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  A few seconds passed. Then, in a reasonable voice, Bastiann answered, “If I am wrong, I shall trouble you no further. May I examine the deed?” He walked toward her.

  Bastiann’s rage seemed to have subsided, so Tory parted the drapes a little and peeked out.

  She saw as Adeline, eager to prove her claim, held it out to him—at the last instant perceiving her error. Bastiann grabbed the paper from her grasp and turned away. His eyes ran down the sheet and stopped at the seal affixed to his brother’s signature.

  “Give it back to me,” Adeline whispered.

  But, holding the deed in both hands, Bastiann tore it in two, tore it again, ripped the pieces into smaller bits and let them flutter to the floor.

  “I will return in one week with the parish sheriff. If you remain here, he will arrest you for trespassing.” Bastiann glanced around. “And if anything of value is missing when I return, I shall have the sheriff and his dogs hunt you down.”

  He leered at Adeline. “And he has exceptionally good dogs, I assure you.”

  Adeline did not answer him in look or word. She stared at the shreds of paper on the carpet, the remains of her deed to Sugar Tree—her solitary security in the world. She seemed dazed.

  Tory saw something in Bastiann’s manner shift. His mouth widened, then twisted into an ugly smile, and he edged closer to Adeline. When she seemed to take no notice, he snaked an arm around her waist and drew her to his chest. With his other hand, he rubbed her bare arm, then began unfastening the buttons at the front of her bodice.

  Tory jumped from behind the drapes and ran to her mother’s side. “Stop that! Stop it, I say!”

  She scrabbled for the man’s hand, but her efforts did not deter him. He swept Tory aside—then, tired of fumbling with the many buttons, he grabbed the bodice of Adeline’s dress and ripped it away, exposing her chemise.

  With a scream of outrage, Tory flew at Bastiann Declouette, scratching his neck, his hands, his face, pounding him with her fists. Bastiann released Adeline and took Tory by her neck. She screamed louder and fought him, but he shook her until she could not breathe.

  “I would have your mother, little half-breed,” he snarled. Then Bastiann’s eyes swept over Tory. “But perhaps I will have the daughter before.”

  Adeline woke from her stupor; she fell to her knees before Bastiann and pleaded, “No! No, please! You may take me—I will submit to you—only please do not ruin my beautiful daughter! She is but a child. A child.”

  Bastiann grinned. “She looks older than she is; I will have you both. No better way to spit upon my brother’s grave than to have his whore and his half-caste pickaninny, too” he answered.

  “Ye mus’ kill me first,” Sassy shouted, “’fore ye’ll defile my babies over my dead body.”

  Tory’s frantic screams had reached Sassy out in the kitchen; the woman wielded a cleaver in one gnarled hand and a butcher knife in the other.

  Bastiann eyed Sassy with derision—and a measure of disquiet. “Old woman, do you know the penalty for striking a white man?”

  “Oh, I’ll cut ye t’ bits and hang with a glad heart an’ a smile ’pon my lips, I will,” Sassy snarled. She sliced the air with the cleaver and advanced, knife swinging, in Bastiann’s direction. He cringed at her strokes and stepped back.

  At that moment, Tory experienced a strange, vivid insight. Why, this man, he is full of himself, but in his heart, he is a coward. A bully.

  Sassy gestured again with the knife. “Get ye gone, ye devil! Go!”

  Bastiann Declouette cursed, but he released Tory, and she dropped to the floor next to Adeline. With one angry eye fixed on Sassy, Declouette adjusted his suitcoat and shot the cuffs of his dress shirt.

  “No need t’ put on sech haughty airs,” Sassy goaded him. “We know what ye are—and ’tis not th’ gentleman ye pretend at.” Keeping the knife tip extended toward him, she edged farther into the parlor so she was not blocking egress from the room; she pointed to the doorway with the cleaver. “Ye know th’ way out. Go.”

  He growled at her and moved toward the door. When he reached it, he turned to face them. “Do not doubt me: I will return in seven days with the sheriff . . . or perhaps I will employ my own men—men I can trust to keep their mouths shut. Should I find you here, no one will stop me from having my way with my brother’s whore—” he pointed at Adeline and then at Tory “—or his bastard child.”

  Sassy swept aside the drapes and watched until Bastiann Declouette and his horse rounded the bend in the drive. Only then did she lay her weapons upon a shelf and attend to Adeline.

  Tory was urging Adeline to stand. “Come, Maman. Let me help you. Lean on me.”

  It took both Sassy and Tory to bring Adeline to her feet. Her head lolled, and her eyes did not focus as Tory and Sassy led her to the drawing room.

  “What brought that devil man here again?” Sassy asked Tory as they undressed Adeline and put her to bed. “What did he want?”

  Tory pressed her lips together before speaking. “To tell my mère that Monsieur Henri Declouette has died.”

  “Mon Dieu! Ah, but this is most unwelcome news.”

  “Bastiann Declouette said we must leave Sugar Tree, but Maman showed him our deed. He grabbed the deed from her hand and tore it to tiny pieces. Then he . . .” Tory choked on the words.

  “Non, non, ma petite chère. No more. No more.” Sassy took Tory in her arms and held her a moment. “Let us leave your mère t’ recover, eh?”

  Tory pulled in her chin. “I shall stay with her.”

  “Non. She will sleep and recover from th’ shock. I will find something t’ cook ye. Something sweet, perhaps, yes? Come.”

  With a last worried glance at her mother, Tory allowed Sassy to pull her away.

  WHEN TORY WENT TO BED that evening, Adeline was still sleeping. Hours later, in the deep night, Tory woke to the rustle of bedclothes and the uneasy squeak of bedsprings. She rose, lit the lamp, and found Adeline tossing in distress.

  “Maman? Maman? Are you having a bad dream? Maman?” When Adeline did not respond, Tory placed her hand on her mother’s cheek.

  Adeline’s skin was scorching hot to the touch.

  “Quoi? Maman!”

  “Victoria . . . so hot.”

  Over the next hour, Adeline alternated between throwing off the bedclothes and shivering uncontrollably. When she shivered, Tory piled blankets and quilts on her; when Adeline flung them off, Tory soaked a clean cloth in water and sponged Adeline’s face. Even through the damp cloth, she could feel heat radiating from her mère’s skin.

  Her mother’s groans became panted words and garbled, incomplete thoughts. “Henri . . . Come back . . . no . . . my love . . .”

  Adeline continued to moan and thrash, so Tory filled a glass with water and tried to awaken her to drink. She tried cajoling, even speaking sternly to her mère, but nothing would induce Adeline to drink. Tory became truly alarmed when even shaking Adeline’s arm did not rouse her.

  Tory slipped on her shoes and, clad only in her nightgown, raced down the hall to the back door. She slipped the lock and ran across the yard to Sassy’s lean-to.

  She had to knock continuously before she heard Sassy’s irritated, “Oui? Who is it?”

  “It is Victoria. Please come, Sassy! Maman is sick; I do not know what to do.”

  Tory heard Sassy’s sigh and heavy breathing as she climbed from her bed and shuffled to the door. A moment later, it opened.

  “What is wrong with her, child?”

  “Fever. She is awfully hot and-and-and I cannot wake her, Sassy.”

  “Ce n'est pas bon. I will come. Go back to her and wait for me. I must gather some things.”

  Tory returned to the drawing room and found her mother mumbling incoherently. By the time Sassy entered the drawing room, Tory was beside herself.

  “Shush,” Sassy commanded. She bent over Adeline’s fretful form and placed her hand on Adeline’s forehead, her cheek, the side of her throat.
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  “Mon Dieu! She is on fire.”

  Tory quaked with worry. “What are we to do, Sassy?”

  “Go to the pump,” Sassy commanded. “Pump water into the trough until it runs cold. Fill a clean bucket and bring it to me.”

  All that long night until morning, Sassy and Tory bathed Adeline’s feverish body. They soaked rags and cloths in cool water and placed them on Adeline—on her face, under her arms, along her legs, and upon her chest and belly. When Adeline’s fever warmed the rags, Sassy and Tory rinsed them in the bucket and reapplied them. After many applications, their heated rags warmed the water in the bucket, and Sassy sent Tory to pump more.

  Sassy also ordered Tory to build a fire in the kitchen stove and heat water. The old woman drew crushed leaves from a bag, brewed a strong tea, and tried to induce Adeline to drink it. She stopped trying when she managed to get a sip into Adeline’s mouth, but Adeline was unable to swallow. Instead, she choked and gagged until Sassy lifted her up and let the tea dribble onto the bed clothes.

  Morning was dawning when Tory, for the fifth time, pumped a fresh bucket of water. She was grateful for the rising sun: The shadowed drawing room held terrors her young heart could not face.

  Through two more days and nights, Sassy and Tory covered Adeline with cool cloths, but Adeline did not respond to their attempts to break her fever. Their efforts to wake Adeline and coax her into taking any kind of drink were fruitless. In her delirium, Adeline babbled nonsense and struggled against Sassy and Tory’s ministrations.

  Tory was weary, so weary, but she knew Sassy was more so. The old woman was near to falling down. Finally, without a word, Sassy collapsed on a chair. Her head nodded on her breast, and she dropped off to sleep.

  Tory hovered near her mother’s bed, dread her nearest companion. Tory’s every sensibility was tuned to the small sounds in the room. She identified Sassy’s soft snores and monitored for any change in her mother’s condition.

  You must get well, Maman, she pleaded. You must!

  Something deep in her heart suggested that she call out to the heavens. But Sassy Brown said prayers are worthless in a house of sin.

  The idea persisted; however, Tory did not even know to whom she might pray. In all of her education, she had received no religious training.

  An hour later, Adeline drifted into what Tory hoped was a deep and healing sleep. She stopped thrashing and became quiet. Somewhat reassured, Tory laid herself down next to Adeline’s bed.

  I will rest a few moments, she told herself. Exhausted beyond her strength, she slept.

  She did not know how long she slept; when she woke, shadows were long, the day was approaching evening. Sassy had not wakened . . . but something had changed.

  Tory listened. Sassy’s even whiffling breaths were as they had been.

  Maman?

  Tory struggled to her feet and approached her mother’s side. Tory gasped. Adeline’s eyes were open, but her face had fallen in on itself. Her beautiful, glossy skin seemed to have shrunk and fused to the bones underlying it.

  “Maman? Maman!”

  Adeline’s chest rose and fell in quick, fluttering movements.

  And then it moved not at all.

  Chapter 4

  Sassy, shedding her own tears, washed Adeline’s body and dressed it in Adeline’s pretty green summer dress. Tory had wanted to assist, but Sassy had refused her offer, had sent her from the house.

  “Non, child. You remember your Maman as she was, eh?”

  Tory wandered without aim through the orchard, alternately crying and fighting off bouts of terror that left her gasping for air. Oh, Maman! I didn’t want you to go! Why did you leave me? What will I do without you? What will become of me?

  A while later, Sassy called her to the house. “We must have help now, child, to bury your sweet mère.”

  Sassy could neither read nor write—and could form but few letters—but her granddaughter could read a little, so Sassy dictated a note for Tory to compose. In shaking hand, Tory scrawled, “We have suffered a death. We beg ye deliver this note to Venus Marjon. Venus, come help us bury Miss Adeline.”

  On the front of the folded note, Tory scribbled a few simple directions to Venus’ house as Sassy told them to her. With no frame of reference, the directions meant nothing to Tory. When she finished the note, Sassy told her, “Walk to the end of the drive and stand there. Give the paper to the first body t’ drive or walk by going the direction the sun sets. Tell them who ’tis for. Venus’ shack be not far from the road. Most who pass Sugar Tree will know it. White or colored, they will not refuse ye in your time of need.”

  Late that afternoon, Venus brought her husband and his brother to dig the grave. Tory watched as the men sweated and shoveled out a long, narrow hollow under the branches of a tree in the little orchard where the grass grew high and the soil was soft. When they had finished, Tory led them into the house.

  As they entered the drawing room, Tory saw that Adeline’s mattress and bed clothes were gone, her bed nothing but a bare frame. Sassy and Venus had wound Adeline’s body in a clean sheet, all but the tops of her shoulders and her head, and laid her upon Tory’s bed. Another sheet lay beneath her.

  Adeline’s face had softened and, even in death, Tory thought her mother still the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Tory stroked her mother’s cool, stiff cheeks and placed a kiss on her brow, hoping—begging!—that somehow Adeline would awaken.

  Venus’ husband moved to finish twining the sheet about Adeline—but when he wound the fabric across Adeline’s face, hiding it from Tory forever, her heart shattered.

  “No! Stop! Stop! Maman! Maman! Do not hide my Maman from me!”

  Sassy and Venus enfolded Tory in gentle arms and led her outside. Moments later, the men, holding the corners of the sheet beneath Adeline’s body, emerged from the house. Sassy, Tory, and Venus followed them to the grave.

  The ceremony was brief and wrenching. Later, all Tory could recall was the moment they lowered her mère into the deep hole and Venus’ brother-in-law asked God’s mercy on Adeline’s soul.

  When they began to shovel the dirt in upon Adeline, Tory screamed and tried to bolt. She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could to escape the horror, but Sassy held firm to her. The old woman whispered again and again, “Courage, Miss Tory, courage. Act as your mère would expect of ye.”

  Tory descended into a stupor and remained so until the men finished mounding the dirt over Adeline, until they and Venus departed. Until Sassy led Tory away.

  Sassy did not return Tory to the house; instead, they walked in the direction of Sassy’s lean-to. Their pace slowed, and Sassy’s steps began to falter, until she leaned upon Tory’s arm and the girl supported her. Tory realized that Sassy was worn down with grief and exhaustion, likely more than Tory was.

  When they entered the lean-to, Tory helped Sassy to her bed. As Tory unbent and looked around at the bare room, Sassy reached out and took her hand.

  “Sit, Miss Tory.” Her voice was breathless. Fragile.

  Tory obeyed her.

  “Ye know how I loved your mère. Served with her grandmother in the old days, helped your mère be borned, I did,” Sassy whispered. Her old voice rasped and quivered in her throat.

  “Adeline’s mother, your grandmother, said she’d never seen such a beautiful babe, and she were right. Said she were destined for great things—and mayhap she were, but . . . I dinna think being a white man’s kept woman were the greatness she meant.”

  A white man’s kept woman. The words, dirty and obscene, screamed at Tory.

  “Monsieur Declouette mayhap loved your mère and treated her with dignity for more’n twelve year gone by but, in the end, he failed her. Broke his promises, he did. They all do, when they’s backs agin the wall.”

  She sucked air for a few moments. “But . . . for all his failings, Monsieur Declouette were a gentleman in this: Never would he lay a hand t’ a woman or violate her. Ah, but his brother,” Sassy spat
the words with uncharacteristic venom, “his brother seen your mère as a piece of property t’ be used as he wished, and . . . and I seen how he looked at ye also, girl.”

  “At me?” Tory denied what Sassy asserted—although, in some terrifying, unknown manner, she knew what Sassy meant.

  “Oui, child. At ye, bein’ not yet twelve year old. Ye are tall for your age and anyone can be seeing’ the woman ye will blossom into, give a year or so.”

  Sassy struggled and gulped a ragged breath. “Bastiann Declouette promised to return in a week, but I do not trust him to wait that long. So listen t’ old Sassy now and do as I say: Get ye away from here quick as ye can, Miss Tory, afore that man comes back an’ puts his hands on ye.”

  That man. Tory shuddered.

  “But . . . but where shall I go, Sassy? I-I have never been off Sugar Tree land. What will I do? How will I live?”

  Sassy struggled to breathe. “I . . . cannot say, child, but go, go quick. At first light. Walk ye down the drive ’til it reach the track. Turn east, facing the sunrise. The track will take ye through the village an’ on t’ the Metairie Road. Follow it t’ town. Mayhap there ye will find work t’ keep body and soul together. ’Tis a long walk—nine or ten miles—but ye can do it. Heed me, Tory—and beware Bastiann Declouette. I, too, will leave tomorrow.”

  “W-what will you do, Sassy? Where will you go?”

  “Venus will come for me early in the morning.”

  “Could I . . . could I not come with you?”

  Sassy did not speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was low with regret. “I must say non, ma chère. To place such a young woman in front of Venus’ man . . . non. He is not one to be trusted, that one, and he knows I have the measure of him. That is why he likes me little enow.”