Genevre, her nose up and head erect, frowned at them as if they were the capricious ones.
“She loves herself.” Christian gave an impish smile, dipped his finger in the éclair filling and wiped it on his sister’s cheek. Genevre flushed crimson and stomped her foot, eliciting further laughter.
“No more teasing, Christian.” Bettina swept up her offended daughter, glad to turn her attention away from Portier’s scrutiny.
“So, how is the surveying going? Any more news about Spain’s intentions for our colony?” Aubert clapped Portier on the shoulder. The two men wandered off, talking.
Bettina carried Genevre into the kitchen. “You will survive, mignonne.” She dampened a cloth and wiped her cheeks. “You must learn to act sweet to match your beauty.”
A few minutes later, Charlotte hurried in. “Geralde is asking a lot of questions about you, Bettina. I think he’s interested.” She plucked lemons from a basket. “We need more lemonade.”
“Why would he not be interested? I think you invited him today for that purpose.” Bettina hugged her daughter and swayed around the kitchen with her.
“Don’t be upset. You might suit one another.” Charlotte cut the fruit and squished half over the glass cone of the lemon squeezer. The citrus smell wafted around them.
“I am not upset. I am embarrassed…a little.” Bettina nestled her daughter’s head beneath her chin as she rocked her. She felt uncomfortable, irritated, but resisted bricking up a wall.
“He wants me to invite both of you over for dinner some evening.” Charlotte squeezed more lemons, poured the juice into a pitcher and measured in sugar. “So he can get to know you better.”
“I do not think that is a good idea.” Bettina breathed in her child’s scent, and waited to be persuaded.
“After over two years? I know it’s difficult for you. Still, a friendly meal, there’s no harm in that.” Charlotte gave her a cajoling smile. “He is really very nice.”
Volet swept in, her new mauve high-waisted round gown swirling around her. “Charlotte, your Monsieur Portier is such a charming man, but with a rugged quality as well.”
“I’m trying to convince her to give him a chance.” Charlotte poured water into the pitcher and stirred.
“A man to pay attention to you is not a sin, ma cherie.” Volet stroked Genevre’s hair as she stared at Bettina. “Neither is enjoyment.”
Bettina traced her fingers down her daughter’s spine. She did need to relax and enjoy herself. “If you insist, and stop pressuring me. I suppose it is safer than chasing alligators into the Mississippi.”
“What...?” Volet and Charlotte blinked at her in confusion.
“Never mind. I will agree to an after church dinner, with the children and you present, Maman. That is all.” Bettina ignored the flip of her stomach and nudged her mother with an elbow. “And I am about to reverse my verdict about your being superb.”
* * * *
The cooling breeze off the river late the next morning rippled at Bettina’s high-wasted Greek style gown. She’d followed her mother’s example and discarded a corset and any petticoats. As she crossed the bridge and entered the café, the light blue cotton billowed around her.
She waved at Mahieu’s sheriff, or Alguazil, Jean Treuet. He stood near the counter conversing with Volet.
Her mother leaned over the counter in a relaxed pose, her eyes shining, and her gestures graceful. Treuet brushed a hand through his thinning, sandy-brown hair. He smiled shyly, his gaze intense on Volet, his expression friendly, like a hound dog’s.
“I think Sheriff Treuet is enchanted by your mother,” Charlotte whispered when Bettina walked into the kitchen. “He’s been a widower for three years. It would do him good to get out again.”
Bettina stifled a laugh. “A match-up of a different sort, tres bien.” This turn of events pleased her since Charlotte assured her the sheriff was a kind and intelligent man. Bettina wanted to see her mother happy as well. Or occupied and out of Bettina’s personal business.
She watched their warm interaction. Treuet towered over Volet, but didn’t overpower her like Alverez had. Broad-shouldered, if slightly overweight, he carried his forty-nine years well.
“He comes in every morning for a cup of coffee, and always stops to talk with your mother. If she isn’t in, he’s quite disappointed.” Charlotte stirred the spicy gumbo over the fire.
The breakfast crowd drifted out and they prepared for the lunch patrons.
“I have noticed a new spirit in her, and she lingers over her toilette lately.” Bettina tied on her apron, put silverware and linen napkins on a tray, and walked into the dining room. “Bonjour, Sheriff Treuet. I hate to interrupt, Maman, but Frederick is waiting for you at the house, he needs to leave for work.”
“Oh, my lovely grandchildren require me. Excuse me, Jean. See you tomorrow, I hope,” Volet said in a sweet voice, her eyes twinkling. She started for the door. “I will iron your prettiest dress for next Sunday, Bettina. Do not forget our dinner.”
“Do not worry, the dinner is all I can think about.” She swiped table crumbs onto the floor and gave her mother a smug smile. She’d be trussed up and ready to be devoured. As Sunday drew closer, Bettina’s uneasiness grew. How could she fit anyone else into her life, when Everett still occupied her heart? Anyone new would elbow the comfort of him aside.
* * * *
Bettina and her family arrived at Charlotte’s pretty yellow stucco house near the square at two o’clock the following Sunday. She’d made a point to attend church, to expose her children to the Catholic religion she’d neglected in England. Her mother’s insistence played a part in that.
Fred declined to attend, so he’d stayed home at the cottage.
Charlotte welcomed them with hugs, opened her jalousies to the breeze and they sat to eat flounder stuffed with oysters, rice, beans and fresh fruit. Bettina picked at her food, her stomach out of sorts due to her mother’s periodic hints about an impending romance.
Portier nodded and smiled at Bettina during the meal, asking polite questions. He did look handsome in his beige breeches and frock coat, his black hair shiny and clean. He was attentive without imposing on her.
After dinner, the children were put down for a nap upstairs. The adults convened to the raised back porch, or gallery as they called it here. Aubert served coffee and Charlotte brought out beignets, sugar sprinkled fritters, stuffed with cherries. The fritters were passed around.
“I am full from dinner, no thank you.” Bettina’s irritable stomach rebelled at the fried smell. Her mother cast her a questioning look.
“That’s how she keeps her slender figure.” Charlotte took a generous bite, her lips and fingers turning white with powdered sugar. The red filling oozed out and she picked up a gooey cherry and plopped it in her mouth. “She hardly eats at all.”
“It’s good that I like my women plump.” Aubert laughed and smiled at his wife. “Geralde, what do you think of our new governor, Gayoso de Lemos?”
“He’s experienced, as governor of the Natchez district.” Portier leaned against the gallery rail and ate his fritter. “He’s sent instructions to all posts concerning land grants, so it could mean more work for me. More time in the area, perhaps.”
“Wonderful. We will enjoy your stimulating company.” Charlotte licked her fingers and nudged her husband.
“Yes, my dear?” Aubert frowned at her, then his eyebrows rose. “Oh.” He looked to Portier. “You must see our garden, Geralde. Bettina? Charlotte has outdone herself this year. A nice stroll, perhaps?”
Volet smiled, almost a smirk, and nibbled on her fritter.
“Would you care for a walk in the garden, Madame Camborne?” Portier turned to Bettina as he wiped his hands on a napkin.
“A walk sounds nice.” She glared briefly over he
r shoulder at her mother and Charlotte, then at Aubert, for joining their traitorous ranks.
Bettina led the way down the gallery stairs. They strolled together on a stone path to Charlotte’s small garden and entered through an arbor. Bettina walked a few steps in front of Portier, admiring the rows of oleander, wisteria, and yucca; the jasmine and gardenias. Their perfume hung heavy on the air. A vegetable patch occupied the far right corner. Breathing in the pungent aroma, she kept a brisk pace, hearing his footsteps behind her.
“Wait for me, please. I don’t have my Indian moccasins on, so I’m not too fleet of foot.” He cupped her elbow to slow her, his manner teasing. “You were so quiet at dinner, Madame Camborne. I suspect you don’t care for this arrangement, but correct me if I’m mistaken?”
Bettina stopped and bit her lip. “I do not want to appear rude. I am not good at these social events. My mother and Charlotte insist I need more…pleasure in my life.”
“They could be right. There’s no shame in allowing in more happiness.” He removed his hand and clasped both of his behind his back. He smelled fresh, like a wind-blown field.
“I may not be the best of company.” Bettina grew even more shy, her pulse skittering. “I concentrate on working and, of course, my children.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t intend to try and sweep you off your feet. I move around a lot, and enjoy the outside, the traveling. I’m hardly the settling down type. Only a sociable relationship to get to know one another.” He flashed a smile, white in his tanned face. “Would you attend the theater with me in New Orleans some time?”
“The theater...that sounds interesting, maybe.” Bettina relaxed her innards, chiding herself for feeling threatened by someone so open and congenial. His dark eyes glowed with kindness.
“There you see, that wasn’t too painful, was it?”
She laughed. “No, it was not, Monsieur Portier.”
“Call me Geralde, please.” He offered his arm. She hesitated, then lightly put her hand on his sleeve.
When they rejoined the others, Geralde asked Aubert if he and Charlotte would double for an evening of theatrical entertainment that very next Friday. “Of course, this show I have in mind is one the authorities try to deter the whites from attending, yet it’s the most entertaining of evenings, I promise you.” He obviously wasn’t taking the chance she might change her mind.
Bettina forced a smile and agreed. She almost pinched her mother, seeing her triumphant grin.
* * * *
Her thoughts full of music and vivid costumes, gyrating Negro women called quadroons and free men of color, Bettina said goodnight to Geralde at the bridge and hurried up the cottage steps. She was relieved he’d behaved like a friendly companion all evening. He’d squeezed her hand at parting, nothing more. She’d scampered off like a skittish rabbit.
Her mother beamed, eyes wide, as she met her in the parlor. “So, how was your evening?”
Bettina removed her shawl and folded it. “The entertainment was surprising, such dancing, and wildness. The Negroes have their own version of dance. I cannot remember the last time I went to a show. France, certainly.”
Volet poked her shoulder. “Oh, you understand what I mean...about Geralde?”
“How was Genevre tonight? I think her right ear was bothering her. We may have to put warm oil in it again.” Bettina walked across the parlor with her mother on her heels.
“She acted fine. She was not fussy at all.” Volet narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger. “You won’t get away without telling me.”
“Geralde was a gentleman, polite, attentive and charming. He even walked on water at one point.” Bettina smirked. “I had a pleasant outing. Yes, I enjoyed his company. Now I am going into my room to check if my daughter has a fever.”
“Will you see him again?” Volet half blocked the bedroom door.
“Maman…we did talk about seeing one another again. Are you happy?”
“Eh bien, remember, you need to discard the past, for your own benefit. I’m only concerned for your happiness, mine has nothing to do with it.” She kissed Bettina’s cheek, then clasped her arm. “Before you retire, I want to show you my new gown.” Her mother hurried into her room, threw off her robe and slipped into something. “It’s so easy to dress oneself with these new styles.”
Bettina slouched against the wall. Her nerves on edge most of the evening had exhausted her. Relief now softened her muscles. She’d survived and had enjoyed herself.
Her mother floated back into the hall wearing a pastel pink, low-necked, muslin confection. “Jean Treuet’s asked me to dinner at a restaurant in New Orleans. I threw away caution and had this made. What do you think of it?”
Bettina frowned, seeing her mother’s outline through the gauzy material. “Maman, I think you are practically exposed.”
“The seamstress assured me this is what they’re wearing in Paris. I suppose the radicals did one decent thing in obliterating our restrictive way of dress. You said yourself you delight in the comfort of wearing so...little underneath.” Volet’s breasts jiggled, about to spill out. At least she had the decency to blush.
“I am certain Sheriff Treuet will be very impressed.” Bettina fought a yawn. “Your bodice leaves nothing to the imagination.”
“Well, dear, now that I’ve found a good man, I welcome his attentions.” Volet stuck her nose in the air, looking a lot like her granddaughter. “Goodnight.” She glided through her bedroom door.
Bettina stroked her fingers down her dress, a plain gray cotton, her white fichu tucked in her bodice for modesty. In the midst of the people at the theater, she’d looked like a nun.
Did her body ache for a man’s touch? She decided to allow a friendship with the surveyor, but the idea of sharing intimacy with another man sent chills down her spine.
She entered her bedroom, closed the door and gently lifted the netting around her bed to feel Genevre’s brow. The child wasn’t feverish. Such a sweet face she had. A face her father might never see.
With a sigh, Bettina stood and tugged the fichu from her dress. The evening in Geralde’s company had left her with a niggling sense of betrayal. How could one betray a dead man? Though if Everett were no longer alive, wouldn’t she know it unequivocally in her soul? Or was that the silly hope she clung to so as not to move on with her life?
She walked to the window and stared out at the darkness. Crickets chirped. She studied her face reflected in the glass, scratched her fingernail under her haunted brown eyes, and knew she had to stop acting afraid.
Chapter Nine
At the kitchen table, Bettina closed the ledger for 1797 and opened the one for 1798. She checked the entries she’d already made. The café was doing well. Louisiana also prospered since the Spanish government had allowed its American subjects to use neutral foreign ships to trade their goods with all Spanish American ports.
Evening encroached and a February rain sprinkled on the roof. Geralde had gone to Natchez for a few months, and to her surprise, she missed his kind, easy conversation. She’d allowed herself to grow used to his solicitousness toward her. So far it remained a friendship and he seemed satisfied with that. He said he’d return in March—she looked forward to his revisit—and he’d promised Fred he’d take them to the slaves’ dances on Congo Square.
She brushed the feather of her quill pen under her chin and sighed. She no longer recalled Everett’s voice so easily, his smile, his blue eyes flecked with green. Her memories faded and she must open herself to new possibilities. The idea no longer frightened her quite as much.
The sounds of a banjo and fiddle, musicians on a flatboat on the river, drifted in the window. The craziness of Carnival season had started in January at Epiphany, with the exclusive masked balls in New Orleans. The flamboyant celebrating before the deprivation of Lent. She’d avoided having anything
to do with it so far. Another ploy to deny herself pleasure.
Bettina stood and stretched. Everyone was celebrating.
“Maman, when will I attend school again?” Christian pattered down the hall, a book under his arm. Charles Parrault’s tales, his favorite. She’d taught him a little reading so he’d be prepared when he attended the boys’ academy at the Mahieu church. She hoped her boy would remain enthusiastic about education, and she’d have the funds for tuition.
“In September, mon petit.” She picked up the red scarf she was knitting to send to Maddie in England—they had no need for warm wool here. She’d already finished a green one for Kerra, and a blue scarf for Kerra’s husband, Charlie. Everett’s late mother had taught Bettina this skill. She smiled at the thought instead of feeling sad, another victory.
Christian sat on the sofa and opened the book. “Come, Genny,” he called to his sister. The little girl ran over and climbed up beside him. He flipped pages to Sleeping Beauty, her favorite story.
Knitting needles now in hand, Bettina grinned as she watched him read to his sister. Her blonde head nestled on his shoulder. Her beautiful children.
Hearing laughter outside, Bettina peeked out the window into the twilight. Sheriff Treuet stood near the bridge, holding an umbrella over Volet’s head. They lightly kissed in the drizzle. Their relationship had advanced into another pleasant development. Perhaps they’d marry some day.
A movement farther off caught Bettina’s eye. A man, tall and skinny, probably a Negro, stared over at her cottage. He looked to be holding a spyglass. He turned and strode down the river road. Bettina shut the jalousie. Why would a Negro spy on her? She must be mistaken. He might have been spying on the sheriff.
* * * *
Near the market place on the edge of the French Quarter, Geralde escorted Bettina and Fred to an open field. The area, across from Rampart Street, called Congo Square, swarmed with free people of color and black slaves. Women in plain calico dresses and bright tignons tied in elaborate knots and points moved among the crowd. Items were being sold or bartered. Jugs of tafia, the cheap rum made with sugar cane juice, were passed around. Conversations rose and fell, the blacks chattering in patios and other languages Bettina didn’t recognize.
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