The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Nearly dawn. I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to get an early start.”

  “I’d say the middle of the night is early enough,” he grumbled mildly. “Where is it you’re going?”

  “To inspect the storehouse, smokehouse, and dairy. I saw the kitchen yesterday. Later I’ll start the cleaning upstairs.”

  “Guess I won’t be dawdling in bed with my bride.” Tom rolled, wrapping himself in the blanket, and sat on the edge of the mattress, his knees to his nose. “I can see now a man can’t be a planter and a gentleman of leisure at the same time, particularly if his wife won’t cooperate.”

  With an indulgent smile, Simone bent and placed a kiss on his mussed mop of curls. “What are you going to do today?”

  “Mr. Haley and I plan to inspect the levee to see if it needs to be reinforced. If it’ll hold, we ought to be able to get to the house and the outbuildings. I’ll set the field hands to work in the slave quarters. The cabins are shabby and their roofs leak worse than ours.”

  “Tom,” Simone began tentatively, “I don’t think I like being a slaveholder. Couldn’t we free them?”

  “I don’t like it any better than you do,” he answered, expelling his breath in a puff, “but the entire plantation system is built on slave labor. If we freed them, just out of the blue, do you know what havoc it would cause?

  “First, the plantation would shut down, and I don’t think we could afford to get it running again. Second, you know free people of color seldom stay free. If a bounty hunter or a crooked slave dealer gets his hands on them, their manumission papers aren’t worth a damn. They could end up someplace a lot worse than LaVictoire. And last, we can’t unless we’re prepared to move up North. We’d probably be run out on a rail by our new neighbors. They don’t take kindly to Abolitionist talk in these parts.”

  “I don’t think I’m an Abolitionist. It’s just that I’ve never owned a slave and never thought I would.”

  “The best thing we can do, Simone, is to make sure ours are well treated.” Tom got to his feet and began to put on his pants. “No beatings, no forced breeding, no tearing families apart. We’ll make sure they’re well fed, well cared for, and have good living conditions—starting today.”

  “You are right,” she said reluctantly, kissing him before she left. “I just wish there was something I could do to change it.”

  “I imagine the slaves will be freed one day, darlin’,” he called after her, “but I don’t expect it in my lifetime.”

  Within a week of their arrival, the interior of the house was transformed. It smelled of soap and wax and polish. Glass sparkled and wood glowed. Most of the repair work was done, whitewashed moldings had been restored to their original positions, and a maker of plantation furniture had been consulted.

  At Simone’s right hand through it all was Rosette, a pretty slave who had grown up in the big house when the owners still lived there. She was familiar with its workings and very capable.

  One day while they washed and dried dishes, Simone asked, “Would you mind moving to the servants’ quarters in the big house, Rosette?”

  “I s’pose I could,” the slave said reluctantly. “I’d be a real good lady’s maid to you.”

  “I do not need a lady’s maid,” Simone answered, adding another saucer to the stack.

  “Then what would my duties be?”

  At her look of dread, Simone knew she thought she was being asked to serve as Tom’s concubine. “I don’t know how things have been done here before,” she said slowly, “but neither I nor my husband would ask you to be anything other than a housekeeper.”

  “Housekeeper?” Rosette blinked in surprise.

  “Oui. I need someone to help me, someone who knows LaVictoire and can teach me what I need to know, who can manage if I am away.”

  With dignity, the slave nodded. “I’ll be your housekeeper, Mrs. Franklin. We’ll make this the finest house on the river.”

  Simone stood on the gallery at dusk gazing out at the river. The trees that blocked the view had been trimmed, and in the distance, she could see the sparkle of the setting sun on the water. Leaning against a column, she turned her face to the breeze. Though evening approached, it was still warm, and the promise of spring was in the air.

  She heard Tom whistling as he walked from the garçonnière where he had been inspecting the day’s work. He did not see her, and she watched as he halted near the mounting block at the head of the allée and surveyed the grounds with satisfaction, his hands on his narrow hips.

  “I know that look,” she called. “What are you plotting now, Thomas Jefferson Franklin?”

  He grinned up at her. “Nothing more wicked than an evening promenade with my wife.”

  She hurried to join him, slipping her hand into his as they strolled over the lawn, where patches of dark, rich dirt still showed through. They ambled along the fence that now encircled the grounds. Stopping at the carriage gate, they admired the allée, newly paved with shells.

  “Come with me,” Tom urged, leading her across the road to the steamboat landing. Arms around each other, they watched the full moon rise over the treetops on the opposite shore and savored the night sounds—the cry of a bird, the cacophony of tree frogs, the lap of the river against the pilings.

  When they turned to go back to the house, the sight of LaVictoire took Simone’s breath away. It loomed majestically at the end of allée, its twin staircases indeed “welcoming arms.” The whitewashed columns seemed to glow in the moonlight. Lamps had been lit inside, and light poured from the windows along the galleries. The graceful fanlight above the door was ablaze with shards of color, lit from within by the crystal chandelier in the hall.

  “Oh, Tom, isn’t it beautiful?” she breathed delightedly.

  “Beautiful,” he echoed with pride. “Just like its mistress.”

  “You only say that because you love me,” Simone teased.

  “I do.” His voice was serious.

  Turning in his embrace, she linked her arms around his neck. “I love you, too,” she whispered, thrilled by the desire in his eyes as he bent to kiss her.

  “Come. Mrs. Franklin,” her husband murmured after a moment. “It’s been a long day, and I have plans for a longer night.”

  Arms intertwined, they crossed the shadowy lawn to the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  During the spring, Tom and Batiste rode the fields with Mr. Haley. The aged overseer found Tom a fair student, but it was Batiste who showed the most promise when it came to farming. He and Tom managed to run LaVictoire smoothly after Mr. Haley left for his long-awaited retirement.

  Simone developed her own routine, making the rounds of the storehouse and the infirmary each morning. With Rosette’s help, she supervised the staff to keep the house immaculate and the garden, dairy, and smokehouse well tended. She often fell into bed at the end of the day exhausted, but she had never been happier.

  When they could find the time, Simone and Tom went riding over the property or to visit neighbors. Tom bought his wife a docile mare, and for himself he purchased a gelding he named Hocus Pocus. The big bay was an ordinary-looking animal, but when challenged to a race, he magically became the fastest runner in three parishes, much to the Virginian’s delight.

  Simone and Batiste fenced behind the house during good weather and in the ballroom during bad. At first, they were a curiosity to the slaves, but soon everyone became so accustomed to the sight that only the children congregated during their practice—the children and Rosette who always found a reason to be near when Batiste appeared at the house.

  Evenings were frequently spent entertaining. The Franklins’ neighbors came first because they were curious, but later because they genuinely liked their host and hostess. Monsieur Guilbeau, their Creole neighbor to the north at pretty little Hideaway Plantation, had decided he was too old to care for convention and struck up an immediate friendship with l’américain, Tom. The Martins, neighbors to the south, were américains th
emselves with a houseful of marriageable daughters. Mrs. Martin, a plump, pleasant woman, was alert to bachelors at any party. The unlikely mix of people met often at LaVictoire and came to enjoy one another’s company.

  The plantation’s pleasant, busy routine was uninterrupted until late spring, when Georges and Viviane Chauvin came to visit.

  “If they’d just stop thinking of me as a Kaintock,” Tom complained on the first night of their stay as he dressed for dinner. “I can’t outdrink, outfight, or outshoot much of anybody, and I can’t remember the last time I whipped my weight in bobcats.”

  “You can outcuss any man on the river,” Simone said helpfully.

  Tom ignored her. “Your uncle acts like he thinks I’m crazy. Think that’s because I married his niece?” He grinned impudently. With a shake of her head, she pushed the wayward curl from his forehead and kissed his cheek. Then, taking his hand, she led him downstairs, where Georges and Viviane admired the portrait of Simone’s mother hanging over the mantel in the parlor.

  Over dinner, they spoke mostly of inconsequential matters. When Simone asked about Fabrice, her aunt replied, “He is in Europe. Most boys go when they are younger, but we wanted him to have the opportunity before he settles down. Besides Zaza is still in school at the Ursuline convent.”

  “He’s marrying Antoine Pellarin’s youngest girl.” Georges was obviously proud of the match he had made. “Pellarin’s a sugar planter. Do you know him, Capitaine?”

  “No, sir, can’t say that I do.”

  “I saw your fields when we arrived. Ribbon cane, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks good,” Simone’s uncle complimented him grudgingly.

  “Thank you. I’m learning as I go along. And I started out with a very good teacher—Mr. Haley, the old overseer. His son, Leon, is my sugar-maker.”

  “Well, if there’s anyone who knows sugar, it’s Alonzo Haley and his boys,” Georges said, warming to the subject. “They’re known up and down the Coast.”

  “Tell me, Monsieur Chauvin--”

  “Georges, please,” he requested, “if I may call you Tom.”

  “Of course,” the American agreed with an easy smile. “Tell me, Georges, what do you hear about the new centrifugal machine for separating molasses from sugar?”

  Simone and her aunt smiled at each other across the table as the men launched into a lengthy discussion about cane.

  The next morning while the men rode the fields, Simone took Viviane to see the summerhouse in a glade at the edge of the lawn. Though incomplete, it promised to be the coolest place on the plantation with its tiled floor and wooden benches. The entire structure was raised above the ground to catch the breeze from the river and to escape the clouds of gnats and mosquitos that plagued the area in summer.

  “This is pleasant,” Viviane said when they finished their inspection. “Do we have time to see the chapel before we go in?”

  “What chapel?”

  “It’s very tiny, almost a grotto,” the woman explained. “I remember there was a path through the woods to the bayou that borders the property. It stood a short distance from the path.”

  “Do you think you could find it?” Simone asked excitedly.

  “It has been years, but, yes, let’s try.”

  The path was nearly obliterated by undergrowth, but they picked their way through the brush, finding at its end the tiny chapel with its family tombs amid an overgrown garden.

  Dropping onto a bench, Viviane mopped her brow and looked up at her niece. “Your life seems happy with l’américaine, Simone.”

  “Very happy,” she confirmed. “Tom is good to me.”

  “It’s time you had some joy in your life, chère. It seemed for a while there was nothing but trouble for you. Now it is even safe for you to come home. Marcel Baudin is not in New Orleans, and he probably won’t be for some time.”

  “All the Vieux Carré is talking. He nearly killed une fille de joie . . .” She paused, her face flaming at the words. “I heard she had green eyes like yours. In the face of le scandale, his father called him home.”

  “You don’t know for how long?”

  “Non. But think of it, chère,” Viviane urged. “You can come home. It has been so long.”

  Her niece smiled and shook her head. “At one time I would have leapt at the chance. But LaVictoire is my home now, Tante. I’m happy here with my American.”

  In the days that followed, Simone knew what she had said was true. Serenely, she watched spring slip into summer. In the fields, tender green blades emerged from the soil, growing from stalks laid out in rows. Soon the growth began to harden, stretching toward the hot Louisiana sun. By late summer, a sea of sugar cane stood as high as a man’s head, its tasseled tops rustling in the humid breeze.

  One morning as Simone weeded around the chapel, she heard a call from the bayou. Looking around, she saw Ardoin Naquin, an old Cajun who lived in the swamp, poling his pirogue toward shore.

  “Bonjour, Madame Franklin,” he called, tying the little boat to a willow at the water’s edge. “You are out early today, oui?”

  “Bonjour, M’sieur Naquin,” she greeted him with a smile. “I decided to work while it was cool.”

  “Me, I wouldn’t worry about the heat,” Monsieur Naquin said. “Las’ night I heard the bullfrogs sing. It’s gonna rain today.”

  “Good. Plenty of rain makes more sugar in the cane,” Tom called, ambling toward them along the path from the house.

  “Ah, Capitaine.” The leathery, old man smiled, a gold tooth glinting in the sun. “You learn good t’ings from M’sieur Haley.”

  Turning to Simone, he said, “I brought you somet’ing, chère.” He reached into the pirogue and picked up a small bundle of black fur, setting it on the ground at her feet.

  Blinking in the sun, a puppy looked around. He snuffled at Simone’s slippers, then, growling ferociously, he attacked, only to slide off her toe. Picking himself up, he growled again and wobbled to sit down at her feet.

  “He likes you, yes,” the old Cajun said excitedly. “He’ll protec’ you.”

  “Merci beaucoup, m’sieur.” Simone scooped the puppy up, holding him out for Tom’s inspection. “What shall I name him?”

  “He looks like a . . . Jupiter to me,” her husband suggested, watching the wriggling puppy try to lick her face.

  “What a big name for such a little fellow.”

  “He’ll grow into it,” Tom predicted. “Just look at those paws.”

  Before he could grow into his name, Jupiter was a clumsy animal, all feet and tail. He followed Simone everywhere. For anyone who approached his mistress, friend or foe, he was a menace, not because of his ferocity, but because he was always underfoot.

  For that reason, he was banned from the ballroom when Simone and Batiste fenced. On a cloudy, muggy day in late summer, she could hear him whining piteously from the gallery. All the windows were open to admit a breeze, though none stirred. A number of black children hung on the windowsills, dividing their time between petting Jupiter and peering in at the fencers.

  “Touche!” Simone cried, making a point. “Perhaps we should stop for today,” she suggested when Batiste grimaced, obviously irritated with himself. “It’s too hot anyway.”

  “Please. I need to talk to you, petite amie,” he requested, his gaze sliding toward the corner where Rosette sat with a basket of mending. “Alone.”

  Leading him into the study, Simone asked, “What is it, mon ami? You’ve been distracted all morning.”

  “Rosette and I wish to be married,” he blurted out, “and we need your permission.”

  “My permission?” The woman looked puzzled.

  “She belongs to you,” Batiste reminded her.

  “I had almost forgotten,” Simone said slowly. “Of course I give my permission gladly.”

  “Thank you. There is one other thing,” he added delicately.

  “Oui?”

  The powerful black man drew
a deep breath and said, “You and I have been together a long time, little one. I don’t want you to think I would break my vow--”

  “Because you’re taking a wife?” she asked softly. “Batiste Joseph, you’ve been as good to me as family would be. I want you to marry Rosette and be very happy. I release you from your oath.”

  “I told you before, only Alain could do that. Besides, I want to stay. I’ve gotten used to your willful ways,” the servant teased, trying to mask his sentiment.

  “What is this?” Tom asked playfully as he entered the study from the gallery. “You look like the cat who ate the canary, Simone.”

  “Only because Batiste and Rosette are going to be married,” Simone retorted with a broad grin.

  “Congratulations!” Tom whooped. “I wondered when you’d get around to asking her.” He pumped Batiste’s hand, then regarded him seriously. “A man with a new wife needs a home of his own. The overseer’s cottage—and the job—are yours, if you want them. I’ll pay you the same as Mr. Haley was getting.”

  Batiste stared at the captain in disbelief. “I can ride the fields and supervise work gangs, but, as a man of color, negotiating with factors would be impossible for me.”

  “Not if they don’t know it’s you they’re negotiating with,” Tom answered imperturbably. “I already consult you on the big decisions, and I trust you to make them on your own. Just let those fellows think you’re following my orders. If the idea doesn’t stick in your craw, we can get around their prejudices and I’ll have the finest overseer on the Coast.”

  Batiste considered for a long, silent moment before extending his hand. “I’d be honored to be your overseer, Cap’n.”

  “Done.” Putting an arm around his wife, Tom drew her to his side and said, “I hope you and Rosette will be as happy as we are.”

  “That’d be about as much as a man could ask,” Batiste answered with a smile, and he set off to find his wife-to-be.

  In early autumn, the couple was married in the plantation chapel with Tom and Simone as witnesses. As a wedding gift, Rosette received her manumission papers from the master and mistress of LaVictoire.