“Grâce à Dieu. This is wonderful news about my mother. Where does she live?” Bettina’s head swam, with the heat or joy she wasn’t certain. She would have kissed the woman, if not positive of being rebuffed.
“She lives at the Bonne Maison on the Rue Royale. It’s a fancy residence for ci-devants. She’s getting married in a short time to one of the Spanish officials who works for the governor.” Madame Ray wrinkled her nose, her mouth puckered in distaste.
“Married, are you certain?” Bettina stared in surprise.
“Yes. I am appalled. A Spanish official indeed.” Madame Ray sneered as her sharp gaze appraised Bettina from head to toe. “And you are her daughter. How very interesting, ma chere. Do you plan to stay long in the area? Come back to see me when I’m not so ill.”
Bettina quivered under the woman’s rude examination.
* * * *
After receiving directions to the Bonne Maison, Bettina was relieved to leave the old woman. Strange that she mentioned a desire to call on her mother then expressed such profound disapproval of her. Madame Ray’s invitation to visit again roiled in her stomach.
And “lofty airs” didn’t sound like Madame Jonquiere. As for her re-marrying, that was an unexpected shock. Bettina thought of her father and suffered a stab of pain. She fisted her hands and staggered over the loose bricks. A count before the fall of the Bastille, Papa had been murdered by the revolutionaries who had embezzled money through his antique business. Did her mother know the horrible details? She swept aside her sadness and increased her stride.
Excited by the idea her mother was close, Bettina rushed the four-blocks in the muggy afternoon air. In a huff of breath, she approached the Bonne Maison in a courtyard, surrounded by majestic oaks dripping in Spanish moss, like waves of brown nets. The two-storied white structure had long windows with fan-shaped transoms and little balconies, giving it an Old World elegance. A butler sent Bettina to the top floor. She climbed the carpeted stairs, her anticipation mounting. Her heart and hand trembled when she knocked on the door.
The door opened. A woman stood there. Her large brown eyes blinked then widened. “Bettina? Hélas. This cannot be!” She screeched and clutched her throat, the color draining from her cheeks.
“It is me, Maman. I am all right.” Bettina choked on a sob and gripped both her mother’s arms. “Do not faint.”
Her mother dragged her into the room and captured Bettina’s face between anxious hands. “Oh, ma fille, ma fille. This is a miracle. I thought you were...but you are here.”
“I am so happy to find you, at last.” Bettina shut the door and embraced her mother who sobbed on her shoulder. Her own eyes filled with tears. Her mother smelled familiar, like home, love, the security she’d lost years ago.
“Where have you been all this time?” Volet pulled back and held her at arm’s length. Her oval face resembling Bettina’s, her full mouth smiled through her tears. “Armand said you were carried off by revolutionaries, dying en route to...how I have grieved for you. Oh, but here you are...healthy and lovely.”
“I was carried off. I am afraid Armand was the...he was not who we thought he was.” She clenched her jaw at the thought of the old steward. “And how could he have known my condition after he threw me out?”
“Threw you out? What do you mean?” Volet stepped back and pressed her fingertips to her chest. Her faded pink sacque dress hung loose on her thinner frame. The dress had mends on the seams and stains at the silk hem.
Bettina waited for her mother to compose herself. Then she explained in guarded words the scurrilous deeds of their late steward. The majordomo had tricked Bettina, sending her to Bath with blank papers she thought were messages to further the royalist cause.
“Il me confond. I cannot believe Armand was so treacherous, betraying us like that. Then, everyone behaved oddly once the revolution began. To think I entrusted you to him, and he....? You were only seventeen.” Fresh tears formed in her mother’s eyes. “Then this Little person you were sent to refused to help you, but admitted Armand was in league with him? What was the point of it all?”
“I was never certain. Mister Little’s discourse was cut short...and I had to go. Or rather, he did.” Bettina dropped her gaze and fingered a porcelain cupid on a table—a curio she remembered from their Paris chateau. Mister Little had fallen to his death in Everett’s manor, after telling her of her father’s murder and demanding the embezzled money, but she wouldn’t explain that yet. “Let us not talk about the past right now. I hear you are to be married soon?”
Volet stiffened and walked to the window where lavender chintz curtains fluttered in the breeze. Bettina noted the sprinkle of gray in her mother’s raven black hair, the deeper creases etched around her eyes. Though she was still beautiful at forty-five.
“He is a good man, very intelligent and well traveled. His name is Alfredo Alverez. He has an important position with the Governor’s office.” Volet sounded defensive instead of an enraptured bride to be.
“I am pleased for you, Maman. Do you love him?”
She hesitated too long, frowning, and Bettina had her answer. “Bettina, when I came here I brought everything I could with me. Sadly, money does not last forever. I had to dismiss my personal maid months ago. Alfredo is a suitable man who will take care of me.”
Bettina sank onto a chair, disappointed by that reply. “Then you are marrying for someone to support you?”
“Many women marry for that reason.” Volet moved around the opulent room in measured steps, her arms crossed, hands clenched on her elbows. A distressed posture Bettina recalled from her childhood.
“You’re right, Maman. Many women do.” Bettina stared down for a minute at her mother’s scuff-toed shoes. She’d wanted her mother not to be one of those women, but began to understand. “I am happy for you.”
Volet sat on the sofa close to Bettina’s chair. She stroked her hand. “We have so much to discuss. Where to start? Please, tell me of your life in England.”
Bettina took in a long breath. So much had happened to unearth before her parent, she’d have to cut open sore wounds. “When I first arrived I ran out of money quickly. I found a job, then two jobs. I worked in an inn and tutored a little boy. I worked hard, saved my money. I fell in love...” Her throat thickened. She dug her fingers into the chair seat. “I have two children by the man I loved. He was lost on a ship last year, presumed drowned. Then I traveled here searching for you.”
Her mother shook her head. “My sweet daughter, you have suffered so much. Working to survive, how brave of you. If I had only known.” Volet grasped and kissed her hands. “Your husband, you say he was lost at sea?”
Moisture throbbed behind Bettina’s eyes. She couldn’t admit to her mother that she and Everett never married. “I am very angry at France for attacking his ship.”
“Oh, my poor child...to lose your husband in this dreadful war. I…I know how devastating that is.” Her mother’s voice trembled.
Her father’s heart-attack, or murder? Which did her mother believe? Papa’s face swam up and she pushed it away and swallowed down her questions.
Volet laid a hand, gentle and cool, on Bettina’s hot cheek. “To have you with me again is my fondest wish. What can I do for you to offer comfort?”
“I have my comfort now, sitting here with you.” She covered her mother’s hand with her own. “I want to know about you. How did you travel to America?”
“Oh, such an upheaval. I couldn’t stand to stay in Europe, thinking you were gone.” Volet blinked. “I met several aristocrats, a few I knew from Paris. We sailed from Holland to Boston. Then on to here, for the French culture. Of course, that was before the aristocrats were hunted down, before the guillotine.” She shivered. “I didn’t realize how fortunate I was to escape.”
“I suppose I should thank Armand for that. Eti
enne said that he knew of no one in the family who met such a brutal fate.” Bettina scrutinized her mother for confirmation.
“He’s right, no one that I knew of in the family. Ah, yet so many friends.” Volet sighed. Then she looked up with a tremulous smile. “Let’s speak of happier moments, ma cherie. I will ring for lemonade, and the cook bakes the most scrumptious petits fours. Then please, tell me about your children.”
Settled in with refreshments, the lemonade tart, the cakes sweet, Bettina spoke of Genevre and Christian. Under her mother’s encouragement, she summarized and censured the events in her life since leaving France. She refused to dwell long on her time with Everett, exploring that still wrenched her heart. The room darkened as the sun disappeared behind the building across the way. Bettina rose. “I must return to my inn.”
Volet stood too and kissed her cheek. “Please do bring the children to see me tomorrow. My grandchildren.”
“Of course, Maman. Be aware, though their father is presumed drowned, I don’t speak of his death with them. I still pray that he is alive.” She clung to thin strings of hope.
“Oh? Very well, I understand, mignonne.”
Bettina left, her spirits soaring at finding her maman. She rushed back through the old city as men lit oil burning street lamps.
“Oh, putain, do you walk these streets?” a man asked in a drunken slur as he reeled in front of her.
She hopped from the banquette and hurried across the gutter in the filthy street. Confused and dazed by so many emotions, she’d neglected to think of her safety alone in the dark.
Chapter Three
Bettina dressed her children the next morning and walked them through the muggy air to the Bonne Maison. She left Oleba and Frederick at the guest house so her children could meet their grandmother unencumbered by other people.
Her mother’s face lit up at the sight of Christian and Genevre.
“Bonjour, Grand-mère,” Christian said, expertly repeating the words Bettina taught him. His smile shy, he didn’t back away when Volet bent down to hug him.
“Christian, you are so handsome.” Her mother kissed his cheek and ushered them into her parlor where a pitcher and glasses awaited. “I have lemonade and calas, the little fried rice cakes everyone enjoys here.” She reached out for Genevre. “Come to grand-mère.”
The little girl stiffened in Bettina’s arms, digging her small hands into her shoulders.
“She is shy,” Bettina said. “She will take longer to know you.”
“An adorable girl. She looks like a little angel.” Her mother stroked the baby’s hair.
“I also have an older child living with me.” Bettina rocked from side to side with Genevre. “Everett’s nephew, Frederick. He is the one I used to tutor. We are very close. I am his only family now.”
“You should have brought him with you,” her mother said with a sad smile. “I know you have had a difficult time. I wish I could make it up to you. I’ve agonized all last night. How could I have been so foolish to allow Armand...” She lowered her head and shook it. “He had worked for your father for so many years. He was like one of the family.”
“Oh, Maman, it was not your fault.” Bettina never blamed her mother for not protecting her. She saw her as a victim as well. “Armand joined the rebels, the common people. Strange for a man so old to bother, but...I suppose he believed in the cause. The events were not so terrible as they later became.” She fought the tremor in her voice. “As I said yesterday, it is difficult not to despise my own country for what happened to…you understand.”
Her mother raised her gaze. “You are still so young, things will change.”
Bettina nodded, though she couldn’t imagine anything filling the hole that gaped inside her at Everett’s loss.
“Maman, I’m thirsty,” Christian whispered in Bettina’s ear as she sat on the sofa.
Volet poured him a glass of lemonade. “There you go, mignonn. Be careful, do not spill the drink.” She smiled at her daughter. “Bettina, you will discover that time does soften pain. We do move on. I would like you to meet Alfredo...soon.”
“Another person close to me used to say that about time easing pain.” Bettina thought of Maddie, her surrogate mother in Cornwall. The indomitable woman who ran the inn where Bettina had worked. “And I would be honored to meet Mister Alverez, whenever you say.”
Genevre, still clinging in her lap, started to whine. Bettina gave her a sip from her brother’s glass.
“I want you to see…I do enjoy his company, his attentions.” Volet glanced down at her hands, clasped tight in her lap.
“I understand, you do not need to explain, Maman.” Bettina tried to pull the glass away from Genevre who held fast to it, rippling the liquid inside.
“I wish I had a toy for you, Christian.” Volet traced her fingers through his thick brown hair. The boy grinned and looked around as if one might be hidden in the room.
She turned to Bettina, her eyes sad. “We have lost so many chances for intimate mother daughter discussions, you and I. Now you are an adult, a young woman. I do not even know what you want out of life.”
Bettina handed the glass back to Christian and settled Genevre against her. Her daughter squirmed to get free. Bettina sniffed her lemon-scented hair, the innocence of children. Christian sat cross-legged on the floor, half listening. He nibbled on a rice cake.
“What I want is simple. A home of my own. Nothing big or fancy. A clean place, where I can have my own things and fill it with memories for my children. I have been so unsettled these last several years, living in other people’s homes. Now I want something that is mine.”
She wanted Everett back in her arms, safe. Would she ever have that chance? She squeezed Genevre and the baby squealed. “I need some sort of occupation that will satisfy me.”
“That is all commendable. Still, with your beauty, you might find another man to…”
“Mais non, no other men.” Bettina’s pulse throbbed in her throat and she kissed her daughter’s silky head. She’d said almost the exact words to Everett’s mother after his disappearance. “I do not need any.”
* * * *
“I am glad your mother is well and has found someone to care about.” Oleba draped the baires around the bed where Genevre slept restlessly. Frederick stared out the window and Christian hopped into the bed they shared. Oleba arranged the net around the bed.
“Merci. I do hope she does care about him, or he about her.” Bettina rubbed rouge on her face, but the humidity in the air made it cake. She resembled a clown. She swiped a cloth over her moist cheeks, turned and stumbled over a toy wooden ship. “I am sorry we are stuck in this one room right now. I almost miss the cavernous Bronnmargh.”
She’d hated Everett’s manor, dark and drafty, freezing in the winter. Yet she’d adore some of the coolness now, the life she’d had before. “I promise I will not be too late.” She was meeting her mother and Mister Alverez at a café on Bourbon Street, farther into the area called the French Quarter.
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of mending and laundry to keep me busy.” Oleba smiled and sat in the chair by a candle. Bettina often wondered about her too complacent manner. She must have dreams or concerns of her own. Did she miss her own mother, dead years ago from a London fever? But selfishness, her need for Oleba, kept Bettina from asking the questions.
“Let me go with you. I’ll be your escort.” Frederick turned hopeful eyes on her. The boy was obviously bored, constrained here for three days since she’d found her mother. “This city isn’t safe. It’s full of noisy taverns and brothels.”
Her hand on the doorknob, Bettina wanted to keep him inside, and not exposed to the dangers she’d heard about this wild town at night. She thought of the drunk from the other evening. She had to let Frederick grow up sometime. She smiled. “Perhaps you are
right.”
He snatched his hat as she lifted the net and kissed Christian goodnight.
They exited the inn into the sultry evening. Sailors passed them, making indecent remarks, their stares leering, and Bettina clasped the boy’s arm. They walked the uneven bricks on the banquettes as Bettina steeled herself to meet this man her mother planned to marry. Frederick would offer moral support.
At the little cafe, sulfur burned in Spanish clay pots, permeating the air with the smell of rotten eggs.
Bettina wrinkled her nose. “That is offensive.”
“The concierge told me it’s what they do to keep away the insects,” Frederick whispered.
Her mother sat at a table on the banquette. A man stood by her chair. Of medium height, his shirt strained around a barrel chest and thick neck.
“Good evening. A daughter so much like you, querida,” he said in a harsh Spanish accent, his smile wide beneath a thick black mustache. Mister Alverez pulled out chairs for Bettina and Frederick. “And who is this tall young man?”
“This is my nephew, Frederick Prescott.”
“Welcome, both of you, to New Orleans.” He swept out his hand as if he owned the city.
Introductions were made all around as they sat. Two Negro children waved fans nearby, swiping away the heat and insects from the diners.
Alverez said something in Spanish to her mother, who grinned like a girl.
Bettina stared at her and Volet blushed.
“Alfredo and I frequently converse in Spanish when we do not want others in these crowded cafes to know what we talk about.” Her smile demure, Volet fiddled with the silk tassels on her reticule.
“I remember Grand-mère telling you not to lose your Spanish.” Bettina brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead. “I hope you do not revert to that in front of me?” She smiled as her mother raised an eyebrow at her defensiveness.
Without Refuge Page 3