The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “What does my marriage . . . What do I have to do with you?” she cried looking around desperately for a weapon.

  “You have everything to do with me. Because of you, they say I am mad. I am not mad. My logic is quite unflawed, ” he assured her, chillingly rational in his derangement. “If I cannot have you, you must die. When you are dead, I shall be free of you.”

  “Simone, Tom!” Alain’s voice rang out from the front of the house. With a feral snarl, Marcel whirled and pointed the gun in his direction instead.

  When her assailant’s back was turned, Simone leapt to her feet and scooped his sword from the ground. Lunging toward him, she brought the dull weapon down on his arm, managing to cut him slightly and knock the gun from his hand. Marcel howled in enraged pain and, seeing himself soon to be outnumbered, fled into the darkness.

  Alain was beside her at once as she dropped to kneel again by Tom’s side. Weeping and conscious only of her injured husband, she pressed a lacy handkerchief against his chest in an effort to stem the blood pumping from his wound. Nearby, Hiram bellowed for a slave to ride for a doctor.

  Tom’s eyelids fluttered open, and he grinned weakly at his distraught wife. “What’s all the commotion, sugar?”

  “Be still, my love,” she whispered. “We’ve sent for a doctor.”

  “Too . . .late for that,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me, darlin’, do you love me?”

  “With all my heart. Be still now,” she ordered tenderly, tears streaming down her face.

  “I love you, too, Simone.” He moved his hand heavily to cover hers. “What . . .are you going to do without me? You need . . . someone to keep you in line.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Tom. You are not going to die. I won’t let you,” she vowed.

  “You are the stubbornest woman . . .” He panted from the effort. He rolled his head, and his glazed eyes found Alain. “Will you . . . take care of Simone and my children for me, ‘Lain?”

  “Oui, mon ami,” Alain choked.

  “That’s . . .fine.” Tom drew a deep, rattling breath. “Think I’ll just . . . lie here now and enjoy all the attention.”

  His blue eyes closed, and he looked as if he were peacefully sleeping. But beneath the blood-soaked handkerchief, Simone no longer felt the labored rise and fall of his chest, and his hand, covering hers, became limp.

  “Non!” Simone whispered in disbelief. “Non, Tom!”

  Slowly, Alain rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. Briefly, he sheltered her against his chest. Then, gripping her arms, he forced her to turn her blank eyes toward his. “I could not see clearly in the darkness, Simone. Was it Marcel?”

  At her mute nod, he grimly beckoned Dulcie to take her inside.

  Marie LeVeau stood on the veranda, watching as the men organized a search party. “The obeah never lies,” she muttered.

  Dry-eyed and withdrawn, Simone sat beside Tom’s body in one of the bedrooms while the men searched through the night and slaves were dispatched to fetch the sheriff and Ethan. A candle was lit on the bedside table, and drink and fresh clothing were brought, but she sat, still wearing her blood-stained gown, and stared into a dark corner of the room.

  Indifferent to what was happening around her, she roused herself from her abstraction only long enough to answer the sheriff’s questions. When he left, Dulcie tried to convince her to rest, but Simone would not move from her husband’s side.

  She could hear the murmur of conversation from downstairs and the sound of the clock striking. Gisèle’s baby must have been born by now, she realized. It had probably come into the world as Tom was leaving it. She smiled sadly; the idea would have appealed to him.

  Near dawn, Alain returned. “We didn’t find him,” he said wearily when he entered the room. The search party had followed a trail of blood to the edge of the swamp, but they never found Marcel. Most believed he perished there, but Alain was unconvinced. He said none of this to Simone as they sat together silently, grieving. Finally he, too, went downstairs, giving her time alone to deal with her shock and sorrow.

  As soon as he was sure Gisèle and the baby were all right, Ethan arrived at the Anderson plantation at a gallop and raced to his cousin’s side. The candle on the bedside table had guttered, and Simone sat, silent, in the gloom. Then she asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Another boy,” Ethan answered, going to his cousin’s widow.

  Her green eyes shadowed by weariness and pain, she smiled up at him. “Are mother and baby well?”

  “They are fine,” he replied, his heart aching for her. ‘“Simone, Gisèle and I would like to name him Thomas Jefferson, if you don’t mind.”

  There was a hint of her dazzling smile when she agreed. “I don’t mind at all, Ethan, and I know Tom would like it.”

  “I’ve come to take you home,” he said awkwardly, “and to help you make arrangements.”

  “Merci. Mais, encore un moment . . .just a little longer . . .” Her voice trailed off and she turned dull eyes to the shadows. Sorrowfully, Ethan went to join the others downstairs.

  The sun was up when Simone appeared in the doorway to the dining room. Still dressed in their rumpled finery from the evening before, the house party had just finished breakfast. They fell silent and regarded the petite woman with concern. She had finally changed from her ruined evening gown. Wearing a day dress, she looked calm and efficient, but her eyes were flat and lifeless, without a trace of their usual emerald brilliance.

  “Bonjour.” Her gaze swept all assembled around the table.

  “Simone,” Dulcie cajoled, “come and have something to eat.”

  “Non, merci,” she answered politely. “Hiram, Alain, Ethan, I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast, but I would like to speak to all three of you before I leave.”

  “You’re not disturbing us, Simone,” Hiram assured her. “Shall we step into my study, gentlemen?”

  Simone sat in a chair near the window, her hands clasped in her lap. The men listened silently as she spoke to each in turn.

  “Hiram, I know, as Tom’s attorney, you have many duties, but I would trouble you to send for the undertaker so his body can be prepared for return to LaVictoire.

  “Ethan, I’m sorry, but the entire operation of Franklin Steamboats rests with you for the time being.

  “A heavy burden falls on you, as well, Alain. I must ask you to look after Queen Enterprises without Tom or me. I know you and Hiram and Dominique will manage quite well while I am at LaVictoire. I cannot think of such things now.”

  “Nor do you have to, my dear, as long as you have us,” Hiram said staunchly.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” Alain asked quietly as Simone rose and walked toward the door.

  “There is one thing,” she requested, pausing. “Post a reward of ten thousand dollars for Marcel’s capture.” Then, squaring her slender shoulders, she departed.

  The hot, humid breeze rippling the limp flag on the stern provided the only relief from the stifling heat as the Bayou Queen made its way upriver on its final trip to LaVictoire. On the levee, those who watched the black-draped steamboat’s progress removed their hats in honor of the man whose body it bore home.

  Captain Franklin’s black-clad widow could sometimes be seen at the railing, staring out at the graceful homes and the white carpets of cotton they passed. At times, her little daughter, subdued and bewildered, stood beside her.

  At LaVictoire, a mournful procession waited: Batiste and Rosette; Lisette and Monsieur Guilbeau; the Haleys, father and son; Ardoin Naquin; Mr. Martin; several other of the neighbors and the slaves. Tom’s body was interred in a crypt beside the chapel. Before the day was out, Batiste had taken the bell from the Bayou Queen and affixed it outside the tomb at Simone’s request.

  That evening, Hiram called Simone, Alain, Ethan, and Batiste into the study for the reading of Tom’s will. To Batiste, he had left a generous bequest. His will instructed that his Franklin Steamboats shares be divided between Simone a
nd Ethan, giving his cousin one quarter ownership of the company. His Queen Enterprises shares were to be split between Simone and Alain, making them equal partners. All else, he left to his widow.

  Simone sat quietly through the reading. Studying her, Alain was not sure she heard, for she had no reaction. When the attorney finished, she murmured, “Merci, Hiram,” and departed wearily.

  Boarding a steamboat in the sweltering sun, Alain was troubled as he and Simone’s other guests set out for New Orleans. Last night, unable to sleep, he had walked the grounds of LaVictoire and discovered her sitting beside Tom’s grave, staring at the moon reflected on the bayou nearby.

  Reluctant to disturb her, he had kept his distance at first, watching over her silently. At last he stepped forward. “Don’t you think you should come back to the house now, Simone?”

  “Non.” She did not even look at him.

  “If you won’t think of yourself, at least think of the baby. Tom did ask me to care for his children, didn’t he?” he asked when she turned to glare at him through the darkness.

  “I will come soon,” she answered with a sigh. “Please, Alain, I need to be alone.”

  He had gone back to his room, but he had waited beside the window until he saw Simone return near dawn.

  Now, as the current carried the boat southward and LaVictoire disappeared from view, the big Creole sighed heavily. Four terrible days had passed since Tom’s death, and the numbness was wearing off. But if he felt profound sorrow and weariness, what must Simone be feeling? He wished he had been able to convince her to let him stay for a while.

  For days after the funeral, Simone wandered through empty rooms of the house she had shared with Tom. She spent hours in his study, sitting in his old chair, holding the questioning Rory on her lap and staring off into space.

  She was in the study when the cramps seized her, doubling her over, holding her in a painful grip until her body rejected the fatherless child she was carrying.

  One crisp fall morning, Alain paced in the parlor, pondering the wisdom of arriving at LaVictoire uninvited. But he had heard nothing from Simone for six weeks, and he had to know if she was well. Only when Viviane returned to the room did he cease his restless movement.

  “I’ve looked everywhere,” she said, shaking her head, “but my niece is not here.”

  “Where can she be?” he asked with a perplexed frown.

  “If I know Simone, she is riding that uncontrollable animal of Tom’s,” the woman said with a shudder.

  “She rides Hocus Pocus?” Alain asked, incredulous.

  “Oui, since she recovered from her, er, illness. She is still not well, yet every day she gallops over the fields as if pursued. When she returns, her spirit leaves her again. I don’t know what to do.” The usually unruffled Viviane Chauvin was near tears.

  “How is Rory?”

  Viviane smiled at the thought of the bright little girl. “Sometimes she cries for her papa, but she is well. She is out checking crab pots with Batiste this morning. Aurora is the only thing in which Simone shows any interest. I’ve even begun to wish she would take notice of the sugar cane, or her businesses— anything.”

  “Ethan says Simone hasn’t answered his letters.”

  “She sees almost no one, communicates with almost no one.”

  “Why is she cutting herself off this way?”

  “Perhaps she is simply not ready to deal with people yet,” Simone’s aunt reflected. “We should try not to worry too much, Alain. With the help of le bon Dieu, Simone will be herself again in time, but now . . .” She shrugged expressively.

  When the man left the house, he turned his horse up the River Road toward Hideaway. Urging the animal to the top of the levee, he rode along moodily.

  Alain worried for Simone, perceiving now, without jealousy, how much she had loved Tom. He felt the loss of his friend heavily and tried to imagine her feelings at losing a mate. He realized she was a strong woman indeed to have coped with a lifetime of losses: Nicholas . . . himself, when she had believed him dead . . . and now Tom. But he did not want her to face this loss alone. He wanted, with all his heart, to support and strengthen her.

  Suddenly, over the lap of the river, the Creole heard distant hoofbeats. Reining his own horse to a stop, he surveyed the field across the road. Simone sat astride Tom’s bay gelding, her unbound hair flowing behind her, glistening in the midday sun, as she galloped recklessly, Jupiter at the big horse’s heels.

  “Simone!” Alain shouted, standing in his stirrups. He could have sworn she glanced toward the levee, but she leaned low over her mount, urging it on, and disappeared into the woods.

  He rode slowly toward Lisette’s house. Behind him, he heard the gong at LaVictoire, calling the men in from the fields, and the homey sound only deepened his discontent.

  On the morning of All Saints Day, Rosette watched an odd parade set out. At its head, two adolescent slave boys hauled ladders and buckets of whitewash. Simone followed with a broom and a basket. Rory trailed behind, picking flowers from the beds without a word of reprimand from her mother.

  “You think the mistress is better?” Celestina asked her sister as they watched the group disappear down the path toward the cemetery.

  “Day by day,” Rosette answered with a sigh, “but it will take time. She loved Cap’n Tom very much.”

  In the tiny graveyard, Simone cleaned and weeded while the boys whitewashed the tombs. After a time, she sat on the bench with Jupiter at her feet and watched until they were done.

  It was a warm November day, and Simone felt a certain tranquility despite her somber errand. She did not even mind that, in her efforts to “assist” with the whitewashing, Rory had streaks of white all over her dress and in her thick black hair.

  When the boys finished their task, they took the ladders back to the shed. Alone with her daughter, Simone polished the bell on Tom’s tomb until it gleamed dully. Taking the vases from their holders, she filled them with bayou water and arranged flowers in them. Rory rubbed the brass nameplate, chattering about her father as though he had gone for a trip and would soon return.

  Her heart aching, Simone wondered what to say to the child. Then she heard her cry, “Look, Maman, Oncle Alain is here!”

  Rory launched herself gladly toward the man as he approached, carrying a bouquet. Jupiter, too, rose, stretched, and lumbered toward Alain, his tail wagging in welcome.

  “Bonjour, ma petite.” Alain swooped Rory into a one-armed hug as he regarded her mother anxiously. Though Simone was thin and pale, she looked beautiful and sadly serene in the wintry sunlight.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said uncertainly, “but since I was at Lisette’s, I wanted to bring these over.”

  “That was very kind of you.” Simone took the bouquet and laid it at the doorstep of the crypt.

  “I brought something for Rory, too.” He smiled and stood the little girl on the bench as he fished in his pocket.

  “Pralines! Look, Maman.” Rory waved the bag in the air.

  “I. . . I was with Tom once when he stopped to buy a treat for her,” he explained.

  “That was kind of you, too,” Simone said quietly.

  While the little girl busied herself with her candies, the couple stood silently before the tomb.

  “How are you, Simone?” Alain asked after a moment.

  “Well enough.”

  “Lisette told me about the baby. I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose it was not meant to be.” She stared at the placid bayou.

  Alain watched her from beneath the broad brim of his hat. “I know it is not customary during mourning to receive a male visitor who is not a relative,” he said awkwardly, “but . . .”

  “A guardian is almost a relative.” A slow smile crept over Simone’s face. “I’m glad you came, ‘Lain.”

  His face brightening, he took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. But before either could speak, Rory jumped down from the bench and began to tug on his
other hand.

  “Come to the house,” she entreated. “Savannah makes the best cocoa in the world, and she’ll make some for us.”

  Alain turned questioning eyes to Simone.

  “Yes, come up to the house,” she invited, gathering her basket and broom.

  Clasping Rory’s little hand in his, Alain walked mother and daughter toward the gracious house at the end of the path.

  After lunch, the adults retreated to the fire in the study. Simone sat in Tom’s big old chair, her feet tucked beside her, as they sipped their coffee.

  “I’m glad to see you, chère,” Alain said. “I’ve been very worried about you.”

  “I know,” she acknowledged softly, “but you mustn’t concern yourself. I have good days and bad days. On bad days it seems that nothing will ever be right again. On good days, I know it just takes time.”

  “But you must take care of yourself,” he chided. “You’re so thin and pale.”

  “I know how I look. We do not turn our mirrors to the wall in mourning here. Tom thought that a stupid custom.” For an instant Simone showed a spark of her old spirit, then she sat back and heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Alain. I shouldn’t have snapped. You, Lisette, Batiste, Rosette, Tante Viviane—everyone worries. I can take care of myself, you know. I’ve done it before.”

  “I recall a belligerent green-eyed boy telling me that,” Alain remarked lightly, “then setting out to prove it.”

  “That seems a lifetime ago.” She smiled crookedly. “I have not even picked up a sword since last summer.”

  “Shall we see if you still have the knack?” he challenged.

  Sitting forward in her chair again, Simone showed more verve than she had since Tom’s death. “Can you wait while I change?”

  Alain nodded. “I’ll find Batiste and borrow his fencing gear. Meet you in the ballroom in ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be there,” she called over her shoulder, already headed for her room,

  That afternoon, steel rang against steel at LaVictoire again. Batiste watched approvingly while the pair fenced. Alain paced himself, for Simone was indeed out of practice, but he was surprised at just how good she was. Rosette, Celestina, and Rory sat in chairs out of the way, and slave children lined the gallery, pampering Jupiter, who whined to be let inside.