Anjele thought they would never leave. She stood in the shadows of the veranda waiting for what seemed like forever until, finally, they were on their way. Without hesitation, she climbed down the trellis at the end of the porch, trying to be very careful lest she break the wisteria vines. She didn't dare go through the house, for it might not be Kesia on duty but one of the other slaves who couldn't be cajoled into turning her head and not reporting what she saw.
Fireflies flickered in the misty shadows of the oaks. The night was warm, the air thick with a sweet, loamy smell from the fields, for hoe gangs kept the soil around the cotton and cane freshly turned as they chopped daily at the choking weeds. She could smell the river, too, still muddied and swollen from recent rains.
A quarter moon cast enough light to guide Anjele to the woods behind the slave quarters. Simona was waiting there. Familiar with the intricate trails in and out of the bayou, she was able to move by instinct rather than sight.
"I'm so glad you come." Simona gave her a delighted hug. "I start to worry you afraid, but I should know better. My friend, she never turn from a dare."
Anjele knew she would wish she had if she got caught, and said as much, but Simona laughed at her nervousness. "How you get caught? When they come back from party?"
"Midnight. Mother always comes home by midnight."
"No reason to fear. We make it back in time. What you wearing, anyhow?" She stood back to look, only to frown at the peach-colored cotton dress, at the neckline, embroidered with dainty white rosebuds. She gave a low whistle, and Emalee seemed to appear out of nowhere, carrying a bundle of clothes. Simona hastened to explain, "The older among our people, they don' welcome outsiders. They would 'specially not want master's daughter. The young ones, like us, we have tol' you are cornin', and they be delighted. But, to keep the old ones from bein' upset, maybe makin' you leave for fear of the master bein' mad, we tellin' them you our cousin from Bayou Teche. So, you put on these clothes, and we quick braid you hair. Say nothin' and nobody know nothin'," she finished with a satisfied grin.
When she was ready, both the Cajun girls clapped their hands in delight, satisfied Anjele could pass for one of their own kind.
With Simona leading the way, they moved into the dark forest and the land of the lonely moss-gloomed bayou. Thick with cypress knees, the banks were pitted by crayfish burrows and fiddler crabs. Above, there seemed to be an umbrella of willows and oaks, with funereal streamers of grey, dolorous membranes of moss.
The scant moonlight struggled to lace the way in a sheen of silver, fighting through the heavy masses of foliage. Somewhere in the distance was heard the baleful growl of a bull alligator seeking his mate amidst the living darkness. A few feet away, the water lapped secretly, almost soundlessly, thick with murky shadow.
"Snakes..." Anjele said with a shudder, "I always think about snakes."
Simona sagely said, "And the snake, they think about us, too, and the other way they go... most of the time."
"Most of the time," Anjele mumbled under her breath, straining to see the ground.
The flat-bottom boat was right where they had left it, and Anjele balanced in the middle while Simona and Emalee took their places at either end, rhythmically stabbing the water with long poles. They barely made a sound as they moved through the sluggish water. After awhile, perhaps twenty minutes or so, they could hear the sound of music. Fiddles and banjos and accordions, with merry voices singing along.
Excited, Anjele was ready to leap from the boat the instant they glided up onto the bank.
"Remember," Simona gave a last warning, "the old ones not be happy if they find out who you are. It best you stay in the shadows and jus' watch the fun. We bring you stew and drink and we take you home before late."
Anjele could only nod in agreement, all the while longing to move into the circle of things and savor every moment. Already she could see this was a different kind of party than she'd ever been to before. Everyone was relaxed and enjoying themselves, dressed casually and unconcerned about what anyone else thought. No stiffness or formality. But her eyes really widened when she saw the way some of the men and women were dancing. It was not a waltz or a reel but a kind of bouncing jig, up and down, legs kicking, and every so often they would clutch each other by the waist and whirl round and round till they were giggling with dizziness. But it was the occasional slowness of their movements that truly astounded. The music would suddenly change in tempo to a kind of ringing, undulating beat. The dancers would then stand close together, arms on each other's shoulders, moving only from their waists down. The almost hypnotic way they were staring into each other's eyes was absolutely searing.
Anjele remembered the time Simona had confided how it felt the first time she and her husband made love on their wedding night, how he touched her in secret places that made her feel as though she were burning with fever. Her flesh, she'd said, seemed about to burst into flames.
And the way those people were dancing, Anjele realized, she could almost feel the heat emanating from them, as well.
Instructing Anjele to stand at the edge of the clearing, Simona brought her a bowl of turtle stew and a mug of scuppernong wine, then left to go and join her husband Frank. Emalee at last spied her beau—and Anjele found herself all alone.
At first she enjoyed just watching, for it was a treat to witness such revelry. Never again, she realized, would she be satisfied with staid old balls and tea dances, for she was swishing her hips from side to side in time with the music and soon her feet had even picked up the beat of the jigging rhythm. Setting down the bowl and empty mug, she clapped her hands softly, laughing out loud over the way Frank lifted Simona up in the air and whirled her about till they were both dizzy and drunk with merriment.
The evening wore on, and Anjele became apprehensive that maybe Simona was getting drunk on something besides merrymaking. Frank carried a small jug, even as they danced, and both took turns drinking from it. When the two of them at last stumbled over to where Anjele stood watching, she knew her suspicion was confirmed.
"A good time, eh?" Simona laughed, voice slurred. "You maybe like to dance with my man, no? I loan him to you, but only for a little while."
Frank, his arm around his wife, had a lopsided grin on his face. "Sure, why not? We make fun...." He held out his hand to Anjele.
Anjele knew and liked Frank but wasn't about to dance with him, especially when he was well into his cups. "No, but thank you and maybe another time." To Simona, she said anxiously, "It's getting late. I think we'd better start back."
Simona slapped her shoulder good-naturedly and cried, "You don't got to worry. We have you tucked in bed way before you momma and poppa come home."
She threw herself into Frank's arms, and Anjele could only watch helplessly as they danced and drank their way back into the center of the party.
It was late. She could feel it in her apprehensive bones and knew she had to be getting home or risk her mother coming in to check on her and finding her bed empty. There'd be hell to pay then, for sure. Simona was of no help, because Anjele had no intentions of following a drunken guide in the dense, dangerous bayou, much less get into a boat with her.
Frantically Anjele looked around for Emalee and was relieved to spot her dancing with her beau but appearing sober. Pulling her to the side, she told her about Simona and asked hopefully, "You do know the way out, don't you?"
"Sure," Emalee tried to sound confident. Actually, Simona was the one who knew her way around at night. She merely followed Simona. "Tell you what. I ask my Anton to come, too—" She turned and was stunned to find he had disappeared, melding into the crowd. "He go to get more wine. I find him."
She started to move away, but Anjele grasped her arm.
"There's no time. I've got to get back right away. You've been down that path a thousand times, Emalee. You can do it."
But never at night, alone, Emalee cried within, not about to admit out loud. She knew Anjele well enough to know she'd
strike out by herself if she didn't guide her. And that would be dangerous. Sucking in a deep breath of determination, Emalee said, "I try. If I find the way is forgotten, we turn back, okay?"
Anjele had no intention of turning back, and cursed herself for coming in the first place. "Let's go. Get me to the other side of the water, and I think I can make it from there."
Emalee was trying not to let her fear show, and as they hurried to where the flatboat had been left on the bank, she continued to dart anxious glances all around, hoping to spot Anton so he could take over.
Anjele helped push off the tiny craft, trying not to think about snakes as the cool, dark water closed about her ankles. There was no time to worry about a wet hem, either. She'd tarried too long and every second counted. "Let's go." She jumped in and grabbed up one of the poles and shoved it down into the muddy bottom to give the boat a forward thrust. "You guide up front, and I'll help all I can. It shouldn't take long to cross. Just don't hit any of those cypress knees sticking up out of the water."
Emalee was too scared to speak. Earlier, it had all been an exciting adventure to be out in the dark, but that was when Simona was along, and Simona was much more adept on the water than she.
They moved slowly and fluidly through the silent water, and Emalee, straining to see any ominous shadows of obstruction, probed ahead with her pole.
Anjele realized the girl was terrified and attempted humor to ease the tension. "Don't be poking any alligators with that thing and get them riled. We don't have your gator killer with us to do battle."
Emalee was concentrating on what she was doing but also wanted to talk to ease the fear in her throat. "Gators not supposed to be here. The menfolk, they try to keep it clear, safe. So many of us go this way to and from work in the fields. As for our gator killer, he stay to himself most of the time. That is why you no see him. The girls, they after him. Even the ones who are married. He don' want trouble, so he never come to make merry when they drinkin' the wine."
"Then he isn't married?" Anjele was careful to keep her tone light. It didn't matter, anyway, and she was actually puzzled by her curiosity.
"I don' think so, but no one really know much about him, except for the story of how he got his name." She gave a soft chuckle, "He is one handsome man, no?"
Anjele wasn't about to agree aloud, even though she did secretly, and instead countered, "Why does he wear his hair that way, pulled back like a horse's tail? It's almost like some Indians wear theirs."
"I hear some fishermen wear hair like that, and somebody say Gator's poppa say his boy been away for a long time whaling."
"Whaling? Then..."
She had been about to ask how someone off at sea wound up living in the bayou and working cane fields, when suddenly the boat struck a jutting cypress root Emalee had failed to see. They both screamed as they lost their balance, frantically struggling to right themselves, but Emalee pitched forward into the black water, and the sudden lurch of the boat subsequently tossed Anjele off the side.
The water was not terribly deep but came nearly to their chins. Anjele coughed and spit and clawed at the slime that was clinging to her face. Groping frantically, she tried to find the boat but it had slipped away into the umbra. "Emalee, are you all right?" she called into the night. "Where are you?"
"Here." She was right beside her, voice trembling with hysteria. "The boat... can you find the boat?"
Miserably, Anjele said it was gone.
Emalee wailed, "Hurry. We got to get to dry land, and then we try to make our way back to the others. Got to get out of here—fast."
She started to move away, but Anjele reached out to grab her arm and hold her back. "We're turned around. We don't know which way to go. We could head in the opposite direction and hit a deep spot and be in over our heads. Not to mention all the snakes and other creatures in these waters."
Just then, they both heard it—the sound of something moving ominously close through the marsh.
Emalee squealed. "Oh, God, what we gon' do?"
Swallowing against the rising terror, Anjele cried, "Find a cypress knee, quick, and start climbing—"
"Why not just climb in here?"
They both froze at the sound of the slightly mocking voice that came from out of the darkness.
He had glided his boat right up alongside them.
Feeling the strong hand brush against her shoulder, Anjele quickly grabbed it to accept the lift up to safety. Emalee was right behind her.
Anjele was about to thank her rescuer, but before she could speak, he coldly admonished Emalee, "You should have known better. Both times."
"Both times?" Emalee echoed, sinking down to huddle in the bottom of the boat.
"Yes. Both times. You knew it was dangerous to go out by yourself into the bayou at night, but you never should have brought her here to start with."
Nervously, Emalee attempted to defend herself, "But she our cousin, from Bayou Teche, and—"
"Don't lie to me. I know who she is." His tone was thick with contempt. "Let her risk her own life if she gets bored with her little rich girls' tea parties. Don't bring her here and jeopardize the jobs of our people."
He stabbed the pole down into the murky waters with almost a vengeance to set his craft in motion.
Though grateful for being rescued, Anjele felt indignation rising and protested, "Wait a minute. I don't know who you are, but you've no right to accuse me of purposely endangering my friend's life. And not that it's any of your business, but I happen to have been invited here tonight." She wished she could see his face, but besides the darkness, he stood at the bow with back turned. She could tell only that he was a large man but was puzzled by the absence of Cajun accent.
Suddenly, Emalee surprised her by saying sharply, "He is right. You don' belong. It is Simona's fault. It was her idea."
Anjele was further astonished at the realization that Emalee sounded as though she were about to cry.
"It doesn't matter whose idea it was," he said brusquely. "Learn your lesson or next time you can both feed the gators. I don't have time to rescue stupid little girls."
"Stupid little girls?" Anjele screeched. "You've no right-"
"No. Say nothing." Emalee clutched her arm. "He tell about this, and I be in big trouble. Please. Forget it all."
Anjele bit down on her lip and clenched her fists and told herself to hold her temper. They went the rest of the way in silence, and the instant the craft touched the bank, she bolted to her feet. Bad enough to have to explain why she was soaking wet if her parents were waiting, without having to endure insults from a stranger. She was trembling with rage and wanted only to get away from both of them as fast as possible.
A firm hand clamped down on her arm.
She tried to yank free, but he held fast, and she furiously cried, "What do you think you're doing? Let me go."
"I'm going to see you as far as the fields to make sure you get out of the woods safely."
She ground out the protest between clenched teeth, "I don't need you."
He ignored her and ordered Emalee, "You stay here. I'll be right back." He stepped onto the bank, jerking Anjele along with him.
He walked with swift, sure steps, and she realized he knew the way well. She was too mad to speak and figured it was just as well because he was obviously also angry over having been so inconvenienced.
They reached the edge of the cotton field. "Go now," he thundered, releasing her and giving her a gentle shove forward. "You can make it the rest of the way."
She whirled about to inform him frostily, "I could've made it all the way, with no help from you...." Her voice trailed off.
The slivered moon suddenly peered out from behind a cloud to illumine the world around her, but he was already on his way back.
An involuntary shudder rippled down her spine.
In the silvery glow, she could see that his hair, so dark, was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck.
With shocking clarit
y, she realized just who had delivered her this night.
Chapter 3
All seemed quiet, so Anjele climbed quickly back up the trellis to the veranda and into her room. She had just enough time to peel out of her wet clothes before hearing the sounds of a carriage. Fuming to think how she'd been rudely sent on her way without time to retrieve her own clothing, she shoved her Cajun costume behind a chair. She would have to get her things as soon as possible, lest someone find them and eventually trace them to her.
With quick, jerky, movements, she undid her braids and was able to dive beneath the covers just as her mother opened the door to peer inside.
Satisfied all was well, Twyla retreated, and Anjele was left alone in the silent darkness to breathe a momentary sigh of relief.
Sleep eluded her, however, as she reflected on the evening's excitement—and subsequent anger. No doubt the man called Gator had been confident she wouldn't say a word about the rude way he'd spoken to her, but just who did he think he was, anyway, to pass judgment? And she was still baffled over the way Emalee had sided against her. After all, they had been friends for years.
Finally, sleep won out, but it was troubled, as even her subconscious dwelled on the unpleasantness.
"You got company, missy."
Blinking against the assault of midmorning sun when the heavy drapes were drawn open, Anjele sat up to rub her eyes and groggily ask who on earth was calling at such an ungodly hour.
Jobie held out a pink satin robe. "Master Raymond. Calvin told him nobody was up yet, 'ceptin' Master Sinclair, and he was off to the fields since first light, but Master Raymond, he said he needed to see you, and not to even tell your momma he was here.
"And..." She giggled. "He said 'specially not to tell Miss Claudia, 'cause—" She fell silent to stare with bulging eyes at Anjele's tangled, matted hair. Stepping closer for a better look, she cried, "Lordy, missy, what did you do to your hair? Did you go to bed with it wet? How come?"
Anjele hurried to the dressing alcove, Jobie right on her heels. One look in the mirror evoked a horrified screech. "Oh, no! I can't let anybody see me like this, Jobie. Take the curling iron to the stove out in the kitchen and heat it up quick, and don't tell anybody why you're doing it."
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 3