The Warriors (11 page)

The account of his middle brother was only slightly less grim. For a few moments he spoke glowingly of Matt’s sunny nature, his fondness for games, the memorable quality of his drawings. Then he told them Matt had been—and presumably still was—on a blockade runner, a fast, Liverpool-built steam vessel slipping back and forth between the Bermudas and Wilmington on the Cape Fear River. But Matt’s last, badly spelled letter had been delivered to Lexington over eight months ago. There’d been no news since. Either Matt hadn’t written again, or a letter from Fan with news of him had failed to reach Jeremiah. Whatever the circumstances, there was a question mark after Matt’s name nearly as ominous as the one after Gideon’s.

Jeremiah concluded with a brief mention of the other branch of the family: his father, Jephtha, from whom his mother was divorced, and who was now a Methodist pastor again—this time in the Northern wing of the divided church up in New York. Jephtha had originally been an itinerant parson in Virginia before the Methodists split over the slave issue. Then he’d been a newspaperman on the New York
Union.

“There’s at least one more in the family up north, but I know even less about him. His name’s Louis. He has a wife and a small boy, and he’s a rich man. Owns that newspaper Jephtha worked for, plus part of a steelworks, some kind of cotton factory, and a publishing company in Boston called Kent and Son. I saw a book from the company in your office, Mrs. Rose.”

Serena’s blue eyes showed greater interest. “So the Northern relatives are the ones with money, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, Miss Serena. I’m afraid that’s true for the present. Eventually, though, my brothers and I—”

Before he could finish, and tell them he and Matt and Gideon might one day be wealthy in their own right, Catherine interrupted. “I think we’ve taxed Jeremiah quite long enough.”

Serena pouted. He’d piqued her curiosity. She was gazing at him as if trying to guess the ending of his unfinished sentence.

“He was kind enough to describe how your father died,” Catherine said.

There was no response. If the girl felt any emotion she never showed it. Jeremiah was fascinated by her good looks, but he began to think he didn’t like her much as a person.

“And we were discussing the attitude of some of the nigras when you came in.” Catherine swung back to Jeremiah. “I hate to tire you further. But you mentioned something about a musket?”

“The same one Price talked about in the office,” Jeremiah said, nodding. “I slept all last night on the creek bank where he found me. When I woke up, the musket was gone. My cartridge box, too. Your nigra claimed someone else must have come along and taken it. But I’m pretty certain he took it.”

Catherine frowned.

“I think he
hid
it,” Jeremiah went on more firmly. “I don’t believe it’s safe to have a nigra you call impudent hiding a gun when the Yanks are on the way.”

The discussion sparked a combative look in Serena’s eyes. “Now let me get this clear. Price claimed he
didn’t
take the musket?”

“That’s correct, Miss Serena. He said some nigras who fish down there must have pilfered it.”

“And you have no evidence one way or the other?”

He admitted that was true.

Catherine Rose chewed her lip. “I hesitate to make an issue without proof. If the Yanks arrive we’ll need the support of every nigra on the place. Price has a mean streak in him. But it’s usually directed at the other slaves.”

“He’s been saucy to you lately, Catherine,” Serena flared.

“I know. But I still don’t think he’d do us any harm.”

“Mrs. Rose, I beg to disagree.” Jeremiah struggled to sit up straighter in bed, ignoring the way his nightshirt hiked over his knees, much to Serena’s amusement. “I think that buck should be questioned until he admits the theft.”

“So do I!” Serena exclaimed, the candles putting little reflections in her pupils.

Again Catherine negated the idea with a shake of her head. “We have always conducted the affairs of Rosewood in a humane and Christian way. Right or wrong, we’ll continue to do so. At this difficult time, I won’t have the nigras losing their trust in me because of Price.”

“I heard most of them hate him,” Jeremiah responded.

Catherine sighed. “Maum Isabella’s been talking again. She’s right. But there are delicate balances on a plantation such as this one. If I accuse Price, he’ll never admit the theft because there’s no evidence against him. To force a confession, I’d have to punish him. Then the nigras might switch their loyalties—even if only briefly. I’d become their enemy. I don’t want to be their enemy with Sherman on the loose.”

“But, Catherine—” Serena protested.

“Child,” the older woman broke in, her voice soft but strong, “I have the final say in this. Even granted Price is lying, I don’t intend to provoke more turmoil. We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and stay alert. That’s enough for the time being.”

Serena stamped her foot. “Stay alert till he breaks in one night and shoots us!”

“Serena, don’t argue.”

Red-cheeked, the girl blazed back, “Yes, I will! You’re too easy on the niggers! Mr. Kent’s warned us, but you won’t pay any attention. You’re always so blasted anxious to have everyone think you’re a saint!”

The color draining from her face, Catherine whispered, “I try to behave in a Christian way.”

“When the neighbors are here! They never see that blackberry wine you’re always—”

“Be quiet!”

Catherine stared at Serena until the younger woman looked away.

Jeremiah was embarrassed yet morbidly fascinated by the sudden display of hostility between the mother and stepdaughter. Sensing his discomfort, Catherine stood up.

“It’s no disrespect to Jeremiah if we don’t press the issue with Price. We’ll be careful.”

Careful isn’t enough,
he thought.
I saw that buck’s eyes down by the river
—
you didn’t.

Serena refused to surrender. “We should do more than that. We should force Price to admit he’s lying.
Whip
him!”

“I will hear absolutely nothing more on the subject.”

Catherine said it with such vehemence that Serena looked as if she’d been struck. She opened her mouth to retort, then noted the fierceness of Catherine’s gaze and whirled away. Jeremiah thought the older woman’s prudence was ill-advised. But it wasn’t his place to enter into a family feud whose nature and origins he didn’t understand.

Trying to take the sting out of the confrontation, Catherine walked over and reached for her stepdaughter’s arm. Serena turned again, drawing back. For a moment the women faced one another.

Finally Serena stepped aside, her cheeks pink, her face far from angelic.

Catherine walked toward the door. Serena hesitated, then followed.

“Good night, Jeremiah,” Catherine said in a strained voice. “Maum Isabella will look in presently to see whether you need anything.”

“I am feeling a wee bit hungry—”

“Then I’ll send her up immediately.”

Opening the door, she reached for Serena’s arm a second time. The girl gasped as the older woman literally dragged her out.

Jeremiah sank back in bed, disturbed. In his opinion, Catherine Rose’s ideas about handling the situation with Price were all wrong. He’d need to be watchful. Very watchful.

And those two women—they were certainly a puzzlement. They might be related by marriage, but they clearly weren’t related by temperament.

Settling himself against the pillows, he inhaled the sweet scent of the blossoms outside the house. Just what kind of hornet’s nest had he blundered into on this plantation?

“M
R. KENT?”

The whisper brought him bolt upright in bed, surprised and terrified. Then the terror varnished as he realized who had spoken. But bewilderment lingered.

The candles had gone out. From the angle of the November moonlight falling across the gallery, he judged the hour to be very late. Serena Rose was kneeling beside the bed, her face no more than a blur in the silver-blue gloom.

She repeated his name. He mumbled, “I’m awake,” although he was still drowsy. Turning on his side, he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his hand.

“Catherine doesn’t know I’m in here. You won’t say anything?”

“Won’t say—?” He fought a yawn, knuckled his eyes. Answered more coherently: “No, ’course not.”

“I wanted to tell you I went down to the cabins.” Her voice was low, the words rushed. “I asked Leon to help me. Leon’s a buck who was born at Rosewood, he’s trustworthy. We talked to Price.” Her tone hardened. “I ordered half a dozen laid on him out by the burial ground.”

“Laid—?” His lethargy left him. “You mean the whip?”

She nodded. “We don’t use it often, but we have one.”

“You did the right thing,” he said with conviction. His mouth had that bloodless, cruel look for a moment. “Did Price confess?”

“Not on your life! He just took the whipping without a word. But you should have seen the way he looked at me!”

She clutched his wrist. He felt something wet on her fingers when they brushed the cuff of his nightshirt.

“He stole the musket, Mr. Kent. I know he did!”

“What if your stepmother discovers that you—”

“She won’t. Leon won’t say anything to Catherine. I forced him to promise. I doubt Price will say anything either. He’s scared of me,” she hurried on. “He understands I’m not soft the way Catherine is. And tattling, that’s not his style. He’ll wait for a chance to get back at me.”

“Then you took a risk you shouldn’t have taken. I’d have been on my feet soon. I could have—”

“I didn’t want to wait a minute longer. I had to find out whether he was up to something. Now I’m sure he is. Catherine’s wrong and you’re right. But now there are two of us to keep a sharp eye on him. Catherine’s too trusting, Mr. Kent. She still believes some of those pretty words they taught her in church when she was a girl. She doesn’t realize how that nigger hates us!”

Her fingers closed tighter on his wrist. The tips still had that curious wet feel.

“I just wanted to say you’re right—and I’m glad you’re here to look after us.”

He didn’t quite realize what had happened until it was over. She came off her knees and leaned near, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. For a moment her breast brushed his forearm. Under the coverlet his body responded quickly and automatically.

He could see very little of her face in that moment when it was close to his—half of it was in darkness, half a pale blur. In the moonlight her red hair glowed almost white.

With a rustle of gathered skirts, she scrambled to her feet. Why the devil was she so interested in him all of a sudden? he wondered. The first time she’d come into his room she’d hardly paid any attention to him. Why had she reversed herself? Was it because she and her stepmother were at odds? Because she wanted to win him to her side?

Serena squeezed his hand. “I’d better scat out of here. I think Catherine’s asleep, but I’m not sure. Her room’s down the hall just beyond mine. I know some of the house niggers are still up. If one of them sees me, by this time tomorrow people all over the county will be calling me a scarlet woman.” She uttered a low laugh, sounding more amused than worried.

He had no time to say anything as she hurried away. The door clicked shut before he knew it.

He was still mightily confused—downright stunned, in fact—by the swift secret visit. Of course he was gratified that the girl had swung over to his side of the argument about Price. But she’d indeed taken a scandalous chance—risked compromising her reputation by slipping into his room. Apparently she wasn’t afraid of such gambles.

Serena’s eagerness to punish the black bothered him, too.

Not that Price didn’t deserve punishment. He did—if only as a warning. What troubled Jeremiah was her tone of voice during parts of the conversation. She’d sounded as if she’d actually
enjoyed
ordering the man lashed. Puzzling over her curious nature, he drifted into sleep.

When he woke in the morning, he happened to glance at the sleeve of his nightshirt. He caught his breath.

He gazed at the brown stain on the cuff and realized why Serena’s hand had felt wet. Leon hadn’t been the only one who had touched the whip.

He spent ten minutes naked in front of the washstand, scrubbing at the stain. He couldn’t get it all out because the blood had dried. A telltale blotch remained. Not too noticeable, he hoped.

He poured the discolored water into the chamber pot and hastily put the lid in place with a hand that shook just a little. He’d have whipped Price dispassionately, for the sake of prudence. She’d apparently whipped him for pleasure.

Lord! An angel face like that—what was behind it? Part of him was drawn toward discovering the answer. Another part warned he’d be into dangerous depths if he did.

“O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come
—”

Jeremiah moved his lips, unfamiliar with the words of the hymn sung with such lusty confidence by the people in the sitting room of Rosewood just after eleven o’clock that same Thanksgiving morning.

Outside, a brilliant sun shone. During the past hour, some twenty white neighbors had arrived. The men were all elderly, the women of varying ages. Dressed in Sunday clothes, the visitors stood unselfconsciously among the plantation’s blacks who filled the rest of the room. More of the slaves packed the entrance hall and part of the front piazza near the main door.

Even Price had come to pay tribute to the departed colonel. Jeremiah could see him just outside the sitting room arch, bellowing the hymn as if what Serena had described last night had never happened.

“Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.”

Noting Price’s erect posture and cheerful expression, Jeremiah wondered if he’d dreamed the nocturnal visit.

Serena had again dressed like her stepmother—in black crepe. As the group sang, she played the London-made pianoforte. For a number of reasons Jeremiah was decidedly uncomfortable in the midst of the gathering.