Ryan's Bride (28 page)

Clarice gaped at him. “I remember when I had diarrhea last winter and thought I was going to die. I wanted to die. When I think of how that poor man is suffering all because she didn’t know what she was doing, it makes me so angry.”

Corbett gave her a warning look but kept the smile plastered on his face. “We’ve discussed this enough. Now, let’s forget it and have a pleasant supper.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m not hungry.” Angele headed for the stairs.

“You leave Uncle Roussel alone,” Clarice called after her. “He needs his rest.”

As soon as she could no longer hear them, Corbett shooed the little girl with the fan out of the room, then furiously turned on Clarice. “Are you crazy? You don’t want to alienate her.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Then would you mind telling me?”

“It’s quite simple. While we were waiting for Doctor Pardee to come down, I thought of how we should handle the situation.” She looked quite proud of herself. “When Ryan is around, I’ll be very exasperated as I tell him how I’m trying my best to help her but that she won’t cooperate. On the surface, it will seem I’m opening my heart to her, but when we’re alone, I don’t intend to walk on eggs. I’ll make her feel so stupid and useless she’ll be ready to swim all the way back to France.”

Corbett shook his head. “I’ve told you before—she’s going to hang on like a tick on a hound’s ear. She came from a sewer and now she’s living like a queen. She isn’t going to surrender lightly, my dear. But I know we have to try everything, so you go ahead and do whatever you think will work, and I’ll do the same.”

She gave him a hug—something she rarely did. “Good. Now, let’s go eat.”

He caught her wrist. “Do you think it worked?”

Her hand fluttered to her throat and she batted her eyelashes with all innocence. “Whatever are you talking about? You don’t think I’d poison his tea, do you?”

He snickered. “I damn well do. I’ve been expecting you to poison mine for years.”

“And one day I might.” She tweaked his nose playfully. “I think everything went well. I knew just how much to use to make him good and sick without doing any real harm. It was a wonderful success, too, because now Ryan sees how clumsy Angele can be.”

“But he was taking up for her—”

“Only because he felt he had to,” Clarice pointed out. “After all, he doesn’t want it to appear he made a poor choice in a wife.”

Corbett nodded. “That makes sense.”

Smugly, she added, “My plan was doubly successful, because now Roussel won’t think so highly of his daughter-in-law. As miserable as he’s feeling, he won’t ever want her to come near him again.”

“My dear”—he kissed her cheek—“you are a genius.”

“I know,” she murmured smugly. “So just leave everything to me.”

The north wing consisted of two large bedrooms separated by a parlor. So far, Angele had shared Ryan’s bed, but this night she headed for the room on the other side.

Selma, in the process of turning back the covers of the bed, glanced up and saw her. “Wait, missy!” she cried. “I’ll fix the bed over there for you if that’s where you’re gonna sleep tonight.” Then she caught herself. Her mistress didn’t understand what she was saying, so she hurried to show her what she meant.

Brushing by her, she proceeded to draw back the thick satin coverlet. It was a beautiful bed, Selma’s favorite in the whole house. It had a lace canopy overhead, and the matching skirt below the mattress hung all the way to the floor.

Actually, the whole room was Selma’s favorite. Pale apricot brocade draperies covered the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened to the front balcony. Flowered satin in a deeper shade of apricot covered a pair of matching sofas, and a white marble fireplace was flanked by chairs upholstered in cut velvet.

Selma had got in the habit of speaking her thoughts aloud in front of Angele since it made no difference. “You know, I never did understand why you and Master Ryan didn’t take this bed. It’s lots softer than that one over yonder with the horsehair mattress. This one’s got real goose down. I know ’cause I helped pluck the geese that made it. It’s somethin’ Miss Clarice wanted, and what she wants, she generally gets.”

Angele went to the French doors and drew them open, lifting her face to the welcome breeze. Lightning lit up the darkening sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Selma rambled on. “Miss Clarice was plenty riled when she had to give up these rooms, but that probably ain’t nothin’ compared to how mad she is over you poisonin’ Master Roussel. Mammy Lou said she didn’t see how it could be an accident, ’cause the jar with the pigeon berry tea was way up on the shelf in the back of the cabinet. You’d have had to be lookin’ for ’em.”

She folded the satin coverlet on a special mahogany rack in the corner, then began plumping the pillows. “Now if it was Miss Clarice you wanted to poison, I can’t say as I’d blame you ’cause there’s been times I wanted to do it, myself But Master Roussel, now he’s a good man. He’s cranky as an ol’ settin’ hen, but he’s always been good to me and my people. That’s why nobody can understand why you wanted to do away with him.”

“I didn’t.”

Angele turned from the balcony to face Selma.

“And I don’t think it was an accident, either, Selma. I think it was done on purpose, and I think Clarice was the one responsible.”

Selma dropped the pillow she had been holding and gave a little cry.

Angele had spoken to her in English.

Chapter Eighteen

It was the day after Angele had revealed her secret to Selma.

They were on the banks of a rushing creek, where blackberries grew profusely. Angele was supposed to be getting ready to join Clarice and some of her lady friends for tea. But Selma had told her Willard wanted her to gather some blackberry root so Mammy Lou could mix up her own remedy for Master Roussel that she said would work better than the medicine Dr. Pardee had given him. Angele had wanted to go along. It was a wonderful day, with heavy melting clouds in a field of sky, and she didn’t want to be indoors. She might be late for tea, but so what? She had been with Clarice all morning, and all Clarice did was find fault with her. What was one more thing for her to fuss about?

Selma, stooping to yank at a root, shook her head. “I swear, Miz Angele,” she said, “I just can’t get over you bein’ able to talk to everybody but not letting nobody know it.”

Angele dipped a handful of berries in the cool water to rinse them. “I probably shouldn’t have let you know, either, Selma, but as I explained last night—I just couldn’t keep still another minute about that tea. But remember, you promised not to tell a soul. Not even Toby.” She popped the berries in her mouth and wondered how long it had been since she had delighted in the fresh-picked taste.

“Yes, ma’am, I did, and I won’t, but if you let Miz Clarice know, she’d have to quit callin’ you stupid.”

“I don’t care, and when the time is right, I will let her know, but I have my own reasons for wanting to keep it a secret for the time being.”

“Well, I want you to know that I like you fine, and I wish you’d go ahead and take over the house. I’d much rather work for you than Miz Clarice.” She made a face. “Nobody likes her.”

“Selma, I don’t think I want to listen to you talk against her. It isn’t proper.”

Selma ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Angele could tell she had hurt the woman’s feelings, but there had to be propriety. She didn’t like Clarice, either, but it wasn’t something to be discussed with the servants. She had been taught that the less they knew about the family they served, the better.

To get her mind on something else, she asked again about Roussel. “Willard
did
say he’s much better this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am, but he was up most of the night. Kept Willard up, too, of course.”

“Did Willard say he was angry with me?”

“If he did, Willard didn’t tell me.”

Her apron filled with blackberry roots, Selma straightened with a weary sigh. “I reckon I’ve got enough.” Squinting, she looked up at the sun to see how late in the day it was. “We’d best be gettin’ back,” she decided. “I’d say Miz Clarice’s guests ought to be arrivin’ right about now.”

Angele longed to send Selma on her way, then stretch out on the creek bank, her face to the sky, and dream away the afternoon. But though she might be excused for tardiness, Clarice would have fits if she didn’t make an appearance at all.

“Oh, Lordy, Miz Angele, look at your hands and arms.”

They were stained with purple-pink blackberry juice, and she went to the creek and dipped them, then rubbed her hands together, but the color barely faded. “It won’t come off.”

“You’re gonna have to scrub with lye soap. You got it all over your face, too,” she giggled.

Angele laughed and threw up her hands. “I don’t care. This has been the most fun I’ve had since I got here, and I hope to do it again.”

They had reached the blackberry patch by way of a path from the house, but Selma said she knew a shortcut. “We can cross by where I live.”

The slave cabins were made of brick and close together in long, twin lines. Each had a window on each side of the front door with a small, flat-roofed porch across the front. Stones were stacked neatly to make steps.

Wide-eyed children stared as Selma and Angele passed. Some of them were naked, and all played in the dirt with toys that looked to have been whittled or carved from sticks or wood.

An elderly, plump-faced woman nodded obediently and Selma said, “That’s Rosa. She tends the young’uns while the women work in the fields. She’s too old to get out there and bend her back in the sun. We got a few other old folks, but they help out in other places where it ain’t as hot.”

“Doing what?” Angele found herself wanting to learn more about how the servants lived and worked.

“They help the artisans.” She made it sound like
ar-tee-zuns
. “Makin’ bricks, pots, and plates, weavin’ cloth, things like that. Some sit in the root cellar puttin’ up onions and potatoes for the winter. Everybody stays busy.”

Angele smelled something delicious cooking and asked what it was.

“Catfish.” Selma licked her lips. “That’s somethin’ else Rosa does. She tends the cookin’ pot durin’ the day. That’s so’s when the women come in, it won’t take ’em long to get supper for their men folk and young’uns. Tonight it’s catfish stew, and all the women have to do is get their own pots and have Rosa give ’em their share, then stir up some dumplings and drop ’em in.”

“What else do you have to eat?”

“We’ll fry some corn pone, and if the kitchen workers had time to bake, there might be a few pies to share.”

“Then I suppose everyone goes to bed as soon as it gets dark, because they’re so tired.”

“No, ma’am. We all like to have some fun. It makes the time we’re workin’ a whole lot easier, so ol’ Barney, he’ll play his banjo, and Jed’ll bring out his fiddle. The young’uns will dance, and the old folks will sing and clap their hands and stomp their feet, and then after a while we’ll turn in.”

Angele had sometimes heard music wafting through the French doors of the bedroom during the night and knew it had to come from the servants. It was surprising that they could even attempt to enjoy themselves amidst their woeful lot in life but was glad they did.

“It sounds like fun,” she said wistfully. “I wish I could join you sometimes.”

Selma laughed nervously. “You could never come down here.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“I get lonely sometimes, especially after supper. Mr. Tremayne goes back to the stables or for an evening ride, and that’s when Clarice spends time with little Danny.”
Not that I want to be with her anyway,
she thought.

Selma couldn’t help sneering. “That’s the only time she spends with that little boy. She can’t stand
young’un noises
as she calls ’em, so she has Ruby—that’s Master Danny’s mammy—keep him quiet all day and away from around her. But just before his bedtime, she’ll read him a story and tuck him in bed.”

Angele knew that and thought it very sad. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen little Danny since coming to BelleRose, and he was adorable. When she had children, she intended to care for them herself, regardless of tradition or what anyone thought.

“You still ought not come down here,” Selma said with a worried glance. “That’d make all the white folks mad.”

There was a thick row of shrubs bordering the cabins. Beyond that was a wooded area.

Selma turned. “We’ll go this way.”

Angele saw a path curving around the woods that went toward the barns and chicken pens. She had been there out of curiosity and knew it was off to the side and would take much longer to go that way. “It’s closer to keep going straight.”

“We can’t. That’s where Mr. Fordham lives, and he don’t allow slaves to go in there unless he sends for ’em.”

Angele lifted her chin. “Well, I’m not a slave, and I’m in a hurry, so come along. He won’t say anything to you if I’m with you.”

She started walking, but Selma leaped in front of her to plead, “Oh, missy, I wish you wouldn’t. Come on with me. It won’t take long to go the other way.”