Legacy: A Novel

By Carolyn Westergren

Shakespeare used the idiom “But in the end, truth will come out.” The apropos title of this book, Legacy, is based on a true story. This is a historical novel based on the life of Mary Fisher. Born in a slave shack in 1871 to a black mother while amid flooding and a malaria epidemic, the heroine of the story was the daughter of the widower plantation owner. Severe flooding and a yellow fever depredation left her with only an older half sister, Emerald, and her father, Colonel Gallager, who named her Felice in the story.

Raised as daddy’s little princess, she had an idyllic childhood. Though her father died when she was a teenager, he had arranged for her to attend a Catholic boarding school in New Orleans. There she acquired a proper education and mastered the social graces. After graduating, she remained at school since she had no place to return.

Stunningly beautiful, Felice worked as a governess to relatives of the Louisiana governor for a time. After a disappointing first love affair, she matured to become an adult, a passed-for-white madam of a bordello in New Orleans. Under Jim Crow laws, it was illegal for black women to even be present in such an establishment, much less own one.

By the roaring twenties, a few Corpus Christi community leaders decided that the only thing missing from their fair Gulf Coast city was a first-class bordello. The gentlemen went to New Orleans, where they asked the real Mary Fisher to relocate her operation. She realized the value of protection and benefits that these men could provide and took them up on their offer. After decades in business and retirement at age seventy-five with abundant jewelry, cash, and rental property, the woman was murdered. The story evolves into a true crime mystery with an unexpected ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796043181

Book preview

PART ONE

1871–1892

MISSISSIPPI • NEW ORLEANS • THIBODAUX, LOUISIANA

CHAPTER ONE

Em raced after her father, tracking him through the wind-whipped waves of water spoiling the cotton fields. Many cream-white, spring blossoms lay stripped by the force of the storm, hinting that the rich Delta acres—only two miles inland from town in the great arc of the godly river—might not escape the water’s ultimate vengeance.

As her father cut onto the clay road edged with swaying cypresses and oaks, Em held back. Then, with the daring curiosity of her five years, she went on quickly. The late night’s carbon shade, darkened even more by the tempest sealing the usual lights of the sky, blotted out her ebony hair, her deep black face with its faintly Indian cheeks and nose, and her lithe body in its shabby plaid dress.

Em knew where he was going, but not why. Earlier, watching the rains while the others slept, she’d been perched at a window of one of the dilapidated shacks where the field hands lived. From there she had spied Jasper, the gray-haired Negro carpenter, shuffling at a swift gait through the rain toward the great house. He came from one of the cabins scattered along the stream, occupied mostly by workers at the cotton gin, and scurried onto the broad veranda of the white palace, its fluted columns gleaming with each flash of lightning. As the door opened, Jasper delivered a message to Sheelagh, the golden-haired Negress who worked at the house, and then he turned down the carriageway and hurried past the orchard and onto the stables. Within minutes, Em’s father, his white face pale and grim under another streak of lightning, had appeared on the porch as Jasper, leading a saddled horse, returned up the drive.

Fascinated that her father intended to go out in such a storm, Em had watched as the two men talked, Jasper stroking the horse while her father examined the animal’s mud-clogged legs. At first, she didn’t understand as her father waved Jasper and the horse away and set off, taking fast, powerful strides in a shortcut across the fields. As Em followed from the cabin into the rain, she realized why he was walking: the fields were swampy, and the roads packed with thick mud. Colin Gallagher, who prized his horses dearly, would not risk laming one on his errand.

The storm quieted as Gallagher reached the cabins near the stream. Em drew back again, waiting while he entered one of the cabins. This shanty was the home of Sonny and Coral, their children, and Sonny’s sister, Molly (all of their surnames were Howard after the former owner of the plantation).

Spying a rickety bench, with one leg broken, propped under a window eave, Em darted forward for protection from the rain and hoisted herself onto it. Through the window she glimpsed a dowdy bedroom and its occupants: her father, standing by chair; Molly, prone in bed with her eyes closed, her lightly bronzed skin looking wasted for her seventeen years; and Coral, her generous figure wrapped in a blue shift, backed to the window. Em pressed her ear to the wet pane and listened.

Well, where is it? Let me see it, her father said.

She’s right purty, Cap’n Gallagher, Coral answered.

Em shifted on the wobbly bench as she twisted her head and peered into the room’s dim interior.

Coral moved to the far side of the bed and lifted a cloth-wrapped bundle from a box.

Yer, Cap’n, she said. Skin like petal of a magnolia. Des yer chile don’t look like no niggar. Favors her pa for sho’.

Gallagher snorted. And then, he peeled the folds of cloth aside and examined the infant.

Ain’t I right, Cap’n? Nice hyar, an’ color white as a magnolia flower. Make good name for her.

I won’t hear of any such damn fool name!

What wanna call her den?

Freedom, said the still form resting on the bed. She gonna be called Freedom cause she born free.

The two turned toward the bed, and Gallagher’s eyes darkened.

No whelp of mine’s going to be called any damn abolitionist name!

Too spent to battle, Molly closed her eyes and grew quiet while Gallagher studied her and then turned to Coral.

She doesn’t look right. What—

Es de malaria, Cap’n. Come again to her at right bad time.

It’s not malaria weather yet.

Es for her. She doin’ poorly.

Will she be all right?

Can’t say. You want to sen for de doctor?

We can’t get a doctor out here in this storm!

Nassah, we can’ts. Des storm bery bad. One of des times gonna make dat river go wile an’ reck de craps an’ Gawd knowed what.

I’m afraid you may be right, Coral. But not now, I think. It seems to be slowing.

He started to the door, but then stopped.

Wha’s we gonna call des yer chile?

I’ll think on it, Coral.

Intent on studying the infant that Coral had lain on the bed, Em failed to notice her father’s exit from the room. As she heard the door shut, she hastily swung about and slid from the slick bench, skidding backward into the mud.

"My God! Emerald!"

Flustered, she looked up at him, her coal black eyes peering through her now slime-covered face. Torrents of rain pasted her mud-matted hair to her head.

Evenin’, Cap’n, sah.

She tried to lie.

I’s checkin’ on de crops, tryin’ to dry out de cotton frum de storm.

He controlled his amusement at her clever answer and said, Em, get up out of that mud this instant.

Yessah.

She heaved herself up, shaking mud from her body.

Do you want to take sick? Look how wet you are.

I’s no mo’ wet than you.

Gallagher shook his head in defeat and said, Come along. Let’s get back.

Obediently, she trotted silently at his side for several minutes as the rain finally eased.

Cap’n, sah, es dat a real libe babe en Miss Molly’s cabin?

Yes, Em, a little girl—your half-sister.

I’s only got brudders. Four of ’em.

I wouldn’t know for sure about that, Em, since that has nothing to do with me.

It don’t.

Gallagher laughed loudly in response, confusing the child, but she soon continued her chatter.

Es she a real white baby, Cap’n?

Appears so.

Wha’s you gonna name her?

I think, Felice.

Huh?

"That means happy one. It’s from a poem that I’ve been reading called Piers Plowman."

Em puzzled over this.

Plowman… Duz Massa Piers wuks de cotton, too, den?

Gallagher laughed again.

You’re really attached to cotton, aren’t you, Em?

Attached? Es dat good, sah?

Very good, Em.

Yassah, den I es. When I’s growed, I’s gonna hab mah own place wid mah own cotton, too.

I believe you might. You’re shrewd enough.

Curse won’t be big like yer. She was silent for a second. How big es et yer?

Twenty thousand acres.

Es dat a lot, Cap’n?

It’s a lot.

Em fell into silence again until they neared her cabin.

Cap’n Gallagher, did you name me, too?

No, Em, your mother Estelle did. She has some French ancestors somewhere—probably some trapper long ago—and her name and yours are French. Emerald means the bright green emerald gem.

I’s bright, all right. Don’t ’no ’bout de rest of dat. An’ I’s Cherky, too, ain’t I?

There’s a little Cherokee blood back there somewhere, but it’s not from me.

Jist de same, I’s black sah.

Yes, Em, you’re black.

She stopped and turned to look back at the cabins near the stream.

"An’ I looks black."

Colin Gallagher pivoted and followed her glance toward the direction of the cabin where Molly and his new daughter rested.

CHAPTER TWO

I got three! Felice screamed as she squeezed the lifeless fireflies in her fist.

You done killed ’em, Em said, dropping to the dirt that banked the stream behind the cabins. Musky odors wafted from the murky water, intermingling the scents of the surrounding vines and creepers while trapping the heavy air beneath the mossy oaks overhead.

Felice slapped at a mosquito that approached her arm.

Can you stay yer ever wid me?

I’m only yer cause mah family’s sick ’nd you ’no it.

Don’t you like it yer, Em? You likes me.

You’re mah sis. Mah on’y sis. Gotta like you. But you different.

A flush spread over Felice’s delicately featured, olive-toned face. She pulled at the strands of her long, wavy black hair as she surveyed Emerald who, at twelve, was short in stature with a gangly appearance although her lips had become fuller and her faintly Indian nose squatter.

Do dey surely have de feber?

All of ’em. Turin’ yellow an’ spittin’ up black blood.

Black blood!

I reckon it’s blood.

Coral says lotsa folk’s sick an’ dyin’ from it.

It’s bad ’an de Lawd don’t mise no one—even Cap’n Gallagher’s family all took bad wid it.

Even him?

No, not him—eberyone else up de house, ’cept for dat sassy Sheelagh an’ few udders.

Es dat what mah ma died from!

No, she was allus sickly I tole, an’ she had de malaria lotsa times. Jist up an’ died after you born.

Was she like me?

Emerald cast a critical eye on the younger girl.

Mabbe some ways. She not black like me. But you ’nd her, lot lighter.

Sure es hot, Felice said, changing the subject. I wants some lemonade. Let’s go ask Coral. As she stood up, she gazed on the southern palace across the acreage of boiled cotton. You ever go en der, Em?

The Cap’n’s house? Nah? I peeped en de windows few times, but dat sassy Sheelagh done chase me off. Mighty elegant en der.

Some day, I’s gonna libe en a fine place, too. Felice dropped the fireflies and smoothed her hands over her coarse gray dress. An’ I’s gonna wear fine clothes, too.

You habe foolish notions, chile.

Why? Don’t you wanna live en a big house one day, Em?

Nah, when I’s full growed, I’m gonna git me a farm an’ raise some cotton.

How you gonna do dat?

Em shook her head. Don’t reckon I knows yet.

As they reached Sonny Howard’s cabin they stopped abruptly. Old Jasper stood before the door, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Where you two chillums think you goin’?

Get lemonade, Felice answered.

Not en des cabin, youse ain’t. Dey’se all done took sick wid de feber.

The girls’ eyes widened, and they remained quiet.

Guess youse beddar come home wid me an’ my w’man, chilliuns. No place else for you to go.

During the early evening of Em and Felice’s fourth day with Jasper and Grace Howard, Colin Gallagher came to the cabin. His face was red, his eyes bleary. He greeted the girls, but they were quickly sent outside to play.

Whacha wanna do? Felice asked, skipping along the clay road.

Mabbe go down an’ see mah folks.

Bedder not, Em. Dey won’t let you in.

I betcha dey’s all well by now.

There be somebody standin’ ’round outside, keepin’ you out.

If it’s jist a niggar, I don’t mind. I’s not ’fraid of niggars, jist white folks.

Why?

Emerald shuffled to a standstill, staring at a white man with a black bag leaving Sonny Howard’s cabin up the road. Dat’s de doctor.

Mockingbird in a pecan tree overhead distracted Felice.

Come on, let’s go wadin’’ down de water, Em said.

The two girls were knee-deep in the stream when Colin Gallagher appeared. Em! Felice! Get out of there. That watar’s filthy. Don’t you know there’s Yellow Jack going around?

They ploughed out of the water, Em looking sheepish, Felice only curious. They sat down on the bank next to him.

Es yo’ family still got de feber, Cap’n? Em asked, peering up at him.

They died, Em. Two days ago.

She gazed at him in astonishment. All of dem, sah?

Yes, Em.

The two girls looked at each other and said nothing.

Lots of people have died from the fever, he said slowly. Turning, he looked directly at Emerald. Your people have all died, too, Em.

Mah…mah folks…mah folks es dead, sah? Mah ma, mah pa, mah…

He nodded, cutting off her words.

Lawd Almi’ty! What’s I to do? Dey’s all dead?!

Tears seeped from her eyes and washing down her face. Then, suddenly screams and wails spilled from her mouth.

Gallagher shifted his gaze to Felice. She sat still, staring at him. Sonny and Coral are dead, too, Felice. Their children will be all right, and when the older ones are better they’ll be able to care for the others. He snatched a leaf from a hickory tree and twisted it in his fingers.

Lawdy, Lawdy, what’s we to do? Em moaned. No one left for mah sis an’ me now.

No one left for me either, Em, Gallagher said.

They all sat silent for a long time and finally Emerald wiped the tears from her eyes. Es Felice an’ me to libe wid old Jasper now, Cap’n?

No, they’re too old. I think the best thing would be for you two to move into the house. Appears you’re the only blood kin I got left.

The big house?! Felice said, her head popping up and her mouth full open.

Would you like that?

But, Cap’n, Em asked. Would we still wuk de craps?

No, Em. I think it might be best to get you two some education. If the tutor my… His voice broke temporarily, then he went on. If the tutor we had before hasn’t died of Yellow Jack himself, then we’ll just keep on with him.

Educ.. eda… Sah, what es dat?

It’s learning, Em, to prepare you for your future.

But mah future’s wid de cotton, Sah.

A light laugh rippled them. You’re probably right. It may be too late to make you over, but we’ll try. Maybe there’ll be some chance with Felice.

Who’s gonna take care of us, Cap’n?

Sheelagh.

That sassy…

Em! He stood up. You don’t have to move in there. I’ll let you decide.

She hesitated a second then pulled herself up. It’s got nowheres else to go. Might as well.

He looked down at Felice. Do you want to live there, Felice?

Her dark eyes glowed and timid smile moved over her face. She jumped up, bobbing her head.

CHAPTER THREE

"Don’t leave me, Em! Please."

Tears fell from Felice’s eyes and onto her cheeks.

Emerald frowned down at the crying girl huddled on the blue brocade couch. At thirteen, Felice was already tall, taller than Em had been at the same age, and cleverer with a more intelligent look to her dark eyes. Her black hair had lengthened into cascading waves around her enchanting, maturing face.

You’ve never liked it here? Felice said, jerking on an opal choker around her throat.

Shoo! Course I’m grateful to the Captain for all he’s done, but…

You and your ole cotton farm!

Well, I don’t cres to idle my life away here…likes you.

I don’t call readin’ and playin’ music idlin’.

You gonna do that forever?

"Why not?

Do it then, but I’m weddin’ Amos and leavin’ for Leland.

Ole man. He’s lots of ol’er ’an you, Felice said with a pout.

He’s not so ole, an’ his age hast nothin’ to do with it. Maybe you’ll find that out some day yourself.

You only want his ole cotton farm!

You’re jist a young chile still, too young to reckon it out or cares. If you could, you’d be happy cause I got what I always wants—a cotton farm with a good, carin’ man thrown in, too.

You don’t care ’bout me! If you did, you wouldn’t go off and never see me again!

Lawdy, it’s not a day’s ride to the farm…on a slow horse. You aan git one of the Captain’s carriages to brings you over anytimes… ifen you even cares to.

Felice hastily wiped at her tears as Gallagher joined them. With advancing age, his body held more bulk, his eyes a dissipated look. He gave Felice an alert look as he sprawled in a chair.

What’s ailing you, girl?

She’s upset ’bout my marryin’ an’ leavin’, Em answered with a grimace.

It’s just a shockin’ shame, Felice sniffed, glancing at Gallagher.

It’s no more than I ever expected from Emerald myself. She’s always known her mind.

But to go off and leave here…and us!

That’s the way of it, child. He raised his hand to a rough, bearded face. I been thinking myself that it’d be better if you were off yourself, too. With Emerald gone, there won’t be much company for you here, except Sheelagh who’s grown fat and quarrelsome in her old age. Not fitting company for a young girl.

"Me go? Felice said. Oh, no, please don’t send to the farm with her!"

Gallagher chuckled.

I wasn’t meaning that. You need mixing with your own age. I was speaking of some formal schooling. You could do with more polish and style than that pedagogue Simmons’ been able to give you.

I don’t want to go away from here.

Well, my mind’s not made up to it yet. I’ve got a lawyer searching into the ways and places of it. We’ll see what he advises.

But I don’t want to go Felice pleaded, tears smarting her eyes again.

Gallagher turned his attention to Emerald. And when’s the wedding to be?

Next month—May.

Then we must be seeing to the arrangements.

Captain…I’d rather…we’d rather…if we could jist have the Baptist minister out from town.

What? No more than that, no…

"Mabbe a little food, but no fancy doings, please. I don’t take to all that fi’ery, like Felice. Jist a simple little weddin’s all."

The frightening rains debuted two weeks after Emerald’s wedding. The water appeared first in sheets, then waves, causing Gallagher to remark to Felice that it reminded him of when she was born, only he feared they might not be so lucky in being spared this time.

I’ve heard, he said that evening, that the snows on the Divide were so deep this winter, the animals—knowing it was coming—had long departed. And now the ice’s melted and pushing down to us, and with the storm to stir up the old river more…well, child, I don’t want to think on it.

We’re inland, Felice protested. We can’t be harmed.

Two miles is nothing. Better to be in thirty as Em is and be sure. If it weren’t already so bad, I’d send you to her now.

I wouldn’t go.

Gallagher laughed. Some day…some day… Not likely in my lifetime, but some day, maybe they’ll have some levees on that wicked river, then come every spring we wouldn’t have to be worrying ourselves so.

Felice pressed her face to a windowpane to see out; the lawn was now a lake. Strangely, over the shrieks at the storm, she could hear the cattle lowing, the mules and horses whinnying, and the squeal of pigs. A shiver traveled along the length of her back. Both Felice and Gallagher jumped as they heard a heavy thundering at the door.

Is it a tree down? she asked anxiously.

When he didn’t answer but dashed to the front door, she rushed after him. Gallagher heaved open the door and a half-dead Jasper fell into the room.

Massa, de Lawd as reckin’ vengeance on us, endin’ de world.

How high is the water? Gallagher asked.

Nearon ten feet en spots. De cabins…de cabins es a floatin’ en de water…en de stream…gonna flow all de way on to de Missysippy, luks for sho’. An’ de libestock… dat ole wuthless huss Simon es done alrudy gone en’ drowed an’ es ded. De water es pushin’ ub de cotton gin an’ de craps es ruin, massa, sah.

The people, Jasper! What about the people?

Some es drowed, some ain’t.

Are all the cabins gone?

Yassah, all de cabins.

But where did the workers go?

Doe dat made at all de way to de tops of de trees, dey’s doin’ all right. Dos dat sittin’ on de rufs, dey’s flowin’down de stream wid de cabins.

My God! You stay here and dry out. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.

No, Felice flung herself against Gallagher. Don’t go out there! Don’t. You’ll drown!

Gallagher pushed her away, opened the door again, and hurled himself out into the storm.

The torrents of water continued through the night and although Felice and Jasper waited, Gallager did not return. The rain stopped by morning but the land was an ocean and they were marooned inside. On the third day after the rains ceased, Jasper went out to investigate, ordering Felice and Sheelagh to remain in the house.

Felice saw Jasper wading across the once-budding cotton field and when he was midway over, she tore from the house herself, ignoring Sheelagh’s horrified protests. She waded through slime, past rotting dead mules and around farm tools blown into the fields while crushing underneath dead crayfish that had been thrown from the stream by the violence of the storm. The smell of death and rot nauseated her. When she reached the area where she’d once lived, she viewed only desolation. Empty, mutilated spaces remained where the cabins had been and the banks of the stream were caved in from the sucking force of the water. Unbelievably, she even saw mutilated kneelboat washed upon the bank and wondered how it came to be there. Panicked, she turned and fled back to the house.

By afternoon, people had appeared, some former workers, others near neighbors, and searches began for relatives: survivors…and the dead. Felice sat on the porch all afternoon and watched as, slowly, littered bodies were carted up to the carriageway and temporarily deposited as had been so many tethered horses in the past. Near dusk, she saw Jasper approaching in the vanguard of another litter. He reached her first.

Don’t look, Miss Felice.

Horror washed over her face and she jumped up, shoving at the old man.

Move, you ole black scoun’rel. Move!

Felice ran over to the litter as it was nestled among the many others. She stared down at the lifeless Colin Gallagher, then screamed. She continued staring and screaming as Jasper reached out and dragged her back to the porch. Shaking with shock and pain, Felice tore at her hair, then suddenly her eyes dilated as she realized the magnitude of Gallagher’s death.

I’m all alone, Jasper, she whispered. "I’m all alone."

CHAPTER FOUR

The footsteps approaching from the far end of the cool, deserted foyer remained muted as if even a slight crescendo might defile some holy silence. Although Sister Mary Teresa tried to maintain a sanctified quiet, the faint tap of her shoes upon the convent floor, the swish of her black habit against her ankles, the rustle of the starched wimple grating her chin and the clap of the heavy brown rosemary beads beating her side subverted her intention. Then when she opened the heavy, ancient street door, the earthly noises outside committed the final sacrilege.

Sister Mary Teresa stared down at the very correctly dressed man in his dark morning coat with high, turned-over collar buttoned to the neck. As he waited on the steps, the late-afternoon sunlight dusted strands o£ his blond hair visible beneath his top hat and his sparkling blue eyes of his handsome thirtyish face. Sister Mary Teresa controlled her frown. Why did they…the important people…always send some young steward such as this? she thought to herself.

You are from the Governor? she asked.

Michael Devane, Mother…?

Sister Mary Teresa. Come in, please.

He stepped inside, his hat now in his hand.

The Governor would like to express his thanks to the Mother Superior for—

You may convey the greetings in person. I will take you to her.

She turned instantly and journeyed back down the hall; Devane had to move quickly to join her. She stopped at an office at the far end of the corridor, tapped softly on a door and, in answer to a summons within, opened it.

Sister Mary Teresa made introductions and departed as Devane was invited to sit down. Mother Raphael, the Superior, listened without comment as Devane relayed the official greetings from the Governor. When he finished, she acknowledged his message.

And please convey our kindest regards to his honor.

As Devane nodded in response, Mother Raphael folded her veined hands together on her desk and gave Devane a speculative look. I must admit that we are flattered by the Governor’s request. To come a hundred and forty miles to select a suitable governess when there are convent schools in Baton Rouge and in between—

But you are not surprised, surely, knowing the Governor’s attachment to New Orleans. Even before he served his first term from the beautiful Crescent, he studied and practiced law here.

Yes, I remember, but those days seem long ago now.

Devane nodded.

True. Yet many traditions remain, including this one, which is why the Governor immediately and naturally thought of your institution when he decided to engage a governess.

Then since the school term’s ending in two days and your time must be limited…I suggest we proceed to the request promptly. She lifted a paper from her desk. Here is a list of three senior girls whom I have selected as most qualified. I have not, however, mentioned the position to any of them.

Devane silently studied the credentials of the students on her list and then raised his eyes.

When might I be able to talk with each? he asked.

At this hour many of our seniors will be taking a little refreshment. Why don’t we join them and you can first see these students informally?

I’d like that.

She led him from the office, through a maze of poorly lit corridors and eventually into a room, which in contrast to the hallways, seemed bright. A large undraped window in the far wall bled into a bricked patio accented with pink and white azaleas. Within, a commingling of animated voices spread through the interior and drew Devane’s attention back. His gaze whirled around, quickly scanning a dozen students, all around seventeen or eighteen years of age. Then by a bookcase near a comer, he suddenly glimpsed a young woman somewhat remote from the others, with a small book in her hand. His eyes fixated upon her face: both alluring and intelligent with a dusty olive complexion and lush black hair toppling toward her shoulders. As she reached to re-shelve the book, his gaze shifted and concentrated on the beauty of her figure—tall, almost regally so even in the ruffled- sleeved long dress. The rich fullness beneath the wide-braided bodice hypnotized him, stirred him.

Mother Raphael was guiding him toward a table where four students sat, drinking tea and chatting. Although she was introducing him to two students who were on the list she gave him, Devane’s attention returned often and compulsively to the woman near the bookcase. Suddenly he glanced down at the religious woman.

Mother Superior, may I speak to you privately a minute?

Why yes, if it’s necessary, she answered, not concealing her confusion.

That one, he whispered as soon as they reached the hall. The one by the window…the elegant-looking one. She would adapt most suitably with the Governor’s staff. I would like to speak with her.

But who are you referring to, Mr. Devane? I didn’t notice.

Actually by the bookcase…the far window…the corner.

Perplexed, Mother Raphael frowned and crept toward the door, peering through as she opened it slightly. Quickly, she returned.

That is one of our older girls, Mr. Devane. She graduated last year. Just turned nineteen this month. She’s stayed on here, helping out in various ways because…well, frankly, according to her, she has no other place to go.

She has no family.

Only a married sister or half-sister who lives on a farm and whom she never visits, although they do correspond. She was sent here after her father’s death when his land was sold to satisfy debts—although money had been allocated for her education. A Mississippi planter.

That sounds a very adequate background.

I’m not sure. When she came, she was so…well, to speak charitably she was rather rustic…although one certainly couldn’t tell it now. But it does make one wonder about her upbringing.

Nonsense. She looks presentable. And…she is learned enough to instruct children, having been here, surely?

Well yes, she’s intelligent and very diligent, but does appear usually servile. And she definitely lacks initiative. I would have thought she’d have grown away from such traits but she’s made little progress. Perhaps she led too pampered a life before and has no reason now to be more in command of herself. I would have reservations recommending her…to the Governor.

Would you permit me to discuss the position with her?

Well yes, certainly. Why not return to my office and I’ll send her to you with some coffee. I’m afraid I failed to offer you any refreshment before.

That’s most kind of you.

Once in the office again, Devane moved about restlessly, tempted to light a cigarette, and then decided the surroundings prohibited it. Relieved as the door opened, he glanced up at the young woman entering with a silver tray on which sat a matching pot, china cups and small bowls. Nothing was said as she made room on the desk for the platter and began to pour the potent chicory. Devane watched her closely, his gaze again on the tight, sharply pointed bodice of her gown and what it concealed. When she moved suddenly and he heard the soft whisper of her bustled dress as she turned, he realized she was about to depart and looked at her keenly, causing her to pause.

Did you wish anything else, sir?

But… He drew himself up straight from his slouch against the wall. Didn’t the Reverend Mother tell you that I wished to speak to you?

No, sir. She said there was a gentleman in her office and I was to serve him some coffee.

Please sit down.

He came forward and took her arm easing her into the chair he had occupied earlier. She looked at him with baffled blue eyes but remained silent. He reached for the cup she’d filled and extended it to her, but she shook her head. Raising it, he sipped, then set the cup down.

What is your name?

Felice…Felice Gallagher.

That’s a very lovely name.

Thank you.

Devane smothered his frown at the apparent reticence of the young woman, but then he realized she didn’t know him and would not be talkative with a stranger.

I’m Michael Devane, an assistant in the office of the Governor at Baton Rouge. Her silence continued although her eyes were on his, waiting, patient. I’ve been sent here to engage a governess.

Devane was impressed as she quickly answered.

But…indeed…is not the Governor an… She paused, deliberating on a suitable word. An older man with grown children?

A light laugh rewarded Felice’s thoughtful tact.

He’s a man in his sixties at any rate, Devane said with a smile. The governess is for his cousin’s children—a boy eight and a girl six. It’s rather a tragic tale; the father was killed in a carriage accident in which the mother was seriously injured. She’s unable to care for them at present. The children are now with a housekeeper at the Governor’s place near Thibodaux, and that’s where you’d have to go.

"Me?" Felice said with a gasp.

Devane nodded.

But…why me?

‘Why not? When she made no reply, he said, You don’t intend to stay on here indefinitely, do you? The Reverend Mother told me you graduated last year.

That’s true, only…Only I haven’t known what I wished to do.

Do you know what’s expected of a governess?

Yes…I had a tutor once…many years ago. I expect it’s similar.

Very, I should think. I wish I could offer you time to consider the situation, but I’m expected soon with a teacher and must return to Baton Rouge immediately as the legislative session begins on Monday.

But where is that? Is it near Baton Rouge?

Maybe midway between here and there, only more south. It’s a plantation.

A plantation? Oh, I should like that. I miss that life.

He smiled again, warmly.

Shall I speak to the Reverend Mother then?

When would you want to leave?

Tomorrow.

So soon?

Government affairs are very fast paced. When she lapsed into silence, he asked, Do you want to think on it overnight?

No, no. I should be pleased to accept the offer.

The spin of the wheels against the metal rails beneath them excited Felice for she had never ridden a train before. She stole a hasty glance at Devane as he finished chatting with the conductor and returned, settling in next to her. He was dressed in a black morning coat, starched collar and wide trousers as on the previous day, but at the now-closer distance, his thick blonde hair was more noticeable.

Devane surveyed Felice with approval. A slight fringe edged Felice’s dark tresses waving forward onto her head and covered neatly by the plumed bat of lime green, which she wore. The color, which matched her dress—ruffled at the neck, sleeves and at the waist above the bustle—suited her soft, alive skin.

Do we have long to go? she asked.

On this? He shook his head. At Donaldsonville, we take a steamer down the bayou.

Which bayou is that?

Lafourche.

Oh, I studied about it. A very busy area as a distributary of the river.

Devane smiled with amusement.

The good sisters did a thorough job of educating you, didn’t they?

I studied a lot. There was nothing else to do.

In New Orleans? Devane said with a laugh.

I don’t mean to tease, he said quickly as he glimpsed her discomfort. I’m sure you’ll miss it.

I shan’t miss the convent.

I wouldn’t think. But I meant the Vieux Carré and the Opera House. And the Carnival, the market, the…

The Vieux Carré is fascinating—what I’ve seen. We’ve attended Mass at St. Louis Cathedral and have been shown the old convent on Chartres Street.

‘But surely you’ve seen more than that?

We were allowed to the opera once, but never to the Carnival or the rest.

I feel we should turn around and go back. I’m distressed.

Felice glanced up at him, caught by the sincerity of his voice. The sunlight springing through the window played with the blue of his eyes and brightened even more of his hair. Suddenly he smiled again and the charm of his expression warmed her unexpectedly. Surprised at her sensation, she glanced hurriedly down at her gloved hands.

We must make an appointment to really show you New Orleans on your first holiday.

Felice gazed at him, but said nothing and cast her attention quickly out the window, viewing the passing scenery.

They rode silently for nearly an hour; then Devane’s words interrupted the stillness.

If you’ll pardon me, Miss Gallagher, I’ll just go to the gentlemen’s car for a few minutes.

Gentlemen’s car? Then…it’s not permitted that I accompany you?

Devane stopped still and stared at her.

I was referring to the smoking car. And even if it weren’t for the smoke and tobacco juice and, unfortunately, often profanity, you would surely not wish to enter, for that is where the…the darkies ride.

Felice was too stunned to speak for a second. Her memory was immediately forced back and she remembered her only other experience with public transportation—her journey to New Orleans years before when she rode the steamboat downriver. Although she had heard that such practices weren’t followed then, in the enlightened early 1880’s, the captain had dictated otherwise and she could vaguely recall the herding of the black-skinned passengers below and out of sight. Shocked and powerless, she—who had been passed over—looked on with passive acceptance, relief, embarrassment and pain.

She spoke to break her uncomfortable silence. Of course, I’ve read… Is it a terrible place?

Don’t concern yourself with it.

He bowed slightly and walked off.

Felice sat, twisting her hands together. She was tempted to follow and make her own observations, to see…to see what? How dark they were? To see if she was really so different? Were they? Pushing her distressful thoughts aside, she concentrated on the scenery again.

When Devane returned he didn’t sit down.

I’m going to suggest we have an early lunch in the dining car as we’ll have to hurry for the steamer once we leave the train at Donaldsonville.

Felice looked at him, nodded and rose, taking the arm he offered. The service in the dining car, as sluggish and tortuous as the bayou currents, nearly caused them to miss the departure at their station. Devane hurried Felice off the train, leaving her inside the stationhouse while he rapidly made arrangements to collect her luggage and engage transport to the dock.

Only when a nervous hour had passed and Felice found herself finally on deck of the side-wheeler and streaming down Bayou Lafourche did she relax. Leaning against the railing, she stared into the water, wishing she could remove her hat and feel the cool breeze against her neck. Acres of tall plants growing in the distance caught her attention.

What is that? Felice asked as Devane came to her side.

Sugar cane, he answered, curving his hands over the railing.

I’ve only seen cotton growing in such abundance.

What enthusiasm you have for everything, he said with a smile. With the terrible service in the dining car even, you were enchanted.

Felice smiled, and the brightness lit her face.

Perhaps. It is all so new to me.

Her words stopped as she viewed his face.

What have I said?

You’re so beautiful when you smile, he said. Don’t you know it? I’ve not seen you do so before.

Felice faced the water again.

What are those beautiful lavender flowers? They’re all over the water.

Water hyacinths.

He pointed toward a barge attached by wooden chains to moorings and explained that they were native ferries. Felice surveyed areas covered with tall grass and weeds, and surprising spots with vegetable gardens, and then she began to spot banana and fig trees.

It’s all so beautiful.

Come sit down. You’ll tire yourself, he said as he tried to lead her toward a chair on the deck.

No, I want to see it all.

She viewed everything they passed as the afternoon progressed: oaks and cypresses wrapped in Spanish moss, many of the latter trees deep in the water and surrounded by their own upturned roots as knobby as a starved man’s knees; turtles sunning on logs; frogs singing voices like ringing bells.

In late afternoon, Devane persuaded her to sit down and share some lemonade with him.

We are nearly to Labadieville, he said. And from there it’s only eight or nine miles to Thibodaux—we first pass by the plantation to reach Thibodaux where we’ll disembark.

‘Labadieville?

You’re about to educate me on the battle where Colonel Armand with his five hundred Confederates met four thousand of the enemy, Devane said with a grin.

Felice smiled.

If I’m to be a governess, I must know these things. Besides why do you ridicule such bravery?

He was very foolish. Five hundred against four thousand!

What will the people be like? Felice asked.

Acadians and Creoles.

The same?

No. The former’s ancestors came from Nova Scotia, you must know. The Creoles are descendants of the French and Spanish colonials. The planters are either English or French. Mostly French. The Acadian are usually not so cultured.

But everyone speaks French? Even those at the plantation?

Only Angelique, the housekeeper, am her old husband, Nicholas, live at the plantation. They are Acadian and naturally French speaking. The plantation manager is English but lives elsewhere. However, all about the place, even the darkies, speak French, too.

Are there… Felice said and then hesitated. Are there many at them?

Not at the house. They work the fields. The planting’s long in and they’re hoeing now. You’re from a cotton plantation, aren’t you?

Yes.

I think you’ll find this different. By its nature, sugar production demands a rigid system which hasn’t changed much since … well, it’s essentially what it’s always been.

Felice studied Devane closely.

What…what do you mean—the workers aren’t paid?

Yes—but with wages, not shares. The sugar process is very industrialized, very specialized. It demands highly disciplined work system. The darkies live even now in the old slave quarters and still labor in crews or gangs. The only major difference from before is that the grinding is not handled by the plantation’s mill; the sugar-making has been turned over to corporations.

Do they…are the workers satisfied with not owning any of the land?

They couldn’t afford to raise sugar cane. The investment is so much greater than for cotton; the minimum needed to grow and produce is around two hundred thousand. So who’d want the land, huh? Devane shrugged his shoulders. There was some terrible trouble over the wage though about four years back at Thibodaux.

What happened?

Have you ever heard of the Knights of Labor? When Felice nodded, Devane continued. Well, they succeeded in organizing the cane-field workers to strike right at harvest time. The workers were evicted from their cabins because of it and they congregated in the towns. One of them was Thibodaux. It was well into November and a light freeze came on. Some people panicked, and vigilante committees were organized and others came in from elsewhere. Over thirty darkies were killed and a hundred or more wounded. The strike was broken.

Felice shuddered in horror.

You needn’t worry about being exposed to them. I doubt that you’ll see many of them till the crop’s laid by around Independence Day when they usually have a grand celebration.

Exposed to them? Why do you speak that way?

Her glass of lemonade shook in her hand.

I suppose because I can’t forget when I was young. Under their rule with the Yankees, there was such plundering and bribery and the taxes. The taxes ruined my family. I can’t forget and forgive them that.

Many of them were used, manipulated, Felice protested.

And many of them were not. I have very bitter feelings about it.

Devane shifted in his chair.

You know Governor Nicholls served in office before—when Hayes came to the presidency—and he ended the corruption with his dual government and gave us back our rights. He’s always been my idol for that, and even before as a war hero. To do so much, maimed as he is…crusading about with just one arm and one leg. I never thought he’d serve again and that I’d have the opportunity to work for him some day.

I’ve read that when the Governor took office after the Redemption he offered recognition to Negroes and gave them appointments in his administration. It is even stated that he did more for them than the Republicans ever did.

You don’t think that’s exaggerated?

Felice’s gaze broke from his so that she could hide her embarrassment, but maintained her argument.

There were appointees to commissions and…

That was 1871, Miss Gallagher. This is 1890. The darkies do not have many of the liberties they did formerly.

If you have such strong opinions on the matter, why do you work for the Governor now?

I don’t differ basically from him: we both believe in the supremacy of the white man, although his beliefs are somewhat more liberal than mine. I’m with him because I want the experience, and I make many political friends. I intend to run for the legislature next session.

You are very ambitious, Felice spoke automatically, glancing out to the water. She collected herself and looked back at him. Will I instruct the children in French then?

Did the sisters do such a good job in teaching you?

I…I can manage.

That won’t be necessary. The children, I understand, are to be taught in English. When they’re older they’ll either attend school in Baton Rouge or Thibodaux. Mount Carmel Convent is there and St. Joseph’s College. I’m sure you’ll see both, for the church is nearby that you’ll want to attend.

I’m not Catholic.

Devane gave her an appraising look.

No?

I was sent to the sisters when my father died but I didn’t take the instructions, although I considered doing so. Suddenly startling thought intruded and Felice raised a gloved hand to her mouth. Oh, my…. The Governor must be expecting a Catholic governess. Why else would he have sent you to the Ursuline Convent?

Devane chuckled and folded his arm over his chest.

I being educated by the good sisters will adequately serve. And apparently you’re unaware of the Governor’s tamed ancestor, Edward Church Nicholls, huh?

Why, who is that?

A relative who was disinherited for refusing to become a priest.

Felice smiled.

You’re so enchanting when you smile. I wish you’d so more often. No…don’t turn away when I say the truth. As Felice’s gaze wavered and met his again, he continued, The church in Thibodaux is worth your visit though. The pulpit was hand-carved by a German and is outstanding, and the bell there weighs over a thousand pounds.

Devane waved toward a pavilion built out over the water on the other side to which a pirogue was secured. That is for dances. Maybe you’ll be entertained at some.

Maybe.

Felice twisted about in her seat. Directly ahead, a tall spire caught her attention; it was mostly concealed by a bend in the river.

What is that?

We are nearly to Labadieville. That’s the spire of their new church, built just two years ago. In the center of the ground is a tomb, where many yellow fever victims who died in 1878 are buried there.

I remember that. So many on the plantation died.

The fever was especially severe that year. It was everywhere and affected many of us. I was talking to a man the other day who told me of a doctor who is arguing that a mosquito is the cause of the fever. Amazing.

Felice looked at him with surprise.

Do you believe that?

Devane shrugged.

It hasn’t been proved yet to my knowledge.

They drifted into silent admiration of the landscape and their own thoughts. Within an hour they bad disembarked at Thibodaux, and Devane was gathering Felice’s luggage. He engaged a hack for their ride to the plantation. The distance from town was short, barely over three miles, and Felice realized that she would be able to walk in when she had the opportunity.

Finally the horses were guided onto a dirt road that tunneled into a grove of moss-covered