Beloved Captive (6 page)

He looked as if he’d been slapped. “So you know.”

“I would hear it from you, please.”

Reverend Carter ducked his head. When he lifted his gaze, his features held compassion and, she hoped, regret. “I believe your father loved your mother—”

“My mother, Sylvie,” she snapped.

“Yes, Sylvie,” he said slowly, “but theirs was a love that could not be.”

“Because he owned her.”

“For a time,” he said. “Though, as you know, he no longer owns
anyone. Every member of his staff is free and paid well to remain here.”

“I did not know this,” she said. “I assumed. . .”

“They were slaves? No, though they all started out that way. I warrant the loss of Sylvie caused him to think differently on the practice. He freed them all while you were still in the cradle.”

“All but Isabelle?”

He leaned on his cane and appeared to be contemplating the rug. “He often expressed the fear that he might lose her if she was set free. Thus the plan to allow her to believe she would be passed on to another when in fact he intended to free her.” The old man paused. “It was not a plan I approved of, though I regret I did allow him to use me as a part of it.”

“Until I ruined it.”

Smiling, Hezekiah Carter made his way to the settee and lowered himself onto the stiff cushions. “Indeed, I was quite angry about that, as was your father, as much for the disobedience as for the fact that my wayward son was involved. As it turns out,” he said with a shrug, “it all worked out quite well, didn’t it?”

“You mentioned that my father lost my mother.” Despite the tears that threatened, Emilie took a deep breath and pressed on with the question she’d never dared to speak aloud. “Why did she leave?”

It was a shorter version of the real question that had plagued her since she’d been old enough to ask it: Why did she leave me?
 

“Was it my father who banished her?” she added.

“No, Emilie,” he said softly. “For all your father’s sins—and they are many—this one is not on his head.” He rose to reach for his handkerchief and offered it to her.

Ignoring his gesture, Emilie swiped at her wet cheeks, caring not for the silk that would be ruined by her tears. “Then why was I given over to be raised by servants?”

The reverend placed the handkerchief in her open palm then wrapped her fingers around it. “Child, your mother is dead.”

“Dead?” She slipped away from his reach, then put out her hands to stop his progress.

“Emilie, I’m terribly sorry.”

Something inside her slipped ajar, and feelings she’d kept long guarded threatened to spill. One more question, and she would take her leave.

“So many times, I questioned Papa about my mother. At any time he could have relieved me of my hopes to see her again by telling me of her death.” She paused to draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Reverend Carter, did my father know of this and keep silent all these years?”
 

“Your father sought to keep this from you for the obvious reason, Emilie. To tell you of your mother’s death would be to tell you who your mother was.”

“So he allowed a girl to cry herself to sleep over a mother whom he knew would never return?”

The old man hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said.

Chapter 6

The death of a stranger should never be so painful.” Yet Emilie felt the loss of her mother all the more sharply because she was a stranger. For that matter, so was the woman in the mirror.

Where once she saw a person whose origins she thought she knew, now she just saw a woman. Did her curls, her lips, her skin color give her away as her father’s or her mother’s child? What did the combination of the two make her?

More important, did it matter, or was it as Mama Dell said? Save the fact that another had been held captive when in truth it should have been she, perhaps Mama Dell’s philosophy might have worked.

“There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they can help, and what they cannot.” A quote from the Greek philosopher Plato she’d committed to memory early in her formal education.
 

“Aren’t I full of platitudes this morning?” she asked the woman in the mirror on her dressing table. “Well, that and a picayune will buy breakfast and coffee.”

Emilie practiced a smile, then looked away. The fact that she sat at the table at this late hour was pure defiance.
 

Every morning since awakening in her old bed, Emilie had risen, seeing to her father’s needs before attending to her own. This morning she’d pinned up her hair and donned her morning attire first, taking her time with each part of the process. Failing any further means of delay, she now found herself with a decision to make.

Emilie squared her shoulders and stepped out of her bedroom into the carpeted hallway. To the left was the back stairs leading to the servants’ area, while to the right the front stairs led past her father’s bedchamber. Always, her first steps of the day had led to her father.

That was before she knew about her mother. Maudlin as it sounded, everything in the time line of her life would reflect whether it happened before or after she knew she was orphaned
by the mysterious slave woman. One last look to the right, and Emilie turned toward the back stairs and the delicious smells coming from the outdoor kitchen.
 

“We got a fine ham and red eye gravy this mornin’, Miss Emilie,” Cook called as she emerged into the sunshine. “Get on back inside and let me bring you a plate. You’re about to waste away what with the little bit you eat.”
 

“I’m fine.”

The woman in no danger of wasting away pointed to the door. “Coffee pot’s already full on the sideboard. Be sure and pour yourself some of that sweet cream into it. You won’t be sorry.”

In truth, Emilie’s stomach rumbled, and the fog in her brain could stand to be washed away by a cup of Cook’s strong chicory blend, but Emilie had no mind to drink or dine this morning. She barked an order for her father’s breakfast meal to be prepared, then added a hasty apology before escaping to the courtyard.
 

Water trickled in the fountain, and the shade of the great magnolia tree beckoned. As a child, she could climb so far into the magnolia that even the most agile servant couldn’t follow to carry her down. Hidden in the glossy green leaves, Emilie would read about worlds where mothers and fathers loved one another and daughters grew up to marry handsome princes.
 

Ignoring the strong temptation to attempt the climb just once more, she settled demurely onto the bench and waited. Rather than the breakfast she ordered, Cook emerged with a silver platter. Behind her, three of the kitchen help followed carrying similar items.

“What’s this?” Emilie rose. “I specifically asked for a tray.”

“Tray’s in the dining room,” Cook said without sparing her a glance. She stepped into the dining room and went about the business of setting a place for Emilie at the head of the long dining table. “C’mon, honey,” she said when she’d finished, “and eat whilst I get your papa’s food situated.”

“I’ll do it.” Emilie settled the items on the breakfast tray despite Cook’s feeble protest then looked up at the woman who’d stood in her mother’s stead since Emilie’s birth. “My father and I have some business to discuss, and I would ask that we not be disturbed,” she said as she lifted the tray.

Cook nodded and stepped back, her eyes wide. “I told Dell there wasn’t a secret in this house that wouldn’t someday be made light. The Lord, He promises that in His Word.”

Slowly, Emilie guided the tray back to its resting place on the table with only the slightest tremor impeding her progress. Speech was impossible.

“Not much happens in this house that somebody don’t know about it.” Cook paused. “Honey, sit down. You look like you’re ’bout to fall over.”

Emilie felt her eyes narrow as the blood rushed to her temples. Without concentration, she might have toppled. Several questions came to mind. She set her focus on the one that plagued her worst of all. “Is there anyone in this house other than me who did not know the truth about my mother?”

The older woman opened her mouth to speak, then must have thought better of it. She pointed to the tray. “Why don’t I take this up to him? Likely he’s wonderin’ where—”

“Cook, please.” Emilie hadn’t intended to plead, yet her voice failed her. “Please,” came out in a near-breathless whisper. “I would have you tell me about my mother.”

Her gnarled hand clasped Emilie’s sleeve as Cook looked past her to the open window. “I can’t speak of such things,” she said. “I took a vow not to tell.”

“Then you are relieved of that vow.” She leaned away from the old woman’s grasp. “I know of her death. What I wish to hear is the story of her life.”

Cook swayed, one hand on her forehead. “Praise the Lord,” she declared as she righted herself and lifted her skirts to dance a jig. “God knew I couldn’t carry that secret to my grave, and He’s done performed a real life miracle and set me free. Where small hope exists, there does the Lord abide.”

How many times had she heard Cook say those words? Too many to count. Enough to hold them in the same esteem as she did those of the ancient Greeks she’d studied at Miss Potter’s school.
 

“If only He chose to perform the same miracle for me,” Emilie whispered.
 

Cook stopped dancing and pointed at Emilie. “Oh, baby girl, He can. You just ask.”

Emilie refused to wither under the old woman’s stare. “I’m asking you.”
 

“And I’ll tell you, but not right now,” she said. “There’s an old man upstairs who’ll have both our hides if he’s not fed soon.”

Emilie nodded. “Then we shall continue this conversation after breakfast.” She reached for the tray once more. “I’ll see he finishes quickly.”

Unfortunately, Papa was in no mood for finishing his breakfast. Rather, he seemed to want to tarry over his coffee and think. Emilie assumed he was thinking, for he certainly was not speaking as he sat propped against his pillows, staring out the window Emilie insisted remain open.

Finally, she could stand the silence no more. “Papa, I’ve a topic to discuss if you’re a mind.” When he did not answer, she pressed on. “My mother. What news have you to tell me? Perhaps something you’ve withheld that you’d like to confess?”

His jaw slacked, then tightened as he reached for his coffee cup and then turned away. Her hopes of a quick admission of guilt and a passionate request for forgiveness fell away, and in their place, anger began to blossom.

The expansive room became too small. Emilie moved to set his tray on the table, but he held tight to it with his free hand.
 

“All right, then,” she said in a tone she struggled to keep civil, “I’ll leave you to eat while I do some tidying up in here.”

The room was a mess; this much was true. Papa had refused entry to all but Cook and Mama Dell, neither of whom claimed any domestic skills beyond the kitchen. The chamber pot had seen regular cleaning, but the maids were shooed out should they attempt anything else.

Emilie’s motives were not to bring a sparkle to the dust-covered mantel but to wear down her father’s resistance. While she dusted, she thought of the seventeenth psalm. She’d read it upon awakening and immediately purposed to commit verse three to memory: “Thou hast proved mine heart; thou hast visited me in the night; thou hast tried me, and shalt find nothing; I am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress.”

“My mouth shall not transgress.”
She would have to work hard to
achieve that.

A knock sounded, and one of the kitchen help peered around the door. “I’ve a letter for the miss,” she said.

“Go away,” Papa shouted.

Ignoring her father, Emilie accepted the letter and handed the girl the rag. “Please send someone up to clean my father’s room,” she said. “I want a thorough cleaning. Top to bottom. And have Nate come up and help me move my father to another room while the cleaning is being done.”

Wide-eyed, the girl nodded, then scurried out of the room, Jean Gayarre’s curses following her. Folding the letter into the pocket of her dress, Emilie closed her eyes and said a quick prayer in hopes that the Lord might provide strength to still her tongue so she might not transgress.

“Father,” she finally said, “I would have you stop this nonsense at once. Either you’ve taken leave of your senses, or you have not. In either case, I demand to know.”

“Perhaps I have, Emilie, but I speak the truth.” He gave her what almost passed for a pleading look. “If it is any consolation, I loved your mother best. I gave you a life that Sylvie—”
 

“That I was never entitled to.”
 

His eyes followed her as she walked toward him and took a seat near his bedside. Papa clamped his lips shut and stared. The contents of his breakfast tray shifted as he set his coffee cup down without looking.

“Did Elizabeth know I was not her daughter?” She paused. “Is that why she left?”

“I’ll not speak of her,” Papa said, his voice rising, “for there’s not a word I can say about Elizabeth would be pleasant to a girl with delicate ears.”

Emilie could feel the heat in her face, even as she fisted her hands and held them behind her back. Though in the process of dying, Jean Gayarre remained a difficult and hurtful man.

“I am no girl, and you let me believe Elizabeth was my mother,” Emilie said evenly. “I would know more.”

“You would know more?” Her father spat on the Aubusson carpet, not bothering to see if a spittoon was near. “Sylvie may have been raised to please men, but Elizabeth’s ample charms were well known in New Orleans and beyond.” He leaned forward, obviously warming to the topic. “Twice I took the woman back, and twice Elizabeth bore me a child. In both cases, I never knew whether that child belonged to me or some stranger whose wallet was fatter than mine.” With a sweep of his hand, Papa cleared the bed of his breakfast tray. “Be glad not to find yourself in that number, Emilie. You may be the daughter of a slave, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing you alone of all my children are truly mine.”