Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (8 page)

“But when I was growing up, you didn’t take Papa’s money. I
heard him rant and rave about that over and over. What changed?”

“Your aunt Josie gave me my papers, that’s what changed. I
was drunk with freedom. I was obsessed with it. I belonged to myself. Not even
my Bertrand, my beloved, owned me. And so
I
paid for my children’s shoes,
I
paid
for the nanny and the tutors,
I
bought
this house. That doesn’t mean, Nicolette, that I ever stopped loving your
father.”

“Until Pierre,” Nicolette said.

Cleo shook her head. “Your father is in my heart until my
dying day, sweetheart. But he had the plantation, his other family, his life in
society, and I grew tired of being alone. Seeing your man two or three times a
week for a few hours, it’s not enough. I wanted a husband.”

Quietly, Nicolette asked her, “You don’t love Pierre?”

“I most certainly do love Pierre. More now than I did when I
married him. Your heart doesn’t seal up from loving one man, Nicolette. Lord
knows, maybe you can even love three!”

“Maman, you’re awful.” Nicolette kissed her mother’s
forehead. “Let’s go to bed.”

“The purse?”

“I don’t want it, Maman.”

“Well, tuck it away somewhere.” Cleo picked up her candle.
“I too will pray for your Mr. Whiteaker.”

Captain Finnian McKee wished he were back in Boston
strolling to an estate sale of some deceased scholar’s library instead of
staring at a forty foot pole laid out along Canal Street. Charged with
repairing the telegraph lines in and around New Orleans, he’d already had the
men install the fastening at the top of the pole that would receive the wire
and conduct the signals. But he didn’t see how four men and a paltry twenty
yards of rope were going to get that pole upright in the waiting post hole.

Major Farrow, his excellent friend and drinking buddy,
blustered by. “McKee, lad, enough with your moody humors. Do you not know how
to raise that pole?”

Finn looked at him hopefully.

“What you do, Captain, is holler, ‘Sergeant, get it up.’”

Hursh moved on, leaving a wake of laughing men behind him.

Finn grinned. “You know what to do, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank God.”

Finn turned his attention to Simpson and Wallace, two lads just
off the boat. Washington, in all its wisdom, had decreed that telegraph
operators were to be civilians. Turned out, however, that Simpson and Wallace
knew the Morse code about as well as they new Greek
or Latin.

While the sergeant and the men strung wire, Finn took up
where he’d left off with the boys earlier in the day. He’d brought a keypad
along to drill the code into their thick heads. Though the telegraph lines
didn’t extend many miles from New Orleans, they’d be ready to transmit by the
time Butler routed the enemy from the rest of Louisiana..

“All right, Simpson. Your turn. Transmit: The enemy is on
your left flank.”

The boy dotted and dashed his way through the message.
Wallace covered his mouth, trying to hide his smirk, but Simpson looked up at
Finn with a hopeful smile.

“You just told General Butler that the enema was on his left
plank, Mr. Simpson. Try again.”

With Simpson’s key strokes clattering in his ear, Finn
glanced down Canal Street where a young woman with a basket on her arm walked
toward him. He squinted his eyes. Could that be . . . Nicolette Chamard? He
felt the heat rise in his face. He’d been an ass that night. If she recognized
him, she’d probably cross the street.

She approached, her eyes on the keypad Simpson labored over.
Finn swallowed hard, his heart kicking at his ribs. She slowed her steps, her
attention still captured by the telegraph.

Not five steps from him, she stopped. She still hadn’t
noticed him, a blow to his pride, but it gave him a chance for the flush to
drain out of his cheeks.

He tipped his hat. “Mademoiselle, good afternoon.”

He knew the moment she recognized him. Her pupils widened,
her color deepened.

He’d relived that moment at the Silver Slipper a hundred
times. His callous assumptions, his bulk looming over her. And now the gods
above had sent him a second chance. His hands sweaty, he searched for something
to say.

“May I show you the telegraph, Mademoiselle Chamard?”

He stepped aside so that she could move closer to Simpson.
“This is not the actual transmitter, you understand. We have a Beardsley
machine back at headquarters with the code cycles attached, but if this pad
were hooked up to the wires,” he gestured toward the pole, “we could send a
message all the way to Washington. Theoretically. If the lines didn’t need to
cross Confederate territory.”

She nodded, very still. She wouldn’t look at him, but the
tiny vein at her temple pulsed. Was that for him? Because she was glad to see
him, or because she despised him?

“Simpson, show her how you do it. Transmit -- ” He’d been
about to say, ‘The lady’s eyes are gray.’ He changed his mind. Here in the full
light of day, no paint on her face, no soft candle glow, she was so beautiful
she sent his heart into his throat, but she did not invite familiarity. Her
dress was modest, buttoned to the throat, and the scarf over her head was
plain, tied simply compared to what she’d worn on stage. Remembering how
unwelcome his advances had been in the dim hallway, he said, “Transmit the
quick red fox ran into a hole.”

Simpson slowly tapped his way through the sentence. Finn
watched her intently follow every key stroke until she seemed to feel his gaze
on her. She glanced at him, colored, and quickly returned her attention to
Simpson.

Gently, Finn tapped the boy’s shoulder. “An x is dash dot dot dash.”

“Each letter has a code?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all there is to telegraphing, yes, ma’am. But the
men have to learn how to code and decode to keep the enemy from deciphering the
messages.”

She turned her whole body to him and looked him full in the
face. “I can do that.”

“Ma’am?”

“I could learn to use the telegraph. I could do what these
men are doing.”

Was she serious? Finn took in the fine cloth, the good
leather shoes, the neatly tied scarf. She might not be the same woman on and
off the stage, but sassy or timid, whichever was the real Mademoiselle
Nicolette, he couldn’t see why she’d want to work for the Union army.
Southerners who collaborated with the Union Army put themselves in real danger
from their neighbors.

“Mademoiselle Chamard, running a telegraph in New Orleans is
war work. You understand that, of course.” He looked at her closely. Her cheeks
had pinked. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

“I am aware of that. Captain? Those bars mean captain?”

“Captain Finnian McKee,” he said, and dipped his head.

“Captain McKee. I want the Union to win this war. I want to
help it happen.”

A passing gentleman halted mid-step. His face turned deep red.
His jaw muscles bunched so that his carefully-trimmed whiskers jerked. Finn
stepped in front of Miss Chamard to keep the man’s hate-filled glare from
burning her. She was going to have to learn discretion if she was serious about
collaborating with her city’s enemy.

“I’m quick. I can learn this code. I can decipher.”

Finn turned his head enough to see that the man had moved
on. He turned his attention back to the enchanting Miss Chamard. Her soft
Southern English, underlaid with a French accent, was
music. She was a woman made for singing. For loving. And where had her shyness
gone? She didn’t quail under his reflective gaze. She didn’t avoid his eye. He
swallowed, trying to keep his heart where it belonged.

“Captain, do you need telegraphers?”

Simpson volunteered, “Yes, ma’am. We are short-handed. I
heard of a lady telegrapher up in Missouri, Captain. You hear about her?”

Finn grimaced at the boy. Shortage of manpower was
classified information.

Finn glanced around to ensure no more angry citizens would
overhear them and gestured to her to walk a few steps with him. “Mademoiselle.”
She smelled of flowers. “I’m sure you appreciate there are security issues.”
Still hoping to read her, he peered into her face. Her eyes were so deeply gray
they were nearly blue, the same color as his mother’s temperamental Persian
cat.

Her lips parted and she tilted her head up to him, the
picture of eager excitement. Without thought, he leaned down, closer to that
mouth, but remembered in time the street, the people.

He straightened. He’d been about to make an ass of himself,
again. She beguiled him, bewitched him. Did she know it? Did she do it on
purpose? She was an actress, he reminded himself. Who knew what she was really
thinking?

“Sir, I am in earnest.”

He couldn’t stop staring. Self-consciously, she touched her
tongue to her upper lip. His mouth opened.

“Captain?”

He brought his gaze back to her eyes. “Mademoiselle?”

“Will you teach me this code?”

Finn looked off into the distance, searching for the
presence of mind to think it through. The Morse code was not secret. She could
find it in most any library. He ripped a page from his field notebook and
rapidly wrote the code for her.

He handed the paper into her gloved hand. “Learn this. Then
come see me.”

Her eyes lit up, making them a bluer gray. “Yes, Captain
McKee. I certainly will.”

The woman strode away with the page clutched in her hand,
her shopping basket swinging from her arm. Finn watched her go, memorizing the
shape of her shoulders, the way her back tapered down to the tiniest of waists.

When she’d smiled at him, radiant and glowing, it had
knocked the breath out of him. But she would come to her senses and toss that
paper away. He’d never see her again.

He rubbed his thumb over his mustache. Or maybe he would.
Nicolette Chamard seemed to be made of determined stuff.

The sun was shining, but at this time of year, the
likelihood of rain was close to a certainty. Marcel chose his second best boots
to navigate the mired streets.

Today would be a round of goodbyes to family and friends in
town. On the morrow, Marcel would take a steamboat upriver to the home place.
He’d have the day with his father, and the next morning he’d don his new gray
uniform, collect his men at Thibodeaux, and lead them west to join Alfred
Mouton’s forces.

Marcel took mid-day dinner at Mr. Sherman’s for a final
counsel with the wealthy, powerful men of New Orleans. This cadre advanced the
cause of the Confederacy in finance and industry from the velvet and silk
confines of rich men’s parlors.

Mr. Sherman excused all the servants and closed the doors
and windows. Within minutes, the air grew stale with humidity and cigar smoke.
Marcel contemplated opening the French doors so they could breathe, but the men
gathered here had information the Union would profit from in countless ways, so
the doors remained closed. Over coffee and additional cigars, the gentlemen
shared the intelligence their sources provided and discussed the advisories
they would pass on to President Davis.

Marcel had other farewell calls to make – to Cleo and
Nicolette, then to his fiancé, and finally home to Lucinda and their boys. He
left Sherman’s mansion with a clear understanding of the South’s precarious
position. As long as the Confederacy could replenish itself with cotton, wheat,
and beef, she’d be able to resist the North indefinitely. However, the Union
would put everything it had into gaining control of the Mississippi, cutting
the South off from essential supplies. Even more immediately, Butler planned to
seize all the cotton and cane crops of Louisiana, enriching the North and deplenishing the South.

Alfred Mouton was already positioning his forces west of New
Orleans to hold Bayou Lafourche. The other, equally crucial imperative was to hold
the Yanks back from the Red River. God help us, Marcel thought. They had fewer
than half the men Butler would send against them. But they knew these swamps,
they knew the bayous. They’d outmaneuver the Yanks.

The rain held off, and Marcel decided to walk to Cleo’s
street. He needed to rid himself of the smoke he’d been inhaling the last two
hours and prepare himself for the inevitable scene with Nicolette.

The last year and more, his baby sister had made it clear
she thought him a knave or worse for supporting secession. But then she was
blind to all nuance in the matter. When she learned he was leaving to join the
Rebel forces, she would be mean as an old brood sow.

A vine of red roses arched over the bright blue door of
Cleo’s house, the scent as welcoming as Cleo herself. Marcel used the boot
scraper, then tapped the door with his cane.

A moment later, Cleo answered the door, wiping her hands on
her apron. “You’ve come in good time! Nicolette just made a batch of pralines,
and I’ve been grinding coffee beans.”

Marcel kissed her cheek. “I need coffee and pralines, I
surely do.”

He settled onto the settee and stretched his legs out. Cleo
shook out her apron and folded it over a chair back. “We didn’t think to see
you again this week. What are you up to?”

“Manly things, Cleo.” He deepened his voice. “Riding bulls,
toting barges, tearing trees up by the roots.”

“Ah. I’m glad to see you using that fine education your
father paid for.”

Marcel sat up and leaned forward. He needed Cleo, his second
mother, to understand what he was about to do. To forgive him. “Cleo. Tell me
the truth. Do you believe this war is being fought to maintain slavery?”

Cleo looked at her hands a moment. When she raised her eyes
to his, Marcel stopped his breath.

“Isn’t it?”

A pang darted through his chest. Cleo’s eyes were not angry,
not even bitter, but she looked at him with such sadness.