matter?”
It was Elijah who answered, his tones thick with disgust. “Back there when we went under that last oak, there was a big ol’ hoot owl going to roost that used us fo’ his privy. Wasn’t a nice thing for him to do!”
Samson roared with laughter. Anya bit her lips, trying not to grin. It was such an anticlimax compared to her fears that she could not prevent the rise of amusement, though she knew it was not funny to the men on the box. There was still the trace of a smile on her lips when, a few yards further on, the carriage turned into the drive of Beau Refuge.
3
BEAU REFUGE WAS BUILT IN THE Creole style, one developed in the warm climate of the West Indies, with its windstorms and driving rains. Two stories high, with an attic lighted by dormers, it had a hipped roof that spread in wide overhanging eaves to cover the galleries on both front and back. The lower floor was constructed of bricks that had been coated with plaster to protect the soft clay from which they were made. Whitewashed cypress was the material of the upper floor. Brick pillars supported the gallery floors, with graceful turned colonnettes, connected by a sturdy railing, reaching from the pillars to the roof. Set back beneath the gnarled and moss-hung branches of live oaks that had been old when the first Frenchman settled in the Mississippi Valley, the house gleamed ghostly pale in the first light of dawn.
Anya directed the carriage first to the main house. Samson got down and rang the bell. When the housekeeper, Denise, who lived in dormer rooms with her son Marcel, came to the door, Anya alighted and went inside. A short time later, she emerged with a ring of keys. Climbing back into the carriage, she directed the driver toward the outbuildings to the rear of the main house.
They rolled past the carriage house and stables, then turned down a snaking roadway that was also lined with live oaks. On either side among the ancient trees were the smokehouse and cooperage and blacksmith shed, the barns and chicken houses, the great plantation bell on its stand before the small church and nearby dispensary, and the slave cabins, where smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys into the cool and misty morning air. At the end of the road was the cotton gin.
A large building of gray weathered cypress, foursquare and solid, it sat on the edge of the open fields. There was an enormous open doorway in each end, taking up half of the gins width. At the right end was the entrance where the wagons piled high with picked cotton were driven inside to be unloaded. On the left was the exit where they were driven out again. The machinery inside, silent and cold and glistening with oil at this time of year, bulked like some metal monster in the dimness, reaching up into the loft. The greater portion of the loft was used for storing the baled cotton until it could be loaded onto wagons and hauled down to the river to meet the steamboat. One end, however, had been walled up to form a small room that was reached by a separate set of railed stairs. It was here that Anya’s Uncle Will had been kept for so many years.
The carriage pulled up before the loading platform inside the open building. Anya got down and mounted the stairs to unlock the door of the room while Samson and Elijah lifted Ravel down from the carriage seat. She stood for a moment looking around her at the old, drab building with the cotton lint clinging to the roughhewn boards and hanging in gray strands from the spider webs and dirt dauber nests in the corners. The air was damp and chill and smelled of crushed cottonseed, rancid oil, sweat, and wet earth. It was not a place she herself would like to stay for long; it was as well Ravel Duralde’s enforced sojourn would not last above a day or so.
As the two black men maneuvered Ravel’s long form through the small carriage door, they bumped his head against the frame. The unconscious man groaned, a low, husky sound.
“Careful,”
It was Elijah who answered, his tones thick with disgust. “Back there when we went under that last oak, there was a big ol’ hoot owl going to roost that used us fo’ his privy. Wasn’t a nice thing for him to do!”
Samson roared with laughter. Anya bit her lips, trying not to grin. It was such an anticlimax compared to her fears that she could not prevent the rise of amusement, though she knew it was not funny to the men on the box. There was still the trace of a smile on her lips when, a few yards further on, the carriage turned into the drive of Beau Refuge.
3
BEAU REFUGE WAS BUILT IN THE Creole style, one developed in the warm climate of the West Indies, with its windstorms and driving rains. Two stories high, with an attic lighted by dormers, it had a hipped roof that spread in wide overhanging eaves to cover the galleries on both front and back. The lower floor was constructed of bricks that had been coated with plaster to protect the soft clay from which they were made. Whitewashed cypress was the material of the upper floor. Brick pillars supported the gallery floors, with graceful turned colonnettes, connected by a sturdy railing, reaching from the pillars to the roof. Set back beneath the gnarled and moss-hung branches of live oaks that had been old when the first Frenchman settled in the Mississippi Valley, the house gleamed ghostly pale in the first light of dawn.
Anya directed the carriage first to the main house. Samson got down and rang the bell. When the housekeeper, Denise, who lived in dormer rooms with her son Marcel, came to the door, Anya alighted and went inside. A short time later, she emerged with a ring of keys. Climbing back into the carriage, she directed the driver toward the outbuildings to the rear of the main house.
They rolled past the carriage house and stables, then turned down a snaking roadway that was also lined with live oaks. On either side among the ancient trees were the smokehouse and cooperage and blacksmith shed, the barns and chicken houses, the great plantation bell on its stand before the small church and nearby dispensary, and the slave cabins, where smoke was beginning to rise from the chimneys into the cool and misty morning air. At the end of the road was the cotton gin.
A large building of gray weathered cypress, foursquare and solid, it sat on the edge of the open fields. There was an enormous open doorway in each end, taking up half of the gins width. At the right end was the entrance where the wagons piled high with picked cotton were driven inside to be unloaded. On the left was the exit where they were driven out again. The machinery inside, silent and cold and glistening with oil at this time of year, bulked like some metal monster in the dimness, reaching up into the loft. The greater portion of the loft was used for storing the baled cotton until it could be loaded onto wagons and hauled down to the river to meet the steamboat. One end, however, had been walled up to form a small room that was reached by a separate set of railed stairs. It was here that Anya’s Uncle Will had been kept for so many years.
The carriage pulled up before the loading platform inside the open building. Anya got down and mounted the stairs to unlock the door of the room while Samson and Elijah lifted Ravel down from the carriage seat. She stood for a moment looking around her at the old, drab building with the cotton lint clinging to the roughhewn boards and hanging in gray strands from the spider webs and dirt dauber nests in the corners. The air was damp and chill and smelled of crushed cottonseed, rancid oil, sweat, and wet earth. It was not a place she herself would like to stay for long; it was as well Ravel Duralde’s enforced sojourn would not last above a day or so.
As the two black men maneuvered Ravel’s long form through the small carriage door, they bumped his head against the frame. The unconscious man groaned, a low, husky sound.
“Careful,”
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