White Doves at Morning: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke
Authors: James Lee Burke
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interest in her is more than a professional one."
"Northern ladies can have quite a mouth on them, I understand."
"Please leave my property, Mr. Atkins," she said.
He bowed again and fitted on his hat, his face suffused with humor he seemed to derive from a private joke.
She returned to her writing table and tried to finish her letter to Robert Perry. The sky was a darker green now, the oaks dripping loudly in the yard, the shadows filled with the throbbing of tree frogs.
Oh, Robert, who am I to lecture you on doing injury in the world, she thought.
She ripped the letter in half and leaned her head down in her hands, her palms pressed tightly against her ears.
HER journey by carriage to Angola Plantation took two days. It rained almost the entire time, pattering against the canvas flaps that hung from the top of the surrey, glistening on the hands of the black driver who sat hunched on the seat in front of her, a slouch hat on his head, a gum coat pulled over his neck.
When she and the driver reached the entrance of the plantation late in the afternoon, the western sky was marbled with purple and yellow clouds, the pastures on each side of the road an emerald green. Roses bloomed as brightly as blood along the fences that bordered the road.
In the distance she saw an enormous white mansion high up on a bluff above the Mississippi River, its geometrical exactness softened by the mist off the river and columns of sunlight that had broken through the clouds.
The driver took them down a pea-gravel road and stopped the carriage in front of the porch. She had thought a liveried slave would be sent out to meet her, but instead the front door opened and Ira Jamison walked outside. He looked younger than she had expected, his face almost unnaturally devoid of lines, the mouth soft, his brown hair thick and full of lights.
He wore a short maroon jacket and white shirt with pearl buttons and gray pants, the belt on the outside of the loops. "Miss Dowling?" he said.
"I apologize for contacting you by telegraph rather than by post. But I consider the situation to be of some urgency," she said.
"It's very nice to have you here. Please come in," he said.
"My driver hasn't eaten. Would you be so kind as to give him some food?"
Jamison waved at a black man emerging from a barn. "Take Miss Dowling's servant to the cookhouse and see he gets his supper," he called.
"I have no servants. My driver is a free man of color whom I've hired from the livery stable," she said.
Jamison nodded amiably, his expression seemingly impervious to her remark. "You've had a long journey," he said, stepping aside and extending his hand toward the open door.
The floors of the house were made of heart pine that had been sanded and buffed until the planks glowed like honey. The windows extended all the way to the ceiling and looked out on low green hills and hardwood forests and the wide, churning breadth of the Mississippi. The drapes on the windows were red velvet, the walls and ceiling a creamy white, the molding put together from ornately carved, dark-stained mahogany.
But for some reason it was a detail in the brick fireplace that caught her eye, a fissure in the elevated hearth as well as the chimney that rose from it.
"A little settling in the foundation," Ira Jamison said. "What can I help you with, Miss Dowling?"
"Isyour wife here, sir?"
"I'm a widower. Why do you ask?"
She was sitting on a divan now, her hands folded in her lap, her back not touching the fabric. He continued to stand. She paused for a long moment before she spoke, then let her eyes rest on his until he blinked.
"I'm disturbed by the conduct of your employee Captain Atkins. I believe he's molesting one of your slaves, a young woman who has done nothing to warrant being treated in such a frankly disgusting fashion," she said.
Ira Jamison was framed in the light through the window, his expression obscured by his own silhouette. She heard him clear an obstruction
"Northern ladies can have quite a mouth on them, I understand."
"Please leave my property, Mr. Atkins," she said.
He bowed again and fitted on his hat, his face suffused with humor he seemed to derive from a private joke.
She returned to her writing table and tried to finish her letter to Robert Perry. The sky was a darker green now, the oaks dripping loudly in the yard, the shadows filled with the throbbing of tree frogs.
Oh, Robert, who am I to lecture you on doing injury in the world, she thought.
She ripped the letter in half and leaned her head down in her hands, her palms pressed tightly against her ears.
HER journey by carriage to Angola Plantation took two days. It rained almost the entire time, pattering against the canvas flaps that hung from the top of the surrey, glistening on the hands of the black driver who sat hunched on the seat in front of her, a slouch hat on his head, a gum coat pulled over his neck.
When she and the driver reached the entrance of the plantation late in the afternoon, the western sky was marbled with purple and yellow clouds, the pastures on each side of the road an emerald green. Roses bloomed as brightly as blood along the fences that bordered the road.
In the distance she saw an enormous white mansion high up on a bluff above the Mississippi River, its geometrical exactness softened by the mist off the river and columns of sunlight that had broken through the clouds.
The driver took them down a pea-gravel road and stopped the carriage in front of the porch. She had thought a liveried slave would be sent out to meet her, but instead the front door opened and Ira Jamison walked outside. He looked younger than she had expected, his face almost unnaturally devoid of lines, the mouth soft, his brown hair thick and full of lights.
He wore a short maroon jacket and white shirt with pearl buttons and gray pants, the belt on the outside of the loops. "Miss Dowling?" he said.
"I apologize for contacting you by telegraph rather than by post. But I consider the situation to be of some urgency," she said.
"It's very nice to have you here. Please come in," he said.
"My driver hasn't eaten. Would you be so kind as to give him some food?"
Jamison waved at a black man emerging from a barn. "Take Miss Dowling's servant to the cookhouse and see he gets his supper," he called.
"I have no servants. My driver is a free man of color whom I've hired from the livery stable," she said.
Jamison nodded amiably, his expression seemingly impervious to her remark. "You've had a long journey," he said, stepping aside and extending his hand toward the open door.
The floors of the house were made of heart pine that had been sanded and buffed until the planks glowed like honey. The windows extended all the way to the ceiling and looked out on low green hills and hardwood forests and the wide, churning breadth of the Mississippi. The drapes on the windows were red velvet, the walls and ceiling a creamy white, the molding put together from ornately carved, dark-stained mahogany.
But for some reason it was a detail in the brick fireplace that caught her eye, a fissure in the elevated hearth as well as the chimney that rose from it.
"A little settling in the foundation," Ira Jamison said. "What can I help you with, Miss Dowling?"
"Isyour wife here, sir?"
"I'm a widower. Why do you ask?"
She was sitting on a divan now, her hands folded in her lap, her back not touching the fabric. He continued to stand. She paused for a long moment before she spoke, then let her eyes rest on his until he blinked.
"I'm disturbed by the conduct of your employee Captain Atkins. I believe he's molesting one of your slaves, a young woman who has done nothing to warrant being treated in such a frankly disgusting fashion," she said.
Ira Jamison was framed in the light through the window, his expression obscured by his own silhouette. She heard him clear an obstruction
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