“I don’t need a fancy dress. One of my own will do well enough. It doesn’t seem right to be so extravagant now.”
“I suppose you’re right. But let me spoil you another way. I can take you somewhere when the fighting is over. We can discover the world together—Paris, Florence. You’ve never traveled.”
I laughed. Was this what it felt like to have prayers answered? “It’s almost too big, too beautiful, to think about,” I said. “But I will imagine it every day, us at sea, riding over the waves in a mighty ship. It will keep me going while you’re gone. You will write?”
“Always. As much as I can. You will never be far from my thoughts, dear Jeannette. But here we are again talking about separation. Let’s go out.”
“In a bit, Christian. First, can we share our news with Missus Livingston? She may have seen us in the yard last night. I don’t want her to think wrong things about us.” I was silent a moment, then added, “And Founder.”
He furrowed his brow, and I saw a note of concern flash across his face. “What about Founder?”
“I’ve known her since I came to Fortitude. She is a solitary being, but I like her. I think she is suspicious.”
“Of us?”
“Christian, who is she? I know she belongs here just as well as Missus Livingston or I. But why?”
He nodded slowly. “Like everyone else, she came north with our population from Belle Meade. She has been”—he paused and seemed to be searching for words—“a kind of counselor to me. She looks out for me.”
“Like Dorinda did for me?”
“Yes.” He lit up like he’d found what he’d been looking for. “Yes, you could say that. Very much like your Dorinda. Founder has indeed looked after me since I was a boy.”
Before I could say or ask anything more, he stood.
“Now,” he said, “we must go. Get your things. I’m eager for our new life to begin.”
He kissed me again with such warmth and eagerness that all I could say was, “All right.”
I went to my room for a bonnet and shawl, though I was sure the day was too nice to need them. When I came downstairs, I found Missus Livingston near the storage, taking inventory of the supplies that had been collected for the soldiers.
“We must get a wagon packed up,” she said when she perceived me next to her. “It’s time for these goods to go where they are needed.” She held a list in one hand, a short pencil in the other, but she held the pencil floating just above the paper as though she’d forgotten that one needed to touch the other. She stared vacantly at the neat stacks and bundles.
“Where will it all go?”
“Colonel Eshton has written, and likely it will go to troops on the western side of Virginia, not far from here. Someone from the village will deliver everything.”
I placed a hand over her hand with the floating pencil. “Missus Livingston,” I said, “you’ve spoken to Mr. Colchester?”
“Yes, he was just here. I must confess, I’m stunned by what he’s told me. He’s going to marry you?”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” I smiled and squeezed her hand.
She looked at me, and I could see her forehead, right above her eyes, was pinched with doubt and concern.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Sure that this is what you want?”
“Yes, of course! I think it’s the most beautiful miracle ever.”
“But dear, that’s what I mean. It’s so unexpected. I know this may sound old fashioned, but really, a man like Mr. Colchester doesn’t marry schoolteachers or . . .”
She turned away, and I let go of her. I knew the rest of her unspoken sentence, but we had gone beyond that.
“Say it, Missus Livingston. I need to hear it.”
“He is a white man. Are you sure he means to marry you? I know you both have history where white men are accustomed to having mixed-race mistresses . . .”
Still she couldn’t say it. I knew the word, though I had not heard it spoken aloud since I was a child: placée. It is what my mother would have been had she lived—as good as a wife but less than a wife. Many fair-skinned negro women lived this way in Louisiana, with their white husbands in their own homes while they maintained white families elsewhere. Placées even bore them children, but nothing was sanctified by church or law. One could say they were only a step or two above the fancy girls in whorehouses. I refused to believe I had escaped that fate in Mississippi only to end up as Christian’s mistress now. I’d rather die alone.
“We are not going to be like that! He wants to marry me.”
“My dear . . .”
“No!” I cried and stomped my foot. “I believe him. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Jeannette Bébinn, from the moment you entered this house, you have felt like a daughter to me. I blame myself for not speaking to you sooner. He changed so much after you arrived. I thought he might be fond of you, but—”
I interrupted. “You admit I have been a good influence on him?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but what about his influence on you? He may mean well, but . . .” She paused. “There are laws. And you have no one else to protect you.”
I chafed. I didn’t think of myself as needing protection. I hadn’t thought of legality. Laws, in my mind, never existed in my favor. What Madame Bébinn had done to me was proof of that. I did believe, though, that Missus Livingston had my best interests at heart. I couldn’t be angry with her. Still, I was unsettled. By law, I might not have a choice about how I lived with Mr. Colchester.
“It will be all right,” I told her. “Please. Just leave us alone.”
My mind was so thick with worry that when I got to the hall, I walked with my hand on the wall to steady myself, like a blind woman in somebody else’s house. Mr. Colchester met me there. He held a picnic basket and had a plain gray blanket folded and draped over one shoulder. He took my hand, and we made our way on foot away from the mansion and toward the river. We walked awhile in silence before he finally spoke.
“Jeannette? You are not the same as you were earlier. What’s wrong?”
“Missus Livingston is worried. And now so am I.”
“She has scared you. I see that.” He stopped and turned to face me. “What did she say?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true. I forgot about your position and didn’t think about the consequences.”
“Position? Consequences?”
I felt his agitation growing and gently pulled my hand from his tightening grip.
“Christian,” I said quietly, “white men don’t marry women like me.”
“And do you think I’ve been just as thoughtless? Truthfully, Jeannette, I erased any doubts on that score long ago. I don’t care what the world thinks.”
“What about Founder? What did she say?”
“She is a puzzle, and I’m sure you already know that. But she will be what she will be.” He reached for me again, but I evaded his grasp.
“You said she counsels you?”
“It doesn’t matter! I know my own heart; I don’t need counsel. Let’s not think about it anymore, Jeannette. I could get blasted to kingdom come by the end of the summer, and none of this will matter. The time is precious. We’re here now. Please. I don’t want to waste it.”