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We were, indeed, one the richest families west of the Mississippi River. Located about thirty miles outside of New Orleans, Bellevue had been built in 1795 by my grandfather, Randall Edward White, who styled the mansion in an odd mixture of Spanish and French influences. The two-story, fifteen-thousand square foot house with its large brick piazza and immense colonnades imposed its will on all those who came onto the 5,000-acre estate which was just fine for my grandfather, a cantankerous, hard-nosed lawyer with British and Italian roots.
Soon after the plantation was built, Randall married Celia Bouvier, a Creole whose old money did more to bolster the union than any love could have. The marriage was an arranged one by all accounts, and two years later William was born, with David and Rachel soon following. And as the family grew, so, too, did Randall’s wealth. He expanded the land and quickly acquired a fortune in cotton and slaves, not including the one who had bore him a child. But this particular slave and her child, it was said, had been sold within a fortnight of the child’s birth to a wealthy planter in Virginia, never to be seen or heard of again.
Whenever the Rileys visited, I had no choice but to entertain Marcus. It was a forced friendship, partly because we attended the same boy’s academy in New Orleans. I didn’t hate him; I just found him particularly annoying and crass like his father. Marcus was three years older, but he lacked sophistication, often rambling on like a silly little schoolgirl. It was clear that no amount of ancient classics, Latin, or Greek philosophy was going to smooth out the rough edges of his simple, backwater ways.
It was a hot, June day and I was lying in the grass, my eyes half closed, daydreaming of Jeyne. Marcus had come over and sat on the grass right next to me and bumped my leg in the process. He mumbled an apology that I rudely acknowledged. When I looked at him, there was a look of admiration on his face I found annoying. I turned my back to him and continued to let pleasant thoughts of Jeyne drift through. Before long, Marcus was tapping me on the arm.
“You awake?” he said, nudging my arm.
Without opening my eyes, I said, “What’s it look like?”
“You don’t have to be so rude about it.”
“When are you leaving? Tomorrow?”
“Mebbe,” he said. “Pa's got a busy week. He says he wants to be ready for this new deal a-comin.’ Say, when you comin’ to Lutcher for a visit?”
“Probably never,” I said.
“What?”
I could tell from his tone I had hurt his feelings, and without wanting to, found myself feeling sorry for the boy. It was obvious he was desperate to make a friend, any friend. Many of the boys at the academy laughed at him behind his back and he couldn’t help but be aware of it.
“You need to come out our way soon,” Marcus said. “This place ain't gonna burn if you leave it for a while. Matter of fact...”
As he rambled on, I let my mind drift back to the feeling of Jeyne’s soft lips and bare skin against mine. I hardened at the memory. It was a week ago when we shared our first kiss and it felt so real, so natural. I couldn’t wait to be alone with her again, to look into her eyes and touch her beautiful, brown—
“Hey!” Marcus tapped me on the arm again.
This time, I turned to him with the intention of cursing him out only to see Jeyne approaching, carrying a basket of laundry on her hips. Our eyes met and I felt myself go warm inside. She was so beautiful. Her dark hair was coming undone and wisps of it blew in the wind as she walked.
“Boy, what I wouldn’t do to get me a piece of that nigra wench!” Marcus shouted, his beady eyes gleaming.
I sprang up and leaned against the tree. “What did you say?”
“Isaid, I’d like to get a piece of that nigra wench,” he repeated impatiently. “The one walking right there. I’d make her scream, for sure. C’mon, let’s go have some fun.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
He scratched at his acne-riddle face and grinned. “Aw, ain’t nobody gonna find out,” he protested, grinning. He was on his feet, poised to make a move.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jeyne making more deliberate steps towards the main house. She must have had heard every word.
“Let me guess,” he said, jabbing me in the ribs. “That one’s yours, ain’t she? Well, don’t be so greedy. You can share.”
“Shut your trap.”
“What you gettin’ so mad about?” he asked indignantly. “You too good to take turns? She’s anigra! I want her and I’m gonna have her.”
“You go near her and I’ll kill you, “What’s your problem?” Marcus spat out the words. “That's how you break ‘em in. How else are they gonna know they place? Your daddy was talking to my daddy about it just the other day. Not only that,yourdaddy was bragging about all the nigra women he's had, especially that near-white one he keeps on Rampart Street or wherever.”
My face burned. “What?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he said incredulously.
This was all too much to take. First his comment about Jeyne and now my father.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
