Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (22 page)

Cleo held his hand tight. “Remy,” she said.

“It fo us, Cleo. You know dat. We goin to have free
chilrun.”

She put her face to the little window and kissed his lips.

“You have to be strong, first, Remy. You have to eat, and
you have to stay out of that man’s way.”

“You, Cleo. You stay out of dat man’s way. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Remy.”

“You go on in, Cleo. My legs say I got to set down, and I
don like you out here in de dark.”

First thing the next morning, the blacksmith’s boy fired up
the box and manned the bellows. All through the morning and early afternoon,
the smithy hammered and shaped and welded until he had executed the design
LeBrec had given him. Before supper, he attached the final pieces, four bells,
and sent the boy to tell LeBrec it was ready.

The overseer gathered every man, woman, and child in the
quarters to witness Remy’s humiliation. Dark came early this time of year, and
he hurried them into the lane before dusk. Old Sam and his son were sent to
bring Remy to the circle the people made among the cabins.

LeBrec forced Remy to his knees. “This is what we do to
runaways on Toulouse,” he announced.

He hoisted the heavy iron device the smith had made and held
it so everyone could see it. He gave it a shake so the bells would ring, and he
laughed. Then he opened the hinged ring around the base and placed the device
over Remy’s head. The collar bit into his shoulders. Curved iron slats rose
around his head to join at the top so that Remy’s head was encased in an
elongated basket, the bells suspended from the highest point.

“Now try to run with that on, nigger,” LeBrec said. Remy
didn’t move. “Get up, I said, and let’s see you try to run now.”

He kicked Remy’s leg, and Remy tried to stand. Old Sam and
his son helped him lift himself and the weight of the basket. The device tilted
forward, Remy swayed, the bells rang. He reached his hands up to steady the
iron casement and found his balance.

“Run, damn you,” LeBrec demanded.

Remy staggered, then began to shuffle around the circle. The
bells jangled with every step, and the weight of the cage dug into Remy’s
collar bones. He registered the presence of friends and relations -- Old Sam’s
face was stony, Tante Liza wept, cousin Jean gazed on him with pity and fear –
and then Remy looked only at the ground.

Remy’s vision blurred as he pushed himself to jog round and
round. He felt the weight of the iron on his shoulders all the way through his
knees and feet. Worst of all, the bells mocked his pain, ringing and ringing
and ringing.

Exhausted, Remy sagged to his knees, the bells silent at
last, but LeBrec yelled at him to get up, to run. Remy struggled to rise, the
bells once again clanging, but he collapsed on the ground, panting, his
shoulders raw where the iron collar rubbed him.

 Satisfied, LeBrec spat into the dirt, turned his back on
the people, and left them staring at Remy.

Old Sam and two others helped Remy up. They took him to his
old place in the bachelors’ cabin and put him in the bed, the bells ringing
with every movement. They folded up an old quilt to try to cushion his head
inside the iron cage, and told him to try to sleep.

Remy listened to the night noises -- a child crying before
it slept, men talking on a porch nearby, wind blowing through the leaves of the
live oaks. As long as Remy didn’t try to turn over, didn’t move, the bells were
silent.

I thanks de Lord Cleo wadn’t in dat circle. When
I sees her, I gone stand straight. I show her dis cage ain’t nothing. I show
her I a man.

New Year’s Day, clouds from the Gulf of Mexico covered New
Orleans. A cold, damp wind blew up the river, and the fireplace’s warmth
radiated only a few feet into the parlor. This had been a hard week for Josie,
her first Christmas and New Year’s without Maman and Papa. Tante Marguerite
welcomed Josie into her family, but of course it wasn’t the same. When Oncle
Sandrine sang noels with the children at the piano, she remembered her papa’s
baritone, and it was as if she had lost him all over again.

In the parlor, the yellow glow from candles and fireplace
countered the gray light coming through the windows; the relentless ticking of
the clock on the mantle pushed the afternoon along. When would Abigail arrive?

When the doorbell rang, Josie rushed to the upper hallway
and leaned over the balustrade ready with a cheery hello. Albany Johnston,
handing his hat to the manservant, looked up in time to catch the last of
Josie’s dying smile. He had come alone.

“Is Abigail ill?” Josie called down.

Albany shook his head. “She’s well.” He began to climb the
stairs to the sitting room, and Josie had an odd sense of trouble on its way.

Albany followed her into the parlor, the manservant behind
him. “Please tell my aunt Mr. Johnston is here,” Josie said. The servant left the
parlor door ajar in spite of the draft, aware of the delicacy of a single young
woman’s position in the company of a gentleman.

Albany stood awkwardly in the center of the room until Josie
said, “It’s dreadfully cold today, isn’t it?” She gestured to the chair nearest
the fire.

“No, please,” Albany said, and insisted Josie take the
warmer chair.

“Abigail is well, then?” Josie began.

“Quite well. The fact is, Josephine, I asked her to permit
me this visit alone. I’ve wanted to discuss something with you for some time,
and today seemed--”

Tante Marguerite bustled in. “Mr. Johnston, how nice to see
you.” She held out her hand and Albany stood to greet her.

“You see I have taken your husband’s encouragement to
heart,” he said.

Fully alerted now, Josie’s unease grew. Surely Albany
couldn’t … she’d never led him to think...

“Oh,” Marguerite said. She glanced at Josie. “Well. I’ll
just see to the tea, shall I?” She bustled out and closed the door behind her.

Albany ran a hand through his thinning hair and sat down
again.

“Josephine,” he began. “I’ve spoken to your uncle. Of course
I will write to your grandmother.” He stopped and looked at her. Josie gave him
no help at all.

“I know you’re young, Josephine. Too young, really, to
become a wife. Not this year, anyway. At least I think you’re too young. I know
the Creoles marry younger than we Americans do, but …” He seemed to realize he
was babbling and took a breath before he began again. “When you’re older,
twenty I think is ideal, then I will build you your own home on the plantation,
and we can start our family.”

Josie didn’t move. This was awful. How could he think she
wanted to marry him? She’d never, ever --.

“There’s a boom on, Josephine, and we’re going to be very
rich, the way cane sugar is in demand around the world. Naturally I will
relieve you of the burden of running Toulouse. It will be no trouble, being so
near, and the two plantations together will become a powerhouse in Louisiana.”

Ah, Josie thought in a rush of resentment. No wonder he and
Grand-mère had spent so many hours together in the summer. They were two of a
kind. “So this is a business proposition?”

“Well…” Albany exhaled. “I assure you I will shepherd your
fortune as vigilantly as my own. To that extent, business must be attended to.
Of course, you will still have your home at Toulouse, but I will build you a
bigger place, with the latest innovations. You can furnish it as you please.”
Albany stood abruptly and began to pace. “You’ll have Abigail right next door
to you, at least until she marries. My parents will be a mother and a father to
you.”

Josie seethed. An unwanted proposal was bad enough, but that
he should turn it into an economic transaction, as if she were no more than an
extension of her plantation. There was an edge to her voice when she said, “If
it’s a business partnership you’re interested in, Mr. Johnston, I’m sure we can
arrange that without marriage.”

He looked at her bleakly. How had this gone so wrong?
“Josephine, I assure you, I did not mean to imply this was a monetary proposal.
My dear, Josephine, surely you must know how I feel about you.”

Before she could think, she spouted, “Feel? I have not
discerned any great feeling on either of our parts.”

Albany’s stricken face showed she’d hurt him. He turned his
back to her and, with one arm braced against the mantle, gazed into the fire.

Oh dear Mother Mary, I didn’t realize
. Had she been
so absorbed in her own sentiments, she’d failed to perceive Albany’s? All those
afternoons he’d chaperoned her and Abigail, she’d thought he was more dutiful
than attached. She’d been willfully, foolishly blind.

Josie softened her tone. “It’s just that…” He wouldn’t look
at her. She really had been unforgivably selfish not to have seen. With genuine
contrition, she said, “You do me a great honor, and I do thank you humbly for
it.”

“But?” he said, his eyes on the flames.

“I’m sorry, Albany. I don’t want to marry you.”

Albany looked at her over his shoulder. In a husky voice, he
said, “And why is that, Josephine?”

Her temper flared again and overcame her moment of
conscience. He had no business to press her. What could she tell him? That she
did not desire him, did not want to ever kiss him or have children with him?
That he was more boring than needlework, more fleshy than Louella’s prize pig,
that he seldom joked and had no wit whatsoever? She struggled with herself. As
infuriating as this conversation was, Albany deserved a civil answer.

“Because, Albany, I don’t love you.” There. That was as
kindly put as she knew how to say it.

Somehow, her assertion only animated him once again. Albany
stepped away from the fireplace eagerly. “But, Josephine, it’s only natural at
your age that you know nothing of love. It shows you come from a good family
who have protected you,” he said. “Love will come in time, and I can wait.”

“Albany, I know my own mind.” She spoke sharply, and Albany
drew back as if she’d slapped him.

She put a hand to her forehead. She wasn’t handling this any
better than he was. “Forgive me. I value our friendship, truly, Albany. But I
do not wish to marry you.”

He walked to the window and looked out at the leaves blowing
in the street. “I see I have spoken too soon, Josephine,” he said at last, his
face turned from her. “You have so recently lost your parents, have no father
to guide you. When you have consulted with your grandmother and your Oncle
Sandrine, I hope you will in time reconsider.”

“Perhaps you mistake my youth for being of weak mind,” she
snapped, “but I assure you --.”

The parlor door opened and Tante Marguerite breezed into the
room. “I’ve brought us a pot of chocolate,” she said. “I know, I know, I’m
interrupting, but I have already allowed you two more time alone than the
gossips would approve.” She set the silver tray on a side table and began to
pour. “We’ll have our chocolate to celebrate until your uncle comes in. Then
we’ll open a bottle of champagne!”

The rustle of her taffeta skirts had at first filled the
silence, but now Marguerite felt the tension in the room. The very air between
Josie and Albany seemed weighed down with it. She looked from one flushed face
to the other. “Oh dear,” she murmured.

“Excuse me, Madame,” Albany said. “I must take my leave.”
Stiffly, he kissed Josie’s hand with his heavy moist lips. “
Adieu
,” he
said to both ladies and, without further pleasantries, departed.

As soon as Josie heard the downstairs door close, she turned
on her heel to leave the room, but her aunt would not allow it. “Josephine,
what does this mean?”

Josie stood with her chin set. “I have declined Mr.
Johnston’s proposal.”

With her eyes on Josie, Tante Marguerite sat down heavily.
“What on earth? Why would you do such a thing?”

“I don’t wish to marry him.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Josephine, you’re not going to tell
me you don’t love him,” Marguerite said with a dismissive wave. “Even at your
age, you must know these notions of romance are nonsense. Marriage is not about
love and kisses and poetry in the moonlight.”

“But it should be,” Josie retorted. Yes, marriage was a
contract, but there must be room for love. She would have a man who roused her
passions, a man like -- she dared to say it to herself – like Bertrand Chamard.

“Listen to me,” her aunt said. “Albany Johnston is nice to
look at. He has fine manners, a nice family, a good fortune. And ” -- here she
insisted Josie heed her – “Josephine, he is willing to overlook the losses
Toulouse has incurred this past year. It will be no quick or certain matter to
make Toulouse profitable again.”

Oh yes, money. This is the answer Josie would have expected
from Grand-mère, but Tante Marguerite? Josie didn’t even try to keep the anger
from her voice. “My Grand-mère will bring Toulouse into full production as well
as any man can. I won’t be held hostage to fields of cane and corn.”

Josie rushed from the parlor and up the stairs to her room.
She paced, muttering and fuming that her aunt and uncle, and no doubt her
grandmother, too, would expect her to marry a man just for his wealth.
Heartless, that’s what they were.

Late that night, Josie wrote pages and pages about why she
didn’t want Albany Johnston. In the privacy of the diary, she noted his fleshy
chin and neck, how his hair was so thin and light that in the wind you could
see his pink scalp. No doubt he was a fine man, kind and decent. And, yes, he
would provide a house as grand as Mrs. Johnston’s, and Josie could be as idle
and useless as she was too. But she didn’t want him. It was that simple.

What Josie wanted was breathlessness, arousal, fire.

Two men stirred her, Phanor DeBlieux and Bertrand Chamard.
She’d covered page after page about each of them, but re-reading her account of
Phanor playing his fiddle for those poor people in the park shamed her.
Sheltered on Toulouse, she’d not fully realized how her station was so far
above Phanor’s, but her first weeks in New Orleans had brought home to her the
difference in her life and a poor Cajun’s. She’d written “They were awful.
Dirty smelly, unrefined, unwashed, uncouth beings. And Phanor so at ease among
them. How could I ever have thought of being with him?”