Windswept (2 page)

After reading the first three letters, he riffled through the remainder. Closing the folder, he leaned back again and said in his low drawl, “My grandfather did mention the project to me before he died. Let me ask you a question about the papers themselves. What value do you think is in them?”

Ah, she was correct, he was interested in profit. The problem was, her definition of profit would not be his. All she could do, however, was make her case.

“Value? Monetarily, I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Piecemeal, probably little unless Abraham Lincoln or Jefferson Davis or some other famous person wrote or signed a letter. I have no idea what the going rate among signature collectors would be. Some institutions may be willing to purchase the collection, but to receive the best price, you need to know what’s in there before putting it on the market. To take a tax deduction for a donation of the papers, well, again, you need to know their contents.”

She stopped, but he asked no follow-up question. He didn’t look bored, thank goodness, so she continued--with her definition of profit. “Historically, the records are priceless. From what Mr. Jamison told me and showed me, they are, for all practical purposes, complete from the time the first Jamison inherited the property to the present day. The pictures one hundred and seventy years of records could draw, the new light they could shed, the understandings they could lead to, in all branches of history--political, economic, social and cultural, local and national--are incalculable.”

“Aren’t you being extremely optimistic?” Davis asked with a skeptical lift of one dark eyebrow.

Barrett shook her head. “No, sir, I don’t believe I am. When I visited your grandfather over the past school year, and especially when I spent some of Christmas vacation with him, we started the work. I read part of Edgar John Jamison’s journal from the eighteen thirties. That book alone holds numerous commentaries on political and economic events as well as recording the day-to-day plantation activities.”

She had to smile with joy as she remembered reading some of the correspondence. “And the letters between his wife Mary Maude and her family were absolutely wonderful, full of long descriptive passages about everything from the children’s schooling to slave activities to local gossip. I see no reason to think the remainder of the papers won’t be just as rich. Or richer.” The recollection of the wealth of information in just those few letters made her almost giddy, and she stopped talking so she didn’t babble.

“What’s in this for you?”

Well. His question brought her back to earth with a thump. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell him
all
of what was in it for her. How much did he already know, she wondered, and what exactly? What was he seeing when he looked at her? Damn, she was having trouble reading this man. She was beginning to feel like she was back in grad school, taking her oral comprehensive examination with profs who wouldn’t indicate what they thought of her answers. She’d give him the expurgated version.

“First, the chance to write real history, to contribute to our understanding of how people, especially women, lived, what they thought about, their hopes and fears, how they were affected by major events like wars, depressions, and minor things in everyday life.” Barrett knew she sounded idealistic and more than a little pompous, but she was being truthful; she loved delving into the lives of real people.

“Second, quite frankly, promotion to associate professor and tenure. Research and publications are the path to success and a permanent appointment as defined in the academic world.” She wasn’t about to discuss what--or who--else was involved in her promotion, so she changed the subject under the guise of answering his question. “No money was changing hands here, Mr. Jamison. I wasn’t paying your grandfather, and he wasn’t paying me. I look at this as pure research, part of my job as a historian.”

“What’s in it for me?”

She counted off her points on her fingers. “First, the opportunity to contribute to the historical record, to help us understand the past. Windswept and its inhabitants played an important role in Louisiana and Southern history in general. Its story should be told.

“Second, completing the inventory with a professional appraisal is also a way to find out what’s in your family’s records. I know whom to call for help in the event we find some information of more than usual historical interest outside my field of expertise.”

She realized she had gone into teacher mode, enumerating points just as if she were lecturing, but it was too late to stop now. “Third, I can help determine the appropriate place for the papers if you choose to donate them to an institution such as a library or archives. If you wish to sell them, then you will have the catalog records to secure the best price. No matter what you decide for a permanent disposition, I do recommend you place them where they’ll be open to scholarly investigation.”

She couldn’t help grinning at her next point. “And fourth, if you’re looking for adulation, there are numerous historians and archivists who would be happy and willing to grovel at your feet for access to the papers.”

“Are you one of them?” He returned her grin with the smallest of smiles.

She drew herself up and looked him straight in those hard, appraising eyes. “No, sir. I don’t grovel.”

Davis just bet she didn’t. He smiled to himself, but was careful not to let his amusement show. The determined tilt of her firm chin told him she wouldn’t beg, but he would also wager she could wear you down with any number of cogent arguments until you agreed with her point of view. She’d tick them off with all her fingers and some of her toes to make him listen.

When he’d agreed to this meeting, he hadn’t known exactly what to expect. During his last days, Granddaddy had told him about the bequest of the family records solely to him, and the will explicitly instructed him not to leave them with the house, but to take immediate personal possession. When he’d tried to talk to the old man about the collection and his plans for it, however, Edgar had said only, “Protect the records. You’ll understand later.” Of the professor, he hadn’t said much beyond, “She’s the one for the job and she knows what to do. Talk to her.” And he’d grinned when he’d said it--the same grin he used when about to trounce his grandsons at chess. Then he’d changed the subject and refused to discuss the matter further.

Davis remembered the professor as the woman he’d noticed at the cemetery during his grandfather’s funeral. He’d wondered who she was, but she’d disappeared before he had the opportunity to introduce himself. She hadn’t come by the house afterward.

Professor E.B. Browning. She’d shaken his hand with a firm grip when she introduced herself as Barrett Browning, and she’d looked him over with big, intelligent, dark blue eyes --with a measuring look about them. He wondered if he met her standards.

Professor Browning met his, at least in physical appearance. Her features were regular, with a small nose and a slightly wide mouth to balance her large eyes. When she smiled and especially when she talked about her work, she seemed to glow from within. Her prim outfit, a conservative navy business suit with a knee-length skirt and a white silk blouse, contrasted wildly with her unruly dark brown hair. It was a veritable riot of large curls, silken tangles calling to a man’s hands. Five-four or five-five, if he measured correctly, probably twenty-eight to thirty years old. She had trim ankles and small feet. The rest of her was slim but not straight. In fact, she curved enticingly.

Her looks and intelligence, her response to his questions, and those eyes made him want to know her better. But he suppressed his interest behind a façade of polite inquiry.

He reminded himself she was here because of Windswept and those damn plantation records. Just one more problem, as if he didn’t have enough to do, running his own business, making sure the estate was settled, and dealing with the family, both close and extended. He’d planned to contact her in the future, but she’d called and asked for an immediate appointment.

He had agreed to the meeting mainly to get some answers, especially to the question of his grandfather’s motives for the bequest to him alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her about Edgar’s purpose. To do so would place him in the disadvantageous position of her knowing he didn’t have all the facts--a location he never inhabited in a negotiation.

And this discussion was definitely a negotiation. He realized he had gone into his usual stance when being introduced to a new project: Listen and watch. Give away nothing. Say as little as possible. People often let slip important details when they were trying to fill silences. In this particular instance, he did occupy the high ground, however, since he was asking the questions.

Curious to see how she’d like the next one, he said, “Are you going to try to prove a thesis with this research? For example, the downtrodden nature of women’s lives and how beset they were by men and the system? Or another feminist polemic?” He kept his tone bland, but he watched her reaction.

She returned a look revealing several of her thoughts at once: speculation about his reason for those particular questions, exasperation at them, and determination to convince him. Davis was correct about that chin of hers. She wanted the access Edgar had agreed to, but she wasn’t going to beg. He thought he saw her clench and unclench her jaw before answering, but her voice was mild and reasonable.

“If you read the correspondence, you’ll see your grandfather and I went over several times what I might find and how I would use it. We had a great deal of fun discussing in writing and in person what I would do and how I would do it.” She paused and gave a little shrug. “I will miss our talks and his letters very much.” Her sorrow at losing his grandfather showed through for a moment, then she returned to her point.

“My goal is to find out what happened on and to Windswept and its inhabitants and how they fit into their times. No more, no less. This is very basic, very personal history. Any interpretations or conclusions I come to will be from the material, as free from cant and bias and preconceived notions as I can make them.”

She skewered him with a direct blue gaze. “Now, I can’t prove otherwise to you until I do the work, except by referring you to my published articles, my peers and colleagues, and my major professors, but I must tell you, my conclusions will be my own. I will not be pushed into anyone else’s thesis, including yours. I will respect the history of your family, but I won’t whitewash or embellish it.” She raised her stubborn chin. “Mr. Jamison respected my professional integrity. I hope you will also. I’m passionate about my work but dispassionate in doing it.”

And what else are you passionate about, Davis asked himself. He might like to have the answer to that question, and his body twitched in response. He ignored both his mental and physical reactions. “That’s acceptable.”

Her lips firmed for a second, then she looked at him rather anxiously. “May I ask where the records are now? I hope you didn’t leave them unprotected at Windswept.”

“As we speak, they are being delivered to my home here in Houston.”

“Oh, good.” Barrett almost slumped with relief. For some reason, she felt immensely better knowing the papers were in Houston and not back in Louisiana. Certainly it was because coming down here from the Dallas-Ft. Worth area would be easier than the long drive to the plantation. Assuming, of course, he’d honor the deal.

Despite the vulnerability it revealed, she could think of nothing to do but be straightforward and hope for a similar response from him. She’d been answering his questions; it was time he answered some of hers. She leaned forward but kept her hands loose on the chair armrests so her nervousness wouldn’t show. “May I ask if you have decided what to do with them? May I have the access your grandfather agreed to?”

He subjected her to another long look without words. She had to fight not to move, not to at least to clench her fists, not to elaborate on her question, especially not to think of how much of her life depended on his next words.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with them,” he answered finally. “Dealing with the various bequests has taken more time than I realized.”

“Yes, I understand,” Barrett said to fill time while her brain whirled. She was discouraged by his statement, but hoped she still had a chance. He hadn’t answered her second question, so she tried again. “I know I don’t have any right to ask this, but I’m under a time crunch. Would it be possible for you to come to a conclusion fairly soon about my access to the papers? You can always make final disposition of them later. But in my case, the school year will be over in three weeks, and if I’m not going to be working on Windswept, I need to arrange other research projects. I’ll be happy to work under any schedule you set up.”

He nodded and murmured, “Let me review your correspondence and get back to you.”

His words were a clear dismissal. She bit her tongue to keep from pleading and pulled a pen and her card from her purse. She quickly jotted phone numbers on the card and rose to hand it to him across the desk. “Here’s my office number on the front. The first number on the back is my home in Grand Prairie. The second is my cell. I’ll be in Houston until noon on Sunday, if you have any questions.” She tried to smile encouragingly and convey at the same time the underlying message to make up his mind and
quickly
.

“Fine.” He rose and came around the desk to shake her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Browning. My grandfather told me you brought him a great deal of joy over the past year, and I’m grateful for that.”

He smiled when he said it. With her hand in his, Barrett looked up at his face and felt a tremor run up her arm and down her body as if a great seismic upheaval had just shaken her foundations. His stone covering had crumbled and another Davis Jamison shone through--a thoroughly charming, extremely attractive man. His eyes even softened and she could see gold flecks in them. He looked more like his grandfather than ever.

“Thank you,” she managed to say through the lump suddenly forming in her throat. “It was a pleasure meeting you, too. I will miss him.”