“And how is that?” she asked, curious in spite of herself.
“Marchand has gone upriver to visit his sister for a few days.”
“I wouldn’t judge Julien’s brother-in-law as interfering,” Corlis commented. “I heard from my dressmaker who’s a friend of Marchand’s tailor that he’s not at all anxious for Adelaide’s inheritance to be invested in some scheme to enhance the Canal Street property should Julien ever secure it from Mademoiselle Fouché. I can certainly understand that point of view,” she added, arching her eyebrow meaningfully.
“I will thank you not to interfere with my business dealings, Corlis,” Randall said imperiously.
“Even if the money you’re investing in this latest scheme came from the sale of my family’s diamond jewelry?” she asked accusingly. Her husband maintained a stony silence as he eased his black cloak onto his shoulders. “If you ask me,” Corlis continued, undaunted by his dark expression, “I think ’tis right decent of Mr. Marchand to visit poor Adelaide LaCroix and try to cheer her up a bit. The poor thing’s had to nurse Julien’s father night and day, for pity’s sake, while her husband gads about town!”
“You know nothing of these matters,” Randall said loftily, “so I would appreciate it if you did not speak as if you did.”
“Well… what I do know,” she responded with a tight, tart smile, “is that three gentlemen dressed up in fancy clothes on a sodden night like this—but without their wives on their arms—can only be making their way to one destination.”
“And that is?” Randall said, glaring at her to hide his chagrin.
“The Salle d’Orleans,” she retorted, “and don’t think I don’t know it, even if poor Adelaide LaCroix pretends to be dim as a post about these things!”
“No decent woman talks about a place like that!” Randall declared self-righteously.
“Ah… but supposedly decent men like you go there, don’t they, Randall McCullough?” she responded, angrily putting her hands on her expanding waistline. “ ’Tis nothing but a glorified slave mart, that’s what the Orleans Ballroom is! And as a white man, and a Scots Presbyterian to boot, you should be ashamed to be seen there. Business matters! My stars!”
And with that she flounced out of the bedchamber and refused to bid her husband farewell when he departed for the night.
***
The exterior of the Orleans Ballroom was not in the least imposing. However, Julien never ceased to feel a rush of anticipation when he entered the nondescript building. Its mammoth interior was adorned with elaborate crystal chandeliers, expensive paintings, and voluptuous statuary—a hint at the sumptuous array of womanhood invariably on display there.
The walls of the room were remarkable for their inlaid and paneled woods and a floor made of three layers of pure cypress and a layer of oak—said to be the finest anywhere in the United States for dancing. The chamber was also noted for its lofty, ornamented ceiling and balconies that overlooked the gardens at the rear of Saint Louis Cathedral.
Julien had always found it ironic that New Orleans’s holiest sanctuary was within a stone’s throw of an establishment devoted to white churchgoing gentlemen blessed with means and social standing to select black mistresses in full view of their peers.
And what a selection there was tonight!
Julien lounged against the richly paneled wall, awaiting the arrival of Randall McCullough and Ian Jeffries. He allowed himself the pleasure of drinking in the alluring sight of bright-colored satins, rustling taffetas, velvets, and richly embroidered watered silks, the expensive laces and the astonishingly low-cut bodices of the women whose charms and favors were available—for a price. Burnished golden skin was in evidence everywhere, making this gathering unlike any in southern Louisiana.
Julien surveyed the elegant room full of gorgeously attired people, reflecting that the Free People of Color certainly raised beautiful daughters well schooled in French and poetry and the arts of carnality. As he watched the coquettish looks flashed in his direction, he knew that behind the discreet flirtatiousness exhibited by those whose charms were on display this evening lay a deadly serious purpose.
Free Women of Color were forbidden by the Code Noir, the Black Code, to marry either their own slaves—which they prized as much as did their white counterparts—or the slaves owned by white men. And of course, it was unthinkable and illegal for them to marry into the white race. As a result, free black men and women could establish legitimate families exclusively among their own free ranks.
The only other choice was to increase their coffers by offering the most exquisite of their young women in quasi-permanent “arrangements” to white men of wealth and status, who, in turn, would endow yet another generation of light-skinned blacks with freedom for the children of those unions, along with money and support.
This system—le plaçage—was destined to perpetuate itself as long as arranged marriages among the most prominent white families were reinforced by a religious dogma that forbade divorce. Love, or even lust, seldom entered into marriage between whites, Julien thought sourly, considering his own unhappy union with Adelaide. Sheer monotony, if nothing else, in Louisiana’s prim and proper white households was the principal cause of the continued success of the Quadroon Balls.
“Ah… Julien… there you are!” exclaimed Ian Jeffries, interrupting Julien’s reveries. The blustery American strode over to LaCroix with Randall McCullough following in his wake. Both men were, as was Julien himself, smartly fitted out in opera attire. “We were held up by the rain and an absolute jam of carriages at the front entrance.” He lowered his voice and added discreetly, “Have you seen her yet?”
Julien was about to answer when he glanced up at the balcony above them.
“Ah… yes,” Julien said on a low breath. He was surprised to acknowledge to himself the relief he experienced at the sight of Martine Fouché, who had indeed made an appearance at the ball These last weeks she had politely declined his repeated requests for a meeting to discuss all manner of proposals he was ready to extend to her. Bouquets of flowers, bottles of champagne, and finally, a beautiful porcelain figurine he had bought in France had accompanied the notes delivered to her door. As far as Julien was concerned, a six-month bereavement was quite enough for the dazzling mademoiselle. He had proposed they meet on this neutral ground where they could discuss “matters of great import to us both.”
Tonight, thank heavens, Martine Fouché was highly visible. She had stationed herself on the balcony and was sipping a cordial from a crystal glass while speaking quietly with her mother. The young woman’s lustrous black hair was swept up and fastened with a brilliant garnet. Her gown was of midnight-blue watered silk, only a shade lighter than the black bombazine she had worn the last time he’d seen her. The garment, whose muted color signified her recent loss, was utterly without ornament but exquisitely cut and fitted to her perfect shape. Martine’s beauty and simple elegance attracted the attention of every person in the room.
Yet she was standing alone upstairs with only her mother for company.
Nearly all thoughts of the Canal Street property had fled from Julien’s thoughts. He would make his proposition known concerning that particular matter at another time, he assured himself. It was suddenly clear that intimidation of any sort was not the path to securing all of his goals. His principal intent tonight, he realized, was to get past Martine’s mother and speak with this stunning young woman alone.
“Gentlemen,” he addressed his two male companions, “I’ve decided another approach would be more conducive to our ultimate aims than the one for which I summoned you here. Why don’t you explore the cardrooms and avail yourselves of the libations and appealing company while I make my presence known? I’m sure you can amuse yourselves while I have a word with Mademoiselle Fouché.”
The two men exchanged puzzled glances and then drifted off toward the cardrooms where boisterous games of faro were known to erupt into duels at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, Jul
ien found the stairway and made his way toward Martine. Yet he hesitated to approach immediately, sensing that Althea Fouché was preparing to depart, perhaps to find a liveried manservant to refill their refreshments. Biding his time, Julien stood behind an ornamented pillar and waited.
When Martine was finally alone, he stepped forward and said in a calm, low voice, “Good evening.”
“Oh!” Martine said with a little gasp. “You startled me!”
“That was not my intention,” he said, smiling. “May I renew your cordial?”
“Ah… but no, thank you. Maman is seeing to that.” She cocked her head and added, “But then, you knew that perfectly well, did you not, monsieur? What is it you would like to talk to me about? The Canal Street property, is it?”
The woman was obviously not easily hoodwinked by flattery—nor cowered by threats. Julien hoped his face wasn’t flushing as he gazed steadily into her brown-gold eyes. “Not at all. I was merely hoping for permission to call on you tomorrow.”
“You find daylight more propitious for a business discussion?” she asked, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He marveled at her perfect use of French and her elegant syntax. Had she studied in Paris? There were so many things about this fascinating woman he wished to know.
“I was not thinking of business at all. I was hoping that perhaps one day soon, we could stroll by the river with your daughter, Lisette. I am told she is going to be a beauty like her mother.”
“Ah… monsieur… what clever ploys you enlist on your behalf,” she said, her smile broadening into one that was half coquette, half proud maman. She heaved a sigh and opened her fan, waving it near her delicate chin in a graceful, languid motion. “To praise the daughter first is quite endearing to a doting parent such as I. And you are right. I would enjoy escaping the confines of my cottage for a brief while.”
“Would eleven tomorrow morning suit?” he ventured boldly. The ballroom below them appeared to sparkle even more brightly now that Martine nearly had agreed to a rendezvous.
“Let me inquire of Maman,” she replied evenly, glancing over his shoulder at Althea, who approached now accompanied by a gloved servant carrying a silver tray with two glasses. “If that hour suits her as well, we shall make a happy foursome, n’est-ce pas?”
Move. Countermove.
Julien knew he was engaged in a game of chess that would require all his wits.
The servant bowed and departed while the two women quickly conferred.
“We would be delighted, monsieur. Eleven o’clock tomorrow then?” Martine murmured. “And now, please do not feel you must keep us company. I’m sure you and your two gentlemen friends had some other notions of entertainment in mind this evening. A demain.”
Until tomorrow, indeed.
***
Before dawn, Corlis Bell McCullough heard a carriage draw up in the road, and then a deep voice ordered the driver to wait below on Julia Street. She reached for her dressing gown at the foot of her four-poster bed and slid her bare feet onto the cool, blood-red Persian carpet.
Muted masculine voices echoed in the gaslit stairwell, and she could only hope her husband and his companion would have a care for four-year-old Warren, dozing in his cot on the other side of the bedchamber.
She tiptoed to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, staring into the hallway just in time to watch Ian Jeffries and Randall enter the apartment and walk arm in arm past her bedroom and into the darkened parlor.
“Let me just turn up the gaslight, Ian, and then I shall pour you another brandy!” she heard Randall exclaim jovially, his words slightly slurred.
Her husband was drunk, a condition that was probably matched, brandy for brandy, by that scoundrel Ian Jeffries! She had no doubt that the two men and Julien LaCroix had had a high old time of it at the Quadroon Ball.
Corlis wondered that she felt no jealousy at the thought of her husband having congress—polite or otherwise—with those exotic young women at the Salle d’Orleans. Well, she mused bitterly, as far as she could determine, all women were slaves, whether members of the black race or white! Even when they possessed their own property, money, and jewels, their wealth was inevitably placed under the management and control of the male members of their families.
She glanced down at her thickening waistline. A second infant would make an appearance after less than four years of marriage. In the end, females were mere prisoners of their gender, she concluded glumly.
We have the babies… and in that tells the tale…
Corlis gently pushed the bedroom door open a few inches wider and advanced stealthily down the hallway in order to hear more clearly the men’s conversation.
“But don’t you fear, Ian, that the black bitch is going to reveal to Julien our role in the demise of Henri Girard?” Randall demanded. “I thought surely our waiting would be at an end tonight, but if LaCroix’s behavior at the ball is any proof, he seems beguiled by that she-devil!”
“Julien is beguiled,” Ian replied gruffly. “We accompanied him to the Orleans Ballroom to put a wee bit of muscle into her exchange of the Canal Street property, and look what happened!”
“Julien ends up paying court to the jade like some lovesick fool!” Randall concluded, aggrieved.
“It was a revolting display!” Ian agreed, his words beginning to slur in the manner of his companion.
“These Frenchies are the devil’s own, don’t you think? Can’t trust ’em as far as you can throw ’em.”
“Well, we missed our opportunity to get the land ourselves,” Ian mused, “but I’ll be damned if I’ll lose out on the opportunity to serve as the builder of that property.”
“Just remember, Ian,” Randall warned. “If Martine keeps the land, the bitch will never hire us to build on it after what happened with Henri. And if we should try to force her hand, she might tell Julien just how her patron died and why Etienne LaCroix is currently in a state of decrepitude!” Corlis recognized the panic edging her husband’s voice. He was, at heart, a complete coward. “Really Ian,” Randall continued, almost whining with anxiety, “ ’twould be utter folly to risk involving ourselves without Julien in our camp—”
“Calm down, man!” Ian interrupted irritably. “If, perchance, Martine is stupid enough to accuse us of anything regarding Henri, we shall maintain that she is a lying, devious slut. We’ll say that you and I were merely attempting to prevent Girard from deeding land to her that by rights was to be given to Julien upon his return from France.”
“Other than through Martine herself is there any way Julien could learn of—”
“No,” Ian said shortly. Corlis heard the sound of liquid being poured into glasses. “Fortunately for us his father remains silenced and paralyzed.” There was a moment’s quiet emanating from the front parlor while Corlis assumed Ian Jeffries took a long draught from his replenished glass of brandy. “Let that be a warning to you, Randall,” he advised loftily. “The folly lies in allowing one’s emotions to run rampant. Julien’s father became enraged about events and promptly suffered a fit of apoplexy. Julien now is ass-over-teakettle about a shopworn quadroon. Keep a cool head, my man!” Ian added with pompous certitude. “That’s the way to success!”
“I don’t know,” Randall countered doubtfully. “We’re playing a very dangerous game.”
“Of course, ’tis dangerous. That’s how the game is played! Look, McCullough, if you are not prepared to put it all on the line with me, we can end our partnership here and now!”
“That’s not what I meant,” Randall protested hastily. “ ’Tis just that it’s all a bit dicey, what with Martine Fouché now a wild card as far as young LaCroix is concerned. Surely you see the peril… to us both? Should anyone learn that we—”
“I see it!” Jeffries intervened gruffly. “I see it well enough.” The man was thoroughly inebriated and full of self-importance. “But as we both know by now, everyone in New Orleans has his or her price. Or they wind up dead.”
&nb
sp; Corlis’s mind was racing. She leaned unsteadily against the wall, wishing heartily that she had not left the isolation of her bedchamber or heard the exchange between her husband and Ian Jeffries in her front parlor.
She had learned just enough to comprehend how the baffling pieces of a certain puzzle were beginning to fall into place. She now dreaded to consider the real reasons Henri Girard had met such an untimely end, or why she had been ordered to employ her powder puff and rouge pot to make it appear as if the handsome forty-seven-year-old bachelor had died of natural causes.
Corlis turned and retreated to her private sanctuary, leaving her husband and his partner to continue their drinking, until undoubtedly they both passed out in the front room. In the darkness of her bedchamber, she listened to the even breaths of her young son asleep in his cot and pondered whether she dared warn a stranger named Martine Fouché. Wasn’t the poor woman more than likely to come to an unhappy end if she stood in the way of the partnership of Jeffries, McCullough, and LaCroix?
***
The skies were clear of the downpour that had pounded the roof of the Orleans Ballroom the previous evening, at times nearly drowning out the orchestra. Today the promenade along the levee was swept clean of its usual debris, and the heavens were a pale blue. A temperate April breeze lifted the frilly edges of Martine’s and Althea’s parasols as Julien and his female companions strolled along the busy waterfront.
A ten-year-old girl with dark hair skipped ahead of the threesome, the ruffles of her dress rippling in frothy waves as she played with her new puppy, oblivious of her elders.
“Monsieur LaCroix, you’ve been too clever,” Martine scolded gently. “Obviously I cannot possibly deprive Lisette of the dear gift you brought in its own beautiful basket. Yet it was not necessary. We hardly know you, monsieur.”
Martine’s mother nodded in grim agreement but remained silent.
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