Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  "Maybe I'll get him at the tomb."

  "I leave the place up to you, but I want it done late Saturday, then bring what he gives you to me."

  "And what's that?"

  The Voice decided to tell him. He was going to find out, anyway, when Elton handed them to him. "Engraving plates, used to print money for the Federal government, and if they fall into the hands of the Confederacy, the results could be disastrous."

  "Well, I don't give a damn about that." Leo laughed. "Only what you pay me. If I get them plates, you'll pay me extra, right?"

  "You'll be rewarded for a job well done. Now go. And don't fail me."

  "I won't." Leo stuffed his money in his pocket and broke into a run, anxious to get away from the cemetery.

  He had thought about hanging around, hiding, waiting to see the man behind the voice when he emerged from the mausoleum.

  But something told him he was better off not knowing.

  Chapter 18

  Anjele had never dreamed she would socialize with Yankees. Had it not been for her father's plea for her to take her mother's place, she would never have consented. And to make matters worse, Claudia's new so-called friend, Elisabeth Hembree, and Anjele's nemesis, Major Hembree, had taken over the home of Drusilla and Hardy Maxwell, close friends of her family.

  "Where did Miss Drusilla and Mister Herbert go?" Anjele asked her father between clenched teeth as they made their way up the wide steps to the two-story mansion.

  Claudia, behind them, impatiently having to wait for Raymond to maneuver the steps with his cane, spoke up before Elton had a chance. "They live in the basement. Elisabeth let them stay on so Drusilla could be her housekeeper. She doesn't trust Negroes. Hardy, I understand, still works at the bank, only he's handling strictly Federal money now," she added, amused by the irony.

  Anjele, her hand tucked in the crook of her father's arm, felt him tense. Not only must it be terrible for him to think of lifelong friends being so humiliated as to be relegated to living in the basement of their own home, but the reality of Claudia's obviously moving over to the side of the enemy had to be heartbreaking. Anjele wasn't really surprised.

  "We won't stay any longer than necessary," Elton whispered to Anjele. "I heard late this afternoon General Butler won't be here, and frankly I doubt he was ever expected. The Yankees just wanted to humiliate us by forcing us to socialize with them."

  "But there are those among us who are tickled to death to be invited." She meant Claudia, and he knew it.

  "Well, grit your teeth and don't let them make you mad, Angel." He patted her hand. "That's what they want, to get us riled so they can single out potential troublemakers."

  She promised they'd not have the satisfaction.

  Major Hembree stood in the receiving line, wearing full dress uniform—dark blue coat, double rows of brass buttons, gold epaulets. His silver scabbard hung on his left side, a red tasseled sash about his waist. The trousers were light blue with gold stripes down the sides.

  Anjele tried not to frown as she looked his wife over and recognized Effie Lauteur's work in the elegant white silk taffeta gown.

  Anjele, respectfully in mourning despite being obliged to attend a social function, wore a sedate gown of black bombazine. Claudia, however, had rebelliously stated she had no intentions of being so drab and morbid.

  Major Hembree recognized Anjele right away. He turned to whisper to his wife, who listened with a frown, then joined him in a scornful glare as he greeted Anjele by remarking, "I hope it's nice to see you."

  "And I hope it's nice to be here," she fired back.

  A few moments later, she begged her father, "Can we go now? I can't stand all this."

  "I'm afraid not. It would be rude. Let's have some refreshments...." He blanched at the sight of Drusilla Maxwell, in the gray costume of housekeeper, doggedly placing trays of food on a table. "Dear Lord," he said under his breath.

  Anjele caught his arm as he started towards her. "Do you think we should? I mean, it might embarrass her if we speak to her."

  Just then Drusilla looked up as though she'd been expecting them. After quickly making sure no one was looking, she motioned them to follow her to the service hallway. Tearfully, she hugged them both before urging, "Tell any of our friends you see here they're not to be embarrassed for me, but it might be best if they ignored me. It..." She stammered, unnerved, "It makes it harder for me.

  "And of course," she added bitterly, "it's what they want, to make all of us feel like fools, break our spirits so we'll bow down and accept things and not make any trouble."

  "What is really going on?" Elton was anxious to find out. "We stay out of town as much as possible, so we don't get much information."

  "Some of the widows worried about losing everything are ingratiating themselves with the officers' wives," she said angrily. "And Hardy was telling me the cane growers are coming in and fraternizing with Federal provost marshals in hopes of getting favors, like help in keeping the slaves under control and working, so they can get this year's crop in. Everybody pretty much believes once General Butler gets settled, he'll come up with some kind of law that says all the field workers have to be paid wages.

  "And"—she paused to shake her head in dismay—"I guess you heard General Butler had that man who yanked down a Union flag hanged."

  Not having heard, Anjele gasped in horror, but Elton nodded, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  Drusilla rushed to explain her real reason for drawing them away from the party. "Hardy said if I saw you here, to ask you to please slip down in the basement. He's wanting to talk to you. Says it's important."

  Elton sighed and reluctantly agreed. He told Anjele to go back to the party, promising he wouldn't be long. He didn't want to see Hardy but decided to get it over with, worried that if he didn't, Hardy might go to BelleClair, and Elton didn't want that. He intended to mind his own business, in hopes the Yankees would leave him and his plantation alone. It was wishful thinking, but in his misery since Twyla died, it was all he had to hope for. And not merely for his sake, for had Anjele stayed where she was, he wouldn't care what happened anymore. For her sake, he sought survival.

  He knew how to get to the cellar, for one of their earlier secret meetings had been held there. Quietly he slipped out the back door, groping his way in the darkness behind thick shrubs to the wooden doors covering narrow steps leading downward. He picked his way carefully.

  Hardy heard him coming and was waiting. The air smelled sour, for cellars in New Orleans were a rarity, and those who dared have them knew the consequences of constant dampness. Elton grimaced to think that Hardy had never imagined he'd one day be forced to live in his.

  They shook hands, Elton reminding Hardy he didn't have much time.

  "This won't take long. I thought you should know they're asking questions about the Mint takeover."

  Elton tensed. "Why? They've got control now. What difference does it make who was responsible? Besides, what's there to worry about? We all wore masks, and the officials running the place hightailed it north once we turned them loose. All we did was shut the place down."

  "They've taken inventory."

  "So? We didn't steal any money," Elton said. "The takeover was merely a statement, a demonstration of secession."

  "I know, but they're claiming a set of engraving plates is missing. New ones. If they'd known about it, they wouldn't have printed a hundred and fifty million new greenbacks at another mint. They could have stopped circulation. Now it's too late. If the plates fall into the hands of the Confederacy, it could be economically disastrous."

  "Ye Gods, man," Elton roared, "which side are you on?"

  Hardy withered before his blazing glare, but only for a moment. Smothered by his surroundings as a reminder of what the war had already cost him, he lashed out, "You aren't living in a cellar, Sinclair. And your wife isn't slaving for the Yankees in her own home. What you and I and the others tried to do all those months in secret meetings didn't work. There'
s no way we can help the Confederacy now. Like it or not, we're part of the Union again.

  "We can't beat them," he went on, lowering his voice as he remembered what was going on right above them. "So we have to find a way to join them, in a way that will still give us our self-respect. Some of the sugar growers are even talking about forming a conservative wing of a Unionist group in an attempt to restore Louisiana to the Union while the war is still going on."

  "That's absurd."

  "Not when you think about it. They plan to ask for two things—keeping slavery and having representation in the state legislature based on total population, which would, of course, give most of the power to the black-belt parishes—the slaveowners."

  "It won't happen," Elton predicted.

  "It can, and it will, if they don't consider us Rebels, which they will"—he warned—"if they find out we were part of the takeover of the Mint and one of us did, in fact, steal those plates for the Confederacy."

  "I'm no longer a part of any of this. All I want is peace for my family and my plantation. If any of you try to say I was involved in that takeover, I'll deny it."

  Hardy sneered. "Nobody is admitting anything. But you don't come to our meetings anymore, and you don't know what's going on. I was stupid enough to think you cared, but you don't."

  "That's right. Now if that's all you wanted, I need to be getting back upstairs before I'm missed."

  "Yes, that's all," Hardy said in disgust.

  Anjele was miserable, but Claudia was happily dancing the night away in the arms of Union soldiers. She felt so sorry for Raymond, who was forced to watch, standing beside her and leaning on his cane.

  "See the way those bluebellies keep looking over here and smirking? They figure I got this bad leg from the war, and they're goading me by showing me they can dance with my wife, and I can't."

  Anjele soothed, "Don't let them get you riled. That's what they want. Pretend you don't care."

  "I don't."

  Anjele wasn't surprised but made no comment.

  With a catch in his throat, he murmured, "You're the only woman I ever wanted to dance with, the only woman I ever wanted for my wife. I was such a fool. I always took it for granted, 'cause you were promised to me, but I see now I should've tried harder to make you love me as I loved you, and you wouldn't have turned to another, and—"

  "Raymond, stop it!" she chided, awash with annoyance, as well as pity for the way he bared his soul. Softening her tone, not wanting to deepen his hurt, she urged, "Let the past be. You can't change it, and neither can I, though God knows I would if I could...."

  "Anjele," he said, turning to stare in wonder. "Do you mean to say—"

  "No!" She quickly dashed his hopes, "You misunderstand. I'd like to be your friend, but you're making it hard when you say such things. I'm sorry you aren't happy with Claudia, but you shouldn't tell me about it. Don't you see that?" she implored.

  Just then her father appeared at her side to say, loud enough for those nearby to overhear, "I'm so sorry about your headache. I can tell you're feeling worse. As much as I hate to leave, I think we'd better."

  Anjele grabbed the bait. With fingertips pressed to her forehead, she murmured, "I know. I feel as if I might swoon any second."

  Grasping her arm, motioning to Raymond, Elton led the way to offer apologies to their hostess.

  Elisabeth Hembree's dark eyes glittered with suspicion. With feigned compassion, she told Anjele, "I'm so sorry you aren't feeling well. By all means, run along."

  "Do invite us again," Anjele went along with the pretense of being cordial. "We had a lovely time. You're a wonderful hostess. We Southerners have much to learn from you Northern ladies."

  Their eyes met, held, each aware of the other's contempt.

  Raymond had gone to inform Claudia they were leaving, and she ran up breathlessly to protest. "We can't leave now. It would be rude."

  "Your sister doesn't feel well," Elisabeth Hembree told her.

  "Well, that doesn't mean we have to leave, Raymond," Claudia whirled on him. "We can borrow a carriage from your father and go home later."

  He tried to sound genuinely disappointed. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be safe for just the two of us to be on the road so late."

  Visibly disappointed, Claudia's lower lip began to tremble. Elisabeth promptly intervened by putting a comforting arm about her waist and offering, "You two can stay here tonight."

  Claudia clapped her hands together in little-girl fashion, bouncing up and down and exclaiming, "Wonderful. We'd love to, and if you-all will excuse me, Captain Barlow has this dance." She skipped back into the ballroom without a backward glance.

  "I can't leave her." Raymond said after Elisabeth left them. "But we won't stay the night here. We'll go to my parents."

  Impulsively, for she felt so terribly sorry for him, Anjele kissed his cheek in parting.

  Claudia, in the midst of a sweeping waltz, turned just in time to see and drew a sharp breath of anger.

  Lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage, Anjele fell asleep, awakened only by her father's gentle shaking. "We're home, honey," he said.

  Wilbur the butler was waiting, as always, for their return. Anjele turned towards the curving stairs and heard her father tell him as he handed over his coat, "I'm going to be in the study for a while, but you can go on out to your cabin now, Wilbur. I won't be needing you."

  Anjele turned to say, "It's so late, Poppa. Don't you think you should go to bed?"

  He didn't respond, once more lost in his sorrow.

  Anjele's heart went out to him, but there was nothing she could do.

  He went into his study and sat down behind his desk. Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, he let his thoughts drift away to the past once more, reliving the glory days of BelleClair... and his beloved Twyla.

  Outside, Leo Cody hid among the thick hydrangea bushes framing the side of the house. He had followed the carriage on horseback as the Sinclairs went into New Orleans, then lurked about while they went to some kind of party. He felt it was a waste of time.

  How the hell could he be expected to know what was going on inside, who Elton was talking to? But so far The Voice was satisfied with the way he did things, and as long as he got paid, Leo wasn't going to worry about it. After tonight, it didn't matter, anyway, he reminded himself, because he was going to get what he was supposed to, one way or the other. He rejoiced to see that only Elton's daughter had come home with him. Not that he was worried about the gimp-legged son-in-law or the loud-mouthed daughter. It just made things easier to know there was only one other person in the house.

  He had seen the old butler leave by the back door and head back to the slave compound, and he'd seen the lantern in the upstairs bedroom extinguished, which meant the daughter had gone to bed. The only light in the house now came from the window of Elton's study. Leo could see him in there, looking as if he were sleeping in his chair, his back to the open window.

  Leo took the kerchief from his pocket and stretched it over his nose and across his face, then tied it behind his head. Slowly, soundlessly, he stepped over the window ledge and into the room.

  Elton, consumed by his meditation, was oblivious.

  Leo took out his knife, and, when he was right up on him, pressed the cold steel against Elton's throat. "Move or make a sound, and you're dead," he said against his ear.

  Elton's heart constricted in terror. Barely able to speak with the blade pressing into his flesh, his pleading words were barely audible. "Please, take what you want. Just don't kill me."

  "I know you got a safe somewhere, you son of a bitch." Leo pressed the knife harder, barely slicing into the skin. "Tell me where it is, or I'll cut your head off and rip the place apart and find it myself."

  Elton knew he was helpless, and he didn't care about the money and jewelry in the safe. With the knife still pressing, he managed to whisper, "Behind the door. Behind the picture."

  "What's the combination?"


  Elton told him from memory, silently cursing himself for having given his coat to Wilbur before taking the pistol out of his pocket.

  "You better not be lying. Now sit still and don't move." Leo began backing away in the direction of the safe.

  "No... no, I won't," Elton promised nervously. He could feel blood trickling down his neck but didn't dare touch it. "Please. Just take what you want and go."

  Leo took down the picture. Then, holding the knife in his right hand, he used his left to work the combination. All the while, he kept glancing back to make sure Elton wasn't moving.

  At last, the door popped open. Leo saw lots of bags inside. He opened one, grinning at the contents—an assortment of earbobs and necklaces, obviously valuable. No harm in an extra bonus, he figured. All The Voice cared about was the plates. He shoved everything aside, papers scattering to the floor, intent on finding what he was after. There'd be time later to gather his treasure.

  Elton dared touch his fingers to his throat. It wasn't bleeding badly, probably wasn't deep. He would be all right but couldn't take a chance the intruder might decide to kill him, after all. Moving very slowly so as not to make any noise, he gripped the arms of the chair and eased himself up. He needed a weapon.

  His eyes fell on the iron poker propped next to the fireplace. Keeping close watch on the man as he rummaged inside the safe, Elton reached out and grabbed the heavy piece and crept toward him.

  Leo cursed, because the safe was now empty, and the plates weren't in there. "Goddamn it, where are they—" He turned just as Elton was about to strike and leaped to the side.

  The poker hit the floor with a thud, and Elton lunged for him, grabbing the arm holding the knife with one hand, snatching off the mask with the other. "Leo!" he cried, shock causing him to relax his grip.