Page 82 of The Beautiful Ones

“Come on, Miss Elin. Day’s not waiting for us.”

For the first time since crossing the Atlantic, no one owned the hours ahead of me.

I took hold of my mother’s Bible, and together we began the long walk toward the road.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ELIN

The old chapel stood a mile beyond the Lebon boundary, where the river road bent around a field of tobacco and disappeared beneath the trees.

Its bell had been taken down years before, and one side of the roof sagged over pews silvered by dust. By the time we reached it, nearly forty people had gathered beneath the oak beside the graveyard: cooks, stable hands, laundresses, field workers, children and three old men who had served the Lebons long enough to remember Monsieur Étienne as a boy.

No one knew what freedom required first.

Some spoke of Richmond. Others had kin in Petersburg or across the Carolina line. A few stood facing the road with nothing in their hands, as if waiting for Le Champ des Fleurs to ring them back. Years of obedience do not vanish merely because the bells burn.

Dinah understood that better than anyone.

She put the chapel in order before allowing herself to sit. She found water in the parson’s well, counted the bread people had carried from the kitchen and sent two men to ask help from the nearest farms. By midafternoon, children slept across the pews while women divided food upon the communion table beneath a plain wooden cross.

I sat outside with my Swedish trunk between my knees.

The smoke from Le Champ des Fleurs had thinned to a blue stain above the trees. From that distance, the ruin made no sound. Cicadas resumed their summer song. Crows crossed the sky. The world had accepted the death of the Lebon house with an ease none of us could share.

Vale’s letter remained tucked inside my bodice.

I had checked for it so often that the folded edge had rubbed my skin raw. The letter named the Sea Nymph and more than five hundred people carried through hidden inlets and sold under false papers. It named Étienne Lebon, Hollis Dewey and Reuben George. Human beings had been reduced to numbers in their ledgers, but Nathaniel had tried to restore enough names to make denial impossible.

The Fairhavens had answered him in the language of graves and fire.

I still hoped ordinary law might answer in ink.

Near sunset, a horse came hard along the road.

Several men rose from beneath the oak. Dinah reached for the kitchen knife she had tucked into her waistband. The rider passed the tobacco field with his coat streaming behind him, and I recognized Lucien before the horse stumbled to a stop.

He slid from the saddle.

Dust covered him from boots to hair. One sleeve had been torn away at the shoulder, and blood darkened the cloth along his forearm. He looked past the gathered servants, searching every face.

“Cécile?”

I stood.

His eyes found mine, and hope died before I answered.

“She is alive.”

He crossed the yard in three strides. “Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

There are truths that cannot be softened, but they may still be delivered with care.

“She left with the Fairhavens.”