Ciji Ware (72 page)

“Webster’s grown strong as an ox, Mrs. Mac,” Edgar assured. “Mr. Bates says he’s the best stableboy he’s got!”

It had been nearly a decade since Corlis’s husband, Randall McCullough, had abruptly disappeared, along with his erstwhile partner, Ian Jeffries. Speculation was that they had escaped into the wilds of Texas, where bank examiners could not scrutinize their many past-due accounts. The bequest she’d received from Julien LaCroix on his deathbed had kept body and soul alive for her and her two sons until the boys were old enough each to seek employment. When Julien’s legacy had run out, she’d kept her small family together through the use of arithmetic skills she’d absorbed at Enoch Bell’s knee, and even managed to save a bit toward the time she could depart New Orleans for fairer climes.

“Well, I certainly hope the very best for you and the boys,” Joseph declared sincerely. With practiced hands the tailor smoothed the frock coat’s fabric over Edgar’s broad shoulders, marking wherever he thought a slight tuck was needed to make the jacket fit to perfection.

Corlis sighed and dabbed her damp brow with a lace handkerchief. She was happy to be leaving this ghastly swamp, but it would take a long time to find friends as loyal as the Dumases and Martine Fouché LaCroix—as Martine had styled herself in the wake of Julien LaCroix’s death and his generous bequest to her and her children.

“Webster and I shall miss you all dreadfully,” Corlis said soberly, “and Martine and her children, of course. However, I would be lying if I said I shall miss this horrid heat and humidity.”

Just then the door burst open, and a gangly youth with coffee-colored skin and straight black hair raced into the fitting room, followed by Webster McCullough, flushed of face and panting to keep up.

“Julien LaCroix!” scolded Joseph. “Does your mama know you’re tearin’ round the block like this?”

“And you, Webb,” Corlis admonished. She frowned at her son, as well as at Julien, the product of the liaison between Julien and Martine. “You two boys are supposed to be doing your sums and preparing for the spelling test I shall be giving you tomorrow. Now,
where
have you been, and what mischief have you been getting into?”

“My mama’s gettin’ dressed for the big ball,” Julien announced with a sullen expression. “Grandmama Althea don’t want us botherin’ her.”

“
Doesn’t
want you bothering her,” Corlis corrected him. “Your mama and I want you two boys to learn to speak proper English.”

“Right, Miz McCullough,” Julien agreed emphatically. “Grandmama Althea… she say ‘y’all run along and play.’ So, we’s
playin’
.”

And with that the two boisterous youths raced out the shop’s back entrance, slamming the door behind them.

Corlis sighed once more. Over the years she had grown very fond of Martine, although her mother, Althea, had proved to be as cold and as calculating a woman as Corlis had ever known. Martine Fouché LaCroix remained just as kindhearted and beautiful as ever, blessed with a voluptuousness that graces some women as they mature. She was now a woman of at least forty years old, although Corlis didn’t know her exact age. The stunning-looking quadroon was as much sought after as ever—both by Free Men of Color and by white Creoles. However, Martine had removed herself from the Salle d’Orleans and the Quadroon Balls to look after her two children, Lisette and Julien, and to supervise her holdings on Canal Street.

Corlis rose from her chair and drifted, cup in hand, to the shop window. A shining black carriage was pulling up alongside the
banquette
.
Its pair of sleek roan horses pawed the ground and shook their handsome heads, jangling their polished harnesses. The cab door opened, and out stepped a tall, extraordinarily elegant man, impeccably dressed in white tie, black broadcloth tail coat and trousers, top hat, and a magnificent black cape.

“My stars,” Corlis exclaimed, looking back over her shoulder at the Dumases. “That’s Lafayette Marchand, isn’t it? The late Adelaide LaCroix’s brother.” Marchand had received quite a fine inheritance from his sister—as well as his brother-in-law—when poor Adelaide had fallen from her horse the same day her husband had died, struck down by yellow fever before she could ever reach sanctuary with Lafayette in New Orleans.

Young Edgar Dumas stepped behind a screen in order to don his normal working attire.

“Is Mr. Marchand expected here for a fitting?” she inquired. “Though why the man would be outfitted so formally on such an errand is a mystery.”

Joseph Dumas nervously peered into his appointment book and declared in a relieved tone of voice, “
Mais, non…
he’s not scheduled. Ah! Look! He’s headed for a door down the block.”

Corlis’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she watched the dashing Lafayette Marchand saunter toward the back entrance to Martine’s flat above her sister Annette’s dressmaker’s shop.

“Why would he enter by the back door to Martine’s?” Corlis wondered aloud.

But the answer was obvious, she surmised with a start. The young lawyer who had inherited Julien LaCroix’s first-rate stable of horseflesh and won several rich purses this year at Metairie Race Course was probably secretly courting his brother-in-law’s former paramour. If Martine’s mother had anything to say about it, this blossoming liaison would cost the man a pretty picayune.

Would Martine Fouché LaCroix accept a steady patron for the third time in her life? Did she need or want a man to support her in a sumptuous fashion, in exchange for her… favors? Corlis was fully aware—as per Julien’s stated wishes in his will—that her friend was planning to host the finest wedding for her daughter, Lisette, and Edgar Dumas that the Free People of Color in New Orleans had ever witnessed. It was to be an expensive affair, an extravagance heaped on top of the cost of recently sending Lisette to France for a year of schooling—not to mention the price of outfitting her golden-skinned daughter in the best clothes Paris had to offer.

And now there was young Julien’s future for Martine to consider. The boy, whom Julien LaCroix had named heir to his Canal Street holdings, must be properly educated to be able to take over from his mother the running of this residential and commercial block of buildings. Martine was, to be sure, a woman of substance. However, considering her recent expenses, the upkeep of the slaves she owned, and her sumptuous manner of living, Corlis knew only too well that her friend was relatively cash poor.

But would it be prudent for Martine to replenish her coffers through a relationship with
Lafayette Marchand
,
of all people—a man infamous for wagering on horseflesh? And people still whispered about the shocking revelation that the notorious Mademoiselle Fouché had had intimate relations with the LaCroixs—father
and
son—and had borne a child by each of them. What a time the gossips would have had if the beautiful quadroon, with her pressing financial responsibilities, accepted Julien’s despised brother-in-law as her new patron.

Ah… these Frenchies!
Corlis thought, wondering what her strict, Scots-Presbyterian banker father would say if he knew the company she kept down here in the swamps of Louisiana. Who could fathom the mysterious ways of these native New Orleanians?

“Well… thank you for the coffee,” Corlis said cordially, setting her cup on the table where the latest fashion journals were laid out for the perusal of the Dumases’ customers. “I’ve put your week’s accounts on the desk in your office, Joseph. I hope you will find them satisfactory.”

“As always,” Joseph said with a slight bow, “I’m sure I will, Mrs. Mac. Good day to you.”

Corlis stepped outside the shop and felt the full force of the rising heat. Just then Lafayette Marchand turned from Martine’s door, and their eyes met. Corlis recalled the day, so many years ago, when they had witnessed, together, Julien’s torturous demise in the second-floor bedchamber of her house on Julia Street—that same, terrible week André Duvallon fired a bullet into his brain.

She paused to open her ruffled parasol beside the busy thoroughfare as an omnibus rolled past, its team of horses kicking up clods of dirt in the dusty street.

“Good day to you, Mrs. McCullough,” Marchand said.

“And to you,” Corlis replied, prepared to resume her passage down the street. Martine’s slave Elfie, stooped now with arthritis, opened the door. As Lafayette inclined his head politely, the man at least had the grace to flush with embarrassment. “Enjoy the ball, Monsieur Marchand,” Corlis couldn’t resist adding.

And who knew?
she reflected with a suppressed smile, continuing down the street. Perhaps one day there would be a child of Martine and Lafayette’s who would bear the name Marchand. Then again, Monsieur Marchand might well marry among his own set, and
those
children would be the progeny to carry on his line. With these Frenchies, who could predict
what
would happen?

My stars
, she thought, chuckling to herself as she rounded the corner to Canal Street, and her gaze glided from granite column to column along the grand block of buildings that came as close to a Greek temple as anything that Corlis Bell McCullough was likely to see. There was certainly
one
thing she had learned during her eighteen years in the Crescent City.

In New Orleans everybody who was anybody was related to
everyone else
!

In California, she prayed, life was bound to be different.

Chapter 32

June 2

Dylan and King peered cautiously into the deserted commercial space and called out, “Hello! Anyone in here?”

An eerie silence greeted them, along with the sight of light illuminating the rear of the empty office. The pair slowly moved farther into the room, sweeping the beam of their flashlight across the walls. Then Dylan said in a whisper, “Uh… oh… there she is. In the back… see?”

Corlis sat slumped over an old desk. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow.

“Well, what do we do
now
?”
King asked worriedly.

“Shhh… Let’s wait a few minutes, and see if she comes out of it.”

“Out of it?” King demanded in a hoarse whisper. “What’s
it
?”

“A self-induced trance.”

A half hour earlier, Corlis’s great-aunt and her escort, Dylan Fouché, had grown alarmed when they hadn’t spotted her among the noisy, rambunctious throng celebrating at Café LaCroix. Dylan hailed King, who walked into the smoke-wreathed music club with Lafayette Marchand. King had immediately introduced the visiting Californian to his older companion.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Marchand,” Margery said, extending her good arm in a firm handshake. The elderly lady was still attired in her tight-waisted suit and matching velvet turban. She peered through the café’s dim lighting to scrutinize Kingsbury Duvallon and asked abruptly, “Where do you suppose my niece could be, Mr. Duvallon—and why aren’t you two celebrating this victory together? The story’s over now. Where do you suppose that girl’s got to?”

King had glanced briefly at Lafayette and explained with a pained expression, “Well, it’s kinda a long story, Miss McCullough.” Then he shot a glance at Dylan and asked, “You got any ideas where Corlis could be?”

Dylan paused, scanning the darkened club, hoping to catch sight of her. “Yeah,” he drawled. “I ’spect I do.”

Leaving Margery in Lafayette’s care, the two men then set out to find Corlis. Dylan immediately suggested they head straight for the Selwyn buildings. Once they arrived at the 600 block of Canal Street, they made several wrong guesses before they spotted Corlis’s car and an unlocked door. Advancing toward the rear of the building, they found her with her head cradled in her arms. She appeared fast asleep. A piece of blue chalk rested in her right hand, and her ubiquitous shoulder bag lay at her left elbow. Dylan put two fingers at the pulse point on her neck.

“It’s steady,” he pronounced.

“Well, that’s something, at least,” King said worriedly. “What do you think? Maybe we should call a doctor.”

Dylan remained silent, staring down at the woman whose countenance in repose was so unlike her animated appearance on television. Then he said abruptly, “I think you should kiss her.”

“Do
what
?”

Dylan flashed a sly grin. “Ask her permission to
kiss
her,” he repeated. “Tell her that if she’s ready, she will begin to become aware of her surroundings… the sounds on the street… the temperature of the room, and so on. Then say that you and I are here waitin’ for her to come back to normal consciousness… and that you love her very much and want to show her so by kissin’ her.”

“Dylan!” King exclaimed. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?” He glanced down at Corlis with a troubled frown. “Look,
you’re
supposed to be the expert. What if I hurt her in some way? I want you to bring her out of this.”