“It is of no consequence,” Julien said, gesturing as if to sweep her objections aside. “At Wednesday’s ball at the Salle d’Orleans, the beautiful Martine Fouché’s many admirers will be dueling over the opportunity to become her protector. I wish to advance my cause early, and more privately,” he added, lifting Martine’s slender hand and bending over her honeyed fingers. Then he turned and performed the same gesture of respect to Althea.
“Monsieur LaCroix, this is neither the time nor the place—” Althea began.
Julien maintained possession of the older woman’s hand and smiled confidently. “What better time or place to put our cards directly on the table?” he asked. “I shall not make a long story of why I have come here today.” He smiled faintly, his trim mustache and intense eyes riveting. “I would be deeply honored to become your daughter’s patron and to establish a bank account in her name with funds ample enough to provide for her complete comfort, as well as yours, Althea, and dear Lisette’s.”
Althea and her daughter traded startled looks. Then Martine’s mother pursed her lips and cocked her head in the bargaining stance routinely adopted by the mother of a desirable quadroon.
“Since we are to place our cards squarely on the table, monsieur,” Althea declared skeptically, “I must make mention of the Canal Street property toward which you have employed every device possible to wrench from my daughter’s possession. How does it figure in this generous offer you are making?” Her slight tone of sarcasm was not lost on Julien.
“What of Canal Street?” he replied with a shrug. “I have had time to think at length on that particular subject,” he continued slowly, reflecting to himself upon the long, arduous trip downriver he had just completed. He turned to face Martine. “I had preferred to exchange it for something of equal or greater value, but that apparently is not satisfactory to you. I propose, then, to become an investor of sorts, joining with others, including you, Martine, if you will allow it. I offer to take the initiative along with my banker, André Duvallon, to raise the funds necessary to build on the land. I will, of course, participate in any profits—but then, so will you, in even greater measure. Your name will be on the deed, not mine.”
Julien was acutely aware that Martine and her mother had taken in every word. He had just made the kind of offer no other suitor was likely to put forth: his full financial patronage of the little Fouché family, plus his willingness to allow Martine to keep her property in her name without a court challenge. In addition he was willing to buy into the project by supplying the capital necessary to build on the site.
“And what benefit do you hope to derive from this, monsieur?” Althea asked, her dark-brown eyes alight with interest.
“A one-hundred-year lease on the warehouse I propose to build at the back of the property, fronting on Common Street, on the downriver end of the block. My business needs more storage for the crops I produce on the Reverie Plantation. It’s that simple.”
He watched the faces of Martine and her mother, noting their surprise. He was a bit surprised himself that he had come up with such a profitable solution. Albert had indeed managed to get him to New Orleans in under three hours. At dawn’s light Julien had taken a long walk from the wharves up to Canal Street and along Common Street to the rear of the open tract that Martine now owned. There was plenty of room for a large warehouse at the back, as well as for a block of row houses flanking Canal Street, with commercial spaces allotted to the first floors under an arcade.
He could already envision the entire development—built in the popular Greek Revival style—and he wagered that the fledgling firm of Jeffries & McCullough would dearly love to undertake such a commission at a rock-bottom price. Others were bound to want to participate. His mind was churning with the names of young men who might wish to become partners in such a project: the merchant Paul Tulane, for one. William Avery of Avery Island was another possibility. His banker, André Duvallon, had informed him that Jacob Levy Florence was always eager to get in on such forward-thinking projects. Even Celeste Marigny Livaudais, a Creole doyenne who had played the silent partner in many an investment in the city, would clamber to be part of this effort.
When one took the issue of race out of the equation, it was simple.
The Canal Street project would represent the nouvelle New Orleans, the blending of cultures that the commerce-crazed Americans had brought about, whether his father approved or not!
“And you are willing to put all these grand promises in writing?” Althea asked with a sidelong glance at Martine.
“Oh, indeed I am,” Julien replied softly. “Signed and witnessed in as legally binding an agreement as the deed Henri Girard drew up for Martine.” He then turned his full attention to the woman for whose sake he would grant such largesse. “On my journey downriver last night, I thought deeply on this subject of our potential liaison, Martine. You may be surprised to learn that I have experienced a revelation,” Julien continued in a tone that had become both serious and somber. “I wish us to be equal in all things.” His voice suddenly throbbed with an emotional intensity that astounded even him. “In business, of course, but in our personal relations as well. It is the only way for us to proceed.”
Martine’s eyes widened and her voluptuous mouth parted a fraction. For a long moment she gazed at him in silence, her chin lifting slightly, a sign that she questioned the sincerity of his unorthodox declaration.
“Let us remember, monsieur, that I am the granddaughter of a slave,” she replied at length. “And though my daughter, Lisette, has blue eyes and pale skin, we are of African descent, sir. White men—especially white men who are also French Creoles—are apt never to forget that reality. Henri did not make such grandiose statements as to equality, and neither ought you. It is better to be absolutely honest in such affairs.”
Her eyes bore into his, and whatever secret card he might have been tempted to play later in this game was no longer of any value.
“I may have behaved in a grandiose manner to you previously,” he said, amazed at how naked he felt before her piercing gaze. “Yes, Martine, you are a woman of African blood… but I have found, to my regret, that the blood in one’s veins is no guarantee of tenderness, compassion—or a capacity for love. Yet, I believe you have those capacities flowing in your veins—as do I.”
“And your wife?” Althea asked in a steady tone of voice. “What of her? Has she no capacity for… tenderness?”
“Ah… yes… Adelaide,” Julien murmured. “Let us speak plainly. Unfortunately—and for reasons that I cannot fathom—she has, from our wedding day, found marriage’s intimacies, both of the heart and of the flesh, utterly repugnant. And it is love I desire to have in my life! Love and loyalty. As a LaCroix, I have allowed others to deprive me of it for too long.”
Martine arched a perfect eyebrow but remained silent.
Julien smiled faintly. “You are startled to hear me talk of love, not commerce?” he asked, gazing from mother to daughter. “But we are French, are we not? And since I returned from Paris, I have found to my surprise that I long for love and am willing to give it back in full measure, my dear Martine. I have lived without it my entire life, and when I see the wreckage it has wrought, I am compelled to remedy such an unhappy state of affairs if I can.”
“Monsieur LaCroix,” Althea began firmly.
However, Julien ignored the presence of the domineering older woman. Instead, he seized Martine’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
“I humbly ask you to allow me the privilege of coming to your home and taking you as my full partner in life, as well as in commerce. And for this,” he said, gently stroking the honeyed skin of Martine’s cheek with his pale fingertips, “I shall honor and keep you always—till death do us part.”
His father would not order his life anymore, Julien thought with a flush of triumph, visualizing the helpless condition to which Etienne LaCroix was now consigned. There was no need to wrest the land from Martine by forging his fath
er’s mark on legal papers. He, Julien, was finally free to seize what would make him happy… what would give him exquisite pleasure. He was now free to run the Reverie enterprises as he saw fit. At long last he was at liberty to live in whatever fashion and among whatever company he chose. And as far as society and the old buzzards in their black cassocks lurking about the confessional booths at Saint Louis Cathedral were concerned, let them be damned!
From this day forward, Julien swore, as he removed his family’s gold crest ring from his finger and placed it on Martine’s, he would give himself to love.
***
Lisette Fouché’s blue eyes were round and full of questions. She stared into the mirror at the reflection of her grandmother as the older woman secured the youngster’s lustrous black braids with white satin bows. She caught a glimpse of their two valises, filled with the clothes they would need on their trip to the little family cabin on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain.
In the parlor, the little girl could hear the murmuring voices of her mother and the dark-haired gentleman with the black mustache and kind eyes to whom she had curtsied a half hour earlier. Monsieur LaCroix had given her the adorable puppy some months back. This day she watched the gentleman pull out a raft of official documents. As soon as her mother and Monsieur LaCroix began signing them, sitting side by side on the velveteen sofa, Grandmother Althea took Lisette firmly by the hand and steered her into the tiny bedchamber they shared at the back of the cottage.
And now that the ordeal of braiding Lisette’s hair was nearly accomplished, the little girl summoned the courage to ask, “Why are we going away, Grandmère?”
Her grandmother flashed one of her rare smiles and replied, “To give your maman and your new papa some time to themselves. Listen for the carriage to pull up front, Lisette. Monsieur LaCroix has sent his very own landau to take us to the cabin.”
“How long will we be away?” Lisette asked in a small voice, feeling homesick for her mother before she’d even stepped out of the cottage onto Rampart Street.
“Only a short while,” Althea replied reassuringly, patting her head. “We shall be back in the city long before Christmas.”
“And will we visit—”
“No!” Althea interrupted sharply. “I told you earlier, Lisette!” she reprimanded her granddaughter. “You are not to speak of him now, especially when Monsieur LaCroix is visiting us. And as for Henri Girard, he is in his grave, so he will not know if we pay our respects or not! You are to forget about all of that!”
“But he was my father,” Lisette exclaimed rebelliously. “They were both so kind to me!”
“That is true,” Althea conceded, holding her granddaughter’s chin and staring fiercely into her startled eyes. “But for your mother’s sake, and for our future, all that must remain in the past, and not ever spoken of from now on! It would upset Monsieur LaCroix to be reminded of that… that friendship. You must promise me, ma petite! All depends upon it!”
Lisette saw something in her grandmother’s eyes that the older woman had never exhibited in her life: fear.
“But I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Althea Fouché pulled Lisette protectively against her silk bodice and cupped her head between her brown hands, her fingers digging into her granddaughter’s tightly braided hair.
“Perhaps sometime you will… but not today. Now do as I say and be a good girl. It’s for your future, too, Lisette.”
And with that her grandmother swiftly closed their two valises and seized Lisette’s pale hand in her darker one. She gently led the child to the door of the bedchamber. Then she turned and strode toward a portal that led to the back garden.
“But what about maman?” Lisette exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “And Monsieur LaCroix? Mustn’t we be polite and say good-bye?”
“It is best if we just depart quietly,” Althea said brusquely. “Come, Lisette, the carriage has pulled up to the banquette outside. I’ll carry the valises, and you run along and fetch your puppy from the back garden and take him round to the front. We must leave your maman and Monsieur LaCroix in peace. You will see them both again, soon enough.”
***
In Martine’s bedchamber, ivory candles cast an umber glow from matching brass sconces that hung on either side of a small, unused fireplace. The surrounding whitewashed walls gleamed with a patina of burnished gold as twilight fell across the massive mahogany bed—a recent gift from Julien, built and carved by the talented chief carpenter at Reverie Plantation.
Out on Rampart Street a few people clustered on their front stoops, chatting quietly, hoping that a cool evening breeze would waft up from the river six blocks away. Occasionally a carriage wound its way down the narrow road, its harnesses jingling in a musical counterpoint to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.
Two porcelain cups of coffee sat on a silver tray, growing cold, despite the sultry weather penetrating the cottage’s thick walls. Julien filed the documents they’d signed earlier into a leather pouch and reflected soberly on their contents. The papers described his unorthodox personal and financial relationship with Martine Fouché—a partnership that would scandalize most of New Orleans should people ever hear of the finer details.
Beautiful Martine had affixed her signature with a sure, steady hand. Now she lay languidly upon a flaming red brocade daybed.
She was his. Signed. Sealed. And delivered, intact, upon a silk chaise longue.
Or was it the other way around? he wondered joyfully, pouring two glasses of champagne into delicately fluted glasses. Julien’s gaze was drawn to the graceful curve of Martine’s right hip.
God… how he wanted her. The mad, wonderful thing of it was—he could have her! Tonight. Tomorrow… and always.
She was a Free Woman of Color. She could enter into a business contract like any citizen. She had agreed in writing to allow him to be her patron. He would support her and her family in return for her exclusive favors. One of the documents they had just signed had guaranteed that any progeny of theirs would be named LaCroix. They would build the Canal Street development together—she supplying the land, and he and other investors, the capital—and all would share in its profits. He would have Martine and his warehouse. He had bested his father. The latter added a final fillip of pleasure to the entire transaction!
Julien heaved an enormous sigh and smiled broadly at Martine. Her lips curved slightly in response. However, her eyes held the kind of wonderment that he realized his own must be reflecting.
When had he fallen in love with her? At what precise moment had her welfare come to be as important to him as his own? He had begun this strange liaison with the sole purpose of returning the Canal Street property to his control. He still wanted that surely, but he also now wanted something else just as much: a sane life. A life where he was wanted, accepted for who he was, rather than merely tolerated.
Had no other white man in Louisiana seen that there was an alternative to the horrific bonds that strangled the life and joy out of men forced by economic necessity to wed unhappily? Yes, other men had entered into plaçage… but not in the fashion he had this blessed day.
The difference, he realized with a profound sense of gratitude, was that he deeply admired Martine Fouché. During the weeks of their negotiation over the documents they had cosigned tonight, he had come to respect her deeply.
He stared intently at Martine’s fine bone structure, amazed by these new, radical thoughts that were spinning through his brain. He saw in Martine’s high cheekbones and straight nose the firm foundations of her young daughter’s burgeoning beauty. He already loved Lisette. Martine was gentle and kind, as he hoped he would always try to be. She was interested in music and poetry. She passionately wanted to build and own something grand—as did he—and be beholden to no one, except to those she trusted.
And it would appear that he numbered in that company. She had willingly signed the documents forging their new partnership this day. The only thing that had stood in
their way had been their color. Remove that difference in one’s heart and mind—and then they could be of one heart and mind. It was an incredible concept! And look at its power, Julien considered humbly, to change the quality of his life.
Glory of glories, he thought with rising excitement as he glanced around the warm, inviting cottage. He had a legal right to come to this tasteful, welcoming haven whenever he might wish! And right now, he reflected, rising to his feet and walking toward the chaise longue while carrying a glass of champagne in each hand, he wished never to leave.
He handed her the fluted stemware.
“To us both,” he said softly.
Martine smiled but did not repeat his toast. She was still a bit wary, as he would certainly expect her to be. She, far more than he, knew the cruelty that existed outside the thick walls of her tiny cottage. She probably knew firsthand how white men did not always fulfill the promises they made. She sipped delicately from her glass and then smiled more broadly.
“It’s wonderful.”
“That it is,” Julien agreed, taking a seat at the bottom of the chaise longue next to her silk-shod feet.
When he had finished his champagne, he set his glass on a nearby table. First he carefully removed Martine’s right satin slipper. And then the left. Lightly resting his hand on one of her ankles, he drank in the sight of her sipping the golden liquid as he fingered the sheer fabric of her bedclothes. Slowly, languidly, he began to rub his thumb in concentric circles around her ankle, and then slid his fingers up her calf.
Martine sipped the last of her champagne and set the glass aside. She continued merely to gaze at the ministrations of his hand then lifted her eyes to reveal the effect his actions were having on her.
“Monsieur…” she murmured, her lips tilting upward in an appreciative smile.
“Julien,” he reprimanded her softly. “Please, Martine… call me by my Christian name.”
“Julien,” she repeated in a low, husky voice. “Would you enjoy our moving over there?”
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