Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (11 page)

      
As Rafael guided her through the chaos of sights and sounds, Deborah followed like a bewildered child, half-frightened, half-fascinated. She heard several French dialects and the crude English of the mountain men known as Kaintucks, but she could also discern Spanish and Portuguese, even Greek and Italian.

      
A strange, ear-ringed man dressed in sailor's garb spoke to his companion in a Levantine tongue while both gazed at Deborah's exotic silvery hair with open admiration. A wizened old black man carrying a brilliantly feathered parrot in a cage nearly collided with two Ursuline nuns who were walking lockstep with beads swinging and white headdresses nodding. The parrot squawked in a completely unknown language. Deborah held tightly to her husband's arm as he signaled for an open carriage.

      
Rafael had already explained to her that although his family knew they were arriving on the
Blue Lightning
, the docking schedule was erratic because of spring storms. They were nearly a week early and no one would be at the wharf to meet them.

      
“It isn't far from here to our town house,” Rafael explained as their hired carriage driver started out slowly.

      
Deborah watched as two statuesque quadroon women with baskets balanced gracefully on their heads regally ignored the crude patois of an African vendor. The flower stalls took her breath away. Spanish jasmine, violets and pale creamy magnolia blossoms were interspersed with deep crimson roses.

      
Rafael watched her childlike awe, delighted with the effect his exotic city was having on his Boston lady. “My parents' house is near the old square. The area on the Mississippi bordered by Canal, Rampart, and Esplanade was first called the French Quarter by the Americans, but now even the Creoles use the term. We live on Royal Street. The lower half of the old quarter is the most elegant.”

      
Deborah gazed up at the galleries with their lacy ironwork. “Why are all the living quarters situated on the upper floors with carriage entrances on the ground level?” She could see central courtyards through the narrow gateways that allowed access to the houses.

      
“The ocean keeps trying to claim us, my love,” he replied. “You see, the original builders of our city didn't consider how low the land here is—the river is higher than the city and drainage must go inland toward Lake Pontchartrain to the northeast. There are no cellars in New Orleans.”

      
Just then, the loud nasal twang of an auctioneer caught Deborah's attention. They were cutting across Chartres Street where a long, open building was packed with people who thronged out onto the sidewalks, called banquettes. Inside, on a raised platform, Deborah could see a long row of black people, several large men in chains, as well as numerous women and children. A young woman, obviously pregnant and gripping a small child by the hand, stood by the auctioneer's side. As he extolled her virtues, several white men came up onto the platform and began to examine her with the crude thoroughness that Deborah could compare only to the way her father's stable man might check a horse.

      
Their carriage was stalled in the crowd, and their driver swore in an Irish brogue, urging his horses through the press. Oblivious to all else, Deborah stared at the loathsome spectacle of the auction. “Are they selling her in that condition?” she whispered.

      
Noting her pallor and realizing her Northern sensibilities were appalled by the seamier side of the South's “peculiar institution,” Rafael uttered a silent oath. “This is the Maspero Exchange, Deborah. It's the largest and best slave auction in the country. Every kind of black is sold here, those wild from Africa, skilled artisans, yes, even pregnant women. It's a fact of life, I'm afraid.” He shrugged dismissively as the carriage once more started to move, leaving the disquieting scene behind.

      
Rafael hoped the more pleasing sights of the city would distract Deborah's attention, but she doggedly pursued the subject. “But—but, they were examining her teeth and touching her belly as if she were a mare about to foal.” She was aghast at her own crudity, speaking of things no Boston lady should ever mention aloud; but she was even more aghast at what she had just witnessed. “What must that child think, having his mother humiliated so publicly?”

      
“The child is a slave, the son of a slave,” Rafael answered flatly. “He doesn't think at all.”

      
“How can you know that? He is a human being. Rafael, do you go to those awful things to buy women and children?” Deborah's face had lost its pallor and was taking on the rosy hue of indignation.

      
“No, of course not. That's what we have hired help for. In the rare instances we need additional people, Kent Austin, our overseer, attends to the purchases.”

      
“How many slaves does the Flamenco family own?” she asked hesitantly.

      
He shrugged carelessly, having never really had occasion to tally the number. “In town, about a dozen, I suppose. At the plantation, perhaps five hundred. It is one of the largest sugar plantations in Louisiana.” Rafael smiled, trying to change the subject. “Wait until you see the town house. I'm sure you'll like it and the summer house on Lake Pontchartrain.”

      
“It must take a lot of servants to keep two homes running,” she said uncertainly, once more overwhelmed by the extent of his wealth. Her father had told her the Flamencos were one of the South's richest families. Although the Manchesters were among Boston's moneyed elite, such conspicuous displays of wealth were unknown in her world.

      
Trying to soothe her, Rafael said, “Deborah, I know your discomfort with the idea of slavery, but you must remember that the Creoles treat their people with kindness and provide for them in illness and old age a good deal better than your New England mill owners do their paid laborers.”

      
“I've heard that before,” she snapped, hating his patronizing tone. “Tell me, when is the last time you heard of a mill owner breaking up a family by selling one of them?”

      
His face darkened. “The Flamencos don't sell families apart, Deborah. Anyway, there is no legal marriage among the blacks, and according to law no child below the age of ten can be separated from his mother.”

      
Her eyes widened. “What makes you think it would hurt a mother less to lose an eleven-year-old than a ten-year-old?”

      
He shrugged a trifle more uncomfortably now. “I never thought about it, Deborah, because our blacks have been with us for generations. I'm not responsible for abuses largely perpetrated by American businessmen and plantation owners. You're going to make your home here as my wife, so you must accept our customs.” There was finality in his last words, spoken as they pulled up in front of an elegant three-story building with two tiers of wrought-iron galleries circling it.

      
Rafael paid the driver and then gave Deborah a reassuring kiss on the cheek, escorting her inside the wide double doors at street level. A large spiral staircase of beautiful wrought iron was situated at the end of the long, narrow hallway. Off to one side, beyond the stairs, the patio was partially visible.

      
As he helped her negotiate the steep steps, she looked out at the large courtyard where a musical fountain spilled its sparkling water from a jug held by a cherubic Grecian statue. Palm trees shaded the old rust colored bricks from the scorching morning sun. “Oh, it's lovely, Rafael.”

      
Unmindful of the beauty around him, Rafael steered her to a large set of double doors in the center of the gallery. Opening one, he called, “Papa, Mama, the prodigal returns a week early with his lovely bride!”

      
A tall, gray-haired black man, impeccably dressed in the black broadcloth livery of a butler, appeared in response to his raucous greeting. Upon seeing Rafael, his wizened face creased into a wide grin. “Master Rafael, welcome back and a special welcome to your lady. Congratulations, sir.”

      
Watching the animated exchange carried on in French, Deborah was suddenly struck by the fact that the Creole slaves would speak a French patois, not the strange English dialect she had heard on shipboard and in the North.

      
“Deborah, this is Antoine. He rules this household with an iron hand,” Rafael said fondly.

      
Deborah nodded, exchanging a warm smile with the old man. Just then a joyous shriek and a string of French endearments rent the air as a tiny plump woman with dark chestnut hair flew into Rafael's arms. Celine Adele Flamenco hugged her tall son who spun her like a doll through the air in a dizzying circle. When her feet finally touched the ground once more, she continued to chatter and hang on to his arm until he gently and laughingly turned her attention to his wife.

      
Madame Flamenco's dark blue eyes turned cold despite the fixed smile on her pouty red mouth. Deborah felt a ripple of apprehension but forced it aside and smiled her warmest. “I am so pleased to meet you, madam,” she said simply, noticing the way the much shorter woman took in her tall, slender figure, as if measuring her womanly attributes and finding them lacking.

      
“You do speak French. Rafael wrote us so, but I feared he exaggerated as he is wont to do, naughty boy,” she added aside to him in a coquettish manner. “Of course, this was all so sudden, we were not prepared for our only son to bring a bride home, especially one from so far away.”

      
“Boston was still in the United States last time I checked, Mama,” Rafael replied with a smile. “You needn't worry about our living arrangements. We'll just move into my old apartment.”

      
Deborah was certain Madame Flamenco was less concerned with the living arrangements than with having a Yankee daughter-in-law foisted upon her.

      
“Well, home at last with your new wife,” a smooth, well-cultivated baritone voice intoned from the far end of the parlor. Claude Adrien Flamenco strolled across the oak parquetry. His curly black hair was sprinkled with gray and his face creased with fine lines that gave evidence of overindulgence in liquor and late hours. Nevertheless, he was still a handsome man.

      
His appraisal of Deborah was even more open than his wife's had been. He reached for her hand and saluted it in the French manner. Although his eyes surveyed her with admiration, Deborah could tell he was just as dismayed as Celine about their son's hasty marriage to a Yankee. “What do you think of our city so far?” he queried smoothly.

      
“It's different from Boston,” she replied carefully, “but just as beautiful, in its own distinct fashion.”

      
“Deborah has hardly had time to see enough of New Orleans to appreciate her new home, Papa,” Rafael interjected impatiently.

      
“Perhaps, it would be best if she were to take a rest during the mid-afternoon heat, dear heart,” his mother said sweetly. “I can see our weather does not agree,” she added to Deborah, noting her dampened hairline and flushed face. “Of course, we shall have a whole new wardrobe made for her, befitting our climate. Those fabrics are far too heavy and cut too plainly. Perhaps something with tiered ruffles and some lace, yes, in brighter colors, too.” Celine chattered on as she led the way into another sitting room.

      
When they reached the door, Rafael laughingly took Deborah's arm and said to his mother, “I can show my wife to her new quarters, Mama. Why not send Tonette to unpack for Deborah? By the way, where is Lenore?”

      
“Off to tea with Anna du May,” Celine answered vaguely. “She'll be home for her afternoon rest shortly. She'll be so thrilled to see you, dear heart.”

      
“I'll come back as soon as I get Deborah settled in, Mama.” He nodded to his father as well, dreading the grilling he knew would be forthcoming.

      
The house seemed to go on forever with a long hall and twisting labyrinths of rooms that encircled the patio. Deborah caught glimpses of crystal chandeliers, beveled mirrors set with Louis XIV frames, mahogany furniture, and marble fireplaces. Everywhere the parquetry floors gleamed underfoot, offset with thick imported carpets.

      
“Where in all this maze is your room, Rafael?” She struggled to keep her bearings.

      
He laughed. “Not room, darling, rooms—I have had my own separate bachelor quarters at the rear of the house for several years now.” With a flourish, he led her outside, onto the gallery and around another corner where an adjacent building was connected to the main dwelling. Opening the door to his apartment, he reached down and scooped her up. “A quaint old Yankee custom, I believe,” he breathed into her hair as he carried her over the threshold.

      
When he set her down, he did not release her, but gathered her close for a lingering kiss. Feeling alone and vulnerable in the large, hostile house, she returned his embrace fiercely. In his arms she was loved and safe.

      
He gradually broke the sealing kiss. With labored breath he said, “If we keep this up, I'll not return to report to my father and you'll miss your nap. Now, what do you think of the old place? I know it's in need of a woman's touch, but you can do whatever you like with it.”

      
“It is a bit dark and masculine; but I love the oak furniture,” she replied, looking about the spacious parlor furnished with two large leather sofas, a wall of bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and several massive dark oak chests and high-backed chairs. It was actually a combination library, study, and parlor. Adjacent to it was a small sitting room, and across the hall she could see a formal dining room.