Kathleen Kent - The Outcasts

For a short while he was even a bookseller, which explained the sagging shelves filled to overflowing with books. It also explained why May, who came so rarely to the schoolhouse, was so informed. Both sisters had the best possible library on subjects as varied as history and the natural sciences, and there were more than a few novels.

Earlier in the evening, Lucinda had pulled one of these novels from a shelf, its spine partially eaten by mice, the pages spotted with black mold grown from the damp air, and read the title: The Woman in White.

May, standing next to her, exhaled dismissively and asked, “Miss Carter, have you read this one? Well, don’t bother. It’s a very tiresome plot about madness and confused identities.” She pulled another book from the shelf, Lady Audley’s Secret, and handed it to Lucinda. May traced the title with a finger and whispered into Lucinda’s ear, “She is a very bad woman.” Lucinda quickly looked at the girl’s face and saw her eyes creased in mischief, and they laughed together.

Lucinda, lost in these thoughts, became aware that May had finished singing. She clapped politely and, rising, said, “Thank you, May. That was quite lovely. But it’s late, and I should leave. I thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Grant.”

He stood staring at her blankly for a moment while his daughters looked expectantly at him until he realized he was supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and walk her back to the Wallers’ home.

She said good night to the girls and, for the first fifty yards, tried to match Bedford’s rapid pace. It was a clear night, but the path was still pocked from the recent rains. She slowed and finally stopped, calling out to him to assist her.

He ran his palm over his forehead, saying, “How thoughtless.” He held out his arm for her to take and slowed his stride. “You must forgive me, Miss Carter. It’s been a while since we’ve had a guest.”

“Not at all, Mr. Grant. I am, I’m afraid, all too used to the pace of the country.” She tightened her hold on his arm. “And you have been accustomed to the rattle of cities. What an interesting life you’ve led.”

The corners of his lips turned downward. “If penury can be called interesting, then it has certainly been that.”

“But you’ve provided a wealth of experience and knowledge for your girls.” She slowed her walking even further; they were approaching the Waller house too quickly.

“Yes, I have given them that, but my rootlessness has also made them easily distracted and, in May’s case, a bit feckless.”

“May is my brightest student, Mr. Grant.” She paused, leaning slightly into his arm. “When she is in school.” She smiled up at him, and for the briefest instant, he stopped walking and stared openly at her face.

Blushing, he abruptly let go of her arm and gestured for her to continue in front of him. She walked ahead, listening to his uneven breathing, taking note of his sudden embarrassment. The Waller house appeared at the end of the road, lantern light streaming brightly from the front windows, as though the house had been readied for a battery of holiday guests. She knew that the family would be waiting up so that Lavada and Sephronia could press her with questions about the evening.

She stopped and turned. “Mr. Grant, May has written a very good essay on one of the local legends. I’d like to submit it to the newspaper at Harrisburg. But…” She paused.

“Yes?” he asked, taking a step back.

“It’s about the legend of Lafitte’s gold in Middle Bayou. Are you familiar with this legend, Mr. Grant?”

He looked at her, his features indistinct in the dark. “Bedford. Call me Bedford, please.”

“Very well…Bedford. Do you know this legend?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, May has a tendency to embellish. Before I sent the story to the paper, I wanted to make sure it was…”

“True?”

“Yes, true.” Lucinda inclined her head, waiting for his answer.

“Yes,” he offered absently, staring at the tips of his shoes.

A yipping sound from behind caused them to turn, and they watched a coyote trotting across the road. The animal looked at them, head lowered, with a sly, open dog-smile.

“An opportunist,” Bedford said quietly, watching the animal disappear into the tall grasses.

Lucinda looked at him, unsure of his meaning.

“He’s hoping we’ll weaken. He wouldn’t attack us outright, but he’s watching, waiting for us to become…compromised.” He turned to face her again. “We have a very thin hold on civilization here in the bayou, Miss Carter. There are twenty ways to die from one Sunday to the next.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the Waller home. “Despite the efforts of Euphrastus to keep life civilized.”

Lucinda looked at the house and discerned the outlines of three of the Wallers peering through the windows watching them, the two women from the second floor and Euphrastus parting the curtains at the parlor. Like dolls propped up in a dollhouse, she thought.

She felt Bedford’s eyes studying her, and when she turned to face him, his lips turned up sadly. “We’re all opportunists in a way, wouldn’t you say, Miss Carter?”

She answered his smile cautiously. He held out his arm for her to take and then walked her to the door.

He placed two fingers lightly on her hand to still her. “I would ask if I’ve troubled you with my talk, but I believe I have not. I will request of you, though, not to send May’s essay to Harrisburg. May is repeating only what she has heard the locals say. She knows nothing beyond that.”

She looked at him, a knot of disappointment in her throat. “I see. Then the story of the gold coins is not true.”

“On the contrary, Miss Carter, it’s quite true.”

Her breathing quickened, but she worked to keep her face calm. “Call me Lucinda.”

He ducked his head, pleased. “Lucinda.”

“And just how do you know it to be true?” She put her hand gently on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Because…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Because I’ve seen it.”

Her grip tightened on his arm. “What have you seen?” she asked, her eyes wide.

He stepped abruptly away, looking stricken, almost fearful. Touching the brim of his hat to her, he said, “Someday perhaps I will show you. Good night, Miss Carter. Lucinda.”

Lucinda watched him for a while from the doorway as he walked rapidly along the path. When she entered the parlor, she saw that Euphrastus had abandoned his post at the window.

The next morning included the usual Sunday prayer service and Bible reading by Euphrastus. The women had been uplifted in their excitement about a possible blossoming romance between the new teacher and the widower. When questioned, Lucinda smiled serenely and told them what a kind and intelligent man Bedford Grant was.

Euphrastus, however, seemed put-upon and dour, casting long reproachful looks in her direction. She had been aware, of course, of his desire. He had sought every opportunity to encounter her alone: at the school, on the paths, and even inside the house. He came upon her once, seemingly by chance, as she was coming down the stairs. Nodding politely, he brushed past her, his arm trailing along her thigh.

Normally, she would have encouraged this behavior. The man was a fool and could have been easily handled. But she didn’t need him, only the good opinion of his wife, who would, no doubt, fan the rumors of a budding courtship between Lucinda and Bedford, thus helping to make it so.

She had woken up that Sunday morning with a headache, and she struggled to keep the impatience from her face as Euphrastus read to them Colossians: “‘Put to death, therefore, immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed.’” She had a rush of compassion for the Wallers’ son, Elam, imprisoned in his chair parked next to his father, forced to listen to interminable lectures and punishing Bible readings, week after week, month after month.