Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She shook her head sadly. “He cares little whether I come or go, Skye. And I must have some gaiety in my life—I can’t live without it.” Already she had opened her armoire and was searching through the frocks that hung there. “You will love the Garden District,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Is that where the Americans settled when they came to New Orleans?” I asked.

  “That’s right. The Creoles wouldn’t mix with them in the beginning. So the newcomers took over the Faubourg Ste. Marie, uptown from Canal Street. They built their own city, with big houses and beautiful gardens. Though it’s a strange thing, Skye—while the Americans were strong and forceful, and scornful of the Creole’s frivolity, yet in the end those who stayed took up the Creole way of life. Even today, New Orleans is more a Creole city than it is American.”

  She had found a cool, ruffly white dress that contrasted with her dark beauty and she took it out of the armoire and laid it upon the bed. “This will do nicely for so warm a day. And I’ll wear the little green hat, Skye. I’ve gone nowhere yet where I could wear it. Do dress yourself up attractively, chérie.”

  The moment I learned she meant to wear the green hat, something contrary possessed me. I knew exactly how lovely she would look and I suspected that this time she might put herself out to charm Courtney as she had not done before. I knew very well that I couldn’t compete with her in appearance, and I didn’t want to. I would be myself and we would see which one Courtney preferred. I wanted no man who could judge only by exterior furbelows.

  So, when the time came, I put on my old brown dress defiantly and found a brown straw hat with a wide brim that almost hid my hair—a hat I had been ready to discard. My back was turned to my mirror as I finished dressing, for I did not want to see my reflection. I felt a little angry with myself as I pinned on my hat. Angry because I knew perfectly well that I was letting a small bit of green fluff spoil my afternoon. Why should I care what my mother wore? I winced as I pricked my scalp with the hatpin. I had been about to banish that green hat from my life and there was no point in feeling upset because Mama meant, innocently enough, to wear it. Not for a moment did she dream of how I had felt for a little while about the hat. Nor did I intend to tell her.

  She shook her head, mother-fashion, when she saw me. “Oh, not that brown, Skye! You could at least wear the white muslin.”

  “It’s rumpled,” I told her firmly. It was as if, having started off on the wrong foot, I had to keep going in this chosen direction.

  Mama looked glowingly lovely and the hat might well have been made to flatter her particular beauty. I saw Courtney’s quick look of astonishment when he saw her, and though he was as attentive to me as before on the drive out to the Garden District, I was well aware of the impression she had made. Nor did she settle back in the carriage and behave in a way that was at all matronly. All the little tricks of flirtation that I knew so well were brought into play: the tilting of her parasol, the ruffling of her little fan. But Courtney, to my surprise, addressed himself to me and paid her no more than courteous attention.

  It was a pleasant drive. The horses turned off the wide avenue we had followed and our carriage moved into a section of handsome homes and spacious gardens. Everywhere grew the stately royal palms, shaggy-headed and lofty. Glossy-leaved magnolias and mysterious live oaks abounded and there were sweet olive and sour orange trees, crepe myrtles, hedges of Creole box. Creeping over everything was the ubiquitous rosa montana. Courtney set himself to identifying many of the trees and plants for me and I could not help but be pleased by his continued attention.

  The houses were gracious indeed, some with the graceful white columns of the Greek revival which had swept the South before the war, many with a tracery of iron lacework threading the balconies in Creole fashion, and with intricate iron fences around the property.

  The Law house was painted white, with white pillars and marble steps, a wide gallery above and below. Over the great door was a handsome fanlight. Whatever the American Harry Law had been, he had built well, with an eye for handsome living in his New Orleans home. I felt sorry to think that he had been forced to spend his life in probable discomfort on western frontiers, instead of in this lovely home he had built for himself and his wife. Why, I wondered, had he not returned after the war, when old scandals might have died down?

  A Negro maid invited us into a wide hall, carpeted in faded yellow roses, and said we were to come right upstairs.

  “I hoped Maman would come down today,” Courtney apologized. “Since my brother’s coming, she has chosen to avoid him as much as possible by shutting herself up in her own rooms. But there was no need today.”

  We followed the maid up the stairway, past a great gilded sunburst of a clock on the wall, and around the curve of wedged steps to the second floor.

  Aurore Law, clad completely in black, and lying upon a chaise longue, extended both hands to us in greeting. She was a pale woman, nervous and thin, though obviously she had once been pretty. Widow’s black did not become her and she did not look at all well. Nevertheless, I recognized at once that she had been the original of the youthful portrait in Uncle Robert’s study. How odd, I thought again, that he had kept that picture of a young girl who had jilted him on the wall where he would see it every day. But how generous he had been to stand by her in her need and behave as a relative, rather than a rejected suitor, even to the point of keeping her husband out of prison. I was curious to know more of that story.

  Mama went at once to take her hands and kiss her on either cheek, and Aurore looked at her wistfully. “You have changed so little, Louise, chérie. But then, robust good health was always yours. I have been delicate all my life. So this is Skye—the little one who was born in the country of the Yankees.” And she gave me her frail, dry hand.

  “It would do you good, Maman,” Courtney said, “if you would come downstairs when Justin is out of the house.”

  She sighed. “It becomes too great an effort. And how is Robert, Louise? And your poor husband?”

  As Mama murmured politely, I had a chance to look about this upstairs bedroom. Shutters were closed against the brilliant warmth outside and the room was dim and cool. Again there was an elaborate bed and by now I was beginning to recognize the work of famous Creole cabinetmakers. This bed bore the touch of Prudent Mallard—graceful carving, an armoire so large it occupied most of one wall, and a duchesse dressing table of rosewood, marble-topped, bearing an imposing array of pillboxes, philters and jars.

  Courtney brought small quilted chairs for us and the maid scurried off for the inevitable coffee. Aurore Law settled down to an enjoyable hour of talking about her miseries, both physical and emotional. It was, I gathered, mainly the presence of Justin in the house that was causing both.

  Mama, perhaps allying herself against Uncle Robert, began to defend Justin.

  “After all,” she told Aurore reasonably, “he was only a small boy at the time he went away. You can hardly hold such long-ago matters against him.”

  “He was raised by his father,” Aurore said, as if that were explanation enough. “His father left New Orleans in disgrace. He even tried to force me to go with him. Pleaded with me, threatened to take my son, in order to make me come!”

  So it had not been entirely desertion as I had thought. Harry Law had at least wanted his wife and sons to go with him when he fled. But Courtney took another view.

  “That was unreasonable. Of course you could not leave your home and go into exile.”

  “But if he abducted the boy, then it was not the child’s fault,” Mama insisted, frowning prettily.

  Aurore raised a haggard face and stared at her. “Justin went by choice. He always belonged more to his father than he did to me. He fought me, struck out at me when I tried to hold him.”

  “But a child!” my mother repeated. “Come, Aurore, you must not let his presence devastate you so. This is his home—surely he has a right to return to it.”

  Aurore con
tinued as if she had not heard. “He is a gambler like his father, wasteful of money. Scarcely a picayune did Harry Law leave me when he fled New Orleans. If it had not been for the kindness of Robert Tourneau in supplementing my small income, we might have perished.”

  Our tray of coffee arrived just then, interrupting what had turned into a pointless argument, and my mother set herself to charming Courtney. She was all pert gestures and moues, all melting looks that both promised and withheld. Yet it seemed to me that Courtney was made uneasy by her little play and was not altogether entranced. I could not help a small feeling of gratification. The time must eventually come when Mama would realize that she was no longer a bewitching young girl.

  Courtney drew me into the talk by asking me how I liked New Orleans, now that I had been here a little while. We chatted for a suitable length of time over our coffee, leaving my mother to gossip with Tante Aurore. When we rose to go, Aurore suggested that I first be shown the house.

  “At one time, chérie, it was a show place,” she told me. “Of course many of the rooms are closed now, since my son and I live modestly. But I am sure you will enjoy seeing it. If you please, Courtney—”

  Courtney rose obligingly. “I shall be glad to show Skye the house, Maman.” He turned to my mother courteously, though I thought with no special emphasis. “You have seen the place, I know, but if you care to come, madame—?”

  “Naturally I shall come,” said Mama quickly.

  We bade Tante Aurore good-by and Courtney led us through the upper floor, opening doors to darkened rooms, showing us some of the treasures with which his father had furnished the house.

  “Had it not been for M’sieu Robert,” he told us, “my mother must have sold many of these things.”

  This viewing of the house had been suggested for my benefit, but it was my mother who most exclaimed and commented. She looked so youthful and appealing in the little green hat, and she moved with such grace that I did not see how Courtney could resist her. Yet he continued to be attentive to me and I knew this piqued my mother.

  When we went downstairs Courtney took us first to the library and I was entranced by the room. His father, Courtney said, had been a great reader and the shelves were stocked with hundreds of volumes. Here someone had opened a pair of shutters and a warm bar of sunlight cut through the gloom. The light fell upon a long library table with books and papers strewn upon it.

  “My brother has been working here,” Courtney said. “He has taken it for his office.”

  Mama shivered daintily. “A dull and gloomy place. I never liked this room. Do come along. I must see the wonderful double parlor again. Surely it’s the most exquisite in New Orleans!”

  But this room drew me and I did not wish to pull myself away. The long rows of books invited, tantalized. I wanted to run my hands along the bindings, pull the volumes out and dip into their pages. No library was a room to glance into and leave.

  Courtney had not followed my mother to the door. He hesitated, waiting for me. But I knew what I wanted to do.

  “Show her the parlor,” I said, smiling at him, “and whatever else she wants to see. Let me stay here for a little while.”

  “If you prefer,” Courtney said, but I think he too was puzzled by my desire to stay in this great dark room of books.

  Mama drew Courtney quickly away, but I did not mind their going. I ran to a second pair of shutters and flung them wide so that the gloom retreated still more before bright shafts of sunlight. This, I thought, was the room in which Justin Law liked to work, and I looked about me with interest.

  High bookshelves ran along one side and across the end. The fireplace was not tiny like those in the Vieux Carré, but wide and generous, with a mantel of fine black African marble. There were deep leather chairs that had no Creole look about them and had probably been chosen for this room by the American, Harry Law.

  I couldn’t help but look curiously at the long table where Justin’s papers lay. The books which strewed its surface were not all business tomes, though several concerned themselves with Mississippi shipping. There were novels as well. Two were by American authors whom I admired, Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne. There was The Moonstone by the English writer, Wilkie Collins—an exciting story which had run serially. And finally there was a volume by Sir Walter Scott—my favorite Ivanhoe. An interesting collection which seemed to indicate that the man they termed a barbarian liked to read.

  So engrossed was I in turning pages, glancing at flyleaves, that I did not hear a step, or know that anyone stood in the doorway until he spoke and I looked up to see Justin Law watching me.

  “Ah?” he said. “The lady of Gallatin Street! Good afternoon, Miss Cameron.”

  The sunlight touched his hair to gold as it had done that other time, and though he stood quietly watching me, there was a vigorous lift to his head, and I knew with my senses the vital quality of any movement he might make. My pulses began a thick pounding and I could not take my eyes from his face. I reminded myself that Uncle Robert had warned me against this man and I must not linger here in his company.

  I let the book I was holding drop from my hands and moved away from the table. But Justin blocked the door and I did not want to approach him.

  “I thought I might find you in the house if I returned unexpectedly,” he said, and there was laughter in his eyes. “I wanted to know if your hair was really as red as it seemed that morning on Gallatin Street.”

  He came toward me with his quick, lithe stride and at his coming, I took a backward step that made him laugh out loud.

  “You’ve been hearing about me, haven’t you?” he said. “And you don’t know whether to run from the devil, or listen to his wiles. Whatever they’ve told you—it’s probably true. Perhaps you’d better run while there’s still time.”

  There was no help for it. I must walk past him to make my escape. I did not answer him, but moved with what I hoped was dignity to the door. He stepped out of my path and for a moment I thought he would let me go. But his eyes were dancing with the blue devils I had seen in them before, and he stopped me most ignominiously. He simply reached out and caught the wide brim of my hat. The pin that held it to my hair tugged at my scalp and I stopped indignantly.

  “Don’t run away, little brown wren,” he said. And with never an apology he plucked the long hatpin out of the straw and lifted the hat from my head. “Why didn’t you wear the one I sent you? I saw it in a milliner’s window and it was clearly your hat. It was a sample and not for sale, but I persuaded the woman to let me have it. And now I find you wearing an abomination like this!” With a scornful gesture he sent the brown hat sailing across the room to the library table.

  Never had I been so treated! I let him see the anger in my eyes at his insolence. For just an instant I told him, without speaking a word, how much I detested him, how low I held him in my estimation. But if I hoped to wilt him with my scorn, I might have known I would fail.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now you’re looking at me bright as a mockingbird. So why must you pretend that you’re a meek brown wren?”

  I closed my eyes and reminded myself that this man was a murderer, that his reputation was evil beyond my understanding and that I must leave this room at once. Then I opened my eyes and faced him again.

  “I am quite sure that all the things they say about you are true,” I told him coldly. “I wish to have nothing to do with you. If you will permit me, sir—”

  But still he blocked my path and now there was a scornful look in his eyes. “What a pity that you have so little courage. Once long ago there was a spectacular New Orleans lady whose hair was as red as yours. I wish I had known Micaela.”

  I remembered what Courtney had said about Micaela resembling me in some way.

  “The Baroness de Pontalba? What has she to do with me?”

  “Nothing at all. Her hair was a flaming red and she was never ashamed of it. She liked to display it with elaborate coiffures and put jewe
ls in it when she gave a ball. They say she used to ride about on a horse and shout orders to the workmen when the Pontalba buildings were being built. She must have made her own rules, and she was never without courage. But then, she was no stiff-necked Yankee girl who must find New Orleans downright disturbing.”

  I found that I was trembling with anger so that I could not speak, could not find words to answer him. And all the while he stood there, laughing at me. I felt only relief when Courtney and my mother appeared in the doorway. Courtney was plainly disconcerted at the sight of Justin.

  “I thought you were staying in the Vieux Carré for the weekend,” he said to his brother.

  Justin shrugged. “I chose to return.”

  Mama came into the room and the green hat was tilted saucily over her nose as she went toward Justin Law. I saw the lift of his eyebrows, caught the sardonic glance he flung me when he saw the hat, and I flushed to my very ears.

  “So this is the wicked brother everyone is chattering about?” Mama said. “You may introduce him to me, Courtney.”

  Courtney spoke stiffly. “Madame Cameron, may I present Monsieur Justin Law.”

  Mama held out her hand and gave Justin an entrancing look from beneath the slanted bit of green. Justin played up to her with a natural grace that surprised me. Such a courtly bowing over her hand as he managed, such admiration as he put into his look! Apparently he had not forgotten the Creole training he must have received as a small boy in this house.

  “An unexpected delight, madame,” he told her. “It is hard to believe that you are this young lady’s mother.”

  Mama twinkled at him and I saw that Courtney watched her in some disapproval.

  “What flattery!” Mama said. “You have not lost your Creole manners, m’sieu. From what I’ve heard I’d thought you would never fit into a New Orleans parlor!”

  Justin’s laughter rang through the room. “To prove the rumors wrong I’m planning to give a party here in this house and invite New Orleans to come—friend and enemy alike.”