King of the South

by Read, Calia

  During the funeral, I sit on one side of her and Livingston on the other. As the priest quotes scripture and talks of Oliver’s life, I look at Nat from the corner of my eye. Her hands remain linked on her lap, but repeatedly she picks a cuticle with one of her nails over and over until she draws blood near the nail bed.

  I turn my attention back to the priest for the rest of the funeral. When he finishes, there’s a natural procession of people giving their final good-byes. Many of them stop by Nat and give her one last “sorry for your loss.” Ladies I’ve never seen reach out and briefly grip her hand. I knew my best friend would create a new existence in Savannah, but to see it directly in front of me is a bit unsettling.

  After the mourners leave, there’s only the five of us. The priest, Nat, Oliver’s father, Livingston, and me. The priest stands to the side, allowing the family to say their good-byes.

  When Oliver’s dad, Robert walks toward the casket, I look at Nat. “I think I should leave,” I urgently whisper.

  As she continues to stare forward, she reaches out and clutches my hand. “Stay.”

  “Nat, this doesn’t seem approp—”

  “Stay,” she stresses.

  I stay, but I keep my head down, feeling ill at ease the entire time. When Robert walks back to his seat, I anticipate Nat getting up. Does she want me to go up there? I haven’t said good-bye to Oliver. We weren’t close to begin with. However, if my friend needed me to be there for her I would.

  Nat remains seated. She’s emotionless with her eyes staring straight ahead.

  “Matilda’s right,” she says after several minutes of silence and loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “This family is cursed.”

  “She didn’t mean that,” Livingston replies in a hushed whisper. “She’s unsettled by the tragic loss of her son.”

  Nat shakes her head. “No, she’s always in that state.”

  At that, Livingston and I lean forward and make eye contact. How did Nathalie manage to live with Matilda without going mad herself?

  Perhaps, she already was.

  Right then, the topic of our conversation walks back into the room. I thought Matilda would return while the mourners still lingered in the room. I envisioned wails that bordered on histrionics. But Oliver’s momma is composed for the time being, tightly clutching a handkerchief to her chest as she walks up to his casket.

  Nobody watches her more closely than Nat as she stands there with a hand on the glossy wood. And then she leans down and drapes herself over his body.

  Nat turns her head and stands. Livingston and I stand with her. “Let’s go. We need to give Oliver’s great love time to say good-bye.”

  For the second time, Livingston and I look at one another.

  What funeral did we walk into?

  In the South, there are many traditions. Some preposterous and others we learn at a very young age. When it comes to funerals, we gather around the family that has lost a loved one. They won’t lack for food for a month, houses are spotless whether there’s a team of servants at their disposal or not, and children will be cared for.

  Why do they do this? Because death will happen to us all, and you can only hope this care and attention will be extended back to you.

  After the funeral, the Claiborne family opened their home to everyone who paid their respects. This is the part I never quite understood about funerals or memorials. I understand it was a celebration of the deceased’s life, but the flow of conversation and laughter that occasionally rose into the air felt wrong to me. I know life moves forward, but it always felt too soon.

  Nat’s cold display of emotion in the parlor vanished as she circulated throughout the room. And was it my imagination or were people here not to console the grieving family, but to watch the grieving family?

  “That was...”

  “Different?”

  Livingston nods approvingly. “That’s the perfect word.”

  Matilda joined everyone after they were finished eating and talking to one another. I think the whole time she was with Oliver. She continued to keep the veil over her face. From my vantage point, I saw how people tentatively approached her. It’s the same way kids in Charleston would approach Toy Altwood’s front door, an elderly woman who was known to use her cane to push people out of her way when she was impatient and holler when anyone was in her garden.

  The people of Savannah were scared of Matilda Claiborne. I tilt my head to the side and continue to inspect her. But why? From one night here, it’s discernible that she’s troubled. The reason isn’t clear, though.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Matilda has him embalmed and put in a glass case in the dining room so she can see him every day,” Livingston says in a hushed whisper.

  I shudder at the image he paints. “What do you suppose Nat meant by callin’ Matilda his great love?”

  It’s Livingston’s turn to shudder. “I don’t want to begin to imagine.”

  “This place is peculiar,” I quietly remark as I look around the room.

  That’s not true. The Claiborne’s are peculiar. And they’ve reconstructed this former plantation to fit their idiosyncratic life.

  “Oh, don’t restrain yourself, le savauge, we both know peculiar is bein’ kind.”

  I turn toward him with a smile when I see Nat walking toward us with her mother-in-law, my momma in tow, and a blond woman I’ve never seen before. Nat has a miserable look on her face. It’s the expression someone would wear if they’ve resigned themselves to a life of servitude.

  “Rainey, Livingston, I’d like for you to meet our neighbor Rea Breymas. Rea, this is my close friend, Rainey Pleasonton.”

  On principle, I don’t like Rea, and I know it’s wrong to judge someone based on their looks, but she is simply gorgeous. I can almost smell the self-involvement wafting from her light blond hair. Her hazel eyes are fringed with the thickest lashes. Even I find myself becoming envious. She can bat those doe eyes at every man in the room, and they’ll all fall to their knees.

  My stomach fills with knots as Nat introduces Rea to Livingston. Here it comes. Here comes his famous charm. Here comes his devastating smile, accompanied by his dimple.

  However, none of that occurs. Livingston is polite, courteous as he reaches out and shakes her hand. He scarcely looks twice at her.

  Even his own sister glances at him curiously. Who is this man standing beside us?

  Did he not get enough sleep last night? I could hear him pacing his room like a caged animal until the early hours. I knew it was best we stayed in our respective rooms. We’re here for Nat. We’re not lovers or a couple. We have no definition. There’s nothing intertwining us. Except for Miles’s will.

  The very thought of the dowry brings about a wave of restlessness. I may be away from Charleston, but my problems will follow me wherever I go. The bachelor ball will be here far too soon, and I’ll have to make a choice I’m still undecided about. I shouldn’t be bothered by how many women bat their lashes at Livingston, or who he speaks to; I have more pressing matters to worry about. But I can’t seem to help myself. After my recent discovery about the depth of my feelings for him, I feel more than protective for Livingston. I’d claw out the eyes of every woman in this room if I thought they had the one thing I want more than anything: his love.

  Tell him the truth. Tell him before it’s too late.

  “It was lovely to meet you both, but I must be after my brother,” Rea says, breaking apart my thoughts. “He’s here somewhere.”

  Once she leaves, Matilda turns back to us. Her smile has disappeared as she leans toward Momma and me. “She has some nerve to show her face,” Matilda huffs.

  Momma and I exchange glances. I was taught to sense deep Southern gossip a mile away, and there’s a reason everyone in the room gives this stunning creature a wide berth. What is the problem? Was she Oliver’s former scorned lover? Did a breeze pick up and cause her calves to show?

  I don’t know, but I want to.

&
nbsp; As badly as I want to unravel the story behind Matilda’s anger at Rea, I know I can’t. Momma and Matilda drift into the crowd with promises of returning. Nat and Livingston are standing beside the closed windows, quietly talking to each other. It’s been quite some time since they’ve seen one another, so I don’t want to interrupt.

  “You’re curious, aren’t you?”

  I turn at the sound of the male voice behind me.

  One word comes to mind: wow, wow, wow.

  I’m curious about many things, but my curiosity disappears the minute this man steps beside me.

  His light brown hair is cut close on the sides and longer on top. I’m not a fan of mustaches. They can have a Machiavellian look to them. But this man appears very distinguished with one.

  I realize I’ve been staring for several minutes and rapidly blink. “Curious?”

  “About Rea.” He gestures to the beautiful blonde. Thankfully, she’s nowhere near Livingston. “Rea was once the perfect Southern belle of Savannah until several years ago.”

  He knows her in some capacity. In what way doesn’t matter because I have so many questions, and maybe this man can answer them.

  “Did she do somethin’ to hurt Matilda or her family?”

  He thinks over that question for an awfully long time. “Not that I’ve been made privy too. But Matilda Claiborne is an … uncommon individual.”

  “My word,” I manage. He didn’t have to tell me Matilda was uncommon. One night spent at Brignac House, and I more than understood. The handsome man nods and looks straight ahead.

  “Are you goin’ to tell me how you know this?”

  He smiles at me, and I swear on the good Lord above the angels in heaven sing. “I thought you would never ask. I’m Rea’s younger brother.” He holds his hand out to me. “Loras.” His smile widens. “And your name?”

  I shake his hand. “Rainey Pleasonton.”

  “You’re not familiar with my sister so you can’t possibly be from Savannah,” he says.

  I smile faintly, unsure on how to reply. Most Southern ladies would politely move the conversation onto another topic, but I’m curious. “I suppose that means she has a reputation that precedes her.”

  “Possibly.”

  “If I was to ask people what her reputation is, would they all say the same thing?”

  Loras stares out into the crowd, contemplating my question. “Depends on who you ask.”

  I nod, thoughtfully and then lift a shoulder before I lean in. “Then it appears I’m still in the heart of the South.”

  At that, Loras tilts his head back and laughs loud enough to earn the gaze of several people standing around us, including Livingston. He’s standing beside Nat across the room. When he sees I’m not far from the source of the laughter, his light eyes narrow into thin slits. At once, he excuses himself and walks across the room.

  From afar, when you see Livingston, you notice a strikingly handsome man with not a hair out of place and impeccably dressed. But he begs for a closer look. When you’re given that inspection, those arresting green eyes tell a far different story. They’re bold and impish as though he knows all your darkest secrets. And he wants to inform the world but doesn’t because the wicked side of him likes knowing how you really are.

  How Livingston gazes at me right now is intimate. The way a lover would, and he makes no effort to hide it in front of Loras.

  This is a day of mourning and remembrance for Oliver, and here Livingston is, nearly undressing me with the heat in his eyes. I momentarily turn away and try to gather a deep breath, but that’s essentially impossible with Livingston standing so close.

  “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Livingston addresses his words to Loras, yet I can’t help but notice how he shifts his body so he’s nearly standing in front of me.

  Loras regards Livingston, his gaze cool and distant. “Don’t believe we have.”

  “Livingston, this is Loras Breymas, Rea’s younger brother.”

  Livingston, however, is undaunted by Loras and solemnly dips his head in Loras’s direction. “Livingston Lacroix.”

  “Lacroix.” Loras wags his finger at Livingston. “You must be part of Mrs. Claiborne’s family.”

  “Yes, I am. And I’m also one of Miss Pleasonton’s close friends.”

  Loras arches a single brow. I shake my head at Livingston. He isn’t a possessive person, but he’s certainly acting that way.

  Loras turns his attention to me and smiles. “I hope we meet again.”

  I dip my head, my lips curling up at the sides. “Me too, Mr. Breymas.”

  I watch him go, and the entire time, I can feel Livingston’s eyes burning a hole into my profile.

  “May I speak with you?” Livingston whispers into my ear.

  Before I have the chance to reply, his hand curls around my elbow. He steers us out of the room, somberly dipping his head at strangers who have come to pay their respects. Once we’re in the foyer, I expect him to say his truth and go on his way, but he continues walking until we’re at the back of the house, nestled in a small corner where no one can see us. My back becomes pressed against the wall as Livingston stands incredibly close to me.

  “What has gotten into you?” Livingston demands, his eyes serious.

  I cross my arms. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  Livingston gestures toward the hallway. “Do you make it a pastime of yours to bat your eyes at every man durin’ a funeral?”

  “No. Loras happened to be one man, not every man, and I did not bat my eyes at him. He spoke to me.”

  “Don’t tease me, Rainey.” Now that I’m standing this close to him, I can see the prominent dark circles beneath his eyes.

  Provoking aside, I furrow my brows. “What’s the matter?”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “I didn’t sleep well either!” Excitedly, I lean in, and whisper-shout. “It’s this house, right? I swear I heard footsteps outside my room! I’m startin’ to believe it’s haunted.”

  “Every plantation in the South is rumored to be haunted, but no, that’s not why.” His hands settle on his hips, pulling his jacket away from his body and revealing the gray vest that fits his lean body perfectly. He stares at me for a moment longer, before he lowers his voice. A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead. “Can I see you tonight?”

  Our nightly visits has become a dangerous routine as we both become increasingly comfortable with this ritual.

  Livingston stares at me intently, waiting for my reply. When he wants to, his presence can be far more foreboding than one expects.

  My eyes drift toward the hallway, thinking over my reply when Livingston’s hand gently curls around my wrist. When my eyes meet his, he has the look of desperation almost as though he’s afraid I’m going to leave. He wears this expression far too often. Where can I possibly go? Where have I ever gone? I’ve never known a world without Livingston Lacroix. I blink, and the look is wiped clean from his face.

  Briefly, I nod. “Yes.”

  It’s hard for me to decide if there’s relief in Livingston’s eyes or casual indifference. He nods once and lets go of my hand only to wrap his arms around me. My hands slide around his shoulders as though we’ve done this for years. I nearly sigh at how complete this one touch makes me feel.

  I think we both know that our covert time spent at night can’t continue, and to prolong our rendezvous won’t help either of us. What else am I to do?

  I love him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Rainey

  After every mourner has left, I wait. After the sun begins its descent into the sky, I wait and continue to wait even when every light has been turned off in the house.

  The silence in Brignac House tonight borders on eerie. Dinner was a light array of foods graciously given by neighbors or mourners. Nat and Matilda were noticeably absent during dinner. It left Momma, Livingston, and me to sit in the dimly lit dining room. Livingston and I
stole glances across the table like two love-stricken adolescents. To an extent, it wasn’t an incorrect portrayal of me. One moment, I was at war with Livingston, and the next, I was here, loving him and under the spell he cast over me. Could he love me back? There have been times I’ve caught him staring at me, his eyes unreadable, and I think maybe the possibility isn’t so far out of reach.

  Think you could love me?

  Those hushed spoken words flit through my mind. It’s been years, but I still think of them. Still think of what could have happened. It was absurd. He didn’t remember, and neither should I. It’s pathetic really, when you think about it, how this one memory can still control me.

  Livingston’s had more control of my life than he’s aware of. Never more so than at night when we’re together. The more he teaches me, the bolder I become. I think of what I’d do to him if I went a bit a further than just with my hands. I know the second I tell him I love him, everything will change. The balance will shift, those walls he’s slowly dropped will go back up, and the opportunity to do as I wish will be taken away.

  Impatiently, I walk to the door and rip it open. I look back and forth, but there’s no one in the hall. Where is Livingston?

  “Are you lookin’ in the hall because you’re expectin’ more company?” a male voice asks behind me.

  I nearly jump out of my skin and look over my shoulder. I find Livingston sitting in the dark corner of the room. He has one leg crossed over the other, and his face is hidden in the shadows, but I know it’s him.

  Closing my door, I turn to him, beyond baffled. “What … I mean, how long have you been here?”

  “Not long.”

  “Not long,” I repeat.

  Nodding, Livingston sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Long enough to watch you lock and unlock the door. Le savauge, were you tryin’ to keep me out?”

  Even with the shadows cast on his face, I can feel his eyes on me. I boldly stare back. Looking away means there’s something to hide. This is my room, and I was getting ready for bed.