by Gina Danna
He looked up, peering at her through his spectacles. “Yes ma’am?”
“I’m here to request a withdrawal.”
He raised his brows as he pursed his lips. She figured he remembered her. He slipped her a scrap of paper with a pencil stub. Quickly, she filled in her name and the account it was under, which was also her name.
Staring at the scrap, he glanced up. “And where is Miss Fontaine?”
Her anger started to flare. “I am Miss Jaquita Fontaine.”
She got a questioning glance from him. “And you have verification?”
“I beg your pardon?” Again that questioning her legitimacy. Anger started to boil.
“Is your master here? Or a white person of note?”
Fire exploded in her gut. “I am my own person,”
“Yes, I can see that. But we don’t normally have Blacks, freedmen or not, simply arrive to take this much out at once.”
“Yes, well, I have need of that.”
“Ma’am,” the clerk started when Thomas stepped up.
“Excuse me. I’m Thomas McHenry III, Miss Fontaine’s attorney. This is her account. Now, fulfill her request.”
The clerk glared at Thomas but the lawyer stood his ground. The confidence he exuded was comforting and she found herself taking a side step closer to him. He didn’t back down. The boy behind the podium halfway snarled and yanked her request off the working top, fuming as he stormed off. Thomas never moved.
Jaquita studied him in those few moments. When he’d arrived with Mrs. Wainwright to see her, she doubted what they proposed would work. She had insisted she would just write to her father to clear the issue, but Larissa pushed and Thomas backed her up. Now was the time to move, not months from now when bills were past due and her pantry bare. So they’d arrived here, at the bank, determined to win.
Her lawyer was still the most handsome man she’d seen earlier at the market and at the abolitionist hall that night. Even now, in a totally formal occasion, when his professional services were used, he was so dapper, she found her heart skipped a beat. She shut her eyes, working hard to refocus on why she was here to start with. Money. Her money.
The clerk returned with a tied envelope and handed it to Thomas. But Thomas refused to take it.
“I’m not Miss Fontaine.”
The clerk’s cheeks flamed as his eyes narrowed. With sharp move, he dropped it on the countertop in front of Jaquita without saying a word. His abruptness, the rudeness he displayed infuriated her until she grasped the package and it hit her, she’d won. A sly smile inched across her lips despite her trying to maintain her stoic stance.
“Thank you.” She looked at Thomas and caught the glimmer in his eyes, making her smile burst out. She spun to face the door, the swish of her skirts audible in the now quiet lobby and she walked out, back straight, shoulders stiff, fighting to keep herself from dancing.
Outside the door, on the steps to the bank, she couldn’t contain it any longer and squealed with delight as she clutched her envelope tightly. A male laugh behind her made her turn and find her lawyer grinning.
“Well done, Miss Fontaine.”
“Mr. McHenry, thank you for assisting me.” Her cheeks warmed and she hoped she didn’t blush as badly as the heat indicated.
He crinkled his nose. “You did all the work. Considering how determined you were, he had no choice. I was just there in case you needed it.”
“You’re very sweet. I tend to think otherwise, that your presence got the point home. And for that, I’d like to thank you.” She knew he was aware that with him at her side, the clerk could not argue against her. The gleam in his dark gaze told her he knew it.
“You are welcome.”
“So what do I owe you for this representation?”
He frowned as he offered her his arm, which she took and started walking her down the street. “Owe me? I don’t think anything in money.”
“No? Since when does a lawyer refuse payment?”
He laughed. It was a deep and seductive laugh, one that pulled her closer. “Okay. How about if I settle for dinner with you?”
That surprised her. “Dinner?” Her voice broke and she mentally stomped her foot at that.
“Well, it’s past tea, and late afternoon. Unless you have other plans, I think it would be delightful to dine with you. Maybe consider it a late ‘tea’ plus.” His grin was enticing. Part of her yelled ‘no’ while ‘yes’ was more forceful.
“You, Mr. McHenry, are quite the persuader.”
He stopped, a winning grin across his face. “Excellent. And here we are. McLaughlin’s Club.”
She spun a glance at the building they were in front of, realizing she’d paid no notice where they were walking. It was a three-story brick building with stairs leading up to the double-wide black doors with huge brass knockers on the center of each.
“Club? With a name like that, my father would laugh while still stating that was not a place for ladies.”
“Understandable. But it is a fine establishment for dining and opened to all.” A devilish look came to his face. “Shall we?”
Not sure if she would regret this caving to the devil, or enjoy more time with this handsome lawyer, Jaquita gave a nod, giving into his infectious grin and praying she came out alive.
Chapter 8
“You are green, it is true, but they are green, also; you are all green alike.”
—Abraham Lincoln response to Union field commander, General Irvin McDowell on the Federal troops early in the war. July 1861
Thomas hadn’t planned to take her to eat. He hadn’t planned to do anything other than get her access to her money. An easy job, he decided, and not one to take all his day, which was already crammed with work. But it got him out of the office and eliminated any chance Allison would find him if she so happened to be ‘in the area’, which was her latest scheme to see him. He decided that might make him a scoundrel to avoid the woman, and perhaps in reality he was, but his anger over his father pressuring him to marry her was slowly killing any desire to see her at all.
Jaquita was another story. When he saw her again, dressed so fine in that lovely yellow gown with its brown ruffles and ribbons, he knew this woman was enticing his attentions more and more.
Inside the Club, he took her to one of the tables, not far from the French doors that led out to the small garden outside guests could retire too. He wanted to be close to the sun that poured in there, so he could enjoy the sparkle of color off her entrancing bluish-brown eyes. As he held her chair, a wicked sense of winning raced through him. It was a feeling that escaped him as to why, so he did his best to dampen it, though his heartbeat jumbled nonetheless.
As their tea and cakes were served, he asked, “So you’re a Fontaine?”
She raised her brows as she bit into the tea cake. He couldn’t tell if she was mad or surprised, or maybe even annoyed he asked her.
“Yes. My father is Pierre Fontaine from Bellefountaine Plantation in Louisiana.”
That’s what he’d guessed. “So he does claim you as his child?”
“Yes.” She took a sip of her tea. “Why?”
He sat back. “Many slave owners who father children with a bondswoman rarely acknowledge them, though most everyone knows. You father is different.”
“Oui. He favored my mother. But she died when I was very young so he had me raised with his other children. Not entirely unusual. Many times, the white children do play with the slave children, until we all reach the age of knowing our position, as it were.” She shrugged. “While the slave children then are separated from the play and move into their future roles on the farm, I was left with my father’s other children.”
“Fascinating.” She had his attention, that was for sure. “So you know how to read and write as well.”
A flash of anger shot across her eyes and faded fast, though the tight jawline remained. “Yes, I know how to read and write and do arithmetic. I was taught how to run a house, just
like my white sister was.” She put her tea cup down and the china chimed from the forced action. “You’re going to tell me you’ve never met an educated Black woman before?”
He cocked his head to the side, still trying to figure just how mad he’d made her. “I’ve met a few. Not with the background and resources you have.”
“Mais, oui, though that did me no good at the bank.” She dabbed at her lips, hiding her moving them as she spewed in French into it.
“I beg your pardon? Was that French?” Her hiding the swear word made him want to laugh.
She blushed. “Oui. I know the tongue. My father and his wife are Creole. They had their white children learn it, and since I was there.” She shrugged.
“What did you say?” He wanted to hear her say it.
“It wasn’t nice.”
“Even better to tell me,” he pushed.
“Connard.”
He laughed. “I can be.”
“You speak French?” She looked shocked.
“Here, in New York state, there’s French just north of us in Canada. Many times, we have clients who have situations with them, so…” He let it slide, took a sip of tea and then asked, “Say something more in French.”
“Why?” She pulled her fan out and started using it.
“Because I love the way it sounds when you speak it.”
She now blushed deep red that made her skin glow. Damn, she was beautiful!
“Thomas, what a surprise!”
Instantly, Thomas tightened. Allison. He hadn’t noticed her entering. Her excitement only amplified her voice and he recognized it. He stood but so wanted to bite the inside his bottom lip to hold back from making a face that reflected his feelings.
“Miss Lancaster, how nice to see you.” He couldn’t be rude, though the thought did cross his mind. She sat next to their table, her close friend, Miss Crosslake, next to her. That woman didn’t like him, but that was fine with him because he didn’t care a wit for her either.
“Oh, Thomas, don’t be so formal!” Allison insisted. “I’m just surprised to see you here, and so late in the day.” She turned and saw Jaquita and her whole face changed to surprise and shock.
“I didn’t know you had company,” she stated, her voice edging on jealousy.
“Well, you surprised us. I hadn’t had time to introduce you. This is my client, Miss Fontaine. Miss Fontaine, this is Miss Lancaster, and her friend Miss Crosslake.”
Jaquita nodded. “Nice to meet you.” Her tone was flat.
“I would say the same.” She turned to Thomas. “You take clients to late tea?”
“Miss Lancaster, yes I do when we are discussing her situation.” He clouded his main reason was to know her. Somehow, he bet that’s not what Allison would like. He so wanted to snicker but fought against it.
Allison, though, maintained her cheerfulness, despite the hurt that flashed in her eyes. Her friend, though, gave him a hard look, as if he had betrayed Allison.
“Thomas, it was great to see you. And nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Fontaine.” She glanced at her friend. “Miss Crosslake and I must leave. Good bye.”
“Miss Lancaster,” he tipped his head down as she spun, her skirt and crinoline swirling in her fast pace to leave, with her friend not far behind. Once she was gone, he sat back down. Looking across the table, he found Jaquita with a raised brow. “Allison is a good friend of the family.”
His guest looked down her nose at him, her questioning gaze now harder. “Mr. McHenry, that lady is more than a friend of the family.”
This was the last thing he wanted to delve into. “Perhaps, though, if you would be so kind, I’d rather we picked up where we were before our interruption.” He grinned, hoping his countenance might change her mood. “Now, please, say something more in French.”
Jaquita snorted. “Maybe another time. As it is, we should go. Our tea has turned cold.”
For once in his life, he wanted to protest loudly that he didn’t want to go because that meant their time together was over. Inwardly dismayed, he nodded in agreement, but right as he put his napkin down, another idea hit him. He stood and moved her chair for her to get up. As she took his arm, he walked her to the door.
“I’d like to see you again. Strictly to discuss the strategy on your banking and,” he winked. “To hear your French. You know, it is divine when mixed with your Southern accent.”
She laughed. “Mais oui, monsieur.”
His heart filled with joy. She was stealing his heart.
2 days later
* * *
Clarence walked back to the kitchen, parched and looking for water. Plus, he was pulled back to talk to Aunt Lila. Too much of what he saw disturbed him, but then again, he might be wrong and he believed the cook was the only other servant who would listen.
Of course, when he arrived in the cooking area, she wasn’t there. He grumbled as he searched for a cup and found the pitcher.
“And what are you doing in my kitchen?”
Clarence smiled as he took a sip. Aunt Lila. She always claimed the kitchen hers, though she had been promoted beyond its realm to manage the house itself.
“My throat was parched.” He drank more.
“You’ll get yourself all sick swallowing it like a drowning man!” She pulled the cup from his grasp. “Tsk, tsk!” she poured from another pitcher, one to the left, with the cheesecloth over the opening. “Drink this.”
He snorted before he downed the raspberry vinegar tainted water. “Vile stuff,” he determined.
“Maybe, but it’ll make sure your innards sit right.” She yanked an apple from the bowl in front of her and began slicing. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.”
“You know me too well.”
She hummed but didn’t stop eying him in a questioning state.
“Have you seen our little girl?” He took another sip, trying not to gag on the vinegar taste.
“Miss Jaquita is not ‘our little girl’, but no, I haven’t.” She busied herself, now sifting flour with a touch of salt for a crust, he figured, considering the number of apples she had cut.
“She just as well is,” he argued back. “She’s young enough and naïve enough, too much so for this here town. Wolves wait at every stop for a fawn like her.”
Aunt Lila laughed. “Perhaps you’re right. But what has you so concerned? Ain’t no wolves in this house.”
“No, but there’s the type that take her time.”
“What would you have her do? Wait here till she’s ‘old enough’ you’d let her lose? Stay in this big old house, gardening out there like a house slave?” She kneaded the dough. “When she was caught doin’ so, how the town’s best here thinkin’ poorly of her. No, she’s better keeping busy.”
“But not with the likes of him.” There, he said it. When Aunt Lila looked up with a frown, he knew he’d hit the point dead on. “Oh, you ain’t been seein’ who she’s been tooling with? That lawyer.”
Aunt Lila swallowed and went back to her dough. “Mr. McHenry. He’s a good man. Part of the abolition group. He got her access to her bank account and been showing her how to deal with issues—”
“Has he now?”
She looked at him, surprised he interrupted her, but he had to. He shook his head.
“He’s no good for her.”
At that, the cook chuckled. “He’s a lawyer. They generally are rather drab fellows, but at least he is dapper in looks to make up for the dullness.” She wiped her hands and reached over to squeeze his hand. “It is okay.”
“She should be lookin’ at helpin’ the Society.” There, he said it.
“Rather bold remark from a man who never attends a meeting.”
“Don’t like the people goin’. You know most those white folk don’t care. Just fashionable to be part of it.” Even hearing his argument in his head, he sounded rightly daft, but he really believed all of what he stated.
“Even Mrs. Wainwright? Or Mrs. Douge? O
r half as many more I could name? And what of Jeremiah? He ran all the way north to escape slavery, or do you think all those marks on his back or the one on his face are just made up?”
“No, I reckon not.” The small nick near his eye was obvious to see, but the ones on his back were shown one night at the meeting. Clarence wasn’t there, but it was the talk of the house since several of the staff had gone.
“So if you don’t like the people there, why do you think Miss Jaquita should go?”
“’Cause she’s one of us, and from the South and got money. All the running in the world won’t change the laws. We both know that.” He wiped his mouth. Spitting the words out fast left spittle. “Takes money.”
“Yes, money and who you know.” Aunt Lila finished patting the crust down into the pie pan. “And her knowing Mr. McHenry is the type of connections needed, so leave them be. It’s not like they’re eloping.”
Clarence choked on his drink. “Good heavens, let’s hope not!”
Chapter 9
“All the indications are that this treasonable inflammation—secessionitis—keeps on making stead progress, week by week.”
—George Templeton Strong, Wall Street attorney, Spring 1861
Jaquita plucked another strawberry off the dish before her and sucked it into her mouth. Thomas, sitting across from her, laughed. She loved his laughs so she found herself doing silly things like this, of taking a berry off the dessert in front of her with her fingers, and plopping it in between her lips. It was like she had no manners but at the moment, she decided she didn’t care. She was enjoying her time with him.
Thomas leaned forward and wiped the cream off her lips. “They may ask us to leave if you continue this behavior.”
“I doubt that.” She looked down, trying to look contrite but it didn’t last.