“Spain wants a French buffer here and let France pay to keep the military.” Aubert snorted. “I doubt that will happen, as good as it sounds. France will not want the added expense.” He smiled in sympathy at his wife. “We will wait and see. Back to celebrate, mes amis.”
Volet rushed over to Bettina, a gentle hand on her arm. “War with England, what will that mean for us?”
She knew her mother meant her. With her British passport, she’d be a suspect alien, again. “We’ll have to contribute to Spain’s war effort to remain on friendly terms.” Bettina watched the soldiers march off toward the river and suppressed a shudder. “I wish France would take us back, but I am so tired of wars.”
Chapter Five
Bettina laid out the ledgers and other paperwork on the tiny red cypress desk in the alcove off the café kitchen. She’d found various papers stuffed into slots or wedged in the ledgers. In the last few weeks since she’d taken over the record keeping, she didn’t know how Charlotte had managed to keep organized with this sloppy method. With crackles she unfolded more receipts, tally sheets, lists and bills to record them.
“Now, do not hide away in here.” Volet hovered in the archway. “You should show your pretty face out front once in a while.”
“No one has any need to see my face.” Bettina smiled at her mother. How much happier her parent looked, brighter eyes and skin. “I enjoy the business side. I’ll keep all the books, order supplies, and you entertain the customers. In England, I managed the…” She swallowed down the word “Bronnmargh.”
“I managed so well, we sold the estate for a decent sum.” Not quite the truth, since the place was falling apart. She’d sold the property after Everett’s mother died. His business partner, Willard Hobart, would invest the money until Frederick reached his majority.
“Then you and the children should have funds coming from England.” Volet frowned. “Oh, but the war may prevent that.”
Bettina glanced away. She’d yet to confess to her mother that she and Everett never married. She and her children couldn’t make any claims on his estate.
“More customers,” Charlotte called as she hurried by with a tray of food.
Volet bustled out. Bettina, now distracted, followed her into the din of chattering people, clinking utensils and enticing aromas.
“Bienvenue, everyone.” Volet’s smile broad, her own pretty face lit up the room.
Well-dressed patrons filled out the tables, the array of hats bobbing. More laughing customers sat outside under the awning. The inhabitants of Mahieu had made the cafe a popular eatery. Many people ferried over from New Orleans, drawn by tales of Volet’s fancy French soups, their variety of breads, pastries and sandwiches.
The constant smell of food brought back pleasant memories of Bettina’s time at Maddie’s inn learning to cook and support herself.
Charlotte and Volet moved among the customers with plates of gumbo, a stew with sweet potatoes, a slimy vegetable called okra, and sausage or shrimp served over rice.
Volet talked with people, smiling, gracious and engaging them in intelligent conversation. Bettina smiled. She enjoyed seeing her mother flourish.
“Still no word on any transfer of our colony back to France,” Charlotte grumbled when two Spanish officers entered the café. “I think my husband was right.”
Bettina stepped back and watched the officers. Every time any soldier came in she wondered if they intended to check her documentation. If they spoke to her, she increased her French accent. She slipped back into the alcove and settled in the chair.
Ledger opened, she jotted down entries from receipts and bills of lading. The concentration on numbers chased away other concerns. She’d make certain everything ran smoothly. The café must turn a profit so she could support her family.
* * * *
February mists still crept along the ground as Bettina hurried through the sweet scent of wisteria into the cottage. She smiled at Genevre who splashed water in the metal hip bath in the kitchen where Oleba washed her.
In the parlor, Bettina set down the books she’d borrowed from the library. “Frederick, please come over here.”
He left the hallway where he played Bilboquette with Christian, the two of them laughing, trying to catch a wooden ball on a spindle. The ball thudded across the floorboards.
“I found a school in New Orleans I will scrimp to pay for if you will study these—”
“Save your money. I’m not returning to school.” Frederick shrugged. At fifteen he stood a few inches taller than she. “We had this same argument in England. I don’t need any more education from books or lectures.”
“You do not wish to become a lawyer, or maybe a doctor? Even a man of business like your uncle?” She blinked then spread the books on math and history out on the table. “I hate to see you waste your intelligence.”
Christian scrambled by chasing the ball.
“I’d rather work on the river, run the boats up and down carrying supplies.” Frederick raked his fingers through his longer, wavy hair that had darkened to a light brown. “The river is exciting. I don’t want to be trapped inside anymore.”
“I’ll read them, Maman.” Christian ran up to the table, ball and spindle in hand. He always acted eager to learn.
Bettina caressed then cupped her son’s chin. “I will borrow some books for you next time.” She turned again to Frederick. “I hope you will reconsider, education is important.”
“I traveled here for adventure.” Frederick grimaced. He plucked the spindle from Christian and swiped it through the air like a sword. His vivid blue eyes glittered in his lean, tan face. He’d grow into a handsome man, yet Bettina tensed at his resemblance to his father.
Hollis had been a handsome scoundrel married to Everett’s sister, cheating with Everett’s wife. She prayed his lack of character wouldn’t pass on to the boy.
“Monsieur Corbett told me wild stories about when he used to run the boats.” Frederick bent and splashed Genevre. “Genny loves the water. Tell your mother how exciting it is.”
“Our landlord has only one leg, in case you have not noticed.” Bettina picked up a towel and lifted her daughter from the tub. “Charlotte says he fell in the river one night during a storm and an alligator ‘chawed it off.’ It sounds like working the boats is extremely dangerous.”
“I knew you’d say that. I’m not a child anymore.” He hefted up the tub, kneed open the front door and tossed out the water. “And monsieur had a pint of rum in him when it happened. You have to take chances if you want to really live.”
“Frederick, I worry about you. Is that the sort of person you wish to emulate? And I don’t care for those older boys you are associating with. They seem rough and–”
“They’re my friends and good enough for me. I’m not changing my mind or my friends. You can’t control everything I do.” Frederick dropped the tub with a clang and slammed out the door.
“Fweddiewick,” Genevre called, her plump mouth in a pout.
“He’ll come back.” Bettina rubbed dry her daughter’s moist skin and hugged her.
“He is testing his limits as a soon to be man, unsure of himself.” Oleba wiped up the puddles on the kitchen floor.
“For a young man, he has much on his mind.” Bettina kissed her daughter’s cheek.
She pitied Frederick, a boy with no parents, bombarded by so many temptations in this wild land. She’d hoped to brace him with the stableness of education. He needed a good man’s guidance.
With her preoccupation at the café, she hadn’t noticed the boy pulling farther away from her. His nature shifted to defiance. She carried Genevre into her room, the room they both shared, heavy with concerns about the influence of his father’s cruel blood.
* * * *
“Soon you will attend school, at least
,” Bettina said to her son, his brown head bent over the paper at the parlor table. She scrimped to put money away to pay for his education.
Christian scribbled his name how she’d taught him in awkward block letters. She ran her hand through his thick hair, the same mahogany color as his father’s. She tried to remember the feel of Everett’s hair on her fingertips.
Frederick sat on the sofa reading a newspaper, ignoring her.
Genevre ran up to the table and grabbed for a pencil. At almost two, she was more determined in her stubbornness.
“Leave me alone, Gen.” Christian pulled back the pencil, his words still indulgent. “I’m doing important work.”
“I want pen!” She stomped her foot like a spoiled princess.
“Now, now, that’s enough. I’ll take her outside.” Oleba swept her up into her arms. She carried the little girl out into the warming March air. Her maid seemed to take every opportunity to spend time outside lately.
Bettina adjusted the jalousie as she watched Oleba cart Genevre down to the bayou’s edge. A turtle lumbered along the bank. Duckweed spread across the water like green velvet.
A movement to the left caught Bettina’s eye. A man she hadn’t seen before sat on the porch of Monsieur Duval’s cottage.
“Governor Carondelet is tearing down forts, for strategic purposes he says. To keep out the British.” Frederick rustled the newspaper as he rose and stepped beside her. They’d managed an uneasy alliance since their argument. “The Spanish hold Natchez. They’re afraid of British attack from Canada.”
“Let us hope the British don’t rush in and drag us back to England.” She said it as a wry jest, but a new concern surfaced. Frederick as a British citizen could be conscripted into the army if England attacked the colony. He wouldn’t mind the “adventure.” She sighed and shook her head. Why did men relish the idea of risking their lives?
Outside, Oleba smiled at the stranger on the porch. A very warm, friendly smile.
“Do you know who that man is next door?” Bettina asked, scrutinizing her maid.
“Oh, him? He’s a trapper from Natchez. He’s visiting Monsieur Duval, they’re cousins. He showed me one of his pelts. He’s half Indian. Choctaw.” Frederick pointed a finger. “See how his forehead is sort of flat, that’s what they do to their children.” The boy snorted. “It’s a sign of beauty.”
The man puffed on a pipe, his face sun-bronzed. He smiled at Oleba, his gaze sharp and interested.
Oleba twirled about in her bright green skirt and red scarf. She sang and danced on the grass as Genevre giggled in her arms. Her limbs willowy, her smile sparkled white in her dark face.
“I think Oleba likes him.” Frederick folded the paper and snickered.
Bettina walked out onto the porch and started to remove dry clothing from the clotheslines. Soon she’d have to leave for the café, as she and Charlotte shared the hours.
The man stood, his wide shoulders pushing out his buckskin jacket, nodded to her, and went inside the Duval cottage.
Oleba set Genevre on the grass. The little girl picked wildflowers, sniffing each one. Oleba hurried onto the porch and pulled pegs from clothes and folded items into a basket.
“Who is your friend?” Bettina asked.
“We hardly know one another. He seems a nice man.” Oleba’s smile turned shy. She unpegged sheets and shook them out, then folded. “He is called Nashoba, that means ‘wolf.’ He has a wise, noble face.”
“So you hardly know him?” Bettina grinned. “Do not be embarrassed if you like someone.” She stepped down and picked up her daughter. Genevre smelled fresh and earthy as she held up grass-stained fingers.
“I suppose I like the notice he gives me. I don’t know yet how I feel.” Oleba hefted up the willow basket and they walked inside. Her maid set the basket on the table.
Christian sat with Frederick on the sofa, picking out words in the newspaper.
“After seeing all the slaves in New Orleans, people with no freedom, I think about what my life could have been if the planter hadn’t freed me.” Oleba started removing items from the basket. “I guess I’ve never had anyone look at me for who I am as a woman.”
“You are a beautiful woman.” Bettina took a damp cloth and cleaned her daughter’s hands. She kissed her wet knuckles then handed the child to Oleba. “I am off now, or I will be late for the café. Children, mind Oleba and I will see you later.”
Bettina put on her straw hat and hurried across the bridge. She didn’t know what to think of this new development with her maid, but for some reason it pleased her, yet made her uncomfortable at the same time.
She strode in under the tinkling bell. Charlotte wiped crumbs from tables.
“Bettina, good, we need to speak.” Charlotte glanced toward the wide window. “Your servant girl spends a lot of time parading before that Indian.”
“Oleba is my children’s nanny. I do not consider her a servant. So what do you mean?” Bettina untied her hat, surprised by her friend’s abrupt tone.
“I mean you had better caution her.” Charlotte removed her apron. Her flat, freckled face was drawn in seriousness. “She can’t behave like that in front of any man she pleases.”
Bettina walked to the kitchen and checked the flames in the wood stove under the soup pot. Her mother should arrive soon. A few customers sat at tables outside. She returned out front. “The man is half Indian and half white. She is not allowed to talk with men?”
“She’s a Negro, and the Code Noir states she can only marry another Negro.” Charlotte hung her apron on its hook.
“Marriage...are we not rushing ahead in this matter? She told me she hardly knows him.” Bettina grew irritated. She picked up a ledger and opened to where she’d left it yesterday.
“Café patrons are making comments. Oleba lingers too long out there, I’ve seen her.” Charlotte swept a broom under the tables. “If the wrong people catch them she could be arrested. My husband does represent the law here.” She straightened. “You know I like the girl, so it’s advisable to stop the trouble now.”
“These are more unfair laws.” Bettina slapped the ledger shut. “I will warn her, but I’m certain it is for no reason.” Still, had others noticed what she hadn’t?
She worked steadily the remainder of the afternoon, helping her mother cook, serve, and finding time to update the books.
That evening, at the cottage, once the children were in bed, Bettina reluctantly conveyed Charlotte’s warning to Oleba.
“Who is saying we’re discussing marriage?” Oleba’s voice sounded strained. “He’s only been visiting for a week, how silly. Nashoba did tell me that in Natchez many of the men have Negro wives. They make their own laws up there.” She didn’t look up from her mending of one of Christian’s shirts.
Bettina sat on the sofa, realizing this might be more of a problem than she first thought. “Are you...seriously interested in him?”
“I don’t know.” Oleba now met her eyes. “It’s far too soon to tell. True, I have lately had ideas that maybe I do need something for myself.”
“I understand. You are right to have those feelings.” Bettina couldn’t expect another woman to hold herself aloft as she did. Most humans needed the touch of other humans. She dreamt of such touches in her meanderings of the past, her dreams: Everett’s hot kisses, warm caresses. She quivered and brushed a finger along her collar bone. “I would never deny you any happiness.”
“Of course, he may not think of a permanent relationship with me. Only a flirting.” Oleba grinned, her needle speeding in and out of the material.
Bettina sank into the sofa cushion. Oleba sounded confident of the opposite situation, something much more than a flirting.
* * * *
When March turned to April, the pair was spotted in a grove of cypress trees far
ther up the bayou. They were reported as leaning close to one another, their conversation intimate in the humid, jasmine-scented air.
This activity sparked another reprimand from Charlotte. Bettina feared it was already too late, no longer the passing fancy she’d wished for. She’d vowed to support Oleba, but her selfishness resurfaced. How would she manage without her?
“I hate to keep reminding you of the law here, but I don’t want you arrested.” Bettina set her cup of tea down, listening to rain splatter on the roof in the late evening.
“I am frustrated that I risk arrest for spending time with a man who isn’t my skin color.” Oleba paced the room, arms crossed, her mending neglected. Her sewing had suffered lately with loose, irregular stitches. “The white men in New Orleans flaunt their mulatto or quadroon mistresses. Of course, they’d never marry one.”
“I do not agree with their laws. If this man loves you, he should take you to Natchez and marry you properly.” Bettina rushed out the words. She still hoped for denial. They’d quarreled, it was only a flirting, and Oleba would stay.
Oleba’s gaze grew sad, conflicted. “What about the children? I have a duty here, Mrs. Camborne.”
“Do you love him? Happiness ought to come before any duties. I will find a way to cope, I always have.” Bettina swallowed slowly. “I would never stand in your way.”
“I do love him. I never thought I would feel this way about anyone. Now that I’ve experienced such pleasure…” Oleba smiled. She sat beside Bettina and touched her wrist. “Forgive me for being rude, but perhaps you should think about your own happiness. You have been alone a long time.”
“Do not worry about me. I have enough to keep me busy.” Bettina turned away for a moment, a small ache forming in her stomach. Whether over her own denial of companionship or the idea of losing this woman, she wasn’t certain. “Please, do what your heart tells you to do.”
Without Refuge Page 6