Mardi Gras Madness

by Lynn Shurr

  Chapter Thirteen

  From the beginning of Laura’s stay at Chateau Camille, Robert LeBlanc appeared as uneasy in Laura’s presence as she was in his. Meals provided safe periods with light conversation about the weather, livestock and library happenings under the chaperonage of Tante Lil, Pearl and Angelle. Since Robert sat opposite his aunt, and she across from Angelle, the two of them were able to avoid any direct eye contact. She filled her days with work at the library, he with hours at the ranch, as he called the cattle barns, having abandoned the word “plantation.”

  They spent evenings together more awkwardly. Laura usually read in her room after dinner, but Angelle often forced her out to join the group in the parlor. Angelle bedeviled her with requests to play games, often lengthy ones like Monopoly, which the child drew out even further by needing help with her play money and property cards from both adults. The little girl shrewdly chose to sit between them forcing her father’s eyes to meet Laura’s many times over a throw of the dice or a purchase of Park Place or Reading Railroad. When tensions became too high, Laura retreated to bed early, knowing Angelle would insist on resuming the game exactly where they left off the next evening. Tante Lil complained about the clutter left on the floor, but the child’s father told her to let it be. Often enough, he left the game first on pretext of having work to be done in his office/bedroom.

  Going to bed early provided no defense against Angelle, however. If Laura allowed her bedside light to burn too long after retiring, she soon had a companion as the girl perched at the foot of the bed like a small black-haired succubus. The child was wearingly inquisitive and seemed always to be scheming to make her a permanent part of the household whether she could get her father to cooperate or not. Whatever Bob LeBlanc thought or felt he held back hard since that night under the oaks.

  When a box of unwanted and unrequested clothing arrived from Pennsylvania, Angelle appeared to assist with the opening. She pawed over each one of Laura’s sister’s discards, her mother’s bargain finds and her own old junk: jeans too small, dresses too frilly, blouses too tight in the bust, sweaters too warm for the climate. Laura, standing before the mirror inside the armoire, selected a few of the more classic items that did not span across her chest or bind in the rear. The rest she repacked, including one lingerie box containing a white lace nightgown and filmy peignoir still in their original wrappings. Angelle retrieved the nightie before Laura could hide the garments beneath the next layer of rejects destined for Father Ardoin’s charities.

  “It’s so beautiful,” exclaimed the child. “Did you wear this on your honeymoon?”

  Not at ease with this precocious conversation, Laura said shortly, “No, I never wore it at all. One of my mother’s friends gave it to me as a shower gift, but it’s too fancy for me, okay?”

  “Then what did you wear on your wedding night?” The child held the peignoir before her face like a bridal veil.

  “Nothing.” Laura changed course in mid-sentence. “Nothing that I have now. It burned in the fire.”

  “Oh. Then you could wear this when your other nightie is in the wash. You could wear it when we play Monopoly. I could ask Daddy to wear his robe and pajamas like he did at night before you came to stay with us. We’d be like a family in the evening.”

  “We’re not a family, Angelle. I’ll be leaving as soon as I can find a furnished apartment.”

  “Please keep the nightie anyhow. See, it doesn’t take up much room, and it’s so beautiful.”

  Angelle gently folded the set into a square and placed it in one of the small drawers in the base of the armoire. With a quixotic change of subject, she said to Laura, “I hope I get some money for Christmas. I sure need it in a hurry.”

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, Angelle. Now go to bed—please!”

  For a change, the little girl responded to Laura’s suggestion, but the child came back early the next morning, double checking the box of discards Laura intended to drop off at the church that day to make sure the peignoir had not been included.

  ****

  Folding his hands, Father Ardoin prepared to listen or to talk, whichever seemed applicable to the situation. He sat quietly waiting to help after Laura donated the box of used clothing and thanked him once again for looking after Snake these last few weeks.

  The cat, literally landing on all fours, disappeared briefly after the fire. Laura, checking the fist-sized hole beneath the church each day, finally found her pet in his original refuge. How he could squeeze his maturing body though the kitten-sized hole remained a mystery of the animal world, though he was thinner because of his ordeal. Laura wanted to bundle him off for a good feeding, but she settled for asking Father Ardoin to give the cat a can of food each day rather than burden Pearl with more work or raise the wrath of Miss Lilliane who loathed pets along with everything else. Angelle had been disappointed that Snake remained at the church. Laura placed a small sack of cat food on his desk beside the box of clothing and began to talk.

  “I really must find my own place and give Snake a home before he gets too wild. Have you heard of anything available at all?”

  “Several persons are willing to rent rooms but of course, the situation would be similar to what you have at the LeBlancs. Things aren’t working out over there? Is Miss Lilliane giving you a hard time?”

  “No, not exactly. In fact, she barely acknowledges I’m there. She rarely follows me to work anymore. Her lungs seem to be bothering her more in the cool weather. I can hear her coughing several doors down. And Angelle suffers from nightmares. She’s in the next room and cries out in the middle of the night.”

  Laura paused, confessing only to herself what really disturbed her about Angelle’s dreams, the proximity of Angelle’s father in the next room, holding the terrified child and talking softly to her until she rested. Often, Laura fell asleep listening to that low, strong voice on the other side of the thin partition. She did not care to tell the priest about her own dreams where her David turned darker and darker until he became Robert LeBlanc—who did all the things she’d done with David and more.

  “And Mr. LeBlanc is a problem, too,” she added with sudden honesty.

  “Oh now, I’m sure Bob LeBlanc would never take advantage of the situation. I know about those unsavory stories passed around after his divorce, but I am positive the whole thing was staged.” Seeing Laura’s look of surprise, the old priest stopped. “I need to do penance for my babbling mouth.”

  “I thought they divorced because of incompatibility.”

  “Extreme incompatibility, but the lawyer cited adultery as the principal grounds. Now I’ve added the sin of gossip.” Father Ardoin bit his tongue.

  “His or hers?” Laura probed.

  “His, so they say. But as I said, I am positive the actual carnal act was staged. It could not have been coincidence that the incident involved Pearl’s daughter.”

  “Pearl’s daughter!”

  “You see, Pearl’s daughter is a working girl.”

  “I’m a working girl,” countered Laura.

  “But not exactly in the same profession. You don’t do most of your work at night!”

  “You mean she’s a prostitute.”

  “Well, yes. Oh, worse and worse! These things should only be discussed in the confessional.” A blush heated the priest’s soft, round cheeks. “I suppose I have to tell you the whole story to clear Robert LeBlanc’s reputation, though he certainly never sought absolution from me. You see, my dear, not that many years ago, divorce in Louisiana was very involved. Blame the Church if you must. Grounds of incompatibility required a much longer separation period before the marriage could be ended. In cases of adultery, the termination could be executed quickly. Bob was in a hurry and did not want to leave the child with Vivien. To make the story short, a photographer, ostensibly his wife’s private investigator, caught him in flagrante delicto with Pearl’s daughter. I personally believe old Judge LeBlanc, his father, set up the whole affair. Not too
fond of his daughter-in-law, the judge, but then, no one was.”

  The priest steepled his fingers making a little church of his hands. “The divorce proceedings concluded with remarkable speed thanks to a very good friend of the judge. Afterward, Vivien went to one of her spas to recover from the affront. Once the whole disgusting matter concluded, Bob had custody of the child. Now, I doubt even Judge LeBlanc would have condoned his keeping Angelle if a real affair with a dark lady of the evening had taken place. Puzzling to all the gossips, though, that Vivien did not protest the disposal of the child. In fact, she didn’t even visit her daughter for well over a year after the divorce. Of course, I wouldn’t describe Vivien as a loving mother at any time.”

  Realizing he had now besmirched another reputation, Father Ardoin hastened to say a good word about the woman. “Although she wasn’t well liked in Chapelle, Vivien Montleon did have some good qualities. I mean the people here felt she put on airs, hauteur, if you know what I mean. Still, she served as president of the genealogical society and spent many hours here transcribing the old records and searching family histories. Every day, she lit a candle at the grotto shrine and contemplated the statue of the Virgin at length. She also donated generously to the restoration of the church. Every Sunday, Vivien brought them all to Mass, even the baby, marching the LeBlancs to the family pew past windows and woodwork she paid to restore. You see, despite her regrettable personality, Vivien did care about some things.”

  Laura’s attention wandered during his praise of Vivien. She ran her hand over the spines of the thick baptismal registers lining the walls of his office. Happy with her distraction, Father Ardoin quickly dropped his subject and took down one of the old volumes.

  “See here, the baptismal record of Adrien LeBlanc, the one I spoke of on your first visit to Chapelle. The LeBlancs lost so many babies at birth they baptized the infant the day he was born rather than wait the traditional six weeks.”

  He took another volume, a register of internments, from a different shelf. “And here, the burial of Marie Segura and infant son on the same day. What a coincidence. No wonder legends arise from things like these.” As he closed the heavy book, a piece of the brittle paper flaked off in his hands.

  “Really, Father Ardoin, these records are extremely valuable and deteriorating rapidly. I’d like to help the church and the library by having these microfilmed, or even digitized, at the university with your consent. I could hand-carry them a few at a time. We’d place the microfilm in our library and let the university make a set as well. No one would have to handle these fragile originals to get their information. I know I could get the board to fund the project. Then, anyone could make copies without transcribing from the originals.”

  Pleased to be free of the previous subject matter and caught in the wave of Laura’s enthusiasm, the priest agreed whole-heartedly. “Of course, I must get the consent of the archbishop, but I’m sure there will be no problem.”

  “Good. Look, I’ll call the university to make arrangements.”

  Discussion of their new project had carried them both from the office into the church as Laura sought the shortest way back to the library. In her haste, she tripped on the edge of a marble inset in the floor covering the tomb of one of the early fathers of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc. Catching herself on the rail of the LeBlanc pew with its brass nameplate, she muttered, “Why do Catholics do things like this?”

  “Oh, no one is buried there now. It is a special honor, of course, to be granted burial within the sanctuary. Father Blaise founded Ste. Jeanne d’Arc. I think that as well as being an honor, there is a superstitious belief those buried here will continue to watch over the church. Unfortunately, Father Blaise had to be removed when the foundations were reinforced recently. We left the stone though, as his memorial. It is due to my neglect the slab hasn’t been properly cemented into place yet. I must see to it one of these days.”

  “Before someone breaks an ankle or worse,” joked Laura, hurrying off too intent on her new idea to mind a stubbed toe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Work, the solution to all her problems, work to forget the death of David, heavy work to weight down a rising passion for a new man far too soon after the death of her husband. Laura single-handedly hewed out a children’s corner in the old library by moving the stacks and hundreds of adult books with the help of the janitor to create a sunny nook where she read stories to a small, but steadily growing group of preschoolers once a week.

  She recorded the stories of Tante Lu in both French and English and sought out other elders with tales to tell. With Father Ardoin’s permission, she began transporting the Ste. Jeanne church records, volume by volume, thirty miles to the local university for microfilming. In exchange for copies for their archives, the university supplied the film, equipment and the expertise of their archivist whose slow methodical ways often irritated Laura into laboriously turning and photographing each page herself when the work bogged down in his hands.

  Now and then, an entry arrested her attention, like those recording the births of Caroline Montleon LeBlanc’s children. “Baptized August 12, 1852, Charles Adrien LeBlanc, son of Adrien LeBlanc and Caroline (Montleon)”, “Baptized January 14, 1854, Catherine Castille LeBlanc,” “Baptized May 5, 1856, Aurelien August LeBlanc,” “Baptized September 16, 1859, Felice Camille LeBlanc.”

  The entries supplied the bare facts to trace a lineage. The diaries of Caroline LeBlanc which Laura had taken to her room and read one by one, fleshed out these facts. At first, the diaries provided a quaint diversion, a mild escape. Caroline barely mentioned her pregnancy throughout the volume for 1852. Instead, she filled the pages with rambling commentaries on household management with an occasional recipe or housewifely hint thrown in for posterity.

  A gap occurred in the entries for August after which the diarist wrote, “Two days ago, I was delivered of a healthy son after a long and arduous travail made easier by the skills and potions of Tante Inez.” Caroline described the baptismal ceremony in detail, followed shortly by the affecting scene so loved by Miss Lilliane when Camille LeBlanc on her deathbed handed the young woman the keys to the plantation.

  Naturally, the diaries provided Miss Lilliane’s source of information, though the old librarian neglected to mention the keys Caroline received opened not only the larders and wine stores, but the safe and cash boxes as well. The massive iron safe still stood in a corner of Robert LeBlanc’s bedroom, open now and crammed with old ledgers, agricultural magazines and new bills, the large key long lost. Laura had seen it herself when Angelle dragged her into Robert’s room to coax her father into yet another game of Monopoly. The diary also recorded the dying woman’s parting advice, “Give Adrien enough money to allow him to be a man, but not enough to ruin the plantation—for Mama LeBlanc realized she had indulged her son terribly.”

  The diary for 1853 revealed a young woman blossoming with motherhood and responsibility, a woman who redecorated, planned entertainments, revived the gardens, oversaw the preservation of the plantation bounty by the cooks, ministered to the health of the slaves and fulfilled “so many duties I fear I have neglected this diary.”

  Laura entirely understood this burst of energy. Since Tante Lil had retired at last to brood in her mansion, Laura cleaned, discarded and rearranged, making the library her own. The storytelling evening had been only the first of many programs to lure the citizens of Chapelle.

  One feeling she could not share with Caroline LeBlanc was the young wife’s mild surprise “that I am with child again so quickly, which only proves that I perform my wifely duties as joyously as I perform all others.” Laura laughed over that coy remark one evening as she thought about her earlier comment to Miss Lilliane. Perhaps, Caroline had enjoyed sex very much indeed.

  Still troubled by her own longings in the night when Robert LeBlanc came to chase away his daughter’s night terrors in the next room, Laura lay still in Caroline’s marriage bed convincing herself that Bob had inherited his
ancestor’s animal magnetism along with the ole plantation. Perhaps, she only yearned for what she had lost, David. Whichever, she had no intention of acting on the attraction. Plenty of projects to keep her busy and involved, really.

  In their depiction of domestic life, the diaries had historic value. Laura planned to ask Miss Lilliane for permission to film them once she’d completed the church project. She wondered why the old woman with her family pride had not published the manuscripts long ago. She hadn’t found any deadly secrets in the diaries, at least not up to 1856 when Caroline gave birth to her third child and second son. The young mother could be forgiven, perhaps, because of her times and circumstances for a slight disappointment expressed at the earlier birth of her daughter for: “I have perceived that to have only one son is a hazard and having been reared in a family with over many daughters, I do no desire to repeat that pattern either.” Regarding their publication, she would have to catch Miss Lilliane in a good mood—if she had any.

  Laura joined the local genealogy club meeting once a week to intertwine their collateral lines. While she still maintained her antecedents had no bearing on her own life, she did recognize ancestor hunting as a major obsession in Chapelle, and therefore, she had to know more about it. Besides, the weekly get-togethers removed her from Chateau Camille every Thursday evening. By the time the elderly women who composed ninety percent of the membership finished their tea and scones, repacked their notebooks and asked Laura for a ride home because they ­disliked ­driving in the dark, all the residents of the Chateau had adjourned to their rooms: Angelle asleep, Miss Lilliane coughing into her pillow and Robert working on his accounts or reading. Laura always tried to slip soundlessly through the spill of light from the transom over his door. Occasionally, he caught her, or they collided by accident in the hallway, Laura could never decide which, the game they played being as complicated as Monopoly.