North and South nas-1 Page 12

  How strangely fate worked. If this dismal rain hadn't washed out part of the road, the chance meeting might never have occurred. But it had — and the result was happiness that was altogether new and wonderful.

  Five minutes after he reached Mont Royal, Cooper brought him crashing to earth.

  "Fabray, you say? I'm afraid you've wandered down the wrong path, brother. Fabray is the name of the young woman Justin's going to marry."

  After a stunned silence, Orry exclaimed,''How can that be? How?"

  Cooper shrugged. They were in the dining room, a place dreary with shadows now that the rain had started again. Orry's furlough cap lay in a corner where he had flung it joyously after embracing his brother. Cooper was in shirt-sleeves. He had poured two glasses of their father's best claret. Orry hadn't tasted his.

  "Haven't a notion," Cooper answered. He put a booted foot on the expensive mahogany table. "I am not exactly a confidant of either Justin or Francis."

  "I can't believe that girl would marry Justin. She can't be more than twenty. He must be fifteen or twenty years older. How long has his first wife been dead?"

  "Nine years, I think. What difference does it make? The girl's father probably arranged the match. That still happens quite frequently. And the LaMottes do offer a pedigree, even if they did run out of the milk of human kindness years ago."

  This was the first time Orry had ever exhibited more than a casual interest in women. He continued to growl and utter lovelorn sounds someone else might have found comical. But Cooper did not. Even though he himself had not as yet been smitten in the same way, hence could not fully grasp the extent of his brother's pain, Cooper had no doubt that it was hellishly real.

  He sipped claret and returned to the diagram of the pounding mill he'd been studying when his brother arrived. Orry paced around the table, and then around again, his expression growing more and more agitated. He halted abruptly next to Cooper's chair:

  "When is the wedding?"

  "This coming Saturday. We're invited as a family, by the way. Reckon you won't be going."

  "Saturday! Why so soon?"

  "I can only speculate. Justin's mother preferred that the wedding be held in the autumn when it's cooler. But he's old enough to say no to her. I don't know if it's the young lady he's anxious for, or her dowry. If she's as pretty as you say, I can understand the stories I've heard. According to the talk in the neighborhood, Justin's as impatient as one of his own prize stallions — look, don't start that infernal pacing again. She's just a girl."

  Orry spun to face him. "She's a lot more than that. I could tell five minutes after we met that she and I would have made a fine — made —"

  He didn't know how to finish. Or perhaps he feared mockery if he did. Cooper watched his brother retrieve his cap from the corner and touch its ornamental gold wreath with the tip of his index finger.

  Then, without another word, Orry walked out.

  Cooper sighed and reached for his brother's untasted claret. Damned if he wasn't feeling sad all at once too.

  Next morning the brothers saddled up and rode on to Summerville. When they arrived, Orry made an effort to give each member of the family a warm greeting. But Clarissa knew her children. That evening after supper, she drew Cooper aside.

  "Your brother is no actor. Why is he so unhappy? Isn't he glad to be home?"

  "I'd say he is. But yesterday he met a young woman on the river road to Charleston. She caught his fancy, and then he discovered she's Justin LaMotte's intended."

  "Oh, my. The girl everyone refers to as a Creole?"

  "I reckon. Is she?"

  "Her name suggests it. My," Clarissa said again. "This poses a problem. In connection with the wedding, I mean. Your father refuses to attend, but courtesy demands that the family be represented. I was hoping you and Orry would go with me."

  Cooper understood his father's antipathy for the LaMottes; he shared it. They were shallow, mean-spirited people who worshiped horseflesh and settled inconsequential arguments by resorting to illegal duels. It was consideration for his mother that prompted his answer:

  "To be honest, I'd rather not, but I will. We shouldn't force Orry, though."

  "Of course you're right," Clarissa said. "Under the circumstances he surely wouldn't want to go."

  That night at supper, Orry surprised them by announcing that he would accompany them on Saturday. Cooper considered it foolhardy but said nothing. Tillet ordered Clarissa to take Cousin Charles as well. "The sight of ladies and gentlemen behaving themselves might prove inspirational," he said with sarcasm. Poor Charles was forever being punished in one way or another, Cooper thought.

  Saturday brought clear, mild weather with a brisk breeze to drive off the bugs. Departure for Resolute was delayed about an hour because Clarissa was busy. Just before sunrise one of the house girls they had brought from Mont Royal had gone into labor.

  Clarissa helped with every confinement on the plantation, and she didn't expect compliments or even recognition for her efforts. She was only carrying out the traditional responsibilities of a woman of her position. One day Ashton and Brett would do the same.

  The trip by carriage took an hour and a half. Cousin Charles fidgeted and complained the whole way. Clarissa had dressed him in a fine suit complete with high collar and cravat. By squirming and pulling he managed to wrinkle the outfit thoroughly by the time they reached Resolute.

  They arrived forty minutes after the end of the marriage service, which had been held in a tiny separate chapel. Only close relatives had attended. Now the reception was in progress. Guests were chatting and laughing under the oaks and magnolias on the side lawn, where four yellow-and-white-striped pavilions had been erected.

  The LaMotte plantation reminded Cooper of some Charleston whore who tried to hide time's ravages under a lot of powder and paint. At first glance the great house looked huge and impressive. Then you noticed planks warping away and extensive evidence of mold. Large pieces of mortar had fallen from the brick pillars supporting the rear piazza — Resolute's great house faced the river at the summit of a low hill — and many of the shutters showed unrepaired storm damage.

  Still, the festive crowd didn't seem to mind. Counting family members, guests, and all the slaves required for the occasion, Cooper estimated that three hundred people were present. Fine carriages and buggies were parked on two acres at one side of the front lane. Smoke drifted in the air, evidence that barbecue was being served. Barbecue was a tradition at low country weddings.

  An orchestra from Charleston began to play. Cousin Charles ran off. A grim-faced Orry searched for the bride. Cooper hoped the punch would be strong; only intemperance would make the rest of the afternoon bearable.

  "There she is," Orry said. "We ought to pay our respects before the line gets any longer." Clarissa and Cooper agreed. They joined the line and presently moved up to greet the rector, the various LaMottes, and the bride and groom.

  Justin LaMotte was a handsome, thick-waisted man with a ruddy complexion and silky brown hair that looked as though he treated it with dye. He accepted the congratulations of the Mains with a smile and some charmingly correct phrases of thanks. But his eyes held no warmth.

  Cooper was busy studying the bride. She was breathtakingly beautiful. No wonder his brother had taken a hard fall. Justin didn't deserve such a prize. Did the girl know much about the man she had married? Poor creature, he hoped so; it would be a tragedy if she only just now discovered what lay beneath her husband's superficial charm.

  Cooper had deliberately gone first in line, so that he might turn back and watch his brother's behavior with Madeline LaMotte, and he hoped there wouldn't be any sort of mawkish display. Orry felt bad enough already; he needed no further embarrassment.

  He was the perfect gentleman, however. He held the bride's hand a moment while he leaned forward to give her the ritual peck on the cheek. But as Orry drew back, Cooper saw the young people look at each other. In his eyes — hers, too — Cooper det
ected sorrow, a swift but stunningly candid acknowledgment of a lost opportunity.

  Then, showing a flash of guilt, the bride glanced away. Justin was greeting another guest and missed the little interchange. Thinking of what he had seen in Madeline's eyes a few moments ago, Cooper said to himself, I hope some woman looks at me that way just once before I die.

  The Mains left the reception line. Cooper wanted to commiserate with his brother but couldn't find the proper words. Anyway, Orry would probably be offended. So, instead, Cooper set out for the punch bowl. On the way he noticed Cousin Charles crawling under one of the trestle tables. The boy was carrying a plate heaped with mutton barbecue and relish. Charles's shirttails already hung out.

  Cooper saw that his mother was served, then left her with three matronly ladies, two of them Main cousins, the third a member of the huge Smith family. He consumed four cups of punch in half an hour. It didn't help much. On every side he heard compliments about the bridegroom that made him wince. The guests were being charitable, but Cooper's charity didn't extend to lying.

  He soon found himself reeling around the outdoor dance platform with a good-natured matriarch named Aunt Betsy Bull. Cooper loved to polka, but Aunt Betsy spoiled it by saying:

  "Don't they make the handsomest couple? She'll be supremely happy. I don't know Justin well, but he has always impressed me as a kind and charming man."

  "At a wedding party, all men are angels."

  Aunt Betsy tsk-tsked. "How did someone as sweet as your mother raise such a cynical scalawag? I don't think you care for Justin. You'll never get to heaven with that kind of attitude."

  I don't want to get to heaven, just back to the punch bowl, Cooper thought as the music stopped. "Thank you for the dance, Aunt Betsy. Excuse me?" He bowed and left.

  With a new drink in hand, he lectured himself about letting his feelings show. He didn't give a damn what people thought of him, but he shouldn't and wouldn't embarrass his mother. Not for anything. Still, it was hard to stay neutral about Justin LaMotte. The man pretended to be such a gentleman, but it was a sham. He treated his horses better than he treated his niggers. Abuse and outright cruelty had been staples at Resolute ever since Justin had taken over when his father died.

  The previous summer, after Justin had suffered a defeat in a horse race, one of his black grooms had done something to displease him. Justin's rage was all out of proportion to the offense. He had ordered nails pounded into an empty hogshead, then put the offender in the hogshead and rolled it down a hill. The slave's injuries had left him unable to work, useless to anyone else. A month ago he had taken his own life.

  Such barbarous punishment was rare in the low country and non­existent at Mont Royal. Cooper considered it a major reason Resolute unfailingly yielded poor crops and year after year slid a little closer to bankruptcy.

  Setting aside all moral questions, Cooper found one great practical weakness in the peculiar institution. The very act of holding a man against his will constituted mistreatment. Add physical cruelties to that, and how could you expect the man to work to the limit of his ability? To give everything and then a little more? Cooper had concluded that the significant difference between the economic systems of the North and South was not in industry versus agriculture but in motivation. The free Yankee worked to better himself. The Southern slave worked to keep from being punished. That difference was slowly rotting the South from the inside.

  But try telling that to a Justin LaMotte — or a Tillet Main. Feeling dismal, Cooper helped himself to another cup of punch.

  Francis LaMotte was three years older than his brother. He excelled in horsemanship, routinely beating Justin and all the other contestants in the medieval tournaments so popular in the low country. Francis thrilled spectators by charging the rows of hanging rings at a dangerous speed, and he inevitably caught the greatest number of rings on the point of his lance. He always rode in the gander-pulling, too, and nine times out of ten he was first to wring the animal's greased neck from horseback.

  Francis was a small, sinewy man with a suntanned face and none of his brother's social graces. He looked waspish as he and Justin enjoyed punch, momentarily left alone by the guests. A few feet away, Madeline was chatting with the Episcopal rector.

  "I don't know who will win the election in the fall, Father Victor," the brothers heard her say. "But it's obvious the outcome will hinge on the issue of the annexation of Texas."

  "Are you aware that one of South Carolina's own played a vital role in bringing the question before the public?"

  "You mean Mr. Calhoun, don't you?"

  Father Victor nodded. Calhoun was serving as the third secretary of state in the troubled Tyler administration. After receiving his appointment earlier in the year, he had drafted the annexation treaty which the Republic of Texas and the United States had signed in April.

  "You're quite right about the prominence of the issue," the rector agreed. "Before the year is out every man in public life will have to declare his position." He didn't need to add that many had already done so. The support of Polk and ex-President Jackson for annexation was well known. So was the opposition of Van Buren and Clay.

  "That's as it should be," Madeline replied. "Some are claiming the Texas question goes much deeper than the politicians care to admit. I've heard it said the real issue is expansion of slavery."

  The rector bristled. "The only ones who say that are agitators, my dear. Unprincipled Yankee agitators."

  Out of politeness, Madeline shrugged to admit the possibility, but then she murmured, "I wonder."

  Displeased, the rector snapped, "Shall we get some food?"

  Madeline realized she had annoyed him. "Of course. Please lead the way."

  She gave her husband a smile, which he returned with a rather forced one of his own. After she and the rector strolled off, Francis squinted at his brother. "Your bride has opinions on quite a number of public issues."

  Justin chuckled. The sound was deep and mellow.

  "You've noticed that have you?"

  "She shouldn't speak so freely. Intelligence is desirable in a woman, but only within limits."

  "Everything, my dear brother, carries a certain price. The dowry provided by old Fabray is no exception." Justin gazed over the rim of his silver punch cup at the swelling bodice of Madeline's wedding dress. He calculated the angle of the sun with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. In a few more hours he would be the possessor of everything hidden by that pristine satin and lace. He could hardly wait.

  How curiously fate worked, he thought. Nearly two years ago he had decided to take a trip to New Orleans, even though he could scarcely afford it. He had gone there to indulge himself at the gambling tables and to attend one of the legendary quadroon balls in the famous hall overlooking Orleans Street. But before he went to the ball or got a look at the nigger beauties, chance put him next to Nicholas Fabray at the bar of a fashionable gambling establishment. Fabray didn't gamble, but he frequented the place because it was one of several where influential men of the city congregated. It soon became evident to the visitor that Fabray must be one of those. He knew everyone, his clothing was elegant and expensive, and he spent money with the ease of someone who didn't have to worry about it. Later, Justin asked questions and learned that all his suppositions were correct.

  Two evenings later he ran into Fabray again at the same place. There he made the discovery that the sugar factor had a young unmarried daughter. From that point on, Justin fairly oozed politeness and good humor. Fabray was completely taken in; when Justin wanted to be charming, no one could rival him.

  A few references by Justin to his status as a stranger in town prompted Fabray to invite him home for supper. Justin met the daughter, and from the instant he saw her, he was almost dizzy with lust.

  He carefully concealed it, of course. He treated Madeline Fabray with the same restrained courtesy he lavished on her father. Before the evening was over, Justin concluded that although his age and experience awed
the beautiful creature, she was not afraid of him.

  He extended his stay in New Orleans a week, and then another. Fabray seemed pleased to have a gentleman of Justin's caliber pay court to Madeline. And everything Justin learned about the father only heightened his desire to possess the daughter. For one thing, there were no religious problems. The family was German — the original name was Faber — and Protestant. Madeline attended church, although her father did not; he was not interested in his soul, but in making money. Sensing what Justin had in mind, Fabray hinted that he would bestow a good deal of that money on his daughter, as her dowry.

  On one occasion Justin inquired about Madeline's mother. He learned little other than that she had died some years earlier. She had been a Creole, which meant she was the New Orleans-born child of European parents — French, most likely, although they could have been Spanish or one of each. Justin, viewing Fabray's small gallery of family portraits, asked whether there were any pictures of the lady, to which Fabray replied with a curious vagueness, "No, not here."

  Then and there Justin decided not to pursue the inquiry. Every respectable family, including his own, had a few skeletons hidden away; these usually belonged to wives who ran off with other men or who succumbed to a nervous disorder and had to be locked up until they died. He had heard nothing unfavorable about the late Mrs. Fabray — no one he had questioned had even mentioned her — so he would happily set aside this minor worry in exchange for Madeline's irresistible beauty and the money he so desperately needed to support his style of life.

  If Fabray's daughter had any flaw at all, it was her obvious intelligence and her reluctance to conceal the fact that she had opinions about matters that were ordinarily the province of gentlemen. Fabray had seen to it that she received the finest education available to a young woman in New Orleans — that provided by the sisters of Saint Ursula. Fabray had many good friends in the city's Catholic community and was known to be a strong supporter of the worthy causes of the Roman church. He had overcome the initial reluctance of the Ursulines to accept a Protestant pupil by donating heavily to the hospital and orphanage the nuns maintained.