A Cry at Midnight (9 page)

"You didn't have to quit your employment with another family?"

"No, I didn't. They didn't require my services any more."

"Really? But I suppose your letters of recommendation were also in the trunk."

"That's right, she said brightly, glad that he was going along.

"Perhaps we can write to your former employer and get the letter replaced."

"No, we can't." She absolutely couldn't allow him to check into her background. She'd never survive such the scrutiny.

"Why not?"

"They're gone. They're in . . . Europe. England, France, Spain. All those European countries."

"How very nice for them," he commented in a way that sounded almost sarcastic. Of course he wasn't being sarcastic. She didn't imagine he had much of a sense of humor, and doubted he'd expend any of his limited supply on someone as trivial as her.

"I'm sorry," she said, when that was far from the truth. "Perhaps you'll allow my actions to speak for me, instead of judging me by what's on a piece of paper."

"Miss Galloway, I believe that's exactly what I'm doing," he replied, shaking open his newspaper once more.

He'd sounded even more sarcastic that time, although she couldn't imagine why--or even how he'd be so suspicious. After all, he'd barely questioned her story yesterday. Despite his belief or distrust of her, she had to forge ahead. There was no other option but to stay at Black Willow Grove until she found out what was going on.

She used the opportunity to eat more of her breakfast. Eggs with a creamy sauce, two kinds of sausages, and some kind of corn dish that she didn't recognize. She was hungry enough that she wasn't too concerned about the type of food, only the quantity.

After several more bites, the silence stretched to uncomfortable lengths. The only sound in the room was the clink of her fork and the rustle of his newspaper. She wondered what type of news was reported in an 1849 paper. Probably nothing really interesting, like Ben Affleck's newest rumored romance or two-headed alien babies.

"What are you reading about?" she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her intended reserve.

"Nothing that would interest you," he replied noncommittally.

Male chauvinist
, she wanted to scream. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

He folded the paper and placed it beside his coffee cup, gesturing for it to be filled.

As soon as the young black servant filled both their cups, Mr. Durant spoke. "United States reaction to the political revolutions of last year. It seems the great thinkers of our time are split on whether change should be embraced or feared."

"Democrats and Republicans in Congress at it again," she said, remembering the way her father always bad-mouthed politics.

"Democrats and Republicans? Do you mean those who believe in democratic and republican forms of government?"

Oops. She'd done it again. Didn't the political parties go back that far? Did they have different names? She barely paid any attention to politics except to vote. "Yes, that's what I meant," she said carefully, looking down at her plate.

"
The Communist Manifesto
has generated some sympathy among the more liberal members of our society."

"The liberal press." Now there was a term she'd heard a lot.

"A quaint way of phrasing, but yes, the articles and books that have gone to press are more in favor of exploring change than they are of keeping the status quo."

"What do
you
think?" Randi asked, finishing off her last bite of egg and looking at him through the fringe of her bangs.

He seemed taken aback at her question, but quickly recovered. The term "a cat always lands on its feet" came to mind, except in Jackson Durant's case, he was a pretty big, dangerous cat.

"I believe political change is highly overrated. Most of the time, only the politicians change. The lives of people are disturbed, often violently so, but return to normal within a matter of months or years."

"My dad says the same thing, except his way of saying it is, 'damn politicians are all alike,'" Randi said, giving her best John Galloway imitation.

At the foot of the table, Jackson Durant actually smiled. Just for a moment, but he'd definitely found her amusing. Randi smiled in return, her heart feeling much lighter.

"You shouldn't curse," he chastised, although she didn't hear any bite to his words.

"I wasn't really cursing," she defended herself. "I was quoting."

"You're arguing semantics."

She shrugged. "You'll have to take that up with my dad."

His smile slowly faded. "And where would I find him?"

Her mind raced. She couldn't say, "Just north of Memphis," because that's where they were now. She named the first big city that she knew had been around since the mid-1800's. "New Orleans."

"Really?"

Randi folded her napkin carefully and placed it beside an odd looking spoon she hadn't used. "This was a really good breakfast. If you don't have anything else to discuss right now, I'd like to go upstairs and see Rose."

"I haven't determined if I'll allow you to be her governess," he reminded her.

"I know, but since I'm already here, I could at least visit her, couldn't I? I promise not to do anything . . . inappropriate. I won't curse or giggle or anything terrible like that."

"My terms for raising my daughter are not to be questioned, Miss Galloway. She has a special place in this society, one I intend for her to enjoy. I won't have her future jeopardized."

"I'll be a vision of propriety. And if any society patrols come around, I promise I'll hide."

Another smile threatened. "I'll allow your visit on those terms."

"Thanks," Randi said, starting to get up from the heavy chair.

He rose quickly from his place at the head of the table. She paused, having seen this kind of gallantry in movies, and waited for him to come around to the side.

Without a word, he pulled the chair out for her. She smiled and acted as genteel as possible, as though a man seated her and helped her up from the table all the time.

"I'll see you later, Miss Galloway. Please stay out of trouble."

"I will," she said, hoping she could keep that promise.

#

Jackson waited until his intriguing houseguest went upstairs, then called for Lebeau to meet him in the study. While he waited for his butler to arrive, Jackson stood at one of the wide, tall windows that overlooked the front lawn of Black Willow Grove. The rain that had threatened for several days hadn't fallen, leaving the ground firm and covered with newly green grass. Flowering trees along the side of the house bore witness to spring, while life abounded in the many birds that searched the ground for insects.

No one would imagine that disaster could threaten during such sunny, perfect days. But there was something about the river this year that had him worried. As soon as he was finished his correspondence, he would ride upriver to check low-lying areas for any flooding.

If the Mississippi was rising, he'd have to warn his neighbors, although he doubted they'd put much stock in his intuition. They'd been planting cotton in this river bottom for up to twenty years and felt they knew more than a new resident. The fact he'd been around the Mississippi all his life would matter little to them; they knew the
land
.

"Mas'r. Jackson, you wanted to see me?" Lebeau said in a loud voice that would echo down the hall, in case anyone was listening.

Jackson turned and faced the man who'd been with him for twelve years. Tall, austere, and private, Lebeau gave most people the impression of an educated, loyal slave--but that wasn't entirely true. Loyal to a fault, but hardly a slave, Lebeau had bought his freedom twenty years ago. He'd taken his name from the town in Louisiana where he'd lived when he left the plantation, since until his manumission he'd simply been called "Samson."

Jackson knew the man's biggest regret in life was that he hadn't been able to purchase the freedom of his wife and child, who had later been sold through an auctioneer and taken to Alabama. Although he'd searched for them for years, and Jackson had helped, they'd never located his family. If Lebeau was aloof, he had good reason.

Jackson walked to his desk, then motioned for Lebeau to take a chair. "I'd like for you to do an investigation on our houseguest."

"Miss Galloway?"

"Yes. She's not who, or perhaps what, she claims to be. Her story of losing her trunk off a packet, tearing her clothing, and even why she traveled to Black Willow Grove holds water like a sieve. She claims to be a friend of the governess I hired, but I don't believe that's the case. I think Miss Galloway has never met Agnes Delacey. I hardly believe they went to school together. Miss Galloway doesn't appear to have any finishing school qualities."

"Did she mention which packet brought her here?"

"No, she didn't, and I didn't press for an answer. Although at first I was furious to find her in my daughter's room, I now believe she has no ill motive for wanting the job of governess."

"She is a most straightforward and stubborn young woman."

"Exactly. I wonder where she developed such a personality."

"How deeply do you want me to investigate her background?"

"Not too much at the moment. For now, see if you can locate a packet that docked nearby and had an incident like she described." Briefly, Jackson relayed Miss Galloway's story, up to and including his assumptions about her short hair.

"So ask around the docks, check with the stevedores, the pilots, or the captains. Whatever you can find. If someone as unusual as our Miss Galloway disembarked, she would be remembered."

"Amen to that," Lebeau said, rising from the chair.

"Oh, and Lebeau," Jackson began as the butler started to leave.

"Yes?"

"Ask the servants who have had contact with her if she's said or done anything unusual. Anything that would tell us more about her."

"I'll see what I can find."

"Thank you. This is really important to me," Jackson admitted. "Hell, anything involving Rose is important."

"I understand." Lebeau walked out of the room, as tall and imposing as he'd been years ago, when they'd met in Baton Rouge. How they'd change since that night when the only thing standing between Jackson and two riverboat-savvy thugs was an angry black man who spoke like a gentleman and carried a length of chain that weighed as much as a half-grown man.

No one knew all his secrets, Jackson knew, but Lebeau came as close as anyone. And what he didn't know for a fact, he'd probably guessed by now, but Jackson had no fears trusting his past to the quiet, dignified man with demons of his own.

#

Randi spent much of the morning on a quilt in the nursery, playing with Rose. The baby was a delight, full of energy, full of life. Whenever she began to think along those lines, Randi stopped herself. If she dwelled on what was to come, she wouldn't be able to go forward. She'd curl up on her bed on the second floor, pull the drapes, and be miserable.

But she felt that this child needed her. God knew, she needed this child. "Did you call me back to the past?" she asked the gurgling baby. "Was that really you I heard crying in the dollhouse?"

Rose couldn't answer, of course, but she did focus her bright baby blue eyes on Randi's face, grinning as though she knew some wonderful secret.

"I wish you'd share it with me, Sweetie, because I'm awfully worried about you and your daddy."

By the time Suzette, Rose's wet nurse, came to take the baby for her feeding and nap, Randi felt as though she was being separated from a child she'd known much longer than two days.

With the baby down for a nap, Randi wandered downstairs. She noticed a few servants going about their tasks, but they paid little attention to her. She saw nothing of the tall black man, Mr. Durant's butler. No telling what he did during the day. Perhaps he turned into a bat and hung from some dark rafter. He had that kind of personality.

In one of the front rooms, she ran her hand along the polished, dark furniture. Ornate carved wood adorned each piece, and brocade fabrics covered the seats and some of the backs of chairs and the settee. She'd seen similar pieces in the museum, or, she realized with a jolt, these could be the actual pieces of furniture. Unlike the items that existed in 1998, these were all so new, the wood shiny, the upholstery vivid, the seats plump with evenly distributed padding.

The walls were painted a soft green in this formal room, with tall silk draperies that must have cost a fortune.
Not exactly off-the-rack at Sears
, she thought as she ran her fingers along the heavy gold and dark green cord and tassel.

At the end of the room stood an elegant fireplace, complete with carved mantle and marble inlaid stones around the opening. As the rest of the room, the fireplace was spotless; not even a pile of ashes indicated anyone used the room or lived in this house.

Darn, it was cleaner than the museum!

Shaking her head at the cold, formal elegance of Jackson Durant's "home," she wandered farther down the central hallway. This is where she'd found him this morning at breakfast, but she wasn't looking for him again. As a matter of fact, she really didn't want to see him for a good long while. He'd only start asking more questions, and she hadn't thought of any new answers.