Windswept (11 page)

Two: Was he attracted to her? She had no evidence of reciprocation at all. He certainly wasn’t flirting. He was treating her with respect and seemed interested in her work and her family history. But he didn’t seem interested in her in any male-female sort of way. He definitely hadn’t made any “moves” of any kind. Lord knew, she could recognize those from a mile away.

Three: Therefore, if there were anything going on here, it was one-sided, all on her part, and she’d wear herself out if she let herself wallow in unrequited attraction. Besides, she was too old for a crush. Why set herself up to be hurt? Been there, done that. She felt her mouth twist as she remembered the T-shirt she’d left at home, the one her sisters-in-law had given her with the words, “A Man Is Temporary. History Is Forever.”

Four: She was here to do a job, not have some sort of fling. She didn’t have the time. She had to keep her mind on her work and her goals.

Five and Decision: She would continue to work on the papers and she would be courteous and friendly with Davis, period. After all, she was a guest in his house. She had obligations to both him and the memory of his grandfather.

Finally: She couldn’t help wishing again Edgar had not passed away. It would have been so much simpler studying the papers with him at the plantation.

She looked at her watch. It was late enough to quit for the day. Best to retreat to her room and read the mystery she had picked up last weekend. She closed down the computer and straightened the desk. Before leaving, she glanced into Davis’s office. He was scowling at the screen and seemed to be totally absorbed in the document. As she left the room, she called a good night and he answered with an absentminded tone.

Davis leaned back to watch her leave the outer office. Something was definitely happening between them, but he wasn’t sure what. Up to now, she had been treating him just as he imagined she would treat anybody--pleasant, business-like, somewhat impersonally. She certainly hadn’t given him any of the signals a woman usually gave a man she was interested in--no flirtatious glances, no prolonged eye contact, no small innocent touches, no standing just a little bit too close.

But the sizzling eye contact when she was leaving after their first meeting and now every time they touched, whether by handshake, as when they made the bet, or by the contact with his shoulder, as when she kept him in his chair . . . From the way she snatched her hand from his shoulder, she had to have felt something, too.

All right, he was attracted to her and she to him. He’d very much like her in his bed. What was he going to do to put her there?

It had been a while since he had to work actively to pursue a woman, but he hadn’t forgotten how. This one might be trickier than most, however.

There were the ethics of the situation. She was a guest in his home. She had not come here to share his bed. Given her evident desire for access to the papers, her manifest determination for achievement of her career goals, and her subsequent demeanor toward him, he doubted she had any such notion in her head.

She also, in a way, worked for him. He definitely did not get involved with any woman whom he employed. On the other hand, this business relationship was more of an outside-contractor one, and it was a done deal. Her access to the papers did not depend on his access to her. They could work around any difficulty, he decided--assuming it even arose.

He had not invited her here with ulterior motives--well, not really. Attraction had been a very minor part of the package. Anything developing between them now would be between two consenting adults. If he kept control of the situation, kept it light with no strings attached for either of them, there would be nothing to worry about, he concluded. A summer affair would be a pleasant interlude for both of them.

Now, as to actual pursuit. He wouldn’t, couldn’t simply jump her bones. Not only was such a crude approach not his style or inclination, she would be at the least insulted, at the most pissed as hell. No, best to take it slow. He was a patient man and had all summer. He just needed to pursue her slowly, get her used to the idea of him as a man, as her lover. Build on their existing attraction, help her come to the conclusion she wanted to be, indeed belonged, in his bed. He wasn’t sure how experienced she was with a lover, but her nervousness led him to believe, not very.

His campaign should be a slow, steady one, he decided. He had the distinct hunch, if he pushed too hard, too fast, she’d be gone, papers or no papers.

Another aspect added to his satisfaction with his plan, he thought as he ran it through his mind again. He enjoyed her company immensely. At dinner she expressed genuine interest in his business and the manner in which he carried it out. Her questions had been perceptive and penetrating. He was surprised to realize he had not talked so much about himself and the business to anyone, ever.

He had never had a woman as a friend before. He had certainly never thought of Sandra as a “friend.” But it would be easy to become friends with Barrett Browning. They were already well on their way. He simply looked forward to making their friendship become more.

It was too bad Granddaddy had died. He would have enjoyed Barrett so much. But then, if Edgar had lived, the chances were good he, Davis, would either have never met her or certainly not met her in any circumstances where he could get to know her better. He remembered something else Edgar had said about the professor. “She’s a good woman and a smart one. You treat her right, or I’ll come back to haunt you.”

“Rest in peace, Granddaddy,” Davis whispered. “You were correct, she does know what to do about the papers. And I know what to do to take care of her.”

Chapter Seven

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

April 24, 1831

A fine, fairly cool spring day.

The azaleas have lost almost all their blooms, but many of the roses show promise. I hope we can find the time soon to build our first greenhouse. Two of our Negroes, Heeba and her daughter Shallie, have been a godsend with the winter gardens, and I believe they are looking forward to having more space to work with, just as I am. Heeba, a woman of perhaps 40 years, has been the midwife for our Negroes and it was she who concocted the medicines for them when James and Emily were alive. She claims her mother, who came from the West Indies, and her grandmother, who came from Africa, taught her the ways of herbs and medicinal plants. She has taught Shallie and now she is teaching me.

I know, some people scoff that a servant could teach them anything, but Heeba has proven to be quite knowledgeable. I have several books of home remedies by reputable physicians and herbalists and have checked all of Heeba’s recipes. Every one for which there is an equivalent has agreed with the prescriptions in the books. Heeba has some tonics and balms not in the tomes, but our Negroes swear by them and will refuse more “modern” medicines. Under Heeba’s guidance, we seem to be thriving, so I pay close attention and have begun a journal of cooking and medicinal recipes.

I must relate another, more difficult situation--this one with some of our neighbors. These women, who consider themselves to be the moral and virtuous leaders of our community, make me so angry. Last Sunday was a fine day and we went into town for church services. Two of the older women of the congregation, let me call them Mrs. K and Mrs. T, pulled me aside and filled my ears with gossip about Mr. and Mrs. P.

It appears Mrs. P took her husband to task in the middle of town for some of his “indiscretions.” She went so far as to berate him in front of several bystanders outside his attorney’s office before dissolving in tears. Our Episcopal pastor and his wife, who came upon the scene, were able to lead her away and take her home. According to Mrs. K, Mr. P is a known philanderer and has fathered several children by his Negro servants. Rumors abound about his trips to New Orleans--for gambling and for visiting those places virtuous women are supposed to know nothing about. Mrs. T went on at some length about “poor Mrs. P.” Neither lady could understand why Mrs. P had reacted as she did, thus bringing down scandal and ridicule on the P family name.

I was absolutely appalled, first by the tale and second by the glee with which Mrs. K and Mrs. T related it. I excused myself as quickly as I could and during services offered up a prayer for Mrs. P.

Every married woman knows some men are unable to remain faithful to their wives. Indeed, my own mother told me of these “facts of life” when she was preparing me for my marriage.

I am very sorry for Mrs. P, but I can’t help but wonder where the P’s marriage went so far wrong that Mr. P turned to another woman. Thank God my marriage is such a wonderful one. Edgar and I profess our love to each other daily and I cannot imagine my loving husband breaking our vows for the sake of what must be a momentary pleasure or lapse in judgment.

***

Present Day

Saturday, May 26

Barrett rose at her usual weekday time, dressed and went down to the kitchen. “Good morning,” she said as she came through the door.

Eva was ladling coffee into the top of the maker. “Good morning. The coffee will be ready in a moment. I didn’t expect you so early. Jesus just brought the paper in. It’s on the table.”

“Lots to do today,” Barrett replied as she sat down and took the paper out of its plastic wrap. “What with shopping with my friend this afternoon and going over to my brother’s this evening, I’m determined to spend the morning on research.”

Eva handed her a glass of grapefruit juice, Gonzales came in with another “Good morning,” and the three of them fell into what had become their breakfast routine.

Barrett hurried through her cereal and took the coffee mug with her into the office. Finally, she was going to do some of her own research. She picked up the notebook holding the printed box contents and her laptop and walked into the conference room. Half an hour later she was reading an 1830 letter from Mary Maude Jamison thanking her mother for sending the seeds and recipes she had requested. The letter also included a detailed description of Mary Maude’s attendance at the St. Gregory Episcopal Church and of her fellow churchgoers.

She had been correct, Barrett congratulated herself. This collection was a treasure trove. Not only did it contain incoming mail, but many copies of outgoing correspondence. Mary Maude’s parents had evidently kept all of her letters and returned them to her at some point. If even a small number of the letters were as rich as this one, Barrett would have no problem coming up with several solid articles--from plantation gardening to religion to community life--by the end of the summer. She added the topics and references to the list she was building.

She was reaching for the next letter in the file when Davis stuck his head in the door.

“At work already?” he asked with a smile.

“Lots to do. You, too, apparently.” She pointed at the briefcase he was holding and told herself to ignore how charming he appeared when he dropped the stone-face routine.

“Still playing catchup at the office. You’ll be out tonight?”

“Yes. Eva knows I won’t be here for dinner.”

“Did Gonzales give you a key?”

“Yes, and he showed me how to handle the alarm system also, but I don’t expect to be too late.”

“Good.” He hesitated, looked like he was about to say more, but his expression blanked and he finally said, “I’ll be here, so if you have any problem with the system, just let me know. Have a nice time.”

“Thanks.” She reached for the next letter again and heard him leave.

Barrett raised her eyes to the doorway and stared after him for a long moment. What had he been about to say? He’d had a funny look in his eyes--displeasure because she was taking the night off? She was surely entitled to some downtime. She was a guest, all right, but a working one.

Had it been loneliness because she wouldn’t be here for dinner or because she wasn’t taking him with her?

“Yeah, right,” she muttered. Wouldn’t it be a picture, Davis with her brothers? She was anticipating one of their usual go-rounds tonight. When were they going to let her grow up?

She shook her head to throw all thoughts of Davis, her brothers, and any other extraneous subjects out of her head and immersed herself again in 1830s Louisiana.

***

At Phil’s house that evening, Barrett was having fun catching up on family gossip with her two sisters-in-law when all three brothers descended on them.

“Now the kids are down, we’d like to talk to you, Barrett, about this Davis Jamison,” Phil said.

“Phillip,” his wife Beth said with a warning note in her tone, “I thought we had agreed you all would leave Barrett alone.”

“Yes,” Greg’s wife Chris agreed, nodding at her own husband.

Barrett looked at Phil, Greg, and unmarried Mark and sighed. She knew how determined her brothers could be where she was concerned. Sometimes she wondered how their wives and Mark’s girlfriends put up with their overprotectiveness. “You don’t have to worry,” she told them. “I checked him out thoroughly. He’s known for his honesty and integrity.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Phil started to say.

She kept on talking over him. “I couldn’t find anything to give me pause or stop me from staying in his house. I trusted his grandfather and know Edgar wouldn’t have given Davis the plantation papers if I couldn’t trust him also. Now, what’s your problem? Did I miss a fact--like he’s really an ax murderer?”

Phil put his hands on his hips, and Barrett could almost see the wheels turning in his lawyer brain. “All right,” he said. “I’ll admit his business reputation is sterling. He’s very successful and is known as a man of his word. I’m more worried about his reputation with women.”

“His reputation with women? Does he have one?” Barrett asked as a tiny needle of despair pricked her heart before outrage buried it in angry heat. Here they went again. Although she wanted to yell, she kept her tone level. “Look, I’m not there to go to bed with him. I’m a working historian doing research. Furthermore, I’m an adult and what I do is my own business. What is it with you? I say hello to a man and you three start acting like you did when I was sixteen. Are you going to threaten him like you did the guys I dated in high school?” She assumed a mock-deep voice. “Touch our sister and you die, asshole!”