Anjele thought a moment. Kesia was easily persuaded to look the other way, as long as she didn't get in trouble doing it. Impishly she inquired, "And what might be your plans for the afternoon?"
Kesia knew her for the scamp she was, just as she sympathized for the way Miss Twyla went too far in her determination not to show favoritism between the two girls. Kesia was also well aware of how Miss Claudia was always lying and scheming to cause trouble, only she managed never to get caught. So, feeling sorry for Miss Anjele, Kesia kept her expression stern as she replied, "I'm gonna be in the garden, pickin' peas, that's what I'm gonna be doin', and even though I can't hear you at that piano, I know you gonna be doin' what your momma said for you to do."
With that, she walked away.
"Bless you," Anjele whispered, waiting a moment before also taking her leave.
She headed towards the rear, where the kitchen was separated from the big house because of the danger of fire. The pigeonniers and gardeners' sheds were nearby. Then came the long twin lines of slave cabins—the older ones built of brick, the newer constructed of whitewashed wood.
As she passed, Anjele cheerily waved to the young girls busily weaving dried palmetto fronds into fans.
There were many other buildings, as well—icehouse, laundry, smithy, tannery, gristmill, stables, barn, and dairy.
Farther back, to one side, lay the sprawling cotton fields and cotton gin, to the other, the great, flat fields of cane. Intersected by an elaborate grid of canals, the land could drain surplus water into the swamp at the rear of the plantation, where a second levee had been constructed to hold out the backwater. A bucket-wheel, driven by steam, dipped water from inside the levee at the back and poured it into the swamp.
The sugarhouse was situated at a convenient point for transporting cane from the fields and hogsheads of sugar down to the pier at the river, but was now devoid of activity. Harvesting would not begin for several more months.
Anjele knew where to find Emalee and Simona. It was their task to carry jugs of water out in the fields to the hoe gangs. Amidst the glistening waves of cane, their backs bowed to the unmerciful sun, workers moved slowly up and down the rows, chopping away the choking blades of grass.
Not wanting her father to see her, should he be around, she entered the dark bordering forest and suddenly felt swallowed up by the great phantasmal cascades of moss descending from the huge serpentine limbs of the oaks and pines above. She watched every step, lest a deadly water moccasin be in her path. The way was familiar, for she had skirted along the woods at the edge of the cane fields many times.
As she moved along, she peered out now and then through the foliage, finally spotting the girls, together as always. Waiting till they moved in her direction and were only a few feet away, she called softly.
They did not hesitate. Glancing about to make sure they weren't seen by master, overseer, or drivers, they broke into a run and crashed into the woods, giggling and hugging Anjele in their delight.
"Where you been?" Simona wanted to know. "We not see you for many days. Been prettying up for the beau, eh?"
Anjele made a face. "Not hardly. You know how I feel about getting married." She proceeded to confide the latest incident with Claudia and finished with how she'd managed to sneak away for the afternoon in hopes of persuading them to join her for a swim.
Emalee slapped her on the back. "You no gotta ask twice. What for we waiting?"
Anjele loved to hear the Cajuns talk, for they had their own patois, a delightful combination of archaic French forms with idioms taken mostly from their Indian and Negro neighbors.
Emalee turned to lead the way deeper into the woods, but Anjele happened to glance back toward the cane field, and that was when the stranger caught her eye.
His tanned shoulders were incredibly broad. He was bare chested, his skin bronzed from long hours in the sun, and his muscles gleamed like liquid gold. His waist was narrow; his trousers stretched tight across rock-hard thighs.
Slowly, Anjele tore her fascinated gaze from his body to move upward, only to gasp at the realization that he seemed to be looking right at her. But that wasn't possible, was it? She was swallowed up by the dense foliage between, yet there was the play of a knowing smile on his lips. She saw, too, even from her distance, that it was a nice face, boldly masculine but handsome. His sable hair, thick and long, was pulled back behind his neck. Even from so far, she could see the cool arrogance in his dark, smoldering eyes.
Emalee and Simona continued a few feet before Simona realized Anjele was not following and turned to scold, "Hey, what you waiting for? If the driver see us, we get in big trouble, and he might say we can't work no more this season. What you be lookin' at, anyhow?"
Suddenly embarrassed, Anjele hastened to join her, but Simona strained to look past her and promptly teased, "Ah, you be lookin' at Gator," she flashed a knowing smile. "All the girls, they look at Gator. He very fine to look at, too, no?"
"Very fine," Anjele did not hesitate to agree, surprised to realize she'd never so boldly expressed her feelings about a man before, particularly someone she didn't know. "Who is he? I don't think I've ever seen him around here before."
As they followed the path, Simona confided what little she knew about the enigmatic man known only as Gator. "He just come here a few weeks ago. Somebody said his poppa is an overseer in the cotton fields."
Anjele didn't want to appear interested but for some strange reason felt a burning desire to learn more about the intriguing young man. "Why do they call him Gator?"
Emalee proceeded to explain. "I heard some of the menfolks talking, and they said this Gator, he wrestled a bull alligator when he was only sixteen. It happened someplace else, 'cause he ain't from around here. Anyway, he was out in a swamp, huntin' for hides, but this one, it was maybe twenty feet long, biggest ever seen, and it took him by surprise and dragged him down in the waters. You know gators, they do that with their prey, hold on and drag it down and roll it over and over till it drowns."
Anjele shuddered to imagine such horror but urged, "Go on. What happened?"
"Well, those watching say that fight went on fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. That gator, he kept draggin' the boy down, and finally, he come up, and the gator, he was dead. Ever since, nobody, they say, ever know Gator by any other name."
Anjele marveled, "It's a wonder he's not scarred."
The Cajun girls giggled, and Simona dared suggest, "Maybe he is—where you no can see."
"But maybe where she would like to see," Emalee teased.
Anjele was used to their good-natured bantering and laughed with them.
They left the main trail into the bayou and skirted a levee before making their way to the banks of the secret pond. "Nobody ever find it, because no one ever go around the levee," Simona pointed out happily.
As they had done when they were children, they stripped off all their clothes and dove into the cool water. They swam and splashed and laughed and ducked each other and when they were finally exhausted, stretched out on the grassy bank to bask in the late afternoon sunshine.
Conversation eventually turned to Simona's marriage, as she was always eager to talk about her husband.
With a knowing wink at Anjele, Emalee dared to prod Simona, "Tell us something besides how nice he is. We want to hear how good."
Anjele chimed in to urge her on, and Simona audaciously obliged, describing her personal life in detail.
Anjele listened, entranced, but not without a cold ripple of apprehension moving down her spine as she thought of doing those things with Raymond. To have him touch her that way, and to do that to her body, filled her with dread.
Too soon, it was time to leave, and Anjele was secretly glad, because listening to Simona had depressed her. She became even more dispirited when the girls began to talk excitedly of a party that night.
"Crawfish gumbo," Emalee cried, "and a big turtle stew. The menfolk, they got spirits abrewin', and old Sam, he gonna tune his
fiddle right."
Simona exulted, "Frank, he know the close dancin' they do in Bayou Teche. He teach me, and, oh! We get as hot as the crawfishes and the turtles boilin' in the pots."
This time, Anjele did not join in the laughter, and when they asked what was wrong, she reminded them how she had to miss the birthday ball, adding, "And I'm not jealous over Raymond escorting Claudia. I wasn't even looking forward to being with him anyway. It was just that I wanted to go to a party and have some fun."
With a sage grin, Simona declared, "You got to learn you got to make the good time yourself. Nobody gon' do it for you, my friend. Say!" She snapped her fingers as the reckless idea struck. "How come you can't come to our party tonight? Who's to know if you sneak out?"
Anjele allowed herself to savor the idea. She might never get another chance, and it wouldn't be the first time she had shimmied down the trellis from her balcony to the terrace below, though not since she was a little girl. Still, she knew she could probably do it and get away with it. Her mother and father would both go to the ball to pay their respects to Rebecca and her family and toast her birthday. The Saunders's plantation was an hour's ride away, at least, so they wouldn't be home till nearly midnight.
Simona and Emalee looked at each other in delight, and then Simona spoke the magic words, "We dare you."
At that, Anjele accepted, silently blaming her inability to resist a challenge.
The possibility of seeing the handsome stranger again had nothing to do with it, she told herself, even if thinking about him did provoke a strange, warm rush inside.
Chapter 2
Elton Sinclair knew something was wrong. Twyla had not said a word during the fresh strawberry appetizer. Anjele, also strangely quiet, hardly touched her crawfish bisque. The only one eating with relish and apparently in a good mood was Claudia. Her eyes were glittering, as though she harbored some kind of delicious secret. He hated to ask what was going on. Twyla had a rule against certain subjects at mealtime, and family problems was one of them. Still, the tension was getting the best of him. He held out his glass for a refill of cool muscadine wine as the main course of fried shrimp and collard greens was being brought in, and decided to attempt conversation himself. "Looks like this season's sugar is going to be better than last year's," he announced proudly to no one in particular. "I figure we'll produce over a thousand hogsheads."
Twyla offered a perfunctory smile and murmured tonelessly, "That's nice, dear."
Claudia gasped, "Is that all you've got to say? That it's nice? Mother, each hogshead weighs over a thousand pounds. A thousand hogsheads will be a record for BelleClair."
"I know, I know," Twyla said, adding dully, "I keep the books, Claudia, remember?"
"That's all the more reason for you to be excited." She turned to Elton. "I think it's wonderful, Daddy. Just wonderful."
He glanced uncomfortably at Anjele and realized her mind was a million miles away. What could be preying so heavily? Certainly not romantic woolgathering over Raymond Duval. He suspected she regarded her forthcoming marriage as what it was—the fulfillment of a commitment, as he had done when he married Twyla. But Anjele was still young. She'd settle down, have her own family, and be happy. Whatever was bothering her would smooth itself out.
He tried to concentrate on the food set before him but could not help thinking how he wished Anjele and Raymond would be living at BelleClair after they were married. He'd never had the sons he wanted but was proud of Anjele. A pity her home would be the city, because she'd make a fine planter's wife, like her mother, who found time to be a mother and a hostess, as well as a commander and tutor of the household slaves. She also kept many of his accounts. BelleClair produced hay, beans, Irish potatoes, yams, peas, and raised swine, oxen, horses, mules, sheep, and cattle. Common slaves were involved in sugar making, cobbling, wagon and brick making, along with working the cotton fields. Skilled laborers were abundant—blacksmiths, mechanics, engineers, tanners, cartmen and millers. And Twyla kept up with every bit of it.
It all been started by his father, Leveret Sinclair, who had come to America in the late 1700s to eventually become a prosperous cotton grower. He built the mansion and named it BelleClair.
When Elton had taken over complete control of BelleClair on the death of his father, he shared the philosophy that prime field hands, costing as much as eighteen hundred dollars apiece, should not be committed to the more hazardous tasks. Consequently, he hired Irish immigrant laborers to dig canals and ditches, level forests, and clear wastelands. Finally, it became necessary to hire the Cajuns to help work the fields.
Twyla's father and Leveret had been close friends in Europe. And though Elton had never laid eyes on Twyla till she stepped off the ship in Philadelphia that summer day so long ago, he had fallen in love on sight. Her mother was French, and Twyla, small and dainty, with a radiant smile and dancing brown eyes, charmed everyone she met with her pleasing personality and delightful accent.
All went well, but as the years passed, they experienced a deep void in their lives despite the love growing between them and their life of opulence. They desperately longed for something their love seemed unable to produce, nor wealth able to buy—a child of their own. Elton's two brothers had drowned in a flat-boat accident during flood season one year. He and Twyla were both without siblings and found themselves longing for a large family to fill the huge rooms of the great house. But time went by, and they were sadly not blessed in that way.
When Leveret and then Adelia passed away, Elton and Twyla found themselves even lonelier. No matter that they were surrounded by hundred of slaves and Cajun and Irish workers. They wanted the sound of children's laughter in their world.
Elton glanced at Claudia. Such a pretty girl. So sad she had such a nasty disposition. As a child, she'd had terrible tantrums and would sometimes hold her breath till she passed out. She was demanding, complained constantly, was forever screaming at the servants, and no one liked to be around her. Twyla said Claudia behaved that way because she felt unloved, unwanted, and merely craved attention. Elton disputed that theory as being just the opposite, for it was obvious to everyone around them how Twyla actually deferred to Claudia over her own daughter. And while he would never dare say so, many was the time he wished they had never adopted her. Lord knows, he had tried to love her as his own flesh and blood, and managed to pretend he did, but the harsh reality was—Claudia was just not lovable. But how could they have known such a pernicious disposition existed in an innocent, newborn babe? Their hearts had gone out to the motherless child, and they had been delighted to take her into their home, naming her after her poor, dead mother. Even when they joyfully realized a few months later, after giving up all hope, that their own baby was on the way, they still adored Claudia. It was only when she grew older that she became insufferable.
Elton was well aware Claudia was in love with Raymond and secretly wished she were the one marrying him. At the time the pact had been made between him and Raymond's father, Vinson, a close friend and prominent doctor, Elton had no way of knowing Raymond would ultimately grow up with a disinclination for anything resembling work. Sent to study in Europe, he couldn't make passing marks and had returned within a year. Confessing he'd never wanted to be a doctor, anyway, Raymond further declared he also had no desire to be a planter. He talked his father into staking him to a stable of purebred racehorses and now spent all his time at the courses or gambling on the riverboats.
A servant brought dessert, a tangy-sweet lemon glacé, but Twyla held up her hand to decline coffee afterwards. "We don't have time." With a nod to Claudia, she prompted, "Better hurry, dear."
Claudia excused herself, but Elton did not miss the gloating smile she flashed at Anjele, who ignored it. He was prompted to ask, "Don't you need to be getting ready, too, Angel?"
Claudia, almost through the door, giggled. "She's no angel, Daddy. That's why she's not going. Just ask Mother."
"What's this?" He looked to Twyla for explanat
ion. "What's going on here?"
Anjele listlessly stabbed at the glacé as she listened to her mother dully repeating Claudia's lies.
"She needs to be punished for doing something like that." Twyla sighed, then continued as though Anjele wasn't there. "Frankly, Elton, their bickering is getting worse, and I can't stand it. I wish we'd set the wedding date sooner. Poor Claudia. It's breaking her heart to see Raymond marry someone besides her, but that's the way it has to be. The sooner it's done and Anjele is out of the house, the quicker she'll start to get over it."
Elton knew, somehow, that it hadn't happened the way Twyla described at all. He could not imagine Anjele being so churlish. Turning to her, he softly commanded, "Tell me, Angel. Is what your mother says true?"
Before Anjele could respond, Twyla sharply cried, "Of course it's true. I took the dress away from her myself, and it was soaked. Poor Claudia was beside herself."
Anjele had long ago painfully accepted her mother's favoritism for Claudia and stopped trying to defend herself, as it always proved fruitless. But, in this instance, she could not let her father believe she was guilty of doing something so awful. Drawing a deep breath, she looked him straight in the eye and declared firmly, "No, Daddy, it isn't." She hurriedly described how it had really happened.
Twyla shook her head from side. Finally she admonished, "You're only making things worse, Anjele. Now go to your room."
Elton found himself in quite a dilemma. He believed, without a doubt, Anjele was telling the truth, yet to defend her meant taking sides against his wife. Pressing his fingertips against his temples, he desperately wondered how to keep peace and still do what was right.
Anjele relieved him of that decision. She could sense he believed her, which was all that mattered. Reaching to pat his hand, she whispered, "It's okay, Daddy. It doesn't matter. I really didn't want to go, anyway."
Biting back tears, she promptly excused herself.
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 2