Mardi Gras Madness

by Lynn Shurr

  One evening, he mocked her, standing in the doorway of his room with the light and shadows making alluring patterns across the dark, curly hair on his chest only half-covered by a deep burgundy-colored robe. “So you have discovered the importance of the past. Have you joined the DAR, too?”

  Laura felt up to the challenge as her independence returned with each successful project she completed. “No, Mr. LeBlanc, I’m simply making inexpensive Christmas gifts.”

  She showed him two ornate family trees, gilded and embossed, that she’d filled in with calligraphic script. The twisting roots held the names of Josef Schumann and his wife Hannah born in the early nineteenth century. Laura’s own name, and that of her sister and her sister’s children, rested in the outermost leafy tendrils of the tree’s canopy.

  “Unfortunately, Josef Schumann arrived in Pennsylvania in 1830 during the great German immigration along with several million other anonymous farmers. However, Mrs. DeVille assures me if I trace all my female lines, I am bound to find someone who will make me eligible for the DAR. I think I’ll quit after I have these framed for my mother and sister. My nephew and niece are getting voodoo dolls, which I’m sure they’ll find more interesting, especially if they dress them like each other.”

  “Yes.” He smiled and said, “Angelle is fascinated by that sort of thing, too. At her age, she still believes a person can use magic to get what they want.”

  To avoid his direct, dark gaze, Laura slid her eyes across his shoulder and stared into his bedroom dominated by a massively carved half-tester bed fit for a French king. “Well, I’m feeling a little tired. Guess I’ll turn on. Turn in, I mean.”

  “A good night kiss, then.”

  Robert leaned over and brushed his lips softly over her forehead as if she were Angelle, then placed another gentle kiss on her cheek. Turning his head, slightly prickling her skin with his stubble, his mouth moved toward hers. Laura bolted for her room. She heard him laughing at her retreat all the way down the hall. “Coward,” he called after her. “In any battle, you should stand your ground.”

  The kiss hadn’t been as potent as the one under the oak tree, but it disturbed her enough to keep her awake and reading Caroline’s diaries because she could not rest. That night, she found the first inkling Caroline Montleon was not a paragon of virtue. The now mature mistress of the Chateau, nearing Laura’s own age, wrote, “Without joy, I have discovered I carry a fourth child. Papa Aurelien is failing and Adrien is so often gone that more and more of the burden of the plantation is thrust upon me. I cannot carry two such heavy loads.”

  Two weeks later, the diarist noted, “I have lost the child but am recuperating at good pace. The tragedy brought Adrien to my side. Perhaps now, he will share more of the responsibility of the plantation. Tomorrow, we go together to light candles at the church for the soul of our lost child.”

  If the previous passage about not wanting the child were omitted, then the second was quite affecting. Laura, her tired mind full of ancestors, Montleons and LeBlancs, and Christmas gifts for her own family, thought what strong stuff the past could be if it were as well-known as this family’s history. If she could convince Miss Lilliane to allow the diaries to be printed, what a contribution they would make to the local history of the area, perhaps to the history of the South. Caroline Montleon had been far more candid about her sexuality and bearing children than most women of her era. The diaries went from being a charming discourse on manners and customs to a personal outlet for the writer, and so would speak directly to the concerns of modern women.

  Thanksgiving waddled into view next week. Yes, if she began now, she could have the first diary typed, printed out and bound at the university bookstore by the holidays. That would surely please the old librarian and soften her up for having all of the volumes published. Pleased to have another project on the way and another gift out of the way, Laura slept unusually well that night after all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thanksgiving Day arrived coated in frost. Cajun snow, Pearl called it. This token of northern weather buoyed Laura’s spirits. She could trace Robert’s footsteps through the garden to the cattle barns where he had gone early to tend the stock. She had a childish urge to follow his dark path through the crisp rime but saw Angelle already doing that, heavily clad in a brilliant red wool jacket and cap for the first time that winter. Laura turned from the kitchen window where she’d come to offer a contribution to the Thanksgiving dinner and any other help that would be acceptable in Pearl’s domain. Even Miss Lilliane congregated there adding her one culinary accomplishment to the meal—her perfect pralines.

  Unusually cordial today, the old curmudgeon sat dropping the brown sugar and pecan mixture by the spoonful on to a marble slab sitting on a low table the height of her wheelchair. “I’ve always been a career girl, you know. Never learned to cook. We had servants for that,” Miss Lilliane went on to Laura as if Pearl were not standing by the stove working on the rice and oyster dressing.

  “But my old black mammy taught me how to do pralines the right way. That Lola Domengeaux knows nothing about the perfect praline. Always use a marble slab, never waxed paper like she does. Why, this is perfect praline weather. Keeps the slab good and cold.” Miss Lilliane had stationed her slab as far from Pearl’s stove as possible.

  “Now watch, Laura. I might as well pass this along to you since Angelle is too young. Though being a Yankee, you probably won’t catch on to praline making.”

  Laura watched, laughing on the inside. At home, her family considered her a good cook. Not having “servants” her mother taught her at an early age, but she’d already learned this morning that Pennsylvania German recipes were not exactly to the Cajun taste. Earlier, she had baked a corn pudding made with dried sweet corn mailed from Lost Spring by a mother determined that her daughter would be able to have one traditional family dish on this holiday spent in a strange land where people ate frog legs and crawfish. Both Miss Lilliane and Pearl tasted a small bite and pronounced the corn too bland. Pearl remedied that by vigorously dousing the pudding with hot sauce, stirring it up and then rebrowning the top. The adulterated corn pudding now sat on the sideboard, awaiting reheating once the mammoth turkey came out of the oven.

  Pearl’s fresh coconut cake and a pan of glossy candied yams sat beside Laura’s offering. Pots on the stovetop held green beans with salt meat, the rice dressing and a chicken and sausage gumbo to serve as a first course, enough to serve a horde, let alone five people. As far as Laura knew, no one else had been invited.

  In this assumption, she proved wrong. Experiencing a wonderful sense of family among the women in the kitchen, Laura reveled in the holiday, even though Miss Lilliane cursed each time a praline shattered while being removed from the slab and Pearl remained taciturn as usual. Simply warding off Robert with a cup of gumbo and bribing Angelle with pralines to keep the man and child out from underfoot brought back memories of her own childhood—her dad pinching a piece of crisp, greasy skin from the bird, her sister begging for a serving of the green gelatin-marshmallow-pineapple fluff before dinner. For a brief moment, she pretended the people in the kitchen belonged to her, complete with flaws and idiosyncrasies—until the chauffeured Mercedes glided up the shell drive.

  Thurston in his livery opened the car door. As Vivien LeBlanc swung gracefully outward, Laura had the urge to retreat to her room, but she stood her ground as someone in the household had told her not too long ago. Happily, she wore the expensive ruby blouse, a snug sweater-vest and the gray skirt Robert had given her, an outfit every bit as good as Vivien’s couture. Well, maybe not quite, but she certainly did not look dowdy today. Since the fire, she’d allowed his gift to hang in the armoire like clothes too good to discard but too unsuitable to be worn.

  Today, she’d decided to call a truce with the man as she dressed for dinner. No more avoiding Robert or becoming upset about a few stolen kisses. For Thanksgiving, they would be like family—not kissing cousins—more like distant re
latives together for the holidays, jovial and tolerant of each other for a short period of time.

  Seeing Laura’s choice in clothing, Angelle shed her jeans of the morning for a gray jumper and red ruffled blouse. She’d begged Laura to tie the scarlet ribbons in her thick black braids, rejecting help from her Tante Lil or Pearl. Now they stood, clad like mother and daughter, waiting for Vivien to assault the verandah. Her ex-husband stayed in the parlor seemingly entranced by a football game on television in which he had shown little interest until now. Talk about cowards!

  Vivien paused at the foot of the steps and waited in a model’s slouch with her hips thrust forward in a straight skirt of muted heather plaid so tight her pelvic bones protruded under the fine wool. Thomas aided an elegant older woman and a distinguished gentleman from the automobile. Angelle, frozen to Laura’s side, suddenly thawed and dashed to the car.

  “PawPaw! MiMaw!” She gave the older couple a vast hug. “Why don’t you come see me more?”

  Although the regal Mrs. Montleon frowned at the grammar, she returned the child’s affection. Robert roused himself to shake hands with his child’s grandparents. During the greetings, Thurston, the chauffeur, slipped quietly into the kitchen to greet Pearl.

  In a marvel of timing that precluded awkward conversation, Pearl announced dinner. The gold-rimmed antique Parisian china, amber Bohemian crystal and heavy silverware graced a tablecloth said to have been embroidered by Caroline Montleon herself. Honey-colored beeswax candles burned brightly in heirloom candelabra ringed with silk autumn leaves. The heavy-breasted turkey browned to perfection and awaiting carving served as the centerpiece surrounded by side dishes. Hmmm, not exactly Thanksgiving in Lost Spring after all. Robert quickly seated his motherin-law at his side and urged Laura into a chair at his other elbow. Lastly, he placed Vivien on the far side of Laura across from her father. Miss Lilliane reigned at the other end of the table while Angelle sat ensconced happily between her grandparents.

  With the aid of Thurston, Pearl placed a small cup of gumbo at each place except Vivien’s, that guest having waved the soup aside. Robert engaged his ex-mother-in-law on his right in constant conversation throughout the dinner leaving Laura on the host’s left locked in silent combat with Vivien LeBlanc. Occasionally, the battle slipped into words.

  Vivien picked at a thin slice of white meat and played with a few carrot sticks from the relish tray. She ate with the air of one accustomed to dining on hummingbird tongues and nectar. Although her dinner companion killed her appetite, Laura accepted a bit of everything, curious about the difference in Thanksgiving dinners, north and south. Here, the gravy had the sting of pepper sauce, and her own corn casserole bit her back. Still, a delicious meal. Making an effort, she turned toward Vivien.

  “Aren’t you feeling well? I see you have no appetite.”

  “I never have cared for Pearl’s cooking. I did try to teach her something better, but these colored women are impossible.”

  “Try the corn casserole. I made that.”

  “I never touch starch.” Vivien fixed Laura with her cold gaze and pulled a cigarette from her small mauve leather bag exactly matching a pale lavender thread in her jacket. Thurston sprang from some hidden recess of the dining room and lit it for the mistress.

  “I must say you have grown quite fat and happy since the last time we met.” Vivien blew a stream of smoke in Laura’s direction.

  “Really?” countered Laura. “I’ve heard heavy smoking kills hunger and causes premature wrinkles in women with fair, dry skin.” Laura plunged her fork into a plump oyster and ate it with all the sensuality she could muster, running her tongue over her lips as she finished. When she glanced up, Robert LeBlanc watched her with amused, dark eyes.

  Laura reached down the table and seized one of his brown and calloused hands. “What a wonderful dinner, Robert. I feel like part of the family.”

  None of the dinner guests missed the gesture. Angelle smiled happily. The Montleons appeared startled, but pleased. Miss Lilliane coughed in disapproval while Vivien smiled sourly at the intimacy. Only Robert saw the “I’ll-get-back-to-you-later” stare Laura forced on him.

  Regret set in after the dessert, a choice of yam pie or coconut cake or a small serving of both. After all, Robert LeBlanc was not her sweetheart. She had given everyone a false impression in a petty urge to slight Vivien whom he already loathed. While they sipped sherry or brandy in the parlor and sampled the perfect pralines, Laura made an extra attempt to be civil to the woman. She took a place next to her on the uncomfortable horsehair and rosewood Victorian love seat where Vivien sat alone as she smoked another cigarette.

  “I heard you are interested in genealogy. I’ve been working with the Ste. Jeanne parish records and…”

  “They are full of errors. Robert and I are not co-descendants of Caroline Montleon. Caroline had many sisters, and one of her favorites was named Felice. I am quite sure she named her youngest daughter after her favorite sister, and this is where the confusion begins.” Vivien’s thin fingers with their manicured French nails fluttered in agitation.

  Mrs. Montleon, seated in a chair near the fireplace with Angelle at her feet, inclined a head as blonde and tastefully arranged as her daughter’s toward her husband and grasped his wrist as he stood beside her drinking his brandy. The lines in the distinguished gentleman’s face deepened into concern. Both watched their daughter as closely as they would an approaching hurricane.

  Vivien continued her lecture. “Caroline was the eldest of nine girls, and Felice—my Felice, my ancestress, not Robert’s—would have been young enough to seem to be her daughter. Of course, the war left so many girls spinsters with no one to marry, all those young men dead in heroic battle, but I am sure it was my Felice, not Robert’s, who married a cousin in New Orleans in 1876. I am still looking for those marriage records. It shouldn’t have been allowed in any case, the marriage of relatives. Inbreeding produces aberrations, terrible aberrations. They could not be blamed back then because they did not know. I know. I thought that common lineage set Robert and I apart from the crowd, that we were ordained to meet and marry and produce children with a fine pedigree. But, the aberrations can be terrible.”

  The normally icy woman blazed with denials. Her fingers raked the air, and ash from the cigarette lit by her father’s slim gold lighter fell unheeded onto her wool skirt. The cigarette loosened by Vivien’s frantic gestures toppled into her lap. Laura quickly slapped at the burning butt and removed it to an ashtray, but it still burnt a small hole in the lovely muted plaid of the material. Vivien LeBlanc appeared oblivious to the damage as she tried to prove her point.

  When Laura sought help from the occupants of the room, she saw them fixed in a tableau beyond her understanding. The two men, brandy glasses still in hand, stood immobile and wordless by the mantel of the fireplace, its grate dark and empty. Mrs. Montleon cradled Angelle protectively against her black linen skirt, the weight of the child disheveling the fabric. Tante Lil poured herself a double sherry, dripping some of the liquor on her sleeve because of her haste.

  Robert reacted first. “I think Vivien has had enough entertainment for today, Edward.” Calmly, he sat his snifter on a small table and called for Thurston to escort the ladies to the car.

  Now Vivien, totally rambling, wanted to know why no fire burned in the grate when the air was so frigid outside. “We should have a fire on Thanksgiving Day,” she asserted, standing and waving her hands in agitation. Her parents caged her between them, each one taking a flailing arm. Thurston brought up the rear as they left Chateau Camille. Robert followed them out, and Laura bobbed along in his wake with Angelle trailing her. Miss Lilliane stayed behind and made no effort to say farewell. Once the women were seated in the Mercedes, Edward Montleon paused.

  “Robert, you know we wanted to see Angelle, but it was inadvisable to bring Vivien. Still, we felt we couldn’t leave her on a holiday. She has been so self-contained lately, not even upset about Angelle and the fi
re. I suppose that was a bad sign after all, but parents always want to think the best. Laura seems like a fine woman. Try to give Angelle a normal home life. That’s what we want for her.” The men shook hands gravely and parted company.

  With the departure of her grandmother, Angelle attached herself to Laura’s side again. Laura knelt beside her. “Angelle, honey, bring me my drink from the parlor.”

  As soon as the child left, she descended on Robert LeBlanc still standing in the drive. “Why didn’t you warn me Vivien is unbalanced? No, you hid at your end of the table and stood at the other end of the parlor and let us duke it out over someone not worth the trouble, you bastard!”

  “Maybe I’m not worth the trouble, but Angelle is. As many people as I can put between her and Vivien, the better. You are a strong woman, Laura. Help me, please!”

  Laura chose not to understand. These were not her people. These were not her problems. She had her own, and so she just repeated, “You bastard!” as Angelle opened the door.

  Laura seized the sherry and consumed it with a gulp. Patting the child in passing, she went to the kitchen to help Pearl with the dishes. If Pearl had troubles, she kept them to herself. As Laura brushed past Angelle, the child began begging her father for gifts again.

  “Daddy, I really, really need money for Christmas.”

  Odd, the child had more concern with what she would find under the tree on Christmas day than with the disturbing scene her mad mother created. How many times had Angelle witnessed such outbursts or heard such words that she appeared immune to them? Again, Laura reminded herself, not her problem.