They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  I smiled. Elijah and the other servants were openly resentful of those we had employed to help out with the major cleaning. Jezebel refused to have them in her kitchen and resented cooking for them, and Kayla was haughty as could be when she had to deal with any of them. Pompey resented their presence most of all and resented me even more. Since I had taken over the housekeeping shortly after I arrived, he somehow felt I was trying to usurp his position. No amount of kindness on my part could make him unbend.

  “You want me to carry dem cleanin’ things back?” Elijah asked. “We’s all finished with all th’ chandyleers, ain’t we?”

  “This was the last,” I said. I had elected to clean all the chandeliers myself, and I never wanted to polish another crystal pendant as long as I lived. “Yes, Elijah, you may take the things away, then run on out and help with the rugs.”

  “Yes’um.”

  He gathered up the bucket of suds, the rags, the polish.

  “And don’t get into any scraps with Job and Elroy,” I warned.

  “I won’t, Miz Dana, but I ain’t takin’ no sass from ’em either.”

  Elijah left, and I sighed, looking around at the foyer. Everything seemed to shine, not a speck of dust in sight. The faded, mellow charm was still very much in evidence, but now the parquet floor had a rich, dark sheen, and the white paneled walls had the gleam of old satin. The graceful white spiral staircase gleamed, too, each banister individually polished, the faded pink runner covering the stairs newly cleaned and tacked back into place. I savored the smell of lemon oil and polish, and I took pride in my handiwork. The entire house had a new sparkle, and I intended to see that it stayed that way. It was the least I could do in exchange for all Julian and Delia had done for me.

  “Here you is!” Kayla exclaimed. “I thought you was out back, supervisin’ the rug cleanin’.”

  “I wanted to finish the chandeliers this morning.”

  “My, that one sure looks different. Dazzles you, it does.”

  “What did you want, Kayla?”

  The girl made a face, looking petulant.

  “Well, Miz Dana, I saw that all the silver was brought out and carried into the dinin’ room and put on the table, just like you told me to, and I herded them girls into the dinin’ room and put them to polishin’, like you said, but I ain’t supposed to help polish it. I’m supposed to supervise.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That Ruby, she keeps givin’ me lip. Says I can get my black ass to work, too, or she ain’t polishin’ a piece. I told her I was a ladies’ maid and I was just supervisin’ as a special favor to you ’cause you were busy elsewhere, an’ I told her if she didn’t watch her mouth, I’d have her black ass booted out without a penny of pay.”

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “I ain’t havin’ any lip from th’ likes of that Ruby, I can tell you right now. Trash, they is, havin’ to hire out by the job. Lucky to get work. Me, I got my position to think of.”

  “Be generous, Kayla,” I said, humoring her. “They’re just jealous of you because—because you have such an important position with such a fine old family.”

  “Reckon they could be,” she said thoughtfully.

  “And because you’re so pretty and have so many beaux,” I added.

  “Reckon you’re right.”

  “You can afford to be tolerant.”

  “Reckon I can,” she said, “but I still ain’t polishin’.”

  “I’ll speak to the girls,” I promised.

  “You’re gonna have to speak to Jezebel, too. She’s balkin’ at cookin’ for that lot, says she ain’t got the provisions to make lunch for twelve extra niggers.”

  No wonder Delia couldn’t handle them, I thought ruefully. They’re all as temperamental as those opera singers in that novel Delia loaned me. Prima donnas? Yes, they’re all prima donnas.

  I went to the dining room and chatted with the girls and sat down and polished a candlestick myself and told them how grateful I was to have them helping out. When I left they were all smiling and all working industriously with nary a complaint. It was a bit more difficult to win Jezebel over. She was fussing and fuming mightily, slamming things around in the kitchen and carrying on just like one of those silly opera singers. I agreed that it was a terrible imposition on her, that it wasn’t fair for her to have all this extra work and said I certainly wouldn’t want her to waste her great skills on hired help. Why, simple stew and cornbread would be good enough, and I could make that myself. Jezebel said she wasn’t about to let me get all hot and sweaty slavin’ over an oven, and reluctantly agreed to make the meal.

  “You’re a darling, Jezebel,” I told her.

  “An’ you thinks you is pretty smart, don’t-ja, missy? Think you done hoodwinked ole Jezebel an’ got th’ best of her. I’se on to your tricks, an’ the only reason I gives in is ’cause you is such an angel.”

  “I’m hardly an angel, Jezebel.”

  “You is, too, an’ don’t try to tell me different. You is still too skinny, missy, after all dis time, an’ you is workin’ too hard. You is supposed to be a proper young lady, learnin’ things from all them tooters Mister Julian hired for you, an’ you works like a nigger yourself.”

  “I have to make myself useful,” I told her.

  “You is supposed to make yourself smart, an’ Mister Julian’s gonna have hisself one fit when he learns you is polishin’ furniture an’ cleanin’ window glass ’stead of readin’ them books.”

  “Mister Julian rarely leaves his study except for meals,” I reminded her, “and the house was in terrible shape. I wanted it to look—to look especially nice when his brother returns.”

  “An’ Mister Charles is due back in just a few days, ain’t he?”

  “Next week,” I said.

  “I’se gonna hafta make some of them almond cakes he likes so well. Mister Charles—now there’s a man who has a real appetite.”

  “What—what is he like?” I asked cautiously.

  “Mister Charles? Thorny as one of them cactus plants, he can be at times, an’ stubborn as a mule, but I don’t take nothin’ off-a him. I smacked his behind when he was a toddler, I did, and I gave him what for and chased him outta my kitchen when he was a boy. He don’t fool me none with them mean looks a-his. I’se on to him, have been for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knows his secret. See, someone has to be strong in this crazy family, someone has to keep things goin’. Mister Charles realized that a long time ago an’ elected hisself to be th’ one. I knows that underneath all that thorniness he’s really sweet as a lamb, only he can’t afford to let on. It’d be a sign of weakness.”

  “You—like him a great deal, don’t you?”

  “I loves him,” she confessed, “but I wouldn’t hes’tate to smack his bottom again iffen he got too smart. I’d do it, too, missy, an’ he knows it. He don’t try to ’timidate ole Jezebel, no-sir.”

  Jezebel dumped cornmeal into a huge bowl and added milk and eggs, beating vigorously. I longed to linger in the kitchen with its glazed redbrick floor and huge old black iron stove. Gleaming copper pots and pans hung on the wall, strings of peppers and onions and bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling. I loved the smells and the warmth, and I loved the huge, bustling black woman who ruled her domain like a tyrannical queen.

  “Won’t take me no time to make th’ stew,” Jezebel informed me. “I gotta pan of broth already and all them meat scraps from last night. I’ll add vegetables and seasonin’ and water, an’ that’ll hafta do for them shiftless niggers you an’ Miz Delia brung in. I’se fixin’ a delicate lunch for you an’ Miz Delia and I’se sendin’ some food to Mister Julian’s study, an’ if he don’t eat it, I’ll smack his bottom.”

  “Thank you, Jezebel.”

  “Get on outta here now, missy. I got work to do.”

  Unable to resist it, I gave her a hug, folding my arms around her considerable girth and squeezing tight. Jezebel gave
an exasperated sigh and pushed me away, but I could see that she was pleased. I left the kitchen and crossed the courtyard and went out back behind the carriage house to check on the boys. Heavy lines had been strung up, rugs draped over them. Elijah was busily beating one of them with a giant swatter, dust flying, while Job and Elroy brushed spots from the rugs yet to be dusted.

  “I want them to hang out in the sunshine after they’ve all been cleaned,” I told them.

  “Yes, Miz Dana,” Elroy said.

  “And they’d better all be clean.”

  “We’s doin’ a good job,” Job drawled.

  “See that you do, and if I’m really pleased, I’ll see that Jezebel makes a batch of honey cakes just for you this afternoon. Lunch will be ready in just a little while. You’ll eat in the servants’ hall with the others.”

  Strolling back through the courtyard, I paused by the fountain for a moment to enjoy the late morning sunlight. The crepe myrtles were in full bloom, great masses of fuchsia and mauve and purple-red, and the mimosa trees made soft shadows. How peaceful it was here. How restful. I’d had precious little rest since I arrived at the Etienne mansion. Lessons, lessons and more lessons. No less than six tutors had been instructing me all these months. Professor Jobin taught me how to speak properly. Madame LeSalle gave me lessons in deportment, taught me how to walk properly, how to conduct myself at a dining table, how to act like a proper young lady. Monsieur Vidal taught me reading, although he no longer came now that I was greedily devouring several novels a week on my own, and Mademoiselle Latour had taught me penmanship, finally declaring that I had a “lovely hand” and required no more lessons. Dreary Mister Howard instructed me in history, geography and math—how I dreaded those sessions—and the dapper Monsieur Augustine with his pixie mannerisms and pointed goatee gave me delightful lessons in dancing, which usually ended with both of us in giggles.

  The swamp and the life I had lived there seemed like a distant dream to me now. I wasn’t “educated” yet, far from it, but I was learning, learning, learning, and I loved every minute of it besides those tedious hours with Mister Howard. I could now read any book I chose, learning new words by the score by using the dictionary whenever I was stumped, and I could write a perfectly decent letter with very few grammatical errors. I could eat an artichoke with confidence, daintily stripping off the leaves and dipping them into a dish of melted butter, and I could walk into a room with graceful poise, the very picture of a demure young maiden. I wasn’t a proper young lady, of course—I could never be that with my background—but I no longer went barefooted, and I no longer spoke in a voice that made fine folk cringe.

  I was still the same Dana, inside, in my heart, but I no longer resembled the awkward, ignorant little swamp girl Julian had brought to New Orleans over five months ago. I was Mademoiselle O’Malley, and Julian Etienne was my legal guardian until I reached the age of twenty-one. His good friend Judge Emil Moreau had handled everything, even though, according to the judge, it was “highly irregular” for a bachelor gentleman to take on a female ward my age. People in the Quarter might well be scandalized, but Julian didn’t give a damn. After all the papers were finalized and I was “as good as his daughter in the eyes of the law,” he turned me over to Delia and the tutors, retreated to his study and promptly forgot all about me, totally immersed in his work. He had returned to the swamp twice during these past months to gather more specimen and take more notes for that bloody book. I rarely saw him except for the evening meals, for no one dared intrude on him in his study. Interrupted at his work, the usually genial and easygoing Julian had been known to snarl like a tiger and hurl heavy objects at the intruder.

  He did spend one day a week at Etienne’s, going over the books and checking on the business, a task he deemed “utterly bothersome and infuriating,” and he longed for his brother’s return. After these days we were generally treated to a long tirade at the dinner table about the arrogance and total inefficiency of his nephew, Raoul, who considered himself too good to work at the store, was rarely there and expected the other employees to cover for him while he racketed about town with his wealthy and well-born but disreputable friends or chased after the painted hussies on Rampart Street.

  On those occasions when I happened to encounter him somewhere in the house during the day, Julian was friendly and made polite inquiries about my progress with the tutors, but he always seemed a bit startled to see me, as though wondering who I was and what the blazes I was doing in his house. He was wrapped up in his work, true, but no one could be that absentminded. He never noticed my lovely new clothes or my new social graces or the poise I had acquired, and I couldn’t help but resent it. He had rescued me from the swamp and brought me to New Orleans and made me his ward, and then, for all practical purposes, simply forgot all about me.

  “My dear,” Delia said when I entered her sitting room a few minutes later, “this simply won’t do.”

  After all these months, I was quite used to these statements that seemed to come out of the blue. Delia was on her chaise lounge, looking particularly fragile in a beige silk wrapper trimmed in old ivory Valenciennes lace. Her silver hair billowed about her head like a soft cloud, and there were faint mauve shadows beneath her eyes. A French novel was open on her lap, a cup of herbal tea and a plate of tiny iced cakes on the table beside her. She had been suffering from one of her headaches for two days, and I had come in to check on her.

  “What won’t do?” I asked.

  “Look at yourself, child. You hair’s all atumble and you’ve got a smudge of dirt on your cheek. That fetching yellow dress is deplorably soiled. I appreciate your helping out—you have such a way with the servants, dear, and I could never control them properly—but you’re a young lady, and young ladies do not work alongside the nigras.”

  “I enjoy it,” I told her. “It makes me feel useful.”

  “Young ladies aren’t supposed to be useful, dear. They’re supposed to be ornamental.”

  “What a silly idea,” I said.

  I stepped over to the mirror and saw that I did indeed look frightful. I wiped the smudge of dirt from my cheek with a handkerchief and smoothed back my hair. As always when in this room, I was acutely aware of that portrait, those strangely magnetic blue eyes that seemed to watch my every movement. I knew it was foolish and unreasonable of me to feel this way, but I couldn’t help it. I turned back to Delia, trying to pretend the portrait wasn’t there.

  “How’s your headache?” I asked.

  “Better, I think. I feel so guilty, lolling about in here and letting you supervise everything. I do appreciate all you do, dear. I only wish you didn’t feel it was necessary.”

  “It is,” I said, “for my own well-being. I’d go mad if I just sat around being ‘ornamental.’ I’m used to work.”

  “You work hard enough at your studies.”

  “That’s different.”

  “The progress you’ve made is amazing. You’re reading book after book, raiding the shelves every week, and you have better penmanship than I do. Madame LeSalle says you’re already more refined and have better deportment than most well-born young ladies she knows, and Monsieur Augustine says you’re a natural dancer, the personification of grace.”

  “I stepped on his foot only last week.”

  “And your voice …”

  Delia shook her head, unable to find words to express the miracle Professor Jobin had wrought. There was nothing miraculous about it. Months and months of grueling, frustrating elocution lessons had finally eliminated all traces of the swamp and the shrill screech Julian had found so distressing. I now spoke in a low, softly modulated voice Professor Jobin declared quite satisfactory, and after all this time, it came naturally. I no longer had to concentrate on my diaphragm and stomach muscles and breathing before I spoke.

  “Jobin is a wizard,” she declared.

  “He’s a cruel, unfeeling tyrant.”

  “He’s quite pleased with you. He says you’re one of th
e best students he’s ever had.”

  “And what does Mister Howard say?”

  “I fear he says you’re a hopeless dolt, dear.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “You really must spend more time on your math. He says you don’t even know the multiplication table yet and that your addition and subtraction is wretched. I never cared for figures myself,” she added.

  “I’d much rather be reading than doing those silly problems he gives me, although I don’t mind coloring the maps for geography. He’s terribly dull, Delia. When he teaches me history, its as dry as math, all dates and things. I find out much more about history from the novels I read. Julian says they are frivolous, but they’re more interesting than the books he recommends.”

  “I should think so,” she said.

  “He gave me a book on plants—put me right to sleep. I struggled through it anyway, just to please him, and then he never even asked me about it.”

  “That’s Julian, dear.”

  “Is he ever going to come out of that study?”

  “He will this Friday,” Delia said. “Not even Julian would dare refuse to attend the Lecombs’ annual ball. It’s the social event in the Quarter. People have been known to kill for an invitation, to commit suicide when an invitation wasn’t received. Julian will grumble and complain something awful, but he’ll be in his best attire and he’ll be there, all right.”

  “Is it really so grand an occasion?”

  “It’s a tradition, dear. The Lecombs have been holding an annual ball for over thirty years now—they’re both creaking, I’m afraid, but still a power in society. He’s from the Lyons branch of the Lecombs, a second cousin, I believe, and she was a lady-in-waiting to Marie Antoinette, barely got out of France with her head intact during the Reign of Terror, eventually emigrated to New Orleans. Of course,” she continued, “the Etiennes’ credentials are every bit as good as the Lecombs’, if not better, though we may lack some of the glamour. Guy Etienne had already established himself here in New Orleans thirty years before the revolution.”

  “Must I go the ball, Delia?”