“No one which is more than me that I could stay, but-“
Descending a step, she reached down to place your finger on his lips. “You do not need to explain. It’s just, well, we will miss you.”
He stared at her so intensely, it took some moments to realize her hand remained on his mouth. A jolt of desire–of need–shot through her, as she remembered those lives against her own. She dropped her hand to her side.
“Did you mean what you said? Earlier, outback, about staying with the children?”
She nodded, unable to remove her gaze from his mouth.
“I would be relying on you, since I could be gone a week or more at a time. Those children need stability, security. I’d need to count on you to stick around.”
She thought of her first day here, and that useless walk through the swamp. “Where can I go?”
Her gaze drifted to his eyes, his wince. “I was wrong to keep you prisoner. From now on, my lady, if you stay, it will be of your own free will.”
A week ago, the prospect of escape what have the realtor, but now, her world has narrowed down to the little one island, to this man and his children, to the dark eyes in which she now found herself lost.
“The children have a boat of their own,” he went on. “They keep it outback somewhere, probably by their fortress. You need only ask, and they’ll take you were ever and whenever you want to go.”
“I want to stay,” she told him truthfully.
His face lit up, making him seem suddenly younger. “I shouldn’t need to impose on you for much more than a month.”
“Three months. Not a day less laughing, he shook his head. “You won’t last long, if you keep repeating my words back to me.” His grin faded as he searched her eyes. “Where you serious about the other, too? About you and I and starting over? Do you think you can forgive the past?”
She read doubt in this question, as if he hadn’t much faith in the prospect, it even less in her ability. Anxious to convince him otherwise, she took another step down. They now stood eye to eye.
“I doubt I can forget, but maybe I shouldn’t. I’ve spent a good many years running from the past, and I’ve yet to escape it. It’s part of me, even unpleasant parts, a wound that must heal or else fester. We haven’t exactly been perfect, either of us, but maybe if we were to leave the wounds open, we can accept the past, learn from our mistakes, and go from there.”
He studied her as she spoke. “I was wrong about you,” he said, lifting her locket up offer chest. “You are more like your mother then I thought.”
Yes, she was, and for once, the thought pleased her. “Maybe, but I daresay there is a great deal you don’t know about me.” She said.
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.” He let the locket drop, his hand brushing her chest. At the contact, his eyes darkened.
Gwen held her breath. He must have felt it, too, the awareness. He must have shared the deep, primitive need to kiss.
But instead of reaching for her, his hands dropped to his side. His voice was stiffly formal. “It’s late. I better go. I will try to stop by again soon.”
Gwen still wasn’t ready to let them go. Snatching at his hand, she said the first thing she could think of to make him stay, if only for a few more moments. “You will be here next Saturday? For the children’s tournament?”
“I don’t know, my lady. I’ve got a lot do.”
She was all too conscious of the war in his hand. “I know you are busy, but it’s important to them. Please make the effort. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
He smiled, a brief dazzling tug at her heart, as he brought their join hands to his lips. Looking in his eyes, breathing in the very sent of him, she thought she would die if he didn’t soon kiss her.
“I am your vassal,” he said, gently kissing her fingertips instead. “I live to serve you, my lady.”
She recognized the words. It was the phrase that begun the bear play as children, the magical key open the doors of Camelot. Perhaps they were starting over, she realized. And this time, Michael would be her King Arthur.
He squeezed her hand before he let it drop, telling her in his one simple way that he was also reluctant to and this evening. Watching him stroll off to his boat, missing him already, she told herself this was for the best way. She now have time to prepare, to make next Saturday extra special. As Jude had said, they must do all in their power to make it Michael’s best birthday ever.
And when they were done, when they finish their cake and presents their gifts, she’d make damn good and certain he would never want to leave them again.
***
Seeing her all call leave, Jude step back from her hiding place by the doorway and hurry to join her brothers in the bedroom, all eagerly waiting the verdict.
“She talked him into it,” she told him, smiling ear to ear. “We are staying.”
“All of us?” Chris ask anxiously. “Even Gwen?”
“Even Gwen?” Jude heaved a sigh, which she realize was one of relief. “Looks like she’s one of us now.”
Chapter 19
“Yank it. Quick. Geez, Gwen, you let it get away.”
As Peter shook his head hopelessly, Gwen handed her fishing pole across the boat. She had learned great deal since coming to the bayou, but fishing was a skill she would probably never master. Even when Peter kindly baited the hook for her, she still let her nibble wiggler free.
Watching the boy wait in line again, she marveled at how he and Patrick brought her along on their fishing expedition. She had not asked to be included; she wondered if they’d seen her whistle glances when they talked about their adventures. How in gearing that they would notice, that they would care enough to invite her along.
She wasn’t sure what had changed their minds about her, but ever since the night she clean the fish, the children seemed less or less likely to shut her out. They still watched her long, and grew impatient with her inability to do would be considered simple things, but gradually, they begun letting her into their lives, and making themselves part of hers.
It had been with a great sense of ritual that they’d taken their boat to the hidden inlet this morning. No one else knew about this, they’d whisper as they uncovered a rowboat. Not even Michael. He wanted them to stay close to the cabin by he didn’t understand that sometimes, the best fishing was out on the river.
“Here, try again.” Taking her pull from Peter, she let it hang over the edge of the bow, pretending the fish to please them, knowing she would in catchy thing. She looked around, realizing that they drifted into territory that seemed familiar. “Why, I know that place,” she said, thinking aloud. “That is Beau Ridge, the Allentons plantation.”
Or at least, it once was. When remembered Missy Benson saying that they had sold out and moved away. The Ridge had a new owner now, and likely a new name.
She turned, hoping to catch sight of the new owners, but all she could see was the house they were building. Or, more accurately, the start of one, for it was little more than a foundation with a wood frame. No one is working on it; structure and seem to have come to a halt.
Scanning pass the knoll on which the frame sat Gwen saw why it had been abandoned. With a breached levee, no doubt a result of yesterday’s rain storm, every hand on the place would be running around to make repairs for the fields flooded. It would be devastating to losing crop this close to harvest.
Harvest was a time of great excitement, she remembered fondly, but also one of pre-cautious hope. If the crop lived up to expectations, there would be new dresses and parties to celebrate, a Rosie start to the new year. Success would affect everyone, from the family on down to the least important servant, so it worried in the entire plantation to do its best to make certain the harvest did not fail.
Yet failure could happen all too easy. On early frosts, a badly timed a rainstorm, a field burn too early, or too late – any miscalculation could spell ruin. As she watched the workers in the distance, one in particular
stood out. Ordering the servants to various positions, his air of authority yet shabby dress suggested that the man must be the overseer, on whose shoulders should the responsibility for bringing in the crop. It didn’t surprise surge to see him pitching in, digging dirt, and lifting sandbags, for she knew the pressure he was under. A good harvest and his job was secure-a bad one, and he might just as well start packing his belongings.
Remembering how many overseers her father had let go in his day, she knew the demands of the job. From experience, she knew the poor overseer rarely got credit, but he always got the blame.
Hard not to be impressed the way the workers responded to the man’s orders, how we needed no rifle or whip to prod them to work. Watching the brisk efficiency in history, she found it taunting, dauntingly familiar.
“Oh my,” she said, reaching out to tap Patrick’s arm. “Over there, in the field, is that Michael?”
As the boy looked to where she pointed, his eyes mere to her surprise, then went wide with alarm. “Quick, Peter, put down the pole,” he said, grabbing the oars. “We got a get out a here, before Michael sees us.”
Gwen had to grab at her own pole to prevent from losing it, so hastily was their departure. Rowing like a madman, Patrick didn’t speak, and Peter seem likewise discipline to break the awkward silence.
Gwen too, became loss in their amusement. Michael, the overseer at Beau Ridge? No wonder he was so tired and distracted each night. The field had been idle for years; it must have meant starting from scratch, retelling the soil, buying and planting new cane. And no wonder he will had no patience with her; after each grueling day, he’d need smiles and warmth, not arguments and complaints.
She thought of how wistfully he spoken about owning his own land, of having a place no one could ever take away from him. A man should not have the work so hard, so persistently, and not be rewarded. It made her eight to do something, anything, to help this man realize his dream. She had no money over own, but she had friends, and her father did still have connections. With all their wealthy acquaintances, surely she could find someone willing to part with an acre or two for a reasonable sum. Biting her lip, she remembered how he’d been unable to get that loan.
She was still deep in thought as the road into the hidden inlet and drifted up beached pirogue. Both boys were up and out of the boat, carrying their gear away, and before preoccupied Glenn snapped out of her thoughts. “What is the big hurry?” She said, scrambling out of the boat. “Someone like to explain what is going on?”
Apparently not. Both boys pretended they hadn’t heard her, carefully stowing their things on the pirogue.
“Why were you so scared to see Michael?” She press, following after them. “This is more than a mere case of him not wanting you on the river, isn’t it? Did he forbid you to go out there?”
This time she didn’t need an answer, their guilty expression told her all that she needed to know. “Does he have a good reason for forbidding you?”
Peter look to Patrick, who turned to her with a frown. “Papa,” was all he had to say, but that, too, was sufficient answer.
With a jolt of fear, she remembered Jacques Morteau, a man so heinous his own daughter had been forced to shoot them. The last few days have been so peaceful and pleasant, she had forgotten Jeffrey mentioned that Michael was hiding the children here in the swamp. Realizing what might have happened had their father, pond them unexpectedly, she felt physically ill. “Your uncle trust me to keep you safe,” she told the boys fiercely. “How could I face in, if I let anything happen to you?”
They looked at her blankly. “Nothing can happen.”
“Your father is a dangerous man. Even at five were able of defending you–which I’m not–what would I use as a weapon? My fishing pole?”
“Don’t worry, Gwen.” Patrick smiled. “We have our swords.” He pulled a bag from the boat, pulling out his wooden carvings.
“Oh, Patrick, that’s just –“
“They have magical powers,” he insisted with a glitter in his eyes. “The mighty Merlin blessed each one.”
Climbing into the pirogue, she nodded, unwillingly to tamper with their faith in magic. They were children; they had the right to their fantasies.
But she cannot, in good conscious, let the matter drop. “But what if you forgot your swords?” She asked. “Or your father were to catch one of you by surprise, when you were alone?”
“We have a plan,” Patrick said proudly.
“Maybe we should show her.”
“Show me what?”
They exchanged glances, but didn’t answer. With a grim smile, Patrick pulled harder, bringing the pirogue into another hidden cove. They continue to resist her questions as they beach the crap, then they let her in over a narrow path. Coming upon the sudden clearing, Gwen could see why they hadn’t spoken. They wanted her to see for herself.
Tucked beneath the trees and dripping moss stood a mishmash of boards and unwanted metal, fashioned into a ten foot high fortress.
“Careful, there is quicksand under there.” Patrick pointed to a patch of marsh grass covered with vines. “And over here, underneath those ferns, is this really deep hole. On the other side are pits we shoveled ourselves, but we couldn’t dig nearly as deep. If anyone falls in ours, he can get out again but that one… Well, just be careful where you step.”
“You children play here?” She asked, appalled at how easily they could get hurt.
They shook their heads simultaneously. “This is where we have to go, if father comes,” Patrick explained patiently. “Each of us, even Christopher, knows to come to the fortress at the first sign of trouble.”
“We have got a lot more traps,” Peter added excitedly. “If father comes to close, he will trip and bring that stuff down on top of him.”
Impressed, Gwen shook her head. A lot of planning had gone into their defenses. She wonder who was the mastermind behind it.
As if in answer, Jude stood over fortress wall, her hand clutching a rock. Paul and Christopher appeared behind her, looking through the leaves. “Who is there?” Jude demanded.
“It is just us. Open up, we are coming in.” Turning to Gwen, Patrick gestured up to where Jude had been. “We built that in platforms up there, so we can see who’s coming. Come on inside and we will show you.”
They brought her through an opening in the vines, draped with Spanish moss. She can hear Jude unlatching it from the other side, letting it swing inward on a squeaky hinges. Following the boys inside, Gwen stood in the center of the enclosure, gaping at the size of the space. They had taken full advantage of the oaks that ranged around their stronghold, but even so, a lot of work had been gone into filling in the gaps. Gwen wasn’t good with measurements, but she figured it had to be a good thirty feet across, and another forty feet long. “This is amazing,” she said honestly.
“Jeffrey helped us.” Jude smiled, looking especially proud. “He put in the door, and helped us find the metal.”
“Has your uncle seem this place?”
All five shook their heads. “He has enough on his mind.” As always, it was Jude who spoke for the others. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“Patrick made us swords,” Chris added, brandishing the stick his brother had carved for him. “He finished mine yesterday, so now I can be in Jude’s army, too.”
All five stood close together, small and young and so utterly valiant in their defense of each other. Throat tightening, Gwen had sudden strong urge to gather them up and take them far away, where men like their father could never touch them.
Jude nodded in Gwen’s direction. “Maybe you should carve her one, too, and now that she’s one of us.”
“One of us.” The words dug down into her, took root there, and in that moment, Gwen realize that she was indeed part of their little army. She would fight for the children to the grave.
“She can be our Queen.” Peter said it with a broad smile. “Welcome to Camelot, my Queen.”
Paul
nodded. “All we need now is a king.”
At his words, Gwen saw how they could make the birthday celebrations so special, even Jude would be pleased. “Listen, you have given me an idea,” she said, smiling broadly as she gathered the boys around her. With a little planning any lot of work, maybe she and the children could show Michael just how important he was to them.
And who knew? With any luck at all, maybe they could convince them to stick around for more than just the occasional meal in the process.
***
Later that night, Michael climbed the porch steps to the cabin, feeling a good eighty years old. What a long hard week it had been. The levee was repaired and the fields nearly drained, but the extra work had put them behind schedule. He could work day and night for the next two weeks, he feared, and still not be ready for the harvest.
Hearing voices inside, he paused at the door, his shoulders sagging. He’d been working so hard, he forgot about their tournament. How on earth would he tell them he wouldn’t be able to make it?
It cannot be helped, he insisted, straining his spine. The days were getting sure, the night cooler–he had equipment to fix, servants to train, the sugarhouse to get working. Frost was unlikely, the way the weather had been of late, but then, he ran the risk of losing sugar content, if you let the stalks grow too long, no one had to remind him how much was writing on his being able to get the best crop possible to market.
Looking at the cabin door, he grimaced. He had been back for only three brief visits since he’d issued their imitation, but each time, he could sense the excitement brewing in that cabin. How could he make them understand? The tournament could be held another day, but the harvest would wait for no one.
He hesitated by the door, the sweet scent of freshly baked food reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all day. Pushing open the door, seeing his family assembled in the kitchen, his cares fell away. You forgot the harvest, and his need to disappoint them, in the sheer pleasure of being home.
The Willows Page 30