Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (14 page)

Deborah Ann clapped her hand over her mouth and closed her
eyes. She mustn’t throw up here on the street. Surely it wasn’t true. There
were other Chamards in New Orleans.

Holding on to Mammy, she drew herself up. Of course it
wasn’t Marcel. He was in love with her. She had only to remember his farewell
kiss to know he was in love with her.

“Let’s us go home,” Mammy said. “I fix you a pot of coffee
and cool it off with lots of cream, add a little sugar. You feel better before
supper time.”

Mammy hustled her on to an omnibus. The airless bus rocked
right and left, forward and back. The cabin reeked of stale cigar smoke, and
the odor of manure wafted through the open windows. Nausea threatened to
overwhelm her, and Deborah Ann’s face was green by the time they arrived home.

Mammy peeled off her sticky dress and unlaced her corset.
“You lie there a while and I bring up that coffee.”

Deborah Ann lay on the divan in her chemise, staring at the
coffered ceiling, breathing deeply while her stomach settled. The shadowed
familiarity of her room cooled her and soothed her.

She’d been a goose to let herself get so exercised over the
plaçée. Of course the woman’s gentleman was not Marcel. He must have a dozen
good-looking cousins in town. She wiggled her bare toes, comfortable and cool.

“Now honey,” Mammy said, bustling in with a tray smelling of
coffee and toast. “You mamma gone, I sees I got to be the one talk to you about
this fancy woman. And I tells you, she ain’t nothing at all.”

Deborah Ann sat up, looking forward to a cup of coffee. It
was all right with her if Mammy wanted to prattle on about the plaçée. She’d
just had a momentary fright that her Marcel might be one of those unfaithful
men. Nonsense, of course.

Mammy set the tray on the rosewood table and dissolved sugar
in the hot coffee, stirring and stirring. Behind her, Deborah Ann raised her
arms over her head, stretching out the tired muscles her corset had pinched.

“Plenty of men loves more than one woman, Missy,” Mammy
explained. “It don’t mean he ain’t a good husband. It don’t mean he don’t love
his wife. Mr. Marcel, now, he treat you right. He gone take good care of you.
He gone be a good husband.”

Only half listening, Deborah Ann smiled. “I know he will be,
Mammy.” She believed in happy-ever-afters. Her Marcel
was as fine a man as any romance hero.

Mammy poured a dollop of cream in the blue china cup and
turned to present it to Deborah Ann. “You don’t never mind bout
his other woman, sugar. She ain’t gone mean nothing at all to you.”

Deborah Ann lowered her arms slowly. She stared into Mammy’s
black eyes.

So it was true.

She was Marcel’s woman. Mammy had known all along.

The smell of the coffee was bitter, nauseating. She waved
the cup away.

She crossed to her dresser on wooden feet and sat down. She
picked up her silver hair brush and began the ritual, a hundred strokes, to
make it grow longer and thicker. Her hair crackling with energy, over and over
she pulled the brush down, staring at the flashing silver in the mirror.

She would not share her husband with a colored woman. She
would not.

August 3rd, the action at Baton Rouge began. Nicolette
arrived early and stayed late, eager for news, anxious about the outcome. The
dispatches came in irregular bursts as the Union tried to keep the lines up
while the Rebs just as energetically cut them down. In a broken tide of ups and
downs, of high hopes and threatened despair, the news favored or disfavored the
Union forces.

Nicolette herself deciphered the news that the Confederate
ram boat
Arkansas
was hard aground
and useless. She waved the note high over head,
announcing the news. Wallace let out a triumphant whoop. Captain McKee snatched
the note with a wild grin and dashed down the hall to deliver it to General
Butler.

Early afternoon, Simpson was at the key. The message:
General Williams, Union commander, felled by a bullet through the chest.

Nicolette feared the worst.

McKee shook his head. “Don’t worry. Cahill will take over.”

Nicolette tried to imagine the turmoil of battle. The noise
must be horrendous, the cannons and rifles and shouting. The horses would be
mad with fear. The men would be hot and thirsty. Would they be afraid? Or did
their blood rise, their senses shut out everything but what lay in their
sights?

She crossed herself and silently began
Hail, Mary, full of grace
. Marcel was not in Baton Rouge. Alistair,
too, had gone west to the Lafourche. But all those other young men, so many
dying this day. God have mercy on their souls.

At five o’clock, the telegraph fell silent. “It’s a wonder
there’s any telegraph at all, thick as the Rebs are up that way,” Wallace said.
“Guess cutting wire’s not their priority right now or we wouldn’t hear a
thing.”

Nicolette stared at the idle key. McKee wandered the room,
hands fisted behind his back. Nicolette knotted her handkerchief, her gaze
following the captain’s polished black boots in his slow meandering around the
room.

At last, the telegraph key leapt to life again:
Breckinridge has withdrawn rebels to the Comite River
.

Simpson and Wallace hallooed. Nicolette jumped to her feet
and, in the zeal of the moment, she grabbed the nearest person – Captain McKee.
He whirled her around, her skirt billowing behind her, her laughter ringing
through the room.

His grin flashed white beneath the black mustache and his
eyes shone with the joy of victory. She gazed up at him, nearly delirious with
excitement, his hands warm on her waist as they twirled. She wanted him to
waltz her around the room, down the hall, into the streets, to never stop
waltzing her.

She knew at once when he called himself back. His eyes
dulled, his mustache hid the waning smile, and he stopped the dance mid-step.
He released her waist. She dropped her hands from his shoulders.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “The excitement. I forgot
myself.”

He ran his hand through his hair as if he were befuddled a
moment. The yellow paper on the desk. He grabbed it up and rushed out of the
room to deliver the news to General Butler.

Nicolette swallowed hard. He might have dropped her out the
window, she was so let down.

An incoming message clattered on her desk. She sat down and
tried to concentrate on something besides the feel of Finnian McKee’s hands at
her waist.

By the time dusk crept through the street and in the
windows, the first flush of exhilaration had faded. A watery wind kicked up,
promising a wet night. Nicolette gathered her purse and umbrella. The office
seemed very quiet now in the yellow light. She had been part of this great day.
She had helped, perhaps, a little.

“
Bon soir
, Mr. Wallace. Mr. Simpson.” Captain McKee? She
hadn’t seen him since he whirled her around the room. He and Major Farrow were
no doubt celebrating with the other officers.

She walked down the dimly-lit stairs to the back door.
William wouldn’t be meeting her. He’d joined André Cailloux’s unit and was to
spend the night across the river. She set one foot over the threshold. Captain
McKee, in a mad rush to enter, nearly knocked her over.

She let out a little cry. He grabbed her elbows, righting
her. Then, swiftly, he stepped away.

Nicolette fingered her tignon to check it was still settled
on her head. How many times today had Captain McKee touched her? What did he
mean by it?

Of course, this time it was merely an instinctive attempt to
keep her upright. But when he’d touched her hand earlier, it had been quite
deliberate, she was sure of it. She hadn’t quaked inside as she might have a
few weeks ago. It had been . . . a caress, almost. A gentle, warm connection.

Which he’d clearly regretted immediately, nearly knocking
his chair over to get away from her. And the dancing around the office, Finn McKee’s
bright eyes on her. She’d loved it! Then, she might have turned into a fabled
banshee, he’d released her so suddenly.

She came to a sad conclusion: The captain might find her
attractive, but in the end, Yankees, too, had their prejudices against her
people.

“I was coming for you,” he explained. “It’s dark.”

“Yes.”

“Full dark. And it’s going to rain.”

“Yes, Captain, but there are street lanterns along the way,
and I have my umbrella.” She moved to step around him.

He blocked her, gesturing over his shoulder at a hack and
horse. “I’ve hired a cab.”

She tried to read his eyes, but the lantern over the door
cast shadows on his face. What was she to make of him?

“The gangs on the streets,” he reasoned, “they’re bound to
be roused after they’ve lost Baton Rouge again. I mean only to keep you safe.”

The captain’s forbidding, distant manner was gone. This was
the Finn McKee who’d come to see her backstage, concerned, gentle. The man
who’d touched her hand. The man she trusted. But she’d trusted Adam Johnston,
too.

It didn’t matter. Women did not ride in hired carriages with
men they hardly knew. Not even octoroon women. Nicolette shook her head. It was
impossible.

“Miss Chamard.” McKee took his hat off. “I beg your pardon.
Of course it is an impropriety to suggest escorting you home alone. Why don’t I
find Simpson to accompany us? Would that put you at ease?”

The first raindrops caught the light from the lantern
hanging overhead. Earthy scents, roused by the dampness in the air, rose all
around them.

“That won’t be necessary, but I thank you for your
kindness.”

Nicolette untied the ribbon around the umbrella. She’d be
quite all right. Wet, perhaps. But she’d keep to Decatur Street where so much
Union activity took place, and then at Esplanade, she’d be nearly home. And
even a woman in hoops could run if she had to.

“Look, Miss Chamard. I do understand it is improper, but I
insist. As your employer.” Captain McKee stood straighter in the island of
light, just enough glow for the two of them, the rest of the world shut out.
“As an officer in the United States Army, I give you my word no harm will come
to you.”

She struggled with the damned umbrella, stuck again. A fat
rain drop splashed on her nose, and another on her cheek.

Thunder cracked. The clouds gave way as if someone above had
opened a sluice gate. Nicolette stamped her foot, wrestling with the umbrella.

“This is ridiculous,” the captain declared over the
thunderous downpour.

McKee seized her arm and propelled her through the deluge
and into the waiting carriage.

Practically thrown onto the bench seat, Nicolette whirled
around to fight her way out, all her fears aflame at being handled. Captain
McKee filled the carriage door, coming in right behind her. She prepared to
kick, scratch, whatever she had to do – and then the lantern light caught his
face.

His emotions seemed to be as confused as hers. Contrition
and amusement warred for dominance on his brow, at his mouth. But there was no
menace on his face.

Nevertheless, Nicolette scooted to the far corner of the
bench with her umbrella, nicely pointed on the end. She had ten fingernails,
and a voice to scream. Unnecessary, for Captain McKee took the opposite end of
the opposite bench.

The carriage moved on to Canal Street, rain pounding on the
roof. He lit the tiny inside lamp next to the door, but he stayed where he was,
in his corner.

As Nicolette’s blood slowed and her breathing came more
easily, she loosened her grip on the umbrella.

The captain tried a smile on her. “You will forgive me,
eventually?” He looked like a little boy who knew he’d been naughty but who was
also very sure he was too adorable to be punished. “I’ve saved you from
drowning, after all.”

Nicolette covered her mouth. He did not deserve a smile.

He let out a noisy breath of relief. “I see that smile, Miss
Chamard. Never knew a woman yet who’d rather walk in a downpour than ride with
a handsome man in uniform.”

“You consider yourself handsome, Captain?”

He settled more comfortably. “I have it on good authority from
a number of females.” He held up his fingers to count them off. “Grandmother
McKee. My Aunt Agatha. Aunt Bess. My mother. And my oldest sister Shannon.
Maggie may not be convinced, and my youngest sister, Annette, declares I’m ugly
as sin, but the other five testimonials should be enough to convince even a
woman whose feathers I’ve ruffled. Regrettably, I assure you.”

“If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, surely
handsomeness is as well. I don’t find you at all handsome, Captain.”

Finn’s smile grew into a grin. Here was the Mademoiselle
Chamard he’d seen at the Silver Slipper. Sassy. Arch. Beautiful.

“You prefer fat men, then? Or short and wrinkled?”

“Wrinkled, definitely.”

“Short, tall?”

She eyed his length in the light of the street light.
“Short, I think.”

Finn shook his head. “You Southern belles certainly are
particular.”

All the play left her face. She stared at the rivulets on
the window pane. What had he said? “Have I spoken amiss?”

Her eyes were dark smoke. “Sir, I am no belle.”

That lovely voice, like warm honey and butter, had gone
cold. A crack of thunder split the air. She did not merely flinch. She actually
jumped. God, she was tense. And he’d been indelicate.

The woman was an entertainer. A woman who worked for her
living. She could not lay claim to the title “lady” or “belle” any more than
he, a bookseller’s son, could call himself a gentleman, at least not in the
archaic sense. But those were mere words.

“Here I am asking your pardon yet again, Miss Chamard.
Please forgive me. Louisiana is as foreign to me as Havana.”

She at least turned her attention back inside the carriage
and gazed at him with those smoky eyes. The elusive Miss Chamard. Assured,
timid, warm, distant, tough, vulnerable. How was he to read her? How to appease
her?