by Shirl Henke
She laid out a beautiful gray silk peignoir with black lace trim and took a long, scented bath. However, after several hours of restless waiting in her seductive finery, it became apparent that her husband had gone out for the evening. But where? To Davis’ casino again? Perhaps it was another father and son debauch. She decided to search out Lenore and see what she knew.
“Didn't Rafael say anything to you before he left?” Lenore asked. Her blue eyes were veiled, as she attempted to hide her discomfort. At Deborah's negative reply, Lenore added, “Well, Papa's still here, but that doesn't mean my brother couldn't have gone to a card room or to play billiards by himself. He often does—or down to the river to shoot with some of his friends.”
Deborah gave a disbelieving look. “In the dark? It's past ten, Lenore. No, he's probably at that accursed casino.”
“Yes, I'm sure that's it,” Lenore agreed a bit too readily.
Deborah looked at her sister-in-law and had the uneasy feeling that she knew something more than she was telling. Had he gone to a bordello? Surely a gently reared girl like Lenore wouldn't know about such a thing; but then in this alien culture, who knew what went on! Celine certainly seemed willing to ignore a great deal where Claude was concerned. Deborah, however, was prepared to ignore nothing.
* * * *
Lily watched the carriage pull up and recognized the tall figure who descended. He had sent her a note hours ago and she had been eagerly awaiting him. Thank heaven he has finally come to me. Lily had heard through the servants' grapevine that Rafael had a wife, a silver blond Yankee with an icy Boston manner. She had been instantly thrown into a panic, for he had always said he was in no hurry to marry. Indeed, since the age of nineteen, he had put off his mother's matchmaking with dismissive good humor.
Now, unexpectedly, he was wed. Too proud to go and look for herself, Lily nevertheless listened when the servants gossiped about the young Madame Flamenco’s exotic coloring. They assured her that Deborah was skinny and plain, but she feared the worst. Rafael must have been besotted to defy his family for her. Sometimes, after he married, a Creole man gave up his mistress and pensioned her off to satisfy the demands of his wife, especially if it was a love match.
For days, Lily waited fearfully for a dismissal. Then, when none came and her regular allowance did, she waited joyously for her lover to return to their house on Rampart Street. After a few weeks, anticipation and disappointment turned her mercurial temperament waspish. Then, early that evening a message had finally arrived. Lily checked her appearance in the mirror again. Sleek pompadour faultlessly coiffed, huge dark gold eyes fringed with thick black lashes, small, exquisite features set serenely. She ran a hand down the rose satin peignoir, pleased at her still-tiny waist after two birthings.
The small, elegantly furnished living room was prepared for him with his favorite cigars and a fine white Bordeaux laid out, along with a late night supper of iced shellfish, cold roast squab, and crusty bread with assorted cheeses. The covers had been turned down on the big bed in the next room where a scented candle flickered enticingly.
“Cheri,” she whispered, as he opened the door and stepped inside. Standing on tiptoe she pulled him down into a languorous, slow kiss.
I'd forgotten how tiny she is. He bent down to embrace her. “You still smell of jasmine,” he said, nibbling her ear.
“Have you missed me, darling?” She took his hands and drew him into the living room. “Sit and I'll pour you some wine.”
As he reclined on the large overstuffed sofa cushions, she placed his feet on a velvet ottoman and pulled his shoes off, then lit his cigar. He let his eyes trail over the rich interior of Lily's small house, noting that she had purchased a new silver tea service, gleaming dully on the mahogany table in the corner. The rich maroon and deep blues of the Turkey carpet and velvet upholstered furniture created an atmosphere of darkness and languor. There was too much furniture and bric-a-brac, but then Lily had always been a collector. He smiled in tolerant amusement as she fussed over him. “I have something for you,” he said, pulling a case from his jacket pocket.
She let out a small squeal of delight and opened the case. The gleaming ivory took her breath away. It was a necklace, heavy and intricate, made of a series of whale's teeth, each etched beautifully. Besides the necklace, there were several exquisite combs with the same delicate ivory carving on them and a pair of long whale's tooth earrings that matched the other pieces.
“Oh, Rafael, it's magnificent, like nothing I've ever seen,” she breathed, reaching over to kiss him.
“The New England whalers call it scrimshaw.” He watched her preen before the mirror, trying the earrings and necklace on, fitting the combs into her midnight tresses. When she finished her delighted inspection, she placed the heavy jewelry back into its case and came over to kiss him like a child who had won a long absent parent's attention.
She was afraid I’d leave her when she heard about Deborah. The thought suddenly struck him. Until now, he'd never bothered to consider her reaction to his marriage. He'd sent her allowance as usual, but it had never entered his mind to send her word explaining his plans. In fact, he had never planned ahead at all. He had always assumed that marriage would not impinge on keeping a mistress. With a Creole wife there would have been no question of it. He thought fleetingly of Deborah's reaction and dismissed the idea from his mind. She and Lily scarcely ran in the same social circles! Rafael stubbed out his cigar and emptied his wineglass. “Come here.”
She obeyed with alacrity, like an obedient puppy, but her soft, skillful body reminded him more of a sinuous little cat. She slithered up alongside him and began to run her small pink tongue and lips across his jaw, then down his neck, while her busy fingers unfastened his shirt studs and pulled the front open. Then her hands and mouth caressed his chest. As she kissed and nipped, she slipped off his jacket and shirt. Slowly, languidly she leaned back and began to unfasten her robe, letting the hissing satin slip down around her hips. He reached over and slid the thin straps of her gown from her shoulders. She helped him, twisting free of its confines until her large, rounded breasts spilled out so he could grasp them in his hands.
He teased and kneaded her ripe flesh until she moaned as her brown nipples hardened. At his smile of satisfaction, she moved her hands to the waistband of his trousers, releasing the belt and then unbuttoning his fly. “Now, lie back, Rafael,” she whispered, pushing him to a reclining position on the sofa. Her small fingers eased his swollen shaft from the imprisonment of the tight pants. She felt his body stiffen and heard his soft gasp of pleasure as she took the hardened member in her hot little mouth. He forced the tension from his body and relaxed, letting her pleasure him, clearing his mind of all thought, all women but this one. His release was sudden and swift under her practiced ministrations, but the night was young and they had time for much, much more in the big soft bed in the next room.
Lily lifted herself triumphantly, like a small, regal cat, preening before her master. “Your pale Yankee wife could never please you like that!”
His face, which had been softened in satiation, turned instantly harsh and shuttered. “I am not in the habit of discussing my wife with my mistress, Lily,” he said coldly.
Eyes downcast and mouth midway between trembling and pouting, she stood up and slipped the peignoir back on, then went to have the houseboy bring water for him. While he cleansed himself quickly in the basin of warm water, Lily brought him a black silk robe from the armoire and helped him into the comfortable garment. As she reached around his narrow waist for the belt, he ran his fingers through her hair. It was straight and thick, blue-black and glossy. He often looked at her slightly slanted eyes and high cheekbones, wondering about her rumored Cherokee ancestor. There was a faint golden glow to her skin, but with seven-eighths of her blood being white, her complexion was, in fact, paler than his own.
They shared some wine and ate the light repast as he answered her questions about Boston and his journey on the
Blue Lightning, omitting, of course, any mention of Deborah. Finally, he said, “Enough of my trip. Now tell me about Melanie.” His black eyes scanned her face for some signs of maternal affection. “Does she do well with her school-work?”
Lily waved the question aside carelessly, saying, “Of course, she is quite bright. What would you expect? She is your daughter.”
“Why don't you let her stay here, Lily? I could hire a tutor and have a chance to see her more often.”
Lily's face froze and she seized Rafael's hands, beseeching him. “No, she is far happier in St. Louis with my mother. She has the finest tutors.” Her huge gold eyes filled with tears and her tiny hands tightened over his larger ones.
“I—I cannot have her here since my Francois died. I cannot, Rafael! I wanted to give you sons, not daughters.”
“We could have another son, Lily,” he said patiently.
She shook her head frantically. “No! No, I could not bear it, to have another little boy and hold him while he dies of the accursed fever, no! No more children, Rafael, please. I will do anything for you—anything to please you. I love you, but do not ask for more children!”
He took her in his arms and stroked her much like a father calming a child. She was the same age as he, but since their son had died two years ago in a yellow fever epidemic, Lily had changed. She had never been happy that her first child was a female. When Francois was born, she was overjoyed. Melanie was a precious, beautiful little girl, but for the most part it had been Lily's maid Morine who had cared for her.
After Melanie’s brother had died and she had survived the decimating epidemic of 1833, Lily couldn't bear to look at Melanie. She had insisted on sending her to live in St. Louis where the child's grandmother and aunt had moved. Unwilling to keep Melanie in a household where she was not loved, and unable to find any other place for her, Rafael had finally agreed. She was almost six now, a proper young lady with bright golden eyes and jet black hair, her Spanish, French, Cherokee and African heritage beautifully blended together. He had her aunt Therese bring her downriver for visits several times a year, but other than that he did not see her, only paid for her support and education.
“Don't cry, Lily.” He sighed. “I won't tell you to stop taking your potions.”
At once, she brightened and stopped her heartrending sobbing. “Thank you, beloved. I am so grateful you understand.”
“I don't keep you here to provide me with offspring, but with divertissement, little cat,” he replied with a lopsided smile. Anyway, soon I'll have legitimate heirs with Deborah. The thought came unbidden, but he did not want to consider it. Angry at himself as well as at his neurotic mistress, he reached over and scooped her off the sofa in one rough, abrupt movement. He carried her into the bedroom and tossed her onto the bed.
He quickly stripped away his robe, then knelt on the edge of the mattress. Lily pulled him down and wrapped her small voluptuous body around his. They caressed with languorous practice, knowing one another's most sensitive secret places. Finally, he rolled her on top of him and impaled her wet eager flesh on his phallus. When she could feel him beginning to swell and explode, she arched her back and made one last gyrating descent, collapsing on his chest, feeling her own deep radiating waves of climax joining his. They panted in the warm dark night for several minutes, then fell asleep, still locked together. It was always good with Lily.
When he first came to her she had been but a sixteen-year-old virgin, he a sixteen-year-old boy. However, despite his lusty romps with a variety of experienced lower-class girls, he had been the innocent. Lily had been explicitly instructed from childhood in all the ways of pleasing a man. She could excite and tantalize like the most experienced courtesan. She had been taught by her own mother and aunt, both placées themselves in their youths. For a beautiful Free Woman of Color, it was by far the most practical way to assure her future.
Rafael had been Lily's first lover. Together, they quickly learned how to give one another exquisite pleasure. Six years later, Rafael still enjoyed the relationship. It had never occurred to him to end it when he married. Now, threatened by his feelings for Deborah, he was more determined than ever to keep Lily as a counterbalance against the disturbing influence of his wife.
Early the next morning Lily rose and instructed the kitchen maid about breakfast, then bathed, made her toilette, and had a hot bath brought for Rafael. By the time he was finished, she carried a breakfast tray in and they ate together in bed.
“I really must get home, Lily. It's nearly noon,” he said, wiping his mouth and tossing a snowy linen napkin onto the tray.
“Morine is going to the market for some fresh crayfish, Rafael. Perhaps while there she'll see Wilma with your wife.” She casually picked up a delicate china cup and took a sip of the thick cafe noir, waiting to gauge his reaction.
“Deborah shops with the servants on occasion. It occupies her time,” he replied casually as he slipped on his freshly pressed jacket.
“It seems odd for a lady to muck through the public markets with black slaves, but then I suppose Yankees are different from Creole women.” She could see he was growing angry. Unable to stop herself, Lily catapulted into his arms. “Oh, Rafael, she'll never please you! She could never do what I did last night.” Her busy little hands insinuated themselves inside his jacket as she pressed her lower body closely to his.
He reached down and unwound her arms, pushing her away as he held her wrists. “I told you last night, I don't discuss one of my women with the other. Ever. You have your place in my life, Lily. Be satisfied with that.” His black eyes were hard as obsidian.
Lowering her head, she murmured, “Oui, Cheri,” but her thick lashes veiled the wounded fury in her eyes.
* * * *
Feeling strangely disturbed, Deborah awoke. The bedroom was cold and lonely despite the warmth of May. Deborah had become used to lying by Rafael's side and feeling the beat of his heart when he held her in sleep. With a sick sense of dread she arose and rang for Tonette. Knowing what she knew about all the diversions of Creole men, it was just as likely he had spent the night betting on a cockfight or playing cards as sleeping with another woman. The thought of her husband lying in some whore's cheap, soiled bed made her ill. Forcing the sickening thought aside, she resolved to face the day.
She knew Wilma was going to the public market that morning to buy fresh shellfish and produce. Deborah loved the noise and international flavor of the city's shopping center. Indeed, when Wilma found the new mistress could speak halting German and even some Spanish, the old cook was delighted. Deborah could bargain with those merchants far more effectively than could she, whose French was barely intelligible and who could speak not a word of any other language but English.
Wending her way through the crowds in the fierce noonday heat, Deborah watched the kaleidoscope of the market. Free Women of Color with huge baskets balanced on their turbaned heads walked regally past, selling rice cakes. A swarthy Spaniard hawked salt fish. As she wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple, Deborah wondered why Celine had looked so pleased when her errant daughter-in-law departed that morning.
Usually, Madame made deprecating remarks when Deborah accompanied Wilma. But today, Celine had been uncharacteristically gracious, asking Deborah to select the oysters for tonight's dinner. Willing to make any reasonable attempt to placate her in-laws, Deborah had agreed, although after she had dug through the seaweed-coated, odoriferous oyster barrels, she felt as smelly and slimy as the unwashed shellfish. Oh to get home and sink into a tub of fresh cool water!
Wilma was barking her usual fierce orders to Guy about taking care in loading the fresh fruit and vegetables onto the wagon when Deborah approached them. Just then she caught sight of a carriage turning onto Dumaìne Street. Inside sat Caleb Armstrong and Lenore! It was a closed carriage and Deborah recognized her sister-in-law only because of the hat and heavy veil she'd seen her wearing when she had left the house that morning. Small wonder she wished
to disguise herself! She was trysting with the Yankee banker! She felt a surge of increasing anger at the injustice of it all. Claude and Rafael were able to come and go, do anything immoral or scandalous with no one thinking less of them, while a good young woman like Lenore, who only wanted to have a normal courtship with a fine young man, would be castigated and condemned.
Damn Rafael, where was he? She vowed to confront him when he returned and also to try to counsel her sister-in-law. It was too dangerous to be seen so openly with her Yankee. If she recognized Lenore, so might other less sympathetic people. Perspiring and fuming, she climbed aboard the wagon with Wilma and sat back. She tried to fan herself with her skirts. Would she ever get used to the heat and humidity of New Orleans? It was only May!
When they returned home, Deborah helped Wilma unload and arrange the foodstuffs in the kitchen, then trudged across the courtyard, intent on reaching her quarters where Tonette could draw her a bath. Over the musical tinkle of the central courtyard fountain, she heard the murmur of female voices. Not wanting to be seen, she decided to slip quietly up the back stairs. However, she had not reckoned on her mother-in-law's watchful eyes.
“Oh, Deborah, there you are, just in time for luncheon.” Celine's greeting was oversweet and bubbling. “Do come down and join me.”
Observing her daughter-in-law's perspiration-drenched clothes and stringy, half-fallen knot of damp hair, she smiled archly. Yes, she even smelled of oyster barrels. Perfect! She walked quickly to the stairs and took Deborah's hand, drawing her around the shield of the fountain and shrubbery to where Minnette Gautier sat in dainty cool perfection beneath the canopy of an ornamental fig tree. Next to her sat her mother, her aunt, and several other of Celine's friends, all dressed and coiffed immaculately. Minnette’s eyes widened in delight as she compared her crisp yellow gown to Deborah's limp, seaweed soaked rag. Why, she looked a positive fright!