose, hurting, pooling in her eyes. She stepped forward without knowing she was going to and placed her hand on his. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm fine. But your hands are cold. You aren't sick?"

  "No, no."

  His lips were bruised and cut. She reached through the bars to trail her fingertips over the warm skin, which was faintly stubbled with beard, at the side of his mouth, gently soothing those injuries that had been inflicted upon him because of her. The need to press her lips to his was so strong that she felt light-headed with the effort of restraint. He turned his head, brushing her fingertips with a kiss before he captured her hand and held it to his chest.

  "I'm so sorry, Ranny, so sorry."

  Where the words had come from, she didn't know, but she was glad when they were spoken. She moved closer, clutching at a bar with her free hand.

  "It doesn't matter."

  "But it does. What am I going to do?"

  "Nothing. There's nothing you can do, Miss Lettie."

  "There must be something."

  "Don't think of it. I'll be all right."

  Was that a warning? Or was it just his concern for her feelings? She drew back, looking at him, impressing his features on her mind's eye. He looked the same, perhaps a little strained, a little tired, but the same. The difference was in herself, in the way she saw him.

  "Ransom Tyler," she said, trying the name, hearing the syllables echoing in her memory along with images she would never forget.

  "Miss Lettie?"

  His voice was puzzled, but the grasp of his hand had tightened perceptibly. For an instant, she had an over powering urge to demand that he drop his pretense and face her as he really was, himself and none other.

  But it was too dangerous for him. There might be someone listening beyond the window or in the next room. In any case, it wasn't necessary.

  "Never mind," she said quietly.

  Ransom had never loved her more. She was pale, there were shadows of sleeplessness under her eyes, and the hat tipped forward on her head was so drab that it drained her face of vitality. Still, the look in her eyes made him feel that there were no such things as bars.

  She knew; he sensed it. And she had betrayed him. But he had handed his life to her with a rose when they had first met and he had no right to complain if she had tossed both away. If she had asked, he would have told her what she wanted to know. She didn't, and he was glad. It indicated that she understood more than he had ever dreamed she would. Or so he wanted to believe. It could also mean that she didn't care to know, that the burden of guilt for what she had done was so intolerable that it no longer mattered. Either way, he was satisfied.

  Footsteps sounded on the steps leading down from the upper floor. The colonel was returning.

  His voice deep, Ransom said, "Kiss me, Miss Lettie."

  She went on tiptoe, straining against the bars, feeling the cool metal against her heated face as she met his lips through them. Firm and sure, there was in the contact both wrenching pleasure and a pact sealed in silent abnegation.

  Thomas was whistling as he came. The sound was sharp, a warning. Ranny released Lettie and she stepped back. Her cheekbones carried a hectic flush and her voice was unsteady when she spoke for the benefit of the colonel.

  "Do you have everything you need?"

  "Except you. To read to me," he answered, his eyes bright in the dimness.

  She managed a smile, acknowledging that faint edge of comic longing. Then Thomas was beside her.

  "Ready?"

  She said her final farewell and placed her hand on the blue sleeve that covered the colonel's arm. Holding on to her composure, breathing slowly, steadily, she walked away, leaving behind her Ranny, Ransom Tyler, who was without doubt the Thorn.

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  18

  Nothing would ever be the same. Lettie knew it would not, but she couldn't bring herself to care. That fact should have been shocking, but it wasn't. So great was her relief at being freed from her doubts that she wanted to sing, to shout, despite the weight of fear inside. She did neither. She drove sedately home to Splendora, a frown of such fierce concentration on her face that the tax collector O'Connor, pausing to tip his hat to her on a Natchitoches street, stared after her in astonishment as she bowled past him without a sign of recognition.

  Lettie hoped to find Aunt Em alone. She should have known better. Not only was Sally Anne still visiting, she had been joined by Marie Voisin and Angelique. The two young women had apparently been seeking Sally Anne so that Angelique could say her good-byes. They were all gathered in Aunt Em's bedchamber, perhaps because they had interrupted the older woman's afternoon rest or possibly because some privacy was desired. It was Lionel who pointed out their location and told Lettie who was present. A few hours earlier, Lettie might have hesitated, uncertain of her welcome, but now she had no thought except to see Aunt Em and speak to her as soon as possible.

  Lettie heard their voices as she lifted her hand to knock. They stopped abruptly when her tap sounded. A moment later, she was told without ceremony to come in.

  Aunt Em sat in a slipper chair with Sally Anne standing on one side and Marie Voisin on the other. Angelique knelt on the floor, her tearstained face in the older woman's ample lap. She sat up, searching for a handkerchief as Lettie stepped into the room.

  "Oh, it's you, Lettie," Aunt Em said. "I thought it might be Mama Tass coming for the coffee tray."

  "I can take it away if you like and save her the trouble." The offer was sincere. Lettie had the distinct feeling that it would be better if she came back later.

  "Mama Tass will be along directly."

  Lettie closed the door and came forward. Her tone stiff, she said, "I didn't mean to intrude."

  Angelique used her handkerchief, emerging from behind it after a moment. "Oh, no, I'm being s-silly. I will be c-calm in a minute."

  "We were just going, anyway," Marie said.

  "Is there nothing I can say," Aunt Em asked, touching Angelique's arm, "to convince you this is unnecessary?"

  The girl gave a small, hopeless shrug. "You know how it is with me."

  "It doesn't have to be that way. A lot of your people are going to California or to Mexico where they are accepted as—"

  "As Spanish. Yes, I know, but Papa won't consider it. He will hold on to his land until the end because being a great landowner is his pride. I need something more."


  "Not this. Not some half life. It won't be the same as it was before the war. Nothing is."

  "It will be enough, with the man who has chosen me."

  "Can you trust him? I mean, really trust him?"

  "I must." The sadness of all the women in the world was in the girl's tremulous smile.

  Aunt Em sighed. "I don't like it. There's no use pretending I do, but it's your choice, and I can't honestly say that if I was in your shoes I would do any different. When do you go?"

  "Tomorrow night."

  "Tomorrow night? But why?"

  Angelique looked away. "That must be obvious."

  "The man's a fool."

  "He has his reputation to think of. As you said, things are not the same. It's no longer the fashion for a man to have a woman of color as his mistress."

  "Fashion, my eye! What kind of life is it going to be for you if he never wants to be seen with you in public?"

  "The only kind I can have. But—I could be wrong. It may have something to do with the fact that we are going to Monroe to catch the river packet."

  "Monroe?" Aunt Em's frown seemed to demand an explanation.

  "He has Federal business there, possibly, or it may be that he would rather not risk having to introduce me to his friends, as he might if we left from here to catch the train at Colfax."

  Sally Anne leaned to put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Angelique, please, don't go."

  Angelique smiled, with a mist of tears rising once more in her liquid brown eyes. "I appreciate your concern and I will remember it, but I have no other choice."

  "A man of your own race would be better than this—this insensitive idiot who is taking you away." That she did not speak the name of the tax collector was a matter of delicacy.

  "My own race? But I am only a quarter Negro, just a quarter. What is my race?"

  They were all silent, abashed, for the law was specific that any trace of Negro blood made a person nonwhite. It was a position that was both rational and irrational, one that the war and the laws of Reconstruction had done nothing to change.

  Angelique pushed herself upright and kicked her skirts out of the way so that she could get to her feet. She would have turned away, but Aunt Em put out her hand to catch her wrist.