Morning Song (4 page)

"What the hell. . . !" The exclamation came from Edwards when Jessie shoved him, but she never once looked back as she fled down the steps and toward the stables. Thus she never had the small satisfaction of realizing that the hand she had pushed him with was the one that had held the cherry tartlet—and her action had smashed the oozing pastry all over the sleeve of his immaculate black coat.

III

It
was dusk when Jessie turned down the long drive that led to the house. Beneath her, Firefly's sleek sorrel hide was flecked with black mud, and her steps were slow even though they were approaching home. Jessie felt a momentary pang of conscience over the wild gallop that had taken them deep into Panther Swamp. At the end, the mud had come almost up to Firefly's hocks, and it had been tough
going making their way back out of the oozing, slimy muck. At Firefly's heels trotted Jasper, the rough-coated, enormous hound of indeterminate parentage who'd been hers since he was a pup. Jasper was even muddier than Firefly, and his tongue hung out, but he'd had a high old time of it chasing possums and squirrels, so Jessie didn't feel too guilty 27

about him. But she did feel bad for Firefly. She should have had more sense than to take the dainty mare to the swamp. However, at the time she'd been too upset to consider consequences. Celia was going to remarry. The notion was so shocking that it seemed unreal. Jessie had wrestled with
the news throughout the course of the afternoon
,
but she was no nearer to accepting it than she had been when she had fled the gallery hours earlier. The idea was simply unthinkable. It was not to be borne. The drive, a dirt lane, was two-pronged, with one branch forming a circle in front of the house and the other leading to the stable. Huge old oaks, already green with new leaves, linked branches overhead to form a canopy all the way to the stable and beyond, to the slave cabins and the overseer's house. Jessie headed Firefly toward the stable. Twin columns of smoke rose from the cookhouse next to the big house and from the communal kitchen in the slave quarters. The pungent smell of hickory smoke scented the air.

As Jessie drew closer to the house, its long mullioned windows illuminated one by one, first in the ground-floor reception rooms and then upstairs, in the family quarters. Sissie, Rosa's young daughter who was being trained to one day take her mother's place as cook, was going from room to room lighting lamps and candles, as was her job each evening. The light from the windows lent a warm glow to the whitewashed brick of which the main part of the house was constructed. Originally built as a solid brick rectangle before the turn of the century, Mimosa had been added to over the years, so that it now formed the shape of a T, with the tail of the T made of pressed cypress and the whole structure painted to conceal the marriage of brick and wood. Twelve imposing Doric columns soared past the second-story 28

gallery to the elaborately carved eaves. Their majesty was complemented by the long flight of steps that fronted the drive and led to the upper portico.

Jessie stopped Firefly and sat back in the saddle, drinking in the familiar sights of home. She loved Mimosa, loved it with a fierceness that she was just now discovering. The plantation had belonged to her mother's family, the Hodges, for generations. When her mother, Elizabeth Hodge, an only child, had married Thomas Lindsay of Virginia, there had apparently never been any question as to where the newlyweds would live. Mimosa would in the natural course of things belong to Elizabeth one day, and the ensuing years would give Josiah Hodge plenty of time to teach his new son-in-law the intricacies of managing an operation that consisted in part of over ten thousand acres of planted cotton, a sawmill, a gristmill, a blacksmithy, and nine hundred and ninety-two adult slaves.

What no one could have foreseen was that Elizabeth Hodge Lindsay would outlive her parents by no more than two years. Thomas Lindsay had remarried a scant year after that—Celia Bradshaw was a pretty little miss he met on a trip to New Orleans— and had died little more than a year later. Still infatuated with his child bride, Thomas had written a will that left Mimosa lock, stock, and barrel to Celia with two provisos: first, that his daughter by Elizabeth, Jessica, be provided with a home for life there if she chose to make use of it; and second, that none of the slaves who belonged to the place at the time of his death be sold.

Jessie had been only nine when her father died, so the leaving of Mimosa to Celia had not bothered her particularly. Mimosa was her home, had always been, would always be, and no legal 29

technicalities about ownership could change that. It had taken the shock of Celia's announcement that afternoon to make clear to Jessie just how uncertain her position was. Somehow she had never foreseen that Celia would remarry—though she should have. Of course she should have. But she'd never really thought about it. Even if she had, she probably would have concluded that Celia liked men, a wide variety of men, too much to settle on one. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand, Jessie had refused to see anything unpleasant. What a fool she had been! And what a fool she had been, upon hearing Celia's news, to even hope for a moment that remarriage might mean that Celia would be leaving.

Of course Celia was not going to leave Mimosa. She owned it. She could bring in a husband or lover or whomever else she chose with impunity, and turn over to him the plantation that should by right of blood and devotion belong to Jessie. Could Celia sell the place? The horrifying idea occurred to Jessie, along with the realization that she didn't know the answer. She'd never thought to inquire. With the blind trust of youth she'd believed that life would go on the way it always had forever. She'd never even considered that things might change until the notion was thrust beneath her nose. Now she was faced with a shattering sense of loss. Mimosa, her home, belonged to Celia, and that was a fact that she was powerless to do anything about. If Celia and her Stuart wed and had children, those children would almost certainly inherit, not she. The thought was agonizing, immobilizing, and not to be borne. Indeed, Jessie didn't mean to bear it. Whatever else she was, Jessica Lindsay was no namby-pamby miss. She was a born fighter, and she meant to fight tooth and nail for her home.

30

Whatever it took, Jessie had decided during the course of the afternoon, she would prevent this marriage, if she had to run Firefly over the top of the prospective groom to do it. The thought of Edwards' immaculate personage trampled in the dust brought a grim smile to Jessie's lips. She would shoot him, if she had to, to preserve her home. But it was likely that nothing so drastic would be required. In all probability she had merely to tell him about Celia's proclivity for men, and he would be so shocked that e would hastily decamp. Jessie hated to be the bearer of tales, but in this case she felt she had no choice. Celia certainly did not deserve her loyalty.

Then Jessie noticed that all the lights in the house were lit, and Jasper had abandoned them to go to the stable and his dinner. With a gentle nudge of her knees Jessie set Firefly in motion again.

There was no need to despair. Celia and her beau weren't wed yet. As the saying went, there was many a slip betwixt cup and lip—and she meant to provide the necessary joggle of the elbow to cause this particular brew to spill.

Progress, thin, bent, and ancient-looking—which he had been for all the years she had known him— stood at the door of the stable, looking anxiously around as Jessie approached. His wrinkled coffee-colored face relaxed visibly when he saw her riding toward him.

" 'Bout time you was gettin' home, Miss Jessie," he greeted her as she drew rein beside him.

"I took her into the swamp, Progress. She's covered with mud, and I'm ashamed of myself." Jessie slid down from the saddle, patted Firefly's neck in contrition, and handed the reins to Progress.

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"I c'n see that, Miss Jessie." Progress would ordinarily have expressed his disapproval with the freedom of one who had been in the family since before Jessie's mother's birth, but since he did not volubly scold her for her foolishness, Jessie realized that he must have heard of her upset. "Don't you worry none, I'll take care of her."

"You heard about Miss Celia." It was as much a sigh as a question. The news would have spread through the house like wildfire, and from there to the stable was a very short step, especially considering that Tudi was Progress's sister.

"Yes'm, I did."

"I'm not going to let it happen, Progress."

"Now, Miss Jessie..."

"I'm not! I'm not, do you hear?" Her voice was fierce. Progress sighed.

"I hear you, Miss Jessie, I hear you. But sometimes there's not a whole lot we c'n do to prevent other folk from doin' what they take it in their minds to do."

"I won't let it happen! I can't, don't you see? Celia never cared anything about Mimosa, and he won't either, and they might even sell it and—"

"You always were one to jump your fences before you got to

'em, Miss Jessie, even as a chile. Miss

Celia's not going to sell Mimosa! Why should she? It's the best cotton producer in the valley, and has been since your grandpa's time. Now, quit borrowin' trouble and run on up to the house and get your supper. Tudi's done been down here three times, lookin'

for you. She's mighty anxious, I c'n tell you."

"But, Progress—"

"Go on, now. Shoo."

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"Oh, all right. I'm going. You give Firefly a warm bran mash, you hear?"

"I will, Miss Jessie. And, uh, lookee here . . . "

"What?" Already several steps on her way, she glanced over her shoulder at him. It wasn't like Progress to be at a loss for words.

"If'n I were you, I'd go get my supper in the cookhouse and then head on up to bed. Send word down to Miss Celia that you're home, so she won't worry none, and just stay out of her way 'til morning."

"Why should I do that? I have some things to say to her." Progress sucked his lower lip thoughtfully. When he spoke, it was with reluctance, as if he was not quite sure of the wisdom of saying what he was about to say. "He's still here—Miss Celia's beau. I don't reckon it'll do you no good to have another quarrel with the pair of 'em tonight."

"Still here!" Jessie's head snapped around and she stared up at the house, her fists clenching at her sides. "Why? Does he think he owns the place already?"

"I don't know whut he thinks, Miss Jessie. I only know that you're gonna cause a heap o' trouble for yourself if you don't . . . Miss Jessie, you keep a civil tongue in your head, now!" This last was called after her in a scolding, beseeching tone as Jessie stalked toward the house without waiting for him to finish. Muttering and shaking his head, Progress watched her go, his hand absently stroking Firefly's muzzle. Then he looked skyward as if for divine help and turned to walk the mare into the stable. Easier to stop the flow of the river than to stop Miss Jessie when she was in a mood.

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Jessie completely forgot about heading for the cookhouse and supper, about her exhaustion and bedraggled appearance. She marched toward the front of the house, stride militant, jaw pugnacious. Her anger, which had cooled over the course of the afternoon, heated again. She would not let that—
interloper
make himself at home in her house without a battle!

They would most likely be in the dining room by this time, sitting down to supper. Celia would want to impress her beau, so the meal would be grand. Just thinking about its probable composition—a ham and yams, or maybe a roast chicken—made Jessie's stomach growl. Until that moment she hadn't even realized she was hungry. Except for the cherry tartlet, most of which had gone to waste, she hadn't eaten at all that day. Jessie climbed the steps, seething, mentally rehearsing the coming confrontation. Visions of her own eloquence and power, and an even more satisfying vision of the vanquished Edwards fleeing from Mimosa never to return, floated tantalizingly in her head. Afterwards, of course, Celia would hate her more than ever, and make her life difficult, but that would be a small price to pay to keep Mimosa safe. Until the next man. . . . But she wouldn't think about that. Maybe, after seeing how horrified this one was once he learned the truth, Celia would give up the notion of remarriage. And if she didn't . . . Well, Jessie could deal with only one calamity at a time.

With the onset of darkness the air had grown cooler, and Jessie might have shivered in her worn-thin gown if she had been in any state to notice the chill. So wrapped up in her own thoughts was she that she was oblivious to the drop in temperature, as well as to the delicate scent of mimosa that wafted on the breeze with the hickory smoke and the aroma of what might have been ham. 34

The chirping of crickets and night birds went unheard. Her thoughts were all concentrated on the coming confrontation— on what she must do to rid Mimosa of the interloper who threatened it.

Thus she didn't notice the bright glow of a cheroot tip on the upper gallery, or the man who leaned against a pillar, smoking, watching her rapid ascent with narrowed eyes.

"Good evening, Miss Lindsay."

The unexpectedness of the soft drawl, coming seemingly out of nowhere, made her whirl toward its source. Since she had just reached the top of the steps, the sudden movement threw her off balance. Jessie teetered wildly for a moment, eyes huge as she quivered on the brink of tumbling down the stairs she had just climbed. Then a hand, grabbing lightning-fast through the darkness to close over her upper arm, saved her. She tumbled forward instead or back, to fall against her rescuer's chest. Her heart pounded from the nearness of her escape. Both hands and forehead rested against his shirtfront, and for a moment she was content to stay that way as she fought to get her breathing under control. The steps were steep, and a fall down them would almost certainly have caused her an injury. He had saved her from that, but then, he had been the cause of her near fall in the first place, so she owed him no gratitude.

He smelled of leather and good cigars. The linen of his shirtfront was smooth beneath her hands. Beneath it his chest felt warm and solid. She was tall, but he was taller by a good head. The breadth of his shoulders dwarfed her own, though she was far from daintily made. Jessie registered all this in a scant few seconds. Then he was releasing his grip on her left arm, wincing and flexing his right hand as though it pained him. Quickly she 35