Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  Tansy felt like bells were ringing in her head. She couldn’t speak for the clamor. Christophe’s eyes were shining. He looked … he looked like he was proud of her. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  “What do you say?” Christophe asked.

  “Yes!” A laugh burbled up. “Yes.”

  Rosa opened a drawer and drew out a paper-wrapped bundle. She shoved it across the desk. “Open it.”

  Tansy untied the twine, opened the paper, and unfolded a heavy, burgundy apron like the one Rosa wore. Across the bib, the initials RLAB. Rosa LeFevre’s Academy for Boys.

  This time she could not blink away the tears. Christophe leaned over and wiped at her cheek with his thumb. “I take it you like the apron?” he said softly.

  She laughed, but she wanted to cry, to sing, to shout. She was a teacher!

  Rosa slapped her hands on the desk. “Right. We need to get to class, Christophe. Tansy, we’ll see you Monday morning.” She wrested herself from behind the desk and bustled into the hallway.

  Christophe stood and held a polite hand out for her. She ignored his hand and jumped up, her arms around his neck. “This is the best day!”

  He stroked her back and patted while she clung to him. When she let go, she looked into his face and the glee drained right out of her. His eyes were too dark, too somber. He ran a thumb over her mouth. Then he stepped back.

  “I have to get to class.”

  Tansy pressed her hand to her lips where he’d touched her and closed her eyes. Abruptly, she blinked. These silly tears. How foolish she was. She wiped her face and went to find Alain.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  His fiddle under his chin, Christophe played the second set when Martine arrived at the ball. He’d heard she was after a new protector. From his perch on the orchestra’s platform, he enjoyed watching the courtship rituals as gentlemen admired and ladies flirted, the fans in the room fluttering like butterflies in clover. This time it would be Martine casting the net as if she were the hunter and her chosen one the hapless butterfly.

  He could only smile at Martine in her signature red, her bodice threatening to slip below what was decent even here. He’d always liked Martine, the hauteur on her face unable to conceal the mischief in her eyes. She looked good in that red dress, especially with so little of it to cover her.

  Martine entered the dance with a young man whose blond curls spilled over his collar. He could be no more than sixteen, his limbs lanky and awkward. No doubt the boy’s father or his older brother had brought him to introduce him to the delights of a quadroon ball, but he would not be getting into bed with any of these women tonight. If he wanted immediate gratification, he would have to visit one of the rougher ballrooms where short-term transactions, sometimes lasting a mere half an hour, were quickly made and consummated. For now, though, the boy was entranced by Martine’s décolletage.

  When Martine waltzed by, she shared a feline smile with him that said she knew exactly what was on her partner’s mind. She leaned a little closer than was quite right, displaying her rather magnificent chest. The boy would soon be so hot he might be unable to remember his dignity. Christophe quirked a wry smile at her as he bowed his fiddle.

  He turned his attention to the music, fingers flying over his violin, the bow an extension of his arm and his heart. If he hadn’t found his calling with Rosa, he’d have happily played out his life in ballrooms and private chambers. As the orchestra gave a rousing finish to the waltz, he glanced over the dancers and again lit on the tanager red of Martine’s gown. The pup she danced with spoke while he held her hand, but Martine’s eyes were on the gentleman behind him. Eyes wide, lips parted, she seemed to forget the golden haired boy. DuMaine approached, a commanding, confident air clearing his path.

  Even from where Christophe sat, he could see her glow. This was not good. He knew very well how ill-advised it was for a young woman to become enamored of a gentleman at the balls. Her role in life was to effect his infatuation, not the other way around. In the world of plaçage, stories abounded of foolish girls who gave their hearts away only to be crushed by the realities of their status. Surely Martine was too smart for that.

  Ignoring the boy, DuMaine held his hand out for Martine. As the music resumed, Martine gazed into his face, only a hint of smile on her face. She seemed entranced. Christophe hoped it was mere flirtation, but he feared he saw genuine captivation. He’d hate to see her hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it. Unless he put a word in his mother’s ear, who might put a word in Tansy’s mother’s ear, who might take the trouble to speak to Martine. It was a bitter thing, for a man to be so marginalized in his own world.

  Tansy and her mother Estelle entered the ballroom, and all of Christophe’s attention focused on Tansy as he played an old familiar piece. She wore a diaphanous gown of pale gray cut to expose her shoulders and reveal a modest hint of cleavage. As ever unaware how lovely she was, her eyes roved to see if her Monsieur Valcourt were in the room. When she saw she had arrived first, he saw her shoulders relax.

  Was that the sign of a woman in love, for her to be more at ease out of the man’s presence than in it? He allowed himself to wonder what Tansy’s shoulders might signal at his own presence.

  A corpulent older gentleman claimed Tansy’s first dance. His face glowed with pleasure to have her hand in his. Tansy, gracious as always, smiled at him even though he set a pace unfortunately a little faster than the music. When the gentleman whirled her just under the platform where Christophe played, she caught his eye, her expression part pain, part amusement. He grinned at her. She danced away, he played on.

  The next time Christophe saw her, she was in the arms of Valcourt. They danced well together, he admitted, but he saw no signs of enchantment. None of Martine’s starry-eyed gaze, nor Monsieur DuMaine’s hot-eyed look. They seemed merely pleasant together. Well, they’d been together five years now. Five years and three months.

  Tansy, smiling, looked up at Valcourt, listening to him. He supposed she needed him. A patron, after all, was called a protector for a reason. A beautiful woman of color faced uncommon pressures. She had little power to resist if a white man chose to exploit her, misuse her, abandon her. At least plaçage minimized those threats.

  Teeth clamped, Christophe pressed his chin into his violin. Why was he not used to this? He and Tansy had shared a kiss when they were just kids. Years ago. He should be over that by now. Perhaps he needed to play with a different orchestra, at a ball Tansy and her paramour did not frequent. Why do this to himself?

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy loved to dance. Surefooted and graceful, Valere led her round and round the ballroom, dance after dance. He seemed particularly attentive tonight, handing her champagne, gently fingering an escaped curl over her ear. When they danced the gavotte, they moved faster and faster, laughing at the insanely quick pace.

  Breathless, he seated her next to her mother and kissed her hand. “I’ll come to you later,” he murmured. She watched him saunter through the crowd toward the curtained doorway. He would walk through the long, discreet corridor between the buildings to the other ballroom, to finish the evening with his bride. The new Mrs. Valcourt no doubt believed the fiction that her husband’s interlude away from her was spent in the exclusively masculine, smoky gambling chamber off the ballroom.

  Estelle was in a mood, her lips pursued. “Madame Landry is making a fool of herself.”

  Tansy sought out the lady. She danced with a nice-looking gentleman, his hair graying, but his posture erect. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the third dance she has allowed him. He’ll see no allure if she gives herself so freely.”

  “She’s enjoying herself, Maman. Every dance partner doesn’t have to be a suitor.”

  “A suitor,” Estelle snorted. “Wouldn’t she like that, at her age.”

  Tansy looked at her mother. Such a mean streak she had. Still attractive, still sought after on the dance floor, but in unguarded mome
nts like this, sour. Madame Landry was her friend, for goodness’ sake, and still she pecked.

  “And Martine! Look at her. He’ll think she’s in love with him and then how I am to negotiate a profitable contract?”

  “He may enjoy having her look at him like he’s a prince, Maman. They look happy, both of them.”

  “She may allow herself to look interested and fond, but besotted? Three placées in five years? DuMaine is a hard man. She’s just making difficulties for herself. And for me.”

  “I’m sure you’re a match for Monsieur DuMaine, Maman.”

  Estelle’s lips suddenly parted in a dazzling smile. “Monsieur Girard,” she said.

  Tansy knew Monsieur Girard from many balls past. She’d often danced with him herself, enjoying his courtly manner. He was growing stout, his hair thinning, but he was a kindly, gentle man. Tansy smiled at him.

  “Mademoiselle Tansy, how do you do?”

  “Bien, Monsieur. You’re looking very well.”

  He patted his girth. “I am perhaps a little over-indulged, but well, yes.” He turned to Estelle. “Madame, might I entice you to dance?”

  Gracefully, Estelle rose and accepted his arm. Tansy rather hoped for Monsieur Girard’s sake that he did not develop an affection for her mother. He would be much more comfortable with a kindlier soul.

  Tansy turned in her chair to watch Christophe play. She saw he was now first violin. He’d never said! So young, and the best violinist in the orchestra. Tomorrow she would congratulate him. Did his mother know? Or Rosa? Neither came to the balls anymore.

  Tansy felt a secret collusion with him tonight. They would both have circles under their eyes when they reported to school at eight o’clock after a late night. She herself would be very late indeed getting to sleep since Valere was coming over. A stray vision popped into her head of Christophe bedding a woman after the ball. She blinked. Heat flooded her face. She lowered her eyes, embarrassed at her own imagining, ashamed of herself for intruding on his privacy, as if she’d peeked into his window.

  Determined to put Christophe from her mind, she turned her back to the orchestra and watched her mother twirling across the floor with Monsieur Girard. Maman would be furious if she knew Tansy went to Rosa LeFevre’s Academy for Boys every morning. Maman wasn’t likely to find out, however. She and Alain would be home by ten thirty every morning. That was still early in her mother’s mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy retrieved Alain from Mrs. O’Hare’s where he slept on a palette among several other children. He didn’t wake as she hoisted him to her shoulder and walked three doors down to her cottage. Large oil lamps suspended over every corner lit her way, only cats on the prowl through the quiet street.

  She freshened herself and changed into the finely-painted silk kimono Valere enjoyed. He liked stroking and nipping her through the silk, opening it only enough to thrust his body into hers.

  He knocked softly at the door and she let him in. He undressed by candlelight. She placed his shoes squarely, precisely, at the foot of the bed. She draped his coat, his vest and shirt, cravat and trousers over the walnut valet, careful to smooth any wrinkles. He lay on her bed, nude, ready, welcoming.

  Tonight he was in no hurry. He made love to her slowly, even with finesse, so that she was breathless with wanting by the time he entered her. Ah, how she loved it when her body was ready for him, when he drove himself into her, his breath and hers heavy and urgent.

  The big four poster shook, even scooted on the cypress boards until Valere cried out and collapsed on top of her. He gasped for breath, then rolled over onto his back. She shifted to her side, her hand on his sweaty chest. In moments, he was asleep.

  Tansy pulled the covers over them, lay back, and closed her eyes. The best of all possible worlds, she remembered. It didn’t have to be ironic. It could be true. Or close to it. Nothing was perfect, after all, and, really, there was only now, wasn’t there? And now was good.

  A mockingbird woke her. Pale gray light seeped in through the window shutters. Valere still slept beside her. She bolted upright. He shouldn’t be here. His wife would wonder where he’d been all night. She shook his shoulder. “Valere. Wake up. You’ve overslept.”

  He half opened his eyes and rolled over.

  “Valere.” She lit a candle to see the clock on her dresser. Six-thirty! She and Alain had to leave in just over an hour to get to school on time. She was not a mere volunteer who could come and go as she pleased. She had a job.

  She shook Valere’s shoulder again. “Valere!”

  He shrugged her hand off and burrowed into his pillow.

  She strode quickly toward the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He had to leave. Now.

  In the bedroom, she opened the shutters and hoped the mockingbird would shrill until Valere was too irritated to sleep. She bustled around the room, opening drawers, closing drawers, dropping a book, then a shoe.

  “Good morning, my darling,” she called. She thought he was half-awake.

  Alain, bright-eyed and curious, popped his head in the door. “Papa’s here?”

  She hustled Alain from the room. “Remember what we said about school?” she whispered. “It’s a secret, isn’t it? Grand-mère and Papa are not to know.”

  “I remember.”

  She hated secrets. Hated lies even more. But there was no need of telling either of them about school. It had nothing to do with them.

  “I’m going to pour your father a cup of coffee. See if you can wake him up.”

  Alain skipped into the room and climbed on the bed. “Papa!”

  Valere turned his head to skewer him with a look.

  “Papa, wake up.”

  “Why?”

  Alain threw himself over Valere’s body. “So you can have coffee with me.”

  Valere sighed hugely. “What time is it?” Then he frowned. “Can you tell time?”

  “I know when it’s twelve o’clock.”

  He heaved another sigh.

  Tansy bustled in with a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” she trilled.

  Scowling, he flopped a pillow over his face.

  She put her hands on her hips. How was she to get him out of here?

  “Valere,” she said sweetly. “I don’t want you to have trouble. You need to get home.”

  “Already in trouble if it’s daylight.”

  “You don’t want to worry your new wife, darling.”

  She thought for a moment he was not going to answer. “Let me sleep, Tansy.” His breathing deepened. The arm over the pillow relaxed.

  She stared at him, his bare chest gently rising and falling. What was she to do?

  The idea of waiting here for Valere to wake up left her feeling hollow under her breastbone. She would let Rosa and the children down. Let herself down. But if she and Alain went to school, he’d wake up and she’d be gone.

  She put her fingers to her mouth. Impossible to leave him here. Impossible not to.

  Alain looked up at her from the bed with big eyes, a sober expression on his face. He was only four, but he seemed to understand exactly what was going through her mind. Choose, she told herself. Just because she’d had so little occasion to make decisions of any importance didn’t mean she couldn’t.

  “Alain,” she whispered. “Can you dress yourself this morning?”

  He gave her an indignant look. “Maman. I’m four.”

  She managed not to smile. “Of course.” She lifted him from the bed and put him on his feet. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Tansy fished a piece of stationary out of her writing desk and dipped her quill in the ink pot.

  “Valere, my love. Alain and I have gone to the market. When you wake up, I’ll give you a long, leisurely breakfast.” He would not want a long, leisurely breakfast. He’d rather stop at the Market and talk to his friends over beignets and coffee, so that should bestir him. Then a wicked thought came to her, no doubt from a tiny vicious streak she’d inherited from Maman. She
added, “While you eat, I’ll read to you, and then you can read to Alain. All my love, Tansy.”

  She hesitated. It still smarted, what he’d said to her when she had mentioned love: I’m married now, Tansy. Her mouth tight, she drew a bold, heavy stroke under the word “love.” Smiling grimly, she propped the note against his body so he’d see it as soon as he woke. No doubt in her mind that he would be gone when she got back.

  She dressed quickly, tied Alain’s shoes, collected her shopping basket, and quietly closed the door behind them.

  It was a fine spring morning. A cardinal flitted ahead of them, a brilliant streak of red among the green leaves. She’d made a decision. She’d made a choice. She did have a niggling twinge of conscience for the manipulative note she’d written, but she chose to ignore it. See, Christophe? I’m not so nice after all.

  She squeezed Alain’s hand. “Do you think you and Christophe deserve beignets this morning?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When she’d taught her two hours, Tansy hurried Alain toward the market. She needed something in her shopping bag to show where she’d been. She half feared and half hoped Valere would still be there when she got home. Maybe he was still abed, maybe even still sleeping. She could quietly take the note back and have his coffee ready for him when he got up. As if she had been patiently waiting for him to rise. But what if he’d wakened and waited for her, long enough for her to have gone to the market and back, and still she hadn’t come?

  Acid roiled in her stomach. Could she lie to him? I saw a friend at the market, she could say. I lost track of the time. Maybe she should simply tell him where she’d been and what she’d been doing. Maybe he’d even be proud of her. That seemed unlikely, though. The most she could hope for was indulgence.

  When she entered the house, she paused at the threshold, listening. She didn’t hear him, and the tightness in her chest eased. “Change your clothes, Alain, and I’ll cut an orange for you.”