Ciji Ware (60 page)

Corlis heard the cacophony of voices shouting on all sides, but her eyelids remained heavy as two lead weights. A horse’s whinny told her she was out of doors, and several unpleasant odors she was inhaling—over and above the piercingly sharp fragrance placed beneath her nostrils—confirmed that she was lying in a muddy street dotted with horse manure.

Julia Street!

Now
she remembered! Julien LaCroix’s team of horses had shied and thrown her from her precarious perch on the driver’s box.

Oh, dear God! What had happened to that poor man who had been nearly delirious with yellow fever?

Corlis fluttered open her eyelids and found herself staring into the wrinkled countenance of a man with grizzled sideburns growing from beneath his ears to the tip of his chin.

“Dr. Rayburn, at your service, ma’am,” he announced, his breath laced with the smell of the port or claret he’d consumed at his last meal. “How’s your head feeling, my dear? You’ve had a nasty thump, I’m afraid, when you pitched yourself out of the carriage.”

“I did not pitch myself out, sir,” Corlis countered archly. “Those wild beasts bolted, and the reins shot right out of my hands!” She struggled to sit up but sank back, moaning slightly. “Ooooh… I’ve quite a headache.”

“I’m not surprised,” replied Dr. Rayburn. “We’ve taken your companion upstairs to your apartments—”

“How is he?” she interrupted anxiously.

“Not good.” Dr. Rayburn leaned forward and whispered into Corlis’s ear, “And I did not mention to your neighbors the malady that I suspect he’s suffering from. However, I suppose I should tell
you
,
since by necessity, you’re hosting him in your home at present.”

“I know what his malady is as I’ve suffered and survived it myself,” she replied in a low voice, glancing up at the handful of curious bystanders who had gathered around. She smiled at one of the men. “Please, sir…” she said with energy that depleted her just as quickly as she had summoned it. “Would you be so kind as to help the doctor to get me upstairs? I believe I can walk, if I may lean on both of you.”

Fortunately Corlis had not broken any bones, but was merely bruised on her right side, and she continued to suffer a headache for the rest of the afternoon. Julien had been placed in the four-poster bed in her upstairs bedchamber and lay prone, like a corpse, with his eyes shut and beads of perspiration dotting his brow.

After Dr. Rayburn departed, she dutifully sponged Julien’s forehead, wondering if the man would last the night. She had instructed her sons and Hetty to take refuge with a neighbor.

As for her husband, Corlis couldn’t have cared less what happened to the rogue. Randall had obviously spent the last night or two in the stews of Girod Street. Let him remain there! A note on her front door downstairs advised him as much.

A soft knock on the bedroom door roused her from her gloomy thoughts. A handsome, dark-haired young man poked his head into the shuttered bedchamber.

“Lafayette Marchand here,” he announced softly. “I let myself in. Mr. Bates said it was an emergency.” He glanced at Julien’s still form. “Julien?” He looked questioningly at Corlis.

“I’m Corlis McCullough. I found your brother-in-law on Canal Street… taken ill.”

“With what?” Marchand asked, suspicion clouding his chiseled features.

“The doctor and I both believe it’s yellow fever.”

“Good Lord!”

“Marchand?” said a weak voice. “Is that you?”

Julien struggled to sit up, only managing to balance himself on his elbows.

“Yes.”

“I must have you write a codicil to my will. I must…”

“Sh-h, there now,” Corlis said soothingly, easing Julien back onto the pillows. “I will get pen and paper and will write exactly as you tell me then your brother-in-law can cosign.”

“Thank you.” Julien sighed.

Marchand eased his lanky body into the sickroom but stood with his back against the wall, a few feet from the door. “Is my sister, Adelaide, all right out at Reverie?”

“I have no idea,” Julien murmured. “She set out to find you…”

“I’ve been… out of touch,” Marchand said, and there was no need for him to explain that he’d been attending the competitions at Metairie Race Course outside New Orleans proper. “My butler sent word to me after Bates called at Dauphine Street, and I came directly here. Is Adelaide ill, too?” he asked again with a look of alarm.

“In her mind… and soul…” Julien whispered. “We have wounded each other greatly, when that was not our… intent.” Corlis pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat with pen and paper, ready to receive Julien’s labored dictation. “This is my last will and testament… before… these witnesses,” he said, breathing with difficulty. With the economy of a dying man, Julien bequeathed Reverie Plantation to his only surviving white male cousin, Edouard Picot, of Baton Rouge, “allowing my wife a lifetime tenancy at Reverie, perhaps in the
garçoniere
,
and a yearly allowance of eight hundred reals, should she survive me.”

Corlis called a halt to Julien’s strained efforts in order to sponge the perspiration that was pouring from his brow. Then she brought a glass of water to his parched lips. Marchand remained a silent witness to the unfolding drama.

“Drink just a little,” she urged. “It will help you speak.”

“Yes… thank you,” Julien replied weakly. Then he appeared to summon every ounce of his draining energy. “I grant my share of the Canal Street holdings to my infant son, Julien LaCroix, a Free Person of Color… on the condition that his mother will also leave him her share of said buildings, upon her death, and that during her lifetime she will rely upon the wise counsel of Joseph Dumas, the tailor, who is a full partner with Paul Tulane and the rest of our consortium.”

Corlis heard Lafayette Marchand’s swift intake of breath.

“You choose a Free Man of Color to guide your affairs, rather than your
lawyer
!”

“Joseph Dumas is a fine man,” Julien whispered hoarsely, “as is his son, whom I should hope would one day make a match with Martine’s Lisette.” Unbidden, Corlis noted this request in the will, for she knew that Free People of Color, by order of the Code Noir, were permitted to marry only other free blacks.

“This is not
done
,”
Marchand muttered. “These family holdings should remain with the LaCroixs and be administered through proper channels by trustees.”

“My son, Julien… my half sister, Lisette… and Martine
are
LaCroixs, you imbecile,” Julien replied with astonishing verve.

Julien sank into the mound of pillows and fell into a paroxysm of coughing. Corlis quickly brought the glass of water to his lips, and in a few moments, visibly weakened by this attack, Julien attempted to continue.

“The warehouse, as well as profits from the sale… of the remaining cane and cotton therein… shall be administered solely by Martine Fouché… who is a capable woman of business,” he declared in a rasping voice while Corlis frantically scribbled his directives. He glanced across the bedchamber at his brother-in-law, who remained with his back plastered against the wall. “To my wife’s brother, Lafayette Marchand, I bequeath all my horses and carriages.”

Lafayette’s eyes widened with astonishment, but he did not interrupt.

“My brother-in-law has always been… a fine appreciator of equines and… of quality flesh.”

Corlis stared at the lawyer, recalling the bright eyes and expectant feminine smiles ringing the dance floor on the night of the sugarcane festival. Was this debonair bachelor to take his place among yet another generation of gentlemen who married among their class, only to have their pleasure in one of the cottages dotting Rampart Street?

Corlis Bell McCullough slowly shook her head. The convoluted ways of these Frenchies were too dark and mysterious for
her
simple soul, she thought, shifting her gaze to Julien’s sunken cheeks, whose hollows hinted at the cadaver he would soon become.

“Is there anything else you desire me to write, Julien?” Corlis inquired softly.

“Yes…” Julien said hoarsely. “I wish my estate to grant you, Corlis, a small stipend for your kindness to me this day.”

“You are a good man, Julien,” Corlis said softly. “I will use it toward educating my two sons.”
And, perhaps, one day finding a way to take them far, far away from this dreadful swamp!

But “Bless you,” was all she added.

“Marchand, see that this is done. Put that down, Corlis,” LaCroix croaked. “And anyone who mounts a challenge to this will shall, as a consequence, receive one picayune. And please write this: ‘Martine… despite everything… I loved you without prejudice… or reservation…’”

Another fit of coughing erupted from deep in his chest. Exhausted, he stretched out his trembling right hand toward Corlis, his clawlike gesture signaling that he wished to sign the makeshift document. That accomplished, he sank back against the perspiration-soaked bed linen.

“Sign! Both… of… you. Now!”

Corlis hastily scratched her signature and rose from Julien’s bedside. When she crossed the room to stand next to Lafayette Marchand, she sincerely doubted that he would serve as the necessary second witness.

However, she was mistaken.

“My sister has been properly provided for,” he murmured. “I will sign.”

By the time Corlis and Lafayette Marchand looked up from Julien’s will, the waxen countenance of the short-lived owner of Reverie Plantation told them both that the last written testament they all had just signed would immediately come into full force.

Julien LaCroix, age thirty-one, was dead.

Chapter 26

May 29

Corlis’s nose twitched.

Something was burning.

Off to one side, she heard the faintest sound of a tinkling bell. The pungent odor grew stronger and stronger, until she forced open her eyes. Then she sat bolt upright on the chaise longue in her shadowed bedroom. Dylan Fouché was leaning over her, a silver bell held in one hand and a smoldering white feather in the other.

“Welcome back,” he said with a worried expression.

“What are you
doing
?”
she demanded, batting away Dylan’s hand from beside her face.

“Well, I could hardly use smellin’ salts to bring you round, now could I?” Dylan replied peevishly. “Since it was smellin’ salts that put you in the trance in the
first
place! I used these.” He rang the little silver bell in one hand and fanned the white chicken feather back and forth with the other in order to extinguish the small flame that continued to consume it. “I’m not exactly an expert in this particular aspect of psychic phenomena,” he confessed with a studied show of modesty, “but I remembered readin’ somewhere that a burnt feather was a handy alternative for women needin’ to be revived after sufferin’ the vapors.”

“Well… it worked,” Corlis replied ruefully, swinging her feet from chaise longue to floor.

“It sure took a while,” Dylan said, frowning. “You had me worried there when you didn’t come out of it at first.”

“Boy, have I got a doozy of a headache.” She recalled the vision of Julien LaCroix, lying still and cold, on a bed very much like the one looming on the other side of the room. “Whatever trance you just induced turned out to be a big-time woo-woo experience.” She cocked her head in Dylan’s direction. “Well… I suppose you’re waiting for me to treat you to a very nice dinner?”

“I was thinkin’ you’d never ask,” Dylan replied with a grin. “But first… what
happened
?
Did you learn any more about the saga of Joseph Dumas?”

“Not about
him
specifically,” Corlis replied, discouraged.

“Enough to link his family to the city council president’s?”

“Maybe,” she replied. “Joseph Dumas had a son who worked with him in the tailoring business and whom Julien hoped would one day marry Lisette, the daughter of
your
ancestor, Martine Fouché.”

“Well, at least we know that Joseph Dumas had someone to carry on his family line, but too bad you couldn’t make a direct connection to Edgar closer than that,” Dylan said. “We’ll have to show a stronger link than merely the name Dumas to get ol’ Edgar to wax nostalgic and vote against demolition, ’cause then he’d have to give up whatever might be comin’ his way from Grover Jeffries’s coffers.”

“Right,” Corlis agreed, and added, “I
can
confirm that poor Julien LaCroix wrote a new will just before he died of yellow fever. At least that’s what I
saw
.
There might be an official way of nailing down a fact like that through parish death records or wills filed with the state or something.” She allowed Dylan to take her arm while she rose unsteadily from the chaise longue. “I’ll fill you in on the rest at dinner, if you’ll swear to absolute secrecy, Mr. Wizard.”