A Cry at Midnight

by Chancellor, Victoria

  "Why would you need to find his will?"

  "Because when Suzette and I were talking, she told me that if something happens to Jackson, Thomas Crowder would probably take control of Black Willow Grove. Do you think she's right?"

  Lebeau nodded, but looked skeptical. "You say you know what's going to happen. How?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I tried to tell Jackson, and even show me, but then the rider came . . . Darn it, where does he keep important papers?"

  "There's a lawyer in Randolph. He might have a copy."

  "We can't get to Randolph!"

  "There's no reason to assume anything will happen to Jackson. The water is rising, but not that high."

  "I don't know how it happens," Randi said as she shoved a drawer closed, "but history says that Jackson Durant and his daughter died in the flood of 1849."

  "History? What are you talking about?"

  She faced Lebeau with her hands on her hips. "Do you remember the day we drove to Franklin's plantation and I told you about what would happen in the future?"

  "What you thought would happen."

  "You sound just like Jackson," she said, feeling intensely frustrated. Helping save Black Willow Grove from Thomas Crowder was something constructive she could do while Jackson was off battling the flood, but not if she couldn't find any legal records.

  "Why don't you discuss this with Jackson when he returns."

  "I will, but I have to do something. I'm not sure when he'll die--today, tomorrow, or fifty years from now, if somehow I've changed history--but he's got to protect what he loves. That means making provisions for Rose and for his plantation."

  "Jackson will take care of his own."

  "He'll try, but he doesn't believe me."

  "Can you blame him? You claim to have knowledge of events yet to happen."

  "I do. I read all about the history of this place in a book."

  "There are no books about Black Willow Grove."

  "Not now, but there will be, a hundred and fifty years into the future."

  Lebeau looked shocked, taking a step back.

  "I'm not crazy. Look, I can prove it to you. Stay right here."

  She hurried from the room, her footsteps pounding up the stairs. Again, she retrieved her fanny pack, then ran back downstairs.

  "Look," she said to Lebeau, who had walked over to stand by the windows. She moved the lamp on the desk closer, then lay the purse flat on the mahogany. She unzipped the compartment and pulled out her wallet.

  "What is that device?"

  "A zipper. They haven't been invented yet, probably, but we use them for everything."

  Over the next few minutes, Randi showed Lebeau her photos, driver's license, and each item in the fanny pack. He seemed fascinated, examining all the pieces with great curiosity. By the time they sat down to talk, he asked her what was going to happen.

  Finally, someone believed her.

  She told him what she remembered from high school history, although she still couldn't recall the exact dates. Lebeau seemed concerned about what would happen to the plantations and the people who lived and worked on them. She remembered criticizing him for not caring for "his people." She'd probably been way out of line, but she was encouraged that he no longer seemed so disconnected from the slaves and freemen in this society.

  "If something happened to Jackson, what would happen to people like Birdie and Suzette?" she asked Lebeau.

  "They'd be part of the estate, going to whoever inherited the plantation."

  Randi shuddered. "So whoever inherited could do whatever they wanted with the people, the house, and the land?"

  "Within the law. There are some constraints that are supposed to keep slave owners from mistreating their property," he answered, his tone and expression telling her he didn't believe those laws were regularly enforced.

  "We've got to make sure that Jackson has made provisions for them. I can't stand the idea of Thomas Crowder selling people off. Suzette, especially. She's been through a lot in her young life. To think she could be abused by someone else . . ." Randi shuddered.

  "She never told me anything about being abused."

  Briefly, Randi told him about Suzette's former owner, the baby she'd given birth to and lost, and her mistrust of most men. "She needs someone to love," Randi told him, "not someone who will use her like that horrible man."

  "Many slave owners use the women that way."

  "I know, but it doesn't make it right." Randi leaned toward him, touching his hand. "You'll watch out for her, won't you, Lebeau? She needs someone to protect her."

  "I'll do what I can, Miss Randi."

  "You don't have to call me that."

  The butler shrugged. "Everyone calls you that. In your case, it's a sign of affection and respect."

  "You're sure it's not just a required title?"

  "No."

  "Then I'm very flattered. I know I'm different than what you're used to. I never did blend in very well."

  "Your hair," Lebeau said, offering her a rare smile.

  She smiled in return. "It's a dead giveaway." She kicked out her feet so her tennis shoes showed from beneath the hem of the skirt. "And my shoes. You don't have Keds in 1849."

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Lebeau jumped up from the settee. At the same time, Micah entered the room holding a bucket of steaming water.

  "Mas'r Jackson's just arrived. He's comin' in from the stable."

  "I'll see to his meal."

  Micah nodded and hurried out of the room.

  "Can I do anything?" Randi asked.

  "No, just give him some time before you talk to him. He always was more agreeable with a full stomach."

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Jackson finished his dinner, even though he was nearly too tired to eat. The crevasse at Crowder's Point was wider than he'd hoped--too large to mend without a pile-driving steamboat. They'd never get one upriver from New Orleans in this flood. He doubted they'd be able to get a boat or a rider downstream before the levee fell apart and the river flowed, rather than trickled, over their land. All they could do now was postpone the inevitable--or pray for a miracle.

  Randi had been right when she'd said a flood was coming. A lucky guess, a nightmare caused by her near-drowning as a child, or true knowledge from the future? Of the three, he'd say a combination of luck and bad dreams caused her to believe so strongly in the impending disaster.

  Of course, there was the unusual leather pouch she'd produced from under the bed. He hadn't remembered the item, but, as he'd told her, he'd been so angry to find a stranger inside his house, holding his daughter, that he'd been blind to nearly everything else. He wished he'd had the opportunity to examine the items inside.

  Micah had faithfully brought hot water for washing. Lebeau had brought a report of their provisions. Too bad they hadn't made it to Randolph. Now it would be days, maybe weeks, before they could get a wagon through.

  Damn the flood. Jackson rubbed his eyes and wished with all his heart he could make the water go away. He needed time to explore his relationship to Randi, because even though he knew her story was absurd, he still wanted her in his life. He loved her. He hadn't been able to tell her so last night before she'd denied his proposal and asserted she was from the future.

  He'd tell her now, if she were here. He wondered if he had the energy to go find her. His arms and legs felt leaden from wading through knee-deep water, carrying logs, straw, and mud to rebuild a levee that had never been more than poor at best.

  As if his thoughts of Randi conjured her up, she appeared in the doorway, holding his daughter. He smiled as well as he could.

  "Jackson," Randi whispered, then hurried into the room. "You look terrible," she said, kneeling beside his chair.

  "I'm happy to see you too," he said, reaching out his hand. Rose grabbed one of his fingers and held on. His precious daughter. She didn't care that he was bone-weary and half-drowned.

  "I was worried. You we
re gone so long . . ."

  "There's so much work . . ."

  "Then the break can be fixed?"

  Jackson closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't think so. Not without more equipment than we have available."

  "Oh."

  He opened his eyes. Randi still knelt in front of him, her expression one of concern and love. Rose wiggled to get down.

  "I know you're tired," Randi said, "but there's something important I have to ask you."

  "Go ahead."

  "If something happened to you . . . something awful . . . who would become Rose's guardian? Who would take over Black Willow Grove?"

  "More nightmares?"

  "No, but please, Jackson, I need to know. I even went way over the line and looked for a will in your office. I'm sorry, but I was really worried. I still am."

  "You looked through my papers?"

  "Yes, like I said, I'm sorry, but I had to. I told Lebeau what I was doing."

  "And he allowed you to continue?" Where did the man's loyalty lie? With an old friend or a young woman who believed she was from another time?

  "Yes. I talked him into it, so don't be angry with him. You know how I can be when I want something."

  "Persistent," Jackson said, offering another weak smile.

  "That's me. Now, back to the subject. Would Thomas Crowder get control of your plantation and Rose?"

  "As her closest living relative, yes, he would."

  "That's terrible! Do you want him raising your child?"

  "No, but there is no one else."

  "What about me? I could take her away from this flood, Jackson. Maybe you too. Would you come away with me? I don't know if we can, but we could try."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The sketch I made of the museum in my time. I got here through the replica of your house, so I thought maybe I could get back through a drawing of the replica in my time."

  Jackson frowned. "You're not making any sense."

  "I'm sorry. I know you're exhausted. I'm just so worried. According to the history books, you and Rose perish in the flood. I can't let that happen, Jackson. I love you both. I want you to come away with me. Come and be safe. I'll help you."

  "There's no such thing as traveling through sketches into another time."

  "You don't think it will work?"

  "Randi, love, I don't even believe you're from another time. How can I believe you can return there?"

  He closed his eyes against her hurt expression. He wanted nothing more than to curl up into his soft, comfortable bed with Randi and fall into a deep, drugging sleep. He could do nothing else tonight to save the levee. In the end, all he might have left were Randi, Rose, a waterlogged house and flooded fields.

  "Randi, I'm sorry I can't believe your story."

  "I'm sorry too," she whispered.

  He felt her rise from the floor. Rose whimpered. "I'm going to take her up to bed."

  "Come back," he said, opening his eyes to see his sleepy daughter snuggle next to Randi. "Come and stay with me. Nothing more."

  He watched the confusion in her eyes before she turned and walked toward the door. "I'll come back," she said before she went out of the room.

  Jackson closed his eyes again and let his head fall back against the chair. Randi was right about one thing; he couldn't let that puff-headed idiot Thomas Crowder gain control of Black Willow Grove or Rose. Jackson vowed he'd make other provisions. Just in case . . .

  #

  Randi slipped back into Jackson's room after taking Rose up to Suzette. The conversation had been unsettling, to say the least. Suzette had overheard enough of an earlier conversation with Lebeau to pique her curiosity. She wanted to know if Randi knew powerful chants or carried strong magic in her bag. When she'd tried to explain that she didn't know how she'd arrived at Black Willow Grove, Suzette had looked skeptical. Randi had come away from the nursery with a feeling of unease, as though Suzette expected more answers than were available to any of them.

  Randi didn't believe for a minute that Suzette would not give Rose the best care. She just seemed more interested in Randi's answers than the rest of the people here. Maybe she was more willing to believe because she needed some salvation in her life. Whatever the reason for Suzette's persistent questions about what was going to happen to all of them, she was not going to be easily convinced that Randi didn't have all the answers.

  She closed the door, her eyes focusing on Jackson, still sitting in his chair by the fireplace, sound asleep. She walked toward him, hoping he'd wake naturally. He didn't.

  "Jackson," she said after she knelt beside him. "You need to go to bed now."

  He stirred, half opening one eye. "Randi?"

  "Yes."

  "For just a moment, you sounded like my mother. Then I realized she wouldn't have called me Jackson."

  "Why?" she asked, smoothing a lock of hair back from his eyes. "What would she have called you?"

  "Jacques," he answered in a sleepy voice before closing his eye.

  Randi frowned, resting her bottom on her heels. Jacques? He'd said the name so naturally, with a slightly French inflection. Was that his mother's nickname for him? Perhaps she'd been French.

  "Come on," Randi coaxed, lifting one of his arms. "Let's get you in bed."

  "That's a nice offer," he mumbled, helping her by pushing out of the chair. He stumbled toward the bed with her support under one of his shoulders.

  "I don't remember ever being this tired."

  "You ought to be tired. You worked at least ten hours for two days, then around the clock this last day. Did you eat?"

  "Yes," he said, sitting heavily on the mattress. He smiled slightly in a strange way that made Randi think of the word "goofy." "Violet brought me some sweet potato biscuits and slivered ham on a little silver tray."

  "Violet! You're supposed to be out working your buns off to save this plantation and Violet brings you sweet potato biscuits?" Randi knew she was nearly yelling, but couldn't stop the rush of red-hot anger that the bimbette's name evoked.

  Jackson turned his head and looked up at her while he reached for his shoe. "You're jealous."

  "I'm furious, that's what I am," she said with a huff. "I don't understand what you men see in women like her."

  "I never said I saw anything about her that I liked. As a matter of fact, I thought this conversation about Miss Crowder was closed long ago." He pulled off the other shoe, then his socks.

  "Believe me, she doesn't think the issue is closed if she braved the rain and mud to bring you dainty little biscuits on a silver tray."

  "Randi," he said, reaching for her waist, pulling her between his spread knees. "I have no interest in Violet. I didn't love Pansy, and I sure don't love her little sister."

  "Lebeau said you needed to marry someone from your class."

  "Lebeau was telling you what he thought I wanted you to hear." Jackson sighed, resting his head against her stomach and pulling her closer. "And he knows better than anyone that in truth, the Crowders are as far removed from me in class as he is from the President of the United States."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm so tired. Will you lie down with me and let me tell you a story of a boy who wanted very much to become wealthy and respected?"

  "Jackson, what--"

  He reached for the hooks at the back of her dress. "Just lie down with me and let me tell you. Then you'll understand why saving Black Willow Grove is so important to me."

  With only the single candle burning on the mantle, she could barely see his face in the shadows of his canopied bed, his cheek pressed against her stomach. But she felt his warm fingers, steadily unfastening each hook, and she felt the cool air that eased into the opening when he separated the fabric.

  When he finished with her dress, she pushed the robe and shirt from his shoulders, then pulled them from his arms. Silently, he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down his hips. She watched with greedy eyes, noticing at once tha
t despite his exhaustion and the cool night air, he was moderately aroused.

  So much for just lying there and talking . . . not that she had any complaints.

  Quickly, becoming chilled in the damp air, she finished undressing and slid beneath the covers. If they were going to lie side by side, they might as well be comfortable. And if she only had a short time with Jackson, she didn't want to spend it fighting over some woman Randi knew in her heart didn't have a chance with Jackson. He really was too smart to fall for Violet's transparent charms.

  "You're cold," he said, slipping beneath the blankets behind her. He curled them together, spoon style, with her bottom fitting very nicely against his hips and thighs.

  "You'd better start talking to me soon, Jackson, or you're going to be a lot more tired than you were when you entered this bedroom."

  He chucked, the poof of air stirring the hair on her neck and sending shivers down her spine. "I'll talk. You need to understand that I've never told anyone about my past."

  "I thought you said Lebeau knew."

  "He does, but mostly because of where we met."

  "Is that where the story starts?"

  "Not really. I suppose the beginning of Jackson Durant occurred when a young boy was spit upon and thrown into the mud because he wasn't good enough to play with the children of the wealthy planters who passed through town on their way to church or market."

  "You were poor."

  "More than poor. We lived in a shack not far from the river, just out of New Orleans. My father worked, when he could, at the docks. He wasn't a healthy man, though, and his cure for his indisposition was rum."

  "He was an alcoholic."

  "If that means he loved to drink, then you're right. My mother, God rest her soul, took in laundry and raised me and my brother with nothing but hand-me-downs and hope."

  "She did a good job, then. You've succeeded."

  Randi felt Jackson draw in a deep breath, his head restless on the pillow behind hers. "She never knew," he whispered. "I left home at the age of fourteen to make my fortune. She begged me not to go, but I told her I was going to make enough money to take all of them out of our shack and into a fine home. I promised her she'd have servants to do her laundry, and she'd never have to wash other people's clothes again."