When Cécile awoke on Monday morning, she was glad to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was still tinted pink with dawn. Cécile was grateful to find a glass of fresh juice sitting on her nightstand. Hannah must have brought it, so quietly that Cécile hadn’t even heard her come into the room.
Cécile hurried downstairs, uncovered Cochon’s cage, gave him a handful of pecans, and rushed through the courtyard to the kitchen. Mathilde often went to the market before the rest of the household was stirring. Cécile breathed a sigh of relief to see her standing at the hearth, bent over a steaming kettle.
“Bonjour, Cécé,” Mathilde greeted her, smiling. “Would you like anything special from the market today? I will be going soon.”
Cécile hesitated. “May I go with you?” she asked, hoping Mathilde wouldn’t ask why. She didn’t want to tell any more fibs, and besides, Mathilde had some mysterious way of knowing if you weren’t telling the whole truth.
“Yes, you may go with me, Cécé. Go and get ready now. I will be leaving soon.”
Cécile rushed upstairs to get dressed. She was about to leave her room when she thought of the two slave catchers yesterday. She remembered the look of terror on her brother’s face. She opened a drawer and took out the folded paper that said Cécile Rey was a free person of color. She tucked it into her pocket. From now on, she would not set foot outside the house without it.
Back in the courtyard, Cécile was surprised to find Armand already up and seated in front of his easel, humming cheerfully. He must have decided to paint until it was time to go to the stone yard with Papa.
“Bonjour. You’re in a good mood, Armand,” Cécile said. She noticed a twig of jasmine tucked behind his ear. “What are you painting?”
“Nothing,” Armand said.
Cécile smiled. “You’re out here in the early-morning dew, painting nothing?”
“I’m painting flowers,” Armand said.
Cécile looked at the small table where Armand usually put the real-life objects he painted. He had explained to her the importance of looking at the objects as he worked, to make sure his brushstrokes captured the way things appeared. There were no flowers on the table. Was he painting the flowers in the garden? She was about to ask when Mathilde stepped into the courtyard and called, “Are you ready, Cécile?”
Armand held a finger to his lips.
Cécile wanted to say, “You surely are acting strange,” but she just hugged her brother instead. She spoke softly into his ear, “I’m off to look for those two children at the French Market.”
Armand whispered back, “Good luck.”
7
THE FRENCH MARKET
Cécile and Mathilde walked briskly through the muddy streets. While Mathilde talked about what she was planning for their dinner and supper, Cécile tried to picture the children she would be looking for. They both had wavy black hair and complexions that reminded her of the Indians she occasionally saw in the market. She realized that she couldn’t quite remember their features or recall for sure what color their cloaks were. It was almost, she thought, as if she’d dreamed them.
“Cécé,” Mathilde said, “are you listening to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Cécile said. She’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t even realized Mathilde was talking. How could she be so rude? “Thank you, Mathilde, for taking me with you,” she said.
Mathilde turned and studied her a moment before saying, “You’re welcome, Cécile.”
They soon reached the market, which was even more hectic in the early morning than at midday. It rang with the sounds of people calling out descriptions of their goods. Some vendors were still setting up, moving fresh produce from their wagons to the stalls. Some were pulling up their awnings while others went about straightening their stock. Housewives, cooks, and maids inspected the merchandise, market baskets on their arms. Mathilde walked the length of the market to start her shopping at the stalls where vegetables and fruits were sold.
Cécile followed, scanning stalls and crowds in every direction as she went. Each time Mathilde stopped to look at something, Cécile darted to the nearby stalls looking for the children or their cypress baskets. If she could find the baskets, she told herself, maybe she could find the children, too. Finally Cécile spotted a marchande putting potatoes into two baskets that seemed to be about the same size and shape as the children’s. She asked Mathilde, “May I go over that way a bit?”
Mathilde said, “Oui, but don’t go out of my sight.”
Cécile walked over to the stand. The marchande was wiping potatoes with her apron and placing them into the baskets. The baskets didn’t have the indigo stripe, but they were made of cypress.
“Bonjour, madame,” Cécile said. “Those are beautiful baskets.”
“Merci. I like to show off my potatoes in these baskets. I’ll give you a good price on potatoes today. How many pounds?”
“Actually, I was wondering where you bought the baskets. Did you by chance get them from two children?”
“No, no. I don’t buy goods from children. Too many of those ruffians steal around here. I buy all my baskets from the Old Goat Man,” the woman said. She pointed toward the butchers’ stalls at the far end of the market. “He’s down at the meat market. White hair, white beard, looks like a goat.”
Cécile thanked her and turned to go. She could see Mathilde buying cucumbers nearby.
“Did you want to buy a basket?” the woman asked. “I’ll sell you one of mine.”
“Merci, but I am really looking for some special baskets that have an indigo stripe. Have you seen any like that?” Cécile asked.
“The Old Goat Man has them from time to time. They cost more than his other baskets,” she said, shrugging. “Too rich for my blood.”
Cécile’s heart was beating a little faster now, but she couldn’t look for the Old Goat Man until Mathilde went to the butchers’ stalls. She always made the meat market her last stop.
Cécile continued to watch for the children or their baskets as Mathilde inspected vegetables and bargained with vendors. She noticed one stall with a table at the back, where white linen cloths covered lumpy shapes. Could they be baskets? Cécile waited until Mathilde was busy looking at cabbages. She scooted to the far end of the stall and slowly lifted the corner of a cloth. No baskets, only more cabbages.
Finally Mathilde headed toward the butchers’ stalls. Cécile saw feathered chickens and other fowl hanging from hooks. She and Mathilde walked by gobbling turkeys and continued past the swinging heads of hogs.
The butchers, wearing white hats and soiled aprons, stood beside hanging sides of meat, calling out to customers, weighing purchases, and wrapping them up. Cécile looked down the row of stalls. At last she spotted a butcher with white hair, a pointed white beard, and a very long nose. He had to be the Old Goat Man. If she walked down to his stall, would Mathilde still be able to see her? She headed in that direction.
She managed to get to the Old Goat Man’s stall without losing sight of Mathilde. The butcher carried displays of meats and sausages at the front, but farther back, Cécile saw several rows of neatly stacked baskets. Two of the baskets had the unusual indigo stripe. Cécile’s heart beat faster. She waited, shifting from one foot to another, while the Old Goat Man prepared meat for three different customers.
Cécile saw Mathilde getting closer to the stall. She hoped she’d be able to talk to the Old Goat Man before Mathilde walked up.
Finally he handed a package to his last customer and turned to Cécile. “May I get you something?” he said, a grin on his face. His teeth were yellow and crooked.
Cécile glanced around. Mathilde was three stalls away. “Oui, I wanted to ask you about your baskets.”
“Which ones are you interested in?” the Old Goat Man asked. He reached into the back and lifted a straw basket that had a grass-covered handle. “This is a nice one.”
“I was looking at those,” Cécile said, pointing to the indigo-striped bas
kets.
“Aww, a girl with good taste,” the Old Goat Man said, chuckling. “These are my special baskets. They aren’t just any old cypress baskets. They come right out of the Louisiana swamps. You won’t find any quite like ’em here in the market.”
“Did you get them from two children?” Cécile asked.
Suddenly the grin left the butcher’s face and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you ask?”
Cécile said, “I just wanted to know where you got them.”
The Old Goat Man turned away and began cleaning one of his knives with a cloth. “I trade with a lot of people. Can’t remember where I got the baskets.”
Cécile didn’t want to be impolite, but she couldn’t give up yet. “Monsieur, I thought you said the baskets came right out of the swamps.”
“Did I say that?” He set down his knife and cloth and turned to her. She could see that he was sweating even though the morning air was crisp and chilly. “Well, chérie,” he said, “what of it? That’s where most of the cypress trees grow.”
Mathilde walked up beside Cécile, giving a friendly nod to the butcher. “Cécile, did you want some of his sausages?”
Before Cécile could answer, the Old Goat Man said, “Your girl just likes my baskets.”
Mathilde looked at the neat rows of baskets. “I can see why. They’re very nice.”
The Old Goat Man was smiling again. “I’ve got tasty lamb for sale, madame.”
“No, thank you,” Mathilde said, handing Cécile one of the market sacks filled with vegetables to carry.
As they headed out of the market, Cécile thought about the Old Goat Man. She felt sure that he knew the children. Why wouldn’t he say so? What he’d said about the baskets kept popping into her mind: They come right out of the Louisiana swamps. Did the two children actually live in the swamps? Cécile couldn’t imagine that. Yet Monsieur John from the circus had said that some people did live there, runaway slaves he called maroons. But he had told her not to repeat that word. Cécile shivered. Were maroons dangerous? Were the two children maroons? Did this mean she would never get Tante Tay’s necklace back?
Cécile was thinking about this when she smelled the scent of oranges. Then she heard a familiar voice call out, “Hot orange buns. Hot, sweet orange buns.” She spun around, sniffing the air like a hound. She spotted the red-haired marchand at the edge of the market, holding his tray high. She wanted to ask him if he’d seen her necklace—but how could she talk to him without Mathilde overhearing?
Just then, Cécile had a stroke of luck. One of Mathilde’s friends called to her from a vendor’s cart at the edge of the market. “May I look at the baker’s goods while you talk?” Cécile asked.
“Yes, but stay in sight,” Mathilde replied.
Cécile waited for Mathilde to reach her friend before rushing over to the marchand. He had set down his almost-empty tray and was at his wagon now, laying out loaves of bread.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Cécile said. “May I interrupt you for a moment, please?”
The man turned, holding a loaf as if it were an extension of his arm. “You already did,” he said, smiling. Then he tilted his head. “Wait— haven’t I seen you before?”
“Yes, outside the Floating Palace on Saturday night,” Cécile said, hopeful now. “We bumped into each other on the wharf, and I fell when you spilled your tray of buns.” She glanced back over her shoulder. Mathilde was still talking. “Sir, I lost my necklace when I fell.”
Cécile watched for his reaction, searching his face for a sign of guilt, but the man just stood quietly, waiting for her to say more.
“I was hoping maybe you had seen it.”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?” Cécile asked, glancing over her shoulder again. “It was a cameo on black lace, with a black ribbon. It must have come off when I fell. I came back to look for it as soon as I realized it was gone. You were still there, and you were looking down at your hand. I was hoping maybe you’d picked up the necklace.”
Cécile held her breath. She hoped it didn’t sound as if she was accusing him.
“Oh yes, I scraped my hand on something when I gathered up the tray. Anyway, let me think,” he said, putting his hand on his chin. “You know, I did see a circus performer pick up something and put it in her purse.” With a chuckle he added, “I noticed because at first I thought she was putting orange buns in her purse. Then I realized she wouldn’t put those sticky buns in a fancy jeweled purse. Maybe she picked up your necklace.”
Mathilde walked up beside Cécile and peered at the orange buns still left on the tray. “Mmm, is that something new you have there?” she asked.
“Oui, a new recipe. Just trying it out this week. Hot orange buns.”
“I’ll take two,” Mathilde said, winking at Cécile.
“Coming right up,” he replied.
Cécile’s mind was already churning. This man didn’t have her necklace. She hadn’t found the two children, and the one man who had their baskets wouldn’t admit to knowing them.
At least the orange-bun man had given her a hopeful clue. She had to get back to the circus.
8
TROUBLING QUESTIONS
After supper that evening, Cécile sat in the parlor with her family. Maman was mending one of Papa’s shirts. Papa played chess with Armand while Grand-père read the newspaper and Hannah quietly tended the fire. Usually Cécile loved these quiet times with her family, but tonight she barely heard a word that anyone said. She couldn’t concentrate on her embroidery stitches, either. She was too worried.
After she and Mathilde had gotten home from the market, Cécile had racked her brain for a way to get back to the Floating Palace. She had to follow the clue the orange-bun man had given her.
She’d decided that Grand-père was her best bet—he usually had time to spare and always enjoyed outings with her. All afternoon, she’d been trying to find a moment alone with him, but she’d had no luck. Every moment that ticked by meant that Tante Tay’s return was closer.
Cécile looked down at the handkerchief she was embroidering. Its dark blue flower looked more like a spider. She sighed and pulled out her stitches again.
“What is the matter with you, Cécile?” Maman said. “You’ve started over on that flower twice already.”
Cécile frowned. Her mother rarely sounded so cross. On his perch, Cochon gave a squawk.
“Ah, chérie, I’m sorry,” Maman said, rubbing her forehead. “I have a fierce headache this evening.”
“I’ll make you some tea, madame,” Hannah said.
When Hannah returned, Maman took a sip of the tea and looked up. “I don’t believe I’ve had this tea before, have I?”
“I made it with herbs to ease your headache, madame. It should help you sleep, too.”
Maman sipped the tea. Hannah leaned toward Cécile and said, “If you would like, I’ll show you a beautiful stitch you might use.”
Cécile said “Merci” and held out the handkerchief.
Hannah sat down beside Cécile, taking the needle gently between her fingers. “See, bring the needle up here, loop the thread around, and bring the needle down here.”
Cécile watched her delicate fingers expertly pulling the needle through the cloth.
Maman said, “That’s a lovely stitch. Did your mother teach you that?”
“I don’t remember who taught me this one, madame,” Hannah replied. She passed the handkerchief back to Cécile. “Do you think you can finish it?”
Cécile nodded. Hannah hurried to stoke the fireplace, and then she picked up a broom and began sweeping the hearth.
“Hannah, you have already worked longer than necessary today,” Maman said. “Take your leave now. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Oui, madame.” Hannah curtsied. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?”
“My head feels better already,” Maman said. “And I’m sure if any of us needs anything, we can manage. Go and get so
me rest.”
Armand looked up from his game. “Good night, Hannah.” Cécile saw Maman cut a glance at Papa.
“Good night, everyone.” Hannah curtsied again and quickly slipped from the room.
Shortly, Maman announced that she was going to bed. Papa and Armand packed up their game, and Grand-père yawned and folded his newspaper. Cécile covered Cochon’s cage and went upstairs, still worrying about how she would get back to the Floating Palace.
She was almost ready to crawl into bed when she noticed a flickering light out her window. She stepped out on the balcony. In the courtyard below, Armand was sitting at his easel. He was painting in the chill night by the flickering light of several lamps and candles.
Cécile frowned. Armand never painted at night.
Cécile threw on her shawl and tiptoed down to join him, trying hard to be quiet so that no one else would hear and come out. She wanted to talk to Armand alone. She still hadn’t told him about her morning at the market.
Cécile flinched as she felt the crunch of a rock under her slipper. “Ouch!” she murmured.
Armand quickly threw a cloth over his painting.
“You don’t have to do that,” Cécile said quietly. “It’s just me.”
“I’m not ready to show anyone yet,” Armand said, wiping off his brushes with a damp rag. “I may show it to you when I’m finished.”
Cécile thought he was teasing. He had always let her see his work. “I’d love to see it now,” she said with a smile, lifting the cloth before Armand could stop her.
Cécile stared at the painting. It was only half finished, but she could see it was a portrait of an elegant young lady, richly dressed. Already she could tell it would be lovely. “You are such a fine painter, Armand,” she whispered. The partially completed face looked vaguely familiar. Was it a woman she’d seen at church, or at the opera or a ball? “Armand,” Cécile said excitedly, “you haven’t gotten a commission to paint a portrait, have you?” Being paid to do a painting was what her brother had been hoping for. It would be a step toward reaching his dream.
The Cameo Necklace (American Girl Mysteries (Quality)) Page 4