Luther had insisted on accompanying them. With his arm in a sling and a shirt unbuttoned over the swath of bandages at his side, he leaned an arm around Eulalie’s shoulders, supporting the rest of his weight on a gnarled stick.
Gabrielle stood a little apart from the group, holding a handkerchief to her swollen eyes. Beside her, Dr. Lynch held his hat in both hands and stared straight ahead. The slight flush at his neck was the only sign of his agitation.
Francine stood alongside Nate Blackwell, who had insisted on staying the night. Her head was nearly even with his. With their pale hair and fair skin, they looked like carved alabaster statues. Though Nate looked as haggard as the rest, Annalisa thought she saw a light in his eyes that had never been there before. He stood ramrod straight, resplendent in a black morning coat over black breeches. Beside him, Francine, in a plain black gown, was his mirror image. They neither spoke nor touched, but each was acutely aware of the other’s pain. Held firmly against her chest, Francine cuddled the cat she had once thought ugly.
The cluster of mourners looked up as Emile Soulet approached. Snatching his hat from his head, the stocky man walked to Annalisa and extended his hand. Numbly she accepted it, wishing he had not chosen to intrude on their private grief.
"I just heard the news." Emile’s voice broke, and Annalisa realized that there were tears in his eyes. "If I had known," he began in a choked voice. "If I had been there, I could have kept her safe."
His big hand pressed Annalisa’s, leaving her palm damp and sticky. She was shocked by the depth of pain in his eyes.
"We did our best, Emile. We all fought together. She was brave." Her voice trembled. "So brave."
"But if I’d only been there, my little Delia would still be alive. I never would have let anything happen to her."
His little Delia? Annalisa’s eyes widened as she studied him. And then she knew. This boastful, slovenly figure contained a heart that was capable of love. He had loved Delia. Sweet, shy Delia and the loud braggart, Emile Soulet.
A tear squeezed from between tightly closed eyes and trickled down his bewhiskered cheek. Awkwardly, he wiped it with the back of his beefy hand.
"Stay with us," Annalisa said gently, looping one arm through his, "while we pay our last respects to Delia."
Suddenly it seemed important that everyone who had loved Delia should stand together. In this one simple act, Emile had become one of them. Annalisa felt him struggle to keep his emotions under control.
Hattie Lee walked to the edge of the open grave and placed a single rose on the rough pine box. In a rich, resounding voice that sang out like a tent preacher she intoned, "You became one of my children. So shy, so sweet, always trying to please. Your mama and papa would have been proud of your courage. Rest easy now, child." The voice quavered, then died in a long, drawn-out sigh.
Francine stepped up beside Hattie Lee. Placing her rose atop the casket, she said, "You were the little sister I never had. I never heard you cry or complain. You could make me laugh when I was down." Struggling to keep her voice from breaking, she whispered, "I hope you’re smiling now."
Gabrielle kissed the rose in her hand, then gently placed it beside the others. Moving to stand alongside Francine she murmured, "Chérie, you were like a frightened little bird when you first arrived. But like all birds must, you learned to fly. Fly home, Delia." She began to sob, and the tenuous hold on everyone’s emotions began to slip.
With Luther leaning heavily on her, Eulalie made her way slowly to the grave. Tossing down her rose, she said in her soft, honeyed voice, "There was a time when I wondered if I was black or white. I thought I didn’t fit in anywhere." She bit back a sob. "It never mattered to you. You taught me that love has no color."
Everyone who worked at the house continued adding a rose and a word, until the casket was covered with roses, lending their lovely fragrance to the summer breeze. The tapestry of their words wove the beautiful fabric of this young girl’s life. Most of the women were crying openly.
Chase kept a firm grip on Annalisa’s arm as she lifted the hem of her black gown and stepped forward. Placing her rose with the others, she said softly, "I knew you such a short time, Delia. But you became my teacher. And my friend. You are the bravest woman I’ve ever known." She swallowed back a sob and added, "And this family can rest in the knowledge that you’re now with your other family."
Emile Soulet lumbered forward. In his hand was a bouquet of drooping wildflowers. Kneeling, he placed them amidst the fragrant roses. Somehow they looked right, those simple flowers among the exotic. Continuing to kneel, he placed a hand on the pine box as if needing to touch the woman who lay within. In a voice wracked with pain he cried, "You were the sweetest little woman I’ve ever known. I’d give any thin’ to be there instead of you, love. Anythin’. I loved you, sweet Delia. More’n my own life."
Francine touched a comforting hand to the weeping man’s shoulders, and in a moment of shared grief, handed him Old Gray.
"I think Delia would like knowing you two were around to comfort each other."
The lop-eared old cat curled itself around Emile’s shoulder, sniffed his hair, then settled down as if the two were old friends.
"Thank you, miss. I’ll take care of Old Gray just the way my Delia did."
Annalisa studied the young woman who claimed to hate all men, and the man whose gruff demeanor hid a heart filled with love and grief. Even in death, Delia had brought out the best in those who loved her.
Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Annalisa turned away and accepted Chase’s arm. The others began drifting away as well, leaving Emile and the cat to a solitary, wracking grief.
On the long walk back to the house, everyone was strangely silent, locked in their own somber thoughts. Violent death had touched this once festive house. Were its inhabitants strong enough to withstand further attack?
The police chief and two of his assistants were waiting in the yard, their wagon loaded with the bodies of the dead men. While the women hurried indoors, keeping their gazes averted, Chase pulled Boulanger aside.
"Recognize any of them?" he asked.
The police chief shrugged. "Not a one. Where do you think they came from?"
Chase watched as one of the assistants threw an army blanket over the corpses. "The war has left hundreds of men looking for work. For enough money, I suppose, they were even willing to pull on a hood and kill innocent people. As long as there was no risk," he added ominously. "Now that they know these women intend to fight back, the word’ll get around. I don’t think it’ll be as easy to get volunteers the next time."
"You think it’s over?" Boulanger asked.
Taking a cigar from his pocket, Chase bit the end and looked thoughtful. "Not a chance. But I think they’ll look for an easier target next time."
* * *
When the wagon rolled down the road, Annalisa lifted the edge of a lace curtain and watched until it was out of sight. Turning, she glanced at the rifle leaning against her dresser, as if to reassure herself. Woodenly she walked downstairs to help Hattie Lee set the house in some sort of order before evening.
In the parlor, the others were talking in low tones. When she entered, they glanced up guiltily.
In the awkward silence that followed, Francine cleared her throat. "We were thinking that we would like to do something." She shrugged. "Something to stop the madness."
Annalisa waited, wondering where this would lead.
"We thought, chérie," Gabrielle interrupted, "that maybe we could do something to help the poor women here in New Orleans who are being driven from their land."
Annalisa eyed them speculatively. "What did you have in mind?"
Eulalie spoke softly. "It occurs to us that we hear a great deal about what is happening. Often before it actually occurs. Maybe there is some way to use that information." She glanced at Hattie Lee for reassurance, then moistened her lips and continued, "We thought we could warn the families whenever we hear that their la
nd is about to be sold."
"What good would the warning do if they don’t have the funds to pay off their debts?"
The women glanced from one to the other in consternation.
Francine spoke. "Maybe it will do no good. But we have to do something. Delia is dead. We have a need to do something ..." She searched for a way to describe what she felt. ". . . good, something to make her life and ours count for something."
Annalisa stood very still, feeling a welling of love for these women that she couldn’t express. Then, lowering her voice, she said, "I know how you feel. And as long as you’re willing to become involved, I think there’s a way."
Very quickly, she explained that she had already begun funneling information to a person who in turn gave the information to the Archangel of Mercy.
"I didn’t want to involve all of you in this, because I didn’t think it was fair to place you in danger. But if this is what you want, we can all work together for a common good."
The women grew more excited at the prospect of striking a blow for the suffering families nearby.
"I must warn you, as I was warned when I first began. This is not a game. As you can see, these men are deadly serious. We will all be placing ourselves in grave danger."
Francine was the first to speak. "No one here is foolish enough to think that life can be lived without peril. But if my life can count for something good, I’m willing to risk my safety."
"I also," Gabrielle said sternly.
"I want to be part of it," Eulalie said emphatically.
"We are family," Hattie Lee intoned in a somber voice. "We will work together."
Corinna, watching silently, came forward to offer her hand. Annalisa accepted it, then hugged the old woman. Was it possible that a few short months ago she had thought this woman old and ugly?
"Family," she said softly. "Working together."
"Family." The women clutched hands and hugged each other, feeling a burden lifted from their hearts. One among them had died. But not in vain. They would draw even closer, for comfort, for sustenance, for strength.
* * *
Hattie Lee handed the young maid a basket of fresh linens. "Take these upstairs and start making the beds. I’ll bring the next basket up as soon as I get the last of the sheets off the line."
With the big wicker basket at her hip, she crossed the yard and reached up to take the billowing white sheets from the clothesline.
It was natural for her to plunge into the household chores with a vengeance. Work had always been her way of dealing with sorrow. Whenever she was troubled, Jessie used to say she could wash the spots right off the flowered wallpaper. Jessie. Hattie Lee’s eyes went soft just thinking about him.
Lately she found herself thinking about him too much. Him and that little farm in Ohio. Ohio. Even the word made her hurt. It was such a happy word. Ohio. And the way he used to say it. Like talking about heaven. So Jessie had chosen his heaven. And she had chosen hers.
She thought about the little loft above the shack, where she and Jessie had lain in each other’s arms on still, hot afternoons. Lord, how that man could make her burn. But from the beginning, they had known that nothing could ever come of their feelings.
He was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. At eighteen, he was over six feet tall, with shoulders wider than two axe handles, and a body hard, lean, and muscled from years of laboring. Jessie had been born a slave, and having earned the trust of his present master, was often sent alone to pick up supplies in New Orleans. Hattie Lee had been only fourteen. She touched a hand to her cheek as if unable to believe she’d ever been that young. Fourteen. She and her grandmother had sailed from their island in the Caribbean to work in one of the biggest sewing factories in New York. But Hattie Lee’s grandmother had yearned for the sun, and so she and her little granddaughter had journeyed to New Orleans, where they bought a small shanty and began sewing for the fine women of the town.
Hattie Lee would never forget the first time she’d ever seen Jessie. She was walking out of Franklin’s Mercantile. A giant of a man lifted three sacks of grain at one time and tossed them into the back of a wagon. The corded muscles of his back and arms were slick with sweat. When he turned, he nearly collided with her. She’d stepped back and found herself staring into narrowed brown eyes. And then suddenly he’d smiled, and she felt as if her heart was going to leap clean out of her mouth. Neither of them spoke, but they began looking for each other along the streets of the Vieux Carré. Each time they passed, they smiled, then looked away quickly. But one day, he touched a hand to her arm and asked her name. Hattie Lee smiled dreamily. She’d nearly choked, but she finally told him not only who she was, but where she lived. And when her grandmother died within the year, Hattie Lee turned to Jessie for comfort. Whenever he could sneak away from his chores, they would lie together in her little loft and bring each other untold pleasure.
It always rankled Jessie that Hattie Lee was a free woman of color. He felt that because he’d been born a slave, he was somehow beneath her. Snapping a sheet from the line, Hattie Lee folded it crisply, then folded it again and again until it formed a perfect square. How many times had she told him it didn’t matter what station a body was born to? It was what they did with their lives that mattered. But Jessie was proud. Oh, that man was proud. Placing the sheet in a basket, she paused to stare at the broiling sun. She’d had her pride too.
Miss Hannah Elliott had seen some of Hattie Lee’s gowns and told her she was the best seamstress she’d ever met. And she offered to move the fourteen-year-old into her own luxurious house, where she could live in comfort, in exchange for the latest fashions for her women. It was what the girl had dreamed of. She’d always known she had a talent. She could take a piece of simple cloth and see in her mind just how to turn it into the latest Paris design. And Miss Hannah Elliott was offering her the chance to make her dreams come true.
Jessie had dreams of his own. He wanted to own his own farm. And he wanted to have a son. A son who would be born free. And when he told her about the underground railroad, and a man in Ohio who would give him a piece of land, she knew she would never see Jessie again. She remembered the bitter cold of New York and knew that she couldn’t live in Ohio. And besides, she wanted the chance to live her dream. She wondered if Jessie’s farm had brought him more pleasure than her talent had brought her. She wondered what kind of woman shared his life and bore his sons. Fools. Two young fools. She’d been only fourteen. And he’d been eighteen. Hattie Lee sighed. Was she really almost thirty-five? Some days she felt like a hundred. And in a hundred years, she wouldn’t be able to stop loving that man.
* * *
Annalisa started across the yard, then hesitated. It was so rare to see Hattie Lee standing quietly. She was always a whirlwind of activity, doing three or four jobs at once. Where was she? Annalisa wondered, watching as the black woman lifted a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. When she went all still like this, where did her mind go? Not wishing to break the spell, Annalisa turned and retraced her steps to the kitchen. She would wait until Hattie Lee came inside to tell her that the new shipment of silks had arrived.
* * *
Annalisa looked up from her ledgers when the door to her office opened. Chase stood in the doorway for long minutes, studying her in silence. She wore a simple navy gingham dress that made her look like a schoolgirl. She had pulled her hair back with two combs, leaving it loose to spill down her back. All she needed was a straw bonnet and a McGuffey’s Reader.
"I’ll be gone for a day or two."
"Gone? Where?"
He loved the way her eyes went all big and round. His gaze was drawn to the chunk of topaz nestled in a mound of papers on her desk. He crossed the room and leaned a hip against the edge of her desk, crossing his hands over his chest. With studied casualness he said, "East. I’ve been neglecting my work."
"Of course." With a stab of pain, she realized that she’d expected him to stay on here indefinitely. She
felt safe with Chase here. Without him she felt—empty. The thought startled her.
"Luther is mending. At least he can hold a gun now," Chase said. "And since Dr. Lynch intends to stop over every day to examine Luther’s wounds, I thought he might be persuaded to stay for supper, and possibly through the evening. That way, you’ll have another man around."
"I’m sure Gabrielle can persuade him."
He smiled at Annalisa’s words. Though the good doctor tried to hide his feelings, it was obvious to all of them that he felt more than a doctor-patient relationship for the lovely Creole woman.
"I’ve also asked Emile Soulet to keep an eye on your place until I return." He breathed in her soft rose fragrance and resisted the urge to lean closer.
"Thank you." Annalisa picked up a pen and dipped it in an inkwell. Still stung by the fact that Chase was leaving, she refused to meet his eyes. "And I know we can count on Nate as well."
She chanced a quick glance from beneath lowered lashes and saw Chase’s sudden frown.
"I hope you understand that if this weren’t important, I wouldn’t consider leaving you for even one day."
"Of course. I do understand. Please don’t worry about us, Chase. We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves."
He recognized the thread of anger in her tone. She didn’t understand. And he couldn’t explain.
"Damn it. I’m not abandoning you." Without thinking, he caught her roughly by the shoulder and yanked her to her feet.
"Take your hands off me."
"Not until I make you understand that I have to go. It isn’t something I want to do."
Her voice was shrill with anger. "You don’t owe me an explanation. Go wherever you want. You’re free to do whatever you please."
"If that were true," he snarled, hauling her against him, "I damn well wouldn’t be fighting with you right now. I’d be loving you."
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