He turned completely in his chair, fully facing the American for the first time. "I'm glad you're still using that word if"
"I mean to go on usin' it as long as I can," said Shaw gently. "Whole thing smells a little high to me, and higher yet now that somebody's been interferin' with you. Fifteen years ago I'd have said, Don't worry, there's no evidence and you didn't know that woman from Eve's hairdresser. Fifteen years from now I might be sayin', Don't worry, they ain't gonna hang nobody for a colored gal's death, free or not free. Tell you the truth, Maestro, I don't know what to say now."
"Well," said January, "I know what to say." He held out his hand. "Thank you."
Shaw hesitated a moment before taking it, then did so. His hand was large, still callused from plow and ax. "It's my job," he said. "And it'll be my job to arrest you, too, if'n I don't find anybody else. The person who asked you to take a message to Miss Crozat-you want to tell me about them?"
January hesitated, then said, "Not just yet."
Madame Trepagier met him on the gallery, and even at a distance of several yards, as she emerged from the blue shadows of the house, he could see the marks of sleepless tension in her pale face.
"I wanted to thank you for your note," she said, holding out her black-mitted hand for the briefest of contacts permitted by politeness. "It was good of you."
"Not that it did you any good," said January bitterly.
"That had nothing to do with you. And at least I had the... the warning of what to expect." Her lips tightened again, pushing down anger that ladylike Creole girls were taught never to express. "Women so frequently turn out like their mothers I don't know why I was even surprised. But that may be unjust."
"If it is," said January, "there's things going on I never heard about."
And some of the tension relaxed from her face in a quick laugh. "And now I suppose I'll have to endure the... the humiliation of seeing my jewelry and things my mother wore, and my grandmother, on cheap little cha-cas and-" She caught herself just fractionally there, and changed the pairing with low-class Creole shopgirls to "American wives." As if through his skin, January knew she had originally started to say, on cheap little chacas and colored hussies...
She went on quickly, "And of course Aunt Picard's going to think I sold them myself and offer to buy them back for me."
No, thought January. She wouldn't have told her family about her husband's gifts to his mistress. Her pride was too great.
That pride was now in the quick little shake of her head, as if the matter were more one of annoyance dian anything else, and the way she put aside her own concerns in a warm smile. "With what can I help you, Monsieur Janvier? Won't you have a seat?"
She took one of the wickerwork chairs; January took the other. Below them in the kitchen garden, the
old slave was back weeding peas, moving more slowly than ever among the pale, velvety green of the leaves.
"Two things," said January. "First, I'd like your permission to tell the police that the message I was asked to deliver to Mademoiselle Crozat came from you."
Wariness sprang into her haunted brown eyes. Wariness and fear. She said nothing, but her no was hard and sharp in the way her back tensed, and her hands flinched in her lap.
Slowly, he explained, "I was the last person to see Mademoiselle Crozat alive, Madame. Because I saw her in private, to give her the message from you. Now I've been told that there are some people who are trying to prove that I did the murder."
"Oh, my God..." Her brown eyes were huge, shaken and shocked and-why that expression of being backed into a corner?-of... calculation? "I'm so sorry."
"Now, I have no idea what you would have said to her at that meeting, and since Mademoiselle Crozat is dead and the jewelry's gone, you can tell the police anything you want, if they come and speak with you on this. But I need to tell them something."
For a long time she said nothing, her pale mouth perfectly still and her eyes the eyes of a card player swiftly arranging suits to see what can be used and how. Then she looked up at him and said, a little breathlessly, "Yes, yes of course... Thank you for... for asking me."
For warning me.
Why fear?
"Will your family be so hard on you, if they learn you tried to see her? I know decent women don't speak to plafees, but given the circumstances..."
She turned her face away quickly, but not so quickly that he didn't see the fury and disgust that flared her nostrils and brought spots of color to her cheekbones as if she'd been struck.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That isn't my business."
She shook her head. "No, it isn't that. It's just that... To have the protection of your family there are certain prices you have to pay, if you're a woman. And if you don't pay them..."
A hesitation, in which the silence of the undermanned plantation seemed to ring uncomfortably loud. January realized what he had been missing, what he had been listening for, all this time: The voices of children beyond the trees where the cabins would lie, the clink of the plantation forge.
She turned back to him, with the small, simple gesture of the child he had taught. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said I had to get my jewelry back from Angelique Crozat. I had to. Two of the fields are on their fourth cropping of sugar. They must be replanted, and I have neither money to rent nor to buy the hands we need. Arnaud sold three of our workers in October. To pay for a Christmas ball, he said, but I think some of it went to buy gifts for that woman and her mother, because he suspected-feared-that Mademoiselle Crozat was looking elsewhere. He pledged three more of our hands to cover the costs of renting enough labor to sugar off. I only learned this last Tuesday. I wrote to her-I'd written before-and received no reply."
January remembered the autumn when three of the men on Bellefleur had died of pneumonia, when the owner hadn't had the money to buy more before sugaring time. The labor had fallen hard on everyone.
Though only seven, he'd been sent out to the fields with the men, and he bore far in the back of his dreams the recollection of what it was like to be too exhausted physically to walk back from the fields. One of the men had carried him in. He'd come down sick-very sick-after the sugaring himself.
"There's no way you can get your creditor to defer until after you replant?"
"I'm seeing what I can do about that." Her voice had the unnatural steadiness of one concentrating on balancing an impossibly unwieldy load. "But of course everyone else is planting at this time of year. And to make matters worse the girl Sally, the housemaid, has disappeared. She probably feared I'd send her out to the fields as well, which in fact I might have to do.
"I'm sorry," she added. "This isn't any of your concern. Of course you may tell the police the message came from me, though I... Would it be too much to ask if you would not tell them where and when I charged you with that message? Could you for instance tell them that since I... since you had been my... my teacher, and I knew you would be at the Blue Ribbon Ball...?"
"Of course," said January.
"It isn't as if I was there long or went into the ballroom or saw anyone or spoke to anyone," she went on quickly. "It... It was foolish of me to try what I did, and I will always be grateful to you for saving me from... from the consequences of that. Thank you. Thank you so much."
She did not meet his eyes. "You said there were two things you wanted to ask?"
"Madame Madeleine?" The door to the house opened, and the old butler, Louis, stood framed in the high opening. Behind him, January could see the central parlor, a medium-size room, beautiful in its simplicity, daffodil-yellow walls and a fireplace mantel of plain bleached pine. The doors onto the front gallery stood open, and a man stood just within them. Though he was attired as a gentleman in a sage-green long-tailed coat and dove-colored trousers, something about him shouted American. The square face, with red hair and thick lips framed by a beard the color of rust, was not a Creole face. The eyes-or more properly the way he looked out of those eyes, the set of his head as he sized up the price of the simple curtains and old-fashioned six-octave pianoforte-were not Creole eyes.