Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (30 page)

The eighteenth of April arrived, and Phanor rose early. He
double checked that the ice would be delivered to the Sandrine house after the
sun went down. Next he oversaw the transport of the cases of wine before the
day heated up. The cases filled a wagon, and he hired two horses to pull it
from the warehouse to the back courtyard. Once there, he supervised the
unloading of the cases and sorted them according to when he expected them to be
served during the evening. Then he helped the hired men set up a loose canopy
to shield the wine from the sun during the day. By the time everything was
ready, he had sweated through his white shirt, and still the household upstairs
slept.

Phanor conducted his usual business throughout the
afternoon, calling on his customers and tempting them with samples of his
better wines. Before sunset, he hurried back to his rooms to wash and change
into a clean shirt. He would be working in the courtyard while his betters
enjoyed the party upstairs, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be presentable.
Josie might come downstairs to say hello.

He arrived at the Sandrine’s just as the ice wagon did. He
supervised the shaving of the ice into vats and the packing of the remaining
chunks in sawdust boxes. He layered the bottles of champagne in the loose ice.
They would have over an hour to chill before the first corks were pulled.

Liza, the cook, joined him in the circle of the oil lamp set
on a wrought iron table. She was a big woman, testament to her own cooking, and
the lamp cast shadows under each of her chins. Even so, her queenly air and
bright eyes made her a handsome woman, Phanor thought.

“M’sieu, you best set awhile now. It gone get busy when all
Madame’s friends come in. Can I bring you a plate of supper?”

“Liza, you are my angel. I’m a hungry man, I am.”

Phanor uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured the wine
into a tin cup. He noted the taste of the cup first of all, but it was a
generous wine, full-flavored, and the feel of it along his palate was a
delight. Liza rolled across the courtyard with a tray loaded with shrimp, beef,
potatoes, corn bread, and her own special plum preserves.

“A feast!” Phanor said. “You, Liza, you think my legs both
hollow?”

Liza laughed from deep in her belly. “You gone need yo
strength, you work long fo Madame Sandrine. You eat dat, I bring you some oysters
later.” She winked at him, and Phanor laughed heartily. He dug in and ate
nearly everything until he thought he might have to unbutton the top of his
trousers.

The musicians began tuning their instruments upstairs, and
Phanor had a pang of regret that he was not among them. He had hardly played
his fiddle at all these last weeks, he’d been so tied up with business, Remy,
and his own studies. The coming Sunday, he resolved, he would take his fiddle
to Jackson Square and play all day. He had an idle moment wishing Josie would
come with her flute and Remy would sing as they played. Foolish thought. He
stood up and gathered a basket full of bottles to take upstairs to the serving
pantry.

Once the party was well under way, Phanor found Liza was
right. Acting as wine steward, he was on the run from the cache in the
courtyard to the pantry, orchestrating the type and number of bottles open and
flowing as the evening wore on. The butler kept him apprised of hot dishes
arriving from the kitchen and of the progress of the party, so Phanor did not
actually see the whirl of satin skirts. He had an ear for the orchestra,
though, and he found time to wonder who Josie might be dancing with, and
whether she had painted another spot on her face.

Not long after midnight, the pantry door swung open and
Marguerite Sandrine sauntered in. She wore an emerald green gown with enormous
puffed sleeves. The neckline revealed a smooth white bosom generously plumped
by her bodice so that Phanor barely registered the emerald pendant nestled just
at the hollow between her breasts.

“Monsieur DeBlieux,” she said. “I’ve come to tell you how
much I appreciate your efforts tonight.” His eyes were on her bosom, and she
folded her fan. “I’ve never seen a party go so well, and I’m sure it’s because
of the flow of just the right wines.”

Phanor raised his eyes. She was a beautiful woman tonight,
he thought as he admired her deep brown eyes, and she knew it. That knowingness
did not detract from her charms, however. On the contrary.

When Phanor did not respond, at least not verbally,
Marguerite said, “May I call you Phanor? My niece and you, you are quite good
friends, I gather. From childhood?”

Phanor recovered himself. “Mademoiselle Josephine and I are
friends, yes. We share our home place, and we have music between us, too.”

“Music? I had never thought of Josephine as being
particularly musical.”

Phanor detected just a hint of malice. It made Marguerite
only slightly less alluring.

“I’d like us to be friends, too,” she said. She opened her
fan and moved the black lace across her reddened mouth. The green silk rustled
as she took a step further into the pantry.

Phanor glanced at the closed door, a crowd of people just on
the other side, their voices and laughter loud and gay. He stood very still as
Marguerite advanced closer.

“I hope we are friends,” he managed to say.

Marguerite was very close now. The hem of her gown brushed
against his boots. Her expensive Paris perfume wafted over him, and he knew
he’d never been so close to divinity in his life.

She traced the line of his jaw with the edge of her fan.
“You are a handsome man, Phanor DeBlieux.”

Phanor’s breathing came shallow and rapid. Her perfume was
intoxicating, the strains of the waltz sensual and compelling. He hardly knew
his own hand when he saw it on her waist.

He bent his head to meet her upturned face, and he tasted
her lips. As their kiss deepened, Phanor slid his hand around to the small of
her back and pulled her to him.

The door opened.

“Is my aunt -- ?” Josephine stood in the doorway.

Phanor froze. Marguerite, however, pulled away slowly and
turned to her niece. No blush, no hint of shame or guilt, but perhaps a glint
of triumph in her eyes.

“Yes, Josephine?”

Phanor stared into Josie’s wide eyes. She mustn’t think
he... Well, what could she think?

“Josie,” he said.

Josie slowly backed out, her eyes still on his, and allowed
the door to close.

When Marguerite turned back to Phanor, so close that her
bosom brushed against his chest, she smiled and reached an arm up to his neck.
But Phanor did not respond. He stood stiffly and gently pulled her arm down.

“I have to see to the wine,” he said.

Marguerite stepped back. Her expression hardened, and the
expanse of chest and bosom reddened. “You’re still a boy, I see,” she said. She
gathered her skirts and stepped quickly through the pantry and out into the din
of the party.

Phanor ran his hands through his hair. What had he been
thinking? Hell, thinking hadn’t been any part of it. Marguerite’s perfume still
filled the little pantry, but it wasn’t Marguerite’s face in his mind’s eye.

Earlier that evening, before the orchestra arrived, Josie checked her hemline one last time in her aunt’s
mirror, Marguerite behind her.

“You look quite the young lady, Josephine. No wonder your
Mr. Johnston does not forget you.” She smoothed a bit of lace at Josie’s
neckline and said, “Hold still a moment.” Marguerite chose a crystal atomizer
from her dresser and sprayed her best perfume on Josie’s shoulders.

Josie inhaled deeply. “That is the most wonderful scent. “

“Of course, now you will have to work even harder to keep
Mr. Johnston at bay,” Marguerite said.

“I wish he’d follow you around all night instead,” Josie
said.

“Not an unpleasant prospect,
chérie
, in spite of your
assessment of his charms.” She adjusted her bosom in the push-up bodice of her
gown. “Those wonderful big hands of his,” she said.

Josie had never noticed Albany’s hands. If pressed for a
compliment, she might have mentioned that he always seemed very clean.

“Shall we go down?” Marguerite said.

As the guests mingled, Josie kept her eye on the door for
Bertrand’s arrival. The orchestra played for the few who were ready to dance so
early in the evening, and Josie’s foot tapped as she sat on a sofa. There’d be
no forgetting she was in mourning this time, but next season in New Orleans,
she meant to make up for the dancing she’d missed.

Her companion of the last party, Alphonse Bardot, came in
with his old father on his arm. Alphonse nodded and smiled at Josie before he
settled the old man on a sofa with his friends, then he came to her and bowed.

“Mademoiselle Josephine, I’m happy to see you again.”

She held out her hand and asked, “Will you sit with me,
Monsieur?”

He spread the tails of his coat and took the yellow silk
chair next to her. “You look lovely tonight.”

She put her fan in her lap and smiled. “Were you at the
races in Metairie this past week?”

As amusing as Alphonse was, Josie watched the guests arrive.
Bertrand was late, as always. Now and then, when Thomas the butler emerged from
the pantry, she would catch sight of Phanor uncorking bottles of wine. She
wanted to show him she had not worn the beauty spot. And she wanted to tell him
his fiddle-playing was at least as good as these New Orleans musicians’.

Albany Johnston arrived with his sister Abigail on his arm.
He had continued to attend Josie at every occasion since she’d turned him down.
Josie wondered how he could bear the awkwardness, but he made no further
mention of his suit -- perhaps he was a patient man. They had become almost
comfortable with one another again.

When Albany and Abigail joined Josie in her corner of the
room, she introduced them. “Do you know Alphonse Bardot?” Alphonse stood and
bowed to Abigail, then held out his hand to the American gentleman.
Interesting, Josie thought, how we Creoles are adopting the
américain
handshake rather than the
américains
learning to kiss.

Abigail, in blue gown with yards and yards of ruffles,
fluttered her blue eyes at Alphonse. When the orchestra resumed, he invited
Abigail to dance, and Josie was left with her suitor.

Josie struggled for a suitable topic of conversation. “How
do you think the cane will sell this year?” she said.

Albany’s small smile was pained. “I don’t believe you are
really interested in cane, Josephine.”

She forced a laugh. “Well, I know I should be.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you what the brokers are saying,” and he
launched into a technical discussion of futures and markets. Josie really did
listen the first ten minutes, but her attention drifted to the door every time
it opened. Wasn’t Bertrand coming?

Alphonse’s father interrupted Albany’s discourse. “My son is
enjoying himself, Mademoiselle,” the old man said, “and I leave him in your
delightful company. Perhaps, however, you could find your aunt for me to bid
her good night.”

“Of course, Monsieur. I’ll bring her to you.”

Marguerite should be easy to spot in her green gown, Josie
thought, a jewel among the partiers, but she wasn’t on the dance floor, nor in
the parlor, nor on the balcony. Maybe she was consulting with Thomas in the
pantry.

When Josie swung the pantry door inward, she began to say,
“Thomas, have you seen my --?” But it wasn’t Thomas she saw.

The heat between Marguerite and Phanor was unmistakable,
even to one so inexperienced as Josie, and the guilt in Phanor’s eyes gave him
away even if his mouth on her aunt’s had not.

Josie closed the pantry door and stood trembling, her whole
body aflame with indignation. How could he? she fumed. Marguerite was a married
woman. With three children. And old. It was true then, what they said about
Cajuns and women. She blinked back hot tears. Well. Well, it was nothing to her
what Phanor DeBlieux did.

She wouldn’t think of it again. Not now, anyway. With a
shake of her head, as if she could clear it of the image of Phanor’s hand
pressing her aunt’s back, she took a breath and re-entered the party. She had
duties to perform.

Josie made her aunt’s excuses to Monsieur Bardot, and she
and Albany walked with him to the door. Turning back into the party, Josie saw
her drab cousin Violette, she of the long nose and discontented expression,
sitting alone and forlorn.

With a hostess’s mindfulness, Josie led Albany to Violette’s
seat. “Mademoiselle Violette, Mr. Albany Johnston. Violette is my cousin,
Albany. You two have a lot in common, you know. Her father spent several years
in New York, and he is now a broker here in New Orleans.”

“Indeed?” Albany sat down next to Violette without ceremony.
“New York is my home. Or rather it was. I am a Louisianan, now. And your
father, he deals in cane?”

Violette found her tongue, and the two of them launched into
a knowledgeable discussion of the business world in New Orleans. Josie wondered
if her plain cousin appealed to Albany more than the beauties at the Blue
Ribbon. He certainly seemed interested in her remarks about the inner workings
of finance.

The parlor door opened. Bertrand, at last.

He entered the party as if he owned the room, aware he
commanded the attention of every female eye. His mouth drew up on one side in a
slightly amused smile at the momentary stillness of the party. Oncle Sandrine
offered him a flute of champagne and the two of them joined a group of men who
shared their love of gaming, men who thought nothing of tossing the deed to
some lesser property on the table to cover a bet.

 Josie circled the room, speaking to this guest and that,
but watching Bertrand every moment. He stood in the gallery door, the breeze
hardly ruffling his thick hair tied in the back with a black satin ribbon. He’d
lost weight, and his face showed the vitality of days spent in the sun. Here
was a
man
, not a groping boy raw from the bayous. Her gaze drifted to
the pantry door and darted away. Her jaw tightening, she reminded herself that
what Phanor DeBlieux did was no concern of hers.