They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Where—where’re we goin’?” I asked nervously.

  “We’re going to fetch my bags and then we’re going to hire a cab and go buy you a decent outfit and then we’re going to go board the steamboat for New Orleans. I’ve taken complete leave of my senses—I’m fully aware of that fact—but I’d never be able to live with myself if I left you to the mercy of …” He shook his head once again.

  “Why me, Lord?” he asked.

  I thought I was going to burst with joy.

  Book Two

  The Ward

  Chapter Six

  NEW ORLEANS WAS COMPLETELY OVERWHELMING, and as we left the steamboat, a porter following behind with Julian’s bags, I couldn’t believe I was actually here. I held on to Julian’s arm, in awe, sad, too. This was where Ma had grown up, and this was where she had known such happiness, such heartbreak. Ma … I didn’t want to think about her. I wanted to keep the grief locked up inside where it couldn’t harm me. Julian tilted his head and glanced down at me, and I managed to smile a feeble smile. He seemed to sense that I didn’t want to talk, seemed to sense the reason why. He gave my arm a little pat and guided me past a huge stack of cotton bales.

  The docks were vast and very crowded and full of activity, but there was a curiously lethargic atmosphere nevertheless. Perhaps it was the rather oppressive blue-gray sky looming overhead, or perhaps it was the sultry heat, but although everyone seemed to be busy, no one seemed to be in any hurry. Passengers arriving and departing strolled along leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world, and the Negro slaves loading and unloading huge crates and barrels or yet more bales of cotton did so at a shambling pace. There seemed to be dozens of sailors, some of them in foreign uniforms, and they lounged about, eyeing the women who sauntered about the docks in colorful and provocative garments. A number of these women were very beautiful and some of them quite dark, obviously mulattos or quadroons. They were the most beautiful of all, coyly twirling fancy silk parasols.

  My own parasol had been returned, along with the dress, the silk petticoat and the orange kidskin shoes. Julian had instructed the woman at the emporium to wrap them up and send them back to Amelia at the inn, and I was now proudly wearing the mauve linen frock with thin purple stripes I had admired in the window. It had short puffed sleeves worn slightly off the shoulder, a modest neckline and a narrow purple waistband, the very full skirt belling out over the beruffled white petticoat beneath. I was also wearing a new pair of shoes, purple kidskin this time. They fit much better, but the heels weren’t nearly so high. We had purchased everything hastily before boarding the steamboat. Even though I was now “suitably” attired and my bosom was no longer so exposed, the sailors eyed me, too. I pretended not to notice.

  As we continued through the crowded labyrinth, Julian informed me that New Orleans was one of the busiest ports in America. Cotton from the South was exported all over the country and overseas as well, most of it leaving from right here, and in the city one could buy goods imported from all over the world. New Orleans was the most cosmopolitan city in America, he continued, the most sophisticated as well. I didn’t understand what some of those big words meant, but I agreed that it was certainly a fascinating place.

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” I said.

  “I can’t either,” he said dryly.

  “I—I’m a little scared,” I confessed.

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s so big and I—I don’t know anything. I’ve spent all my life in the swamps. I—I’m afraid everyone will laugh at me.”

  “You need a bit of polish,” he agreed, “but I imagine we can take care of that.”

  Reaching a line of carriages, he helped me climb inside one of them, tipped the porter for carrying the bags and gave directions to the driver. The interior of the carriage was dusty, the seats upholstered in brown leather cracking at the seams. Julian settled in beside me, closed the door, and we were on our way, wheels spinning noisily, horse hooves clomp-clomp-clomping on the street. I sat up very straight, clutching the handle on the side of the door as we rumbled and rocked along. My stomach felt a little queasy, and I hoped I wasn’t going to be sick.

  “Why are you sitting like that?” Julian asked.

  “I—I ain’t never been in a carriage before. Are—are you sure we ain’t going to tump over?”

  “We aren’t going to tump over, I assure you. Sit back and relax.”

  “We’re going awfully fast,” I said nervously.

  “We’re barely moving. You’ve really never been in a carriage before?”

  “I’ve been in a wagon, but it wudn’t closed-in like this and it didn’t shake so much.”

  “You’d never been on a steamboat, either, and that didn’t frighten you.”

  “Yeah, but I’m used to water.”

  “Lord,” he said wearily, “you really are a primitive. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Put me to work,” I replied. “I can earn my keep, I promise ya. You won’t be sorry you brung me along.”

  “Brought,” he corrected.

  “See, I—I don’t even use the proper words at times. People will laugh at me.”

  “Not in my presence, they won’t.”

  “Will your family really be upset when you show up with me?”

  “Delia will be no problem. She’s a dear, if somewhat absentminded. Charles will raise hell when he finds out—fortunately he’s in Europe on business at the moment. Lavinia will undoubtedly come charging over with fire in her eyes. Lavinia is my uncle’s wife and only an Etienne by marriage, but she considers herself the matriarch. A most unpleasant woman.”

  “I—I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  “Oh, I can handle Lavinia. She may be a dragon, but Charles and I still control the family business—and what little money remains. That has always been a thorn in her side. Lavinia feels she should be in charge and frequently believes she is. Her offspring, my cousins, are deplorable snobs, and poor Andre, their father, spends most of his time at his club, drinking bourbon and losing at cards. There are various other relations scattered throughout the Quarter, but they only appear for handouts—or at family gatherings where there is a generous outlay of food.”

  “Who are Delia and Charles?” I asked.

  “Delia is my father’s sister, and she’s lived at the house ever since I was a boy. She came to stay with us after her young husband was killed in a boating accident—and somehow she never got around to leaving. She runs the house and clucks and fusses over Charles and me and forgets things and mutters to herself, and just when you think the old dear’s completely dotty, she’ll fix those eyes on you and startle you with some remarkably astute observation. Delia may spend an inordinate amount of time gathering wool, but in a crisis she’s the very soul of strength.”

  Julian shook his head, a faint smile on his lips as he considered his aunt, and then his eyes grew serious and a frown creased his brow.

  “Charles is my brother,” he informed me. “He’s twelve years my junior and quite good-looking and nothing at all like me. He’s sober, dedicated, driven, a very hard worker. I fear Charles doesn’t get much fun out of life, but he certainly accomplishes a great deal. He runs the business and handles all the family’s affairs and is tactful enough to consult me every now and then to maintain the fiction that I have equal authority. Business is not my forte. I’m perfectly content to let Charles manage everything. He does so with great efficiency.”

  “Is he married?” I asked.

  “Charles is far too busy keeping the business afloat to make such a serious commitment. There have been women, of course—Charles has been known to attend more than one Quadroon Ball—but, as yet, no wife. Well-born belles wring their hands in frustration, even though the Etienne wealth is mostly a memory.”

  “And—and he won’t be happy about me?”

  “He’ll be incensed,” Julian said, “but, as I told you, he’s in Europe and won’t be back for se
veral months. Happily for us. No doubt he’ll learn of his big brother’s latest folly as soon as Lavinia can put pen to paper, but there’s not a lot he can do about it with an ocean between us.”

  He didn’t seem to be particularly worried about it, so I decided not to worry either. I had gotten accustomed to the movement of the carriage now and was no longer frightened. I leaned forward, peering out the window. We had passed a lot of warehouses and ugly brown buildings, and now we were moving down a street lined with mellow old buildings with fancy wrought-iron galleries. Gentlemen in handsome frock coats and women in lovely outfits strolled along leisurely beneath the galleries, many of them followed by Negro servants carrying their parcels. I caught glimpses of some of the strange and wonderful goods displayed in shop windows, and Julian leaned forward to point to a particularly impressive shop on the corner. Its windows were filled with beautiful and ornate furniture and exquisite vases and screens and other marvelous items.

  “That’s Etienne’s,” he informed me. “Grandest and most exclusive purveyor of imported goods in New Orleans.”

  “You sell furniture?”

  “‘Furniture’ is hardly the appropriate word. You want a Boulle cabinet, a Giovanna Bologna bronze, a bedroom screen painted by Boucher for Madame Du Barry, a set of Sevres china once used by Catherine the Great, a crystal chandelier that once graced a ballroom in Versailles, you come to Etienne’s with a wagonload of money and leave the proud possessor of the desired item.”

  “People actually have money to buy them things?”

  “Not as many people as we would like,” Julian confessed, “and each things costs us a great deal, plus shipping costs. The profit for Etienne’s isn’t all that large, but the shop was established by my great-grandfather over a hundred years ago and it’s something of an institution, so we hold on to it—albeit shakily. The real profit is in cotton.”

  “You sell cotton, too?”

  “We import luxury items for the shop. We export cotton which Charles buys at auction or, more recently, in advance.”

  “How can you buy cotton in advance?” I asked.

  “You strike a deal with the plantation owner, agree to buy his entire crop as soon as it’s planted. It’s an idea Charles came up with himself, and he was able to buy at a bargain price, much less than we’d pay at auction. Belle Mead and Ravenaugh are currently growing for us. Cleaned out the coffers, but we’ve got the jump on all our competitors and will clear a huge profit once the crops are harvested.”

  It sounded risky as hell to me. Sounded like buyin’ a pig in a poke. What if something happened to the crops before they could be picked? Course, I didn’t know anything about business, didn’t know that much about cotton, either. I did wonder, though, if this Charles was quite as shrewd as his brother seemed to think he was. He sounded bossy and thoroughly unpleasant. I was glad he wasn’t going to be here for a while.

  We had left Etienne’s far behind by this time and were driving through a series of narrow, twisting streets. The shops here were shabbier, the people not as well dressed, but there was a mellow charm nevertheless. I wondered how a person would ever learn their way around a place as vast and confusing as this. Turning a corner, we drove past a huge area completely filled with stalls, dozens of people milling about, examining baskets of plump pink shrimp and barrels of eel and mounds of apples and limes and oranges. There were racks of meat, too, carcasses hanging on hooks, cages of live chickens and geese as well. Julian told me that here at the market you could buy every kind of food imaginable, from the most exotic spices to freshly baked bread. It was a festive blur of color and slow movement, and the smells as we passed were heady indeed. I longed to leap right out of the carriage and spend hours examining those fascinating stalls, mingling with those unhurried matrons who rubbed elbows with stout men in leather aprons, those Negro women in bandannas who idly squeezed melons and filled their wicker baskets with produce and fish wrapped in newspaper.

  “I’ve never seen so much food,” I said.

  Julian smiled. “New Orleans is famous for its food. Our cuisine is rivaled only by that in Paris.”

  “Makes you hungry, just seein’ it all.”

  I sat back against the worn leather cushion, wearied and a little bewildered by all the wonderful new sights and impressions. Life in the swamp with its never-changing routine and bleak sameness hadn’t prepared me for all this color and variety. I felt like a child who had been given so many presents I couldn’t fully appreciate any of them. I was aglow with happiness, yet the sadness was there as well, and I found myself wanting to cry. Ma … this was her city. How dear she had been, how gentle and loving, and … and now she was gone. The anguish and grief would always be inside, would always come upon me unawares, despite all my efforts to keep it contained. Julian studied me closely, his brown eyes full of understanding.

  “Tired?” he asked quietly.

  “Not at all, but I—I’m awfully nervous.”

  “There’s no need to be. No one is going to harm you.”

  “I know, but—it’s all so strange.”

  “I imagine it must be. You’ll feel better after we get home and you’ve had a little rest.”

  “Are we almost there?” I asked.

  “Almost.”

  “I—I want to thank you for bringing me with you.”

  “I’ll undoubtedly rue the day,” he replied.

  The market behind us, we were now driving slowly through a beautiful district of old brick houses festooned with intricate wrought-iron balconies and columns. Purple bougainvillea spilled over crumbling gray brick garden walls, and through wrought-iron gates I caught glimpses of gardens abloom with camellias and azaleas and roses and all sorts of exotic greenery. The air was heavily perfumed, and one could hear the gentle splattering of hidden fountains. A sleepy, almost dreamlike atmosphere prevailed, as though life lived beyond the weathered walls and all that wrought-iron lace was somehow removed, set apart. Everything seemed strangely familiar to me, and I had the curious feeling that I had been here before, that I belonged, that I was coming home. I wasn’t able to define the feeling, it didn’t really make sense, but it was very strong nevertheless, something Mama Lou would understand.

  Julian sighed and sat up straight, adjusting his neckcloth as the carriage slowed down, finally stopping before a set of wide, slightly rusty wrought-iron gates. Julian climbed out and pulled the chain of a tarnished bell hanging beside the gates, and then he turned to help me out of the carriage, squeezing my hand tightly as I stepped down. Footsteps approached, and the gates were opened wide by a plump, cheerful Negro boy in black knee pants and a rather shiny black frock coat he had begun to outgrow. He grinned broadly, shoving the gates even wider.

  “Welcome home, Mista Julian!” he exclaimed. “We’s happy to have you back again.”

  “Hello, Elijah. It’s good to be back.”

  “Don’t stand there wasting Mister Julian’s time with your chattering, Elijah. Get them bags down, carry them into the house.”

  This order was issued by a stern-faced Negro man who appeared at the boy’s heels. He wore a black broadcloth suit as shiny as Elijah’s, an embroidered maroon waistcoat that had seen much better days and a crumpled white linen neckcloth. His skin was a shiny black, his eyes a haughty brown, his fuzzy hair a peppery gray-black. He gave Julian a cool nod, gave me a look of instant disapproval and then devoted all his attention to the unloading of the bags. Julian hooked his arm through mine and led me into the garden.

  “You mustn’t mind Pompey,” he said. “He’s always been an officious bastard and became even more so after he was elevated to the rank of butler. I was about twelve years old at the time.”

  I was surprised to find that he kept slaves. Julian saw it on my face.

  “Pompey and Elijah aren’t slaves,” he informed me. “They are free men of color, with papers to prove it. They work for us by choice and for a salary, as do Jezebel, Kayla, and all our other devoted and exorbitantly expens
ive family retainers.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Glad they ain’t slaves, I mean. I don’t think it’s right for men to own other men, like they was cattle or something.”

  “You’ll find a lot of people here in New Orleans who agree with you. We’ve a large population of free people of color, a whole community, in fact, many of them with lighter skin than yours. Unfortunately, you’ll also find thousands of slaves and monthly auctions. It’s an imperfect world.”

  “Is—is your aunt at home?” I asked nervously.

  “I imagine she is. She doesn’t bite,” he added.

  I was extremely apprehensive now, hesitating, and Julian paused to give me time to gather myself together and look around before we went inside. We moved to one side of the flagstone walkway so that Pompey and Elijah could pass. Julian thrust his hands into his pockets, watching me with his head tilted to one side as I examined my surroundings.

  The garden was filled with strange, unfamiliar plants, feathery ferns, tall, fan-shaped greenery, beds of flowers badly in need of attention. Magnolia trees towered overhead, studded with huge, waxy white blooms, and the dusty pink-gray walls were espaliered with fruit trees. There were two fountains, both of them abrim with coral lilies, water spilling from basin to basin with a quiet, tinkling music. The house itself was enormous, twice as large as any of its neighbors, of the same ancient pink-gray brick. Sprawling the full length of the garden, it was two stories high with a slanting blue-gray slate roof. The galleries above and verandahs below were adorned with a dazzling profusion of ornately patterned wrought iron that really did look like lace. Old white shutters hung at all the windows, sagging here and there, and a graceful fanlight spread over the blue-gray front door.

  “It—it’s beautiful,” I said in a hushed voice.

  “Weathered with age, worn at the edges, a majestic old relic that desperately needs overhauling—but I suppose it does retain a certain patina of charm. I only wish it weren’t so costly to maintain.”