Christie (28 page)

"Do you know 'ow many years it's been since my
b
loke's mentioned me brother's name, guv'na? It's a name outa me past; it is"—he leaned forward and whispered then—"a name from the
grave!"

Garrett regarded him through eyes that were lazy green slits. He picked up the full bottle of whiskey from which only the one glass had been poured and stood it near the glass. Blakie's eyes followed his every move, and again the man ran his tongue over his lips.

"No one need know it was mentioned here
tonight," said Garrett. "Just tell me the details. How
did your brother come to return to England after so
many years in the Colonies? And how, and when, did
he die?"

Blakie eyed Garrett closely. "You ain't no legal person, come to make trouble for ol' Blakie?"

Garrett shook his head. "Just a private American citizen, looking for some answers."

"Well," said Blakie, "maybe if I was t' wet me whistle just a bit first, guv'na—"

"Not until I have the first piece of information," said Garrett dangerously. "Out with it—now!"

Immediately cowed, Blakie took one last long look at the whiskey and then faced Garrett and began to speak.

"Me brother, poor 'Enry, come 'ere from America—must be twenty years ago now—come 'ere fer good, 'e says. Says it ain't 'ealthy no more fer 'im over there. Can't ye tell me about it, says I? No, says 'Enry. The less you know, the better." He stopped and looked at Garrett.

"Go on," said Garrett.

Blakie nodded at the whiskey.

"Very well,' said Garrett, pushing the glass
toward him. "One glass now, and the bottle when you're done—if the tale's worth it!"

He watched him grab the glass with all ten squat fingers and down its amber contents in seconds.

"Ahhh. Don't know 'ow long it's been since I've 'ad aught but gin." Blakie smiled. His parted mouth revealed two rows of broken teeth, blackened and rotted from the same neglect to which the rest of his physical aspect had fallen heir.

Garrett's green eyes hardened. "The rest of the tale, quickly! I grow impatient."

"There's not an 'ellova great deal more to it, guv'na. 'Enry never told me no details, but every night 'e 'ad bad dreams what woke 'im up—woke me up, too. I'd 'ear 'im cry, 'No—I won't tell 'em nothing! Don't do it! Please don't do it!' But then, one night while 'e was asleep, I guess they
did
do it." Blakie leaned forward across the table and his voice dropped to a frightened whisper. "Cut 'is throat, they did. Neat as a chunk o' boiled beef. Found 'im meself, I did. 'Orrible—just 'orrible!"

"And that is all? You or the authorities never discovered who killed him?" asked Garrett.

"Look at me, guv'na. I ain't no fancy toff, y' know. Me brother weren't one neither. The authorities don't bother with the likes o' us. There's ten such murdered in London every night, and most o' the fine folk feel it's 'good riddance.' No, nobody found the bloody bastard what done it—or cared-to. Me, what could I do, by meself? I buried 'im, though. That much I did fer poor old 'Enry."

Garrett slumped wearily back in his chair after pushing the bottle toward Blakie and watched through half-closed eyes as the man hastily poured a
second drink, and then a third. Unable to watch any more, he rose and walked to the door, the whiskey-gulping Blakie never even realizing he was leaving. As he made his way back to the
Marianne,
his thoughts were dark. He was growing weary of running into dead ends. First, Cut well's widow being unable to furnish him with any clue as to the identity of her husband's mysterious employer, only a lead as to the name of Cutwell's steady partner in almost all of his factoring—Henry Blakely. Then, this futile trip to London in an attempt to locate Blakely, only to hear the tale just told. And then, of course, his failure to find Christie-He shook his head in an attempt to erase her name from his mind, but had as little luck with this as he'd continued to have during all these weeks. My God! Was there no rest for him? She should have been long out of mind by now. Sweet bitch! He tried to force himself to think only of her treachery, her callous desertion of him even while the flushed imprint of his love-making still lingered on her body; but in this, too, he failed. Her images seized his brain and marched there steadily in sweet profusion—Christie, laughing with him over a merry anecdote at dinner in the inn; Christie, throwing her arms about him, swearing to be '"the best wife to you I know how to be"; Christie, surrendering to him in total passion, murmuring his name—"Garrett, oh Garrett" .
Damn
her!
Damn her, damn her, damn her!

As he reached the dock where his ship lay anchored, he threw a silent greeting to the man on watch and went aboard. It was late. No need to rouse Baxter. In the morning he would give the order to prepare for the return trip home.

Chapter Twenty

The days passed tranquilly for Christie at Riverlea, and she was readily aware of how much of this peaceful state she owed to Jesse. Not only did he see to all of her obvious needs and comforts—and these he provided for in abundance—but it soon became apparent that his thoughtful care extended to the smallest detail,, the barest nuance of considerate attention to her welfare. When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee sent her running for a basin one morning, he quietly gave the order that henceforward, the entire household would be drinking tea, and when Christie accidentally overheard Mattie wondering aloud to her granddaughters at Master Jesse's curious forswearing of his favorite brew, coffee, no amount of convincing on Christie's part could get him to rescind the order. When she remarked how lovely it was to see the freshly cut flowers on the table at breakfast one morning, that afternoon, and each day thereafter, she would find a "bouquet or two
in
every room and an especially large one in her own chamber. And when once at dinner she fretted over the tiredness she felt from her
pregnancy causing her to neglect the special attentions she had been wont to afford Thunder, Jesse took to making a special pilgrimage to the big horse's stall at the stables every afternoon to lead him up to the garden at the rear of the big house where she rested and took tea, so she might visit with the stallion and feed him the carrots Jesse just "happened" to produce from his pocket. In short, it was Jesse, with his easy manner and gentle concern, who contributed to the feelings of absolute peace and carefree joy that marked every day.

But the nights—the nights were another matter. Not one passed that she didn't lie under the lacy canopy of the big tester bed and find sleep difficult to come by. Always, she would close her eyes, only to find her thoughts, beset by a pair of emerald eyes' haunting her, a mocking smile teasing her from sleep. And when sleep at last came, the dreams it brought fared no better than her wakeful reveries. They were filled with Garrett—Garrett as he had stood in her father's house the day they had met, Garrett laughing and talking with her the night they had had dinner in New York, Garrett the last day she had seen him, making sweet, passionate love to her on the crumpled bed and then carrying her to her own room where they had wrestled and romped together in joyful abandon. And after she awakened from these dreams, clutching her pillow, her face wet with tears, she would slide her hands down over her belly and think of the child she carried. And then, not always, but sometimes, if she concentrated on the joy and not the pain, she could again find sleep.

Lula and Jasper also found the plantation a
relaxing and pleasant place. Once it became clear that all of the field hands were also freed blacks or formerly indentured servants who had worked off their bonds—for the Randalls also eschewed owning slaves—Lula was content to let Jasper roam about freely after he had done his chores and lessons, and the youngster soon became a popular figure among the hands as he frolicked about the fields and barns, talking and laughing with those he met.

For his mother there were some additionally interesting developments. One morning, a few days after their arrival, Christie was startled by Lula's unannounced entry into her chamber, skirts flying, kerchief awry.

"Well, ah declare, such foolishness!" she huffed, and then Christie noticed the large splint basket she held in her hands.

"What's foolish, Lu?"

"Dis—
this
is," she said, scowling as she deposited the basket on the bed.

Christie walked over from where she had been reading near the windows and peered in. "Fruits!" she said. "What's foolish about those?"

"That's right. Fruits, and herbs, and a few chicken feathers, all of them, left on
mah bed,
in
mah
room, in
this
basket! And look! All this squiggle work painted on the outside.
Indian
squiggle work!"

"Why, Lula!" cried Christie. "I do believe you've been sent a gift!"

"Uh-huh, and ah know who from, too! But what's it all about, and how'd he get into
mah
room without me knowing about it? It don't—
doesn't
have a lock, but ah have mah ways of knowing if anybody's been
in there, and ah tell you, nobody came through the door!"

"Well,"—Christie smiled—"if I were you, I wouldn't worry too much about it. Just enjoy it. It probably means Laughing Bear remembers you and wanted to send a token to let you know he continues to wish you well."

"Ah wonder," said Lula, picking up the basket and looking at it. "Ah wonder."

A week later, a similar discovery was made, this time involving a basket of freshly caught trout, carefully packed in damp leaves, and this time Lula only carried it into Christie's room for a moment, holding it for her to see, and then marched out saying nary a word.

But when one morning, four weeks to the day after their arrival at Riverlea, a fiery-eyed Lula stormed into Christie's chamber, shouting, "That does it! This is the end!" Christie began to wonder if something unusual weren't going on.

"Calm down, Lu.
What
is the end? What's wrong?"

"Ah'll tell you what's wrong! Ah didn't say much when it was fruits and herbs and chicken pluckin's, and ah kept still over enough fish to feed Pharaoh's army, but a
live horse
tied outside mah bedroom window—
that,
ah got something to say about!"

"A horse? A real, honest-to-goodness horse?" questioned Christie incredulously.

"Big as life—Indian blanket on him, too!" snorted Lula. "Ah
hate
horses! Never could keep up on one, anyways. Christie, we've got to speak with Mr. Jesse. It's
his
friend. Do you figure he can put a stop to this
for me?"

"But Lu, I know some of the—er—gifts may have proved a bit impractical—the horse, anyway—but why put a stop to them? What possible harm can they do?"

"Not harm. But something's afoot. Indians don't send gifts without reasons."

"Well, then, why not try to discern the reason first? I'm sure Jesse would be willing to help you with that!"

"Well, let's go, then!" she huffed, nearly dragging Christie downstairs by the arm.

They found Jesse in the kitchen, handing over to Mattie some two dozen trout he obviously had just caught.

"Christie!" He smiled. "I thought you'd still be abed. It's only nine o'clock."

"In the days before I carried a babe, I'd have considered that an insult." She laughed. "I suppose I have been sleeping later these days. But what of you? You must have risen very early to have caught all these fish and returned at this hour!"

"Before dawn," he said, washing his hands in a tin basin. "Laughing Bear insists the best fishing's the earliest fishing."

"Harrumph!" commented Lula.

"Lula! I didn't notice you over there," said Jesse. "How are you today?"

"Ah been better, sir!"

"Oh? What's the problem?" he asked, seeing Christie's barely concealed attempt to hide a twinkle in her eye.

"It seems Lula's been the recipient of some . . .
thoughtful and unusual gifts," said Christie, ". .
.
from Laughing Bear."

"Oh?" said Jesse.

"But there's a problem. She suspects the gifts mean something, but she hasn't even seen him, so she cannot find out what their significance might be."

"I see," said Jesse thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir," said Lula, "and ah was wondering if you might be able to shed some light on the whole business, and maybe figure out a way for me to return the horse."

"Oh, you might not want to return anything ... a horse, did you say?"

"Tied at her bedroom window," added Christie. "But why wouldn't she want to return it? . . . Jesse, you know what it's all about, don't you?"

"Uh-hmm." He nodded.

"Well?" asked Lula anxiously.