Windswept (4 page)

“What ‘terrible tales’ specifically?” he asked. “What did Aunt Cecilia tell you? Did we have horse thieves or embezzlers or murderers in the family way back when? And if we did, so what? What possible harm could come to us now?”

“Mama wouldn’t tell me.”

“Wouldn’t or couldn’t? Does she have any real facts for her statements?”

Lloyd hesitated. Davis could almost see the wheels turning as the man tried to decide what to tell him. Whatever his cousin said, it would not be the whole truth.

“She wouldn’t tell me,” Lloyd finally said. “She said it was too awful for her ‘sensibilities’ to even think about. Who knows, what if one of our ancestors stole something and their descendants sued? We could lose the property we have left. It’s bad enough Granddaddy left the plantation house and grounds and so much money for maintenance to the state. Hellfire, Davis, we could lose more if what’s in those papers come to light.”

Lloyd was getting red in the face, a sure sign he was winding up for a blow-out of an argument. Davis shook his head and hoped the man wasn’t too far gone to listen to reason. “I doubt it very much, and what do you mean, we ‘lost’ the house? The building is an albatross to us, since none of us want to live there. Now, the state Parks Department will have a new gem for its collection, and the new tourist attraction will create jobs for the community.

“And you didn’t come out of this empty-handed, either. Granddaddy left you some prime land as your legacy. As for the papers, Edgar left them to me and me alone, to do with as I please. You do remember, don’t you, his will was explicit in that regard?”

Lloyd grew sullen. “Why you? You never showed any interest in them before?”

“Neither did you.”

“I might have, but you know good and well Granddaddy wouldn’t let anybody see them. After Grandmama died, he just buried himself in those boxes. Unhealthy, living in the past that way. But we’re in the present, and I still say, a family member should be the one to go through those papers, and I’m the one.”

“No, Lloyd, you’re not. I’ve just been conferring about the papers with the history professor Edgar was working with. We need a competent professional to assess what we have, and then we need to make them available to scholars. Windswept is part of our country’s history and it deserves to have its story told. It’s what Granddaddy wanted.” An idea began to form in Davis’s mind as he realized what he’d just told his cousin. He needed to think it through, preferably without Lloyd’s complaints.

 “You been talking to the snippy young woman Edgar was enamored with?” he snarled. “I met her. She didn’t impress me at all. I don’t think she has enough experience to take on such a task. Let me get someone from Louisiana State or Tulane.”

 “I’m going to take care of the records according to Granddaddy’s wishes. Knowing you, you won’t like whatever I do with them, but they’re going to get the care and consideration they deserve, and if we find some ‘awful’ ancestral shenanigans, so be it. The family can take it.”

“You’re just like Granddaddy,” Lloyd accused. His face growing redder, he rose and leaned over the desk. When he took a gulp of air, he looked distinctly like one of those fish who puff themselves up to frighten others away. “Neither of you has ever given a damn about the family’s reputation, but it means something to the rest of us, especially those of us still in Louisiana. I’m not going to let you broadcast family secrets all over creation. I’m going to stop you somehow and protect our family heritage myself.”

“Lloyd,” Davis said, dropping his voice into the low register that usually warned Lloyd to shut up.

It didn’t work this time, however, because the man was too far gone. “You listen here,” his cousin said, waggling his finger at Davis, “I will get those papers.”

Davis swallowed the angry words on the tip of his tongue. Arguing did no good with Lloyd. It never had and never would. So he spoke softly. “We’ll let you know what the professionals find. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.” He rose and advanced toward the smaller man, ready to usher his cousin out of his office by whatever force necessary.

Lloyd must have recognized his intent because he retreated, spouting a few more threats about stopping Davis and gaining control of the papers for himself.

After he was sure Lloyd had vacated his premises, Davis returned to his desk, but spun around in his chair to look out the window at the distant horizon. He pensively rubbed his right forefinger along his mustache.

Damn. He no longer had a choice. He had to settle this mess with the papers or Lloyd would make a pest of himself and soon the entire family would be in an uproar. While he sincerely doubted any nefarious, hitherto unknown, reputation-killing deeds lurked in the letters and journals, the only way he could convince Lloyd and Aunt Cecilia of it would be for someone to go through them.

And that person would not be his cousin--which meant he’d have to deal with Barrett Browning.

He chuckled to himself as he remembered what he’d said to Lloyd about Windswept deserving to have its story told. She had made a better argument than he realized. She’d convinced him and he hadn’t even known it until the words came out of his mouth.

He had only needed the little push of Lloyd’s paranoia to make dealing with the papers seem like the most logical, indeed the only, course of action. But not unless he could allow her access and still monitor the situation. Make sure Lloyd stayed away while he himself was on hand to answer any of the professor’s questions about the family. Be there to nip any problems in the bud. Guarantee the protection of the family, whatever she found.

He thought the idea through. The scheme should work, he decided, and he would accomplish three objectives: take care of the Windswept records the way Granddaddy wanted, get Lloyd out of his hair, and finally, get to know Barrett Browning better.

He chuckled to himself. Damn, if she didn’t have him thinking in lists like she did. Smiling, he turned back to the business plan in front of him.

***

In the hallway outside the Jamison Investment offices, Lloyd fumed as he punched the elevator button. This trip had been a waste of time, and his own wife correctly predicting Davis’s reaction did not make the results any less infuriating to swallow. He had never been able to win an argument with Davis. He hadn’t this time either, and his fists clenched in frustration.

Davis always asked the questions he didn’t have the answers for. Take, for example, the one about if his own mother had any real facts to support her statements. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if she did, but his fights with this cousin in the past had taught him to be careful. He’d pretended he knew so he’d appear to be on top of the situation.

If he had to guess, he’d say his mama didn’t have any direct proof. She was recalling old stories she had heard long ago from her grandmother, Grandmama’s mother, Mary Elizabeth Jamison. Why she’d never mentioned the tales before now--hell, who knew? Somebody must have said something to her at the funeral to trigger the recollection. When Lloyd had talked to her just after the movers showed up the day before yesterday to load the boxes of papers, she had been adamant, almost hysterical, about his obtaining the records and stopping the female historian from looking at them. He had tried to wheedle out more facts, but his mother liked to be the holder of secrets, and she would not give him any details or name her sources.

Whatever the secrets may be, she had frightened him with her tales of impending doom. What a mess he was in. His business investments were doing poorly, and he needed every one of his connections these days. A blow to his reputation and standing in the community would undermine his clients’ confidence in him and could hurt him badly. He couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Edgar’s leaving him little actual cash didn’t help his outlook either. The bottom land was good, but nobody was buying now, so he couldn’t sell it quick for an infusion of cash. He had almost reached the limit of his credit resources, so the bank wouldn’t be in a hurry to loan him any more money. Especially once they took a look at his books. Damn Joe Blinford for dying and leaving all the accounts screwed up!

He certainly wasn’t going to any of the family for a loan. The only one with any ready money was Davis, and Lloyd would be damned and cooking in hell before he asked that particular cousin for help. Davis would just make him grovel and then refuse him in the nasty way he had--or worse, give it to him, putting him under Davis’s thumb forever.

As far as the bequest of the Windswept papers was concerned, he had talked to Edgar’s lawyer, ancient Mr. Jules Beauregard, before he went to see Davis, and the old geezer had informed him in no uncertain terms that the will was unbreakable. If Lloyd wanted to try, it would cost him dearly. Taking the estate to court was out of the question.

After a day’s thought and review of his financial situation, he’d decided he couldn’t risk hurtful news. He had to get his hands on those papers, no matter what. So he had tried bluster. He should have known better. The tactic had never worked on Davis in the past. For sure not since his little shrimp of a cousin had grown taller and heavier and able to beat the crap out of him.

Hellfire and damnation. He had to do something. He stormed out of the elevator and headed for his car. It was a long drive back to Louisiana. He’d surely think of a solution to his problem by the time he got there.

Chapter Three

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation, June 15, 1830

A warm summer day, rain this morning, steamy this afternoon

Goodness, but I meant to write sooner in my journal, but it has been all I can do to record the weather and significant occurrences. I must relate the tale of our plantation.

We are now living at Windswept, which Edgar inherited last year from James Wade, his mother’s widowed and childless brother. The plantation of 1000 acres straddles the Wayward Bayou leading into the Mississippi River near St. Gregoryville, Louisiana. I am told the plantation gets its name from nearly being swept away by a tremendous storm.

James Wade immigrated here from Virginia in the late 1790s, having obtained a land grant for 400 acres from the Spanish, who owned this area at the time. He brought his wife Emily, their four children and 50 Negroes--I can’t imagine how difficult the journey must have been. He built the house and proceeded to work the land--some indigo at first, then cotton. By 1825, he had amassed another 600 acres and 50 more Negroes. Tragically, his wife and children did not live to celebrate his success. Emily and three of the children died from yellow fever and the last son perished in a carriage accident just five years ago. Wanting to keep the property within the family, James bequeathed the plantation and all his property to my Edgar.

Like many of the houses are in this area, the house is a raised wooden, two-story cottage, with a wide gallery stretching across the front and around its left side. James built the house and other buildings from cypress and blue poplar stands growing on the property. Surrounding buildings include the kitchen, laundry, milk house, smokehouse, and a commissary for storing food supplies.

After the first cash crops, James planted an avenue of oak trees along the road leading to the house. These are growing well, and within my lifetime, I believe, we will have a marvelous, leaf-shaded alley bringing visitors to our front door.

Visitors enter our house through a reception hall on its right side; a curving stair rises to a balcony and hall for access to the four upper-story dormered bedrooms. Throughout the first floor, tall windows let in light and help to circulate the air.

Pocket doors lead from the hall into a large double parlor across the front of the house. These absolutely charming rooms are filled with graceful furniture and marble fireplaces. James and Emily were well known for their generous hospitality and entertained numerous dignitaries and notable persons here.

Another set of double doors from the front parlor brings you into the dining room, which can also be reached from the entrance hall. It overlooks the back garden and is within easy access of the kitchen.

When I first walked into the parlors and dining room, I could feel the love and comradeship James and Emily had known in their lives. The rooms welcome visitors and put them instantly at ease. Emily decorated them in warm colors and placed the furniture in comfortable arrangements that practically beg you to tarry a while and enjoy the company.

Emily, bless her soul, had exquisite taste when it came to the house, but she was not interested in flower gardens, and what few exist are in some disarray from James’s neglect. The vegetable plots and orchards could also use some attention. Thanks to my mother’s tutelage, I am an avid gardener and look forward to establishing my own mark on the grounds with new gardens and some greenhouses. I see no reason why we cannot enjoy the variety of fruits and vegetables available in the larger cities. How much better they will taste knowing we raised them ourselves!

But back to my description of the house. Behind the second parlor is the master bedroom with a massive mahogany bedstead and equally massive armoire. A one-story addition to the house, reached either from the bedroom or through a door from the side gallery, holds Edgar’s small study.

My husband (Oh! How using that term still thrills me!) is already talking about adding on to the house, on the other side of the entry hall, most probably a larger bedroom for us and a music room. I would love to have a piano again.

I certainly could not ask for a better, more commodious, more welcoming house in which to begin our life together. The furniture is elegant, but comfortable, and the colors on the walls and in the draperies and upholstery are bright, but soothing. Indeed, it’s so much more than many newlyweds have. There is ample room for, dare I hope, a family, and I look forward to growing old with Edgar in this house.