They spoke of dreams that gave them no rest, and they all mentioned her." He gestured toward Deline, who stood motionless on the platform, her face betraying no reaction to the accusations being laid out. "Whatever that woman is, Mr. Lavo, she is not merely a slave. She is a judgment waiting to be delivered."
James Lavo laughed, though the sound rang hollow in the tense space. "You're asking me to believe in ghost stories and plantation superstitions. I'm a businessman, Monsieur Devo, not a child frightened by tales told in the dark." "Then you are a fool," the old man said simply, and sat down.
But James's pride had been engaged now. To back down would be to appear weak before the assembled elite of Louisiana society. He turned back to the auctioneer. "$1,000 stands, unless someone wishes to bid higher."
No one did. The silence was absolute. "Very well," Forier said, though his voice lacked any triumph. "Sold to Mr. James Lavo for $1,000.
May God have mercy on..." He caught himself. "The paperwork will be prepared immediately." As James moved forward to complete the transaction, he passed close to where Deline stood.
She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. Later, he would tell his house manager that in that moment he felt something shift inside him, as though a door he didn't know existed had been opened in his mind. But in that moment, flushed with the satisfaction of his purchase, he merely smiled and nodded to her before proceeding to Forier's desk. The notary who prepared the bill of sale was a meticulous man named Baptiste Chioalier.
His records preserved in the Louisiana State Archives show unusual attention to detail in this particular transaction. Alongside the standard information, he added a marginal note in his careful script. "Buyer was warned by E. Devo and others present. Proceeded despite unanimous counsel to decline purchase.
This notation made for the record should future inquiry become necessary." The journey to Bellamont Plantation was made in James Lavo's finest carriage. He rode inside. Deline sat beside the driver on the exterior bench.
The 40-mile journey took most of the afternoon, the spring landscape rolling past in a blur of green cane fields and moss-draped oaks. During the trip, the driver, an older enslaved man named Moses who had served the Lavo family for 20 years, later reported that he attempted conversation with the new arrival. She answered his questions politely but briefly. Yes, she could read and write.
Yes, she had experience managing a large household. No, she did not know why her previous masters had met such unfortunate ends. But when I asked her that last question, Moses would later tell the investigators, she looked at me with those deep eyes of hers and said something I ain't never forgotten. She said, "Sometimes, Moses, the universe keeps its own accounts, and some debts can only be settled in full." Then she smiled, but it wasn't a smile that brought any comfort.
It was the smile of someone who knows a secret that would break your heart if you learned it. Bellamont Plantation appeared on the horizon as the sun began its descent toward the western tree line. The main house was an impressive structure built in the Greek Revival style that had become fashionable among Louisiana's planter class. White columns rose two stories supporting a broad veranda that wrapped around the entire building.
The interior rooms numbered 23, staffed by 12 enslaved people who maintained the elaborate fiction of genteel Southern living. James Lavo's wife, Margarite, was waiting on the veranda when the carriage arrived. She was a thin woman of 35, the daughter of a respected but declining Creole family who had married James for his money while he had married her for her name. The arrangement was understood by both parties and had produced three years of cold civility rather than anything resembling affection.
As Deline descended from the carriage, Margarite's expression shifted from bored curiosity to something approaching alarm. She moved to the veranda railing, gripping it with both hands. "James," she called out, her voice tight. "What have you done?"
He looked up at her, annoyed at her tone. "I've acquired an excellent house servant at a remarkable price. Deline will serve as your personal maid and assist in managing the household staff." "I do not want her in this house."
Margarite's voice had risen slightly, losing its usual controlled modulation. "Send her to the quarters, have her work in the fields, but do not bring her into my home." James's face darkened with anger. It was one thing for his wife to maintain her icy distance in private, but to challenge his authority in front of the slaves was unacceptable.
"You will mind your tongue, madam. I am master of this house, and I decide where my property is assigned." He turned to Deline, who had stood silently throughout the exchange, her expression neutral. "You will be shown to the room off the kitchen.
Report to Celeste, my house manager, who will explain your duties." "Yes, master," Deline said softly, her voice like honey poured over velvet.
That night, as recorded in the diary of Celeste, a 50-year-old woman who had managed the Bellamont household for over a decade, the introduction of Deline into the domestic staff created immediate disruption. Celeste's diary, discovered in an attic trunk during the 1932 demolition of what remained of Bellamont, provides one of the most detailed contemporary accounts of what followed. May 15th, 1854. The master has brought a new girl into the house.
Her name is Deline, and from the moment she stepped through the kitchen door, I felt a cold wind blow through my soul despite the warm evening. The other servants feel it, too. Marie crossed herself when Deline passed her in the hallway. Young Thomas dropped a tray of dishes and fled to the quarters, saying he couldn't bear to be in the same room with her.
When I asked him why, he just shook his head and said, "She ain't right, Miss Celeste. There's something behind her eyes that ain't human." I tried to dismiss such talk as superstition, but I cannot deny what I myself observed. When Deline entered the kitchen, all the candles flickered at once, though there was no draft.