Oppressed (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

Once the Man and Twice the
Child

Cecile LaNuit’s
Home
, Rue de
Rampart

New Orleans, 1852

I sat across from Edmond, who with his
cold, hard gaze, perfect posture, luxurious blue velvet coat, and
impeccable hair appeared to be the epitome of refinement and class.
I found it difficult to be at ease around him, but I reminded
myself to relax and took in the comforting sight and rich buttery
scent of the glorious candlelit feast that had been laid out for
us. Escargots a la Bourguignonne, Chateaubriand with Béarnaise
sauce, raw oysters, seafood gumbo and freshly baked bread were
arranged on heavy white china, while crystal flutes were filled to
the brim with Champagne Charlie.

I was ridiculously hungry and my stomach
was growling like an angry wolf, but nerves wouldn’t let me touch
any of the mouthwatering food because I was certain I would spill
some on my new gown. Little did I know that even delicious food
couldn’t make up for horrible company.

“
Dickens!” Edmond scoffed and
looked at me as if I had just murdered his first-born son. “You
enjoy Dickens! He’s the essence of mediocrity; that’s why he’s so
popular with the unwashed masses. You shouldn’t be reading Dickens,
he’s an atrocity, just like this entire city! He’s representative
of everything that is wrong with so-called modern literature.
Horribly unrefined garbage!”

“
I can relate to Oliver in some
strange, inexplicable way. I find him quite charming and simply
adore him. And don’t get me started on
A Christmas Carol
! It’s as if he captured the
very essence and mystery of the spirits themselves…” I said, as I
tried to defend my taste in literature.

Edmond continued to scoff and rant
obnoxiously while he sipped his champagne and even though I felt
like strangling him I continued to smile.

“
Charles Dezobry and Stendhal-
now those are real writers!” He exclaimed, interrupting me. “They
write real literature.”

I nodded. “I agree, but while they are
great they don’t speak to the common man or woman like
Dickens.”

Edmond ran his fingers through his thick
brown hair and shook his head as if he were trying to reason with a
very small, very incompetent and difficult child who refused to
shut up and see things his way. “Cecile, the common man or woman
doesn’t know how to read; that is why literature and art should be
left to people like me and not the commoners. If we were all meant
to be equal we would be, but that is clearly not the case, is
it?”

At that exact second he
reminded me of a classmate I had while I was studying in Paris.
Poor Giselle would venomously boo and even make horse-like
meh
noises every time
anyone disagreed with her taste in fine art. We had all found it
amusing and even entertaining until we discovered that she was
suffering from a severe disease that rendered her incapable of
listening to other people’s point of view. I wondered if Edmond was
suffering from that same dreadful affliction. I nodded and quickly
chugged down the rest of my champagne. “Perhaps,” I said quietly,
not wanting to argue anymore. “Or maybe we’re…”

“
We’re what?” He leaned
forward and arched an eyebrow.

“
We’re doing it all
wrong,” I said wistfully.

His chest heaved with unrestrained
laughter, which further annoyed me. “Are you suggesting the average
person should be given the same opportunities as someone like
me?”

I smiled stiffly and bit my index
finger hard to make sure I wouldn’t say anything
inappropriate.

“
Don’t pout, it’s not an
attractive quality,” he said condescendingly.

I bit my finger even harder and then
gave him a large smile.

He tasted the Escargots a la
Bourguignonne. “Horrible! That cook needs to be fired! Where did
your Maman find him?”

I gulped down some more champagne. “He’s
one of the best cooks in the Vieux Carré, Monsieur. He’s studied in
one of the finest Parisian schools. We’re lucky to have
him.”

“
This is unacceptable!” He
pushed aside his dish. “He needs to be fired
immediately.”

I let out a quiet sigh of frustration
and smiled. “I’ll speak to her about it first thing in the
morning.”

He smiled. “Why are you wearing black,
Cecile? It’s such an unhappy color.”

“
There is no such thing as
an unhappy color, Monsieur, only unhappy people.”

“
I prefer that you don’t
wear black while you’re under my protection. It makes you look as
if you’re grieving.”

“
Oui,
Monsieur.” I bit my lower
lip.

“
And your hair. You were
expecting me tonight, weren’t you?”

I nodded.

“
Then you should have put
more effort into your hair.”

I numbly nodded again.
“
Oui,
Monsieur.”

The night went on and on.

He seemed to scoff at everything. He
scoffed at the food, the china, the gold silverware I had chosen,
and the black gown I wore. Nothing seemed to agree with him, and I
felt my energy quickly draining trying to say something that would
somehow make him smile or please him. I was beginning to think that
the only thing that made him happy was being miserable. I was also
beginning to suspect that his wife probably encouraged him to keep
a mistress so she could get some peace and quiet from time to time.
That’s what I would have done.

Edmond picked up on my angst. He
sighed loudly and rose from his place. He grabbed my hand and
pulled me up from my chair and close to him. “You shouldn’t worry
about things like literature, anyhow. You should focus on playing
the harp. It’s such a noble hobby.”

“
Ah, yes, how I adore the harp,”
I lied. “You’re right, Edmond. You’re so right.” Lies, all lies. At
that very second it became painfully clear that my entire future
would be constructed on a huge pile of lies.

“
How lovely. You’re so lovely,
Cecile. I couldn’t have asked for a better placée,” he whispered
sincerely, and softly caressed my cheek with the tips of his
fingers.

I smiled shyly. “Thank you. You really
are too kind, Monsieur.” Another lie.

He smiled that arrogant smile of his,
took my hand and guided me towards the bedroom.

I quietly followed him and tried to fight
off the dull champagne headache and sense of despair that was
slowly starting to take ahold of me. I had been dreading this
particular part of the evening, but at this point I wanted to get
it over with. I didn’t even care that it would be my first time. I
had never expected my first time to be with someone I loved. I had
never really thought that much of it at all until I had become a
placée.

“
What in God’s name is
this?!” Shock and outrage flooded Edmond’s face once we reached the
bedroom. Horror filled his blue eyes as they rested on my various
altars and offerings. I had to admit I had gone a little overboard
on the number of altars I kept in my bedroom. I loved all of the
spirits and found it impossible to play favorites, aside from
Erzulie, of course.

“
For the spirits. They
need to be respected and fed,” I said weakly. My voice was low,
soft and held a quiet desperation.

His mouth was agape and his expression
became cold and devoid of any emotion, as if he were unsure of how
to react. I glanced at my dresser and for the first time saw it as
he may have. Perhaps the sight of multi-colored candies, candles,
Voodoo dolls, beads, jars of honey, random roots and herbs was a
tiny bit odd, but nothing to freak out about. I found it comforting
that the spirits were always with us.

“
What is that slave’s
name?” he demanded.

“
Justine. Why?”

Justine! Justine! Get in here, now!” He
yelled in a blind rage, completely ignoring my question.

“
Monsieur? Is there a
problem?” Justine entered the room and nervously examined my tense
expression.

“
This! This is the problem!”
Edmond lifted his left brow, let out several rapid, hysterical
breaths, and held up the offerings up to Justine’s very confused
face. “How dare you! How dare you keep these under my roof and out
of all places Cecile’s bedroom! You heathen! You don’t have the
right! You don’t have the right!”

“
Those…” I tried to
interrupt him.

Poor Justine. She was a strict
Catholic who religiously attended Mass on Sunday mornings at Louis
Cathedral and always judged me for messing with the
spirits.

“
I’m sorry, Monsieur.”
Justine’s lips trembled and her hands shook furiously as she took
the offerings from Edmond’s hands.

“
But…”I tried to interrupt
again but Edmond kept on ranting like an enraged
lunatic.

“
If I ever see this
blasphemy under this roof again I will sell you on back into the
market and won’t think twice about it. Do you hear? Do you want to
go back to the pen? Do you?” His pale skin was now a vivid shade of
red and the tiny vein that rested on his left temple was bulging
and throbbing wildly.

“
I’m so sorry, Monsieur,”
Justine repeated over and over again as she lowered her head. “It
will never happen again. Never again.”

Even if she wanted to defend herself
she couldn’t. And as much as I wanted to defend her I knew I
couldn’t and that fact maddened me and enraged me to no end.
Regardless of how liberal certain aspects of life were in New
Orleans it was still illegal for a slave or free person of color to
defend themselves or speak out against a white person.

I thought back to several months ago when
stunning Ines had worn a shiny new diamond ring to the French
market. That small act, for whatever reason, had annoyed Madame
Dumont to no end and she had claimed that Ines had offended her so
she had her publicly whipped. That incident had sent fear and
outrage throughout our community, but no matter how angry we got it
hadn’t changed a thing, because we would always be in the
wrong.

“
Take all of it!” Edmond
thrust the rest of my offerings into Justine’s already crowded
hands.

I stood there and watched and silently
prayed that Justine would somehow know how sorry I was. After
Justine left Edmond closed the door and focused his attention on
me. There was a moment of total silence between us and the only
sound was that of the angry rain that pounded so viciously against
the window pane.

The rain became louder and louder and
immediately I knew that Oshun was very unhappy. The sweet smell of
honey, flowers and melted wax that had once filled the room was now
gone and replaced by the cold scent of nothingness. My gilded
mirror began to crack, but Edmond didn’t notice because he was too
busy staring at me. His eyes devoured every inch of my body and I
could suddenly smell his hunger and need.

He moved across the room gracefully
and pulled me close to him. The sensation of his warm hands on my
bare back and his lips on the nape of my neck prompted my body to
go rigid. “You’re exquisite, Cecile. Maybe one day we’ll grow to
love one another,” he whispered. “I think we make a fine
match.”

“
Perhaps,” I lied yet
again.

What else was I supposed to say? I knew
that I would never be capable of loving him.

But what other option did I
have?

He covered my mouth in an urgent, rough
kiss. My first kiss. Was it supposed to feel this way? I wasn’t
sure. He undressed me slowly as if he were unwrapping a
long-anticipated present. A chilly wind crept into the room, making
me shiver and tremble. Edmond’s eyes and hands carefully appraised
my body. I lowered my lashes and held my breath as his fingers
lingered on the curves of my chest and hips.

“
Exquisite.” He let out a
soft moan of approval and covered my neck in quick
kisses.

“
You approve, Monsieur?” I asked
shyly, wondering if he was happy with his investment.

“
Oui,
Cecile. I have a feeling this match
will be very beneficial to the both of us,” he whispered as he
pulled me towards the bed.

***

It had been a very long night and I was
beyond exhausted, yet sleep refused to take me away to dream land.
Beside me, Edmond softly snored and was probably having nightmares
about Voodoo dolls and other things supposedly scary and savage. As
I watched his pale, hairless chest heave and his nostrils slightly
flare with every breath he took, I had the sudden urge to smother
him with my pillow.

The perfect word to describe how I felt
was ‘numb’. I felt perfectly numb and empty. I had entered into a
perfectly respectable arrangement with a perfectly respectable man
and my position and immediate financial future was perfectly
secured, yet I felt so perfectly numb.

I hadn’t expected any grand romance from
the match, but I had expected some decency and it was clear that I
wasn’t going to get that from Edmond. I had made a perfectly huge
mistake that I had no real way of getting out of. As I recalled how
horrible he had been at dinner and how awful he had been to Justine
and how he had made me like a powerless prisoner in what was
supposed to be my own home, pure anger surged through my veins. I
felt as if there was something seriously wrong with me. Why
couldn’t I be like the other placées? Did other placées feel this
way? If so they never spoke about it. Maman never did,
anyway.