With a sigh, she propped her chin on her hand and stared at the doorway, wishing they'd decide something soon. She was pretty tired of sitting here, but if she went back upstairs, she was equally sure something exciting would happen that she'd miss.
Just as she'd shifted on her weary butt for about the twentieth time, the voices of the men rose again, except they all seemed to be talking at once. Seconds later, the first two walked through the doorway. Randi scooted back farther into the shadows.
Lebeau appeared with a servant, who began handing out tall black hats and other items, including a few more riding crops.
"We'll try your plan," one of the men said in a bored tone of voice, "but I don't expect much to come of these rising waters."
"Don't forget the warning system," Jackson said, entering the foyer from the parlor.
Randi's heart sped up at the sight of his lean body and straight posture. Compared to the rest of the men, he was a god among peasants. He looked particularly appealing tonight in a fitted, short double-breasted jacket and thigh-hugging trousers. Unfortunately, the tails of his jacket hid his well-sculpted rear.
"I know, I know," the bored man said. "We'll set the bells up along the levee, and use riders if there's a break."
"I know you think this is a waste of time, Franklin, but believe me, if we do have a crisis, you'll be glad we took these measures."
"I'm sure you're right," the man said, settling his top hat firmly on his head, "but this is a damned inconvenient time to start taking workers away from the fields."
"Jackson's convinced we won't have any fields," a jovial man said, whapping him on the back with a thick, stubby fingered hand, "if we don't protect ourselves from a flood."
"A regular Noah," a third man said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Jackson turned to the man, who was getting his hat from Lebeau. "God hasn't spoken to me, Thomas, but if He does, I'll be sure to ask Him when and where we can expect a levee breech."
A smattering of chuckles followed, then the men moved toward the door. Randi counted a total of five, excluding Jackson. She wondered if these represented all the families or plantations in the area. She hoped so. If they were all prepared, all united in their goal to keep floodwaters out, maybe history would be changed.
They didn't sound too convinced, come to think of it. And she hadn't done anything to influence anyone--especially Jackson. As she sat on the landing and contemplated what she'd heard, she became more and more convinced that the other planters weren't going to carry through their end of the deal. Maybe their lack of diligence had led to the flood that took Jackson's life.
And Rose's life, too. With a wistful, breathy sigh, Randi looked up into the darkness. She couldn't let that baby die. Not in the muddy waters of the Mississippi. Not before she'd had a chance to live.
The slamming of the door downstairs jolted her back to reality. She had to get back to her room before someone realized she was here. Someone like Jackson Durant.
"I'm going upstairs to check on Rose," she heard him say to Lebeau. "I won't be back down, so go ahead and lock up the house."
"Yes, Mas'r Jackson," the butler said in his dull but dignified tone. He motioned for the servant who'd been helping with hats to go into the parlor, probably to clean up the mess. There must be a bucket-load of cigar butts in there, judging by the amount of smoke that had poured out of the open doorway.
Randi tried scooting back up the stairs so she didn't attract attention, but the hem of her dress caught on a splinter of wood.
"Do you think they'll listen?" she heard Lebeau ask in an entirely different tone of voice, low and conspiratorial. How odd. She paused, no longer thinking about the worrisome hem.
"No, I'm sorry to say. But maybe I've planted the idea of a possible flood in their heads. Perhaps they'll pay more attention when the water starts to rise."
"They'll pay attention when the field hands are wading between the furrows, trying not to get bit by snakes to care for their cotton."
Snakes? She hadn't thought of snakes, but conceded their presence was likely. The idea of slithering snakes lurking in the muddy water caused another shiver to pass through her, almost diverting her attention away from the conversation below.
"And when their carpets begin to float away," Jackson added.
Randi frowned, trying to figure out what was different. Tone of voice, she supposed. Jackson talked to Lebeau in a way that was downright . . . friendly. She hadn't expected that in a master-servant relationship.
She even heard Lebeau chuckle.
That caused her to lean forward, pulling against the still-captured hem. The fabric gave way with a slight ripping sound.
She hadn't thought the noise too loud, but as she inched back in the shadows, she knew her hiding time was finished. Her only options were to make a mad dash for her room--as if Jackson wouldn't know which person had been eavesdropping on the stairs--or try to bluff her way through this.
His heels clicked against the marble entry files, then came to stop on the first step on the stairway.
"Miss Galloway, I assume?" he said in a resigned, yet amazed, tone.
"Good evening, Mr. Durant," she said in her most refined voice. She cautiously tucked the hem of her skirt over her bare toes.
"What in the name of all that's holy are you doing, sitting here on the landing?" She could tell that resignation had won out. He didn't sound amused. Thank heaven he hadn't noticed her bare feet.
"Getting rhubarb pie," she improvised in a small voice, smoothing the gown's skirt closer around her, hoping he didn't notice she wasn't wearing any petticoats.
"We don't serve rhubarb pie on the stair landing," he said in gravely voice. "Besides, wouldn't you have used the back stairs if you'd wanted to go to the kitchen? And we don't sit around in the shadows like a second-rate spy." He started up the steps.
"I wasn't spying," she said in defense of her original position. "I was merely going downstairs when I heard voices."
"So you decided to spy." He stopped two steps down from the landing, looming over her without threatening too much.
She shrugged. "Are you trying to hide something?"
"Of course not, but that's hardly the point. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior from a governess. You most certainly cannot teach my daughter decorum when you behave in such an outrageous fashion."
"I'm sorry," she said, thankful he didn't have his whip with him tonight. He was working into a real snit, and she didn't want to see or hear that tap-tap-tap of leather against fabric-covered muscle.
"Get yourself up to bed now, and this won't happen again."
She struggled to rise, but her legs had been bent awkwardly for too long. The minute she tried to put weight on them, she stumbled.
He reached for her arms, pulling her upright so fast she heard another, louder rip. "Oh, no."
She looked down. The hem of the gown was partially torn off, lying across her bare foot like a tattered flag that said, "Look at me."
He did. And he groaned. "Miss Galloway, you continue to amaze me." His grip on her arm didn't slacken; if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten.
She shrugged, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks that told her she was blushing. "The shoes don't fit."
"That is no excuse for walking around like a field hand."
Something inside her seemed to snap. Whereas she'd been embarrassed just a moment ago by her bare feet, she now focused only on the practical nature of her outfit. And standing in front of her, looking like an actor out of some big-budget historical epic with an unlimited wardrobe, was the man who kept putting her down.
She twisted from his grasp. "Why should I tromp around in some really narrow shoes, all laced up in a dress with more petticoats than a '50s poodle skirt? I'm tired of being miserable in my clothes, do you hear? I want my comfortable shoes back. I want some clothes that don't require help to get dressed. Most of all, I want everyone to quit staring at me like I've lost my mind!"
"Miss Galloway, you obviously
have
lost your mind. I'll see about putting you on a packet tomorrow, although I don't suppose you'll tell me where you're from or if you have anywhere to go. That, however, is your problem."
He brushed past her, reeking of cigars and brandy, his jaw set at he stared straight ahead.
"Wait!"
He paused, but then continued to walk.
She rushed after him, holding up her skirts. "You can't kick me out of your house! I've got to stay here."
"No. I won't have you influencing Rose with your behavior."
Randi caught him as he was halfway down the hallway to the attic stairs. "Please, I've got to stay!" She grabbed his rock-solid arm and pulled him to a stop.
"What you're doing isn't helping your case," he said, looking down at her hand, partially around his upper arm.
"Maybe I'm not being very smart about this. I know I've got a temper, but please, you must listen."
"Why should I listen to any more of your lies? You haven't told me the truth about where you're from or why you're here." He shrugged off her hand as if she was of no consequence.
"I've thought about it a lot, but I can't figure out why I'm here," she wailed, "Please, you've got to trust me. "I know what's going to happen in the future."
He stopped. In the dim light of the upper hallway, his jaw twitched. "What did you say?"
"Premonition
," she said, easing the word out as though she'd never said it before. "I can tell what's going to happen. I know there's going to be a flood."
A vision of haggard old crones, throwing chicken bones to foresee the future, warred with his interest in her absurd claims. He'd known seers in his past--far into a childhood that was so distant the memories seemed to belong to another man. Voodoo and black magic-induced claims, performed by African slaves from the Caribbean, were common where he'd grown up. Most of the "seers" deceived just for the profit of a few coins, but some of them had given eerie predictions of things to come . . .
He remembered one old woman who'd lived not far from his family. She'd come to their door one day, seeking him out, saying she had something important to tell him. The memory of her greasy, stale scent rushed back, along with the fretful, damp wind that had swirled threadbare skirts against her legs like ancient drapes at a broken window. She was so poor and ragged that she'd caused a shiver to run through him.
"Beware the flames," she'd said with wild, fevered eyes and a raspy voice. She'd taken his shirt in her bony fist and pulled him so close that he smelled her bad teeth. "Fire will destroy, but if you're honest and true, you'll escape to a new life."
He'd pulled away from her, disgusted by her ratty state, unwilling to believe her absurd claims. He'd sent her on her way without a coin--not that she'd asked for one.
Less than a year later, his parents and younger brother had died when smoke filled their house as they slept. Neighbors had rushed to put out the flames, but they'd been too late to save his family.
Jackson had left home months before to seek his fortune. He hadn't died as the old woman had predicted, but not because he was honest or true. Quite the opposite, in fact. There'd been little honesty in his life since leaving his family behind.
Except for Rose. In his daughter, he saw the future. Not literally, not like Randi Galloway proposed. But in her life, his would live on. Hopefully, he'd have other children. A son to inherit Black Willow Grove was essential. Children were his future, not some vague or dire predictions by disturbed women who thought they foresaw events yet to come.
"You're only claiming you have the sight because you heard us talking. Your desperate grasp at saving your position is pathetic."
"I listened because I already knew about the flood," she claimed, once again grabbing his arm. "Please, you've got to believe me. I didn't mention this earlier because I thought we had time to . . . because I wanted you to learn to trust me. But now there's little time left, and you must listen to me."
Her voice had grown more pleading as she'd continued, but Jackson hardened his heart against her anxiety. "There's nothing you have to say that I want to hear."
"Even if I tell you that Black Willow Grove will be destroyed, that a hundred and fifty years from now, nothing will remain of this magnificent house?"
"You don't know that."
"I do. I've seen the future. There'll be a museum built on this very spot, and they'll recreate the furniture and locate many of your treasures. There's nothing you can do to save the house, but you can save yourself . . . and Rose."
"What are you talking about?" He jerked his arm away from her grasp, alarmed by her desperate claims. His heart beat fast and hard as he realized she was more delusional than he'd imagined.
"You and Rose . . . both lost in the flood, along with the house."
"Your imagination is running wild. Floods don't tear down houses like this," he said, sweeping his arm wide. "Black Willow Grove is built to last a hundred years or more. Water may rise to fill the lower floor, but when the flood recedes, the house will still stand."