by Fine, Clara
“Jamie, who is this?” Mrs. Charmon had tensed slightly, probably picking up on Cam’s discomfort. Her gaze slid from Cam to the rifle-toting stranger with some alarm.
“Mr. Brent Anderson,” James piped up proudly. “He’s been teaching me to hunt.”
“Really?” Mrs. Charmon glanced at Cam as though to gauge her reaction.
“Isn’t that kind of him?” Cam said. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and she had resorted to using Marianne’s sickly sweet enthusiasm. “How wonderful.”
“Hm.” Mrs. Charmon said. She didn’t look quite convinced.
“It’s nothing, really,” Brent said, his gaze touching Cam like a private dare.
“Very well,” Cam agreed easily. She wasn’t going to protest and stroke his ego any further, not when she knew that he was here to set a trap for her and not to help the unfortunate Charmons. Damn, she and Mary should have stayed together today, even if the errands would have taken them twice as long.
“Do you and Mr. Anderson know each other, Miss Cam?” Lydia asked curiously. She looked slightly in awe of Brent.
“That’s none of our business,” Mrs. Charmon quickly interrupted her daughter. “Thank you so much for the basket, Miss Johnson.” She clasped Cam’s hand once, gratefully. “I’ll just put the food away and you can have the basket back.”
“No need.” Cam said quickly. “I can’t stay long.” If it weren’t for Brent she would have at least remained long enough to see how the babies fared, but his hot gaze made her uncomfortable. She wanted to leave before he could start asking any questions that she’d rather not answer. “I’ll return for it… another day,” she said vaguely when she saw that Brent was listening attentively.
“We’re very grateful to you,” Mrs. Charmon said, glaring at her offspring until they obediently offered their thanks. “And to you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Don’t mention it,” Brent said with a charming smile. Cam wanted to hit him in the face with her basket. She turned away instead, hoping to slip off into the forest before he had a chance to talk to her. “Miss Johnson?” He called after her, and she could hear hidden laughter in his voice.
She bit her tongue and turned to face him. “Yes Bren- I mean, Mr. Anderson.”
His gaze softened a little at her slip. “You may call me Brent,”
“Thank you,” Cam said, “but I think that Mr. Anderson will suffice.” She needed that extra formality to serve as another wall between them. Another reminder that he was someone to be kept at a distance.
“Suit yourself,” he said, the mocking gleam returning to his eyes.
“Farewell,” Cam said, painfully aware of Mrs. Charmon closely watching their interaction.
“You’re not going off alone?” Brent asked, and he was a good actor indeed, because he actually sounded concerned at the thought.
Cam sighed, certain where this was headed and hoping to cut him off at the pass. “No,” she lied. “I have a woman waiting for me not far from here.” The last thing she wanted was for him to offer to escort her anywhere.
His gaze sharpened. “You mean a slave.” The words were almost accusatory, and Cam bristled.
“My father’s,” she said, disliking the defensive tone in her own voice. He didn’t know her. He had no idea what she and Diana did some nights when Mattie Deveraux asked it of them. How dare he judge her? “Excuse me.”
She had only gone a few paces when the faint rustle of grass signaled that he was walking behind her. Cam didn’t say anything, determined to ignore him, but when he appeared to be prepared to wait her out, she cleared her throat. “Yes?” She asked.
“I will walk with you until you reach her,” Brent said, more solemnly than before. “And I did not mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. And that’s not necessary,” Cam told him, “really it isn’t.”
Brent looked at her as if she were crazy. “Forgive my caution, but I’ll escort you anyway.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Cam said. “I practically grew up in these woods. If anyone is in any danger here, it’s you. You’re the stranger.”
“Humor me,” he told her, and Cam fell silent. It wasn’t as though it was really her safety he was worried about, she reminded herself. He was only waiting for the opportunity to quiz her again.
“Careful!” He said suddenly, and he reached out and caught a sharp branch before it scratched her face. He offered her his hand to help her over a fallen log, but she pretended not to see it and scrambled over the log herself. She was having a hard enough time ignoring the breadth of his shoulders and the movement of his muscles under his shirt. The last thing she needed was to hold hands with him, especially since they were still just barely within sight of the Charmon cottage.
As the minutes passed, though, Cam had to admit that there was something pleasant about having him with her, even if his body was distracting and the silence was a little awkward. He was so masculine and so different from the other men she’d met. It wasn’t just his face. It was his entire demeanor, the way that he carried himself and the way that he walked protectively beside her as though she had nothing to fear as long as he was there. The masculinity was alien to her, as a child who had been raised in a household of feminine whispers and rustling skirts. The only man she had ever spent much time with was her father, and he wasn’t at all like Brent.
Her father was hunched under the weight of age and tragedy, and so gentlemanly, with his stiff ruffled collars and squeaky-clean shoes. There was something more primal, almost elemental about Brent. He was like a force of nature, a clever creature part predator and part protector. Or perhaps the protector part was just an act, Cam thought, stealing a surreptitious glance at his face. If she was honest with herself, she was fairly certain that he did not have her best interests at heart. And if it weren’t for that knowledge, Cam was fairly certain that she would be experiencing the faint stirrings of first love, the sort of thing that filled the poems Helen was always reading. As it was, Cam knew to take everything he did with a grain of salt. Still, she couldn’t deny that there was a strange, sweet comfort to have him walking beside her.
The forest wasn’t quite as safe as she had lead Brent to believe. Cam did know the woods well, better than anyone in her family (except perhaps Helen, who acted as if she were part forest sprite sometimes). There were animals in the forest, but apart from the snakes they were mostly harmless. The real danger was the people. Most of the regular inhabitants knew not to interfere with Cam, but travelling vagrants occasionally passed through, and they could be dangerous. And there was always the chance that some rootworker might take it upon him or herself to cast bad conjure. That was what the enchanted silver coin in her bodice was for, to ward off evil. Or, at the very least, to warn Cam of its presence.
She sensed no danger today, though, not unless she counted the man who padded beside her as gracefully as a wolf or some other powerful animal. It was a beautiful day, one of those still bright days that cast a spell over everything, making the world seem eternal. Just the pattern of filtered sunlight that dappled the path ahead of them was lovely enough to be captured in a painting. The cool green of the forest around them was a sharp contrast to the gold that showered down on Cam’s head and neck. She shouldn’t have taken off her bonnet, but her skin was tanned beyond recovery anyway and she loved to feel the light on her face.
Beyond the chirps and trills of the smallest forest creatures, no sound pierced the stillness of the day. Cam realized that this meant there were no other people nearby, and that she was journeying deeper into the forest alone with Brent. Oddly enough, the idea caused a shiver that originated not so much from fear as from anticipation.
“Miss Camilla,” Brent said, and Cam winced at the use of her full name. “Where is she?”
Cam blinked. “Where’s who?” She asked, just a split second before she remembered her lie.
His delicious lips curved upwards at her slip. “Your… woman, Miss Camilla
. Where is she?”
“Hm… er, well, I think we’ve missed her.”
“Missed her?”
“Yes. I told her to go on without me if she got there first,” lord, she was piling one lie on top of the other, “so she must have gone on ahead. I’ll probably catch up to her before I reach home.”
Brent frowned. “She went ahead without you?” He said uncomprehendingly. “Neither of you should be walking alone. Miss-“
“Cam,” she interrupted him, already cringing at the thought of being called ‘Miss Camilla’ one more time. “Please, just call me Cam.”
“As you wish,” he told her, and unless it was her imagination, his voice was just a little bit huskier. “Cam.” She was going to shiver again if he said her name in that tone one more time. She glanced up at him from under her lashes, but he was frowning about something. “You said before you reach home.”
“Yes,” Cam said, lifting her skirt with one hand as she climbed over a few fallen branches. This time, Brent didn’t offer her his hand, he just took hers, raising it high as he helped her navigate the pile of brush.
“But we’re not heading toward Cypress Hall,” he pointed out once she had safely crossed over the branches.
“That’s true,” Cam said, gently slipping her hand from his. His large, strong fingers reflexively closed over hers, but eventually he released her. Cam quickly moved to the side to put a little space between them. Being in such close proximity to him was beginning to make her feel a little strange. “We— well, I am actually going somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I have a few more errands to run,” Cam told him. “You are free to leave at any time.”
“I know.” Brent said, but he didn’t budge from her side. They walked in silence a little longer, and curiously enough Cam felt herself relaxing more with each moment that passed. She knew rationally that he and his questions were a threat to her, but she didn’t feel threatened by him— except when he stood too close and she could feel her face flush and her blood pound. As long as he wasn’t asking questions Cam felt at ease with him.
***
She allowed herself to linger a little while when she visited the Haskell family. She hadn’t brought them food, but instead a tonic for their eldest child. Caro and Grandma had brewed it themselves when Cam brought word that there was a little boy with a bad cough, and Cam sincerely hoped that it helped. Throughout her visit with the Haskell family Brent said very little, though Cam could feel him watching her closely. He didn’t stray far from her, not even when she was invited into their small home to see the new baby. It was strange to be watched like that. Normally Cam felt that most people who studied her were hoping to categorize her as quickly and painlessly as possible. Was she loose like her sister Diana? An ingénue like young Helen? Was she the sort of girl who would catch a husband or the sort who would be condemned to eternal spinsterhood?
Brent’s observation was somehow different. She didn’t get the impression that he was trying to fit her into any box. His study of her seemed to be more thorough and all-encompassing. It made sense, though. He was a man who was searching for the truth. Cam could laugh at the close-minded, unimaginative county-folk all she wanted, but it was that close-mindedness that had kept her family safe from discovery.
Chapter Five
It was on the way to Mattie Deveraux’s that Brent finally spoke. They chattered about insignificant things at first. Brent told Cam about his upbringing in Philadelphia and some of the traveling that he’d done, and Cam tried very hard not to let her envy show. Then the conversation turned to Cam’s family, and she could feel the tension pick up. He asked about some of the family history, and Cam told him whatever she judged to be harmless. He was more subtle than yesterday at the ball. He didn’t ask one question after the other, but instead worked each question into the conversation, so that when Cam’s mother came up it seemed like a perfectly natural topic of conversation.
“I don’t remember her very well,” Cam said honestly.
“Perhaps you could ask your sister,” Brent said. There was some new emotion— perhaps pity, in his eyes. “Diana. She is older than you. She likely remembers more.”
Cam nearly flinched at the thought of asking her silent, furious sister anything. “Oh no,” she told him. “No. Diana’s not the sort…. I don’t ask Diana anything about our mother.” Diana had never initiated a single conversation about Solange, and she had never given any sign that she would welcome a discussion of their mother. Cam had never pressed the issue.
“They never learned what started the fire?”
Cam shook her head. “The carriage house burned hot and quickly. By the time the flames died there was only ash. They weren’t able to determine anything.”
“So there’s nothing left? Are the ashes still there?” His tone changed with this question and there was a strange expression on his face.
One of the day’s few clouds passed over the sun, and Cam shivered. “Good God, no.” The only ash that remained from that fire was in a vial hidden in her room, and she hadn’t touched it in over four years. “It’s long gone.” She said, and this time the sadness was impossible to hide.
“I’m sorry to be asking you this,” Brent said. “I am. But are you positive that the fire was an accident?”
Oh no. That was far, far too close to home. “Of course!” Cam said loudly, staring up at him as though she was offended and not frightened. “What else? Why would you even ask that?”
He looked away from her, almost as though he was ashamed.
“What are you looking for, Brent?” She asked softly, and he turned those mesmerizing, sun-dappled green eyes on her.
“The truth,” he said.
“You have it,” she lied, but what she really wanted to ask was why? Why after all these years have you come to torment us?
Brent stared at her as though he was reading the words from her eyes, and he shook his head. “What are you afraid of, Cam? I’ll help you if I can.”
So she wasn’t fooling him. “I’m not frightened.” She snapped, “I’m horrified. What happened was horrible, and no one in this dreadful place will let it be! We laid my mother to rest fourteen years ago. Why can’t you people let her go? If you really want to help me, you’ll leave her where she lies.” She was close to shouting, and her hands were trembling. He’d done it. Somehow the little bastard had slipped under her defenses, and she needed to compose herself immediately before she accidentally told him something that she’d live to regret.
“I would like to,” Brent said. “But I have my reasons, Cam.”
“Oh, what are they?”
He hesitated, and Cam smiled bitterly. “Trust requires two people, Brent. You can’t ask questions if you aren’t willing to answer them.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he walked ahead of her, stood in her path. “Answer me this: do you know anything at all about the murder of Katherine Varennes?”
Cam turned away so that he couldn’t see the shock on her features. He was slowly but surely following the rabbit trails that lead to her door. “Of course not!” Cam said. “How could I? That murder was never solved. Good lord, don’t you have any common decency? Are you going to pry into the life of every woman who died in 1839?”
“I don’t know! Are there any others who died suspiciously?”
She was going to slap him; she really was. Cam whirled to face him, her hand raised, but she found him standing closer than she had expected, and he caught her wrist in one large hand before she could strike him. When she tried to pull her hand away he adjusted his grip so that he was holding her hand and their fingers were laced together. “Careful Cam,” Brent said, and there was something almost intimate in his tone, as though they knew each other far better than they really did. “Let’s not do anything we’ll both regret.” He was standing close to her, close enough that she could have leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest.
“What makes you think
I’d regret it?” She asked, and he exhaled deeply. He was breathing rather heavily all of a sudden, and the feel of his breath on her neck made something deep in her belly clench. She stared up at him and found her gaze drawn to the curve of his lips, to the way that they were slightly parted. She wanted to—
“Miss Johnson?” The voice was not Brent’s, and Cam jumped in surprise. Brent responded immediately, twirling her around and pulling her against his chest as though to protect her. She heard him reaching for the gun, which he had set on the ground in the midst of their argument.
“No need,” Cam told him quickly. The young man who had interrupted them was mulatto, with a very familiar face. “That’s one of Mattie Deveraux’s boys.” She told Brent quickly. “I’m here to see her. Hello Louis.”
Louis was a few years younger than her, roughly Helen’s age. He was a tall, fine looking boy, with an accent that was all New Orleans. “Mama wants to see you,” he said and nodded to Brent. Brent returned the nod, a confused frown forming on his brow.
“It’s alright,” Cam told him, wiggling her hand so that he would release her. She couldn’t go anywhere with that iron grip on her wrist. After years of wandering through the forest without anyone thinking twice about it, it was strange to have someone so worried about her safety. “I’ve known Louis for years,” she told Brent. “He’s an old friend.”
Brent released her, and they followed Louis down one of the forest paths to the clearing by the creek where Mattie Deveraux made her home. There were several other freed families living in the same clearing, but they stayed only as long as they were in Mattie Deveraux’s good graces. She was the senior rootworker in Gaynor County, if not in all of Mississippi, and she was involved, one way or another, in almost everything that happened in the forest. She was the one who had pinpointed the source of the evil conjure that had destroyed Cam’s mother, enabling Caro and Grandma to seek justice. The women were old allies, and Cam frequently carried messages back and forth between them.