Ciji Ware (31 page)

“Monsieur LaCroix, this is neither the time nor the place—” Althea began.

Julien maintained possession of the older woman’s hand and smiled confidently. “What better time or place to put our cards directly on the table?” he asked. “I shall not make a long story of why I have come here today.” He smiled faintly, his trim mustache and intense eyes riveting. “I would be deeply honored to become your daughter’s patron and to establish a bank account in her name with funds ample enough to provide for her complete comfort, as well as yours, Althea, and dear Lisette’s.”

Althea and her daughter traded startled looks. Then Martine’s mother pursed her lips and cocked her head in the bargaining stance routinely adopted by the mother of a desirable quadroon.

“Since we are to place our cards squarely on the table, monsieur,” Althea declared skeptically, “I must make mention of the Canal Street property toward which you have employed every device possible to wrench from my daughter’s possession. How does it figure in this
generous
offer you are making?” Her slight tone of sarcasm was not lost on Julien.

“What of Canal Street?” he replied with a shrug. “I have had time to think at length on that particular subject,” he continued slowly, reflecting to himself upon the long, arduous trip downriver he had just completed. He turned to face Martine. “I had preferred to exchange it for something of equal or greater value, but that apparently is not satisfactory to you. I propose, then, to become an investor of sorts, joining with others, including you, Martine, if you will allow it. I offer to take the initiative along with my banker, André Duvallon, to raise the funds necessary to build on the land. I will, of course, participate in any profits—but then,
so will you
,
in even greater measure. Your name will be on the deed, not mine.”

Julien was acutely aware that Martine and her mother had taken in every word. He had just made the kind of offer no other suitor was likely to put forth: his full financial patronage of the little Fouché family,
plus
his willingness to allow Martine to keep her property in her name without a court challenge. In addition he was willing to buy into the project by supplying the capital necessary to build on the site.

“And what benefit do you hope to derive from this, monsieur?” Althea asked, her dark-brown eyes alight with interest.

“A one-hundred-year lease on the warehouse I propose to build at the back of the property, fronting on Common Street, on the downriver end of the block. My business needs more storage for the crops I produce on the Reverie Plantation. It’s that simple.”

He watched the faces of Martine and her mother, noting their surprise. He was a bit surprised himself that he had come up with such a profitable solution. Albert had indeed managed to get him to New Orleans in under three hours. At dawn’s light Julien had taken a long walk from the wharves up to Canal Street and along Common Street to the rear of the open tract that Martine now owned. There was plenty of room for a large warehouse at the back, as well as for a block of row houses flanking Canal Street, with commercial spaces allotted to the first floors under an arcade.

He could already envision the entire development—built in the popular Greek Revival style—and he wagered that the fledgling firm of Jeffries & McCullough would dearly love to undertake such a commission at a rock-bottom price. Others were bound to want to participate. His mind was churning with the names of young men who might wish to become partners in such a project: the merchant Paul Tulane, for one. William Avery of Avery Island was another possibility. His banker, André Duvallon, had informed him that Jacob Levy Florence was always eager to get in on such forward-thinking projects. Even Celeste Marigny Livaudais, a Creole doyenne who had played the silent partner in many an investment in the city, would clamber to be part of this effort.

When one took the issue of race out of the equation, it
was
simple.

The Canal Street project would represent the
nouvelle
New Orleans, the blending of cultures that the commerce-crazed Americans had brought about, whether his father approved or not!

“And you are willing to put all these grand promises in writing?” Althea asked with a sidelong glance at Martine.

“Oh, indeed I am,” Julien replied softly. “Signed and witnessed in as legally binding an agreement as the deed Henri Girard drew up for Martine.” He then turned his full attention to the woman for whose sake he would grant such largesse. “On my journey downriver last night, I thought deeply on this subject of our potential liaison, Martine. You may be surprised to learn that I have experienced a revelation,” Julien continued in a tone that had become both serious and somber. “I wish us to be
equal
in all things.” His voice suddenly throbbed with an emotional intensity that astounded even him. “In business, of course, but in our personal relations as well. It is the only way for us to proceed.”

Martine’s eyes widened and her voluptuous mouth parted a fraction. For a long moment she gazed at him in silence, her chin lifting slightly, a sign that she questioned the sincerity of his unorthodox declaration.

“Let us remember, monsieur, that I am the granddaughter of a slave,” she replied at length. “And though my daughter, Lisette, has blue eyes and pale skin, we are of African descent, sir. White men—especially white men who are also French Creoles—are apt never to forget that reality. Henri did not make such grandiose statements as to equality, and neither ought you. It is better to be absolutely honest in such affairs.”

Her eyes bore into his, and whatever secret card he might have been tempted to play later in this game was no longer of any value.

“I may have behaved in a grandiose manner to you previously,” he said, amazed at how naked he felt before her piercing gaze. “Yes, Martine, you are a woman of African blood… but I have found, to my regret, that the blood in one’s veins is no guarantee of tenderness, compassion—or a capacity for love. Yet, I believe you have those capacities flowing in your veins—as do I.”

“And your wife?” Althea asked in a steady tone of voice. “What of her? Has she no capacity for… tenderness?”

“Ah… yes… Adelaide,” Julien murmured. “Let us speak plainly. Unfortunately—and for reasons that I cannot fathom—she has, from our wedding day, found marriage’s intimacies, both of the heart and of the flesh, utterly repugnant. And it is
love
I desire to have in my life! Love and loyalty. As a LaCroix, I have allowed others to deprive me of it for too long.”

Martine arched a perfect eyebrow but remained silent.

Julien smiled faintly. “You are startled to hear me talk of love, not commerce?” he asked, gazing from mother to daughter. “But we are French, are we not? And since I returned from Paris, I have found to my surprise that I long for love and am willing to give it back in full measure, my dear Martine. I have lived without it my entire life, and when I see the wreckage it has wrought, I am compelled to remedy such an unhappy state of affairs if I can.”

“Monsieur LaCroix,” Althea began firmly.

However, Julien ignored the presence of the domineering older woman. Instead, he seized Martine’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I humbly ask you to allow me the privilege of coming to your home and taking you as my full partner in life, as well as in commerce. And for this,” he said, gently stroking the honeyed skin of Martine’s cheek with his pale fingertips, “I shall honor and keep you always—till death do us part.”

His father would not order his life anymore, Julien thought with a flush of triumph, visualizing the helpless condition to which Etienne LaCroix was now consigned. There was no need to wrest the land from Martine by forging his father’s mark on legal papers. He, Julien, was finally free to seize what would make him happy… what would give him exquisite pleasure. He was now free to run the Reverie enterprises as he saw fit. At long last he was at liberty to live in whatever fashion and among whatever company he chose. And as far as society and the old buzzards in their black cassocks lurking about the confessional booths at Saint Louis Cathedral were concerned, let them be damned!

From this day forward, Julien swore, as he removed his family’s gold crest ring from his finger and placed it on Martine’s, he would give himself to love.

***

Lisette Fouché’s blue eyes were round and full of questions. She stared into the mirror at the reflection of her grandmother as the older woman secured the youngster’s lustrous black braids with white satin bows. She caught a glimpse of their two valises, filled with the clothes they would need on their trip to the little family cabin on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain.

In the parlor, the little girl could hear the murmuring voices of her mother and the dark-haired gentleman with the black mustache and kind eyes to whom she had curtsied a half hour earlier. Monsieur LaCroix had given her the adorable puppy some months back. This day she watched the gentleman pull out a raft of official documents. As soon as her mother and Monsieur LaCroix began signing them, sitting side by side on the velveteen sofa, Grandmother Althea took Lisette firmly by the hand and steered her into the tiny bedchamber they shared at the back of the cottage.

And now that the ordeal of braiding Lisette’s hair was nearly accomplished, the little girl summoned the courage to ask, “Why are we going away,
Grandmère
?”

Her grandmother flashed one of her rare smiles and replied, “To give your
maman
and your new papa some time to themselves. Listen for the carriage to pull up front, Lisette. Monsieur LaCroix has sent his very own landau to take us to the cabin.”

“How long will we be away?” Lisette asked in a small voice, feeling homesick for her mother before she’d even stepped out of the cottage onto Rampart Street.

“Only a short while,” Althea replied reassuringly, patting her head. “We shall be back in the city long before Christmas.”

“And will we visit—”

“No!” Althea interrupted sharply. “I told you earlier, Lisette!” she reprimanded her granddaughter. “You are not to speak of him now, especially when Monsieur LaCroix is visiting us. And as for Henri Girard, he is in his grave, so he will not know if we pay our respects or not! You are to forget about all of that!”

“But he was my father,” Lisette exclaimed rebelliously. “They were both so kind to me!”

“That is true,” Althea conceded, holding her granddaughter’s chin and staring fiercely into her startled eyes. “But for your mother’s sake, and for our future, all that must remain in the past, and not ever spoken of from now on! It would upset Monsieur LaCroix to be reminded of that… that friendship. You must promise me,
ma petite
!
All depends upon it!”

Lisette saw something in her grandmother’s eyes that the older woman had never exhibited in her life: fear.

“But I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Althea Fouché pulled Lisette protectively against her silk bodice and cupped her head between her brown hands, her fingers digging into her granddaughter’s tightly braided hair.

“Perhaps sometime you will… but not today. Now do as I say and be a good girl. It’s for your future, too, Lisette.”

And with that her grandmother swiftly closed their two valises and seized Lisette’s pale hand in her darker one. She gently led the child to the door of the bedchamber. Then she turned and strode toward a portal that led to the back garden.

“But what about
maman
?”
Lisette exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “And Monsieur LaCroix? Mustn’t we be polite and say good-bye?”

“It is best if we just depart quietly,” Althea said brusquely. “Come, Lisette, the carriage has pulled up to the
banquette
outside. I’ll carry the valises, and you run along and fetch your puppy from the back garden and take him round to the front. We must leave your
maman
and Monsieur LaCroix in peace. You will see them both again, soon enough.”

***

In Martine’s bedchamber, ivory candles cast an umber glow from matching brass sconces that hung on either side of a small, unused fireplace. The surrounding whitewashed walls gleamed with a patina of burnished gold as twilight fell across the massive mahogany bed—a recent gift from Julien, built and carved by the talented chief carpenter at Reverie Plantation.

Out on Rampart Street a few people clustered on their front stoops, chatting quietly, hoping that a cool evening breeze would waft up from the river six blocks away. Occasionally a carriage wound its way down the narrow road, its harnesses jingling in a musical counterpoint to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.

Two porcelain cups of coffee sat on a silver tray, growing cold, despite the sultry weather penetrating the cottage’s thick walls. Julien filed the documents they’d signed earlier into a leather pouch and reflected soberly on their contents. The papers described his unorthodox personal and financial relationship with Martine Fouché—a partnership that would scandalize most of New Orleans should people ever hear of the finer details.