Shadow Conspiracy

by Phyllis Irene

  Almost as perplexing were the references Mignon made to things that seemed unrelated to her duties. In one note she described, in complete analytical detail, the song of a bird she had heard outside Anthony’s window. In another she reported the amount of champagne and brandy consumed at a dinner party Anthony’s parents had hosted, and calculated the average quantity of alcohol drunk by each guest based upon the butler’s report of which glasses had been used and which returned clean to the pantry.

  A third digression troubled Marie more; Mignon added, post scriptum, to a note rejoicing in Anthony’s first day rising from his bed, that his father had looked at her oddly and inquired how complete was her physique.

  Some automatons were built for sexual pleasure, Marie knew. She doubted a nursery maid would be so equipped. That Anthony’s father had even thought of such a thing disturbed her. That Mignon had mentioned it could be a plea for help.

  Assuming Mignon was not built for sexual relations, there were still other acts well within her capability. Her owner could demand them of her, and Mignon would have no choice but to obey.

  Marie’s thoughts darkened. The maid had a soul, and therefore feeling. She could be hurt, and that angered Marie.

  For a brief moment she thought of offering to buy Mignon, but she knew she could not afford the price, even if Mr. Ramsey was willing to sell. Mignon was top of the line, the latest in technological advancement. Only the wealthy could afford such a sophisticated machine. Marie was well-off, yes, and she had power in New Orleans, but her wealth was not so great as to allow her to buy a state-of-the-art automaton. Nor was her power enough to wrest by other means from a prosperous citizen what all his peers would consider his rightful property.

  So. What recourse for the unhappy slave? The first that naturally occurred was escape. A drastic measure, and she had no idea whether an automaton could even attempt it.

  Marie’s eyes narrowed as she sat in her parlour, sipping coffee and watching the rain slide down her windows, Mignon’s note in her lap. She would not turn away from this. She must find a way to help Mignon, for she was sure no one else would do so.

  Two days later she received a very brief note from Mignon, a mere two sentences:

  The planting is to begin soon and we are all to remove to Laurel Grove. Anthony has taken several walks this week, and the doctor has pronounced him well enough to travel.

  Marie frowned. Laurel Grove was a plantation, not far from the city, if she recalled aright. She had a feeling she would need to know more of it.

  She had a friend, Mr. Billings, who worked at the city’s newspaper. A glance at the mantel clock told her that it was not too late to visit that afternoon, if she left promptly. It was raining again, dreary for walking, but she cared little for that. Winter in New Orleans meant rain.

  She finished her coffee and arose, pausing by the glass tank where Zombi lay drowsing after swallowing a mouse two days earlier. The lump was still visible, a swollen place in the snake’s middle. Marie had not given that mouse a name, but the next might well be Mr. Anthony Ramsey, the first.

  The dim glow of a gas lamp burned above the tank, keeping it warm against the lingering chill of winter and glinting with a soft, golden light off of Zombi’s scales. Marie blew a kiss to the snake, then fetched her cloak and went out.

  The rain was a mere drizzle. Still it was enough to keep most people off the streets. Marie held her large umbrella over herself, watching every doorway and alley she passed. Such gloomy weather sometimes brought out the worst in the city, the cowards who preyed upon the weak.

  By the time she reached the offices of the Picayune, the rain had grown heavier and a rumbling of thunder growled over the city’s rooftops. She sheltered as best she could and walked westward, into the teeth of the storm. The rain rattled against her umbrella, and had dampened her skirts up to her knees by the time she entered the Picayune’s cramped and cluttered office.

  Mr. Billings was at his desk, which was piled high with books, journals, and sheaves of handwritten notes. The journalist was in his twenties, white with just a hint of cacao, suggesting the presence of a negro somewhere in his ancestry. He greeted Marie with a grin.

  “You must have something good if you are out in this weather.”

  “Au contraire, I hope you have something good for me.”

  He quirked a dark eyebrow and invited her with a gesture to sit in the chair opposite his desk. “What do you want to know?”

  “I wish to know about Laurel Grove.”

  “That’s the Ramsey plantation. The owner has just invested a small fortune in re-equipping the sugar house.”

  “Indeed? Is it very far from town?”

  “Not far at all. Within a day’s drive. Why does it interest you?”

  “I may wish to visit there. I recently had occasion to visit their town house when the son was ill, and met his nursemaid, who is an automaton.”

  Mr. Billings’s eyes widened. “Those house servants are expensive, I believe.”

  “Very. Could you perhaps acquire directions to the plantation for me?”

  Mr. Billings declared he would be honoured. Marie chatted with him a little longer, then took her leave.

  The rain had ceased. She walked slowly home, Marie thinking over what she had learned.

  A visit to Laurel Grove seemed more and more desirable. She would prefer to have some excuse, but if none else offered, the wish to be free of the city, and to see her friend Adele, would have to serve.

  The next morning she sent a note to Mignon, expressing concern that Anthony might be subjected to a journey before he was fully well. The reply came within an hour: Mignon agreed with her, but the trip was planned and would not be put off for anything short of a relapse. They were to depart on Monday. That riding in a coach for a day might bring about a relapse seemed not to concern the boy’s parents.

  Marie’s frown deepened as she read Mignon’s closing paragraph: “Mr. Ramsey has begun to require my company now and then, when Mrs. Ramsey is from home. I wish he would not take me away from Anthony, who still needs close attention.”

  She could not tell from the letter whether Mignon was in distress, but she suspected so, or the maid would not have mentioned it at all. She could only guess what Ramsey was demanding of Mignon.

  She rose and paced her parlour, angered by the situation. She had realized long ago that she could not fight slavery. Instead, she had resolved to help one slave at a time, as best she could.

  Sometimes she merely gave support and advice, or charms to ease their minds, or to lend them protection or strength. Many of the slaves in the city were fairly content. Some saved money to buy their freedom; easier to do in New Orleans than elsewhere. Marie bought the little trinkets they made or the vegetables they grew to sell, gave money outright to some, took collections for others. Small victories.

  Mignon’s trouble was different. She was a slave, more completely so than any creature of flesh, for she had no chance of buying her freedom.

  On Sunday Marie went to Congo Square, where folk gathered after church to greet their neighbours and exchange news of the week. Years ago she had led weekly dances in the square—demonstration dances, meant to gain the goodwill of the police, whom she invited—but the city had outlawed them during one of the voudon scares. A fear of witchcraft ran through the privileged classes, resulting in repeated bans and a few actual arrests. Marie knew that the Americans’ true fear was of the negroes gaining any kind of power.

  After church, it was her custom to stroll through the square and visit with neighbours. On this Sunday she had brought five of her children with her, who dispersed at once to find their friends. The youngest uttered squeals of glee as they were absorbed into games.

  As usual, Marie was quickly surrounded by people eager for her blessing or her advice. She answered them patiently, and slowly worked her way across the square to where Adele stood beside a tall pyracantha hedge. Marie greeted her, and after an exchange of pleasantries inqui
red about Mignon.

  “She has sent me good report of Anthony,” Marie added, “though I fear it is too soon to move him.”

  Adele shrugged. “The doctor said the same. Mrs. Ramsey was willing to leave him in town, but Mr. Ramsey will not be parted from him.”

  Marie pressed her lips together, thinking it was Mignon from whom he did not wish to part. She watched Adele’s face, but if the woman knew of her employer’s relations with Mignon, she hid it well.

  “Your household will miss the Easter celebrations,” Marie remarked.

  “It cannot be helped. We will do something at Laurel Grove. The field hands will dance, if they are given leisure for it.”

  “Mr. Ramsey permits it?”

  “Yes. His overseer has persuaded him the dancing improves morale.”

  “How wonderful. I have missed our dances.”

  “Come to Laurel Grove, then.”

  Marie smiled as if she thought the notion mildly pleasant. “An interesting idea.”

  Adele’s eyes lit with hope. “Would you perhaps be willing to lead the dances? And a ceremony perhaps? I am sure the slaves would pay you however they could.”

  Marie waved a hand. “The pleasure of the dance would be enough. It is the journey that concerns me.”

  “It is not difficult, merely tedious. I would give you a room in the servants wing, next to my own. There is plenty of room.”

  Marie concealed the delight this offer gave her. “I will consider it. If I come, though, you should perhaps call me Madame Paris before your employers.”

  She took two tiny bundles from her pocket, one of red cloth and one of white. “I have made a gris-gris for the boy, and one for the maid. You will deliver them?”

  Adele hesitated. “Anthony will not understand.”

  Marie held up the red gris-gris. “Place it beneath his mattress, and instruct Mignon to keep hers in her pocket.”

  Adele glanced up at her, looking sceptical, perhaps at the thought of giving a charm to a machine, but she nodded. “Very well, madame. Thank you.”

  They kissed and parted, each strolling on to meet others. Folk who had gathered, waiting at a respectful distance while they talked, again crowded around Marie. She spent half an hour with them, then rounded up her children and headed home.

  “Maman,” said little Louis, clinging to her hand, his stocky legs pacing double-time to keep up with her, “Pere Dominique scolded me for praying to Chango.”

  “You must say St. Jerome in church, cher.”

  “I forgot. Maman, why do people talk of zombis working on the docks?”

  She glanced at him. “They do not mean real zombis. They are speaking of machines.”

  “They sound afraid of them.”

  And well they might be, if the machines took the place of paid workers. Marie frowned.

  One at a time. She could not help everyone.

  Three days later a note arrived from Mr. Billings. He had not only learned the way to Laurel Grove, he had convinced his paper to provide him with a carriage for a journey there, on the promise of an article about the state-of-the-art equipment Mr. Ramsey had installed in his sugar house. Marie skimmed a paragraph of raptures about vacuum pans and steam-driven rollers, then smiled at Mr. Billings’s sudden formality in extending an invitation to her to accompany him thither at her earliest convenience.

  Perfection. The journey arranged, at no expense to herself. Congenial company, and with Adele’s help, accommodations at Laurel Grove for both herself and her friend. When plans fell together with such ease, it was generally a sign that the Orisha approved.

  The weather broke at last, and the sun shone with a hint of the coming spring warmth on the morning of Marie’s departure. Mr. Billings arrived in a shabby but serviceable carriage, and took only mild exception to the inclusion of Zombi’s tank in Marie’s baggage.

  Bidding farewell to her family, Marie climbed into the carriage. Mr. Billings took up the reins and coaxed the horse to trot along St. Ann’s Street to the river road.

  The journey passed easily. Marie had brought a basket of food on which they lunched in the early afternoon beneath the sprawling limbs of a live oak. By the time the carriage turned down the tree-lined alley to Laurel Grove, afternoon was beginning to wane, sunlight slanting between the trees, tinged with gold.

  Marie gazed past the imposing two-story house with its great white columns to the lesser buildings beyond: a kitchen, a smaller house that was likely the servants’ quarters, a barn, a stable, and a massive brick structure that must be the sugar house. Beyond these a row of cabins stretched into the distance, surrounded by stubbled cane fields.

  The alley was broad and well-maintained, surfaced in crushed shell that hissed beneath the carriage wheels. The trees to either side were laurels. Marie noted the crisp pungency of bay as they drove along, and wondered if Mr. Ramsey bothered to harvest that secondary crop, which by itself might turn a tidy profit.

  Mr. Billings drove round to the rear entrance, where Adele hastened across the gallery to meet the carriage. Marie stepped down into her embrace.

  “Forgive my coming unannounced.”

  “Oh, no! I am delighted to see you, madame.”

  “I hope you can also accommodate my friend, Mr. Billings. Mr. Billings, this is Mrs. Carter of whom I told you.”

  He bowed over the hand she gave him. “Enchanté, madame. Have you room for one more guest?”

  “Of course.” Adele turned to an elderly slave in a footman’s attire. “Beauregard, Mrs. Paris and Mr. Billings each require a room. Mrs. Paris may have Colette’s old room. It is just down the hall from mine,” she added, turning to Marie.

  A swarm of servants appeared, enough that Marie suspected her sobriquet of Mrs. Paris—entirely accurate, though poor Jacques had been gone these many years—had deceived no one. The slaves who whisked their baggage away looked at her with mute excitement in their eyes.

  Their rooms were on the second floor of the servants’ wing, the separate building that Marie had noted earlier. Zombi’s tank, draped with a shawl so that neither snake nor servants might be terrified, was tenderly carried up by two bondsmen, whom Marie followed with a watchful eye. She was settled in her room in time to change her travel attire before supper, which took place in the servants’ hall after the family had supped.

  Laurel Grove was a large establishment, and full twenty sat down at the household servants’ table. Among them was a tall, lean white man whose brow was fixed in a permanent frown of concentration, who entered the room deep in conversation with Mr. Billings. They paused only long enough for Mr. Billings to introduce Mr. Wrackerby to Marie, then delved at once back into a world of valves and burners.

  Marie turned to Adele. “I do not see Mignon. I know she does not need to eat, but what does she do at this hour? Is she with Anthony?”

  Adele shook her head. “Mr. Ramsey takes a glass of brandy in his library after supper, and of late Mignon waits upon him.”

  Marie watched her face. “Is there a problem there?”

  Adele hesitated, staring at her dinner plate for a moment. “I hope not,” she said softly.

  “Anthony must not be neglected.”

  “He is not, I assure you.”

  “But Mignon is not tending him. Why?”

  Adele did not answer, merely frowned. Marie sipped her wine, allowing her friend a moment for composure, then set down her glass.

  “I would like to speak to Mignon. Perhaps by the time we are finished with dinner she will be free?”

  Adele glanced up sharply. “There is nothing I can do,” she whispered.

  So Adele did know. And knew it was wrong. And that there was no way to prevent what was happening to Mignon.

  Marie asked a question about Laurel Grove, turning the conversation to more comfortable matters. When a pause fell in Mr. Billings’s discourse with Mr. Wrackerby, Marie smiled at her friend.

  “I trust you are finding plenty of substance for your article.”

/>   “Oh, indeed! I had no idea Mr. Ramsey had replaced his entire system. Everything in the sugar house is brand new, state-of-the-art.”

  “Newer than that,” said Mr. Wrackerby. “Rillieux’s system is unproven. It is really a prototype.”

  “Is that not a great risk for Mr. Ramsey to take?” Marie asked. “What if it fails?”

  “We’ve kept all the old equipment, madame. It is all in the barn. If the new system fails, it would take only a day or two to bring the old back into production. But it will not fail.”

  He talked on, waxing enthusiastic about the genius of Rillieux, whom Marie deduced was the inventor of the double vacuum pan over which he and her friend were so excited. She concluded that Mr. Wrackerby was a positive, forward-looking man, despite his beetled brow.

  When the dinner was over, Mr. Wrackerby took Mr. Billings away again to the sugar house, leaving Marie at liberty to wander. She donned her bonnet, slipped a pair of scissors into her basket and a candle and lucifers into her pocket, and by looking in at the kitchen acquired the escort of one of the chambermaids.

  The sky was ruddy in the west, all that remained of a sullen sunset. Clouds had come in again, hiding any hope of stars. The evening was mild.

  The chambermaid, a shy girl who had been born on the estate, knew nothing of the history of the laurels, but was able to tell Marie that they had not been harvested in her memory. She stood nervously by while Marie filled her basket with leaves.

  “Now,” Marie said, stepping back from the tree with a gesture and silent prayer of thanks, “show me to Mignon’s room, if you please.”

  “Mignon is a zombi,” the girl said in a hesitant voice.

  “Not a zombi, a machine. She must still have some place where she keeps her attire, yes?”

  The girl nodded, blinking unhappily, and led Marie back toward the servants’ wing. Mignon’s room was on the ground floor, at the end of the hall which terminated in a door to the outside. Marie noted this, thinking it would be easy for someone to enter that door and visit Mignon unnoticed by the other servants. She was therefore unsurprised to find in Mignon’s tiny apartment, along with the small chest she recognized from Mignon’s room in the Ramseys’ town house, a comfortable-looking feather bed.