“Matt,” protested Rachel, “if you take him home, it’ll look as if you’d killed him.”
He gave her a look that made her shrink. “Didn’t I?” he said, and laid Harry’s body across the saddle.
Sheriff Carey’s black eyes bored into Rachel, who stood with Tante Estelle near Harry’s bed where he lay covered with a sheet. Turning back to Matt with a shake of his head, Carey mused, “So, Mr. Bourne, your brother followed you, commended his wife to your care and shot himself in spite of your trying to wrest the pistol from his hand. I’ll credit you with imagination, sir! I’ve never heard such a story in all my life.”
“It’s true,” said Rachel.
Carey preened his moustache and gave her an unpleasant smile. “You’re an unfortunate lady, Mrs. Bourne. Mighty unfortunate. Or maybe it’s the men who get killed when you’re around.”
“You’ll respect my brother’s wife.” Mart’s voice was quiet but Carey’s sneer faded.
“She’ll get the respect she deserves. I’ll let you attend the funeral, Mr. Bourne, since if you’d meant to run, you could have. You sure can’t expect anyone to believe a rich healthy man with a new wife shoots himself so his brother can step into his boots. I want your promise to turn yourself in.”
Matthew nodded. “The funeral’s in the morning. I’ll be in Jefferson tomorrow afternoon.”
The sheriff gave a mocking half-bow and turned to go but Tante Estelle hurried forward, blocking his way. “Sheriff, you know I raised both these young men. I love them both. And I swear before Jesus on his cross that if Mr. Matt says it happen so, it happen so!”
“Well, mammy!” It was probably the first time she had ever been called that in her life, and Carey knew it. “Since you know your boys so well, maybe you can say why the elder one would kill himself?”
“I don’t know,” she said stubbornly. “But what Mr. Matt say, I believe.”
“I’m afraid you’re prejudiced, mammy.”
Selah loomed in the corridor where he had been standing. “I serve Mr. Harry all my life, sheriff. But Mr. Matt don’t lie.”
“Loyal,” shrugged Carey. “And doubtless wise to play up to the new master.”
Rachel barred the sheriff’s way, moving as if in her sleep. “My husband killed himself, sheriff, because I had been unfaithful to him.”
Tante Estelle gave a moaning gasp. Selah’s great shoulders flexed, and the look in his eyes was terrible to meet. “I didn’t kill my husband,” Rachel ended. “But I was the cause of his death.”
“That I’ll believe,” Carey said. “But I want the man who pulled the trigger. So, Mr. Bourne, in spite of all these testimonials in your favor, I’ll expect you tomorrow.”
He swaggered out. Selah went to his dead master, kneeling by the bed. Matt confronted Rachel. “Why did you do that? It won’t help me. And it’s the last thing Harry would have wanted!”
“I can’t let you take the blame.”
Tante Estelle caught each of them by the arm. Her tawny eyes were blazing. “You neither of you have a lick of sense! I saw you flowin’ together like filings to a magnet, and I blessed you, Mr. Matt, for going away ’cause there was bound to be trouble otherwise. I figured when Miss Rachel had babies—” Hunching her thin shoulders Tante put away all of what might have been and spoke with the practicality of one who’d seen many deaths and learned that life goes on afterwards. “You stop thinkin’ on yourselves and remember why Mr. Harry did this. He was sick to his soul—that you’ll have to live with all your years long—but he loved you still. He wanted you to have each other and be happy. How you can do it, God knows, but you owe it to him to try.”
When Matt brought Tante’s hands to his lips, there were tears in his eyes. Then he went quickly out.
Rachel stared at the older woman. “Oh, Tante, I want to die!”
“No,” said Tante with sudden hardness. “You’re one who’ll live. And you’ll laugh and love, though you don’t think so now. Come along. I’ll give you a bit of laudanum. Sleep’s the best thing for you now.”
Glancing at Harry’s covered form, Rachel wished she could sleep forever.
VI
If only. If only—
That afternoon, night and next morning, all through the funeral, Rachel’s agony of regret was muffled but not soothed by laudanum. She had a sense of not inhabiting her body, an illusion heightened by wearing a too-large black dress of the former Mrs. Bourne which Tante had aired and pressed. In spite of these efforts, the odor of camphor and age clung to the stiffly rustling taffeta, the black veil that let Rachel, fortunately, be present without baring her face.
Matt had no such protection. His face must be his mask. Because of the circumstances, only a few people were there besides the inhabitants of Gloryoak. The McLeods were there, the daughters casting sympathetic glances toward Matt, and so were Dr. Martin and Ferris Pettigrew, the lawyer.
Harry’s grave was next to his mother’s, not far from Etienne. When the minister said the last prayer and the grave was filled in, Matt looked at Rachel.
She put back her veil. It was like gazing into eternity. She loved this man. Standing near his brother’s and her husband’s grave, she loved him. But his eyes were bleak as winter. He kissed Tante Estelle and strode to where Selah held his stallion.
After everyone was gone, Rachel knelt by Harry’s grave. He had deserved so much better—a wife who could make him happy, give him children, a quietly blessed life. But like a bewitched traveler in the bayous, he’d followed an elusive dancing light, his dream of her, which in the end left him in darkness. She had loved him like an older brother, worshipped him as a guardian. Now that they were alone, she wept for him, her face against the earth of his freshly dug grave.
If time could just turn back to yesterday! How gladly she would have let Matt go if Harry could be alive. By killing himself to leave her and Matt free for each other, he had made it almost certain they never could be together.
A piercing wind blew and rain misted down. Rachel was surprised she could still feel such things as damp and cold, but she didn’t move. Tante Estelle came scolding, brought her inside, got her out of her muddy wet clothes, gave her a brisk scrubbing and clean nightgown and got her to bed with a cup of warm milk and more laudanum.
“Now, don’t you go wrecking yourself!” Tante scolded. “You’ll have to give evidence at Mr. Matt’s trial, and if you act like a sick pullet, it won’t help anyone. Best way you can show Mr. Harry thanks is to prove he didn’t love a flutterbrained coward.”
“But Tante, I am afraid!”
“For sure. It’s what you do when you are scared that counts. So get your rest, child. Sun’ll come up in the morning and you got to meet it.”
Rachel didn’t wake to sunlight, though, or even daylight. Drowsy with laudanum, she was dimly conscious of the glare of light, scuffling movements, before strong hands seized her, tearing away the bedding, pushing aside her gown. A cruel hot mouth muffled her scream, forcing her lips apart as a hard knee spread her legs. He entered her savagely with sharp punishing lunges as if using a weapon to hurt and subjugate her.
Tom.
She would know that body anywhere, those rough, grasping hands. It hadn’t occurred to her, or probably anyone, that he might hear of Harry’s death and come back to Gloryoak.
This was the nightmare, only worse. Writhing beneath him, trying to twist herself this way and that to dislodge him, Rachel wrenched her head down, bit his arm. He swore and struck her on the side of the jaw so her own blood mixed with his in her mouth and she lay dazed until he shuddered and collapsed on her, pinioning her with his weight.
Could she reach the lamp, stun him with it? There was a poker by the fireplace, the cast-iron door jamb, a bronze statuette on the mantel. If she held on to her nerve, surely she could stun him long enough to make her escape.
Keeping one arm over her, Tom raised himself on one elbow, lazily tracing the curves of her thighs and breasts, his clear blue eyes as callousl
y cheerful as a boy’s who’s pulling wings off butterflies.
“So here we are, my pretty whorish sister-in-law. Poor old Harry beneath the sod and me as master!” He paused, grinning, to let that sink in. “If you study to please me, your situation won’t change much except that I can appreciate and develop your talents. To outsiders, you’ll be my respected if somewhat foolish, widowed sister-in-law.”
“And if I don’t please you?”
He raised a careless shoulder. “You’ll be my demented female relation who must be restrained to her room. A great pity, but so fortunate that I’m dutiful in seeing to my late brother’s widow.”
It was horrible but it could work.
“You seem to forget you’re wanted for murder,” she said, seizing at a sudden hope.
He chuckled. “Self-defense. And nobody cares about that Cajun now my upright brother’s dead. Don’t raise your hopes on that score. I talked with Sheriff Carey. He’s an old friend of mine. Without Harry to push those charges, they might as well have never been made.”
She could well believe that, but snatched at a new thought. “Can’t you get Carey to let Matthew go?”
“My dear, why should I?”
Dumbfounded, it was a moment before she could speak. “Why, he—he’s your brother.”
“And I was Harry’s, but did that keep him from putting a price on me?” Tom’s eyes gleamed. “I hid out in New Orleans for a while, but I always planned to come back and settle with that pious muttonhead. I was on my way when I heard Matt had saved me the trouble.”
“But Matt didn’t!” When she’d told the story, Tom chuckled again.
“Harry’s just stupid saint enough to have done it. But I’ve made sure Matt will hang. We were never friends. He was always ruining my fun. Don’t need any contenders for Gloryoak or you. I scattered plenty of whiskey around the town, and set talk going. Mart’s riled our red-hot secessionists by saying they can’t whip the North, and he hasn’t hid his views on slavery. Carey won’t stop a band of righteous citizens who crave to avenge the esteemed Harry Bourne.”
That meant that now—right now—Matt was in danger. Twenty miles away. She couldn’t wait for a foolproof moment. When Tom, yawning, started to sit up, she snatched the lamp, smashed the heavy glass globe against his head with all her strength behind it.
He pitched forward, sprawling. Oil from the broken lamp was catching fire near his head. Rachel didn’t want to burn him or the house. She ran for the ewer by the wash basin, tossed water on the flames, finished smothering them with an edge of the wet rug as Tante Estelle rushed in.
“What in the world—”
At sight of Tom, Tante Estelle choked. She looked from him and the broken lamp to Rachel. “Did he—”
“Yes, but I’m all right. Tante, he’s stirred up some drunks in town, has them thinking about taking Matt out of jail and hanging him! I’ve got to do something!”
Tante Estelle was tearing sheets into strips. “Help me tie Mr. Tom good and get him in that little room. I’ll lock it tight and he won’t be getting out for a while. Hurry, child!”
Tom’s head was bleeding, and he breathed heavily. “It may be a few days till he wakes up,” Tante said as they hauled him into the small windowless chamber. She tossed the bedding over him and locked the door.
“Get into your riding habit,” she told Rachel. “And stick a few things in one of those quilts. I’ll send Selah for your horse, and he’ll ride with you to town.”
Rachel scrambled into her warmest habit, stuffed underthings, a wool dress and her hair brush in the quilt, slipped into her hooded cloak and boots.
No sound came from the adjoining room. Evidently Tante meant to pretend surprise when she would be finally compelled to “find” Tom. Whether he lived or died, Matt wouldn’t be safe. If Rachel could get him free, they’d have to run, at least till tempers cooled.
Tante came back, helped her drag her bundle down the hall and thrust two small leather bags in her hands. “Tuck these in your habit, Miss Rachel. There’s enough to get you and Mr. Matt well on your way. It’s money old Mr. Matthew left me, but I’m never going to need it.”
“Tante, I can’t take your savings!”
“Sure you can! That boy in jail’s worth more to me than anything.” The little woman’s golden eyes blazed. “You break him out and don’t let any grass grow under you till you’re long gone!”
“Oh, Tante!”
“Come on. Selah’s ready. He’s got a pistol ’case it’s needed.”
It was after midnight when Rachel and Selah tied their horses a little distance from the jail. The hope that Tom’s cronies had drunk themselves into a heap faded at the sound of howling laughter and ribald song coming from a public house on the outskirts of town.
Rachel shivered. When they had worked themselves up to it, when they had stopped being men and became a mob, then they’d come. They must be drinking up Tom’s largesse before they got down to business.
“Sheriff’s not in the jail,” Selah reported, back from reconnoitering. “Door’s locked but the key’s left on the outside, all easy for that trash yonder.”
“Then I’ll go get Mr. Matt. Where’s his horse?”
“Back of the jail. I’ll put my saddle and bridle on him, Miss Rachel, and you make all the hustle you can. I hear those pigs across the way hollerin’ for a rope. Any minute now they’re comin’!”
Rachel glided in shadows, forced the awkward key, prayed the creaking door wouldn’t be heard.
“Matt?”
A sharp intake of breath. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t you hear them across the road?”
“Just drunk.”
“Tom’s back. He paid for the whisky and the talk.” How she wished she could see Matt’s face. “You’re not going to get a trial, Matt. The sheriff left the key in the lock. Hurry! Selah’s getting your horse.”
“Have you got a pistol?”
“Selah does.”
“Then I think I’ll borrow it and wait for those gentlemen.”
“They’ll kill you!”
“Maybe. But not with a rope.”
“What are you trying to do?” she asked painfully, wishing she dared touch him. “Offer yourself to God’s judgment in trial by combat—with that rabble?” When he didn’t answer, she pushed on. “Matt, Tom raped me again tonight! He means to keep me shut up at Gloryoak. If you won’t come away with me, you’d better kill me. It would be kinder than what’ll happen otherwise.”
Silence again, but this time she felt his presence. He was at least considering another road than his hellbent one. She forced herself to keep still, let the darkness and the jeering voices across the street argue for her.
At last he sighed. “All right. We’ll go. But it’ll be one hell of a long long way. Far enough to forget.”
She didn’t think there was that distance in the world, but at least for now he was turned from death. She found the key to his cell on the sheriff’s desk and, after what seemed an eternity of fumbling, got the lock turned.
They rode southwest after parting from Selah, who said he’d go with them except for his wife and children at Gloryoak. “That trash’ll forage around in the bushes but won’t much happen till daylight,” he said. “And not much then, I reckon, with Mr. Tom eggin’ them on. That sheriff won’t fancy trailing an army man. By the time Mr. Tom’s able to kick up a fuss, you can be out of reach.”
Rachel could tell Matt was frowning. “You’re sure Tom won’t know you and Tante helped us?”
“He won’t know a thing we don’t want him to,” chuckled Selah. “Tante’s goin’ to be so thunderstruck when she finds him, goin’ to take care of him so good, that he’d never reckon she helped plunk him in that little room.” The men shook hands. “Some day maybe you come back?” Selah asked wistfully.
“I’m glad you can want me,” Matt said in a strangled voice. “But I won’t be back. Give Tante my love.”
The shadow that
was Selah vanished into the darker shadows of the night and Rachel and Matt rode south and west. And silent.
Rachel came to hate that quiet. It made her think of Harry, and she kept seeing his stricken face that last day. She remembered the heavy weight of Etienne’s body against her knees, the way Harry had comforted her. Strangely enough, though she shuddered from the physical memory of Tom’s last assault, it had exorcised the vicious horror of that first attack. He was a man she had managed to knock senseless and from whom she had escaped. He would never haunt her dreams again.
But Harry would. He’d haunt her waking hours, too, till she made some peace with herself. How could that be, especially with Matt so remote and forbidding?
Shunning plantations, settlements, even lone cabins at first, they had ridden through pine forests so dense sun scarcely filtered through at noon, their horses’ hoofs muted on needles fallen from pines thrusting two hundred feet into the air, or mulch of leaves from giant sycamore, cypress, walnut or pecan. There were cotton and corn fields, too, when they reached the rich bottom land of the Brazos. Sleek cattle and horses grazed in lush pastures, and Rachel glimpsed more than one distant great white house like that they had forsaken.
The silence between them was terrible, but speaking was worse. Rachel’s mind could barely distinguish reality from illusion. Of course they’d talked a little. She’d told all she knew about Tom’s return and had given Tante’s hoard into Matt’s keeping.
“Poor Tante!” he said, “She loved all three of us boys. The best one’s dead, one’s a fugitive and the rogue’s the one she’s got left! But Tom was fond of her in his way. If they have trouble, it’ll be because of how he treats other people.”
That seemed likely, but Matt answered Rachel’s questioning look with a shrug. “Tante’s free. And there’ll be a nice sum left her in Harry’s will. She can leave if Tom worries her too much.”
A Woman Clothed in Sun Page 9