Chapter 33 A Sinner in Church
A SINNER IN CHURCH
Carsondale. We were finally on our way. The journey required the hiring of another wagon, which meant I—occasional Negro, and now, apparently, plantation heiress—was forced to negotiate with the driver about the cost of transportation.
He was trying to take advantage of me, and I was done being surprised at the naked opportunism of this place.
“Food’s gotten dearer,” the driver announced. “Can’t be takin’ passengers without accountin’ for their meals. Three extra bellies to feed.”
I sighed like a woman who had been forced to deal with the most indelicate of things, which, at present, was him.
“Sir, surely you know that Negroes don’t eat in the main chambers at the rest stops.
It simply isn’t done. They take their own meals elsewhere, usually in far humbler circumstances than whatever you’re envisioning.
” I adjusted my gloves, making a show of their expensive cut, and, because I was nothing if not thorough, even wrinkled my nose just slightly, like the very idea of sharing a meal with my own traveling companions was laughable.
It worked. The man deflated instantly, his argument collapsing under the weight of his own prejudices. “Well,” he grumbled, rubbing his jaw as if he had been the one tricked. “S’pose that’s true.”
Major, standing just behind me, shifted slightly.
“Good,” I said, brisk now. “Then there’s no need to increase the fare, is there?”
He grunted. “S’pose not.”
I did not smile. Smiling was for women who were not entitled to this treatment. Instead, I stepped lightly into the wagon, not bothering to look back as Major and Lessie Mae climbed in behind me.
We set off, the wagon rocking over the uneven road, and I allowed myself a moment to bask in the ridiculousness of it all.
Because I knew one thing for sure and two things for certain: I could never have gotten away with that in Louisiana.
The moment I opened my mouth, the moment my lips formed an r too round or an s too sharp, they would have taken me apart like a sinner in church.
It wouldn’t have mattered that my dress was fine, that my manners were perfect.
The rules were different there, and the ways of knowing were nuanced and perfectly calibrated.
But here? Everyone was too busy trying not to starve to bother enforcing nuanced race rules with any real conviction. Here, I was a woman in a delicate dress, traveling west with my servants. If I said so, it was so.
The absurdity of it was intoxicating.
Tucked primly into my seat, I did my best to focus on the road ahead, the long, sunlit stretch of dirt unraveling toward the horizon. A new town. A new name. A new life, supposedly.
But no matter where I looked, there he was.
Major was inside the wagon, for now hidden from the dust that rose around outside us in lazy spirals. Even in silence, he occupied space with a kind of heaviness.
Major leaned against the wooden side of the wagon, his arms crossed, his long legs stretched out before him. His hat was pushed low, shielding his face from passengers’ stares.
I kept stealing glances, meaning only to confirm his calmness, to reassure myself that we had really pulled something off. But at that exact moment, his eyes popped open, dark, smoldering beneath heavy lashes, catching me in the act.
My breath got stuck somewhere in my chest, and my eyes made a circle around the wagon. But his gaze didn’t waver; suddenly, the entire thing felt smaller.
Heat crawled up my neck. Caroline Bliguet did not fluster. It was ninety degrees. Of course, I was warm. I pressed a damp kerchief to my neck and smoothed the pleats of my skirts, tilting my chin just so, willing myself to be unbothered.
And yet, for the rest of the ride, I did not look at him again.
The road stretched ahead of me, and the wagon rattled on, and I had to contend with a new reality. Maybe Toussaint D’Arcy hadn’t been a fool. His trembling hands, his vows spoken like prayer, made perfect, aching sense now.
Maybe he’d just been brave enough to fall.