The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” Andre said.

  Stephen stified a yawn with the back of his hand.

  “Of course they’re pretty,” he said. “Why shouldn’t they be? Ye’ve been busy for generations improving the strain. I don’t see how Frenchmen ever grow anything, ye’re so busy in the slave cabins. Gad, what a taste for dark meat ye have!”

  “I won’t let you anger me,” Andre grinned. “Besides, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “I’m on pins,” Stephen growled. “What the deuce is so enjoyable about this? ‘Tis just as stuffy as some of the fashionable balls ye’ve taken me to. The girls are prettier, that I’ll admit; but those fat old yellow mothers of theirs seem to be watching them like hawks.”

  “You don’t understand. For them the connections they make here are as honorable as marriage. They never desert a protector or betray him. And when it comes to love—Dieu!—they’ve forgotten more than our women ever knew. Of course the mothers watch. They’d object to an unwise connection as strenuously as would a white mother to an unwise marriage.”

  “Let’s make the rounds,” Stephen said. I’m wearied to tears with standing here.”

  The two of them moved off, circling the ballroom. The girls watched them from behind their fans, commenting in whispers as the two richly attired men passed. As they came abreast of the stairway, Stephen stopped, his slim fingers tightening on Andre’s arm.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “I think I see what ye mean!”

  Andre looked up. A group of quadroon and octoroon girls were coming down the stairs. There was no need for Andre to ask which one Stephen meant. The others might as well not have existed.

  She was taller by half a head than any of the others, and her skin was darker, a clear, light golden color, gleaming against the ivory white tones of her companions. But it was her hair that made her stand out—instead of the usual midnight curls, spun in ringlets over each ear, she wore it loose—a tawny mane of chestnut, lightening to pure gold in the highlights, with overtones of auburn that ran like flame through the waves whenever she tossed her head.

  Stephen was standing on the last step when she reached it. As she neared him, he put out his hand and touched her arm.

  “Tonight,” he said, “ye’re dancing with me—and with none other. Ye understand that?”

  She turned toward him without speaking, and the heavy lids widened over eyes that were as cool and green as the sea.

  “You had better ask Madame my mother, monsieur,” she said. Her voice was deep and rich. Stephen thought it sounded like the tones of a soft, golden gong.

  Stephen looked her straight in the face.

  “To hell with Madame your mother,” he said clearly. “Ye’re dancing with me.”

  The full, wine-red lips widened slowly into a smile and little flakes of gold danced in the sea-green eyes.

  “And after tonight?” she said.

  Stephen lashed her with his glance, letting his eyes wander over the gown which was cut in extreme décolleté, the sleeves falling away from the shoulder, a frill of fine old lace barely covering her breasts, the bodice clinging to every inch of her incredibly slim waist.

  “Ye may call the turn,” he said; “I’ll play the fiddle.”

  He swung her away into the dance, gazing down into her face. She lifted it to his, until her lips were almost touching his throat. A perfume floated up from the chestnut, russet, golden hair; it was elusive, but subtly, insistently provocative. Stephen’s thin nostrils flared. He looked down at her eyes, but they were closed, the sooty lashes curving out and away, unmoving. Stephen found these black lashes odd, in conjunction with the rest of her coloring; but as they swirled under the chandeliers, he saw them gleam golden at the roots, their darkness a trick of the light and shadow of the ballroom, so that their colors were constantly shifting. Now they were dull gold; now lightless, inky black; but most often they were a changing combination of the two.

  Stephen took her arm and swept her from the dance floor. They went out on the gallery which overlooked the gardens in the rear of the Saint Louis Cathedral. The night was a clear one, a purple sky dusted over with stars. There over one of the spires of the Cathedral a thin sickle of a moon blazed silver, with a great halo of white around it.

  That means rain, Stephen thought irrelevantly. And this means I am mad . . .

  He caught her by both her soft, rounded shoulders and held her away from him at arm’s length. The moonlight caught in her hair, in her lashes. Stephen drew his breath in sharply.

  “Ye’re lovely!” he said. “God, but ye’re lovely!”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” she murmured, and the overtones of her rich, throaty voice lingered a moment after she was silent, like the echoes of a golden gong. Stephen listened to them a moment, straining his ears against the silence. Then he drew her to him.

  Her face was lifted to his, and the wine-red lips softened and parted. As he kissed her, Stephen could feel the sweet young breath sighing through. The kiss was light at first, light petal soft, and lingering. She rolled her head ever so slightly upon her neck so that her lips caressed his, sweet and warm and parted. Then something like madness flamed in Stephen’s veins. His arms tightened ferociously about her slim waist, until a little cry of pain was locked somewhere deep in her throat, then one hand swept upward to the back of her neck, and his fingers were bruising her flesh.

  Then abruptly, he released her. But instead of stepping back, she rose on tiptoe, her arms limp at her sides, her lips touching his so lightly that almost they did not touch at all, swaying there as if suspended by a breath. Stephen put his arms again about her waist, and she lay back against them, her eyes closed, her breath sighing through the stillness.

  Again Stephen drew her to him, but this time she did not lift her face, but hid it in the hollow of his neck, so that he could feel her warm breath making little whispers against his throat.

  “My dear . . . “ Stephen said.

  “Yes, monsieur?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Desiree,” she said. “Does monsieur like it?”

  “Like it? ‘Tis perfect. And now ‘tis time I had a word with Madame your mother. If ye’ll be so good as to conduct me . . .”

  Desiree took his arm, and the two of them went back into the ballroom. The girl led him straight across it until they reached a tall, middle-aged quadroon, sitting regally in one of the great chairs. At once, Stephen saw where Desiree got her beauty. The mother, though aging and putting on flesh, was still a rarely beautiful woman. She looked from Stephen to her daughter, her dark brows rising.

  “This gentleman wishes a word with you, Maman,” Desiree said. The woman turned her gaze to Stephen, waiting like a queen for him to speak. Stephen found her gaze disconcerting. To be looked at like this by a Negress—even an almost white Negress—was, to say the least, a new sensation. He hesitated. Seeing his perplexity, Andre crossed the room and stood at his friend’s side.

  “Permit me, Madame,” he said politely, “to present my friend, Monsieur Fox. Your name is, Madame?”

  “Hippolyte. Madame Hippolyte. Is Monsieur Fox of the plantation Harrow?”

  “Aye,” Stephen growled. “How did ye know of Harrow?”

  Madame smiled.

  “Everyone knows of Harrow, monsieur.” She leaned forward, her smile pleasant and inviting.

  Stephen cleared his throat. But this was a new thing: this shameless willingness to sell a daughter into concubinage. There were many men they could marry. He knew quadroons like the Logoasters, the Dumas, the Lascals and two dozen others who held great plantations and lived as richly among their slaves as any white. A girl like Desiree . . . any man . . . any man at all. . . .

  “I take it that monsieur wishes to form a connection with my daughter,” Madame Hippolyte said.

  “Aye,” Stephen said stiffly. “That is my intent.”

  “Monsieur is a man of wealth,” the woman said.

  “Sufficient t
o compensate ye for the loss of your daughter,” Stephen said drily.

  Madame Hippolyte flushed darkly.

  “Monsieur does not understand. There is not that much money in all the world. Desiree is not for sale like a black slave. I simply wanted to assure myself that my daughter would be amply provided for.”

  “In that you need have no further concern,” Andre told her. “Monsieur Fox is the richest man in Louisiana. Desiree will live like a princess. You will of course accept some token of his esteem . . .”

  “Not one cent,” Madame Hippolyte said firmly. “But if Desiree wants him . . .” She looked at her daughter. Desiree looked back at her, the sea-green eyes unclouded. Wordlessly, she nodded. Madame sighed.

  “Shall we discuss the terms, gentlemen?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said, “anything ye will.”

  “Monsieur will provide a house for my daughter down by the ramparts. It must be richer and more beautiful than any other on the street. He will further provide her with a maid servant and a cook. He will see that she is suitably attired at all times. He will visit her with discretion, so that no scandal will be attached to her name or his. And any children born of this connection he will fully provide for, educating them in the same style as whites. And, further, monsieur is not to see Desiree or have any further contact with her until this house is completed. Then, I shall send her to him.”

  Stephen’s fair brows met over his nose, and the great scar flamed on the side of his forehead.

  “Ye’re mad,” he said.

  Madame Hippolyte shrugged.

  “Careful, Stephen,” Andre whispered. “ ‘Tis best to humor her.”

  “Aye,” Stephen said. “I can see that here ye have the whip hand. Very well, I shall abide by those conditions. Construction will begin tomorrow!”

  He touched Desiree’s hand and swept her away in a waltz. She followed him effortlessly, gazing intently into his face, her eyes very wide and green with the tiny flakes of gold swimming in their depths.

  “Why do ye watch me so?” Stephen demanded.

  “Monsieur’s eyes are very blue,” she said simply, “and his brows are almost white. And there is a great scar upon his forehead from a duel.”

  “What else?” Stephen laughed.

  “His hair is like fire. And his lips make mockery. He is very handsome with a wickedness about him. You see, I wanted to remember.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Twill be so long before I see you again. I could die almost. But then I couldn’t come to you, could I? I will live for that—no matter how long it is.”

  “Never will a house be built faster,” Stephen said. “Come out upon the gallery with me.”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Why not, my little Desiree?”

  “I do not wish to betray Maman. With you, I have no will.”

  Stephen smiled.

  “I shall be patient,” he said, “Twill be a great happiness having ye.” Then, as she smiled at him, the great curving lashes closing over her eyes, he whispered: “Nay, more—’twill be a glory!”

  When at last the Bal du Cordon Bleu was over, Stephen surrendered Desiree to her mother. Then he and Andre left the ballroom together. Outside it was very clear, and the horses’ hooves rang in the silent street. Others saluted them as they rode away, grinning mockingly at Stephen as though glad to find in him at last a common weakness. But Stephen paid them no heed, sitting bent over in his saddle, the reins loose in his hands. His pale eyes were fixed on vacancy, glazed, unseeing.

  Andre rocked his plump form back in his saddle and laughed aloud.

  “So,” he chuckled. “You’ve taken on the placée you swore you’d never have!”

  “She’s beautiful, Andre,” Stephen said.

  “Yes! In that you have right! Your Desiree is a creature to stop the breath and send the mind reeling. But you must be careful, Stephen. Odalie must never know.”

  “Odalie,” Stephen said slowly. “Oh, yes, Odalie. Do you know, Andre, for the moment I’d forgotten her?”

  “I don’t doubt it. But she has no cause for complaint. You’ve treated her well, Stephen.”

  “Aye,” Stephen said. “ ‘Twas a mistake—our marriage. But it cannot be undone now. I shall take whatever joy there is left for me in life and make the best of it. Come, lad, ‘tis a long way yet.”

  Early the next day, the ox carts bearing the cypress boards turned into Rampart Street. Stephen sat in a little closed carriage across the street and watched the Negroes erecting the framework of the house. Monsieur Pouilly stood on the banquette, directing them. The little architect was Gallic to his finger tips. He found this commission vastly stimulating. A man of discretion, Monsieur Fox, he thought.

  Satisfied, Stephen ordered his coachman to drive on. As they turned into Canal Street, Stephen was amazed at the change in it. Businesses were springing up all along its length, and now a horse car, with its pyramid of steps leading up to its upper deck, clattered along a set of freshly laid rails. A year ago, the absentee landlords who held the property on Chartres had raised their already outrageous rents, and a general exodus had resulted. Now, day by day, Canal was gaining the ascendancy. Lying as it did between the first and second municipalities, it was of easy access to both American and Creole. Stephen looked again at the horse car. He had drawn aside the curtains of the carriage to let the sunlight in. Now he straightened. A woman had waved to him from the upper deck. As he drew abreast of the car, he saw that it was Aurore. She signaled for the car to stop and climbed precariously down the one side of the pyramid of steps.

  Stephen got down at once from the small carriage, and assisted her to the ground, then up again into his little cabriolet.

  “So, Stephen,” she laughed. “You’ve grown too old for horseback? ‘Tis odd to see you in a carriage.”

  “Yes,” Stephen smiled. “My old bones give me many a twinge these days. Where were ye going, little sister?”

  “Oh, I’d finished my shopping. Take me out to Harrow with you—if that’s where you’re going. I haven’t seen Odalie in ages.”

  “With pleasure, Aurore. Ye seem in high spirits today. There’s a glow to your cheeks. It makes ye lovelier, if such a thing is possible.”

  Aurore tapped him playfully with her parasol.

  “You’re wicked, Stephen,” she said. “But in a nice way. ‘Tis thoughtful of you to pay compliments to an old maid.”

  “Ye’ll marry yet,” Stephen said. “That I’ll wager ye.”

  “But no one will have me, Stephen. I’m twenty-nine years old. Who wants such an old wife?”

  “Tempt me further and I’ll play Turk,” Stephen growled. “Ye’d make a lovely addition to my harem.”

  “Then you have a harem? I’d long suspected it. But don’t rush me into this; I think I should like to be number ten. Yes—the tenth—and the last.”

  Stephen looked at her. Aurore seemed scarcely more than a girl. Her brown hair curled softly over her ears, and her hazel eyes, looking at him, seemed oddly tender. Gazing at her, Stephen suddenly remembered Andre’s words on that April day, long ago: “For my part, you’ve chosen the poorer one. Aurore is much more beautiful . . .”

  “Ye are,” he said aloud. “By all the saints ye are!”

  “I am what?” Aurore demanded. “You’re making riddles, Stephen.”

  “Ye’re prettier than Odalie. Andre and I used to argue over that point. I see now that he was right.”

  “No,” Aurore said softly. “I’m not—really I’m not. Andre was fond of me then, that was all. Odalie is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  A silence fell between them. They talked little until they reached Harrow. As they drove up the oak alley, Aurore saw Achille slinking along, his head bent low on his chest.

  “What ails him, Stephen?” she asked. “Is he ill?”

  “Aye, he is dying of heartbreak. Since that wildcat of a Nigra drowned herself, Achille has been of little use. I’ve found him half
a dozen other comely wenches; but he will have none of them. I fear he will not be long upon this earth.”

  “Yes,” Aurore said slowly. “A person can die of that, can he not? Especially when there is no hope.”

  Then she had skipped down from the carriage and was climbing the great stairs, walking very swiftly.

  Within one month, the little white house by the ramparts was finished. Stephen found his hands were trembling as he dressed himself. He was fresh from his bath, and all his clothing was new and far richer than any he had bought before. Lagoaster, the quadroon tailor, had literally outdone himself this time. Outside his window, the evening was purpling into night, and a neck. lace of stars strung itself out over the river.

  Stephen went down the stairs very quietly past the room where Etienne slept watched over by Little Inch from his own pallett on the floor. As he passed Odalie’s room she came out, and stood there staring at him.

  “How handsome you are, my husband,” she said. “Where do you go?”

  “To the city,” Stephen said shortly.

  “To the city—always to the city! Is there nothing I can do to know that, Stephen. Still. . . if you wish . . .”

  Stephen smiled.

  “Aye, but there is,” he said. “And what it is ye know!”

  The tears stood and sparkled in Odalie’s eyes.

  “Another child would cost me my life,” she whispered. “You know that, Stephen. Still . . . if you wish . . .”

  “No,” he said gently. “Ye’re right. Don’t wait up for me, I shall be very late.”

  He went on down the stairs. She stood on the landing looking after him. Then she turned slowly, and went back into her room.

  When Stephen reached Rampart Street, a light glowed softly in the little white house. He dismounted, and walked up to the door. As he raised the brass knocker, his hand shook slightly. Then, before he could bring it down sharply, the door flew open, and that wonderfully rich deep voice was whispering: