A Cry at Midnight Page 4

  So, his wife was dead, leaving him with a baby to raise and a plantation to run. No wonder he was so curt. Some might even say rude. She hadn't known him long enough to form a firm opinion, but first impressions told her he was an extremely results-oriented man who didn't have time for foolishness. Not a warm, friendly, type. Not exactly a "people person."

  She sighed, then pushed herself off the bed. With outraised arms, she twirled in front of the two attentive women. "Make me into an acceptable lady, please," she asked. With wide-eyed disbelief, they continued to stare at her hair, her clothes, and her shoes.

  "Okay, I know we've got our work cut out for us, but you'd be surprised. Really, I clean up pretty well."

  #

  Jackson galloped away from the house, his mood as dark as the gelding he rode to the far cotton fields. What a ridiculous female! Dressed like disreputable boy, with unusual-colored blond hair shorter than his, she should have been nearly indistinguishable from any young male. Unfortunately, she didn't look--or feel--like a boy. Curves in all the right places, firm and sweet-scented, she'd sent him reeling when she'd swooned in his arms.

  How was he supposed to stay angry with her when she was constantly feeling ill? For someone who looked healthy, she certainly didn't have a strong constitution. He only hoped Randi Mae Galloway had no illnesses that might be passed along to Rose. She'd held his precious child in her arms, and who knew what else she'd done--or would have done--without his presence in the nursery?

  The gelding snorted, pulling against the reins. Jackson held him in check, not wanting a mad dash that could destroy the fragile young plants beneath the horse's powerful hooves. He wanted order in all things, but unlike his control over this animal, his life never seemed to achieve such a blessed state. That ridiculous young woman's appearance in his house was just another example of how little control he seemed to possess at times.

  Randi. What an absurd name--as strange as her clothing and shoes. The woman was a walking contradiction. Dressing like a male, sounding and acting like the most fragile of women, she possessed both a smart mouth and a vivid imagination. He didn't believe for a minute that she'd lost her trunk and the clothes she wore in some accident aboard a packet. Why she wanted to be at Black Willow Grove remained a mystery, but one he would solve. However, there was no reason to let her know he was suspicious of her story or her activities. Common wisdom said that if he gave her enough rope, she'd hang herself.

  Jackson slowed the gelding to a trot, then to a walk, as he neared his newest cotton field. His overseer strode between the last two furrows, near where a shallow levee separated the land from the Mississippi. Between the green plants, the field hands pulled weeds from the rich soil, tossing them aside to be trampled underfoot. Only the best, most sturdy vegetation for the plantations along this exclusive section of river. Nothing as lowly as a weed would be allowed to live in the select confines of the elite.

  Jackson narrowed his eyes, his hands tightening on the reins. He was one of the wealthy planters now. He'd sold his smaller plantation downriver for the opportunity to join these men. He was now one of those who'd pushed the river back from the fertile land, who commanded thousands of field hands, and produced millions of dollars from almighty cotton.

  He'd paid the price in blood and sweat. He was one of them.

  His overseer began to walk toward him, but Jackson waved the man away, content to sit in the shade of a cottonwood tree and watch the hands work the land.

  This section of land had been part of the marriage settlement between him and his neighbor, Thomas Crowder. Pansy Anne Crowder, the polished, accomplished daughter of one of the region's wealthiest planters, had been a prize in herself. Jackson still had trouble believing he'd been the man who'd won the hand of the fragile beauty. Their marriage had been so brief that at times he thought his vague memories of polite conversation and even more polite couplings were nothing more than a dream. They'd married, honeymooned in New Orleans, settled into Black Willow, and then Rose had been born.

  Within a week of the birth, Thomas Crowder's fragile, delicate flower had died of childbed fever, never recovering from the rigors of bearing their daughter. Her father blamed Jackson, of course, for planting his seed in such fertile but precarious soil.

  Jackson had not blamed himself; one of the reason's he'd married Pansy was for the purpose of producing children, not because he'd loved her to distraction. He left love to society's poets. Jackson was too busy building an empire. And empires were much easier to build with land from a wealthy and generous father-in-law.

  Thomas no longer had his daughter, but he did have a grandchild. If he wanted to see Rose in the future, Jackson had reminded him, he should uphold his end of the marriage bargain and sign over the land he'd promised.

  Personally, Jackson thought his daughter would be better off without the influence of her bourbon swilling, meddling grandfather, but in fairness to Rose, he would allow her to grow up knowing the man. Jackson thought that concession was very open-minded of him.

  With a nudge of his bootheels, he urged the gelding toward the overseer. "Brewster," Jackson said with a nod. "How goes the work today?"

  "The soil is wet, but the weeds not too plentiful," the man said, wiping his balding head with a cloth.

  "We've had no rain this week, but I see the river is up."

  Brewster settled his hat on balding head. "Might be a good idea to build up this levee a bit, just in case the snowmelt upriver pushes the Old Man over his banks."

  "See to it, then. Weeding will do us little good if the cotton is underwater."

  Brewster wiped his head again. "It'll be done."

  Jackson nodded, then turned the gelding back toward the house. He wondered what he'd find when he walked in this time. If there was a God in heaven, Miss Randi Mae Galloway would appear more like a proper young lady and less like a lowly field hand.

  Then perhaps he could deal with her better, more objectively. And he would find out why she'd claimed to be a friend of Miss Agnes Delacey . . . and Rose's new governess.

  #

  After tea and toast, corsets and lacing, Randi felt much more like a genteel Southern lady. Unfortunately, she'd learned that eating and lacing didn't go together very well, and that using the primitive facilities in yards of petticoats and skirts was not the easiest task a woman had ever performed.

  As a matter of fact, she'd gotten so tired from her ordeal of fitting and dressing that she needed a nap. In her time, she'd slept about one hour since midnight. Right now she should be sound asleep, about three hours away from the buzz of the alarm clock that got her up each morning at seven o'clock.

  She glanced at the stack of her comfortable clothing, neatly folded on the room's only chair, and wondered if she should hide these twentieth century garments. Probably. Jackson Durant would no doubt order them destroyed since he found her so repulsive. And her fanny pack! Fortunately, he'd ignored that item when asking questions earlier. She couldn't let him get his hands on her money, driver's license, or keys. She wouldn't be able to explain those so easily.

  "Loosen up this dress, will you, Melody?" she asked one of the two servants who'd played lady's maid and seamstress for the last hour.

  "Yes, ma'am," the girl said, tackling the endless row of hooks and eyes that ran from neck to hips on the less fancy of the three dresses they'd brought in for her to try on.

  "How is Mr. Durant to work for?" Randi asked in a conversational tone as Melody continued her task.

  "The master is just fine, ma'am," she replied in a respectful, almost automatic tone of voice.

  "No, I mean really. Is he short-tempered, mean, unreasonable?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Would you tell me if he were?"

  The girl was silent for a long time, but Randi felt her fingers working on the fastenings near her waist. Soon they were all undone, and Melody tackled the laces on the corset they'd convinced her was necessary for all ladies.

  "The master is fine
," she finally said.

  "He seems a little angry to me. I wonder if he's always been that way?"

  "I wouldn't know, ma'am. I've just been here the last year, after Miss Pansy married the master."

  Pansy? His dearly departed wife's name was Pansy? Well, Randi supposed that was an appropriate name for a Southern belle. And with their daughter's name of Rose, Jackson Durant had a whole flower motif going. To him, accustomed to such feminine names, the name Randi must seem totally wrong.

  But Pansy? Oh, well. Randi shrugged out of the dress, leaving on the camisole and pantaloons they'd insisted she wear instead of her underwire bra and serviceable cotton bikini underwear with the Mickey Mouse logo.

  "I'm going to take a nap now," she announced. "Thanks for all your help, and I'm really grateful that we didn't have to alter much on the dresses. At the moment, I'm just too tired to appreciate them. Could one of you wake me for dinner? I've got a feeling I'm going to be famished."

  The two servants looked at each other, then Melody spoke up. "Yes, ma'am. I'll wake you in time to get ready for dinner."

  "Thanks." Randi sank into the bed, feeling smothered by its depths once again. She rolled to her side, then stared out the window. In just a few seconds, she heard the door close as the two women left. Good. She needed to be alone, to think about what had happened and maybe figure out why. Not that she was really good with big picture, high concept ideas. She was more of a detail person.

  The only "detail" she could figure out right now was that her life was in the hands of an angry, skeptical man.

  Outside the wide window, she could see for miles. Green carpeted the land. She suspected that in a few months, there would be white bolls of cotton on each of those plants, and she'd see men and women with long sacks, harvesting the cotton for endless, back-breaking hours.

  Jackson Durant would no doubt be out there, tapping his whip on his thigh, scowling at the workers. She just hoped he didn't decide to abuse anyone in her presence. Randi wasn't about to let that happen, and explaining her actions might be harder than convincing Jackson she was really his daughter's new governess.

  Speak of the devil . . .

  She pushed herself to one elbow, watching him thunder back home on a black horse that seemed to suit his persona exactly.

  If he thought he was going to barge in on her and start another interrogation, he had another think coming. She was too tired for more of his questions and comments.

  With another sigh, Randi rolled over in bed, facing the door. If Jackson Durant did show up, she wanted to know about it.

  #

  When she awoke, the room was dark except for a small candle sitting on a chest near a doorway. Randi felt disoriented for several long moments as she forced herself to breathe evenly, to let her eyes focus on her surroundings. For the second time in the last twenty-four hours, she realized that she'd traveled back in time. That she was actually in Black Willow Grove's plantation house.

  Her fingers brushed against the fine cotton chemise and pantaloons she'd been given earlier. How in the world was she going to dress by herself? Even the servant had struggled with the row of hooks down the back of the dress Randi had worn earlier.

  She'd find a way, though, she vowed as she struggled into the heavy skirts, pulling up the bodice and slipping her arms into the tight sleeves. Clothing from the 1800's was so uncomfortable; how had the women ever accomplished any chores wearing such dresses?

  But then, women who dressed like this didn't do chores. They definitely didn't dust furniture, clean toilets, and vacuum carpets. With a sigh, Randi fastened as many of the hooks as she could, then slipped on the narrow leather shoes that had been provided. The late Mrs. Durant had longer, more narrow feet, making these shoes a poor fit. Randi remembered thinking that all the boots and shoes the museum displayed were equally narrow and usually smaller than her own size seven and a half. With a sigh, she thought of the comfortable tennis shoes she'd hidden in the very top of a cherry armoire, behind decorative carved scrolls. Too bad she couldn't wear her Keds instead.

  As she walked to the door, she vowed that she'd find someone to help her finish dressing, then seek out Mr. Durant. He'd left in a huff earlier today, claiming she couldn't be a friend of the new governess, Agnes Delacey. Randi knew it was up to her to convince him that not only had Agnes sent her as a replacement, but that she'd be the best darn governess in the entire state of Tennessee.

  She pulled the door open a crack, looked both ways down the hall, and started to slip outside. Her foot connected with something lying across the doorway.

  "I'm so sorry! she exclaimed, bending down to help the servant to a sitting position. "I didn't know you were there. Did I hurt you?"

  "No, ma'am," the young woman replied in a shy voice.

  "Why were you lying there?"

  "So's I can help you dress," she explained, struggling to her feet.

  "You have to lie in the floor?"

  "Yes, ma'am. That's the way we do these things."

  "But that's so uncomfortable!" Randi shook her head. "Never mind. I shouldn't say a word. Where you sleep is your business."

  "No, ma'am. The mas'r had me sleep here. Lebeau tol' me so hisself."

  "Lebeau?"

  "He's in charge in the house, ma'am."

  "That will be all, Melody."

  "Yes, Mr. Lebeau." The girl lowered her eyes, standing at the doorway as though she was a part of the furnishings. Randi's heart went out to her. How could everyone be treated so . . . indifferently? This whole system sucked. No wonder they'd had a big war over the issue of slavery.

  Even though Lebeau was also black, he didn't treat the servants any nicer than the "the master." God, she hated that word!

  "I need her to help me dress," Randi said, standing a little straighter and jutting out her chin, "then I want to see Mr. Durant."

  "Mister Jackson is downstairs. I'll see if he's available."

  "Don't bother," Randi said. "I'd rather surprise him."

  The tall black man raised his chin, looking down at her as though she'd just suggested grabbing a few beers with the queen. He looked a lot like Morgan Freeman, especially in that movie that was out last winter about the slaves who wanted to go back to Africa.

  "Melody, help Miss Galloway with her needs. I'll escort you downstairs when you are ready," he said before retreating down the hallway.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Randi pulled the girl inside the room, then kicked off the tight slippers. "Okay, just who is he and what's he like?"

  "You want to know about Mr. Lebeau, ma'am?" Melody asked, confusing obvious on her expressive face.

  "Of course. Haven't you ever heard that you should know your enemies? I'm not sure why, but I think Lebeau is not real happy with me." Or maybe he just didn't know how to treat her--another servant or a guest? She didn't know the answer to that question either.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Are you just being polite or do you actually agree with me?"

  "Ma'am?" Melody asked in a bewildered tone.

  "Never mind," Randi said, presenting her back. Just help me get fixed up for my next interrogation by Mr. Durant." She ran her fingers through her short, streaked blond strands. There was nothing she could do about her hair, but maybe he'd overlook that one twentieth century style if the rest of her looked more "respectable."

  Melody lit several candles, then went to work on dressing Randi properly. While the servant adjusted the skirt over the layers of petticoats, Randi wiggled her feet inside the too-narrow shoes, wondering if there was a shoemaker around who could stretch them out. Wondering how long she'd have to tolerate these uncomfortable clothes and the angry man who thought her unfit. Before she could dwell too long on the depressing topic of being lost in the past, she was combed, corseted, laced, tied, and buttoned.

  Melody stepped back, her hands folded demurely. Randi's heart went out to her in ways the girl would never understand. How could she explain to a slave in the 1800's that she
couldn't tolerate these conditions, and that she didn't believe any of them should be expected to tolerate them either. No one should be considered inferior because of their race or the circumstances of their birth.

  Randi felt like hugging the girl. Instead, she smiled and said, "Thank you again. I wouldn't be able to do this without your skills."

  Melody looked up for only a second, but Randi could tell she was surprised by the kindness. Didn't anyone ever praise the people on this plantation? Was everyone as harsh and unhappy as Jackson Durant and his henchman, Lebeau?

  She had a good mind to march downstairs and tell him exactly what she thought of his tactics. But that wouldn't gain her what she needed, and she doubted her opinion would sway him even a tiny bit. With a sigh, she headed for the door.

  As she expected, the tall black man stood at the end of the hallway. "Come with me, Miss Galloway," he said. His tone of voice wasn't at all shy, pleading, or coaxing. He obviously thought of this house as his domain, and seemed to sense that she was as out of place in this lifestyle as she was in these clothes.

  "Lead on," she murmured, struggling with the long skirt and too-tight shoes. With luck, she wouldn't fall flat on her face. With control, she wouldn't tell Jackson Durant exactly what she thought of him and his wealthy, parasitic life.

  But Randi Mae Galloway, outspoken, unconventional middle child, had never been very good at keeping her opinions to herself.

  She made her way down the steps carefully, holding her skirts up slightly with one hand, grasping the banister in a white knuckled grip with the other. Before long, she was following Lebeau down a short hallway that led to an open door.

  "Please, don't announce me or anything," she asked him. "I'd rather not interrupt him if he's busy, and if he's not . . . well, I'd just rather let him see me on his own."

  Lebeau titled his head back, peering from glasses perched halfway down his wide nose. "As you wish," he finally said before turning away with a very slight bow, leaving Randi alone in the hallway.

  "Okay, it's now or never," she mumbled to herself. Consciously relaxing her tense body, she released her grip on her skirts.