Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “Of course I can. It’s caused, I suspect, by boot black.”

  “You think I’m shamming? I’m cut to the quick!”

  “Oh? Then we should soon see the truth of it.”

  “Heartless.” He swung around to Ranny on his other side. “I appeal to you, my friend: Did you ever see a more heartless female?”

  Ranny held up his hand as if warding off a blow. “Don’t ask me, Johnny.”

  “Coward! Great oaf of a coward, deserting your friends at the first hint of trouble.”

  “Who, me?” Ranny was the picture of innocence.

  “Certainly you, you dumb Adonis. What a fine thing it is when a man can’t even insult a friend and have him know it.”

  “You want to insult me? I’m insulted, then.”

  Johnny gave a moan and dropped his rust-colored head in his hands. “You aren’t.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Aren’t.”

  “Am.”

  “Aren’t.”

  “I am.”

  “You are, and I’m an addlepated idiot.”

  O’Connor, still at the railing beside the colonel, gave a snort. “That makes two.”

  There was a hush. The exchange between Johnny and Ransom Tyler had been the merest banter, good-natured and easy, between friends of long-standing. It had been an expression of closeness rather than an insult.

  That Ransom Tyler’s circumstances were known to all those present was plain, for though he was officially their host, few other than his immediate family spoke to him directly. Whether from embarrassment or indifference, they had tended to ignore him or else to patronize him. The gratuitous disparagement spoken by O’Connor seemed to Lettie one of the most ill-bred and stupidly vicious remarks she had ever heard. That Ranny understood could not have been clearer, though his face as he looked at the tax collector was closed-in, without expression, and he moved not a muscle. Anger boiled up inside her.

  “Two of what, Mr. O’Connor?” She raised her voice, its pitch clear and slicing and as cold as her smile as she asked the question.

  “Why, two — that is…” The man blustered to a stop, his face reddening as he looked around him for support. “I don’t rightly know what you mean.”

  “Indeed? I thought it was you who meant something.”

  “No, ma’am, nothing at all. I’ve clean forgot what I was saying.”

  The look the short, fat man gave her was livid. Lettie returned it with a chill smile, then deliberately turned her gaze away. There was a concerted rush of talk as, by instinct, the others tried to cover the moment of awkwardness. She let it wash over her while she sat back in the rocking chair. She was astonished at herself. She could not think what had possessed her to defend the owner of Splendora. She hardly knew herself at all these days.

  “Bravo, Miss Lettie, ma’am,” Johnny Reeden said in quiet tones, “here’s my hand.”

  She gave him hers because it would be impolite to refuse. In some confusion, she said, “Such atrocious manners. I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

  “No, I understand. It was for Ranny.”

  “Not really — you mustn’t think it was anything personal. I was just annoyed.”

  “The best kind of champion, an angry one.”

  “I can’t explain it—”

  “No need. You did it, and that’s enough. Principles are lovely things.”

  He smiled, a movement of his lips that did not quite reach his eyes. Lettie met his gaze and suddenly it occurred to her that his melancholia was real and blighting. There was no reason for it that she could see, and yet it was there. It was disturbing, both its presence inside the laughing young man and her own sensitivity to it.

  The soldier with the fiddle picked it up and began to scrape out another tune. Ranny reached out to pluck Johnny’s harmonica from his friend’s pocket and put it to his lips. He played very well, though with less verve than Johnny had displayed, and he had to fend his friend off with his elbow as Johnny kept trying to regain his property.

  It was a relief to Lettie to be asked to dance by Martin Eden. She was able to leave her uncomfortable introspection behind while she parried his compliments, which became more outrageous the less she responded. Martin was gallant and handsome, a man of dark and smiling charm; it was perverse of her to remain unimpressed. But though she enjoyed his company, after a few moments her attention began to wander.

  The hour was growing late. Lionel and Peter, after ripping up and down the outside stairs, trying to walk the veranda railing like a tightrope, and sneaking two pieces of marzipan for every one they were given, had finally settled down against the wall. The younger boy was nearly comatose, staring glassy-eyed at the company. As Lettie watched, Ranny handed the harmonica back to Johnny and moved toward Peter. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet, then herded him into the house, presumably to the trundle that was stored under his mother’s bed in the chamber they occupied next to Lettie’s. After a few moments, Ranny returned and went to sit against the wall beside Lionel, talking quietly to the boy.

  Ranny’s relationship with Lionel and Peter was interesting. Sometimes he allowed them to lead him around by the hand, as docile and uncomplaining as some big friendly dog. Other times, he seemed to lead them, using persuasion and cajolery and, when that failed, a little bullying rather like a slightly older brother. To Lettie’s knowledge, they never offered any real resistance to his suggestions; still, she was forced to wonder what he would do if they did. There was strength in that magnificent body — she had seen it once or twice — but was there any force of will? It mattered very little, of course, but she wished she knew.

  “How does he do it?”

  Lettie dragged her attention back to her partner. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Our Ransom doesn’t do a thing, never did, but the ladies can’t keep their eyes off him. Even now you can see them watching him.”

  “Envious, Mr. Eden?”

  He gave her a confiding smile and shook his head with a motion that made the dark curl that fell onto his forehead dip lower. “Hardly. But it’s one of those phenomenons like a full moon or a shooting star; people just stop to look, particularly women.”

  “You’ve known him a long time?”

  “We were all boys together, Ransom, Johnny, and I; we did our fishing together, our courting, and our fighting. I’d say I know him about as well as anybody, better than most.”

  “You don’t call him Ranny like the others.”

  “That’s a nickname of recent years, one I don’t particularly like. He was always Ransom before he came back from the war and I see no reason to change just because he’s not quite the same.”

  “Is he … very different?”

  He shrugged, a wry smile tugging his mustache up at one corner. “Yes and no. I find myself watching him at times like everybody else, trying to decide. I think what I miss most is his sharp wit — there was a time when he could nail you to the wall with a word — that, and the fun. Lord, but we used to laugh. He could do some of the wildest things, say some of the most hilarious things, and never crack a smile. I do miss him.”

  “I believe he’s recovered many of his faculties compared to what he was like when he first regained consciousness here at Splendora. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that he could—”

  “After all these years? Not likely. But if you see any sign of it, let me know. I owed him twenty dollars — in gold, not Confederate script — when that shell exploded!”

  Lettie smiled at his sally. They whirled past where Ranny sat. Lettie’s skirts brushed his boots on the somewhat narrow dance floor. The blond man drew them back, as if afraid they would soil her gown, but did not look up.

  Lettie, turning her attention back to her partner, gave the handsome Southerner a speculative look. Another tall, mustachioed man. A small frisson of anxiety moved through her and then was gone. Surely if she had been intimate with him, if he was the Thorn, she would know? Surely there would be
something in his manner to give him away, some suggestion of familiarity, of triumph? She had to think so, or else, the strain of being in the company of men, of wondering if each one she met was the man who had made love to her in the darkness, would become intolerable.

  It may have been the irritation of her nerves brought on by her thoughts that made her wish, abruptly, to get beneath the smooth and urbane manner of the man who held her.

  “You fought for the South, Mr. Eden, but now you cooperate with those in power. Tell me, are you a Union sympathizer or just an opportunist?”

  He stiffened, missing a step as temper flashed in his brown eyes. He recovered quickly and murmured an apology, his expression wry. “You’re very straightforward, aren’t you?”

  “Does the term opportunist bother you?”

  “Of course it does!”

  “I seem to remember that you don’t like scalawag, either.”

  “No, but I prefer it to being called a Union sympathizer. That, at least, I’m not.”

  “But you cooperate, anyway.”

  “We lost the war. It was a hard and dirty and glorious fight, but we lost and we have to live with that fact. It seems to me that we can stand on our pride and be ground into the dust or we can cooperate and slowly rebuild our fortunes and our future. I say I’m a reasonable man; others say I’m a scalawag and refuse to shake my hand. So be it.”

  If his tone was defensive, it was not surprising. His stand seemed most realistic to Lettie, however. She told him so and was just a little ashamed of the impulse that had made her bait him when she saw the relief in his face.

  The party began to fade away. Daniel O’Connor, after a dance with Angelique, took his leave. If he said anything improper to the girl, she gave no sign of it, though afterward she went and sat beside Madame Voisin for some time, watching the others, particularly Martin Eden, though he paid her scant attention. Madame Voisin herself, a short while later, began to smother yawns and called to her daughter to hurry and finish enjoying herself. Johnny and the soldier from Tennessee, bowing to the inevitable, announced the last waltz.

  Lettie was standing beside Sally Anne, talking with the young widow and Martin while Ranny lounged nearby listening, when she saw Colonel Ward coming toward her. She had already turned, ready to give him a smile and her hand for this final dance, when the military commander bowed before the other woman.

  “May I?” he asked, his expression grave and his stance rigid as he held out his arm in invitation.

  Sally Anne’s face turned pale, but she spoke without hesitation. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m rather tired. Excuse me this time, if you please.”

  “There may never be another.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  Thomas Ward stood his ground. “Is it the uniform, the accent, or is it me?”

  Martin, frowning, took a step toward the colonel. “You heard what the lady said.”

  “Please, Martin,” Sally Anne said softly, putting her hand on the Southerner’s arm.

  “Unfortunately,” Thomas said, “I didn’t hear the answer to my last question. I must ask you to allow the lady to speak for herself.”

  “This is a private home and you are a guest. You can’t force yourself upon a woman, regardless of your military jurisdiction.” Martin’s hands were clenched into fists.

  Thomas ignored the remark. “Mrs. Winston, all I ask—”

  “Did you hear me?” Martin demanded, reaching out and pushing Thomas’s shoulder.

  “Too well,” the colonel snapped, squaring back up to him.

  “Then back off!”

  “The hell I will!”

  Martin Eden pushed Thomas again. The man in blue gave with the shove but, in a quick, hard movement, dragged Martin toward him, pitched him over his hip, and slung him to the floor.

  The veranda shook with the thudding fall. Sally Anne screamed and covered her face with her hands. Lettie stepped back in sudden apprehension, catching the arm of the other woman to draw her with her. Martin shoved himself to his elbow. He fumbled inside his coat and a derringer, small and deadly and silvery in the lamplight, appeared in his hand.

  The colonel stopped still where he was bent over the crouched form of the other man. The other men in uniform, already moving toward the altercation, halted, freezing in place. Aunt Em and the rest of the women turned with their mouths tight and their eyes wide. Lionel, standing with his back to the wall, looked ready to bolt. The music twanged to a stop. Tension stretched as tightly as the bow in the fiddler’s hand.

  Then, like an eagle striking, Ransom moved. His hard, booted foot caught Martin’s wrist. The derringer flew up, discharging in an exploding roar into the ceiling before clattering to the floor. Martin cursed and grabbed his hand. The colonel let out the air in his lungs with an audible sound. Sally Anne cried out, then flung herself on Lettie and began to sob. Ransom bent to pick up the small gun, then stood holding it as if not sure what to do with it.

  “Good gracious,” Aunt Em cried. “Ranny, put that thing down and help Martin up. Colonel Ward, I’ll thank you to give him a hand. And you, Martin, remember who you are and where you are. Hush that noise, Sally Anne, and let this be a lesson to you. And the rest of you had better volunteer to fix my ceiling or I’ll have the stripes from your sleeves so fast it’ll make your heads spin!”

  It was precisely what the moment needed, the voice of authority, the hint of humor Martin, on his feet, rubbed his elbow, gave a dazed shake of his head, then thrust out his hand to the colonel. “I don’t know what came over me, sir. My most sincere apologies.”

  “I may have been out of line,” Thomas Ward said readily enough as the men shook hands. He looked at Sally Anne. “I meant no harm, however.”

  Tragedy had been averted by swift action, common sense, and manners. Lettie recognized that fact easily enough, but what she could not quite comprehend was the speed, indicative of lightning-quick thought, with which Ranny had moved. Instinct again? The remnants of his old military training and experience? Whatever the cause, for an instant, the way he had struck out at Martin had reminded her of the Thorn. The force she had wondered about earlier had certainly been there in that brief space of time. She found, quite illogically, that she did not like it.

  It was not to be expected that the visitors would tarry under such uncomfortable circumstances. They departed with many farewells and expressions of pleasure and much pretense that everything was as it should be. Still, within a very short while, they were gone and the dust was settling on the drive.

  Lettie and Aunt Em gathered up the sticky glasses and stacked them on a tray while Ranny and Lionel returned the chairs and tables to their proper places. Mama Tass, who had no doubt been watching from some vantage point, came bustling out to wipe the tabletops with a wet cloth and to take the tray of glasses away to the kitchen.

  Aunt Em started toward the open doors that led into the great central hall. Lettie had begun to move after her when the older woman turned back, looking to where Ranny stood leaning with one shoulder against a column and his hands in his pockets.

  “Coming, Ranny?”

  He turned from his absorbed contemplation of the night to look at his aunt, then glanced down as Lionel came and put a small brown hand on his arm. Only then did he turn his gaze to Lettie. It came to him with unexpected strength that there were times when he despised the role he had given himself. If he was not locked into his pose of a bumbling idiot, he could have made his bow before Lettie this evening and swept her into a dance; could have held her in his arms, breathed the scent of her, made her laugh in that quick, surprised way that she had, perhaps even persuaded her to walk with him out under the magnolias.

  But he had done none of those things. He had, instead, watched her dance and smile with other men and pretended not to care while he felt as if he was exploding silently inside. The result was that he had done a stupid thing. He had attacked Martin when he drew his gun, rather than simply stepping between his
friend and Colonel Ward as he should have done. How much of that had been due to the danger of the moment and how much due to a need to display his heroics in front of this woman was a question he did not care to examine. Nor would he.

  “Coming,” he answered his aunt in his softest voice, and gave his hand to Lionel.

  8

  THE MOONLIGHT WAS DISTURBING. Lettie lay for some time watching it stream through the muslin curtains, turning them to panels of silver-gold gauze. The air in the room was close and overwarm, almost too thick to breathe. She was tired, but sleep seemed far away. She felt peculiar, edgy, though she refused to consider why or to think of anything else beyond that simple fact.

  The door of her room stood open to encourage the free passage of air through the house. It served also to conduct sounds. She could hear the steady ticking of the clock in the parlor, Aunt Em’s soft and even snoring, and the occasional snap and creak of boards and beams in the attic. To these noises was added the scratchy chorus of night insects, creating a quiet cacophony that wore on her nerves until she began to feel that she must sit straight up in bed and start to scream.

  It was intolerable.

  Lettie sat up and groped over the foot of the bed for her dressing gown. Pushing aside the mosquito netting that hung from the tester, she slid out of the high bed, thrusting her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown at the same time. Barefooted, she padded to the window, opened the jib doors, and stepped out onto the veranda. She paused, a faint tremor moving through her as she recalled the last time she had ventured out like this; then, with a quick toss of her head, she moved to the railing. That incident with the Thorn had been the purest mischance, an accident, as had been her meeting with him at the spring. It could not happen again.

  She stared out into the warm, scented night, leaning forward with her hands on the railing and her elbows stiff, locked. The darkness seemed alive. It had a presence of its own that invited, almost coaxed, her to come out into its softly moving shadows. The moon was waxing, nearly three-quarters full in the black, silk-lined arch of the sky. Its serene face was a beacon, one that held a benign promise.