Violet Fire (6 page)

Mary Louise gasped. “You can't teach him! He's a nigger!”

“Be quiet, Mary Louise,” Grace said sharply. “Go on, Geoffrey, try again, this time from the beginning.”

Proud and excited, Geoffrey flawlessly recited the sequence of the alphabet which Grace had been trying to teach Margaret Anne all afternoon.

“Very, very good. A hundred percent. Do you know what that means?”

He shook his head, grinning with pleasure.

“That means you've gotten every one correct.”

“Every one?”

“Every one. Do you want to learn to read and write, Geoffrey?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't you go to the public school?”

He hung his head. “I got too many chores, ma'am.”

Grace was exhilarated. She would teach Geoffrey to read and write! And she knew, in the precise instant, that there was such a thing as fate after all, and that the reason she had come South was far grander than she had thought—it was to educate, and thus liberate, at least this one little boy.

She thought of all the runaway slaves who had passed through their home in New York on the Underground Railroad before the War, when she had been just a child. Grace had been told what her parents were doing as soon as she was old enough to understand. She had seen them all, even the ones she wasn't supposed to, the ones who had been abused and beaten and starved. Grace didn't think she had forgotten a single, desperate face.

She had been shocked the first time she had realized that most colored people could not read—were not allowed to learn to read. She had been six, and to this day she could remember it so clearly. She had wanted to share her favorite story with a little boy of eight or so, who had picked up the book and opened it, upside down, curiously and uncomprehendingly. Her disappointment that she couldn't share the story with him had been as vast as her shock that he was not allowed to even learn to read. The unfairness of it all had struck her to the core, even then.

Grace's voice trembled. “Why don't you sit down, Geoffrey.”

“No!” Mary Louise shrieked, standing. “My sister and me will not learn with a darkie! I'm going to go tell Mama! You're teaching a nigger to read! You'll be sorry!” She ran for the door, her face white with rage.

Grace leapt to her feet. “Wait, Mary Louise!”

Mary Louise fled.

Grace pressed her hands to her chest. What had she done? Oh, damn her impulsiveness. “Geoffrey, honey,” she said, her hand on his shoulder, “I will see you later. You had better go before Mrs. Barclay gets here.”

His face fell. “Yes ma'am.”

It broke her heart to send him away.

“Are we finished today?” Margaret Anne asked hopefully.

“No we are not,” Grace said, sitting next to her.

Grace spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the blow to fall.

It did not come until much later that evening.

It was eight when she was at last summoned to the library; she went dreading dismissal. Somehow, she had to avert that catastrophe, for her mother's sake.

Louisa was waiting for her imperiously, impatiently, and she was not alone. Grace did not look at Rathe, standing by the mantel, but she could feel his presence.

“Mary Louise says you were teaching Geoffrey to read.” One glance at the mistress of Melrose was enough for Grace to see that she was furious.

Grace began carefully, “He showed tremendous poten—”

“Were you, Miss O'Rourke?”

She took a breath. “Not exactly.”

“My daughter is a liar?” Her voice rose. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were dark.

“He was hanging about, and when Margaret Anne did not know her letters, I asked Geoffrey if he did. And he did. That's all.”

Louisa paced forward. “According to Mary Louise, you invited him in to learn with them. Is that true or not?”

Grace's eyes were steady and unwavering. “Yes.”

“That is not the way we do things down heah,” she said hotly. “This is not New York, Miss O'Rourke. The damn Republicans may have forced schools down our throats, the damn Union League may be tellin' the niggers they've got rights, but down heah, Miss O'Rourke, it's well known that the niggers are not equal and have no
need to learn—even if they could. And they most certainly do not sit as equals with my daughters in my house!”

“The Negroes are free now, and they have every right granted the white man as citizens under the law and the Constitution and—”

“What Miss O'Rourke is sayin',” Rathe drawled smoothly, cutting her off, “is that she is indeed sorry to have so upset you, darlin'.”

“They may be freed men,” Louisa said harshly, “and they may have gotten the right to vote, but they still till
our
soil for us, and if they didn't they'd starve to death, every last one of them! They are still inferior bein's. They certainly have no rights heah at Melrose and you have no right to teach them!”

Grace looked at the floor. She was trembling, her face crimson. She fought her anger at this bigoted woman, and then thought of the victim of this unjust system—a poor little boy who was unusually bright and doomed to life as a sharecropper unless he could rise above his fate. And it could happen! There were educated, literate Negroes out there, fighting for the Republican cause, like the congressman John R. Lynch. She kept her eyes lowered so Louisa Barclay would not see the anger and defiance there. She did not raise them until she had her emotions under control. “Yes ma'am.”

“If I weren't so desperate I would send you packin',” Louisa declared. “But I'm bein' charitable. You are a Yankee, you don't know or understand our ways. Let this be a lesson. You may go now.”

For the first time Grace looked at Rathe. His gaze was steady and sympathetic. He gave her a slight, reassuring smile, then a wink, as if to say, Don't worry, her bark is worse than her bite and we know how to handle her. She was exasperated even more for his taking the situation so lightly—or was it because he had come to her defense? She could certainly fight her own battles—she'd been doing so for years! Giving him a tight-lipped, furious glance, she left with hard, squared shoulders.

“Don't you think you were being a little harsh on her, Louisa?” Rathe asked.

“Oh, fie! She deserved it and worse. How dare she?”

Rathe smiled, thinking that Grace could, and would, dare just about anything. “Why doesn't little Geoff go to school?”

Louisa raised an appalled eyebrow. “I happen to need him around heah. An' damned if I'll let my niggers attend that school!”

“I think it's a good idea,” Rathe drawled, coolly. “You need the boy heah, but he sure could be more helpful if he knew his numbers.”

“Rathe! What do you mean, a good idea teachin' those darkies to read and write? It's bad enough we have to pay the taxes for their damn schools. Look at what's happened to the South with the niggers votin'! Those damn Republican Yankee carpetbaggers are runnin' everythin'!”

“Sweetheart, the coloreds are men and women just like you and me, and no, they're not white, but they're as human as we are,” Rathe chided gently. “I do believe that bemoaning the fact that they are free, with civil rights, is pointless. Don't tell me you wouldn't be happy if the Negroes started voting Democrat.”

Louisa stared, pink and flushed. “You are a traitor, Rathe, aren't you? A damn scalawag! Are you one of them Republicans, too? Did you even fight for the grand old South? Did you?”

“Do you really care which way I vote?” he drawled, mockingly.

“Did you fight for the South?” Her tone was high, strident.

Rathe leaned against the mantel. “The War is over, Louisa. It's been over for ten years. You're hanging on to illusions and dreams. It's time to let go and face reality.”

“Face a carpetbagger reality? Yankee reality? Never!”

Rathe sighed, pushing himself off of the mantel. “Enough. I stopped by because I think I left a letter from New York here.” It was, of course, only a half-truth. He'd
really returned to Melrose to catch a glimpse of Grace O'Rourke.

Louisa stared. Then, softer, “Just tell me, did you or did you not fight for the South?”

“I fought for the South all right, Louisa,” Rathe said expressionlessly. “But for my own reasons. I was sixteen when I killed my first Yank, and you know what? He was younger than I was.” His gaze was diamond-hard.

“Oh, Rathe, I'm sorry,” Louisa cried, coming to him and wrapping herself around him.

He politely disengaged himself from her. “Did you notice that letter, Louisa?”

“Yes, it's upstairs. Rathe, darling, why don't you sit down.” She smiled brightly. “Are you hungry?”

“Is it in your room?” he asked, already striding into the hall.

Louisa followed him. “Yes. Rathe, aren't you going to stay tonight?”

“I'm afraid not.” He bounded up the stairs.

“But you didn't stay last night!” she cried in protest.

Rathe stopped and took her hand. His smile was gentle. “There's a big card game tonight.”

“That's what you said last night.” She pouted.

“Perhaps another time,” he said quietly.

“Promise?”

He just smiled slightly. It wasn't that Rathe hadn't enjoyed the two nights they had spent together since his arrival in Natchez. But now, for some unfathomable reason, he wasn't in the mood for Louisa Barclay. He found her attitude mean and petty and conniving—and he hated the way she had just treated Grace.

Grace. An enticing vision of the redheaded governess came to his mind, spectacles and all. He tried to shrug it away. He remembered how the glasses kept sliding down her little nose, revealing more of her big, violet eyes. Despite the glasses, he had been able to see her anger just now. He had to smile. Grace could bite her tongue with Louisa, but not with him. His smile faded and became a
frown. Now this was silly. Grace absolutely had nothing to do with his not wanting to remain at Melrose tonight.

 

He leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree and gave in to the pleasure of watching her.

It was the next day at noon. Rathe had ridden out to Melrose without questioning the impulse. But he had enough experience with women to know that if he wanted to see Grace, he'd have to avoid Louisa in doing so. The idea of skulking around like a schoolboy amused him somehow, sharpened the adventure. He had found Grace and Geoffrey ensconced in a copse of trees at the center of a little meadow not far from the house. They were sitting on a blanket, both of their heads bent over the slate Geoffrey was working so diligently on. “That is very, very good,” Grace said, her voice rich with pleasure and carrying easily to where he stood not far from them. He liked the sound of her voice. He liked a few other things about her, too.

She had taken off her glasses, and her tight bun had loosened. Strands of curling hair had escaped to frame her face. Now, when she was relaxed and intent on teaching, without those ridiculous spectacles, she was beautiful. Her full mouth, curving in a smile, did something to him. It sent a surge of hot lust to his groin. He looked at her body again as she bent over the slate, the sunlight making her hair glint with gold, and he wished he could dress her in a well-fitted, expensive gown. Amethysts, he thought. He would deck her out in amethysts, too.

He wondered how old she was, and what made a woman like this become a crazy radical.

They were still bent over the slate, Geoffrey practicing his letters as he came forward. Grace leapt up in shock, purple eyes wide. Geoffrey screeched with delight. “It's Mistah Rathe!”

As Geoffrey ran forward to greet him, Rathe watched her relaxed, natural poise disappear. He watched her lips thin, her shoulders square, her slender white hand tuck
away the sensual wisps of hair, the glasses reappear on her little freckled nose. He caught Geoffrey in his arms and lifted him high, swinging him around. “Hello,” he said, over the boy's head, to Grace.

“You're spying!”

He put Geoffrey down. “I saw you coming out here, alone, and I couldn't resist the opportunity of strolling with a beautiful woman,” he teased.

She was on her feet, prepared to do battle. “Your charm will not work with me.”

He cocked a doubtful eyebrow, grinning.

She folded her arms across her chest, trying to look stern when in truth her heart was banging madly in her breast. “Why are you spying on us, Mr. Bragg?”

“Rathe,” he said, softly. “Rathe. I think we know each other well enough for you to call me Rathe.”

She blushed beautifully. “We most certainly do not!”

“Not for my lack of trying.” He grinned.

The blush deepened. “You can try till your dying day,
Mister
Bragg, but it won't change anything.”

His smile was broad. “Is that a challenge?”

She took a breath, suddenly uneasy. “Take it any way you like.”

“Is that an invitation?” He coudn't help it—he imagined “taking” her a dozen different ways. Grace, he saw, was impervious to the innuendo.

“An invitation?” she said blankly. Then, “I suppose you'll be telling Louisa about this?”

“Now why would I do that?” Rathe asked, riffling Geoffrey's hair.

He was pulling at Rathe's big, calloused hand. “Come an' look, Mistah Rathe. Look at my
A
's an'
B
's.”

Rathe laughed at Geoff's enthusiasm and allowed himself to be pulled forward. “Ah ha,” he said, squatting and studying the slate. “Why, I have never seen a finer
A
or
B
in my entire life.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Geoffrey shrieked a cry of gladness, bouncing around in a little jig, while Rathe and Grace's gazes met—hers hard, his soft.

“Don't play with me, Mister Bragg,” Grace finally said, stiffly.

He smiled at her innocent words, imagining vividly how he would like to play with her. He would start by loosening that bun and letting her glorious hair flame free. He stood. “I'm not playing with you, Gracie. When we play, you'll know it.”

She stared blankly, frigidly.

There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she had never been with a man. Her innocence, at her age, with her intellect, was astounding.

“Are you or are you not going to inform on me, Mister Bragg?” she said rigidly.

“Rathe,” he coaxed. “Rathe. And I never tell on a lady.”

This time she understood, and this time she blushed.

He grinned. “I give you my word.”

She raised her chin, her expression one of utter contempt.

It amused him. “You doubt the word of a Texan?”

“I doubt the word of a scoundrel.”

Rathe laughed, a rich rumble of sound. “Then you'll just have to trust me, won't you.”

“I'd rather not.”

Once again, he wondered if her animosity was directed solely at him, or at all men. “Maybe if you tried trusting me, you wouldn't be disappointed.”

She laughed. “You are the last man on this earth that I'd ever trust!”

He was genuinely insulted. “Another challenge? Gracie, I think it's only fair that I warn you,” his gaze held hers, “that I find challenges irresistible.”

She clenched her teeth. “That is your problem, not mine. If you'll excuse us? Geoffrey, come on, we don't have all day. I want to see your
A
's and
B
's again.”

Geoffrey came running and plopped down. Grace made a point of ignoring Rathe, who made no move to leave. She watched her student making near-perfect letters. “Very good. Do you remember what
C
is for?”

“
C
is for cat.”

“That's right. And
C
looks like this. There. Now you do it.”

She watched him make a large, irregular
C
, trying to ignore the man standing with his boot-clad calf in the peripheral range of her right eye. The boot cleaved to thick, but not squat, muscles, and was gleaming with polish. Her eye wandered up to a doeskin-clad knee, lingered at the edge of a powerful thigh. She quickly looked back down as Geoff gave a cry of triumph and shoved the slate at her. “Excellent. Let's see four more.”

“Let me see,” Rathe said, and Grace watched the boot move practically against her arm as he came to stand behind her. She realized, as he bent over her to look down, that she was holding her breath. She exhaled, and it came out in a large rush of sound.

“That is excellent, Geoff,” Rathe said.

He beamed and began enthusiastically making more
C
's.

Grace flinched when she felt a pair of large, warm hands cup her shoulders. It was getting hotter out; she was perspiring. She pulled away, then rose to her feet. “What are you doing?”