The Seige Of Dragonard Hill Part 4

I've pretty well decided on the school. Katie and I had actually been discussing in the last few months about sending David to Pearson's Military Academy in Charleston.'

'Not North?'

Peter shook his head. 'Charleston is closer. David can visit home more often. I can go see him. No, Boston served its purpose for you and Vicky. But..." He shook his head. 'David is a very young boy. I think he should stay in the South."

Veronica saw that her father's eyelids were suddenly heavy, that he most likely felt sleepy after eating such a delicious supper and now being lulled by the crackling fire.

Deciding that she would leave him to rest in the library alone and seize these last few moments before her own bedtime to write a letter home to Royal, Veronica rose from her chair. She set her untouched gla.s.s of brandy on a table and moved toward her father's chair. She bent over him and, kissing him on the forehead, she murmured, 'Papa, thank you for the wonderful company.'

*I think I'll retire myself pretty soon.'

'Aren't you going to have a little stroll tonight?' Veronica 48.had noticed -that since her arrival her father had gone for a walk every night after supper. She did not know where he went, guessing that he walked to ease his mind.

Peter did not answer the question. He gently squeezed Veronica's hand and said, I'll see you at breakfast.'

Veronica moved across the library's Aubusson carpet; she slid the heavy door shut behind her, leaving her father alone in his chair by the fire. She was already thinking about what she would write in the letter to Royal. She did not want to press Royal for the name of the man who would call upon her here at Dragonard Hill but she was beginning to grow more uneasy with each pa.s.sing day, wondering how long she would have to stay here. She loved these quiet evenings with her father but, also, she loved her own family and missed them.

The idea of freedom terrified Peter Abdee. He was not thinking of freedom in terms of slavery but in regard to the sudden freedom to choose a new s.e.xual partner. He had been happy with Kate for the last seven years-even longer if he counted the days in which they had met for love-making before their marriage. He had never been promiscuous; he had felt complete when he had found one woman who had satisfied his physical needs. But now Kate was gone. And he asked himself, Do I have to start all over again? Begin that desperate search for a compatible'woman? These thoughts tumbled into his mind only a few moments after Veronica had left the library. He did not want to slip into deep introspection after spending such an en-joyable evening with her and David but, yet, he had to solve this problem. This sudden craving for s.e.xuality was symbolic of other sudden losses in his life. He recognized that fact.

Peter Abdee had a strong mind but since Kate's accident he had had fleeting doubts about his sanity. He only now realized how much he had depended on her. He finally I saw the reason why people paired-off; he desperately missed the rea.s.surance of having a wife, a constant companion, a lover, a helpmate. Gulping down the brandy, he set the gla.s.s on the table 49.in front of him and reached for the gla.s.s which Veronica had not finished. He repositioned himself in the chair and considered the alternatives to a monogamous way of life.

Promiscuity. Some men swore by it. Many Southern men even kept bed wenches in their houses, black concubines who slept on pallets on the floor in their master's bedroom. Their wives turned a blind eye to this practise.

Peter Abdee was not such a Southern gentleman. But why not? he asked himself. Why not now? He was free. And if he did not go to the extremes of bringing a black mistress into the house why not at least sample a 'wench or two in one of the out-buildings?

Trying to be brutally honest with himself, Peter forced himself to review the s.e.x life he had had with Kate in the last few years. Had it been as pa.s.sionate, as bold as their love had been when they had first met, in the days when he had sneaked over to visit Kate at Greenleaf Plantation, when Kate had made excuses to send her nephew, Barry, from the house so the young man would not hear her screaming at the crest of her o.r.g.a.s.m?

Peter smiled to himself when he remembered how Kate used to shout, literally shriek when she crested with him s.e.xually. This memory led to another thought: When was the last time he had heard that? Not for months. Even years. Yes, s.e.x had evidently even become stale for dear, lovable Kate. He did not blame himself, though. Nor did he blame her. He was only trying to review the matter with honesty.

Love between husbands and wives often grew stale. That was an established fact. Peter also recognized the fact that he was having a resurgence of s.e.xuality. He had noticed that recently.

Sara. He thought of the young black gir! from the looming house whom he had talked to last night near Town. He remembered the protrusion of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the thin cotton shift. He remembered talking to her-about what? Kate's death?-but glancing all the while at her waist, her hips, her legs.

Remembering the response which Sara had awakened in him last night, and recalling similar responses from other young Negresses on Dragonard Hill, Peter now looked 50.down at his crotch and saw that his p.e.n.i.s had formed a stiff rod beneath his breeches.

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He leaned back in the chair and jutted his groin upwards, fieetingly imagining that he was driving the crown of his stiff p.e.n.i.s into the wetness between a pair of thighs-she had no name, no face, no ident.i.ty. She was virtually a vessel for his masculinity. Nothing more.

Sitting upright in the chair, he opened his eyes and told himself that he must stop torturing himself like this. He was a mature man. He must not tease himself with fantasies. They would lead to masturbation. He did not want that.

Next, he asked himself the other troubling question: Was it disrespectful to Kate if he suddenly took to wenching? Gossip was rife on a plantation, he knew, and stories quickly spread to other plantations and farms in the neighbourhood. Kate had not been buried for a month. He could not blaspheme their marriage. And, so, should he only indulge in fantasies? Madness might well lay in that direction but. . .

Peter again closed his eyes and, leaning his head back on the chair, he stretched his long legs in front of him. He felt his p.e.n.i.s hardening inch-by-inch down his thigh. He was imagining a naked wench sitting astride his riding boots. Her skin was only a few shades lighter-richer- than the boots' shiny black leather. She was rubbing her furry patch against the leather boots as she gazed at his erect manhood and tongued her lips to tease him. The seed heatened inside Peter's straining phallus with these thoughts. His breath quickened as he wondered if-and when-he could fulfil them. He was determined, though, to keep his hand in control, not to form a fist around his manhood to satisfy himself.

Ham's body, hard from fieldwork, straddled Maybelle's nakedness, she curled her bare legs around him, moving her feet with the rhythm of his tensed b.u.t.tocks as he drove faster and faster between her opened thighs; she clenched her arms in desperation around his neck, holding herself up from the straw pallet by this clinging grasp, allowing 5I.

her entire body to move with Ham's quickening excitement. Their tongues intertwined with one another; Ham encircled Maybelle's teeth with his tongue as he stirred his phallus deeper inside her heated wetness. She chewed his lower lip, quickly traced his upper lip with her tongue, then began to bite his strong chin as he lengthened the strokes of his p.e.n.i.s to probe her warmth from the slit to the depth. He slicked in and out of this tightening anc contracting course, gauging Maybelle's excitement by the fastness of her breathing. He did not want to speak to her, to ask the important question, the question about o.r.g.a.s.ms which would debase this act of love. Then, finally feeling her responding in the ultimate manner to his masculine pressure, he quickly ejected his p.e.n.i.s from her and-frantically gasping himself-his phallus shot a jet of white sperm across her stomach, creating a trace of warm white seec across her black skin instead of planting it inside her womb.

Ham and Maybeile had already produced one child. The boy lived in slavery. He would grow up in slavery. They did not want to give another life to Peter Abdee regardless of how good he was to them. The idea of withholding life from the world repelled them; they did not speak about the matter as they now lay Socked-limp, wet with perspiration, blotched with sperm-on the straw pallet in the darkness of their long-legged hut in Town. Their housemates had left them alone here for a few hours.

Maybeile made the first move to cleanse themselves, to prepare for the others' return. Ham stopped her. He pui a hand on her shoulder and cautioned, 'Shhh-' He listened. ,'What is it?' Maybeile whispered.

I thought I heard a noise. A rumble. Like a wagon corning up the road. A coach may haps.'

Maybeile lay still in the warm clutch of Ham's naked arm and listened for the distant sound. She finally said, 'I hears it, too. A coach b.u.mping up the drive to the big house.'

Ham grunted. He moved to grab the rag waiting on the floor alongside the pallet. He said, It's no business of ours, woman. Only white folks go by coaches. Here-' He wiped the puddle from Maybelle's skin, gently dabbing the rivulets which had grown cold and meaningless.

52.A loud pounding on the library door brought Peter Ab-dee from a distant world of pa.s.sion where his mind had been travelling. He sat upright in the chair. He saw that his p.e.n.i.s formed a hard rod under the fabric of his trousers. He had not touched his p.e.n.i.s during the erotic thoughts but he felt as if it were about to explode. He now heard Posey frantically calling from outside the door, 'Master Peter, Master Peter, Sir! It's Miss Vicky! Miss Vicky's finally come home from Cuba, Master Peter, Sir!' His first reaction was to reach and shove the erect shaft of manhood down between his legs. The thought that he was loath to interrupt his fireside dreams pa.s.sed quickly through his mind before he was able to check it. He had thought about himself-his own pa.s.sions-before he had rejoiced that Vicky had finally arrived home. Such selfishness was new to Peter Abdee.

Chapter Three.

VOODOO.

Victoria-or Vicky as she kept reminding herself that she must now accustom herself to being called-claimed four rooms in the main house at Dragonard Hill. One room was for sleeping, one for her sitting-room, one to accommodate the unpacking of her seven trunks of gowns-plus the innumerable smaller cases, bandboxes, and valises filled with hats, gloves, scarves, slippers-and one room for her African attendant, Malou, to be constantly nearby her to attend the upkeep of her wardrobe.

Pleading exhaustion from travel on the morning following her arrival at Dragonard Hill, Vicky begged to be excused from joining her father, Veronica, and David for both breakfast and the midday meal in the dining-room. Veronica quickly a.s.sumed the sisterly duty of seeing that a food tray was prepared in the kitchen for Vicky; she carried it herself up the wide staircase to the room where Vicky lay propped-up by a bank of lace-edged pillows in a canopy bed draped in pink-and-yellow striped chintz.

I'm afraid you are going to find life rather dull here compared to the life you must lead in Havana,' Veronica said as she pulled a chair alongside the bed.

'A rest will do me good,' Vicky a.s.sured her, softly stroking a silver-backed brush down her long auburn hair. She wore a mauve silk bed jacket over a nightdress of Chantilly lace. She had not touched the breakfast tray which set alongside her on the wide bed.

54.'Life here is certainly restful,' Veronica said, hating herself for acting so proper, almost mouselike in front of her self-a.s.sured, worldly sister. She twisted her hands in the lap of her black crepe dress, saying I imagine you are going to miss-you do call your little boy "Juanito" don't you?'

Vicky sniffed. 'That's his father's name for him. Juan Carlos is so determinedly. . . Spanish.'

Veronica immediately noticed that the tone in Vicky's reply did not encourage further questions about her family life in Cuba. She said, 'You must make yourself enjoy this visit. I myself have forgotten how comfortable this house is.' She looked around the ornately decorated bedroom.

Vicky lowered the brush to the bed and, also appraising the silk-lined walls and gilt French chairs, said, "I keep forgetting, my dear, that you do not have slaves in Boston. That you must do all the work yourself!'

'I do have a woman who comes in to help me.' Resuming her brushing, Vicky said, 'Royal? Is he happy?' 'Very happy,' Veronica answered with renewed eagerness. She was pleased that Vicky inquired about her husband.

'What colour are your children?'

The question stunned Veronica.

'I mean are they. . . black? Black black? Or are they-' She looked around the bedroom for a shade of wood or the covering of a cushion which a half-caste child might resemble in colour.

'Why, I never thought of their colouring, not specifically ..." Veronica was fl.u.s.tered. She hated herself for being at a loss for words.

'Considering your fairness, dearheart, they must be a lovely Sight brown! Like little chocolate soldier boys and girls!' She worked the silver-backed brush down the other side of her head, saying, 'How charming!'

Veronica glared at Vicky, momentarily loathing her for speaking about Lindy, Peter Mark, and little Max as if they were candy.

Now holding her head forward to brush the back of her hair, Vicky said, 'I hope I didn't say anything to offend you, dearheart. You've suddenly gone all quiet.'

55.'To be perfectly honest, Vicky, I am upset.'

'Oh, my dear, I am sorry! Do forgive me!' She flicked back her hair and affected a look of apology.

'It is not only what you said just now, Vicky. It is the general att.i.tude in this house about Royal, myself, and our children. Imogen says hurtful things. Papa has not once visited us-'

'Has he come to Cuba to visit me, dearheart?' Shaking her head, Vicky said, 'No, you must not be censorious about that/ 'Please let me continue, Vicky. We might as well discuss this matter now rather than later." Veronica moved to the edge of her chair and explained, 'I knew that I would be isolating myself by marrying Royal. He and I discussed that very matter many years ago. But things still trouble me and I would like this opportunity to talk about them.'

'Then you roust, dearheart. You must.'

Vicky's superior att.i.tude irritated Veronica. But she continued, 'For instance, Vicky, I can travel home. Oh, yes. But if I bring my children here to visit their grandfather, they could very well be stolen from this house and sold at a slave auction! Be literally auctioned off in a slave house' as "fancies"!'

Vicky soberly studied the hairbrush now resting in the palm of one hand. She reached toward the bristles and pulled out a few long strands of hair. She dropped them into a jug of hot milk setting on the breakfast tray and said 'Then you simply must never bring your babies south!'

The flippant remark told Veronica that she must not pursue this subject with her sister. She knew that Vicky had always had a strange view of reality. She realized now that her life in Havana had obviously only worsened this; had removed Vicky yet farther away from the problems of everyday life.

Rising from her chair, Veronica moved to the window and looked out at a field which lay to the west of the main house. She saw a gang of black people working on the far slope. She saw Negro drivers moving down the rows of bent slaves. She saw Imogen riding her stallion toward the slope. She continued gazing out the window at this rnorning work scene, saying, I wonder what we would be like today, 56.Vicky, if we had stayed here. If we had stayed on Dragonard Hill like Imogen chose to do?'

'Imogen?' Vicky sank back onto the bed pillows and laughed. 'Imogen! And who's that black girl she lives with?'

'Belladonna. '

'Yes. Belladonna. She's the "woman" of that household I believe. Oh, well, it takes all kinds to make-up the world.'

Veronica murmured, 'And all kinds to make-up a... family.'

Vicky lay in bed and fleetingly thought now about telling Veronica that their grandfather, Richard Abdee, was still alive. That the fabled old 'Dragonard* now owned a slave-house in Cuba.

Deciding that Veronica was too fragile this morning to deal with such a revelation, she decided to withhold the matter for some future date.

'She instead said, 'Tell me about father, Veronica. Is he upset that I haven't rushed immediately downstairs this morning?*

'Papa is changing.' Veronica moved back to the bedside chair.

That doesn't answer my question. But do tell me what you mean.'

'I don't know exactly what I mean, Vicky. Papa has been so quiet, so different from-' She shook her head, saying, 'You'll see for yourself.'

'And Posey?' Vicky asked, again looking at the breakfast tray. 'Does Posey still think he's a woman?'

Throwing back her head on the pillow, she sighed, 'Good Lord, I hope so! I wanted to bring presents for everyone and, knowing how uppity house n.i.g.g.e.rs are, I knew that Posey must get something very, very special from me. But the only thing that I could think of to give him was one of my parasols. There's a case of them in the next room, dear-heart. Why don't you dig through them and choose one which you think might suit Posey and give it to him for me. Will you be a dear and do that? And tell him that I'm dying to see him. All that nonsense. I don't want him poisoning my food!'

'You choose the parasol, Vicky,' Veronica firmly but 57.sweetly replied. She did not want to become her sister's errand girl again.

Vicky said, 'I brought a little gift for you, too, dearheart. ! did intend to give you something for your home in Boston but I didn't know exactly-'

'No gifts are necessary, Vicky. It is nice enough to see you." Veronica bent over her sister's bed. She kissed her forehead and said, I'm only sorry that such a sad occasion has brought us all together. In all this commotion of unpacking and gift giving, you must not forget that Papa has just lost the most important person in his life.'

Turning from the bed, Veronica called, 'I will leave you alone now. I know you must want to get dressed. Father would like to see you soon and, by that, I think he means sometime. . . today.' She gently closed the door.

Vicky lay in bed long after Veronica departed from the room. She ignored her sister's parting words of sarcasm. She thought instead about her father. The thought of facing him unnerved her. She wondered what he would think of her after these pa.s.sing years, if he would approve of her appearance, if he would ask personal questions about her married life with Juan Carlos. There were so many facts in Vicky's past life which she wished to leave unmentioned. She longed to keep herself buried in this bedroom for the present. She needed time alone to sort out other answers,! an opportunity to a.s.semble the facts about her own future-I as a wife, a mother to Juanito, the mistress in charge of that' sneaky Negress, Malou!

But life was generous to Vicky. Anyway, so she believed She had always prided herself in being resilient. And she now lounged in the canopied bed thinking about the latest favour which fate had dealt to her: She lay back on the ban! of lacy pillows and remembered the man who had ridden with her and Malou in the public coach from New Orleans Jerome Poliguet! Vicky could not remember having met such a handsome man for a long time. Apart from beini dark cornplexioned-a physical trait in men which attracte< her-jerome="" poliguet="" had="" also="" been="" charming="" and="" attentivi="" to="" her="" like="" a="" true="" gentleman.="" jerome="" poliguet="" was="" a="" creole="" 58.one="" of="" the="" old="" french="" families="" of="" new="" orleans="" who="" were="" aristocrats="" amongst="" the="" rough="" pioneers="" who="" were="" slowly="" taking="" over="" that="" delta="">

The day-long journey from New Orleans to Dragonard Hill had pa.s.sed quickly with Poliguet as a travelling companion. He had entertained Vicky with amusing stories about the Louisiana countryside, telling her how he came to the small town of Troy two days a week to offer his legal services-Poliguet was totally modest in Vicky's opinion, withholding nothing about the state to which he had been reduced by a father who had squandered a vast fortune. Poliguet had unequivocally stated how he must learn to support himself. That his Creole background was now only a luxury, a luxury which would not put bread on his table. Creoles! Those aloof, haughty people had always intrigued Vicky. She had seen them in their carriages in New Orleans as a girl; their grand manners and strict etiquette made her feel like a b.u.mpkin from the country.

The Abdee family was rustic compared to the Creole I families living in New Orleans, the descendants of the original French who had settled there. The Creoles saw themselves as the aristocrats of New Orleans.

Luxuriating in the softness of the feather pillows and remembering how courtly handsome Jerome Poliguet had been to her in the coach, Vicky became certain that he had been attracted to her for reasons other than the Veradaga crests stamped in gold on her luggage. She knew when a man found her s.e.xually attractive and Jerome PoJiguet had left no doubts in her mind that he was as surprised to find her-a Condesa!-on the Troy-Carterville coach as she herself had been surprised to discover him as a travelling companion.

Quickly throwing back the coverlets and hopping out of bed, Vicky rushed to the cheval mirror standing in the corner of her bedroom. She leaned toward the gla.s.s and closely examined her face for any sign of fatigue, wrinkles, or puffiness. She told herself that she must not sleep too much. She did not know when she might see Monsieur Poliguet again. Would he come calling here at Dragonard Hill?

Thrilled by the idea of having a visitor so soon after her arrival home, Vicky next wondered if Poliguet would make 59.

advances toward her on his first visit. She knew that the Creoles were gallant but also that the blood ran hot in their veins.

Throwing open her gown, Vicky looked at her naked body in the mirror, seeing that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s stood firm, bulbous on her slim body. That her waist curved neatly to her smooth hips. That the dark hair between her legs covered a tempting mound. And looking at her mound, she quickly dipped to the floor in front of the mirror and imagined that she was squatting down on a bed to encase Po-liguet's phallus with her squeezing v.a.g.i.n.a, using her favourite method . . . the Jezebel's Grip.

Throwing back her head and laughing about all the pending excitement, Vicky arose to a standing position, cinched the robe around her body, and thought of more practical matters. She must look very alluring for Monsieur Poiiguet when he came calling on her.

Remembering the face creams she had packed to protect her complexion from the harsh Louisiana air, she called, 'Malou! Bring my cosmetic case! And a bath! I want a hot bath brought to my room! Immediately, Malou! Immediately!'

Silence greeted her demand.

Glancing angrily toward the window, she looked down to the yard and saw Malou standing on the edge of the colonnade which led to the kitchen annex. The black woman stood alone, staring at the fieldhands working on the nearby slope; Vicky rapped furiously on the window pane with her knuckle to attract Malou's attention. d.a.m.n that black b.i.t.c.h! she thought. I might be having callers today and there she is staring at... n.i.g.g.e.rs! I'll sell her yet!

'Malou!' She rapped again.

Then, turning from the window, she realized her first problem. She had come back to Dragonard Hill to mourn Kate's death. Mourning meant black. What did she have black to wear? What black gown did she have with her which would show her to her best advantage to a visitor?Jerome Poiiguet did not pay a call at Dragonard Hill that 60.afternoon. Nor did he come the next day. But Vicky did not give up hope. She spent these first days at home distributing gifts to the family and house-servants, regaling everyone with stories about Cuba and-everyday-painstakingly tending her toilette in preparation for a visit from the Creole lawyer. She was certain that she would see the dark, handsome gentleman again.

By the end of the first week of Vicky's arrival at Dragonard Hill, the parasol which she had given to Posey had replaced the meat-cleaver under his pillow; he covetously clutched the ivory stick decorated with rose-coloured silk in his arms as he lay on his pallet behind the cookstove.

The frilled parasol grew in importance to Posey over the pa.s.sing days but, then, so did the black woman, Malou, become an increasing annoyance to him as she walked silently around the main house in her bare feet and visited every far corner of the plantation.

Posey had harboured misgivings about Malou from the first time he had seen the sober-faced black woman who wore a white kerchief knotted over her tall forehead. And the longer he observed her from a distance, the more fertile his suspicions became.

Malou struck Posey as an incongruous figure compared to her finely-dressed mistress; he knew that Vicky was rich-and a countess!-which further confused him why her body servant should not even wear shoes! He knew ! that bare feet were commonplace here in Louisiana but he ' suspected that everyone-even sullen n.i.g.g.e.rs!-wore slippers in castles in Cuba.

Posey questioned the house servants about Malou's activities, trying to glean the slightest bits of information about her. He learned that her duties were only to keep Miss Vicky's wardrobe in fine repair. He also learned that the Cuban slave woman had originally come from the valley of the River Niger in Africa, by the land of the Dahomey tribe, a people who believed in the Yoruba religion. Most American slaves had forgotten-had been forced to forget- about the religion of their African forefathers. Southern masters imbued Christian religions into their slaves. But Posey learned that this slave woman from Cuba not only clung onto the forbidden G.o.ds of Yoruba but likened them to the apostles, saints, and beliefs of the white people.

6I.

Apart from miracles, Malou also believed in spells, hexes, and curses!

'Voodoo!' Posey shrieked to Lulu and Fat Boy at the end of the first week of Vicky's return home, a time by which he had at last a.s.sembled all the facts about Malou. He accused, 'Malou is a Voodoo witch!'

Lulu cowered behind a kitchen table as Posey proceeded to denounce Malou. As he explained that Malou believed in a religion which honoured witches and devils, Lulu curled the fists of her small brown hands in front of her mouth. She shuddered at the thought that a witch was here at Dragonard Hill.