Heaven in a Wildflower (49 page)

He had leaped to his feet, snatched up his clothes, jerking them on as he ran. First he went to the riverbank to look anxiously for some sign, God forbid, that she’d fallen into the water. Then he had turned and run to the house, rushing upstairs to the room they used.

And that was when he saw it—the peach and coral conch shell she had treasured, smashed on the floor in bits and pieces.

He went in search of Rufus, whose first words had been, “Ain’t it wonderful Miss Anjele got her eyesight back?”

And then he knew.

She had seen him, probably in the early-morning light, wanting to surprise him with the miracle. But in that instant, love had dissolved and hate was born, and now it was all over.

So be it.

Brett had always known it could end this way, and though it hurt like hell and he felt as if his heart had been broken in more pieces than the conch, he knew he still had a job to do.

No doubt she was headed back to New Orleans. Maybe to get the plates. Maybe she had always known where they were but never quite trusted him enough to tell him. He didn’t give a damn about any of that. The only thing he cared about was that she was headed straight into the clutches of whoever it was that was out to kill her.

And he had to stop it.

Then, and only then, would his quest be finished.

It didn’t matter about his heart.

Like the delicate conch, it could never be mended.

Anjele awoke to the sound of excited voices. Struggling to escape the cobwebs of sleep still clinging, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, trying to remember where she was. Then, with a terrified lurch, it all came rushing back.

New Orleans. Melora Rabine’s house. But dear Lord, who were those people coming in?

She did not have long to wonder.

Ida Duval ran to embrace her, sobbing, “Anjele, darling, you’re home, and you’re safe, and thank God you can see.”

Dr. Duval was right behind her, carrying his leather bag and excitedly wanting to examine her, but he was having to contend with Drusilla and Hardy Maxwell, along with Millard DuBose. All were eager to greet her and hear where she had been since escaping.

Anjele couldn’t help being glad to see them but shot Melora an annoyed glance.

Melora shrugged. “They would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t told them you were here, and you said you weren’t staying long. Besides, they won’t tell.”

Ida was quick to assure her, “Of course we won’t. We’ve all got to stick together, dear.”

“That’s right,” Drusilla chimed in, along with her husband.

Vinson Duval succeeded in getting them to move so he could quickly look into her eyes. “You’re safe now,” he was saying, leaning closer as he examined her.

Finally, to everyone’s delight, he declared, “By God, your eyes look perfect. Evidently, when you took that blow on the head, there was bruising and swelling, and it took a long time for it to go away. And when it did, you got your vision back.” He moved then to let the women crowd about her.

The men all agreed Anjele was taking a chance on returning to BelleClair, but she assured them she’d not be there long enough for the Yankees to find out she was back. “I just need to get a few things, that’s all. Then I’m leaving.”

“Where will you go?” Ida anxiously wanted to know.

“Straight to Richmond,” she replied with firm resolve.

Melora pressed, “But why? It’s so far, and so dangerous, and—”

“Oh, I’ll have an escort once I make it to our lines,” Anjele said confidently. “I’ll be safe.”

Hardy wanted to know, “But why? Why are you so desperate to get to the capital?”

Anjele’s smile was mysterious. “I just think it’s time I went to war, too.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Are you going to be warm
enough?” Melora fretted as Anjele took the reins. “Heavens, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were going to have snow. I’ve never known it to be so cold.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m so bundled up I can hardly move, thanks to you.” She was wearing one of Melora’s wool dresses with matching cape, too large, but it didn’t matter. A heavy carriage robe was tucked about her from the waist down, and she wore a bonnet and scarf and heavy gloves. “You won’t forget where I said I’d leave the buggy?” she asked.

“Hardy said he and Millard would go get it late this afternoon. But how will you get back? Are you sure you don’t want to set a time for them to pick you up?” Melora rubbed her shivering hands together, teeth chattering in the early-morning chill.

Anjele repeated that she had no idea how long she would be at BelleClair and pointed out it was best she not return to New Orleans. “I’m going to have to go by sea. Surely I can find a fisherman willing to smuggle me through the blockade and get me to a Confederate ship somewhere.” Noticing Melora was cold, she urged, “You’d better get back inside, before you freeze.”

“I think I’m going to cry,” Melora said, “because I’ve a feeling I’ll never see you again.”

Anjele swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I know, but I’ll never forget you. To think how I used to dread seeing your buggy coming down the road”—she shook her head and laughed—“but what would I have done without you now? I’ll always be grateful.”

“I was glad to do it. I always loved your momma, and I thought the world of your daddy, and…” She began to blink furiously, stepping back to wave Anjele away. “Be gone with you, before I
do
cry. The tears would freeze on my cheeks, and wouldn’t that be a sight?” With a sob, she turned toward the house.

Anjele popped the reins and set the horse into a fast trot down the alley and into the cobblestone street, not looking back.

Because of the early hour and the unseasonably cold weather, few people were out. Skies were gray and overcast, and a smoky mist crept out of the rivers and swamps to swirl about the carriage, making her barely visible as she headed out of town.

She was glad for the concealing fog, not wanting to see the desolation of the plantations she passed. She could almost hear the long-ago echoes of slaves singing as they worked the hardest season of the year—sugar making. But now, misery and gloom silently whispered throughout the bleak, spiritless lands of the Delta.

She was grateful not to have to go on foot through the woods, and Miss Melora had provided her with papers that would make the Union soldiers, should she be stopped, think Anjele was her, instead.

As she rode, thoughts of Brett crept into her mind. She wanted to hate him but had to acknowledge she did care. Oh, yes, despite the anguish of knowing he’d only used her, there was no denying the wondrous moments forever embedded upon her soul. But he had been clever, able to manipulate her into trusting and believing in him. From the start, she’d been entranced, felt herself strangely drawn to him. Tender and compassionate, he had been her eyes. He had made her
feel
the world, rather than
see
it. Brett had, with words and touch, taught her to absorb life, taste it, hold it, and it was an experience she would forever remember and hold dear.

Being in his arms had been ecstasy untold. It had been glorious, and he had taken her on a journey to the stars, whisking her away amidst silver-tinged clouds of bliss and rapture. Fused together in the consummation of their passion, they had become one. Anjele had started truly believing they would find a way to be together always. Never once had he given her cause to doubt he cared.

He had also given her confidence in herself, in her ability to cope with her blindness. He had made her think it didn’t matter, for they would be together despite any obstacle or handicap.

Again and again, she desperately tried to think of any clue that would indicate he had merely been using her. But there was none. Obviously, the man was a master of deceit, and knowing that made the anger boil once again.

She wished she did not love him. That was what hurt the most. True, she’d loved the part of him that was Gator, and perhaps that made it all so much worse. It was like loving one person twice as much as was meant to be, resulting in double anguish when the dream so cruelly died.

Anjele left the horse and buggy in a grove of palmettos, where they would not be seen by anyone passing by. There was little chance of people being about, anyway, for she’d not seen a soul during the ride from New Orleans. Still, she hurried along, wanting to get off the road.

At last she could see the driveway, the great house looming in the distance, and was struck by the dismal aura surrounding it. She could see the cane fields beyond, brown with rot as Melora had said, bending toward the ground as though weeping with sorrow. Cotton fields exposed yellowing buds, unpicked and left to die like the cane. All about was the evidence of how the once proud and grand plantation was falling to ultimate ruin.

A stiff breeze from the river rattled the bare limbs of the great oaks, the sound like skeletons stamping their feet in protest. Perhaps, Anjele glumly mused, she was actually hearing her father and grandfather angrily tossing about in their coffins, for it was a desolate sight to behold.

Entering the house through the rear, the overpowering silence was actually like a great, disturbing roar, almost deafening in its haunting vibrations of sadness and despair.

Surveying the service pantry, she saw signs of use. But where was everyone? Melora had said Claudia and Raymond still lived here, and a few slaves, she’d heard. Yet Anjele had not seen a soul.

A sound from the yard made her whip about in hope, and she cried out in relief to see Mammy Kesia crossing the yard from the kitchen.

Mammy broke into tears and raced toward her, arms outstretched and sobbing, “Miss Anjele, Miss Anjele, praise be to God, is it really you, child?”

“It’s me.” Anjele laughed, her own eyes moist as she welcomed the embrace. “Oh, am I glad to see you.”

Mammy held her at arm’s length, blinked in surprise as she realized, “Why, you can
see
!
Lord, Jesus, child, you can see!” And then she did break into wild sobs.

Anjele urged her to calm down, drawing her inside, though the house was freezing cold. She then explained she would not be staying long. “I’m a fugitive, Mammy. If the Yankees find me here, they’ll take me away and lock me up again. Now, where is everyone?”

Sniffing, wiping her nose with the corner of her apron, Mammy tearfully began, “Well, Miss Claudia, she don’t never come downstairs till nearly noon, and then it’s just to scream and complain about somethin’. ‘Bout time fo’ her, too. And Master Raymond, he’s either sick drunk in the bed, or sleepin’ in your daddy’s study, or off in the sugarhouse, where he makes his rum.

“And there ain’t nobody here but me and a few of the hands,” she continued, “and they don’t do nothin’, no how, ‘cause they hates Miss Claudia, and they knows she can’t make ‘em do nothin’.”

Something told Anjele she didn’t want to hear the answer but was driven to ask, “What about your boy, Mammy? What about William?”

Mammy burst into fresh tears as she sank down on a nearby stool. Painfully she described how William had been stricken with the ague only two months earlier. With no medicine, death came quickly. “I ain’t got nobody else and nowhere to go, and I is old, Miss Anjele, too old to go traipsin’ around the country lookin’ for a home. At least here, I got shelter, and Miss Claudia, she does give me food. The soldiers, they took all the cows and pigs. And the horses, too, ‘cept one, and they only left it, and a buggy, ‘cause of Master Raymond, him bein’ Dr. Duval’s son. Dr. Duval, he works at their hospital, you see, so he’s taken care of. And the only time we gets food is when Master Raymond sobers up long enough to ride into town and beg some from his poppa.”

“Dear Lord,” Anjele whispered brokenly, to think how desperate and miserable times had become.

Mammy rocked to and fro, swung her head from side to side as she moaned, “It’s bad around here, real bad, and you shouldn’t’ve even come back, ‘cause if the soldiers catch you, they’ll take you away. I knows they will. Oh Lordy, Miss Anjele, why’d you even come back? There just ain’t nothin’ to come back to.”

Glancing about, Anjele repeated, “I’m not staying long, and I had my reasons for returning.”

“What about when Miss Claudia finds out? She might go screamin’ to the Yankees…”

“I hope I’ll be out of here before that happens.” She started out of the room but turned to plead, “Don’t say a word about me being here, Mammy, understand? Not to Claudia
or
Raymond. I’m going to hurry and get out of here as fast as I can.”

“You ain’t got to worry, but you better get movin’, ‘cause I told you, Miss Claudia, she comes downstairs every day around this time, and if she sees you, there’s gonna be big trouble.”

Anjele hurried on her way, heading in the direction of the study and hoping she would not find Raymond there.

The door was closed, and she reached to open it but froze as torturous memories flashed. She remembered the last time she had gone in there. The horrible sight of her father’s body, and how she’d rushed to kneel beside him. The sudden movement that caused her to turn her head, but too late. The brief, fleeting glimpse of a vaguely familiar face. And finally, a sharp, crashing pain…and merciful oblivion.

She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly as she commanded herself to enter the room. There was no time for haunting nightmares. The past was dead, the present was bleak, and she had to take care of the task at hand and get on with her life.