by Gwen Bristow
“What do we make do now?”
“Can’t we go over to the square?” He took her arm. With her other hand she pulled the lace over her mouth and chin.
“No, no,” she whispered through it. “It is still light—if a friend of my uncle’s saw me in the Place d’Armes alone with a man—” she drew him back, under the arches of the Cabildo. “Here. Now we can make talk.”
They sat down on a wrought-iron bench by one of the gates to the building. The heavy columned arches hung over them, shutting out the sunset. Dolores let her black lace fall. In the dusk her face was pale like old ivory.
“Concepcion—she will make stay in the slave seats in yonder a long time—she is good,” Dolores whispered. She giggled. “My aunt Juanita, she say for why am I so pious all of a sudden like. I say I feel troubled about my sins.”
Caleb gave a little laugh. He held both her hands.
“I don’t believe you ever committed a sin in your life.”
“Oh, but I have,” she assured him. “Envy of my cousins with good dowries, rebellion in the heart against the good God for taking my father into heaven and leaving me poor, rebellion against my uncle for think he have found me a right husband—”
“A husband?” Caleb was unreasonably frightened. “Are you going to be married?”
Dolores nodded. “I must make marry or go in a convent. You see they got in me an extra girl.”
“A what?”
“It mean—well, my uncle and aunt got daughters, too many to make a dowry for me. So they find me a husband who will take me with small dowry—and I do not want him! He is old—he have bury three wife and he have already eight children but my uncle say he will be good to me and I will have a carriage. But I—” her voice had a little catch in it. “I do not want to make marry with old man that have three dead wife and eight live children!” Her words tumbled out fast, and her accent was so thick he could hardly understand her. “But I never make talk by myself with young man before this morning—or maybe you think I am not good girl because I run out on the levee with no duenna?”
And all of a sudden, as the sun vanished and the dark rushed up under the Cabildo pillars, Caleb found that he was holding her in his arms and kissing her, to his own delightful amazement. Dolores yielded for an instant, then she pushed herself out of his arms and sprang up, holding her mantilla tight with both hands.
“Madre de Dios! I should know what you would think—I am not like that!”
She had started to run away from him, but he caught her and held her.
“Dolores, you poor darling, I didn’t think anything of the sort! It’s just that you’re so lovely and so unhappy—please come back and tell me everything. Didn’t anybody ever kiss you before?”
She looked down. “No,” she said in a low voice.
“Please come back and sit down. Concepcion or whatever her name is, she won’t tell on us.”
After a moment she returned to the wrought-iron bench. For awhile she had very little to say, and though she was so luscious in the dark that he ached to kiss her again he did not dare. But at last she began to talk as though she trusted him. She told him her father had been sent to Havana by the king of Spain before she was born. They lived in a big house where they entertained diplomats from the three countries that were perpetually quarreling about the river valley and the islands beyond, and it was from them she had learned English and French besides her native Spanish. “But they say my English is much bad,” she apologized smiling.
“It’s adorable,” said Caleb. “Go on.”
Her father had died, she said, three years ago, and she had been sent to New Orleans where her uncle was a member of the Spanish Cabildo. He thought he was doing right by marrying her to an old man who would be kind to her, for what else could be expected for a poverty-stricken girl unless she went to the Ursulines?
“And they say,” said Dolores, “I would be very bad nun.”
He agreed with her, though he knew very little about what was required of nuns beyond perpetual virginity. But that would be catastrophe enough for Dolores, who seemed no less enticing even after he noticed that she had had the misfortune to lose a tooth from one side of her upper row. So that was why she had that little puckery smile, to hide the gap, and very successful it was too. She saw him looking at it, and put up her hand to the side of her face.
“I fell off a horse once, in Havana,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” Caleb told her.
“It’s a goddamn nuisance,” said Dolores.
“What?” Caleb exclaimed.
She started. “What did I make say?”
“You said—” he laughed. Her English was so faulty anyway that he was sorry he had been startled; now he had to explain. “Nice girls who speak English don’t say goddamn,” he said.
“Oh. I am sorry. The gentlemen who came to my papa’s house said it.”
“I daresay they did. Don’t bother about it.”
“It’s a bad word?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I am so sorry. I don’t make say it any more.”
He was about to tell her again that it didn’t matter when he saw Concepcion crossing the alley between the cathedral and the Cabildo. Dolores went to meet her. Caleb waited through their Spanish dialogue, and Dolores turned back to him.
“She say time for evening prayer is over and I must go home. I am stay too long anyway.”
“Tomorrow you’ll run out from mass again?” he asked her eagerly.
She smiled over her shoulder. “Yes.”
Caleb saw her every day after that. He bought all the slaves he had intended to buy and arranged to have them shipped up to Silverwood. Alan Durham finished arranging his market for flatboats and was ready to go home. But Caleb lingered. He told Alan about Dolores, and one evening he took Alan to meet her, outside the gateway to a hidden courtyard on Toulouse Street. Neither Gervaise’s family nor the relatives of Alan’s wife knew anybody named Bondio, they said, but then they were French and had not as yet reached the place of accepting the Spanish sufficiently for much social intercourse. But Dolores was vividly real. Alan agreed with Caleb that she was charming.
“But you can’t stay here forever, meeting her in alleyways,” said Alan. “At least, I can’t stay here forever. And if I take the boat upriver how will you get home?”
Caleb had already made up his mind that he would not leave New Orleans without Dolores. He had never been so happy in his life. He was too happy to wonder what his father would think when he returned to Silverwood with this flashing Creole in her low-cut gowns and heathenish mantillas, or how Dolores would fit into plantation life. He was in love.
In the alley by the Cabildo he held her close to him and told her he loved her and wanted to take her back to the plantation. He felt her slim body stiffen in his arms and she dropped her head on his shoulder with a little sob.
“You will take me home with you? You mean it? Oh, you mean true?”
“Of course I mean it, darling. If you’ll come with me.”
“But—but you don’t even know me.”
“I know you’re lovely and sweet and a dear and that I want you and I’m going to stay here until you’ll promise to come.” He smiled in the dark. “You don’t know me either, Dolores.”
“Oh yes but I do!” Her hands reached up and felt his face. “You are good. I know all you’ve told me is right. I just know, Caleb.” She drew back from him. “You are going to make marry with me?”
“Of course, sweetheart. But—”
“Yes?”
“If your uncle is an officer of the Cabildo there’s not a priest in Spanish Louisiana who would marry us without his consent. Should I run the risk of asking him?”
“Asking him!” she echoed. “You—English Protestant—he would as soon have me marry a heathen.
He would send me to the Ursulines tomorrow. Oh, Caleb, don’t ask him! Can’t we marry without asking?”
“Yes, dear, if you’ll trust me enough to come across the English line.”
“Trust you—I would make journey anywhere with you. Oh—” her voice broke. “I didn’t know you really loved me so much!”
He held her tight again. “Dolores, can you get out tomorrow morning at time for mass? I’ll meet you here by the cathedral and we’ll go to my boat. We can be married as soon as we cross the line.”
“Where will that be?”
“Manchac. We’ll tie up there. If the current isn’t too strong we should get there the next day.”
“Yes. I’ll come. Caleb—I can’t make to bring any clothes. Maybe I can get put on two of everything and be fat.”
“That’s all right. You’re about my sister’s size. She’ll lend you whatever you need till you can have some clothes made. You’ll meet me then, darling?”
“Yes. Yes.” She flung her arms around him. “Oh, I was never be so happy. Silverwood—it’s a big plantation?”
“It will be when it’s cleared. You’ll like it.”
“I’ll love it. Caleb, I will be such good wife to you. I will learn more English and do everything you want.”
He kissed her again. “You darling. Oh, I hope you’re going to be happy.”
“Now I must go,” she said. “Concepcion is in the church.”
“Do you want to bring Concepcion with you? Maybe you could smuggle her out.”
“No, no. I want to bring nothing. I want to have all your people my people. Tomorrow morning I will see you. Wait by the church.”
She ran off to the cathedral and he saw her go down the alley with Concepcion after her.
Then at last it was morning, and Dolores was on the flatboat going upriver with him, Dolores in two pairs of stockings and with a bedgown rolled up under her panniers. She sat with him on deck, watching the plantation country pass as the boatmen strained against the current. After awhile she began to sing.
O Zeneral La Florio!
C’est vrai yé pas capab’ pran moin!
“What does it mean?” he asked her. “It’s not Spanish, is it?”
“No, my darling, it’s Creole French. About a runaway slave. He sing to M. Fleuriau, who was for be high sheriff of the Cabildo. He say ‘They cannot make for catch me, Zénéral!’” She laughed and squeezed his hand. “It is how I feel. They cannot make for catch me, I have run away. C’est vrai yé pas capab’ pran moin!”
He had been afraid she would be homesick, maybe frightened, as the flatboat pushed out of sight of New Orleans up toward the English country she had never seen. But Dolores seemed twinkly with triumphant delight. “I am so glad for go with you!” she whispered.
The next day they were married at Manchac.
Chapter Seven
Judith was playing with her babies in the Ardeith garden when her father rode up with the news that Caleb had come back from New Orleans with a Creole wife.
“From Cuba,” he said, “and very odd in her ways. Her talk is so strange sometimes I can’t make out what she’s saying. Anyway, she’s got hardly a stitch of clothes to her name, and Caleb said you’d let her have some.”
Judith was glad Caleb had married, but she was astonished that his stern young heart had been conquered by the sultry charms of a Creole. Mark told her briefly that Dolores was the daughter of some kind of Spanish grandee and had run away from home.
“What is she like?” Judith asked.
Her father hesitated. “It’s hard to say, Judith. She’s not like any women of the sort we’ve known. But Caleb takes such delight in her as I never saw, and she’d be rather pretty except that when she laughs too much you can see she’s got a tooth out. But it’s not often she laughs so hearty you notice it.”
Judith was dubious. She did not know much about Spanish Creoles, but she had heard reports of the vagaries of their temperaments that made her wonder about the wisdom of putting one of them under the roof with Caleb and his father. Tolerance of what they did not comprehend was not one of the Sheramy virtues. But she said nothing of this to Mark, who by the look of him was doubtful enough already. She said she was glad Caleb had found a wife, and rode back to Silverwood to welcome her, followed by Angelique with a collection of essential garments.
Dolores came timidly down the steps of the Silverwood house in a rather bedraggled pink dress with a flowered overskirt, but her hair was piled up splendidly against a Spanish comb. She wore two roses over her left ear.
“And you are Judith?” she said. “You make me so happy by coming!”
She spoke eagerly, as if she had feared that Caleb’s family would not receive her at all. Judith gave her a kiss of welcome. Dolores glanced enviously at Judith’s riding habit with its bright fringed sash and cutaway coat, and then down at herself. “You will forgive me?” she murmured hesitantly. “But it is only this gown I have.”
“Of course,” Judith said. “Father told me how it was you couldn’t bring any clothes with you. I’ve brought you a few.”
Dolores squeezed her hand. “Thank you. Such pretty gowns. You can spare these?”
“Oh yes. Which is your room, Dolores?”
“In here.”
“Take them in, Angelique. Miss Dolores can look them over and see if I’ve brought everything she needs.” Judith smiled as Caleb approached her and Dolores went into the bedroom with Angelique. “She’s very sweet, Caleb.”
“Isn’t she?” He looked after her adoringly, and Judith’s trepidation about his marriage began to thin. If he was as much in love as this he wouldn’t be affected by his father’s mistrust of foreigners. “Let me help her get used to us, Caleb,” she whispered.
“Will you? I think she’s badly frightened of all of you up here.”
“Poor child,” said Judith. She went into the bedroom. Angelique was laying out the clothes, which Dolores was admiring in a flood of rapid French. She stopped talking as she saw Judith, and waited for her to speak, almost respectfully. Judith put an arm around Dolores’ little waist. Good heavens, she thought, the girl was laced to a wisp.
“Dolores, if there’s anything I can help you with—you know, American housekeeping and all that, you’ll ask me?”
“Oh—will you let me?” Dolores exclaimed. “I did not know how much they make to learn.”
“Certainly. I’ll show you how everything is done.”
“Thank you. Your father—” Dolores cocked her black eyes toward the door. “He does not like me. But he will. I will make him.” Her eyes flashed up with bright assurance. It was not hard to understand how Caleb had fallen in love with her. She had a sparkle that made her like a torch in this somber house. Judith kissed her impulsively.
“Dolores, you’re a darling!”
Dolores returned her embrace with an ardor surprising even for a lonesome girl in a strange country. “You will really make like me, Judith?”
“Of course. I already do.”
“You are good,” said Dolores softly. She drew Judith over to sit on the bed. It was covered with a quilt Judith and Catherine had pieced from scraps left from their sewing the last summer they had lived in Connecticut. “Judith, I do so want to make me a good wife to Caleb, so he will not be sorry he make a marriage with me. You will tell me—
“What?” Judith asked when she hesitated.
Dolores chuckled. “How to make those things he and the old gentleman like to eat.”
“Come to Ardeith any day you like,” said Judith laughing, “and I’ll tell you. My husband doesn’t like New England eating but I think I remember how it’s done.”
“Tomorrow maybe?”
“All right. I’ll write the directions.”
Dolores shook her head. “I cannot read them.”
“Can’t y
ou read?”
“Only Spanish. French and English I learned from hearing them spoke.”
“Then I’ll say it and you can say it back to me. Don’t worry about my father, Dolores. He never did talk much, and he’s been more silent than ever since my mother died. But he’s very good.”
“Too good.” Dolores gave a little shiver. Then she smiled. “The old gentleman he will like me,” said Dolores, “when I make a baby. I hope I make a baby soon. You got two, Caleb said.”
“Yes, two little boys. David is two years old and Christopher will be a year old in June. You must see them. David is tow-headed and very bad, and Christopher is black-headed and very good. He’s good even now, though he’s cutting his teeth.”
Dolores’ hand went instinctively to her mouth.
“I wouldn’t bother about that,” said Judith gently. “It’s not very obvious.”
“Two gentlemen fought a duel in our courtyard in Havana. I heard noise of rapiers and ran out and I was so scared I fell down, against the courtyard wall—”
“Dear child, don’t trouble yourself about it! It’s much less noticeable than you think. With a complexion like yours you can stand a lot of defects.”
“You think so honest?” Dolores asked wistfully.
Judith liked her. She was so pathetically eager for approval that it came almost as though in response to a demand.
Before many weeks had gone by it was evident that Dolores was winning her way even into Mark Sheramy’s grudging affection. For Mark had to admit that she was less objectionable than he had thought a foreign woman would be. The men of his family were not used to marrying girls who came to the table with gardenias in their hair and gowns that exposed their bosoms to such a shameless degree; but it seemed less scandalous when he was engrossed with the meat-pies and sawdust puddings she served him. Caleb and Judith praised her for having gone so far toward gaining Mark’s good opinion, but Dolores only lifted her black eyes demurely and puckered her mouth and replied, “My dears, where I lived we had a saying that a man always likes better a woman who gives him what he wants to eat.”