Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (28 page)

“Is that you, Chamard?”

Bertrand squinted to identify the man who was backlit by the
chandeliers inside.

“Johnston? Come join me, my friend.”

Albany stepped on to the balcony, and the men shook hands.
“When did you get to town?” Albany said.

“Three days ago. I’m just getting loose from my business
calls and I’m ready for some relaxation. How are your mother and your sister?”

“They’re well.”

The two leaned against the railing, companionably blowing
smoke into the night.

“Josephine?” Bertrand asked.

Albany puffed on his cigar. “A bit difficult, I would say.
As women are apt to be.”

Bertrand looked at the stars, reluctant to pry. If Albany
wanted to discuss it, he would.

“So this is where they hold the famous Balls?” Albany said.

The Blue Ribbon was a notorious establishment which every
Creole boy looked forward to visiting on his maturity. The balls held there
employed the best musicians in New Orleans, and the best caterers. But most
important, here one found the most beautiful women in Louisiana displayed for
the pleasure of the white planters. The ladies were quadroons, for the most
part, and their futures were made by becoming mistresses to Creole gentlemen.
Once a man had his heart pierced by a quadroon beauty, he often kept her, and
their children, all his life.

“Upstairs,” Bertrand answered. “There’ll be a ball next
week. I could bring you as my guest.”

“Actually, I’m already invited. Your cousin Marguerite’s
friend Achille Dumont insists I accompany him. Apparently one has not
experienced Louisiana if one has not seen the womanhood at these affairs.”

“I would have to agree with that.”

“But I take it this is not a brothel.”

“Don’t let the good mothers of these ladies hear you say the
word!” Bertrand said with a laugh. “No, these girls are career mistresses, and
their virtue, within their own bounds, is legendary.”

“They’re all virgins, then?”

“Not at all. Their gentlemen die, or tire of them, and they
re-enter the ballroom with an enticing air of maturity.”

Bertrand thought of Philomene. She and his father had been
lovers for twenty years before his death, and even yet, she was a handsome
woman. When Monsieur Chamard had passed away, he left her a generous legacy,
and she chose not to re-enter the Blue Ribbon.

A man stepped onto the balcony where they stood. “There you
are, Johnston,” Achille said. “We’re ready to play. Hello, Chamard.”

“Dumont,” Bertrand said. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you. So you know Johnston here. Did he tell you
he’s going to risk enchantment by the lovely ladies of the Blue Ribbon? My plan
is to introduce him to the most tempting girl in the room. He’ll be a real
Louisianan once he’s found himself a fancy gal in a satin
tignon
.”

Bertrand had always found Achille Dumont slight in
character, though he admitted he could be amusing company. As friendly as his
cousin Marguerite was with Achille, Bertrand wondered if she were playing a
game, having Achille distract Albany with the beauties at the Blue Ribbon.
Perhaps Marguerite’s favorite niece was adamant she did not wish to marry
Albany. Bertrand pursued that thought.

Not many streets over, Josie peeked in at the children on
her way upstairs. Pierre snored softly in his bed. Andre still slept with his thumb
in his mouth. Josie gazed longest at little Jean Baptiste and remembered what
Grammy Tulia always said:
Dere’s nuttin sweeter dan a sleepin’ chile
.
Jean Baptiste’s lashes curled against his cheek, and tiny pearl teeth glistened
between his pink lips. Josie hoped she would have a little boy as perfect as
Jean someday. She tucked a bare foot back under the covers, kissed Jean’s
forehead, and thought how rich and wonderful to have a family of one’s own.

Next day, Josie sat down with Tante Marguerite in the
parlor. Her aunt was in a dither about the preparations for her final
entertainment at the end of Lent. After that, everyone left New Orleans to
avoid the fever season, and Marguerite had so much to do and had had a bad
throat for days.

Marguerite sipped hot tea with lemon and honey. “You have no
idea how much work there is yet to be done,” she rasped. “I’ve been running
myself ragged for weeks and even now I don’t see how we shall be ready by the
eighteenth. I shall have to rely on you, Josephine.”

“What would you like me to do? I could oversee the
housekeeping, or the children. Or would you like me to help with the food?”

“Oh, do you feel you could take over the kitchen? Yes, of
course you can,” Marguerite said. “Your grand-mère keeps an old fashioned house,
doesn’t she? She must have had you cooking cakes and pastries before you could
read, and now you could probably cook the whole menu yourself.”

“No, of course I can’t,” Josie said and laughed. “But I will
do what I can. The ordering, the planning --.”

“And then there’s the wine,” Marguerite said. “With this
dreadful cough,” and then she coughed, “I have allowed the days to go by and
have not even ordered the wine!”

“I know a wine merchant,” Josie said. “Phanor DeBlieux.”
Marguerite raised her eyebrows that her niece should be acquainted with a
merchant she herself didn’t know.

 “He is Monsieur Cherleu’s agent, and Grand-mère approves of
him thoroughly.”

“Does she?”

“Grand-mère wrote me Monsieur Cherleu keeps rooms on the Rue
Dauphine, in case I ever needed an escort home to Toulouse.”

“Already you are making my life easier, chérie. Send for
your Phanor DeBlieux immediately.”

Josie rummaged in her letter box upstairs to find the
reference her grandmother had made to Cherleu’s lodging. Tante’s butler could
get Phanor’s address from him and then deliver the note. She rattled back down
the stairs with a note for Thomas to take to Monsieur Cherleu.

While they waited for an answer to their note, Josie and her
aunt considered the menu. They decided on tournedos of beef, pork medallions in
wine sauce, and both boiled and sautéed shrimp. Raw oysters and fried oysters
too, Josie suggested. The markets were short of fresh vegetables this time of
year, but they could have buttery potatoes, both white and yellow, and tiny
creamed spinach pies. Jam crêpes, apple tarts, and candied oranges and lemons
would fill the dessert table. For those who remained as dawn approached, there
would be hot gumbo and fresh bread.

Thomas returned with a neatly written note on heavy cream
paper. Phanor DeBlieux would call on them at four o’clock that afternoon with a
complete list of the wines available in his warehouse.

“Excellent,” Marguerite said. “Now you must excuse me,
Josephine. The dressmaker is fitting my gown yet again. It is very tiresome,
but one does want it done right.” Marguerite was nearly to the door when she
turned back. “And what shall you be wearing to the party?”

Josie shrugged. “The same black gown I wore in the fall, I
suppose.”

“Don’t worry,
ma petite
. Only a few more months and
you can shed your mourning weeds. I’ll treat you to something bright, perhaps a
new pink gown, or, no, a pale green to bring out your eyes.”

Marguerite patted her perfectly curled coiffure. “Now let me
run on to the dressmaker’s. You’ll speak to Cook about seeing the butcher,
won’t you?”

Josie checked the tall clock in the foyer. Two hours until
Phanor would arrive. She rushed upstairs to brush out her hair and start over
with the pinning and curling.

Curled, powdered, and rouged, Josie surveyed the effect in
her aunt’s cheval glass. She placed her hands at her tiny waist with
satisfaction. Josie practiced a sideways smile, looking out from under her
eyelashes. The beauty spot she had painted just to the left of her mouth was a
nice touch.

Beware, she told herself. You are becoming vain, Josephine
Tassin. Then smiled at herself in the mirror.

She returned to the parlor, ready to dazzle. Phanor almost
certainly would not be punctual, but it was of small importance. Only the
américains
made a fuss over the hands of a clock. She picked up her crochet bag. Unlike
embroidery, crochet did not necessitate actually seeing each stitch.

She opened the balcony doors and kept an ear tuned to the
street sounds. Would Phanor knock at the front door? At Toulouse, when Phanor
had arrived barefoot with a basket of this or that, he had not climbed the
front steps. But now he was a city merchant, dressed in polished boots and fine
wool. She decided she would receive him in the parlor rather than in the
cramped little room Tante used as an office downstairs. He would not arrive in
his fiddler clothes as she’d seen him in the square, after all. She felt heavy
at heart when she remembered her reaction to seeing him amid all those poor,
malodorous people. She’d been too caught up in her own splendor those first few
months in town. She was not so foolish now. Was she? She examined her own mind
and decided she would not be pleased to see Phanor in shabby clothes, she just
wouldn’t. But she did want to see him, shabby or not, of that she was sure.

And she would have tea served. Or maybe coffee. She’d
noticed most men seemed to prefer coffee.

Only ten minutes after the grandfather clock struck four,
someone knocked at the street door. Josie couldn’t restrain herself. She rushed
on to the balcony and peered over.

“Phanor,” she called.

He removed his hat and made a sweeping bow. They grinned at
each other as if they shared a great secret: they were only playacting in their
fine clothes, and in truth were still Phanor and Josie of the night on the
levee.

Thomas opened the double doors and Phanor disappeared into
the foyer. In the parlor, Josie arranged herself to best advantage and waited.
When Thomas admitted Monsieur DeBlieux, she stood and offered her hand in her
grandest manner.

Unsmiling now, Phanor made a gallant bow in his fine
merchant’s wool, took Josie’s hand and kissed it. She would have preferred a
hug and a kiss, but the brush of his lips on her hand was thrilling.
“Mademoiselle,” he said.

The courtesies perfectly observed, they shed the formality.
“You look wonderful,” Phanor said.

Josie twirled around. “Am I not a fine lady?” she said with
a laugh. “It takes me twice as long to dress now, so it must be true.”

Josie rang the little silver bell for coffee and the two of
them sat near the balcony doors for the sunshine.

“I had hoped to see you in Jackson Square some Sunday
afternoon,” Phanor said.

Had he seen her that day? No, she saw no trace of
knowingness in his face. Ashamed of the lie she was about to tell, and of the
need for it, Josie blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t get away.”

“I’ve been to Toulouse, you know,” Phanor said. He told her
how her grandmother had been three weeks before and how the fields were
greening.

“Did you know Remy has run away again?” Josie asked.

Phanor barely hesitated. “Remy? I saw him in the fields when
I was there. Wearing that monstrous cage on his head.”

“A cage?”

Phanor described the device LeBrec had designed and how the
bells jangled with every movement.

“That’s dreadful. And my grandmother approved of this?”

“According to Cleo,” Phanor said, “she insisted LeBrec not
injure her slaves with beatings or any kind of maiming. This was LeBrec’s
answer.”

“Poor Cleo. She must be sick with worry.”

“Josie, I think I should tell you something. I know it is
not my place, but I think you will want to know.”

“What is it? If it’s about Toulouse, I need to know.”

“It’s the new overseer, this LeBrec. He is a cruel man. And
he’s after Cleo.”

“No, Phanor. Don’t worry. My grandmother would never allow a
man to bother one of her house slaves. Especially not her own…especially not
Cleo.”

Phanor did not reply. He thought he understood Madame
Tassin’s pragmatism better than Josie did.

“Well,” he said. “Lent will be over soon. You’ll be going home?”

“After Easter, they say the city is quite deserted.”

Josie caught Phanor staring at her beauty mark again. He’d
focused on it repeatedly as they talked. It made her self-conscious. She wasn’t
entirely sure he admired it.

“Are you going home, too?” she said.

“Not for a while. We expect a ship in June. Maybe after I’ve
warehoused the cases and made my inventory, I can come home for a visit.”

“Oh, your inventory. We have to talk business, Phanor. Just
like old times.”

He smiled, pulled the list from his pocket, and they
proceeded to discuss the menu and the wines to accompany the evening.
Champagne, of course, and several cases of whites and reds.

“I have a Chenin Blanc that tastes like a fresh, crisp
apple,” Phanor said. “And you’ll want a softer, honeyed demi-sec as well, I
think.” For the red, Phanor suggested she include a Bourgueil from the Cabernet
Franc grapes in the Loire region.

“You have ordered ice?” Phanor asked.

“Oh, ice! I have not. I hope it’s not too late?”

“Smithfield is still receiving shipments from the lakes up
north. I trade with them for two of the restaurants I sell to. Would you like
me to see to the ice?”

“Yes, please.”

He was looking at her mouth again. She didn’t find it at all
flattering. Abruptly, Phanor reached out and smudged her carefully blackened
beauty mark.

“What is that?” he said.

He looked at the smear on his thumb. “Oh.”

Josie put her finger to the mark and knew it was ruined.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it was maybe a fleck of . .
. I didn’t realize.”

Josie was stiff with embarrassment. She stood up as if to
formally end the interview.

“Josie, don’t be mad at me,” Phanor said. “You’re always so
pretty, I didn’t know it was makeup.”