"It might work," he said when she came out of the shop. "There is a great likelihood that it will not," she said. "That's why we mustn't tell anyone ahead of time, and raise false hopes. Why are you smiling?"
"Thinking of my partner Wooden Foot. He'd like your grit."
"Thank you. Let's hope it isn't totally wasted."
She settled her skirt over her legs and clasped the reticule that held her purchase. Charles shook the reins over the mules and started the wagon toward home. He had no reason to whistle the little tune, but he did anyway.
69
The barouche raced up the lane much too fast. The top was in place to spare Ashton and Favor Herrington the dust of a swift journey from town. The two liveried black men hung on to the front seat, grinning like hunters closing on a fox. They didn't know much about what was happening at Mont Royal, but they'd quickly grasped that the white woman was haughty as a queen and tough as a general. They liked working for her.
Behind the barouche rattled a second carriage, less opulent. In this carriage rode two clerks employed by Herrington, and a jowly bailiff of the court who'd been bribed to come along.
As the barouche swayed to a standstill. Ashton felt her heartbeat quicken. She'd slept lightly, restlessly, and jumped out of bed while it was still dark to begin combing and arranging her hair. She was nervous as a virgin in the bridal bed; at least she supposed virgins felt this way. She hadn't been a virgin for so many years that it was impossible to recall.
This time Herrington had brought a big carpetbag, whose contents he fussily examined as the driver hopped down to open the door on Ashton's side. Great shinning lances of sun fell between the massive oaks at the head of the lane; the residue of a river mist was burning off. It was half past nine on what promised to be a sweltering June day.
Ashton's upper lip gleamed with perspiration. Her eyes were lively, and despite her state of nerves she could barely keep from smiling. She'd spent half an hour choosing her dress, finally selecting a three-thousand-dollar one from Worth's of Paris. It was rose pink, restrained and elegant. Her gloves and little straw hat were black. The black and rose made her powdered face starkly arresting.
Cousin Charles heard the carriages and walked around from the other side of the house in that lazy cat's way of his. He wore his old cavalry boots, a pair of white linen trousers turned yellow by time, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbows. His hair was still long as a gypsy's, and as usual he clenched a foul cigar in his teeth. Cousin Charles was no longer young, but exposure to Western weather had given his face the wrinkled toughness of someone much older. Ashton had always found him handsome. She would have found him so today if she didn't hate him worse than a snake because of his family ties.
"Good morning, dear Charles," she trilled. He leaned against one of the studs in the unfinished wall of the new house and stared. If looks were nails, she would be spiked to the barouche.
Insolent bastard, she thought. Herrington summoned his clerks from the second carriage. The bailiff belched and scratched his paunch. He strolled toward the corner of the whitewashed house next door. Charles snatched the cigar out of his mouth.
"Just a minute, you."
Favor Herrington stepped in front of him. "This gentleman can go anywhere he pleases, Mr. Main. He is an officer of the court, and he has the owner's permission. We brought him with us to forestall trouble. We realize this is not a happy day for you all."
The lawyer fairly oozed sympathy. Charles would have smashed him, but there were bigger fish to be hooked. Looking defeated, he said, "You won't need him."
"Good, very sensible," Herrington said, giving a nod to the bailiff. The paunchy man wandered out of sight, pulling at his crotch.
Ashton treated her lawyer to a brilliant smile. "Now, Favor, you know what's to be done. These two gentlemen are to visit every home on the plantation. Tell the niggers that all previous arrangements concerning their land are null and void unless they can show written proof of such arrangements, and can also read the terms aloud."
Herrington nodded crisply. To the pair of pale ciphers accompanying him he said, "Every 'cropper on this place henceforth owes a rental of twenty-five dollars per month, with two months in advance due and payable at five o'clock today. If they can't pay, they can sign one of those employment contracts I drew up. Or they can get out. I'll join you shortly. Get busy."
The clerks fetched portmanteaus from their carriage. Ashton pointed toward the road to the old slave quarters. "You'll find them scattered around down there." Charles folded his arms, high color blotching his dark cheeks.
"Now," Ashton said as the clerks hurried off, "the important business. Where might I find Madeline?"
"Around in front," Charles said with a jerk of his head.
"Thank you, you're so polite," she said with a sneer. She ought to take his sullen behavior as a tribute to her victory. Unfortunately, it just made her mad. She couldn't think when she was mad. She composed herself as best she could and swept down the side of the whitewashed house and stepped around to the lawn overlooking the river, only to be figuratively knocked flat by the sight of three women seated there, stiff as subjects in a photo gallery. One of the women was Virgilia Hazard.
"Virgilia, I'm floored. I'm positively floored."
"Hello, Ashton." Virgilia stood up. She was old, and heavy, and gray as a mouse in her drab dress. Ashton remembered Virgilia's past behavior. Her arrogant pronouncements about Southern ways and Southern people. Her lust for black men. The woman was an abomination; Ashton wanted to spit right in her face. But Mr. Herrington was standing beside her. He wouldn't approve.
"What a charming surprise," Ashton said. "Was your brother too busy to come? Did he send you down here to wring you hands in his behalf?"
The little blond tramp, Cousin Charles's companion, shot her a furious look. Madeline merely looked despondent. Virgilia said, "I regret that George is in Europe."
Ashton pursed her lips. "Oh, too bad."
"For God's sake," Madeline exclaimed, "let's load the wagon and get out of here."
"In a moment," Virgilia said. "There's something Charles and I would like to say to Ashton in private."
That startled the visitors. Down by the ruined dock, Ashton noted, Charles's ugly little boy was chasing geese again. She studied Virgilia, her expression opaque, searching for some sign of a hidden intent. She could detect none.
"I can't imagine we've anything substantial to discuss," she said. "Mont Royal's mine, and that's that."
"Yes, true enough. But we would still like to speak with you."
Ashton tilted her head and blinked prettily. "What do you think, Favor?"
"I see no purpose, but I see no harm in it."
"Well, then, all right."
"While you're busy, I'll join my clerks, if you don't mind."
"Yes, you just go right on ahead," Ashton trilled. Charles threw a swift look at Willa; he seemed to be signaling her in some conspiratorial way. Neither Ashton nor her lawyer paid attention.
Virgilia gathered her dowdy gray skirt in her left hand, which Ashton noticed for the first time. "Let's step inside. We'll only be a moment."
Ashton's sense of triumph puffed her up again. She could afford to be generous to these whipped curs. She was smiling radiantly as she stepped in front of Virgilia without apology and preceded her into the cheap little room that served as Madeline's parlor.
Everything was packed and piled near the door except for one handmade shelf holding a small stoppered apothecary's bottle of dark amber glass. Dim light fell through the curtained window in the stove alcove. Charles followed the women inside. He closed the door and leaned against it, with arms folded. His cigar had gone out but it still reeked.