King of the South

by Calia Read

  “No, certainly not,” I firmly assert.

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “Can we have this conversation later?”

  “I don’t know, can we? My intent was to speak on the train, but instead, I had the lovely honor of speakin’ to your momma.”

  I can’t help but smirk at that. “For that, I am sorry.”

  “Did you know her dear friend Lucy from the First Baptist Church, not to be confused with the Lucy who goes to St. Patricks, is havin’ their friends over for tea on the same day your momma hosts their monthly book club meetin’?”

  “My, my what impertinence.”

  “Oh, that’s not all.”

  “All right, all right.” Laughing, I hold a hand up. “I acknowledge your sufferin’.”

  He broadly smiles. The dimple in his left cheek pronounced. There’s a tightness in my chest that squeezes my heart so tightly I can barely breathe.

  I love you. I love you so much. Tell me how to fix you.

  Livingston’s smile vanishes as though he can read my mind. For a minuscule second, there’s a flash of yearning in his gaze. I’m almost tempted to say my feelings out loud just to take that expression off his face. But then he blinks, and his signature blasé grin is back in place. His eyes are completely blank. “Right. Well, we should be leavin’.”

  Inside the car, I grab my fan, unable to ignore the stifling heat. The only breeze drifting into the car comes in through the open door. It doesn’t help matters when Livingston slides in beside me. He could sit beside the driver. There’s plenty of room beside him, but no. Apparently, the back seat is far more appealing.

  The length of Livingston’s leg presses against mine, and even through the fabric of my traveling suit, I can feel the searing heat of his skin. Flashes of him looming over me in my bed, his arms bracketed around me, and his hips thrusting between my legs run through my mind.

  I cannot continue to have these thoughts while we’re here. This is about Nat. Abruptly, I move toward Momma. Her left shoulder becomes pressed against me at an uncomfortable angle. I find myself selfishly uncaring, because for a minute there’s a few inches between Livingston and me, and I can breathe. Maybe not fully, but enough to gather my composure.

  Momma turns to me, and with sweat gathering on her upper lip, she looks at me as though I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. “My God, Rainey. This travelin’ suit is not light. You layin’ on me like that will cause me to faint!”

  I wince while Livingston smirks.

  “I apologize.” I move an inch, but that places me in Livingston’s personal space, plastered against him.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  It is a few days. A few simple days.

  I have been through worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rainey

  When we turn into driveway of Brignac House, we spot the slew of servants outside the plantation. Starting from the door and leading down the porch steps, the servants stand, all fifteen of their faces somber, their hands linked in front of them. Standing by the door is Oliver’s momma and Nat. Nat looks forward. Her face impassive and eyes unsmiling. The severity of her features feels like a jolt. I’ve never seen her so solemn.

  “Oh, my,” Momma remarks.

  I simply nod.

  “Is there a reason they have a brigade of servants?” Livingston asks rhetorically.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Has Nat ever mentioned that before?”

  Livingston thinks over my question, his eyes sharp on his sister’s small frame. The closer we get, the more defined she becomes. “Perhaps in passin’. I simply didn’t think much of it. In person, it’s quite excessive.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  As we get closer to Brignac House, the servants almost create a human arrow toward Nat and the woman standing beside her. Both of them are wearing black gowns, but the woman who I recognize as Oliver’s momma, I can’t place her name. I want to say it starts with an M? Mary, perhaps?

  Momma and I exchange glances and then look at our own attire. This might be the only time in my life I’ve ever felt underdressed. Momma brushes invisible lint from her skirt and juts her chin in the air. “I’m quite fond of my travelin’ suit.”

  Livingston leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He grins at Momma. “As you should. Purple looks lovely on you, Mrs. Pleasonton.”

  Momma stops waving her fan long enough to tap the edge of the fan against his arm. “You’re too kind to me, Livingston. Too kind.”

  While they strike up a conversation about the arrangements of the train, I can’t help but notice Livingston is leaning closer and closer to me. His elbows remain on his knees, and now my forearm is pressed flush against his rib cage, and my elbow is conveniently placed directly by his hip.

  My heart is threatening to burst out of my chest, and my breathing becomes erratic. On my lap, I link my fingers together and try my hardest to ignore Livingston. Which has never gotten me far in life.

  “I say, sweetheart. You’re lookin’ very red. Do you need my fan?”

  “No, thank you. I have my own,” I croak. I begin to toy with the latch on my handbag as though this is the first time I’ve used my hands. I bend forward, the purse finally opening, and my elbow brushes against his lower stomach, far too close to the buttons of his slacks. Livingston tenses up. I begin to wildly fan myself as though the gates of Hell are steps away. Judging from my wicked thoughts, that isn’t too far of a reach.

  Livingston looks at me from the corner of his eye and arches a single brow. I take the opportunity to smoothly elbow him in the side. He grunts, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward.

  Thankfully, the car stops in front of Brignac House, ending my torture. Before the driver has a chance to open the door, one of the servants does.

  Nat and her mother-in-law walk down the steps of the impressive mansion. Livingston whistles as we take in the stately plantation. The twenty-one columns that wrap around the home have flecks of paint missing. As do the black shutters that flank the front windows. But those small flaws add charm to what would be immaculate property.

  “I thought you’ve been here before,” I remark.

  “Neither Étienne nor I have visited Brignac House.” The edge to Livingston’s reply causes me to stop gathering my belongings and look at him. Livingston’s always been incredibly close to Nathalie. What would prevent him from visiting her? Was it Oliver, or something else?

  Livingston steps out of the car and turns to help me, I take his hand and ensure my skirt stays in place. Once I’m standing, my lungs greedily expand, inhaling the fresh air.

  Nat and her mother-in-law are mere steps away, and I’ve yet to think of her name. I think my bafflement is written across my face because Livingston leans toward me.

  “Her name’s Matilda,” he whispers in my ear.

  I nod and suppress a shiver at the close contact. As Livingston proceeds forward to greet his sister, I stay back and wait for Momma. She’s not too far behind me. When she’s within earshot, she says, “After that insufferable drive, I do believe this travel suit is utterly ruined. I must say it’s lookin’ rather beneficial the amount of servants at Brignac House. They’ll need a small militia to wring out the sweat in my suit.”

  My lips fight to stay in a straight line. Leonore Pleasonton can have a rare, unexpected sense of humor when she chooses. Livingston heads toward us with Nat, and Matilda next to him. I take the moment to quickly remind Momma the name of Nat’s mother-in-law.

  Momma is the epitome of a Southern lady as she greets Matilda. Her words flow with grace, and her eyes are filled with genuine sympathy. Nat hasn’t spoken much of Matilda, but it’s clear to see the raw pain in her eyes. She readily accepts Momma’s condolences.

  Nat continues to remain emotionless. She stands between Livingston and Matilda. She’s not sobbing into a handkerchief, nor is she smiling and embracing me.

  Only tragedy brings such a range of emo
tion out of people. Not one person’s reaction will be the same.

  Stepping forward, I hug my best friend. There’s no energetic embrace that’s generally expected with a Nathalie hug. It’s as though the very life has been depleted from her.

  “Nat, I am terribly sorry.”

  She nods and squeezes my hands. “Thank you for comin’.”

  “If there’s anythin’ you need while I’m here, anythin’, you just let me know, and I’ll get it for you.”

  Once again, she nods. I get the impression Nat isn’t fully registering most of the interactions occurring around her. My heart sinks even further because I know it will be that way for quite some time.

  “Nathalie, will you show our guest their living quarters?” Matilda says.

  “Of course.”

  While the servants walk to the car for our luggage, we follow Nat inside the spacious Brignac House.

  Upon stepping inside, it’s a struggle to keep my face impassive. The fetid smell clashes with the extravagant plantation. It’s the scent of body odor mixed with sweat. It could be solved with airing the house out. As I peek into the sitting room and see the windows nearly boarded up, I realize that’s not an option.

  My gaze meets Livingston’s. He looks like he’s holding his breath and treating each inhale as though it’s his last.

  If Nat notices the smell, she doesn’t show it. She continues to walk up the stairs while the three of us follow her.

  “My … this home has remarkable character,” Momma comments diplomatically.

  Character is certainly another word for stench. But all I can wonder is how does Nat manage to live here day in and day out?

  “It does,” Nat replies. “I’m certain Matilda will tell you even durin’ her time of mournin’.” Her tone is derisive yet manages to be vacant.

  I give a furtive glance at Momma and quickly speak up. “It’s much like Belgrave.”

  At the top of the stairs, Nat whirls around. For the first time since we’ve arrived, her eyes become alive. Unfortunately, it’s with anger. “Brignac House is nothin’ like Belgrave.”

  The three of us stop and gape at her. Even Livingston, her own brother, looks taken aback. And then she dips her head, her eyes veering toward the ground, and sweeps her hand to the left. When she looks back at us, a tense smile is back. “Mrs. Pleasonton, I have placed you in the west wing of the home. If you follow me, I believe you’ll find your room quite acceptable.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  Nat begins to walk down the hall without waiting for the three of us. Once again, we all look at one another before Momma hurriedly follows after Nat.

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  Livingston slowly shakes his head. He’s as bewildered as I am. We both know this display from Nat isn’t solely from the loss of Oliver. The traits she’s always possessed have slowly been chipped away, patiently and methodically.

  Nat shows Momma to her room, a lovely space that has plenty of bright light. Momma hums her approval.

  Silently, we walk toward the other end of the second floor. Nat opens the first door to the right. “Rainey, you’ll be in here.” The guest room is lovely with a large bed to the right and a gold chenille coverlet spread across the mattress. The room has all the prerequisites for visitors: a single armoire, a desk with a stack of pristine white paper and a pen, an upholstered armchair is angled in one corner of the room and fresh flowers are placed on the end table.

  Perhaps what’s notable is the curtains are open along with both windows, allowing fresh air to permeate the space.

  “Praise God,” Livingston murmurs into my ear.

  I suppress a grin and pretend I didn’t hear him.

  Nat gestures to the door opposite of mine. “Livingston, you’re across the hall from Rainey.”

  I’m sure for Nat it was a matter of simplicity. Place the guests all in one wing. For me, it’s close to torture. Like placing forbidden fruit in front of me and expecting me not to try to take a bite.

  Livingston clears his throat. “Thank you. Sounds nice.”

  “I need to go downstairs and see how I can help Matilda elsewhere.” With her shoulders rigidly set, Nat walks out of the room without sparing a good-bye or giving her signature bright smile. I knew she would be in mourning, but I didn’t know she’d be this bereaved.

  I take a step forward to go after her. “Should we—”

  Livingston shakes his head. “No. Right now, it’s best to leave her. I know my sister.” He says he knows her, but there’s a furrow between his brows that says differently. Livingston’s never seen her quite like this before either.

  “Well,” Momma sighs as she looks around my room. “I need to lie down before dinner.” Before she leaves, she gives Livingston and me a pointed look. “Make sure you keep your windows open,” she half-whispers, as though the entire staff and Matilda are listening in the hall.

  I make sure to keep my face straight when I nod. “We will.”

  Momma starts to walk toward the door but stops when she realizes Livingston’s not behind her. She looks over her shoulder at him and arches a single brow, the implication clear in her eyes, Why are you so comfortable being alone with my daughter?

  Livingston smoothly steps in behind her. “I should go to my room. Make sure the windows are open, too.”

  Momma nods her head approvingly, then walks out of the room with Livingston in tow. Doors click shut as people go to their proper rooms. Sighing, I give the bed a stare filled with longing.

  I get the sense I’m being watched when I hear, “Psst.”

  Whirling, I see Livingston standing in my doorway. My stomach dips, and my pulse thrums. I shouldn’t be this excited to see him. He hasn’t been out of my sight for no more than a minute. Nonetheless, I rush over to him, unable to wipe the smile from my face.

  “You’re supposed to be in your room.”

  Livingston tucks his hands into his pockets and angles his body closer. “I know. Your Momma made that very clear. I stayed back because I wanted to bring a conclusion to our conversation at the train station.”

  Crossing my arms, I lean against the door. “I thought that conversation was finished?”

  “No. It was interrupted.”

  His hooded gaze looks me up and down as he gives me a lazy smirk. My fingers itch to pull him closer. But one glance from the corner of my eye reminds me this isn’t my room, and anybody could walk by and see us in this open doorway standing awfully close.

  I straighten, trying to gather my composure. “We can’t … here.”

  Livingston nods. “Of course not.”

  “Le savauge?”

  My head snaps up, ready to tell him once again not to call me that, when he leans forward. His large hands frame my face as he dips his head for a quick kiss. Momentarily, I’m taken off guard but it doesn’t take me long to respond. My hands curl around the lapels of his jacket, savoring his lips on mine and having him close.

  It lasts no more than a few seconds, but it’s all I need to cling to him like a second skin. Livingston blinks rapidly, his black lashes touching his cheek. He gives me a smirk and brushes his finger across my lower lip. There’s a small tremor to his touch. He might appear untouched by the interaction, but he isn’t.

  “I wanted to do that all damn day.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rainey

  On the day of Oliver Claiborne’s funeral, there’s clear skies. Sunlight streamed through my window, and I even saw a bird chirping in the trees. The second I left my room, I felt as though I was descending into a cave. Matilda kept all the curtains closed. Everyone in the house felt the absence of sunlight and spoke in hushed whispers in the hallways. The weight of today makes the air on the first floor thick and grimy.

  The parlor room was emptied of its large pieces of furniture to make room for rows of chairs. It didn’t have the appearance of a funeral. More like a church service or wedding.

  Nat didn’t utter a word whi
le Matilda made demands from behind a black veil that looked far more theatrical than mournful. Every so often, she would look toward the windows, narrowing her eyes at the light that managed to peek through the curtain panels. Not even the weather was cooperating for her today. When her husband said the casket had to be ushered through the parlor doors, she was appalled because, “the living entered there.”

  She didn’t understand why their home didn’t have a death door, and then immediately began to sniffle. Matilda’s pain has been palpable since the moment we arrived. She doesn’t attempt to hide her grief. Initially, my first instinct was to respect that trait. Many women I know are raised to bury their emotions deep inside them and put a veneer on their lives. After less than a day with Matilda, and watching how briskly her moods would change, I think her veneer was lost and the more people to watch her, all the better. She clutches a handkerchief to her mouth and begins to walk out of the room. She stops beside Nat and stares at her with her bottom lip quivering, and barely suppressed anger gleaming in her eyes. “This family is cursed with pain.”

  Moments later, she left, her weeping echoing in the hallway. Nat stood with her back against the wall, unmoved by her mother-in-law’s emotions or words.

  “Lord have mercy,” Momma said quietly before she stood and followed Matilda.

  Matilda’s husband easily managed the responsibilities and apologized on her behalf. There was no way else for Oliver’s casket to be placed in the room but through the parlor doors, and so in the end, that’s what happened. The pallbearers slowly ushered the casket through the main doorway. Nathalie didn’t bat an eye. My heart broke for her because I knew my caring, genial friend would never be the same after this. There’s no comforting words I can soothe her with and no gifts to alleviate her pain. We’ve both been through this before. When her parents and brother passed away, Nat folded in on herself. Not quite in the way she’s reacting now, but close.

  Over time, the room begins to fill with mourners. Nat remains as solid as a rock, accepting condolences and hugs as though there’s nothing she would like more.