Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) by Gretchen Craig Page B
Authors: Gretchen Craig
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they were a stunning pair. Abigail’s blond hair reflected
the candlelight; Bertrand’s black hair, brushing the collar of his coat, seemed
to absorb it.
When Abigail asked Josie to sing with her, Josie felt on
safer ground. Her voice was pleasant enough, and she sang in tune at least.
“That was lovely, Josie,” Albany whispered to her as she sat
down again. Josie knew her voice wasn’t lovely, but she accepted the compliment
very prettily, as she’d been taught. Believe every compliment is the absolute
truth, Maman had preached, but receive it humbly.
Mr. Johnston dozed in his chair and Mrs. Johnston sat
dreamily on her settee, embroidery in her lap. Abigail and Bertrand began
another piece.
Josie admired Abigail’s straight back as she sat at the
piano. Monsieur Pierre had scolded Josie constantly about her posture on the
bench. But whenever Josie sat at the piano, defeat sat with her. She simply
couldn’t bridge the gap between her feelings and her fingers. And here was
Abigail, blue satin and golden curls, effortlessly infusing the room with
music.
Bertrand shifted his stance so that Josie could see his
face, and she forgot all about her poor musicality. His voice oozed seduction,
and with a roguish smile on his lips, he sang just to her. Meeting his eyes,
Josie was glad she was seated or her rubbery knees would not have held her up.
Albany wandered over to stand behind his sister, as if to
look over her shoulder at the music, but Josie saw clearly his protective
instinct at work. For her or for his sister, she wasn’t sure. He nearly blocked
Josie’s view of Bertrand, whose smile grew a little wider at the intrusion.
When Abigail finished the piece, she slammed the piano shut.
With a scalding look at her brother, she excused herself and abruptly left the
room.
CHAPTER NINE
Toulouse
The morning Josie boarded the riverboat to visit the
Johnstons, Cleo had wrapped two shawls around herself. The wind and the rain
made it a nasty day, and Cleo wanted to wave goodbye to Josie from the dock.
Since the funeral and Josie’s off and on distancing, Cleo
missed their old camaraderie. Surely if she kept herself ready to be friends
again, Josie would come around. Grief didn’t last forever.
Cleo followed M’sieu Emile and Josie through the front gate.
Emile turned around and waved her back. “Go back to the house, Cleo. No need of
your getting soaked,” he said.
Cleo was about to protest, but Josie didn’t even look back,
so Cleo nodded to Monsieur Emile and hurried to the shelter of the upstairs gallery.
A pang of loneliness grabbed her as she watched Josie board the boat. She
raised her hand to wave, and for a moment she thought Josie saw her, but there
was no hand raised in return. What would a week among those américains do to Josie? She might be even more distant when she came home.
After dinner, the clouds grew thinner, and the wind shoved
them further south and east. Cleo finished her chores and checked that Madame
was busy with the accounting books. Monsieur Emile was in his room, probably reading
or taking a nap.
Cleo wanted to pick out the minuet Josie was learning, and
she wanted to study the notes in Josie’s old beginner’s book. No one but Madame
Celine had ever minded Cleo playing the piano, though lately Josie had seemed a
little put-out. Well, Cleo thought, she should practice more if she wanted to
play better. M’sieu encouraged both of them, though Cleo was sure he’d rather
sing with her than with Josie. Josie got nervous and made mistakes when he sat
with her.
Cleo had only heard the piece twice. She certainly did not
envy Josie the tutor’s skinny, faintly odorous figure standing stiffly behind
her, beating the time with his foot, but she wished she could read the notes on
the page as Josie did. In the spring, she’d begun to decipher the mysterious
symbols in the beginner’s book she’d found in the cabinet. Maybe by next
summer, she’d be able to read music.
No
the candlelight; Bertrand’s black hair, brushing the collar of his coat, seemed
to absorb it.
When Abigail asked Josie to sing with her, Josie felt on
safer ground. Her voice was pleasant enough, and she sang in tune at least.
“That was lovely, Josie,” Albany whispered to her as she sat
down again. Josie knew her voice wasn’t lovely, but she accepted the compliment
very prettily, as she’d been taught. Believe every compliment is the absolute
truth, Maman had preached, but receive it humbly.
Mr. Johnston dozed in his chair and Mrs. Johnston sat
dreamily on her settee, embroidery in her lap. Abigail and Bertrand began
another piece.
Josie admired Abigail’s straight back as she sat at the
piano. Monsieur Pierre had scolded Josie constantly about her posture on the
bench. But whenever Josie sat at the piano, defeat sat with her. She simply
couldn’t bridge the gap between her feelings and her fingers. And here was
Abigail, blue satin and golden curls, effortlessly infusing the room with
music.
Bertrand shifted his stance so that Josie could see his
face, and she forgot all about her poor musicality. His voice oozed seduction,
and with a roguish smile on his lips, he sang just to her. Meeting his eyes,
Josie was glad she was seated or her rubbery knees would not have held her up.
Albany wandered over to stand behind his sister, as if to
look over her shoulder at the music, but Josie saw clearly his protective
instinct at work. For her or for his sister, she wasn’t sure. He nearly blocked
Josie’s view of Bertrand, whose smile grew a little wider at the intrusion.
When Abigail finished the piece, she slammed the piano shut.
With a scalding look at her brother, she excused herself and abruptly left the
room.
CHAPTER NINE
Toulouse
The morning Josie boarded the riverboat to visit the
Johnstons, Cleo had wrapped two shawls around herself. The wind and the rain
made it a nasty day, and Cleo wanted to wave goodbye to Josie from the dock.
Since the funeral and Josie’s off and on distancing, Cleo
missed their old camaraderie. Surely if she kept herself ready to be friends
again, Josie would come around. Grief didn’t last forever.
Cleo followed M’sieu Emile and Josie through the front gate.
Emile turned around and waved her back. “Go back to the house, Cleo. No need of
your getting soaked,” he said.
Cleo was about to protest, but Josie didn’t even look back,
so Cleo nodded to Monsieur Emile and hurried to the shelter of the upstairs gallery.
A pang of loneliness grabbed her as she watched Josie board the boat. She
raised her hand to wave, and for a moment she thought Josie saw her, but there
was no hand raised in return. What would a week among those américains do to Josie? She might be even more distant when she came home.
After dinner, the clouds grew thinner, and the wind shoved
them further south and east. Cleo finished her chores and checked that Madame
was busy with the accounting books. Monsieur Emile was in his room, probably reading
or taking a nap.
Cleo wanted to pick out the minuet Josie was learning, and
she wanted to study the notes in Josie’s old beginner’s book. No one but Madame
Celine had ever minded Cleo playing the piano, though lately Josie had seemed a
little put-out. Well, Cleo thought, she should practice more if she wanted to
play better. M’sieu encouraged both of them, though Cleo was sure he’d rather
sing with her than with Josie. Josie got nervous and made mistakes when he sat
with her.
Cleo had only heard the piece twice. She certainly did not
envy Josie the tutor’s skinny, faintly odorous figure standing stiffly behind
her, beating the time with his foot, but she wished she could read the notes on
the page as Josie did. In the spring, she’d begun to decipher the mysterious
symbols in the beginner’s book she’d found in the cabinet. Maybe by next
summer, she’d be able to read music.
No
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