Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "Not report it? Of course he will!"

  "Will he? When it will make him a laughingstock?"

  "At least you didn't put a sign around his neck like the Thorn did O'Connor."

  "No, but something about his attitude bothers me. He was so insistent on knowing who I was, as if he was certain I could not be the Thorn."

  "Well, naturally he thought the Thorn was in jail. It's what everyone thought."

  "I'm not so sure that's all it was. Besides, he nearly recognized my voice."

  "Oh, dear. Oh, dear me."

  "That was always the weak point," Sally Anne said.

  Lettie agreed. "I didn't expect to have to talk so much. I don't think I would have, except that he was so suspicious, so—so unimpressed."

  "You don't think he will place you?"

  "I have no idea."

  Aunt Em, worry in her face, said, "He's so hot-tempered."

  Sally Anne turned her cordial glass in her fingers. "I couldn't believe it when I heard him speak. I was so sure it was O'Connor who was setting Angelique up in New Orleans. She never said so, of course, but I just assumed it. What's so strange is that Angelique never mentioned his name."

  "I don't see that it's strange at all," Aunt Em said. "She knew he was a friend of the family, knew that he had once fancied you. It showed great delicacy on her part, but then that's how these things have always been arranged."

  "It certainly makes more sense that she was so willing to go with him," Sally Anne said, her tone dry.

  "Yes, indeed. Martin would know the rules. Besides, he is a gentleman and an attractive man."

  "What I don't understand," Lettie said, "is why they were going to New Orleans. One would think he would make some provision for her here, closer to his home."

  "Yes, there is that," Aunt Em said slowly. "It might be that she would not agree, for her family's sake, but it seems a long way to go for—well, you know what I mean. On the other hand, I can't believe Martin would simply move lock, stock, and barrel without saying goodbye."

  "Unless he didn't want anyone to know he was going?"

  "Because he was embarrassed? There would have been no need to tell us who his companion would be."

  Sally Anne, frowning, said, "Lettie is right. Why would he leave? He was doing quite well here."

  "There were people, you know, who wouldn't speak to him because of his work with the carpetbaggers. Maybe he wanted to put all that behind him and start out fresh in New Orleans. Or maybe he loves Angelique enough to go for her sake."

  "Maybe," Sally Anne said.

  Lettie's gaze fell on the bundle of Martin's clothing that had been flung down beside the kitchen door. "There might be an answer in there."

  "Go through his pockets?" Aunt Em said with unease in her voice.

  "I know it doesn't seem right."

  "It might help Ranny," Sally Anne said.

  Mama Tass, sitting and listening to them, rolled her eyes heavenward in silent comment on such scruples. She heaved herself to her feet, moved to fetch the bundle, and plopped it down in the middle of the table. With a few swift, capable movements, she untied it and spread out the garments.

  Aunt Em sat looking at them. Sally Anne lifted a shirt-sleeve and let it fall. Lettie reached for the coat and gingerly patted its folds. Mama Tass, with a great deal of expertise, took up the trousers and turned out the pockets.

  Martin's belongings were soon piled in the center of the table. There was a gold pocket watch and chain with fobs, a handkerchief, a small pearl-handled derringer, an ivory toothpick, a folded slip of paper, a few loose coins, and a long leather purse with a snap top. The purse bulged so thickly that Lettie picked it up, weighing it in her hand. On impulse, she opened the catch and poured the contents out onto the table. The gold coins gleamed, clanking musically, as they made a tall pile.

  Sally Anne raised a brow. "There must be several hundred dollars there."

  "At least."

  "For Angelique, do you suppose?"

  Aunt Em looked scandalized. "It wouldn't have been that kind of arrangement. But I suppose he had to pay for their passages on the river packet and their stay at a boardinghouse or such a place until a house could be bought."

  "It does look as if he meant to go away permanently," Lettie mused. She picked up one of the coins. It appeared to be freshly minted. She began to scatter the others with a fingertip. They were, every one of them, twenty-dollar liberty-head gold pieces. New.

  An idea, vague and uncertain, began to form in her mind. She picked up the folded piece of paper and spread it out. Whatever she had expected, she was disappointed. There was only a short string of letters and numbers written upon it.

  "TU0430E2," she murmured.

  "What was that?" Sally Anne's voice was sharp.

  Lettie began to repeat the string. Halfway through it, something clicked in her mind. She looked up at Sally Anne, her eyes wide. "The payroll."

  "Leaving Tuesday morning at four-thirty—in military parlance, 0430 hours—with an escort of two."

  "Then Martin must be the contact."

  "And if he's the contact," Aunt Em said, "then he must be the one who—"

  "—who killed Johnny."

  Lettie's wine-brown eyes were grim as she finished the statement. Martin was also the one who had arranged the trap for her brother that had led to his death in a fern-carpeted wood beside a spring. It was even possible that the newly minted gold pieces before them were part of the payroll for which he had been killed.

  Aunt Em had been right all along. If Lettie had not been so set on the guilt of the Thorn, she might have seen it earlier. If she had, there were many things that might have been different.

  "Oh, thank God," Sally Anne said, burying her face in her hands. "Thank God!"

  "My goodness," Aunt Em said, reaching out to touch the woman's shoulder. "You should be happy. It means Ranny is safe."

  Sally Anne gave a sniff and wiped her eyes. "It means to me that Thomas is innocent."

  "Thomas!"

  The woman nodded with a watery smile. "He was so wealthy, a mere soldier, and it seemed no one else had quite the same access to the information. Besides, he's a Northerner, and not—not as warm-blooded as—as other men. I've been so afraid."

  "Good gracious, Sally Anne! Just because a man doesn't drag you into a corner and smother you with kisses doesn't mean he isn't warm-blooded, nor does it mean that he's a murderer."

  "I know, I know, but with everything else, it seemed all too likely."

  Lettie had every sympathy with Sally Anne's fears, with good cause, but there were other things on her mind at the moment. "The question is, what are we going to do about it? It appears to me that we should lay the evidence in front of Thomas at once. Otherwise, Martin may get away."

  "We could go out and bring Martin in," Sally Anne said.

  "Too dangerous," Aunt Em said promptly. "The reason he pitched such a fit when Lettie took his clothes wasn't just because of his gold, but because he knew what she might find. He may have heard the wagon, too, even if he didn't see the rest of us. If we return, he'll know what we're about, and there'll be no holding him. I say let the army handle it."

  "If they can or will," Sally Anne said.

  "You still don't trust Thomas?"

  "Oh, yes, so long as the sheriff doesn't mix into it. He and Martin are friends."

  "Oh, dear."

  "It might almost be better if the Knights could take care of it."

  "Yes," Aunt Em said slowly.

  "But why should they?" Lettie asked in exasperation. She had an extreme sense of time going to waste while they sat there discussing it.

  "They aren't interested in political justice alone," Sally Anne said.

  "That may be, but this seems a military matter since the army payroll is involved. I say let's go see Thomas. Now."

  Sally Anne nodded. "You and Aunt Em do that. I think I should speak to Papa—that is, I believe that I should go on home. He—he will be worr
ied about me."

  Lettie gave the woman a direct look. So far as she knew, Samuel Tyler was not aware of his daughter's midnight activities but rather thought she was merely spending the night with her aunt. There was no time to question or argue, however. She got to her feet. "As you like. Shall we go, Aunt Em?"

  "You—you won't tell Thomas what I said?" Sally Anne asked.

  Lettie smiled as she put on her hat and thrust a pin through it. "Now why should I do that?"

  "No reason, of course."

  "Because I'm a cold-blooded Yankee?"

  "You might think that he has a right to know."

  Did she really seem that prim and self-righteous? She would not think of it. In a few days it would not matter.

  Gently she said, "Tell him yourself when the time is right, or don't tell him at all. It's nothing to do with me; I'm not the judge of any man or woman."

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  19

  "I don't see why you can't stay until Ranny gets home. It shouldn't be more than another hour or so."

  Lettie put her hairbrush into her round-topped trunk and closed the lid. "And it may be tomorrow, Aunt Em, and you know it. Thomas didn't promise; he just said he would try for today if all the proper forms were filled out."

  "If only Martin had not gotten away. I'm very much afraid the colonel wants to keep Ranny until he has another prisoner to put in his place."

  "It's just this Reconstruction bureaucracy. No one seems to have the ultimate authority to make decisions, so everyone is careful."

  "It makes no real difference. What matters is that Ranny will be home soon, and he's going to be upset to find you gone without so much as a good-bye."

  Lettie clung to her patience. "I'm sorry. As I said before, I just feel that I've imposed enough, that I've brought enough harm to all of you. My mind is satisfied, finally, about my brother and it's time I went home."

  There was more to it than that, of course. It might be cowardly of her, but she did not think that she wanted to face Ransom Tyler. She had loved Ranny, had been comfortable with him. He was gone as surely as if Ransom had destroyed him. In truth, there never had been such a person. He was only the creation of a fertile mind and an actor's art. The same might be said of the Thorn. The real Ransom might not be nearly so endearing or forgiving or strong. She did not think she wanted to find out precisely what he was like. So long as she did not see him, she could keep her memories unsullied.

  "I really don't see why you have to go at all," Aunt Em persisted. "You have your teaching, your school. Everything was going so well. I thought you liked it here with us."

  "I do like it."

  That wasn't quite true. She loved it. She had come to adore the cool, dew-washed mornings and the drowsy, hot stillness of the afternoons; the lingering bluish purple evenings and deep velvet-plush blackness of nights that throbbed with life. Oh, she would miss it, miss the warmth of the people and the soft sounds of the voices, miss the big old open house that closed no doors either to the night air or to lonely strangers. She would miss the laughter and the music and the easy acceptance of love and life and death. On cold winter days in Boston, she would think of them, and of the blinding sunlight, the abundance, and the joy.

  And yet, because she had seen them and shared them, they were a part of her. She would never be quite the same, never be quite so quick to blame and accuse, never be quite so ready to turn away from a smile, a touch, a kiss. She would, in some deep innermost part of her, always be a little Southern. As Thomas had said, it seemed to affect some people that way.

  "If you like it, then don't go," Aunt Em said with simple logic.

  "I have to, I really do."

  Lettie put on her hat and gloves and gave a nod to the young man, a nephew of Mama Tass's, who waited to take her trunk out to the buggy. She gave one last look around the bedchamber that had been hers. Already it wore a strange, indifferent air, as if she had never belonged there. She turned her back on it and opened her arms to hug Aunt Em.

  "Thank you for everything. You've been so good to me, I don't know how to tell you or to say how much I appreciate it."

  "Pshaw," Aunt Em answered, giving her a fierce squeeze. "All I want to hear is when you'll be coming back."

  "I don't know. Maybe someday."

  "Make it soon, or I swear I'll send Ranny and Lionel after you."

  Lettie smiled. There was a hard lump in her throat. Disengaging herself with a last quick kiss on the older woman's soft cheek, she turned away toward the hall. Mama Tass and Lionel were there. She had small gifts for them, a set of cameo earrings for the cook and a book on medieval knights for her grandson. She shook hands with Mama Tass but gave Lionel a brief hug, then ruffled the soft wool of his hair as he gave her a cheeky grin.

  The buggy was waiting. She walked from the house toward it, letting herself out the gate and picking up her skirts to climb up into the seat. Mama Tass's nephew gave her a hand up. He would be driving her to town in order to return the buggy to Splendora. She gave him a smile as he settled on the seat beside her, then leaned around him to wave good-bye.

  "Hurry back now, you hear? You hurry back! Come back to see us. Hurry back!"

  The cries grew faint, fading away as the carriage rolled down the drive. Lettie strained backward in her seat, waving at the trio of figures on the veranda until they were small and indistinct with the distance, the roiling cloud of dust, and the moisture that stood in her eyes.

  Hurry back.

  She would never return, she knew; still, it was lovely to be wanted. The warmth of the farewell served to ease the cold desolation inside her, though nothing would ever erase it entirely. She faced forward, straightening her hat, pressing the tips of her gloved fingers under her eyes.

  Hurry back. The call still rang in Lettie's ears long after she had been dropped at the stage office and the buggy had bowled away back toward Grand Ecore, long after the great lumbering stage, swinging on its springs, had pulled out of Natchitoches on its way to the railhead at Colfax. She would always remember it, she thought, and was forced to conquer a strong tendency to weep once more at the memory. How sentimental she had become. It seemed a hazard of increased sensibility, one she must guard against if she didn't want people like her sister and brother-in-law to stare at her in amazement. Not that she cared. Let them think what they liked.

  Lettie's traveling companions were a brush drummer, a short, rotund preacher with silver-gray hair, and a large white male rabbit in a crate. Of the three, the rabbit was the most interesting since the other two leaned back, put their hats over their faces, and went to sleep before the wheels had made a complete revolution. Lettie spent a few minutes scratching the rabbit behind the ears through the bars of its crate until its eyes closed also.

  She turned to stare out the window, hanging onto the strap and watching the trees and the sights she had glimpsed during the past weeks go by, thinking and trying not to think. She would be glad when she was on the train. Maybe then she would begin to feel as if she were really leaving the events that had taken place behind her, that she was on her way to forgetting.

  The stage jolted and bounced in and out of holes. It swung and dipped, flinging Lettie this way and that, rattled and shook as if it would fall to pieces at any moment. Overhead, a box or trunk thumped and bumped with maddening regularity. The man on the box yelled and cursed at the horses and cracked his whip. The dust that rolled from under the horses' hooves sifted inside the stage in a fine haze that soon coated everything with a gritty powder. The wind of their passage fluttered the veil on Lettie's hat, the fur of the rabbit, and the end of the drummer's cravat that was out of his waistcoat, though it did little to temper the heat of the sun striking through the windows as the morning advanced. The only respite was the few minutes they stopped in the shady yard of a farmhouse to water the horses. The dust and heat seemed worse when they started off again. Lettie clenched her teeth and hung on with dogged endurance, and as her reward, the miles fe
ll away one by one.

  The rider came from behind them. The stage was so noisy that she did not hear the sound of his horse's hooves until he was even with the window. There was no time or need to wonder and fear. She saw the shape of the man's head and his broad back and knew at once who he was and what his purpose must be. Her heart began to beat with a sickening rhythm, and she clasped her hands so tightly together in her lap that a seam of a glove split.

  She heard the man call to the driver, something about a message for one of his passengers. There were rules, she was sure, about stopping for such trifling causes. In the way of many rules in this part of the world, however, it seemed likely to give way to human consideration. The stage began to slow. Then it bucked and jolted to a halt. The drummer awoke with a snort. The preacher opened his eyes and unfolded his hands from across his waistcoat.

  The door beside Lettie was wrenched open. "Lettie, honey," Ransom said, "there's a thing or two you seem to have forgotten. Won't you step down and let me tell you about them?"

  "It will serve no purpose," she said, meeting his gaze squarely, hoping that he would understand without her having to go into detail under the interested gaze of the preacher and the annoyed glare of the drummer. She should have known better.

  "You could be right, but I prefer to think otherwise," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming.

  "This is most irregular," the preacher said in a pompous tones. "If the lady doesn't wish to speak to you, you have no recourse—"

  "Sir, this doesn't concern you," Ransom said.

  The preacher, his eyes starting from his head at the steely tone of the quiet rebuff, drew back in a prudent huff. Ransom turned to Lettie.

  "Be reasonable. Let these good folks go on their way unmolested while you and I have a few words."

  Was there a threat in his request? She rather thought that if there was, it was not directed at the men with her. "You are the most unscrupulous, unprincipled—"