Ryan's Bride (31 page)

She found herself wishing she were having fun along with them, and, suddenly, it struck that there was no one to stop her, no one to know if she went to them. Glance had retired for the night. Corbett was in Richmond with Ryan. Mammy Lou and the rest of the household servants would be asleep up on the fourth floor.

The trick would be getting out of the house without being seen or heard, if anyone was awake and about.

Her heart began to race with excitement she’d not known since she was a young girl at Miss Appleton’s. Sometimes she and some of the other students would climb down a trellis to the ground to play silly games in the dark. Mostly they did it to prove to themselves that they could.

And it just so happened there was a trellis that ran all the way to the ground from her porch. One of the yard workers had cleared it of wisteria vines that hadn’t come back after winter. It was good and sturdy, too.

She changed into a plain dress of beige cotton. There were no frills or lace on it, so she wouldn’t have to worry about snagging it on anything. She certainly didn’t want a repeat of what had happened on board the ship with her very fragile ball gown.

There was scant light, but she felt her way along, careful not to make any noise.

After what seemed forever, she dropped the last few feet to the ground. Losing her balance, she fell backward on her bottom into a camellia bush and whispered an oath. The crushed foliage would be seen in daylight. She could only hope it would be thought an animal was responsible, not someone falling from the trellis.

Dusting off her bottom and brushing camellia petals from her hair, she went around to the rear of the house. In the darkness of the woods, she saw the glow of light. Roscoe Fordham was still up, but she was not about to risk walking by his cabin, anyway. Instead, she went through the chicken pen, which was quiet and empty with all the hens roosting.

The well-worn path to the slave cabins was darkened from moonlight by overhanging trees, but she followed the sound of the music and light from the fires.

Then she saw the Negroes—clapping hands and stomping their feet as they circled around a few couples dancing in the center of the clearing. Children ran about giggling as they chased each other.

The air was rich with the smell of something wonderful cooking in a big, iron cauldron. Jugs were being passed with everyone taking a big swallow from them. Angele knew it was apple cider, because Selma had told her how they made it every fall, then stored it in their own dug-out root cellar so they could enjoy it year-round. Slaves, Selma had pointed out, were not allowed to drink any kind of whiskey or wine, even if they had any.

Sadly, Angele mused how she hadn’t had much of a social life since before the trouble came to Foxwood. Until then, her parents had entertained with regularity. And at Miss Appleton’s, there were dances sometimes, and boys from a nearby preparatory school had been invited.

It wouldn’t be long until the ball at BelleRose, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. Having to pretend not to speak English and knowing Clarice would be watching her with a critical eye was not her idea of a gala evening. Her only enjoyment would come if Ryan danced with her, and, since he didn’t think she knew how, he probably wouldn’t ask and expect her to decline if any of the male guests asked.

Suddenly there was a shout, “Look. Oh, Lordy, look. It’s a white lady…”

A small boy was pointing at her. The music came to an abrupt halt. The circle broke up as everyone turned to stare, and those sitting on the ground stood.

Silence fell like a shroud.

Angele smiled brightly and gestured for them to continue, saying in French, “Go on with what you were doing, please. I just want to watch.”

No one moved.

No one spoke.

And then Selma pushed her way through the crowd.

Grim-faced, she came to her and said, so low no one else could hear, “Please, Miz Angele, you can’t come here. Now they think I can speak a little French, ’cause I work up at the house, but not enough to be able to talk to you good, and they’re gonna get suspicious. So you go on back, please.”

Stubbornly, Angele shook her head. “No. I’m tired of being cooped up in the house all the time. I want to be here, in the sweet night air where there’s dancing and singing. Please tell everyone I mean no harm, and no one knows where I am, so they aren’t going to find out.”

Selma’s lips twisted with indecision. Finally, with a ragged sigh, she could only say, “Ma’am, I have to do what you say.”

Angele was relieved there would be no more arguing.

“Now tell them to keep on with what they’re doing. They won’t even know I’m here.”

Selma went back to the crowd and relayed her message. There were nervous, exchanged glances, but soon the music started up again. Gradually, they all seemed to relax and began dancing and singing once more, with Angele clapping her hands and stomping her feet right along with them.

She hadn’t eaten much supper, so when she was handed a bowl of soup with chunks of sweet turtle meat, boiled eggs, and potatoes, she ate ravenously. There were also biscuits with lots of butter.

Selma huddled close so if anything needed to be said, no one would notice, but Angele was having such a good time conversation was unnecessary.

Then she noticed the crowd began to thin as mothers took their children off to bed. She supposed she should leave soon, herself, and was about to do so when a young Negro man suddenly slipped from the darkness. About to squat in front of Selma, he saw Angele, and his eyes went wide.

“It’s all right, Toby,” Selma said quickly. “She just wanted to join the fun.

“This here’s my husband,” she murmured to Angele, then asked Toby what was wrong.

Angele saw how she took his hands and squeezed them because he looked so scared. His upper lip was beaded with sweat, and when she saw blood on the front of his shirt, she instinctively drew away.

“It’s Mastah Ryan’s mare.” He was trembling. “She’s foalin’, and Jasper, he’s down with the rheumatism and ain’t no help. It’s all he can do to move around. Nobody knows what to do. Mastah Ryan is gone, and we don’t dare go tell Mastah Roussel, ’cause he ain’t in no shape to do nothin’.”

“No, he isn’t.” Angele was already on her feet.

Toby rocked back on his heels and looked from her to Selma to say in wonder, “She talks like us.”

“I know, I know, but don’t tell anybody.” Selma glanced around frantically and was relieved no one was close enough to hear what was going on.

“Let’s go, Toby.” Angele motioned to him.

Uncertainty veiled his face.

“Please!” she pleaded. “If I’m going to try and save the foal, I’ll need your help.”

His fear, his reluctance, was maddening.

“Toby, you
have
to help me.”

“Go with her,” Selma urged.

As they were finally hurrying through the night, Angele wasn’t thinking of anything except the life of the mare that meant so much to Ryan, as well as her foal.

“How come you don’t let nobody know you can talk?” Toby asked, right beside her.

She laughed. “I can talk.”

“I don’t mean that.”

“I know you don’t.” She reached to pat his arm in hopes of putting him at ease. He looked frightened enough to leap right out of his skin. “I just like having a secret, Toby. Do you understand? And will you help me keep it?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want. It don’t matter to me, anyhow. And Selma, she says good things about you. She likes you real fine, she does. Says you’re the best thing that’s happened at BelleRose in her whole life.”

Angele was gratified to know that, but there were more important things on her mind. “Now listen carefully Toby. I peeked in the kitchen the other day and saw one of the women making biscuits. She was using something thick and white to make them, and it was greasy. I don’t know what they call it here. Do you?”

“Yes’m. That’s called lard. We make it in the winter when we kill hogs. The women boil the fat off the hog, and—”

“Thank you, Toby, but I’m not particularly interested in hearing the details of how it’s made. I want you to get me some and bring it to the stables.”

“How much do you need?”

“Not a lot. A bucketful probably.”

When they neared the kitchen, Toby took off in that direction while Angele kept on going toward the stable area. Through a window, she could see lanterns burning inside one of the buildings. She went to it and pushed the doors open.

Jasper was bent over with pain as he tried to minister to the mare, who was down on her side on the ground, hind legs thrashing. Two young boys hovered nearby, looking terrified and bewildered.

When Jasper saw Angele, his face twisted with shock. “Lord have mercy, lady, what are you doin’ here?” Then, remembering she only spoke French, he nodded sickly to the boys, “She don’t know a word I’m sayin’. You all are gonna have to get her out of here right now.”

“I do know what you’re saying,” she said quickly, figuring there would be time later to ask them all to keep her secret, but more and more it seemed not to matter so much.

Crossing the straw-littered floor, she knelt beside him. “And I know a little bit about horses. I was hoping I could help since Toby said your rheumatism is bothering you.”

“Botherin’ ain’t the word.” He grimaced. “It’s killin’ me, that’s what it’s doin’. And these boys here don’t know nothin’ about deliverin’ colts, and this one don’t want to come out…”

“We may need to turn it.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to, but my hands just aren’t strong enough. Toby and the boys are scared to try. Lordy, I wish Mastah Ryan was here.”

“What about Mr. Fordham. He—”

“No, ma’am!” he all but shouted. “He wouldn’t want to do it.”

“Is there anyone else who could help?”

“No, ma’am. Mastah Ryan, he’s always let me be in charge, but not too long ago I told him he’s gonna have to let me show somebody else ’cause I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“He trusts you and hates to turn the responsibility over to anyone else.”

Jasper beamed proudly. “I reckon that’s so.”

The horse let out a loud, pitiful whinny and kicked her legs harder, her belly bucking up off the ground as painful contractions struck that were having no results.

The foal was obviously in the wrong position, and if something wasn’t done quickly, both it and the mare were going to die.

The doors opened with a bang as Toby all but fell into the barn beneath the weight of a huge barrel of lard he was carrying.

“Boy, what’re you doin’ here?” Jasper yelled. “And what you bringin’ that for?”

“Miz Angele wanted it,” he said, as though that explained everything.

“Set it down here.” She rolled up her long sleeves, then began slathering lard up and down her arms. “Haven’t you ever greased up like this, Jasper?”

“No, ma’am. Before my hands got all crippled up, I knew how to slip ’em right in and pull a foal out.”

“This will make it easier. I saw it done once.”

And she had, only no one had known she was watching. She had sneaked back out to the stable after her father had ordered her to bed. One of her favorite mares was birthing, and though the stablehands spoke in low tones around her, she sensed there was trouble. Her father hadn’t wanted her to see it, but she had hidden in a hay-filled stall, fascinated as she witnessed the difficult birth. She had never forgotten it and was glad now that she hadn’t.

Taking a deep breath, she reached inside the mare, remembering how that night the man delivering her father’s mare had explained step by step exactly what he was doing.

Suddenly she fell back as the wet, slick newborn slid from its mother and into the world. And as Jasper and Toby and the two young boys laughed with delight and relief, he struggled to stand on his wobbly legs.

“Would you look at that!” Jasper cried jubilantly. “It’s a colt. Mastah Ryan got the colt he was wantin’.”

Already he was trying to nuzzle his mother, who had managed to stand.

Angele was almost crying she was so happy. “I don’t care what it is, so long as it’s all right.”

“He sure appears fine to me.”

She looked down at herself and made a face. Blood and lard streaked her arms, as well as her dress. Without thinking, she said out loud, “Well, I guess this is another dress I’ll have to throw away.”

“That’s right.”

She whipped about to see Ryan standing in the doorway. His blue eyes burned like hot coals as he started toward her.

“And this time,” he said in a voice thick with anger, “you can lie to me about it in my own language.”

Chapter Twenty

Ryan towered over Angele as she sat in a chair staring up at him, undaunted by his anger.

They were in their parlor, where Ryan had taken her after making sure the mare and colt were all right while she washed up at the water pump outside the stable.

Nostrils flaring and nerves in his jaw pulsing, he slammed his fists together and demanded, “Well? What else haven’t you told me? And tell the truth. I’m sick of your lies.”