Twyla nodded. She hadn't thought anything about it at the time, but now she began to wonder.
"And I saw her sneak out the last time we had a party, the night before we went on the boat." Claudia frowned to recall the ugly scene on the dock with Stephen but pushed it aside in favor of the present subject, which she was enjoying immensely. "I imagine she met him that night, too. I think she's probably been sneaking off with him for a long, long time. They surely acted like they knew each other real well," she added with a sneer.
"Would you know this man if you saw him again? We have so many Acadians working here."
Claudia seized the chance for revenge over Gator's so cooly spurning her and lied, "I'm afraid so, Mother. One day when I was riding near the fields, he..." She pretended she could not go on.
Twyla gasped. "He didn't try to touch you, did he?"
"No. But it was the way he looked at me, and he said something to one of the other men, something I couldn't hear, but it had to be nasty, because they were both laughing."
"You should have reported him."
"For what? Talking? Laughing? He would've said it had nothing to do with me. But anyway, I know who he is."
"You know his name?" Twyla turned to clutch her shoulders, gave her a gentle shake. "Tell me."
"I don't know his real name. The Cajuns call him Gator, because of some big fight he once had with an alligator. Somebody said his father is one of the overseers in the cotton fields. I think his name is Leo."
Twyla drew a sharp breath. She knew exactly who Leo was, for Elton had confided his fear that the man was being unnecessarily cruel to some of the slaves. She wasn't surprised he'd have an equally despicable son. "Now, listen to me," she said, still holding onto Claudia, forcing her to meet her steady, burning gaze. "You aren't to say a word to anyone about this, do you hear me?"
Claudia continued her pretense of being embarrassed. "You don't think I want this to spread, do you? I'm so ashamed. If this gets out, no man from a decent family would court me. And what about Raymond?" She pretended to think of him for the first time. "If he hears about this—"
"He won't," Twyla said quickly. "And no one else will, either. I'll take care of it. You just go on as though nothing has happened. And listen to me, Claudia." Her eyes narrowed in warning. "I don't care how angry you get with your sister, you are not to let her know you saw her. Understand? Now, promise me."
Claudia didn't hesitate at another lie. "Believe me, Mother, that's what I want to do more than anything else in this world." She closed her eyes as though to shut out the dreadful image. "Of course I promise. But what do you intend to do?"
Twyla got up and steered her gently to the door. "You let me worry about it, and you go on as though nothing has happened."
When she was alone, Twyla began to pace up and down her room. Why? Why in the name of God had Anjele done such a thing? What had led her to such sin and degradation—and mere months before she was to be a bride?
Think, she commanded her burning brain. Think of what must be done to avoid scandal. Worst of all, what if Anjele fancied herself in love with the Acadian and was planning on running away with him? It had to be stopped, quickly and discreetly.
As always, Elton had left early that morning to make his rounds but was expected for lunch. Instructing Kesia to send him straight to her, Twyla remained in her quarters, not wanting to encounter Anjele lest she lose her temper and ruin her plan. Oh, she was furious! The child had always been willful and stubborn, but Elton had defended her, claiming she was merely independent and spirited.
To move up the wedding date was out of the question, because Twyla now had to face the reality that it was not the time for Anjele to marry anyone. She needed rigid training in obedience to tame that wild, reckless spirit. Otherwise she might be an unfaithful wife, and if gossips found it out, the good name of Sinclair would be ruined.
With a ragged sigh, Twyla acknowledged the only reasonable solution was to send Anjele to a strict girls' boarding school, all the way to England. It wasn't unusual for upper-class families to send their children abroad to study, she reasoned, and though a few eyebrows would be raised over postponement of the wedding, Twyla would merely state a desire for Anjele to be properly educated in order to make the best possible wife for Raymond. She was only sixteen after all.
But first things first, Twyla brooded as she heard the sounds of Elton's footsteps coming down the hall.
Elton listened, face stricken and paling with each word she spoke. When she'd finished, he collapsed in a chair and whispered hoarsely, "I don't believe it. Claudia is lying."
"I thought she might be exaggerating," Twyla admitted, "but I now believe every word was gospel. She was devastated, poor dear. Seeing her sister..." She gave her head a violent shake, refusing to envision such a loathsome sight.
Elton's hurt and horror was rapidly being replaced by a white-hot anger that made him start to tremble all over. His hands gripped the chair so tightly his knuckles whitened, and his teeth clamped together till his jaw began to ache.
Twyla told him of her plan, explaining, "I haven't seen her this morning. She doesn't know she's been found out. I was waiting till I talked to you.
"We have to be careful," she went on, starting to pace about the room again. "First of all, if she does indeed fancy herself in love with this man, and he also cares for her, we can't have the two of them pining for each other, or they'll try to find a way to get together.
"No," she vehemently struck at the air with her fist, "They must despise each other."
Elton slowly nodded, livid. To think of that man, whoever he was, ravishing his beloved daughter... He clenched his fists. Dear God, he could so easily kill him with his bare hands. "You know who he was?" he asked.
"Claudia said his father is one of the overseers. The father's name is Leo."
"Leo!" He made a hissing sound. "I'd about made up my mind to get rid of him, and this does it. I'm going to run him off, and—"
He was getting to his feet, about to burst from the room, but Twyla rushed to push him back down in the chair and kneel before him. Taking his hands in hers and squeezing, she reminded him of her plan. "We can't do something rash out of anger, Elton. Now, listen to me. We're going to make this man think Anjele came to us in hysterics last night, saying he'd raped her."
His gaze snapped to her face, and Twyla recoiled from the scorching fury in his eyes. "Was it?" he challenged, "because I'll kill the bastard, so help me...."
"No, no, it wasn't rape, but frankly, I wish it had been. It'd be less painful if she hadn't done it out of her own free will, but Claudia said she wasn't forced. But you've got to tell Leo that Anjele claimed she was, so his son will hate her for lying. Don't you understand what I'm trying to do?"
He nodded miserably.
"And I'll arrange for Anjele to think she was merely another of his conquests. I'll make up something for her to hear from"—she hesitated, thinking, then snapped her fingers—"those Acadian girls. Simona and Emalee. I'll persuade them to say something about him she'll believe."
"Go to Simona," he advised. "She's in a family way. I've promised her husband a bonus at the end of the season so they can move to a larger place. Tell her if she doesn't cooperate, not only will they not get the money, but I'll run them both out of the bayou. Leave Emalee to her. She'll see she goes along with it.
"And I'll rip that goddamned trellis down with my bare hands," he finished with a roar, leaping to his feet so suddenly Twyla fell backwards.
Righting herself, she was up and after him to block his exit. "You can't do that. We can't let Anjele know we know till after you get rid of that man. Don't you see? She has to slip out to meet him and be hurt not to find him waiting. We let her go a few nights and then let her know we've discovered she's sneaking out. We'll pretend not to know anything else. By that time, she'll be so brokenhearted and devastated over what she's learned from those girls, we'll have no difficulty in spiriting her away to Europe. And
when she does return, she'll have grown into a young lady who can appreciate a fine husband like Raymond."
Later, Elton knew he'd no doubt regret agreeing to send his beloved daughter away but realized there was nothing else to do. "Very well. I'll take care of getting rid of that bastard, and you take care of making Anjele believe it wasn't all a scheme to separate them."
Leo Cody had run all the way to the office when he got the message Master Sinclair wanted to see him at once. Maybe, he'd dared hope as he hurried along in the stifling afternoon heat, he was going to be taken out of the cotton fields, at last, and promoted to the easier job of overseeing the cane harvest.
But the second he walked in, he knew the purpose for summoning him was anything but good news.
Elton was waiting in his private office and had dismissed the other workers so they would be alone.
Harshly, coldly, he demanded verification. "You have a son, don't you? A cane worker?"
Leo was bewildered. He seldom saw Brett, or Gator, as he was now called. They'd never been close, anyway, and since he'd come back from sea to find his mother dead, he seemed to blame him, and the gap between them had grown wider. Yet he'd always been a good worker, and Leo couldn't figure out what was going on but knew that whatever it was, Master Sinclair was mighty riled. "Yes sir," he finally admitted, absently drifting back into the Cajun dialect he'd tried to forget, "I got a son. He never give no one no trouble, so why you upset?"
Elton brought his fists down on the desk so hard it bounced. The cords stood out on his neck, and his eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets. "My daughter said he raped her. Last night. At the sugarhouse. She came home with her clothes in shreds, bruised all over. She says your son did it."
Instinctively, Leo began backing away, twisting his hat in his shaking hands as he swung his head from side to side in panic and denial. "No sir. No sir. Not my boy. He be a good boy. He never do nothin' like that. Not my boy."
"He did!" Elton slammed the desk again and came around it to tower above Leo. "I'll kill him if I see him, Leo. You make sure I don't. The only reason the son of a bitch isn't already hanging from one of those oaks out there is that I want to keep this quiet to protect what's left of my daughter's virtue. I want you to know I thought about hanging you, too, for siring such a rogue."
Leo shrank farther away, but Elton was right on him.
"Yes, Leo, I might kill you, too, and none of the slaves would say a word about it. I've heard stories about your mistreatment of them, and I'm surprised you haven't wound up as gator bait in the swamps before now, despised as you are. Never let me see your face on my land again."
He suddenly grabbed Leo by his shirt and sent him across the room to bounce off the wall and sprawl to the floor. "And you tell your mangy son if he's not out of Bayou Perot by dawn, he's a dead man."
Leo crossed his arms across his face and withered to tears of pleading. "Yes... yes sir, I tell him, all right, but you got no cause to be mad at me—"
Elton grabbed him and gave him a shove that sent him stumbling towards the door. He was right behind him to give him a swift kick that tossed him outside and into the dirt. Whipping out the pistol he always carried, he promised grimly, "If I see you again, or if I hear you've breathed one word of this to anybody else, you're dead, Leo."
Leo crawled, scrambled, stumbled to his feet and broke into a run as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. It was only when he reached the sanctuary of the swamps that he dared slow down. His breathing was ragged, his chest pounding in agony, but no longer from fear. Fear had been replaced by cold rage. Elton Sinclair had no right to take it out on him, by God. He couldn't help what Gator had done.
Damnit, Leo knew he had worked hard to get where he was. And so what if he'd had to drag a few slaves into the bushes and teach them a lesson? At least he hadn't used the cat-o'-nine-tails across their backs, like they deserved, but only because that would leave a scar. Instead, he'd beaten them with his fists, and who could see a bruise on their black skin, anyhow?
No sir. Sinclair had no right to treat him like he did and run him off.
And oh, Lord, he fumed, was he mad at Gator. The job at BelleClair was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and by God, Gator was going to pay for making him lose it.
He kept on going till he reached the shack he shared with a fat woman named Adele. She wasn't much to look at but a fine cook and never refused him in bed. Made a good wine, too, he remembered, taking a jug from the shelf and throwing the cork away as he hooked his thumb around the neck and hoisted it up to his shoulder.
Leo fed his anger with drink, and as soon as he'd dulled a bit of the pain, he was looking forward to retribution. First, he'd take care of Gator, and then he'd get his stuff and get out of the bayou. No need hanging around asking for trouble. But Elton Sinclair, he vowed, would rue the day he'd treated him worse than he'd treat a slave. He'd pay, all right. Someday and somehow, the uppity son of a bitch would pay.
He took his jug and headed for Gator's pirogue to wait for quitting time in the cane fields. He supposed he should have gone straight to get him, but frankly didn't give a damn if Sinclair had seen him and made good his threat. It would save him the trouble of beating Gator to a pulp. But he'd been too scared, himself, and the wine was starting to work its magic.
He could wait.
The clanging of the bell echoed throughout the steaming plantation. Weary, soaked in sweat, the slaves and Cajun workers gratefully made their way toward home.
For Brett, the day had seemed interminably long. He'd found himself wishing for a fine pocket watch, like rich folks carried, so he could see how many hours were left before he'd see Anjele. Instead, he'd had to content himself with watching the blazing sun, calculating the time, reminding himself it really didn't matter. Quitting time wouldn't be till shadows made it almost impossible to see his hand in front of his face.
By the time he got to his pirogue, it was so dark he had to light a fire to see his way to get around. Stripping off his filthy clothes, he climbed into the barrel where he caught rainwater for bathing. A quick washing, clean clothes, and he would be on his way.
His stomach rumbled with hunger, but he wasn't about to take time to fix something to eat. All he had on his mind was holding Anjele in his arms and telling her all there was to know, so there'd be no ghosts. It was the only way he knew to make her believe he loved her. He'd bare his soul and give her his heart.
Frankly, it worried him how she had rushed out into the night. But, after all, it had been her first time with a man, and no doubt she was nervous, frightened. Tonight, however, he intended to make her see she had no reason to be afraid of him, or the future.
He stepped out of the barrel and was reaching for a towel when suddenly the air was split by the crack of leather.
The whip wrapped around his torso in a blinding flash of pain, and he fell to his knees. Before he could react, the whip was jerked back, raking flesh, then popped again—once, twice, crisscrossing his back, the cuts deep and bloody.
It was only on the fourth blow Brett was able to fight his way from the cocoon of agony. He caught the end of the leather thong with his hands, felt flesh painfully splitting but held on and gave a mighty yank. His attacker cried out and tumbled forward into the firelight.
"Poppa, you!" Brett towered over him. "What the hell is going on?"
Leo got to his feet before roaring, "You goddamn fool, have you lost your mind? Raping Sinclair's daughter? I ought to kill you and save him the trouble."
Brett reeled before the astonishing charges. For the moment, pain was forgotten as he grabbed his father and slammed him against the nearest tree. "Talk, damn it! You tell me what this is all about, and do it fast."
Leo repeated everything Sinclair had said, then warned, "You'd best get out of the bayou, or I might get so drunk one night I will kill you. You cost me the best job I ever had, all because you couldn't keep that thing in your pants." Catching Brett off guard, Leo brought
his knee up to smash into his son's crotch.
Brett staggered backwards, and Leo grabbed the whip and started to strike again. Brett rolled away just in time as leather slapped the ground inches from his face. He kicked out, and the old man fell.
Despite the agony ripping through his loins, Brett managed to stand, and in a rasping voice alien even to his own ears, warned, "I don't want to kill you, but if you hit me again, I will." Turning his back, he staggered to where he'd left his clean trousers.
"You better get the hell out," Leo shrieked from where he lay, knowing he was too drunk to defend himself. "I'm tellin' you, you're a dead man."
Brett snatched up a few belongings. His shotgun. Clothes. A side of bacon. A bag of chicory. He stuffed them all into a knapsack. It was pitch-dark, and he was exhausted from working all day and felt as if he were going to throw up from the pain between his legs. But he knew he had to leave—and fast.
He wasn't worried about his father trying to beat him again.
Neither was he worried about Elton Sinclair.
The fact was, he was leaving because he feared what he might do if he laid eyes on Anjele. It was all becoming clear now. When the passion died down, she'd been scared of what she'd done. Probably she had been caught sneaking back into the house. Everything blew up at once, and she had yelled rape to protect herself.
The bitch! He cursed, thinking how he hated her, but hated himself even more for being such a goddamned fool—again. He headed deeper into the bayou with no fear of the night.
His rage would light the way.
Anjele sat beneath the willow, knees hugged against her chest. At first, she had passed the time by thinking of all kinds of reasons Gator was late, but finally she had to face the painful reality that he wasn't coming. There was nothing to do but go home, crawl up the trellis, sneak in her room, and hope for a reasonable explanation later. She didn't dare go into the bayou in search of him, for that would not only be foolish—but also humiliating.
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 12