River Magic (13 page)

“You do?” she asked, taken aback.

“Certainly. You're my sister. A damned good one, too.”

“I never thought I'd hear you say that, Mattie.”

“I guess it wasn't easy for you, being twin to a brother everyone doted on, even in his grave.”

Losing Winny had caused a part of India to die along with him. Even though she'd taken comfort from confessing to Connor, she couldn't be that free with the one person who would never forgive her. “Let's don't talk about Winny.”

“I wish you would. You'd be happier for it.” Matt leaned his cheek on the top of her head, and she barely noticed as a hairpin fell from her wig. “Big brother's here, if you need a shoulder to cry on.”

“You know I don't cry.”

“Not on the outside you don't. But you cry. On the inside. And have ever since Winny passed away.”

“Please stop digging at me about him.”

“You take me wrong, Indy honey. I've changed. Behind these walls I've had a lot of time to think. And reconsider. You weren't to blame for Winny's death. You tried to save him. I'll grant I've given you hell through the years, but I sincerely apologize. Do you think you can find room in that big heart of yours to forgive a scoundrel?”

She studied Matt's eyes. Always she'd been able to detect dishonesty on his part. He was being honest. Allowing his comforting words to sink in, to settle, she whispered, “I forgive you. I love you, big brother.”

If she couldn't have Connor, at least she'd have her last brother. It eased the sting somewhat.

He smiled, leaned down to kiss her cheek. And it was no hurried peck. It was a kiss of brotherly love. “I'll never take you for granted again, even if you leave without me.”

“I can't take you, Mattie. If I could, I would.”

“I know you would, honey, I know you would. It isn't easy to stomach, but I know you would.”

“I'll do what I can to make it comfortable for you. The hospital cook has promised to bring food to Solitary, and—”

“I'll be okay. Honest. Indy, I want to know about you. What happened between you and the major?”

Linked to Matt's elbow, she tucked her chin against a privation-thinned chest. “He thought I was after his ring. I don't have enough experience with men to know what I'm after. All I know is I hurt and I'm going to miss him.”

“You're in love.”

The word hit like a steamship going aground. “Lust is more the definition. There's too much separating us from love. Ours is a beastly age to live in, so many outside influences to wreck our personal lives. And he thirsts for battle. I want a husband, children, and a poetry by candlelight, truth be told.”

Unfortunately, Connor's mention of marriage had planted unsuitable images in her too-active imagination, had made her start wanting the bliss that had come easily to her sisters. “War or peace, Connor would never want me, save as a lightskirt. Anything more would take at least a magic lamp.”

Matt kissed the top of her head. “Innocent one, know something. Love hits opposites—there's no getting around it. You have to work through the problems, like Honoré and I did.”

“Your love did conquer all. No genie required.”

“That's because we didn't quit on each other.”

“You have true love between you. You have admiration and respect. Each of you valued the other's opinion. You would lay down your life for Honoré, and she for you. Connor doesn't feel that way.” India hesitated, but this new understanding with Matt carried her onward. “I fear I've found more to value in him than he has in me.”

“Don't forget our parents. Europa didn't like sending her man to sea for years at a time, like he didn't cotton to living on her land, but they learned to give and take.”

“Food for thought, but we are not they.”

“Now, Indy. Give O'Brien the benefit of the doubt. He might surprise you. Luck may go your way.”

Sure. Right. When the sun turned to peach custard, luck with Connor would go her way.

“Whatever you do, go with your heart.” Matt paused. “And I must go with mine.” A long moment crept by. “The money is in Natchez,” he admitted, lifting her spirits. “It's buried in China's root cellar.”

Hope tumbled. “The Yankees took possession of White Post Plantation last August. Our sister and her husband have taken shelter with his parents. The Union Army has our money.”

“Surely the bastards haven't dug up the root cellar.”

“We can always pray they haven't.”

“Whatever the case, you've got to find out. Go to it, Sis.” He saluted crisply. “See you . . . someday.”

She ran back to him. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I should've told you everything when first you asked.”

“I'm not thanking you for the Natchez business. I'm thanking you for being the brother I always wanted.”

“Think nothing of it. Proceed with your packing.” Matt winked. “Everything will work out for you and the major. I feel it in my bones. Someday you'll look out the window at Pleasant Hill, and there he'll be, riding up the lane.”

“When alligators dance the minuet.” India draped a cape around her shoulders, readjusting the spectacles. “I've got a train to catch.”

“See you soon.”

Soon? What did that mean? It meant Matt believed the war would end soon, she figured. Would that it could, and would!

For now, she needed to put the distance of the upper and lower Mississippi between herself and Connor. It would be best to forget him, and get on with it.

“Abracadabra.”

“What now, Mattie?”

“Do me one favor before you go. Pick open these wrist manacles. I'm cramped, Indy, hurting.”

His wrists were reddened, swollen. For all he'd given her—and even if he hadn't—she wouldn't leave him this way. She yanked a pin from her wig, jabbed it in the lock, freed her brother's hands. “Promise me something, Matt. Promise you'll act as if you're still bound when the guards come around.”

“I promise.”

Renewed of spirit, though sad for the loss of Connor, India returned to the Lawrence mansion. She didn't pack.

She sat on Opal's fainting sofa and hoped the wig hadn't skewed, now that she'd shown unexpected visitors in. Connor had three. Two aunts and a fat bald fellow wearing elegant attire, save for a golden ear hoop.

Seated on the settee in the drawing room? Tessa O'Brien and her unlikely companion, Eugene Jinnings. Redheaded Phoebe O'Brien, upright and to his right, sat in an unmoving rocking chair. While India expected Burke O'Brien to show up sooner or later, she'd never pictured Connor with female relatives.

She saw no family resemblance between the O'Briens. Dried-up fit Phoebe, who had gray eyes and thin hair knotted atop her angular face. Plump as an apple, with cheeks and ringlets to match, described the blue-eyed Tessa.

As for Eugene, he had his arms crossed over his ample stomach. Swarthy and bald, he resembled now-dead Uncle Omar, the paternal great-uncle whom the family hid during his visits lest the folks around St. Francisville get the idea the Marshall ancestors had sand in their sandals and that Mabel Mathews's precious Europa had made an unwise choice in mixing her English blood with the olive-skinned seafarer, Winston Marshall, later Winston Marshall, senior, who claimed to be “black Dutch.”

“Where is Connor?” the round aunt asked. “We're most eager to see him.”

Obviously, the broomstick-thin aunt wasn't too eager for something, though she did show interest in his whereabouts.

“I don't know where the major is,” India replied, all old-lady voice. “Mrs. Lawrence and Corporal Smith are absent, too.”

“And who exactly are you?” Phoebe asked.

“Miss India Marshall of the Sanitary Commission.”

“Were you here for Connor's birthday?” Tessa leaned forward, a waft of lavender water floating to India. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Unable to fathom why that particular date had special meaning above the obvious, India rather doubted they wanted the lowdown, especially the part where he'd asked her to strip. “Mrs. Lawrence served cakes and small sandwiches.”

Tessa asked quickly, “Did he meet a young lady?”

“No. An old one.” India pointed to her chest. “Me.”

Tessa gasped. An ear hoop wiggled. And Phoebe looked like the cat that ate the canary.

“Are you sure he met no other lady?” Tessa asked, fearful.

“Worry not, Tessa. He has met his bride.” Eugene's tenor grew bolder with each syllable. “Miss Marshall isn't aware of his every move on March fourteenth. She is uninformed.”

No! He didn't leave the island on the eve of the ides of March. Wait—“It slipped my mind. He did meet someone else. Antoinette Lawrence. The camp commander's niece.”

Relief showed in a deuce of faces, while Phoebe turned from cat to sleep-killing dog with hair in its teeth.

“Tell us about Miss Lawrence,” Tessa prompted. “Is she pretty, talented? What about the wifely arts? Can she crochet and embroider? Does she prefer butter or lard in her cooking?”

What was this threesome about? Taking in the Arab's jewelry and confident air—plus Phoebe's no-nonsense attire—and settling on Tessa's mischievous moon face, India decided the aunt had matchmaking up her sleeve. Wasn't this a fine how-do-you-do?

“I have no idea about Miss Lawrence's homemaking skills, but she is a songstress, and a good one, I've been told. I can attest to her diligence in tending the infirm.”

As much as India liked the greedy blonde, why sit on her hands and let them give her hero to someone else? Former hero, she corrected. Anyhow, perfect did not describe Miss Lawrence. “She has an abundant interest in elderberry wine, too.”

“I enjoy a tipple myself.”

Tessa grinned at the crest of her admission, which a chagrined India didn't think was because Amelia had showed up to jump into Eugene's lap and make herself comfortable by kneading his abdominal overhang.

“Miss Lawrence fits the bill to a T!” Tessa now gushed, enthusiastic as a debutante at a cotillion. “She'll be just right. Have they started a courtship?”

Phoebe's mouth flattened.

India felt hers flattening as well. “Actually, I don't think she'd be too pleased being stuck rearing a family in some frontier outpost with Indians at the gate.”

“Dear me,” said Tessa.

“But she does have courtship in mind.” With Burke. And his money. Sight unseen. “Where is your other nephew?”

Phoebe rocked once. “Which one?”

So, Connor had more than one brother. How many more? Especially interested in the shipping magnate who might snap up the pinkie-twirling Antoinette, India decided not to get into a brotherly rundown. “I refer to Mr. Burke O'Brien.”

“Burke will meet us as soon as the Delta Star can steam past the ice floes.”

“That won't take long, I imagine.” Which should please Antoinette. “You don't know Miss Lawrence, do you?” Receiving negative replies, India invited fact. “May I be so bold as to inquire why you think you'll match her to the major?”

The aunts and the Arab glanced at one another. Tessa spoke. “You won't say anything to our nephew, will you?”

“Have no fear. I leave on the afternoon train.” India shoved the glasses up her nose. “I won't say a word to anyone.”

Appeased, Tessa admitted, “Connor met his future bride on his birthday.”

“Tessa!”

“Hush, Phoebe.”

“Tessa! Say one more word and orderlies from the lunatic asylum will cart you away.”

“Heavenly days, you worry too much. I feel we can trust Miss Marshall with our little secret.”

Four pairs of eyes, including feline ones, glanced at the supposed sanitarian to see if this trust had been misplaced. Tessa added, “She reminds me of dear departed Mother.”

Gritting her teeth at the comparison to Connor's dead granny, India assured them: “I never gossip.”

“Wonderful.” The plump aunt danced the tips of her fingers together. “Everything is turning out just as I knew it would.” She cooed to the man, “Your magic is powerful, Genie.”

He nodded, a glint of light reflecting from the golden earring. “Your wish is my command.”

Jumping Jehoshaphat! He was no Uncle Omar. Despite modern attire, he was like a page from the tale of Aladdin. India felt as if she'd been transported into fable, and had to pinch herself to make certain this wasn't some wild daydream.

Be that as it may, Badroulboudour, she wasn't. “Are you folks familiar with
Arabian Nights Entertainment?”

“Oh, my, yes.” Tessa's eyes twinkled like aquamarines. “I'm especially fond of Aladdin.”

I'll just bet you are.
India, too, may have been overseen about that story, but at least she hadn't toppled to thinking it real. “Connor O'Brien isn't in the market for a wife. He claims to be married to the Union Army.”

“Horse feathers,” Phoebe put in. “The lad's place is at Fitz & Son, Factors. By the grace of God, he'll see the light and take the helm before Father passes on.”

Fitz & Son? Father? These ladies had a living father? That made him Connor's grandfather. Where were Connor's parents? “I've never heard the major mention Fitz & Son.”

“Then you aren't too familiar with him.” Tessa looked satisfied. “Whether he ends up at the family business, he'll end up with a wonderful wife, just like dear departed Mother.”

Tessa gushed, “Isn't magic wonderful, my dear Genie?”

If Uncle Omar's double had supernatural powers, why didn't he use it for the common good? Like bringing peace to this land. Of course, the peace Yankees from Dixie would bring wouldn't bode well for the Marshalls of Louisiana, not that they hadn't had enough bad luck. Eugene should stick to his little game of romantic hocus-pocus.

“Yours is an uphill battle, Mr. Jinnings. The major isn't easily steered.”

“Aye.” Eugene smiled. A golden incisor matched the shine of his ear bob. “Be assured, 'tis my lady's wish that he met a bride on that special day, and the magic is done.”

No wonder Connor hadn't wanted to discuss his family. His aunt Tessa and her “genie” were both candidates for that lunatic asylum Phoebe had mentioned. It made a body wonder about the rest of the O'Briens. “What exactly do you mean by magic?”

“Tessa, I'm warning you. Don't be telling our business. We don't know this lady.”

“Hush, Phoebe.” Tessa glanced at Eugene, then at India. “While in France a few years back, I bought a magic lamp. My first wish was for Connor to live happily-ever-after with the lady he met on his thirtieth birthday. Sweet Genie materialized to grant my wish.”

Phoebe sank into the rocker. Like a craftsman pleased with his skill, Eugene nodded. Amelia purred. Tessa? Well, Tessa epitomized a woman pleased with craftsmanship.

Baiting Connor's batty aunt, India said, “I take it you asked for a pretty belle who can cook, spin, and pat her lovely coiffure while she smiles at your nephew and rocks the cradle.”

“But how could she be perfect if she isn't beautiful and talented and amenable? Connor deserves the best.”

That left India out. Except for a deft hand at the wifely arts and a likeness to moldering old Granny. Spiteful, she smirked at the dizzy twosome of “genie” and hopeful wisher, confiding, “Actually, Antoinette Lawrence does have her baby-blue eyes on your nephew. Your other nephew. Burke.”

“Is this a problem, Genie?” Tessa asked fretfully.

“Nay.” The Arab shook his head. “Burke has four years before meeting his bride.”

Poor Antoinette. There would be no getting out of Illinois, not with Burke O'Brien. Yet India's pity melted into a grin of idiocy. Just today she'd hoped for a genie. And now a self-proclaimed one had appeared. Already, a magic lamp had been rubbed and a wish made. If these people were genuine, what a delightful jig into fantasy this could turn out to be.

Could be she was as mad as Tessa O'Brien and Eugene Jinnings—and it could hark back to the Arabic blood brought to these shores by Grandma Marshall's father. It weakened India, infected her with the disease of this bizarre romp.

What was magic, anyway? It might be getting a pair of aunts and an earring-wearing “genie” on India's side. Tessa and Eugene might just turn into allies in India's hunt for magic.

Matt had told her to go with her heart, so why not? Natchez had waited this long, why not another day or two? She yearned for more time to ease her aching heart. Hours, even. Somehow she'd convince Connor of her appeal.

Hold on. What are you willing to give up? Can you accept him, as is?
Yes. Her parents hadn't kowtowed for love, but they had learned to give and take. So could their daughter.

There was a stumbling block, beyond a major who was immune to India's own brand of magic. Her disguise. These folks would never team their nephew with a hag who looked as old as Connor's dead grandmother. India couldn't shuck her costume, not without letting hell loose on Rock Island.

“What if Connor has to settle for a less-than-perfect bride?” she asked, hoping for a miracle.

“He will have the best.” Eugene stood; his golden smile radiated throughout the room. “Tessa will have her wish.”

“You're certain he made no first acquaintance with any other ladies on his birthday?” Tessa bit her lip.

“There's only me. Get used to it.” Bold as Persia, India stretched out on the sofa, parked an elbow on the pillow, and propped her head on the cup of a hand. “If you want to work magic, you'll have to work with me.”

The threesome scrutinized India's get-up, and if ever there were collective shock, she now beheld it.

 

 

Whistle blowing, the westbound rumbled out of Chicago's rail yard with Roscoe Lawrence aboard. Filled with fiery corn liquor and hell-bent fury, he sucked on a cigar and sipped liberally from a jug. “I'll get him, I will.” Picturing the arrogant La Dee Dah O'Brien, he knocked back another shot. “No one double-crosses Rosc Lawrence and gets away with it.”

How, he hadn't figured out yet. But he did carry two rounds of ammunition.

“Say what?”

“I wasn't talking to the likes of you,” he snarled at the youthful lieutenant seated next to him.

Lawrence eyeballed his seat mate, who had the Western look to him, like one of those Texas types. Rangy, rugged, russet-haired. The type women creamed their pantaloons over. Bunch of assholes, Texans. Thought they knew every goddamn thing about every goddamn thing.
Just 'cause they whupped a bunch of sorry-assed Meskins in '36.
Didn't take much to whip chile-eaters. Most Texans fought for the other side in this war. Some wore blue. Lawrence was glad he didn't have to put up with too many Texans.

He blew smoke in this man's face. “I ain't got nothing to say to no green-as-grass second lieuie.”

“It's not dignified, a colonel talking to himself.”

Being hogtied to Opal had given years of experience in talking to himself, which he wouldn't discuss. “Educated-talking, are you? Well, la-dee-dah. Don't take much book- - learning to step in cow shit, do it, boyo?”

The lieutenant showed bland indifference.

Lawrence, the son of do-nothing squatters, took exception to reminders of his commonness, liked to bring people down. He'd spent a lifetime trying to overcome his upbringing, had even married a rich man's deaf daughter to better himself. Not that he got any prize in Opal, or much cash or any influence out of her pa. The old man left his money to a different daughter.