Page 44 of Frankly, My Dear

The lush tropical flowers and bushes of the swamps—vivid reds and pinks and oranges—encroached steadily, crowding out anything as civilized as mere grass. And everywhere the odor of pungent flowers, stagnant water, and decaying vegetation hung in a thick miasma.

At the top of the sloped yard stood a once-stately, raised plantation house. Massive wood columns at least fifty feet high stretched from the ground to the top of roofed galleries or porches that encircled all sides of the mansion’s second and third stories. A wide staircase rose majestically to the center of the second floor, which was obviously the main living quarters.

The floor of the broad second-floor gallery formed a roof for the open veranda that encircled the house on the ground floor, where servants could be seen entering and exiting its wide expanse. Selene knew there would be no basement since a spade stuck in the soil almost anywhere in the Louisiana lowlands brought forth water. It was the reason also why cemeteries had to be built above ground.

Looking higher, Selene saw that most of the tall windows were open in deference to the heat, even on the dormered fourth floor. Much of the mansion’s whitewash had long since faded away, leaving bare, cold wood in those places where ivy and wild wisteria had not snaked out their vines. In some places, shutters hung from single hinges, a sad commentary on the beautiful structure’s neglect.

“To think that I was expecting Tara,” Selene muttered as she stepped off the flatboat onto a rickety dock.

“Tara?” James asked, coming up beside her. He took her elbow and led her forward. “Don’t tell me you’re still blathering about that Gone With the Wind nonsense.”

She raised her chin haughtily. “No wonder you were cruising the Quadroon Ball looking for a governess. No sane person would come willingly to this godforsaken place…this…this Last Chance Plantation.”

His head jerked back. For one brief second, unspoken hurt glittered in his beautiful eyes at her insult. Then they became remote again. “You’re right. God has forsaken Bayou Noir. And He certainly forsook me long ago.”

Selene inhaled sharply at the hopelessness in James’s cold words. She immediately regretted her hasty condemnation.

“And as for Last Chance Plantation, well, you’re closer to the mark than you may think,” James continued before she had a chance to apologize. “This is the last chance for me. If I don’t make this land thrive, not only will my future be bleak, but there will be no future at all for the hundred slaves who depend on me.”

His eyes narrowed and hardened. “What were you expecting, Selene? No, don’t tell me. Your damned fairy-tale Tara and a prince named Rat.” With a grunt of disgust, he stepped off the dock to the shore.

“Oh, James!” she said, giggling, probably from hysteria. “You’re getting my stories all mixed up.”

“Which isn’t difficult. You tell so many.”

She made a face at the back of his head. Then, failing to watch her step as she followed him, she sank ankle deep in mud.

James turned at her squeal, and a smile crept through his mask of aloofness. Under the impact of his disarming smile, Selene momentarily forgot where she was standing, and her already shaky defenses began to melt. Just keep that dimple hidden, James, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.

“You’re beginning to look good in mud, Selene,” he said with a low chuckling sound, jarring her back to reality. “In fact, you could start a trend when you go back to your own…country.” A brief look of dismay flashed across his face, and Selene knew he was still having trouble accepting that she came from the future. “You and that Dr. Ruth person could write a book on how to have multiple orgasms and turn a man hard while standing in a load of mud looking like a warthog.”

James hadn’t returned her magazine and was apparently having a grand old time reading more of the articles. His mockery was like a dash of cold water, locking her defenses firmly back in place, where they should be, of course.

“You are a rat.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“No. I said Rhett, not Rat.”

“I know.”

“And I told you to stop reading my magazine.”

“I know.” He bowed mockingly and, instead of helping her, walked away. He was still smiling when he addressed a crowd of slaves nearby, giving them orders for unloading the boats.

Clucking with disapproval, Reba came up and put a hand under Selene’s elbow, helping her pull her feet out of the mud. One shoe stayed behind.

“I’m going to kill the bum,” Selene said as she reached down and gingerly lifted the leather slipper from the disgusting sludge.

“Shhh,” Reba warned at her side. “It’s your own fault for belittling Mister James about his home.”

“Huh?” Selene cast a quick look of surprise at Reba, who had lost some of her shyness in the close proximity they had shared the past few days.

Reba blushed at her temerity. “It’s just that he has struggled so hard to make Bayou Noir prosper. So many planters have failed, you see, especially after the bank crash eight years ago. It is very important to Mister James that he succeed.”

“I don’t see much prosperity here, Reba,” Selene said, although she had to admit that the acres and acres of sugarcane, being worked by slaves with hand hoes, looked very well tended. And the slave quarters—those rows of cabins to the left and behind the main house—were neat and better cared for than the mansion itself.

Reba shook her head woefully. “He has let the house go since his wife—that evil demoness, Giselle—died last year, but…” She let her words trail off, and her pale face flushed as she realized the impropriety of discussing the private life of her husband’s employer. “Just be careful, Selene. I think Mister James has come to care for you, and I would not want to see him unmanned by one of your cutting remarks.”