The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 2

  I said my good-byes to Robert Aultman while Travis waited a discreet distance away, standing beside my trunk and other luggage.

  “I’ll see you at the party,” Robert said, shaking my hand longer than was necessary. He whispered, “Go easy on the booze.”

  I’d had only three drinks over the course of a long evening, but it was at least one drink too many for me. “I learned that lesson, I think.”

  He leaned closer. “The hangover will pass. Drink a lot of water.”

  I groaned and turned away, unsure if I wanted to see him again. His laughter followed me as I moved toward the docks where Travis waited. In a moment I was in the midst of bustling stevedores and bargaining merchants. The war had brought industry and prosperity to Mobile. The shipyards boomed with orders for naval ships, and now that the war was over, the Mobile docks teemed with cargo from Central and South America, accessed by the newly completed Panama Canal.

  A recent rainfall had left the station’s parking area puddled with water. A miasma of exotic aromas—spices, fruits, cooking—floated on the breeze from the river. The melody of various accents and languages reminded me of the international scope of the port. The surroundings overwhelmed me.

  Travis rescued me and escorted me to the waiting car. In a matter of moments, we were bumping out of the train station and onto a newly paved road that led through the heart of the port city.

  When we passed Bienville Square, I asked Travis to let me select some chocolates for my uncle’s party. The candy shop on the corner of Dauphin and Joachim was famous throughout the South for its confections, and I wanted to contribute something to my uncle’s extravaganza. Travis obliged, and I hurried into the shop while he waited with the car. It was a tough decision, but I settled on a variety of chocolate-covered nuts and fruits and the pastel bridal mints that melted in one’s mouth. I ordered two fountain drinks, one for me and one for Travis, to help with the heat on the drive home.

  As I left the shop with my purchases, I stepped into the path of a young black man, really little more than a teenager. He hit me with enough force to knock the drinks into the air and my candy to the ground. Soda rained down on the two of us.

  “My apologies, madam.” He stood unmoving, too terrified to even blot the Coca-Cola from his face as it ran into his eyes and mouth.

  “I’m not hurt,” I assured him. “It was an accident.”

  A portly man in a rumpled suit came forward. “Look what you done, boy. You hit the lady and ruined her packages.”

  I picked up the candies where they’d fallen to the street, still in their wrappers. “Nothing is harmed,” I said. “It was an unfortunate accident. I stepped into his path without looking.”

  “His path ain’t on the sidewalk. No Negro should be on the sidewalk. They walk in the street, especially when a lady is near.”

  Travis came to my side. He was at least six foot five, and his shoulders could easily fill a standard doorway. His ancestors had wielded the Scottish broadsword, and I’d seen him fell a tree as if it were a toothpick.

  “It was an accident,” Travis said. He offered me a handkerchief to wipe my dress. “Be about your business,” he said to the youth.

  “That boy needs to pay for what he broke,” the stranger said. “I run a dry-goods store over yonder”—he pointed across the street—“and I know you can’t let ’em get by with uppity conduct.”

  Travis took one step toward the man. He put a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Be off,” he said. “Use more care.” He waited until the teenager had run away, this time in the street, dodging horses and cars.

  “You lettin’ him off scot-free,” the merchant complained.

  “Thank you for your interest. I’m sure Mr. Airlie will appreciate your intercession when I tell him of it. May I have your name?”

  The man looked at Travis, then me. “Not important.” He crossed the street and kept walking.

  “Are you hurt, Miss Raissa?” Travis asked when we were alone.

  “Not in the least. If you’ll hold my candy, I’ll get us another soda for the ride home.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It took half an hour to make our way to my uncle’s estate. Several miles of road had been paved, but it wasn’t long before we were on the narrow, sandy track that led to Caoin House. To the east of my uncle’s property, a vast swampland, the river delta area, stretched for miles. Travis said it was as treacherous as Okefenokee in Georgia or the Atchafalaya Basin in Louisiana.

  There were other settlements beyond Caoin House, little hamlets with groceries and merchants, but Mobile was the county seat, the place of governance, and therefore of money. Caoin House, for all its beauty, was isolated. When he’d first moved to Caoin House, Uncle Brett had ridden to Mobile on horseback or in a carriage. His new Ford had obviously made life much easier for him.

  As we struggled through the sand traps at five miles an hour, the heat wilted me. The sticky Coca-Cola made my blouse adhere to my skin. If Travis suffered from the heat, he didn’t show it. He sometimes seemed more old-world God than mortal man. He’d been with Uncle Brett at Caoin House as long as I could remember. He was always friendly, but he never spoke out of turn, and his loyalty to Uncle Brett bordered on downright primitive.

  At last we turned onto the crushed-oyster-shell drive that marked the entrance to the estate built by Eli Whitehead, a Civil War general. Caoin House had once been a cotton-producing plantation. Bathed in the alluvial soil from Chickasabogue Creek, the land was rich and fertile. Most of the vast acreage was in timber, a crop in high demand as the country had begun to grow and expand. Uncle Brett had built his own sawmill and exported thousands of board feet of pine timber down the railroad spur he’d also constructed. People said he could turn cow patties into money. He was a very wealthy man.

  Yet the crudeness of making money had no place on the grounds of Caoin House. It was a vision of grace and loveliness. When we rounded a curve and came upon the front lawn, which stretched for at least twenty acres, I couldn’t help the small intake of breath. Though I’d visited Caoin House as a young girl, the elegance touched me anew. Giant live oaks fluttered with Spanish moss. Trunks at least fifty feet in circumference supported limbs that stretched and angled, almost touching the ground and then rising again. Travis told me the lacy moss was a parasite, but it didn’t harm the tree. Framed between the trunks and a tunnel of graceful limbs was the sixty-four-room antebellum home.

  Caoin House was a three-story Italianate home that reminded me, from a distance, of a riverboat. The oaks offered the perfect frame for the house, but the views from the pecan orchard to the north and the formal gardens in the rear were also spectacular. Lush tropical plants to the south followed a path that ended two hundred yards later in a cypress slew. From the wilderness of the swamp to the formal rose gardens, Caoin House had a bit of everything a gardener could crave. Travis worked tirelessly, a true labor of love. On my last visit, I’d asked if he loved Caoin House or my uncle more. He’d said they both had their merits and their faults.

  We motored to the front of the house, and Travis stopped. The lower floor of Caoin was used for storage, the laundry, and recreational activities. The main entrance was on the first floor, accessed by gracefully arched double steps that met at the porch. The stairs were designed prior to the Civil War, when women used the left staircase and men the right, because it was unseemly for a man to see a woman’s ankles. Thank goodness things were changing for women. Once we obtained the vote, equality would come more swiftly.

  I was halfway up the stairs when the heavy wooden door with a beveled-glass panel opened, and Uncle Brett stepped out. He was a tall, slender man with my same black curls, tamed by brilliantine and combed back from his forehead. His hazel gaze swept over me, taking in each detail. Gray shot through the hair at his temples, but it only made him more distinguished. Still, he’d aged rather more than I’d expected. His business had prospered, but Uncle Brett looked tired.

  “Raissa! I’ve lur
ed you to Mobile at last.” He embraced me in a long hug. He was a neat man who always smelled of Florida Water. He had a ferocious humor and loved to tease me. “How many hearts did you break on the train ride down?”

  “None.” But I felt that I wasn’t being completely honest. “But I did meet a young man you’d invited to the party.”

  He arched one eyebrow, something he did to make me laugh. “Oh? And you just happened to deduce this young man was invited to our party?”

  “I had a conversation with him.” As we entered the house, I told him about Robert Aultman and our meeting, leaving out any mention of rum.

  “Robert is looking to buy two of my steamboats,” Uncle Brett said. “Streamlining delivery of goods is the ticket for shippers. Faster, more reliable service. That’s what people want, and that’s what I can give him.”

  “Do you know Mr. Aultman well?” I hoped I didn’t sound interested.

  “Not personally, but his company is well thought of. I understand he’s considering a move to Mobile.” Uncle Brett glanced at me, his expression amused. “I wish you’d move here, Raissa. Keep me company in this big house. You wouldn’t have to teach.”

  “But I love teaching.” That was a mild exaggeration. I loved my independence, and I loved the moments when I captured a student’s interest and generated a spark of passion for literature and reading.

  “I believe you’d love running Caoin House, too. Perhaps you could explore your own writing. You’ve talked about it in your letters often enough. I think it would be jolly to have a scribbling woman in the family, especially one who wrote stories of the occult and supernatural.”

  I’d foolishly admitted my desire to write and my scouring of the Savannah library for books by authors of “sensational” stories. I had to laugh. “Uncle Brett, you’ve been reading Mr. Hawthorne’s unhappy comments about women writers. I do believe his cud curdled in jealousy at the sales of some women authors.” I was pleased that Uncle Brett remembered my dream to plunge into fiction and took me seriously enough to encourage me, even if his support was in the employ of moving me to Caoin House.

  “As much as you love to read, Raissa, I’m sure if you turned your hand to writing, you’d have droves of followers. I have a pen name for you . . . Raissa Belladonna. And Caoin House is the perfect location to build your career. Caoin is an old Gaelic word that means ‘lament.’ The House of Lament. It has a ring to it—doesn’t it? And, of course, everyone in these parts knows the house is haunted. So much tragedy. You could become an entrepreneur of the dark tale.”

  He wove a pleasant fantasy. “Thank you for your support, but I believe the teacher’s paycheck is a lot more reliable.”

  He grew serious. “You wouldn’t have to rely on a teacher’s salary if you’d come to manage Caoin House. I would make sure you had a generous allowance and compensation for your talents.”

  I never doubted my uncle’s generosity, but I also didn’t want to find myself reliant on another person. “I’ll give your offer every consideration.”

  “And I’ll see if the dashing Mr. Aultman can also apply some pressure. Raissa, I know you needed to grieve the loss of Alex. I liked him immensely, and I know you were deeply in love. But you are almost twenty-five, and time stands still for no one. If you plan on children and a family, the passing years are a serious consideration. If you’re content to remain a widow, take no heed of my intrusive questions.”

  My first reaction was a flush of anger, but that quickly evaporated. Uncle Brett was a businessman, and he’d often told me his success came from confronting the realities of a decision, both good and bad. He didn’t mean to pry or even pressure. Biology was a fact.

  “I will take your comments under advisement.” Thank goodness I’d learned that phrase from the suffragettes in Savannah when they were confronted by angry men.

  “Let’s get your things to your room. I’m putting you in the peach bedroom on the front. There’s a lovely balcony there, and it overlooks the oak grove. The sunrises are splendid.”

  I’d hoped for a room on the north side, facing the pecan orchard. For some reason Uncle Brett never used those rooms, even though they were the most elegant in the house. There was tragedy associated with them—some accident in the distant past—and it amused me a little that my uncle let such history affect his choices for my room. He might be easier to persuade to attend a séance than I’d anticipated.

  Travis picked up my trunk and started up the stairs to the bedroom. I followed, until Uncle Brett grasped my wrist. “I’m glad you’re here, Raissa. I look at you, and I see your mother. Evangeline would be proud of you. And your father, too.”

  “And I’m glad to be here with you, Uncle Brett. We’re the last of the Airlie line.”

  “Perhaps not for long, my dear. Perhaps not for long.”

  He was still chuckling when I skipped up the stairs behind Travis. I was eager for a wash and some clean clothes. Coca-Cola and sweat made for an unpleasant eau de cologne.

  When I entered the bedroom, which was wallpapered in a delicate peach with bouquets of wildflowers woven into the pattern, I found that Uncle Brett’s housekeeper, Winona, had already drawn a warm bath. She waited for the arrival of my luggage to unpack me.

  I went to her quickly and gave her a hug. Her arms closed around me briefly before she stepped away. Winona was not demonstrative, yet she was always where she was needed. My uncle teased her that she had the abilities of a bat to find her way to the epicenter of a domestic crisis without visual aids. Stoic was the perfect word to describe her, yet her glances at my uncle told me how much she cared for him.

  “Miss Raissa, it’s good to have you here. You were a child the last time you paid us a visit. Now you’re a grown woman.”

  “I’m happy to be here. This visit is much needed. I only hope Uncle Brett doesn’t party me to death or marry me off to the first eligible man who shows an interest.”

  Her smile was brief. “He wants children running through the house. Trust an old bachelor to want the very thing that will drive him to madness.”

  While most Mobile homes employed Negro servants, Uncle Brett had Winona and Travis—a woman with a mysterious past and a Scot from the Highlands. At least Travis sometimes talked about his upbringing. Winona brushed aside all questions. Uncle Brett said only that she’d suffered great tragedy and to keep my nose out of her business.

  Her skin was a burnished oak, and her eyes a strange gold, ringed in green. She accepted the social status of servant, but she’d been educated somewhere other than Mobile. Her knowledge of medicinal plants and the local flora and fauna rivaled that of a professor, and the thick accent so familiar in the Deep South was absent. Although she never spoke of a husband, she had a son, Framon, who’d remained overseas after the war to further his studies.

  Winona lifted the lid of my trunk.

  “There’s no need to unpack me. I can do that,” I said, knowing she would continue until all my clothes were neatly folded in drawers or hanging in the chifforobe. Winona was never diverted from a task.

  “Enjoy your bath. I’ll lay out something comfortable for you to wear to dinner. Your uncle is casual unless he has guests, and I know he reserved the evening to spend with you.”

  “Uncle Brett wrote me that Framon was still in Paris pursuing his education.”

  “Yes, he is happier there, I think.”

  “Will he come home?” I remembered him vaguely from a visit to Caoin House with my parents. My mother had grown up in Mobile, but love and work had taken her to Savannah when she married my father. They’d both been fond of Framon, and I vividly remembered a picnic near the creek when I’d fancied myself in love with him. I was eight, and Framon had been a tall, gangly teenager who had no use for a tagalong girl.

  “He’s due for a visit this summer.”

  “I hope he comes while I’m here. I’d love to see him.”

  “I hope so, too.” She removed several dresses from the trunk and hung them. There was
no dissuading her from her tasks, so I stepped into the bathroom, eager for a long soak.

  Dinner that evening was exactly as Winona predicted. Quiet, and a chance for Uncle Brett and me to catch up. When the last scrape of bread pudding had been eaten, Uncle Brett took my hand. “Get some rest because you’re going to need it. We’ll meet in the library in the morning and go over the plans for your welcome to Caoin House party. I’ve planned a humdinger this time.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As my uncle laid out the party plans over breakfast, I told him he needed no help from me. The gala had been flawlessly organized. Menus were complete; liquor, though illegal, had been smuggled into the first floor; and the army of servants necessary to sustain a rollicking party for three days had been approved and hired. My help was merely icing on the cake. Raissa, what flowers should we place on the tables? Raissa, the croquet match is set for five o’clock. What refreshments would be best? Winona could have answered each question better than I, but my uncle wanted me to feel included. His manipulations worked brilliantly. My anticipation of the weekend grew with each detail determined.

  Uncle Brett called me into the library, where Travis waited. “Travis will give you some driving lessons, and then I have a list of errands for you to run.”

  The idea of driving the car—by myself—was frightening but also thrilling. That my uncle trusted me gave me pleasure. “Of course.” I’d never backed down from a challenge.

  Uncle Brett handed me the key and turned to Travis. “Take her into the cow pasture. Be sure it’s empty.” He was only half teasing. “And while you’re in the lesson business, Travis, if she wants to learn to shoot, there’s a ladies’ .410 with the other weapons. Guns are part of our life. She needs to know how to handle a weapon in case there’s a livestock emergency.”