Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Then, too, a conception of Robert Tourneau, built partly from my mother’s words, partly from my own dreams, began at this time to take fire in my imagination. I could see my uncle as a handsome and compelling figure—a truly romantic Creole. There would be strength and power in this man—qualities which had gone out of my life with the crippling of my father. My uncle would be able to solve our problems and open for me such doors as I had never stepped through before.

  Now the days which carried me toward New Orleans brought with them a sense of destiny and I looked forward eagerly to the first meeting with my uncle.

  TWO

  Our train to New Orleans was delayed several times along the way and we arrived late in the evening. During the trip my mother grew tense with anxiety, unlike her usual gay and confident self. Her going home seemed far from joyful. Even her appearance was neglected.

  When we reached the station, she descended from the car to look for help, all wilted wine-red plumes, her frock crushed and untidy. I in my drab brown foulard, which I’d felt was more suitable to the journey, stayed beside my father. Before Mama returned, a young man entered our car. The moment he saw my father stretched upon his berth, he approached and bowed to Papa and me.

  “Mademoiselle Cameron? Monsieur Cameron? I am Courtney Law and I work for Monsieur Tourneau. I am here to place myself at your service.”

  That was the first time I heard the name of Law. Since then it has seemed to me that a signal should have chimed through my being, warning me that something of great consequence to my life had begun at the very mention of that name.

  But Courtney’s identity meant nothing to me that night and my meeting with the man Justin still lay in the future.

  Mama returned, not having found her brother in the station, and Courtney presented himself to her. Uncle Robert, it seemed, had come to meet us earlier, but when it was learned that the train would be very late, he had asked his young clerk to await our arrival.

  Courtney Law was as handsome a young man as I had ever seen, with the black hair and flashing dark eyes of the Creole, for all that his name was hardly French. Mama was relieved to have help, but for once she was surprisingly indifferent to an attractive man. All her concern seemed to rest upon my father, and her face was so drawn with anxiety that she seemed far older than she was.

  Mr. Law assured us that he had brought help, and then he turned to me once more. I was surprised to see his eyes light up with interest as they met mine. He would return at once, he said, and hurried away. Mama fluttered anxiously over my father and said she hoped the young man would be quick. We had endured enough on this journey.

  In a few minutes he was back with Jasper, the Tourneau coachman, a dark-skinned Negro who wore his boots, his long-tailed coat and his tall hat with a flamboyant air. He and the yard boy, who had come to assist him, carried Papa to the carriage, with Courtney Law giving orders and supervising the move. Quite evidently he expected Mama and me to be helpless about such matters.

  In the carriage Papa was propped against pillows, his useless legs stretched out on one of the small drop seats in front. Mama sat beside him and I don’t know whether she clung to him for her own comfort or for his. My father was white-faced and I feared that his pain was great, though he let no sound escape his lips. I sat next to my mother, with Mr. Law opposite me on a second drop seat.

  The night was warm, but dark and windy, with gray clouds racing across a half-moon. This was New Orleans at last, but it was I, not my mother, who felt excitement and interest in all the sights and sounds about us. I doubt if Mama let her glance stray twice outside the carriage.

  Courtney Law had the quick perception to see that my mother wanted only to be quiet and care for my father, so he addressed himself to me as the carriage rolled over cobblestones. In the shifting light cast by street lamps I could study his face anew and I wondered about him. How did a man with such a name come to have the sensitive face of a French poet? There was a blood mixture, of course, with the Creole dominating. Certainly his manners were more polished than any I had ever seen in a man, and his speech was attractive, with the touch of a French accent to the words.

  He identified points of interest we passed and I sensed his pride in this city. When we reached the Vieux Carré I was aware of narrow streets, straight as lines on cross-ruled paper. The moon had vanished and the houses stretched dark between street lamps. If they noted our echoing passage at all, they looked at us warily from behind dark shutters, withdrawn and secret, as if they judged us strangers. There was an odor I did not like and I knew it came from the deep open gutters that lined each street.

  The carriage stopped at last before an iron gate that guarded an arched stone passageway. The allée was enclosed, like a tunnel through the lower level of the house. Courtney Law sprang out of the carriage and hurried to the great cast-iron knocker beside the gate. Then he returned to help Mama and me from the carriage.

  In the dim illumination cast by lanterns which hung from the vaulted ceiling of the passageway, I could see the woman who came to open the gate in response to the clamor of the knocker. She was a tall, light-skinned Negro woman in a guinea-blue dress, with a blue tignon tied about her head. She carried herself with an air of pride in which there was nothing servile.

  “Delphine!” Mama cried. “You are still here?”

  “Yes, Mam’zelle Loulou,” the woman said, “this is my home.” Her words bore a faint reproach, as if to chide my mother for her surprise.

  She gave a sharp order to Jasper, who in turn commanded the yard boy, Henri. My father was lifted from the carriage and carried into the passageway. We followed and the gate clanged shut behind us, locked by Delphine.

  Courtney Law walked beside me, shaking his head in sorrow over my father’s condition. “He will receive the best of care in this house, mam’zelle,” he said. “Do not concern yourself. M’sieu Robert does nothing in a small way.”

  I caught the ring of admiration and respect in his voice as he spoke of my uncle and my sense of anticipation increased.

  Jasper and Henri carried my father with some difficulty in the curving, enclosed flight of stairs that rose from the end of the passageway. Mama followed anxiously after, her steps slow and her face pale and strained. I was concerned lest my father be hurt, but big Jasper was very strong and they carried him gently.

  From the gallery above I could hear Aunt Natalie’s pleasant voice greeting my mother, speaking warmly to Papa, directing the way. When I reached the top of the first flight she gave my hands a squeeze of welcome and kissed me on the cheek. I had a quick impression of a plump little woman in black, with a round face that made up in amiability what it lacked in beauty. Then she waved us toward the parlor with an apology and asked us to be comfortable while Papa was settled in his room.

  Mama spoke quickly and I was again aware of her uneasiness and anxiety. “No—if you please. I must go with my husband. Skye, you will stay to meet my brother and make my apologies, please.” She moved her hands in a vague gesture and hurried after Papa. I knew she was only too glad to postpone her meeting with Uncle Robert and I felt a little scornful for her foolish dread.

  Aunt Natalie let her go and spoke to Courtney. “Please attend this young lady,” she said. “And perhaps you will inform my husband that our guests have arrived.”

  Courtney seemed gallantly pleased with his assignment as he led me toward the parlor.

  The second floor had a wide hallway which ran from courtyard to street, with two rooms opening off either side. I was to learn that the Tourneau house was somewhat unusual in its construction. Most Creole homes had outside hallways that were not a real part of the living quarters. Mr. Law indicated a room on the right, across the hall from what was plainly the dining room.

  “Please make yourself comfortable, mam’zelle,” he said. “M’sieu Robert had much work to do this evening. I will call him from his downstairs office.”

  He went off and I looked eagerly about. This room was clearl
y the lived-in section of a long double parlor. Folding doors, now ajar, separated it from the more formal, less frequently used first parlor. After the cramped quarters of the train, it was good to stand up and move about. I stepped to the double doors and looked in to see what a Creole first parlor was like. Each room had its own small fireplace and marble mantel, its individual furniture, but the first parlor was far more elaborately and luxuriously furnished than the second. Its rosewood sofa was covered in handsome blue brocade and there were little gilded chairs, surely from France. A huge, gilt-framed mirror over the mantel reflected a crystal chandelier, and lovely figurines in bronze and ivory stood on the shelves of the corner whatnot.

  Oddly enough, no sumptuous draperies hung beside the tall windows that ran across the street end of the room, and instead of the beautiful rugs I should have expected, reed matting had been laid upon the floors.

  From where I stood I could glimpse the door of a darkened room directly across the hall from this one. Wedges of moonlight cutting through shutters showed me the welcome sight of bookcases crowded with volumes. That was the library. Certainly a room I must look into at the first opportunity. But now I retreated to a sofa in the other parlor and seated myself to wait.

  Before long I heard footsteps in the hallway and looked up eagerly. Courtney stood back to allow my uncle to precede him into the room and I saw Robert Tourneau for the first time.

  He stood motionless in the doorway for just a moment and I had the swift impression of a dark-visaged man with a tuft of black beard on his chin. He was tall, erect, distinguished, and there was somehow an aura of darkness about him, due perhaps to his dark suit and hair and eyes. Then he smiled and came toward me and the somber impression vanished. He had the finely chiseled nose of an aristocrat and his eyes, deep-set beneath level brows, seemed to brighten at the sight of me. He was fully as handsome and impressive a man as I had expected.

  I gave him my hand and he bowed over it gracefully, drew me from my chair and looked at me. “So this is Skye,” he said and I heard that low-toned melodious voice for the first time.

  Suddenly I was conscious of my shabby brown foulard and my brown hat that did not sufficiently hide red hair that would undoubtedly seem strange and out of place in New Orleans. But if there was any criticism in my uncle’s look, he did not reveal it.

  I explained quickly that Mama had gone to see my father settled and would join us shortly.

  “Good,” he said. “You must both be weary from your trip and will be anxious to retire.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “I’ve wanted so much to see your New Orleans—to see the Vieux Carré. And to meet my—my family.”

  Clearly he was pleased. “And now that you’ve had a glimpse of the Quarter?”

  “I’m going to like it,” I said confidently.

  “You’ll do more than like it,” Courtney put in and I glanced at him in surprise. So compelling was the presence of my uncle that I had forgotten the young man was still there. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I may be permitted to show you something of it, Mam’zelle Skye?”

  My uncle nodded approvingly before I could answer. “An excellent idea. It is time this young woman came home to her own. It is your New Orleans as well, my dear.”

  I found myself drawn to him, further discounting my mother’s dubious warnings. So quickly had he forgiven what he must regard as my foreign blood, and accepted me as belonging to New Orleans. He turned to the young man beside him with a courteous bow and thanked him for his assistance that evening. Courtney murmured that he must be on his way. He bade us both good evening, gave me another look in which interest had plainly kindled and went away, leaving me surprised and a little confused. I could only presume that this was the typical manner of the southern gentleman, for whom I had heard great praise from my mother.

  Aunt Natalie appeared in the door from the courtyard gallery, but Mama was not with her. She took my hands again and welcomed me. Her movements were serene, but I noted that she gave Robert a quick look that seemed to have something of apology in it. It was evident that she was considerably younger than her husband. He had not married her as a young man.

  “Your sister Louise is most charming,” she told him. “But the trip has tired her. She hopes you will forgive her for retiring at once.”

  Uncle Robert raised dark eyebrows. “A disappointment. I’ve not seen my sister for many years.”

  “She was not feeling well toward the end of the trip,” I put in hastily, not wanting my uncle to suspect any discourtesy to him behind my mother’s actions. After all, he was being more than generous to us and it did seem that Mama might have waited long enough to say good evening and thank him. “We are very grateful to you,” I went on. “My mother will want to tell you herself tomorrow.”

  His small neat beard reminded me of a picture my mother had once shown me of General Beauregard, a Creole whom she greatly admired. My uncle had a habit of stroking his beard when he was faintly amused, and his fingers touched it now. He merely bowed in response to my words, and I had the feeling that he saw through my effort to dissemble about my mother. No one, I suspected, would ever fool Uncle Robert for long, and I respected him for his keen perception.

  But now Aunt Natalie was taking me in hand. “Come, my child. I know you must be weary. Your uncle will excuse you, I’m sure. Now that your mama and papa are settled, I will show you to your room. The hour is late—you must get your rest.”

  Uncle Robert took my hand again for a moment and his dark gaze held my own compellingly. “I think you will be happy here, my dear,” he told me, and I began to feel that with my uncle’s help happiness would indeed once more be possible. Not in any way had this first meeting with him disappointed me. Most problems, I felt, would slip away when Uncle Robert took them in hand. He was a man to inspire confidence.

  I thanked him and said good night. Aunt Natalie led the way onto the rear gallery. The house reached its arms about the courtyard on three sides, three stories high, with a separate, lower building rising at the back. This, I knew, was the pattern of most houses in the Quarter, built not by the French, but by the Spanish after most of the French houses had burned down. Once the rear buildings had undoubtedly been slave quarters.

  Aunt Natalie motioned to the left of the court. “Our small daughter Caroline has her room in that wing, and once also the little son whom we lost. Ah, how Caro wept tonight that she could not remain up until you came. Caro has only eight years, and is sometimes thoughtless, as is the way of the young. Our infant Tina is of course in the nursery upstairs, close to me. This way, if you please.”

  We moved along the gallery to the right, our way lighted by a lamp in the courtyard below and by radiance from windows opening upon the gallery. My mother and father had been given adjoining rooms in this gallery wing, and my own room was at the very end. Its door cut across the gallery and I went up two steps into it, pausing with a sense of delight. If I could not have mountains on my horizon, it was at least something to have so lovely a corner room overlooking a New Orleans courtyard.

  “I hope you will be comfortable, my dear,” said Aunt Natalie. “Delphine will bring you hot water in a moment. That bed should make anyone sleep. Seignouret made them very large, you know. Be careful to tuck in the mosquito barre all around, once you are in bed. Good dreams to you.”

  She closed the door and left me alone. I looked about with interest and increasing satisfaction. The bed’s two rear posters reached clear to a curved half-tester that extended above it, to which the mosquito barre was attached. The posts at the foot of the bed were not so tall and each ended in a carved knob. It was a grand bed, noble in its proportions. A footstool with two steps would enable me to get easily onto that high mattress.

  There was the usual marble-topped washstand with a china bowl painted in a moss-green design. The charming dressing table also had a marble top. But of equal importance with the bed was a huge armoire, far larger than any wardrobe I had ever seen. I thought in
apology of the meager and undistinguished costumes I would hang within its cavernous depths. Such a piece of furniture seemed to indicate the lavish extent of the Creole wardrobe.

  I took off my hat and laid it on a shelf of the armoire. Then I drew from my hair the heavy bone pins that pressed into my scalp and in relief shook the long coil free from its knot. I loved the feel of it over my hands, but I turned my back on all mirrors so that I need see no more of its color than I had to. The strands felt silky and alive to my touch—it might have been beautiful hair had it been blue-black like my mother’s or even a warm brown color like Papa’s.

  When Delphine tapped on my door, I tried to smooth my hair back before she entered. I had forgotten that she was to bring me hot water. She carried a big china pitcher across to the washstand with the air of a queen bearing jewels, and barely gave me a glance in passing. Her carriage was as fine as that of any Creole lady and while she must have been in her fifties, she still bore evidence of the beauty which had been hers as a girl. Her skin was no darker than that of any woman who had been long in the sun. A warm, rich color, with a tint of dark rose at the cheekbones.

  “Is there anything you wish, mam’zelle?” she asked, placing fluffy, scented towels over the rail of the stand.

  My interest in Delphine was growing. Papa had always been against slavery and I had grown up with a sympathy for the Negro cause. This woman must be the daughter of slaves, must have been born into slavery herself. Yet she spoke like no colored woman I had known in the North. Jasper’s accent was, I imagined, more typical of the southern Negro. The yard boy had chattered a strange patois I could not understand. But Delphine spoke correct English with an accent as French as that of Natalie Tourneau.

  “Nothing, thank you,” I said. Then, as she moved toward the door, I added, “Tell me, Delphine—where are you from?”

  She gave me a clear, direct look. “New Orleans is the city of my birth, mam’zelle,” she said and went quickly from the room.