Page 56 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“‘Thus fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself when apparent to the eyes; and we find the burden of anxiety greater, by much, than the evil which we are anxious about ...’”
My eyes widened. “Robinson Crusoe...”
“You know it?”
“Of course.”
My curiosity kindled from a tiny candle flame to a roaring fire. Soon, only Rohan and I were left by the seats, deep in a conversation about our travels and studies. He quoted more books we’d both read and discussed the latest headlines in the newspaper about England’s pursuits abroad. He seemed to love when I disagreed with him.
Barbara made her way back to us. “Arden, would you like me to have some refreshments wrapped up for you both?”
Rohan looked about us, startled, surprised at how much time had passed. He stepped back. “I should let you get back to your evening.Though, if I may be so bold, there’s another talk tomorrow afternoon with more representatives from the East India Association. Perhaps afterward, we could share more, possibly a meal?”
It took only a moment to think it through. I would not take an interest in Rohan’s heart. My own was too broken. But his mind ... that was something else. “I’d be delighted to—in a professional way, of course.”
He smiled, teeth strong and white. “Then I shall look forward to it,” he said before giving me the address.
I said my goodbyes and departed into the deepening night. Though the chill and dense fog crept in, the flame of a new connection kept me warm on the short trip home. Maybe a true friend was what I needed to pass the time.
The atmosphere of the meeting was miles different from the lecture I’d attended the night before, the diversity notable from the start: Men and women of all hues, ethnicities, and dress made up the audience. They spoke on themes similar to those from the previous day’s program, espousing the ideals of opportunity and freedom. A petite woman dressed in a yellow sari spoke of the need to educate young girls, while another man spoke of the need to move the civil service tests to India rather than London, thus decentralizing power. Each person spoke eloquently about the world and what action was needed to make change possible.
Rohan presided over it all with aplomb. He called the speakers up and then, after about an hour and a half, opened the floor for questions.
He called on folks from the audience. “Ah! Mr. Boudreaux. Good to see you again. What’s your question.”
My head snapped up at the name.Boudreaux?I thought of Jacques, though it had been decades since he’d last entered my mind. So muchtime had passed, and we were so far from the American South. Surely this man was no relation. I craned my neck to see.
A young man with blond hair and broad shoulders stood.
“With cotton production still down in the US, what opportunities can you see for American investment?”
It was a fine question, but I couldn’t even hear the answer; I was more focused on the speaker. Likely in his late teens or early twenties, he spoke in a firm and smooth voice, his accent distinctly American. If he was related to Jacques, he appeared young enough to be his great-great-grandson.
I was stunned, thrown into both the past and denial. Boudreaux was a common enough name. Wasn’t it? Jacques’s family plantation produced sugarcane, not cotton. Surely this was merely a coincidence.
And yet, what were the chances he’d be here if hewasrelated to Jacques?
Was the world really that small?
At the end of my long life, would it all lead me back to the very beginning?
The meeting ended, and everyone rose to their feet, the chatter in the room rising. As I peered closer at the young Mr. Boudreaux, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities to Jacques—the way he held himself and moved across the room felt familiar. There was no question when I saw him from the front: His face and storm-blue eyes matched my long-ago lover’s.
I hovered closer, not brave enough to approach, for what would I say?Hello, young man! Do you have a great-grandfather named Jacques?Madness.
The smart move would be to stay back and away, not allowing a past life to collide with this one. Rohan stood near the lectern, speaking with the man about the civil service test. I could’ve waited for him, pretending to have never seen the boy, and been on my way.
But a feeling held me in place, a ping of intuition I couldn’t ignore.
When young Mr. Boudreaux glanced about the room, his smile slipped as if he were wearing a mask—something was off. He stood near an alcove with another short, young white-skinned man, a cluster of acne marching up the smaller boy’s cheeks, his hair thick with pomade, eyes scanning the crowd.
I moved closer as if drawn forward, their conversation floating back to me. I feigned interest in a pamphlet, ears on high alert.
“So, tell me about the plan.”
Plan?I stopped, careful to stay several steps back, then sat behind them, eavesdropping. My curiosity quickly evolved from interest into alarm.
The Boudreaux boy laughed, his manner shockingly familiar. He leaned closer, flicking his friend playfully on the shoulder. “My father says it will be simple. No one has business sense like us Americans, right? The savages will never see it coming.”
