Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  All was quiet as Anjele slipped out of bed at dawn and quickly dressed. Not wanting to be hindered by carrying a large bag, she resolved to worry later about a change of clothing.

  With the jewels tucked into her velvet purse, Anjele picked up her kid gloves and headed for the curving stone steps to the main floor. The case clock at the end of the hall struck six times.

  It was nearly midafternoon when Anjele found herself standing outside the steps leading to Byron Rozelle's flat. She had met him the first year she had arrived in England, at one of Miss Deagon's well-chaperoned tea dances. And, despite the way they were constantly observed, Byron had made no secret of his desire to court her. But even though she had finally made him realize she had no romantic interest in him, or any other young man, they had become friends, and she was confident he would help her now.

  It had begun to rain, a cold, steady drizzle, and she was soaking wet, chilled, and hungry.

  Byron came to his door almost immediately, took one look at her, and burst out laughing, "My word, where's the cat who dragged you in, my dear?" He stepped back, pulling her with him, "Come in and get warm by the fire. I'll get you a brandy, and you can tell me all about it."

  Warily, Anjele allowed him to take the wet cloak and stepped eagerly to the hearth, where a delicious fire was crackling in the grate. Byron disappeared behind a curtain to one side, and she glanced about at the furnishings. They were sparse, but what was there was luxurious and of good taste.

  Soon Anjele was feeling better, for the brandy was doing exactly what it was supposed to, making her feel relaxed and soothed. She was able to tell Byron, without bursting into tears, of her mother's death and her subsequent decision to return to America despite her father's wishes.

  Byron listened quietly, except to offer clucking noises of sympathy now and then.

  "You probably think I've got a nerve asking you to help me," she said finally, "but there's no one else I can turn to."

  "Oh, my dear, dear, Anjele." He bestowed a tender smile as he brushed the damp tendrils of golden-red hair back from her forehead. '"Tis a pity, indeed, you'll never know how happy I could've made you as my wife, and I suppose..." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Persuading you to go to bed with me for a sample is out of the question, but I can bestow a sample of my generosity. You're not to worry. I'll take care of everything. Within a few days, you'll be on a ship bound for the colonies."

  "Colonies." Despite herself, she had to giggle. "We won the war, Byron, remember?"

  "Ah, yes, you did, but I still can't see why you prefer returning to that dreadful place in the midst of yet another war, when you could stay here and marry me."

  Drily she responded, "I'll probably never forgive myself."

  "Probably not." He winked at her.

  She took the tiara and earbobs from her bag and offered, "Take them. They should bring a fair price. You'll be reimbursed."

  He dismissed the notion with an airy wave. "Keep them. Think of me when you wear them. I can take some solace in knowing you won't forget me."

  Anjele was touched and could assure him he would always be fondly, and gratefully, remembered.

  Chapter 12

  Elton Sinclair stared impassively at the cast-iron fence bordering the stately tomb. He didn't know who was buried there, nor did he care. The only reason he had come to the St. Louis cemetery on Basin Street was to see an example of George Masson's work.

  Beside him, George wanted to know, "Well, what do you think, Mr. Sinclair?" He opened the gate with its twining patterns of flowers and oak leaves, waving him to follow with the rolled-up drawings he held. "I've got a nice design worked out for your wife's grave.

  "You know yourself," he went on, "I made good machinery for your sugarhouse, and I knew when decorative ironwork came in demand, I could make a little on it as a sideline. Didn't know it would become such a big business. I was getting orders from all over before the war started."

  Made of imported marble, the tomb Elton had built for his beloved wife at BelleClair resembled a small cathedral, with stained glass windows and a large mahogany door. Now he wanted to make the site even more elaborate by installing an ornate fence.

  "The most popular color now is a light green, like this." George gestured to his newest creation.

  "I like green," Elton murmured tonelessly, "and I like this one." He pointed to a sketch of cane stalks with magnolias intertwined. Swallowing against the rising lump in his throat, he said, "Make it five feet high, and I'll want grids at the windows and across the door. If the damn Yankees do make it to BelleClair, the bastards probably won't blink an eye at grave robbing."

  George bit back a gleeful smile to think of what the cost would be, for he knew money was of no consequence to Elton Sinclair. Not for a while, anyway. Everybody was dubious about the financial future due to the ever-tightening blockade. Nowadays the levees were almost deserted. Everything was scarce, and if he hadn't hoarded a stockpile of metal in his basement, he wouldn't still be in business himself. The Confederacy would be plenty mad to know he hadn't turned it in for making weapons, but George reasoned he had to think of supporting his family first. "I'll get right on it, Mr. Sinclair," he assured, scribbling notes on the paper.

  "Good. That's good." Elton's head bobbed up and down as he began to shuffle away. "Tine sooner the better."

  George shook his head in pity. Mr. Sinclair had obviously taken his wife's passing real hard, and lots of folks were saying it was as if a part of him had died, too.

  He rolled up his drawings. Yes, he felt real sorry for the man—but not enough to cut his price on the ironwork.

  He noticed that Sinclair was taking the long way out of the cemetery, walking aimlessly and in no hurry. George took the shortest path. Cemeteries made him nervous, especially those with the tombs above ground with bushes growing out of them. The idea of roots wrapping around a corpse was creepy, and he shuddered and quickened his pace.

  Elton was tired. It was as though he'd aged twenty years since Twyla died. He sank down on a bench next to a tomb, absently thinking that whoever was inside wouldn't mind if he sat a spell. Staring up at the bare limbs of the twisted oak, he could see the first buds, a sign of spring. He didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. At least Anjele was safe, and his one hope now was that she'd find a good man to marry and take care of her and just stay over there, by God, because Louisiana was going to hell with the rest of the South in the infernal war, and—

  "Elton, you're a hard man to catch up with."

  He looked up into the bearded face of Millard DuBose, his lawyer and lifelong acquaintance.

  Elton stiffened. "Who's looking for me?"

  Millard sat down, instinctively glancing about to ensure there was no one to overhear. It was a gray, overcast day, and few chose to visit the cemetery, so he felt safe in continuing. "We all are, Elton. We need to know you're still one of us."

  At that, Elton flared, "Good Lord, man, I just lost my wife a few weeks ago. I'm in mourning. I'm not thinking about fighting Yankees. Let the young ones march off to war."

  "We're fighting a private war, Elton, and you know it. We talked about it at our first meeting at your place nearly three years ago, remember?"

  Elton sighed. "I remember."

  "You, me and Doc Duval," Millard droned on, "and Seth White and Hardy Maxwell and Tobias Radford and Whitley Coombs. All of us agreed there are ways we can fight the Yankees other than taking up arms. And we've done pretty well, too. We led the takeovers—the Paymaster's Office and the Branch Mint and the Customs House."

  "A lot of good it did," Elton said. "I heard at the market a little while ago that Farragut has left Ship Island and headed for Fort St. Philip. If he takes it, along with Fort Jackson, nothing will prevent his sailing all the way up here."

  "All the more reason you've got to join us," Millard persisted, placing his hand on Elton's knee for emphasis. "If New Orleans does fall to the enemy, we've got to be organized and ready to work in secret to filt
er out news to our forces. We can't just surrender to the bastards."

  "Like Whitley?" Elton had counted Whitley Coombs among his dearest friends. He also knew it had hurt Whitley when his only son left home to go and fight for the Union but he'd never dreamed Whitley would also turn his back on the South.

  Millard frowned. "Yes, that was unfortunate, but when his boy got killed at Manassas, Whitley said he wasn't going to live under the flag that did it."

  "He's still a traitor."

  "Maybe so, but that's all the more reason the rest of us got to stick together. We can't trust just anybody, so we can't take in new people. That's why you're so important to us. Lord knows, we all grieve with you over Twyla, but you haven't been to any of our meetings since last fall."

  "Been busy." Elton looked toward the spire of the cathedral over at Jackson Square as the bells began to peal. He stood in dismissal.

  Millard also rose, his mouth a thin, tight line of annoyance. Losing patience, he snapped, "It wasn't an accident I met you here. I was following you. I was told to find you and tell you there's a meeting tonight, here, as a matter of fact, and the others are going to be very upset if you don't come."

  "Here?" Elton blinked, glancing around at the imposing graves and tombs. "Why here of all places?"

  "Nobody will see us, and with the Yankees pressing closer, we can't take any chances, because the minute they enter the city, there're going to be traitors who'll rush to their side, and we don't want anybody to be able to tell about us. We can't meet at saloons or cafés anymore, and we don't want to involve our families by meeting at each other's houses. The cemetery is the logical place. We can leave our buggies and horses at Jackson Square and walk here. We're going to meet at the Tutwiler tomb. It's the largest after you enter the east gate, three rows in. I was the administrator for the Tutwiler estate, and since they've all died out, I happened to wind up with the key to the mausoleum. It's large enough for all of us to gather in it. Mrs. Tutwiler planned it that way so she could sit and meditate next to her husband's coffin. There's even a rocking chair in there"—he paused to laugh—"but old man Tutwiler outlived her, and I never knew him to visit once. It's perfect for us."

  Elton said they were wise to be careful but added, "I've nothing to contribute to your meeting, Millard. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll bid you good day."

  "Wish you'd reconsider, Elton," George called after him, exasperated. "If everybody has your attitude, we might as well go ahead and surrender!"

  Elton kept on going. It wasn't that he didn't care. He did. Very much. When talk of secession began, he'd been among the most vocal in favor. He had even traveled to Baton Rouge to the Secession Convention to lobby, calling in every favor owed him through the years. And when Louisiana became the sixth Southern state to declare itself independent of the Union, he'd been so ecstatic he'd joined other zealots in securing all United States property.

  And that, he recalled with fun-owed brow, was when he'd found himself involved deeper than he'd intended.

  It had happened when they took over the Branch Mint and Customs House. He had been in the process of counting paper money, so they would know exactly how much they were accountable for, when he noticed a set of strange looking engraving plates. Examining them closer and reading the accompanying print order, he realized the Federal government had been planning to make new paper money printed in green ink, instead of gold. No doubt, they were doing so at other locations, as well.

  At once, he had realized the value of the plates to the Confederacy, for they could be used to print counterfeit Federal money, which could be used to purchase desperately needed supplies, like food and medicine.

  After first glancing about to make sure no one else was in the room, Elton had slipped the plates inside his coat. Lately he had begun to have doubts about the true loyalty of some of his fellow vigilantes and, until he knew who could and couldn't be trusted, he was not taking any chances. He'd say nothing, hide them away, and when the time was right, he'd present them to the right people.

  As far as he knew, it had not been discovered that the plates were even missing. The vigilantes had banished the Federal loyalists working at the Mint, who had hightailed it up North, and no one familiar with the workings of the Mint had been inside to take inventory. That was over a year ago. Elton had said nothing to anyone. And the plates were hidden where no one would ever think to look for them.

  Elton considered himself a staunch supporter of the Confederacy, and not solely because of the slavery issue. By God, he considered the whole damn war an issue of states' rights. Northerners had no business coming down South and telling folks how to live. He felt it should be left up to the voters in each state whether or not they wanted to allow slavery. As far as he was concerned, he'd be willing to pay wages to his Negroes, but then he wouldn't be able to provide free housing, food, clothes, and medical care. They were better off as they were, and they knew it. He'd had no trouble at BelleClair. Never had, and never would—if the Yankees would mind their own damn business, he silently grumbled.

  But in the past months, he'd backed away from involvement in clandestine activities due to his suspicions of a turncoat among their group. Someone he'd always loved and admired. Elton could only hope he was wrong about the man. Time would tell. Meanwhile, he intended to keep his possession of the valuable plates a secret.

  He walked on into the gray and gloomy day, anxious to be done with his business in the city so he could get home before dark and visit Twyla's tomb. 'Twas precious little comfort, to be sure, but it was all he had. How he wished he could bring Anjele home, for he missed her terribly and longed to share his grief with her. But it wasn't safe. Not now. She was better off where she was.

  He hurried from the cemetery and headed toward Jackson Square.

  He did not notice the bedraggled man slumped next to the brick gatepost. There were many beggars around town, most of them hopeless drunks. He avoided their outstretched hands. But this one, Elton failed to observe, did not reach out to him. And had he seen the flash of furious recognition on the man's face, he'd have been chilled to the bone.

  Leo Cody stared at the stoop-shouldered man's back and gave a low, ominous snarl. Reaching into the pocket of his worn denim coat, he quickly uncapped the bottle of whiskey and turned it up to take a big swallow. "Son of a bitch," he savagely whispered. If he'd had the strength to stand, Leo would've leaped to his feet and run after him to grab him and choke him to death, but Leo had been wallowing too long in the gutter of despair. Drunk, he could barely stand, so he contented himself with hurling epithets and threats which Elton Sinclair did not hear.

  It was all Sinclair's fault, Leo brooded, that he'd wound up in the gutters of New Orleans. Nobody would hire him except to do a slave's work in the fields. He'd gone to other planters seeking an overseer's position, but once they contacted Sinclair, who refused to recommend him, he was never hired. So he worked odd jobs, or begged for money to buy whiskey, and thanks to Sinclair, he was a drunken bum.

  "Gonna get you one day, you uppity bastard!" He threw the empty bottle to smash in the cobblestone street. "You'll pay for what you did to Leo Cody. You'll see."

  Elton heard the distant: sound of breaking glass but didn't turn around. He was far too absorbed in his grief and misery to notice anything going on around him.

  But Millard DuBose saw and heard everything. He shook his head and kept on going, anxious to report to the others that they could no longer count on Sinclair to help in the cause.

  Chapter 13

  As the stagecoach rounded the curve, Brett saw the man standing in the middle of the road waving his arms. With a quick glance to assure himself that his rifle was at his feet, he began to slow the team of horses. He didn't like picking up passengers along the way. It wasn't safe. He'd heard of too many wagons being ambushed. He was especially wary since he was making the run alone. When he had left San Francisco, Seth Barlow, who was supposed to be riding shotgun, hadn't showed. Somebody said he wa
s laid up drunk somewhere, with a woman. There wasn't time to look for him. Brett had to stick to his schedule. Unable to find a replacement at the last minute, he'd loaded the passengers and popped leather.

  As he drew closer, he quickly surveyed the barren landscape for any sign of danger. Other than low-growing scrubs, there wasn't anything to conceal waiting bandits.

  One of the passengers stuck his head out the window to demand to know why he was slowing down, at the same time seeing the waiting man. "Hey," he was quick to protest, "there's no more room in here. We can't hardly move now."

  Brett ignored him. The new passenger would ride up above with him, but he didn't feel he owed anyone an explanation. The people on board this trip were irritating, anyway. Usually he'd have one whiner, but all six, four men and two women, had complained since leaving San Francisco. The way stops were primitive, they griped. Food was terrible. He didn't stop for rest and water as often as they wanted. And did he deliberately hit the potholes and rough spots? From sounds drifting up to him, he knew they'd started arguing among themselves, and he was relieved, for they had finally stopped nagging at him.

  The instant he reined the horses in, they all began to scramble out to stretch their legs and, of course, to scrutinize the new addition to their group. Before Brett could even climb down, Alton Jacobs, the man who hadn't wanted to stop, began firing questions at the stranger.

  "What's your name? What are you doing out here, miles from any town? We're particular about who we take on, mister."

  Brett shoved him aside and saw at once the man was no threat. He couldn't be much older than forty, but he had the eyes of a man whose spirit had died. He had big, muscular arms, obviously a hard worker. Yet he seemed old somehow, and his voice, when he spoke, was frail.

  "Name's Adam Barnes. Need to get to St. Louis. I got the money to pay for it."