by Toombs, Jane
When he rose at last, he was startled to see a white figure standing next to him in the dimness of early evening.
Vedette!" he exclaimed.
"No, I'm Estelle," the woman said.
He let out his breath. "How is Denis?" he
“I’ve brought him to Aimee's cottage," Estelle said. "My mother says he shouldn't be raised in her house."
"She seemed determined to have him," Guy said grimly. "But I'd much rather have him with you. Stay in the cottage as long as you like."
"My mother only wished to have Denis in his rightful place," Estelle told him. "That wasn't La Belle. She says the cottage is his home."
"Yes." Guy knew he'd never use the cottage again. "I'll see there's a settlement made for you to take care of Denis," he added.
Estelle nodded as though it was no more than she expected. "Aimee was so gentle, she never would have harmed anyone," she said. "And she truly loved you."
He bit his lip. "I know that."
Estelle stared at him. Was that hate he saw glowing deep within her eyes? Something stirred inside him as he met her gaze, a desire as dark and unfathomable as her eyes. He was appalled.
He thought she recognized what was happening to him for her brows drew together and she turned, slipping into the evening shadows without a word of farewell.
Guy was left alone with the dead.
Chapter 10
“So now they tell us no more Negroes from Africa? Ah, these Americains, always seeking to inconvenience us." Andre Lafreniere removed his cigar from the tray on the coffee house table and took a puff. He blew out the smoke and smiled wisely. "What they don't know won't hurt them, eh?"
Guy nodded. African Negroes were untrained and wild, sullen at being captives. Guy felt he could understand—he'd be as bad if someone tried to force him into slavery.
He, like all the Creole planters, preferred Caribbean born blacks from the West Indies. It was against the law to import them, so men living on the islands at the mouth of the Mississippi, the Baratarians, made a good living smuggling Caribbean slaves into New Orleans.
The Baratarians charged more for their product but, Dieu, an amenable, trained black was well worth the extra money.
"I have perhaps ten Africans left in my fields," Andre said. "Trouble makers, most of them. The whip cures them only for a time." He shook his head.
Guy didn't hold him with whippings and mutilations. What he wouldn't do to an animal he certainly wouldn't do to a human.
If, now and then, a slave had to be shot, that was a fact of life. You destroyed those who would destroy you, animal or human, black or white.
All Creoles lived with uneasiness, for they were outnumbered by the blacks—if the slaves and free persons of color were counted together. There was always the nagging fear that the free Negroes might join the slaves in a bloody revolt against the Creoles.
"Isn't President Jefferson a planter himself?" Andre went on. "Perhaps he breeds his replacements, then, for a man wouldn't cut his own throat."
"Jefferson's president, not king," Guy said. "Congress passed the law prohibiting the African slave trade. We're governed by a republic these days."
“But not, I think, one such as la belle France."
"We'll have our own state congress when Louisiana joins the union of states," Guy said. "A house of representatives and a senate."
"So?"
"So you should think about being elected to this state legislature, Andre. How else can Creoles run Louisiana?"
Andre laughed until he choked on the smoke from his cigar. "Me, writing laws? Come, Tanguy, how would the planting get done, the cane grinding? Who would run the plantation?"
"The same ones who run it now, while you and I sit in this coffee house. Our overseers." Guy grinned at the older man. "We'd be right here in New Orleans, able to be home every night."
"Ah, I see. You plan to be in this legislature and you wish me to come along for company."
Guy sobered. "I don't always agree with you, Andre, but you want what's best for Louisiana, for the Creoles, and so do I. We can work together. Unlike—others."
Andre shot him a sharp glance. "Nicolas Roulleaux intends to be in this congress of ours, too?"
"So I've heard."
“I’ll consider what you say." Andre held out his cigar and regarded the glowing tip thoughtfully.
"Certainly we Creoles must make our own laws. Having an Americain for a governor is bad enough." He sighed. "Ah, why didn't the great Lafayette accept the governorship when it was offered to him?"
"I'd rather see the marquis de Lafayette in charge of Creole affairs, too, but we could have worse than Claiborne. He tries to be honest."
Andre ground out his cigar and leaned across the table. "Never mind the politics, Tanguy. How do things go with you?"
Guy didn't answer for a moment. Less than a month had gone by since his return from upriver and he still couldn't speak easily of the tragedy. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Improving," he said. "And Madelaine, how is she?"
"She's well enough." Guy frowned as he spoke. Madelaine was too quiet, seemed to brood in her room much of the time. When Gabriel had called on her, she wouldn't see him. He must do something to further their match. And soon.
In the parlor at La Belle, Madelaine put her hands on her hips and glared at Odalie. "I don't know why you won't talk about Vedette. I saw her in this very house. I saw her hang that gris gris on the door, it isn't as though I don't know she's a voodoo queen."
"Be none of your business about charms and such." The black woman's face was closed and stubborn. "You do leave voodoo alone. Unlucky to be talking about Vedette."
Madelaine flounced from the parlor and climbed the stairs. It was no use to try to make Odalie tell her what she needed to know. Vedette was certain to have love powders for sale, if she could only find where to contact Vedette.
Voodoo love powders were a silly idea, maybe, yet every one whispered of how well they worked, of men who never looked at another woman after a love potion was dropped into their food or drink.
Phillipe had made no effort to contact her in over four months. She’d been afraid to leave La Belle because of Senalda. Madelaine closed her eyes and gripped the banister rail for a moment.
Poor Senalda. It was over now, may her soul be with the saints.
But what was Philippe doing?
Madelaine entered her bedroom and sat on the bench before her vanity mirror. Was she as pretty as Annette Louise? How many times had Philippe danced with Annette Louise in these four months? Did he call on her? Had he ever kissed her? Her hands clenched into fists.
"He loves me," she whispered.
Her glance caught the reflection of the silver filigreed pin in the shape of a butterfly that she wore on the bodice of her black gown. She frowned. Annette Louise had given her that pin. Quickly she unfastened the butterfly, rose to thrust it from her sight among her other ornaments, then paused as an idea struck her.
Odalie would tell her nothing about Vedette but Josefina was something else entirely—younger, flighty. If she promised Josefina this silver pin, the slave would tell her whatever she wished to know.
That evening, Madelaine listened to Guy's plans for the late spring, plans for her. Small gatherings, since they were in mourning, outings on Lake Pontchartrain in the old summer house there, an intime dinner party—just a few close friends like Gabriel Davion . . .
Madelaine took a deep breath. "I look on Gabriel as a friend, just as you do," she said. "I'm fond of him, but nothing more. Why don't you see that Gabriel and I are not in love as a man and woman should be to marry? He'd marry me, I believe, just to please you, his best friend. I wish to please you, too, but I can't marry Gabriel."
"Women change their minds. It'll do no harm to be with him. Is there someone else you'd care to invite?"
An imp of mischief put words in her head. "There's that handsome Americain doctor. Is he still in New Orleans?"
Guy sco
wled at her and she laughed. "You look so stern. Quite like that painting of grandpere in the drawing room."
Guy smiled uncertainly. "You're joking then about the American."
"And you don't consider it a joking matter." She shook her head. "It used to be you who'd play tricks on me. You've become so serious since you started working for the Americains."
"Not for them. With them. There's a difference."
She made a face. "That's what I mean. You're so serious. All you need now is to grow a set of whiskers and you'll be a second grandpere."
After dinner they played a game of backgammon, their first in many months. She beat him so easily she knew he wasn't concentrating. Had he really loved Senalda as much as she loved Philippe? Could he love both Senalda and the placee, Aimee?
She thrust away a stray thought of John Kellogg. She didn't love him, she hardly knew him. His kiss had taken her by surprise, that's all. Her response was accidental, it meant nothing.
But if Guy could love two women at the same time ... ?
No, she loved only Philippe, would always love only him.
And Philippe loved her. Did he also love Annette Louise?
How she wished she could talk to her brother about Philippe, and the way she felt about him. She hated to go behind Guy's back, but he left her no choice.
Madelaine heard the faint boom of the nine o'clock cannon from the Place d'Armes. The slave curfew. "I think I'll go to bed," she said. Impulsively, she kissed Guy's cheek. "I wouldn't trade you for any other brother in the world," she said. "I know you want me to be happy."
And he did, she knew that. He couldn't help his feelings any more than she could hers. It made her feel all the more guilty as she waited behind her closed bedroom door for him to retire. He'd go upstairs when he'd drunk enough brandy to make him drowsy and, once he was in bed, the only problem would be avoiding Odalie's sharp eyes and ears—and to gain the cooperation of Josefina.
Though she felt guilty about deceiving Guy, she wasn't going to change her mind.
Just as Madelaine had suspected, Josefina was willing to do anything for that silver butterfly.
"I be knowing Vedette. She dance voodoo maybe tonight," Josefina said. "Got to listen for the drums."
"You must take me, Josefina. To where Vedette is. Tonight."
Josefina's eyes widened with fear, but narrowed when Madelaine dangled the silver pin in front of her. "I do that," she whispered.
"Don't you dare tell anyone."
Later, as she waited in her room, Madelaine wondered how far she could trust Josefina, who was a born intriguer. She turned the silver butterfly in her fingers and the pin pricked her flesh, drawing blood.
When the house quieted, Madelaine crept down the stairs and let herself out the back door. A half-moon Slid from behind the clouds. Did she hear the throb of drums or was that the beat of blood in her ears? She was excited and frightened and when a dark figure stepped out of the shadow of an oak, she put her hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp.
"Drums, " Josefina whispered.
African drums. Madelaine had seen one once in the slave quarters at La Belle, a long hollow log open at one end with a goatskin stretched over the other. The next time she'd looked, the drum was gone and she never saw it again.
“The dogs might follow us," she whispered to Josefina.
"Dogs be tied in the stable," Josefina assured her.
She followed the black woman, flitting between the oaks like a wraith, to the bank of Bayou le Chat. She could hear the drum beat more clearly along the water—a low throbbing. Neither of them should be out in the night. For Josefina it was after curfew. For herself, unheard of.
Josefina halted beside an old pirogue, half hidden in the reeds along the bank. "Do you give me the butterfly?" she asked.
Madelaine held out the silver pin. Josefina affixed it to her dress, stood dreamily feeling the pin with her fingers.
"Must we cross the bayou?" Madelaine asked.
"Here we cross, yes."
Josefina poled them quickly across the dark water. Madelaine helped her draw the old boat onto the opposite bank. Josefina took the lead along a narrow path running through the undergrowth.
The sound of lighter drumming joined the boom, boom of the big drum and soon Madelaine saw a glow ahead, a fire, and, silhouetted against the light, a man's form. She grasped Josefina's arm, slowing her.
"Just be Tomas," the black woman said. "He be waiting for me."
Tomas? Madelaine didn't know a Tomas, but, whoever he was, it was obvious that Josefina hadn't kept quiet about tonight's escapade.
"Who else knows we're coming here?" she demanded.
Josefina's eyes glittered. "I tell Scipion when he go to town, say to tell Tomas we be here."
Madelaine groaned inwardly. Scipion was a stable hand—had he passed the word to Ancin? If he had, Guy would be after her, for Ancin told him everything. And whoever this Tomas was, he may have told others. Josefina slipped from her and hurried ahead, joining Tomas.
Madelaine followed them slowly. Should she go back? She'd come to find the voodoo queen and buy a love potion. Was she being foolish? Now that Josefina was with her current lover she'd likely forget everything else and leave Madelaine to shift for herself.
The rattle of pebbles shaken in a gourd and a rhythmic clacking Madelaine couldn't identify accompanied the drums.
She was very close. Give up now? She shook her head, and increased her pace until she saw a clearing ahead of her where dark bodies gathered beside a fire. Josefina and Tomas lost themselves among the other blacks.
Uncertain of what to do, Madelaine ducked behind a tangle of vines and edged nearer to the crowd of squatting Negroes who'd formed a semi-circle near the fire. Suddenly a woman leaped into the half circle, almost directly in front of Madelaine. Although the vines concealed her, Madelaine shrank back, for the woman was Vedette.
But, mon Dieu, how changed! Vedette weaved to the beat of the drums, arms undulating. She wore knotted red handkerchiefs bound about her loins and breasts, her tignon was fiery red, the knots standing up in front like horns. A necklace of small bones hung around her neck.
The drummers were to the left of the voodoo queen. A man sat astride the big drum that lay lengthwise on the ground, slapping the skin head. Another Negro beat the smaller drum. Two shook gourds and a tan skinned Negro ran a long bone up and down the toothed jawbone of a horse.
The hair rose on the nape of Madelaine's neck as the rhythm quickened. The sounds, the sights were like nothing she'd ever experienced.
Her fear of Vedette mingled with excited anticipation as the voodooienne turned to the right to face a large painted box on a raised altar, inscribed with strange symbols and drawings.
Madelaine saw an iron mesh was set into the front of the box. Tiny bells on Vedette's ankles tinkled as she gyrated toward the box, chanting:
L'Appe vini, Le Grand Zombi
L'Appe vini pou fe gris gris.
Over and over she intoned the words, her voice rising to frenzy as she writhed and swayed before the box.
"Aie, aie!" the crowd shouted. "Voodoo Magnan!"
With a suddenness that made Madelaine blink, a man leaped in front of Vedette. Naked, except for a few red handkerchiefs knotted about his loins, he sprang into the air, the bells on his ankles jangling. Madelaine watched open mouthed, pushing the vines apart to get a better view, her eyes never leaving the two dancers.
He was a giant Negro, his skin glistening like black onyx in the flames. On each cheek three long lines of tattooing rayed out. An African, for Creole blacks had no tattooing—it was forbidden.
"Eh! Eh! Bomba hen, hen!" the man chanted.
He picked up Vedette and stood her atop the box. Her jerking became more violent. She flung her arms toward the night sky and her head rolled on her shoulders as though her neck was broken.
"Aie, aie!" the crowd screamed, all of them swaying in rhythm.
Vedette leaped off the box, writhi
ng and shaking, seized the mesh and yanked it away. She reached inside and brought out a mass of coils, a huge snake that she caressed as it twined about her body. The man whirled around her, chanting, sweat gleaming on his naked skin. He was so very black.
Madelaine touched her tongue to her dry lips. The drums invaded her body until she felt their beat in her bones. Her hand went to her bodice, unbuttoning the high neck for she felt she couldn't breathe.
Suddenly the man jumped into the air to land inches from the vines that concealed her. Without pausing in his dance, he stared directly into Madelaine's eyes. She couldn't tear her gaze from his. Slowly he extended his hand toward her. His glinting black eyes held her as though she were a bird and he the snake.
Without willing it, Madelaine's hand came from the vines to meet his. With a shout he pulled her free of the tendrils and into the firelight. Her body began to sway as he danced in front of her.
"Eh, eh! Bomba hen, hen!" the crowd shouted, rising as one to their feet. Black bodies clustered about her, dancing, men with women, Vedette with the snake.
Madeline's hair loosened and tumbled down her back as she stamped her feet to the drum's rhythms and twisted her body to match the primitive gyrations of the tattooed black.
"Houm! Dance Calinda!" a voice cried.
"Voodoo Magnan. Aie, aie!" others shouted.
How the snake coiled about the voodoo queen! As though it felt the drums, moved to their beat.
Madelaine tore at the buttons of her gown, stifled inside her clothes. Part of her seemed to stand aside and look on in amazement as she stepped out of her dress and threw it aside but she couldn't break the spell of the drumming and the dance.
"Bomba, bomba!" her partner chanted.
"Aie!" she answered, in unison with the crowd. "Aie, aie!"
Closer and closer he danced, leaping into the air, bells tinkling. As she undulated next to him she could feel the heat of his naked flesh. Her lips parted, she gasped for breath. All around her women threw off their clothes, bodies glistening with sweat, twisting, writhing snakelike as the men leaped and pranced.
She must—she must . . . Her hands were feeling for the fastening of her petticoat when she was grasped by the waist and whirled away from the tattooed black giant.