The Wish Collector
Page 12
Clara nodded, frowning. “Yes, I heard that.” She wondered why a man would refuse medical treatment offered to him. From what she knew of TB, it was an awful, painful way to die. Why would a person ever choose that? Or was it as Mr. Baptiste had said, he was simply too prideful and believed he could beat the disease on his own without the aid of medical intervention?
Clara chatted with Mr. Baptiste for a few minutes longer, but customers were beginning to join Clara, taking baskets and filling them with fresh farm produce, so she paid for all her items, and bid Mr. Baptiste a good day.
She would go home and make a couple of pans of lasagna, one for her and one for Mrs. Guillot—though Mrs. Guillot would probably insist on “paying” her with a bottle of her toxic liniment. And then she was going to pay a visit to her wish collector. Clara smiled all the way home. Her small world was growing.
CHAPTER SIX
August, 1860
Angelina ran her hand nervously along the wood bed frame as she moved toward the window. A thin breeze blew off the Mississippi River, the willow tree just outside bending its young, slender trunk. The wisp of air cut through the heat and Angelina sighed as she tipped her head back and let the brief moment of cool reprieve flow over her flushed skin.
She heard the floor squeak behind her, and a combination of elation and terror ricocheted through her blood, causing her heart to leap.
She turned, gripping the window ledge behind her as she took him in, his face flushed, sweat gleaming on his forehead.
He raised his arm and used his shirtsleeve to swipe at the perspiration, a grin lighting his face. “There were enough tomatoes today to feed an army.” He set the basket on the stool near the door and Angelina’s eyes followed it, taking in the colorful array of garden vegetables, still caked with the soil he’d pulled them from.
Angelina moved her eyes back to his self-satisfied expression, unable to stop herself from laughing softly. “Someone’s going to catch you picking vegetables in the Chamberlain garden and then what will you say?”
“You told me no one tends the garden except you.”
Angelina turned her head and glanced down and then into his eyes, a smile still playing at her lips. “Well, you just never know who might happen by and see I’m not there. I’m not certain it’s worth the risk.”
John had been visiting her every other week for almost two months now under the guise of being at the plantation for the sole purpose of taking tea with Mrs. Chamberlain and Astrid. Twenty minutes after John bid farewell to the women and Angelina cleared the tea service, Angelina would tell her mother or the kitchen help she was going to the garden to pick vegetables and instead, she’d meet John in the empty cabin near the sapling willow tree.
To cover the vegetable-picking lie, John himself would fill a basket for Angelina to return with, ensuring they could spend as much time together as possible.
And then they’d meet there, where they talked and talked as long as they were able until Angelina had to race back to the house lest someone come looking for her or become suspicious.
And then later, in her tiny bed in the cabin she shared with her mama, she would go over the words they’d spoken to each other, the stories he’d told her about the army, his family, his life, so vastly different from her own. She’d close her eyes and picture the way his cheeks moved when he smiled, that tiny dimple appearing and causing her belly to flutter. She’d recall the way he’d sometimes trace her fingers—so tentatively—as they spoke, and it was as though she could still feel his touch tingling along her skin.
He touched her as if she were precious, and perhaps breakable. And once he started, some small part of him—his hand, a finger, the side of his thigh—continued to touch her until they parted ways.
John moved closer, and Angelina could smell the tangy scent of his clean male sweat—the sweat he’d expended for her, and happily if the look on his face was any indication. It made the blood in her veins do something crazy . . . speed up or slow down, she wasn’t sure exactly. She only knew it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.
“It’s worth it to me. I hope it’s worth it to you too,” he said, and she swore there was a note of nervousness in his words as if he was afraid she might tell him it wasn’t. The idea caused her muscles to feel loose, as if they’d melted a bit. He enjoyed their time together as much as she did. He wanted more of it, more of her.
Still . . . speaking of risks brought the danger of what they were doing to the forefront of her mind, and she looked away on a frown. This dalliance—meeting this way—was foolhardy. There was no real point to it at all. So why couldn’t she stop showing up at this cabin week after week, with this sparkly glee in her heart, her eyes so eager just to see him that she could hardly think straight?
“What is it, Angelina?” He moved closer, taking her hands in his, those warm strong hands that made her feel both safe and unsafe all in the same breath.
She let her eyes linger on their joined fingers for a moment, his pale golden, and hers a deeper bronze.
She released her grip, turning from him and staring out the window at the very edge of the sugarcane fields. The plants were too tall for her to see the workers amongst them. But she knew they were there. Oh, she knew very well. She’d helped her mama tend their wounds when they came in after a long, brutal day. She mixed the salve that would bring relief and soothe their weary muscles and broken skin.
“I haven’t told you why this cabin is empty, John.”
He didn’t reply but she felt the heat of his body behind her, smelled the musk of his skin, knew how close he’d moved by the way the hairs on the nape of her neck felt charged.
“One of the slaves named Elijah and his mama lived here. Elijah was a brawny, big-shouldered man with the mind of a small child.”
Angelina pictured the boy/man who had had a perpetual smile on his face and at the thought of him, her stomach twisted. “A man in town said Elijah exposed himself to his wife. Said he dropped his pants right in the middle of the street and caused her such trauma, she fainted dead away.” Angelina paused, gathering herself. “Elijah, he was always toying with that rope belt of his. Always . . . tying and untying it. He was shy, nervous, just a child at heart. He didn’t mean anyone any harm. They say he smiled even as the noose was slipped around his neck.”
Angelina turned and looked into John’s eyes. His gaze was filled with the same sadness that she was certain was in hers as well. The sadness that would forever reside in her heart when she thought of Elijah and the injustice he’d suffered. But she saw an angry glint in his gaze as well, and it was that, more than the sadness, that made her trust him.
“Mr. Chamberlain didn’t stop it?”
Angelina shook her head. “It was done before he knew what happened. Oh, he raised a fuss at not being made aware of the situation right away, but what good was that? Elijah was already dead.”
John moved his hands up her arms and then pulled her to him. Shock lodged in her chest for a moment before she leaned into him. She’d never been held by a man, never been this close to anyone, except her mama when she was a little girl. And oh, to be held in someone’s arms. It felt so good. Too good. Too . . . necessary.
“Angelina,” he murmured against her hair, “I won’t let anything like that ever happen to you. I’ll protect you. The world, it’s changing, day by day. So many things are happening. You have no idea.” Of course I don’t, she thought, the words drumming through her mind. How could she? Her small world began and ended at Windisle Plantation.
She tipped her chin, looking into his face, their lips so close she could feel his breath ghosting across her skin. It smelled like the peppermint tea he’d recently drunk with Astrid, who looked at the man so close to Angelina now with undisguised covetousness. The man Mrs. Chamberlain wanted her daughter to marry because of his family’s fortune. A plan she was very obviously working diligently toward.
Oh yes, Angelina was flirting with danger in so many ways. “But not soon enough, John. And how can you protect me? You’re one man. You tell me the world is changing, but I see no proof of it. And yet”—she pressed herself closer to him—“I don’t seem to be able to stop meeting you, to stop . . . wanting . . .”
Clara chatted with Mr. Baptiste for a few minutes longer, but customers were beginning to join Clara, taking baskets and filling them with fresh farm produce, so she paid for all her items, and bid Mr. Baptiste a good day.
She would go home and make a couple of pans of lasagna, one for her and one for Mrs. Guillot—though Mrs. Guillot would probably insist on “paying” her with a bottle of her toxic liniment. And then she was going to pay a visit to her wish collector. Clara smiled all the way home. Her small world was growing.
CHAPTER SIX
August, 1860
Angelina ran her hand nervously along the wood bed frame as she moved toward the window. A thin breeze blew off the Mississippi River, the willow tree just outside bending its young, slender trunk. The wisp of air cut through the heat and Angelina sighed as she tipped her head back and let the brief moment of cool reprieve flow over her flushed skin.
She heard the floor squeak behind her, and a combination of elation and terror ricocheted through her blood, causing her heart to leap.
She turned, gripping the window ledge behind her as she took him in, his face flushed, sweat gleaming on his forehead.
He raised his arm and used his shirtsleeve to swipe at the perspiration, a grin lighting his face. “There were enough tomatoes today to feed an army.” He set the basket on the stool near the door and Angelina’s eyes followed it, taking in the colorful array of garden vegetables, still caked with the soil he’d pulled them from.
Angelina moved her eyes back to his self-satisfied expression, unable to stop herself from laughing softly. “Someone’s going to catch you picking vegetables in the Chamberlain garden and then what will you say?”
“You told me no one tends the garden except you.”
Angelina turned her head and glanced down and then into his eyes, a smile still playing at her lips. “Well, you just never know who might happen by and see I’m not there. I’m not certain it’s worth the risk.”
John had been visiting her every other week for almost two months now under the guise of being at the plantation for the sole purpose of taking tea with Mrs. Chamberlain and Astrid. Twenty minutes after John bid farewell to the women and Angelina cleared the tea service, Angelina would tell her mother or the kitchen help she was going to the garden to pick vegetables and instead, she’d meet John in the empty cabin near the sapling willow tree.
To cover the vegetable-picking lie, John himself would fill a basket for Angelina to return with, ensuring they could spend as much time together as possible.
And then they’d meet there, where they talked and talked as long as they were able until Angelina had to race back to the house lest someone come looking for her or become suspicious.
And then later, in her tiny bed in the cabin she shared with her mama, she would go over the words they’d spoken to each other, the stories he’d told her about the army, his family, his life, so vastly different from her own. She’d close her eyes and picture the way his cheeks moved when he smiled, that tiny dimple appearing and causing her belly to flutter. She’d recall the way he’d sometimes trace her fingers—so tentatively—as they spoke, and it was as though she could still feel his touch tingling along her skin.
He touched her as if she were precious, and perhaps breakable. And once he started, some small part of him—his hand, a finger, the side of his thigh—continued to touch her until they parted ways.
John moved closer, and Angelina could smell the tangy scent of his clean male sweat—the sweat he’d expended for her, and happily if the look on his face was any indication. It made the blood in her veins do something crazy . . . speed up or slow down, she wasn’t sure exactly. She only knew it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.
“It’s worth it to me. I hope it’s worth it to you too,” he said, and she swore there was a note of nervousness in his words as if he was afraid she might tell him it wasn’t. The idea caused her muscles to feel loose, as if they’d melted a bit. He enjoyed their time together as much as she did. He wanted more of it, more of her.
Still . . . speaking of risks brought the danger of what they were doing to the forefront of her mind, and she looked away on a frown. This dalliance—meeting this way—was foolhardy. There was no real point to it at all. So why couldn’t she stop showing up at this cabin week after week, with this sparkly glee in her heart, her eyes so eager just to see him that she could hardly think straight?
“What is it, Angelina?” He moved closer, taking her hands in his, those warm strong hands that made her feel both safe and unsafe all in the same breath.
She let her eyes linger on their joined fingers for a moment, his pale golden, and hers a deeper bronze.
She released her grip, turning from him and staring out the window at the very edge of the sugarcane fields. The plants were too tall for her to see the workers amongst them. But she knew they were there. Oh, she knew very well. She’d helped her mama tend their wounds when they came in after a long, brutal day. She mixed the salve that would bring relief and soothe their weary muscles and broken skin.
“I haven’t told you why this cabin is empty, John.”
He didn’t reply but she felt the heat of his body behind her, smelled the musk of his skin, knew how close he’d moved by the way the hairs on the nape of her neck felt charged.
“One of the slaves named Elijah and his mama lived here. Elijah was a brawny, big-shouldered man with the mind of a small child.”
Angelina pictured the boy/man who had had a perpetual smile on his face and at the thought of him, her stomach twisted. “A man in town said Elijah exposed himself to his wife. Said he dropped his pants right in the middle of the street and caused her such trauma, she fainted dead away.” Angelina paused, gathering herself. “Elijah, he was always toying with that rope belt of his. Always . . . tying and untying it. He was shy, nervous, just a child at heart. He didn’t mean anyone any harm. They say he smiled even as the noose was slipped around his neck.”
Angelina turned and looked into John’s eyes. His gaze was filled with the same sadness that she was certain was in hers as well. The sadness that would forever reside in her heart when she thought of Elijah and the injustice he’d suffered. But she saw an angry glint in his gaze as well, and it was that, more than the sadness, that made her trust him.
“Mr. Chamberlain didn’t stop it?”
Angelina shook her head. “It was done before he knew what happened. Oh, he raised a fuss at not being made aware of the situation right away, but what good was that? Elijah was already dead.”
John moved his hands up her arms and then pulled her to him. Shock lodged in her chest for a moment before she leaned into him. She’d never been held by a man, never been this close to anyone, except her mama when she was a little girl. And oh, to be held in someone’s arms. It felt so good. Too good. Too . . . necessary.
“Angelina,” he murmured against her hair, “I won’t let anything like that ever happen to you. I’ll protect you. The world, it’s changing, day by day. So many things are happening. You have no idea.” Of course I don’t, she thought, the words drumming through her mind. How could she? Her small world began and ended at Windisle Plantation.
She tipped her chin, looking into his face, their lips so close she could feel his breath ghosting across her skin. It smelled like the peppermint tea he’d recently drunk with Astrid, who looked at the man so close to Angelina now with undisguised covetousness. The man Mrs. Chamberlain wanted her daughter to marry because of his family’s fortune. A plan she was very obviously working diligently toward.
Oh yes, Angelina was flirting with danger in so many ways. “But not soon enough, John. And how can you protect me? You’re one man. You tell me the world is changing, but I see no proof of it. And yet”—she pressed herself closer to him—“I don’t seem to be able to stop meeting you, to stop . . . wanting . . .”
