Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  For a moment he stared his astonishment and then his mocking laughter rang through the room. “You mean you want me to finance your marriage to my brother?”

  “I mean I want you to help him, to save him.”

  “You intend to marry him without love, knowing he would make a fool of himself with your mother?”

  In the beginning I’d meant to tell him of Papa, to throw myself upon his mercy. But now I could not. I had the feeling that he would not lift a finger unless I convinced him of the strength of my intention.

  “Please believe in my affection for Courtney,” I said. “We both need your help.”

  He left the fireplace and came to stand before me. “I don’t believe in it. I don’t for one moment I believe that you’re in love with Courtney. If you want help, you can find it elsewhere!”

  This was the moment in which I knew that Justin Law could never be my friend, but only my enemy. I could expect nothing of him but violence and cruelty. I rose, not looking at him, feeling sickened and helpless.

  “Will you please tell Delphine I am ready to leave,” I said.

  He bowed and went away.

  Delphine and I drove home to the Vieux Carré in a heavy silence. We spoke only once when she asked me a question.

  “You will tell your maman what has occurred, mam’zelle?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I will tell my mother.” I knew that if I did not, she would.

  NINETEEN

  I told my mother that very evening after supper. She had a headache and lay listlessly upon her bed, but I felt little sympathy for her pain. I stood beside the bed and told her without glossing over the details that this afternoon Courtney Law had been embroiled in a quarrel with his brother because of her. That he had slapped his brother for the insulting remarks Justin had made, and that Justin had knocked him down.

  Mama pressed her fingers to aching temples. “Must you tell me this now, Skye? I cannot be responsible for the foolish quarrels of young men.”

  I continued my story. “Courtney went upstairs and tried to kill himself. If I had not come upon him with the pistol he might be dead by now. He tried to kill himself because you have tormented him, made him love you hopelessly. What manner of woman are you that you can do such things and then laugh and smile so innocently?”

  She struggled up on her pillow and now there was shock in her eyes as she stared at me. This time I had reached her. This time I had cut through her guard, her pretense, her self-deception.

  “Oh, no!” she whispered. “He would not do such a thing!”

  “Because of you he tried to kill himself,” I repeated. “What do you think it would do to my father, if he knew this?”

  Her beauty seemed to crumple before my eyes. She looked what she was—a frightened, middle-aged woman who had been suddenly confronted with the result of her own foolish actions and was completely stricken. I hoped the lesson would do her some good, though I had little confidence in that.

  The hand she reached toward me trembled pitifully, but I did not dare to weaken in my anger against her. I went out of the room and left her to face reality as she had never been willing to face it before.

  The evening was long and I was restless and distraught. I could not trust myself to visit Papa until I found some peace within myself. And where in this pattern did peace exist? Justin had refused my appeal for help and I did not know whether I was wholly sorry. Desperately as I needed to find a solution, it would have tormented me to have him cheerfully ready to aid me in my marriage to his brother. I could not help but cling to the pallid comfort of his distaste for this marriage. That was better than having him indifferent.

  The afternoon had been blazing hot and the sky had burned brilliant and blue above our courtyard, baking the very bricks. For the most part I had found the climate of New Orleans moderate and not so uncomfortably warm as I had expected. But this had been one of the bad days. The night was heavy and oppressive with heat. No breeze from the Gulf, no breath of air from the river blew in to stir the pall of heat-laden air.

  I took off my clothes and bathed myself in water that stood in my pitcher. But even that was tepid, far from cool. When I slipped into a thin nightgown and cotton wrapper, I was just as warm as ever. It would not be a night for sleeping and I sought the escape and solace of books. To step into another world and other lives was to lose for a little while the urgent problems of my own world. And often I had found I could bring back from such a sojourn greater courage and wisdom to face my own problems.

  Since insects hummed incessantly about my lamp, I put it on a table near the mosquito barre and then read where the winged intruders could not reach me.

  I don’t know how long I read, but it must have been after midnight when I stopped, because my eyes were smarting and yawns had begun to interrupt my reading. Perhaps now at last my thoughts would be still and I could fall asleep. I tossed my book aside on the bed, wiped my damp hands and brow with my handkerchief and lay still for a moment, listening to the night.

  The quiet was as oppressive as the heat. Only the fluttering wings of a moth, bent on self-destruction above my lamp, stirred the silence with a whisper of sound. A hard-shelled beetle flew in the window and dashed himself against the lamp chimney with a brittle crash. The moth miller singed its wings and died. The night was brooding and still.

  In that stillness I heard the soft opening of a door somewhere near at hand. Then a long pause, while I waited and wondered, listening. As softly the door closed and there was a faint creak of the gallery floor. I threw back the mosquito barre and ran barefooted to my door, pulled it open. In the dim light I saw my mother turn the corner of the gallery and move like a shadow toward the stairs.

  I was fairly caught. I dared not cry out and rouse the household. Nor could I rush after her without making more noise than I cared to. Already she was running lightly down the stairs and I could hardly pursue her into the street dressed as I was. Then, to my relief, I saw a tall figure move out of the courtyard toward the stairs. It was Delphine, fading into the shadows at the foot of the stairs. My mother, whatever her intention, would be stopped.

  I leaned upon the rail, listening intently. A faint cry of distress reached me—too slight to rouse the house. Then there was the sound of a soft scuffle there in the shadows. But I knew Delphine’s strength and that she would stop Mama forcibly if she must. A few seconds later I heard the rustle of petticoats as the two came upstairs and moved along the gallery. Delphine was bringing Mama back to her room.

  On impulse I flung my own door wide and let lamplight flood out upon the gallery. My mother came into the radiance, drooping like a flower on its stem. She wore a heavy gray veil over her hat and I could not see her face, but she moved with the bent shoulders of a woman whom fate had crushed. Over her drooping head, Delphine looked at me without expression.

  “In here,” I whispered. “Bring her in here.”

  Delphine obeyed willingly, and Mama sank into my small rocker with a moan and covered her face with her hands. Moving with the softness of a cat, Delphine closed the door after her, went to the windows and closed them so that we were shut into the warm little box of a room. Yet the heat seemed no greater than that of the courtyard, where no air stirred. Now at least we could talk without waking the household. I saw that Delphine still wore her daytime clothes. Not even the tignon had been disturbed. She must have been waiting for my mother—on guard against whatever might happen.

  “How did you know?” I whispered.

  “Always as a child your maman was one to run away from this trouble into that one. At times she ran away from this house. Often she does not use the wits the good God gave her.”

  Mama flung back her veil and stared at Delphine despairingly. “How can you speak to me like that? You forget your place.”

  “No, madame,” Delphine said. “Never in this household do I forget my place—which is to serve M’sieu Robert. Once you were a child in my care in this house. If you behave like a child aga
in, then so you must be treated. What will M’sieu Robert think of your behavior tonight, madame?”

  At mention of my uncle’s name, Mama wilted completely. She made no effort to answer, but began to cry softly, her hands pressed over her face.

  “What did you mean to do?” I asked her. “Where would you go?”

  She answered me between sobs. “I don’t know. But away from this terrible house where there is only hate and never love. After what happened this afternoon, I do not care if I live or die. Nothing matters.”

  “Do you love Courtney that much?” I demanded. “Does he mean more to you than my father?”

  She roused herself enough to flash me a look of outrage. “You are ridiculous! I have never loved anyone but Bruce—who needs me no longer.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that Delphine was the wisest person in the room. I turned to her without hesitation.

  “What is to be done?”

  She stood with her back to the door, on guard, as if my mother might try to escape, and her eyes met mine without wavering.

  “If you ask my advice, Mam’zelle Skye, then I say we must go to your father.”

  Mama started up from her chair, her eyes wide with alarm. “No, no! I couldn’t bear that.”

  “Yet,” said Delphine, “you would go away in the night and leave others to tell him when the time came? Is it, madame, that you can bear only what you do not see?”

  I broke in with my own objection. “Of course we can’t go to Papa. He is the last one who must ever discover that his wife could take such action. Or the reason for it.”

  “Without doubt he is awake now,” said Delphine, as if she had not heard. “Often he tells me how it is he does not sleep in the night. We will go to him now, Mam’zelle Skye. Madame will stay here in this room while we speak with him. The door will be locked, and I shall take with me the key.”

  My father’s feelings must be spared. I tried to make a last stand against her. “I won’t permit you to do such a thing. It’s out of the question, Delphine.” But as I spoke I knew there was a strength in this woman greater than mine. Only chance had cast us in these roles and it was hard to remember that she was the servant and I the mistress.

  “Your father is a good man, mam’zelle, and a brave one,” Delphine said softly. “Un homme vaillant. It is necessary that we cease to treat him as a sick child.” She removed the key from the inside lock and opened the door. “Venez, mam’zelle, if you please.”

  Mama flung herself from her chair and caught Delphine by the arm. “You can’t treat me like this! I won’t stay in this room. I’ll scream and rouse the house.”

  “As you wish, madame,” said Delphine. “In that case we will not be able to keep this affair from M’sieu Robert—as I have kept certain other matters, not wishing to distress him.”

  Mama let her hand drop from Delphine’s arm. I went out on the gallery, while Delphine locked the door softly behind us. No sound came from the bedroom.

  “Your maman will be quiet,” Delphine whispered. She went to my father’s door and tapped on it lightly. We both heard his “Come in.”

  Delphine let me go first into the small, dim room. She begged my father’s forgiveness for the intrusion and went to light a lamp near his bed.

  “I was not asleep,” he said. “I heard Louise leave her room, heard the sound of voices. Is anything wrong? Is she ill, perhaps?”

  “She is ill, m’sieu,” said Delphine, tapping her breast with her forefinger. “But it is an illness of the heart. You must cure it, m’sieu. There is no time to waste.”

  Papa looked at me. “Tell me what has happened, Skye.”

  I tried to speak, faltered, fell silent. I could not tell him. Helpless as my mother, I looked at Delphine, and she at least did not hesitate.

  “Compose yourself, m’sieu. It is necessary to tell you the sad truth. This afternoon a young man tried to kill himself for love of Mam’zelle Loulou. The same young man who is affianced to your daughter. Foolishly your wife intended to leave this house tonight because the affair left her so distraught she did not know which way to turn. I stayed awake to watch, and at this moment she is locked in the room of Mam’zelle Skye.”

  He did not move, or speak, or cry out. He closed his eyes and lay very still on the bed. I ran across the room and dropped to my knees beside him, leaned my head against his arm. But there were no words of comfort I could offer.

  His hand reached across and stroked my cheek gently, as if I were the one to be comforted. “There is hurt to you in this also, Skye. But you mustn’t lock her in. I knew it must come eventually. She must be released from her bondage as the wife of an invalid. I should have found a way to let her follow her heart before this. But it is hardly a wise course to flee in the night.”

  I raised my head and stared at him. “You mustn’t talk like that! She’s married to you—she loves you!”

  “If I may speak, m’sieu?” Delphine stepped to the foot of the bed.

  “Never have I seen a body stop you, Delphine,” said my father wryly.

  “M’sieu has only to be a husband to madame. He has only to speak with the force of a husband, to chastise her with the tongue of a husband. Mam’zelle Loulou was a child in this house. I knew her well and—”

  “And you never liked her, Delphine,” my father broke in.

  The woman bowed her head. “That is not for me to say. She is what I am not. Believe only, m’sieu, that I knew her well. You know her well also. You know how to bring her to you. But you have forgotten this. You have forgotten to give her the safety of love which she must have.”

  My father stared at the tall woman with her light, suntinted skin and great dark eyes, then slowly, unexpectedly, he smiled.

  “This is a true thing you say to me, Delphine. But I do not want to imprison her with my love.”

  “I think it is not too late. She has need of such a prison, m’sieu,” said Delphine and moved toward the door. “I will go to fetch her here.”

  “Wait!” Papa said quickly and there was a note of panic in his voice. “You are a good friend, Delphine, but I’m not yet ready for this move. ’Tis not her pity I want.”

  Delphine looked at him almost haughtily. “What I do, I do for the good name of Tourneau—for M’sieu Robert,” she told him. “There is no more time to make ready. You must speak with her now, m’sieu.” She went out of the room without waiting for his answer.

  I rose from my knees and stood beside Papa’s bed. In a few moments Delphine thrust my mother ahead of her into the room. Mama had taken off her hat and veil, loosened her hair, so that strands of it hung untidily down her face. Tears had left stains on her cheeks and her dark eyes were wide with fright. She was wringing her hands nervously, more upset than I had ever before seen her. All her coquettish ways, her confidence in the power of her own charm were gone. She looked like a frightened little girl about to receive punishment. She was far from a beauty now, and never had I felt so sorry for her.

  Papa held out his hand, and if he was uncertain, he hid the fact. “Come to me, lassie. Did you truly think you could leave me? Or that I would let you go?”

  She uttered one wild little sob and ran to fling herself upon the bed beside him, with her face hidden in his shoulder. Across the room I met Delphine’s eyes, saw the faint nod she made toward the door. I followed her quickly from the room, and once more that night a door was softly closed.

  We stood together on the gallery and I sought words with which to thank her.

  “You were right,” I said. “You were wiser than the rest of us, Delphine.”

  She looked at me without emotion and I could not know what she was thinking. Gently she inclined her head and went away across the gallery, treading so lightly that never a board creaked. I stood where I was and watched her emerge from shadow at the foot of the stairs and cross the courtyard. She did not look up at me again and a moment later the darkness of the long-ago slave quarters swallowed her. Soberly I returned to my room.


  Great tragedy and disgrace had been averted that night. And every one of us in the Tourneau house had Delphine to thank for it.

  TWENTY

  For the next few days I moved remotely, as if in a dream. I had been tossed by too many storms and I did not want to come to life and feel again. If I could just drift, perhaps nothing would matter.

  But July melted into August and I could not be allowed to drift. The wedding date was set ahead to September at Aunt Natalie’s plea, since she said a trousseau could not possibly be prepared in less time. Already there were fittings and shopping and I did numbly whatever I was told to do.

  The long New Orleans summer that lasted from April to November would finally end. Then would come the saison des visites with all its social whirl. There would be the opera and balls and soirées. And later the Carnival. Even though the social life of the city was not so lavish as before the war, there would still be much to keep us busy. By that time I would be a young married woman in my uncle’s house and I would be expected to take an active part in social affairs. At least I would be busy. There would be little time for thinking.

  I heard no word of Justin. Courtney did not mention him at all when he came to visit me. Courtney looked thin and pale and he tried to avoid my mother about the house, as she also avoided him. But at least there had been no more emotional upheavals. Our feet were set inevitably on the path that led to marriage and neither of us tried to rebel.

  Whether or not I saw Justin made little difference to me. My heart was a stone in my breast, but a stone that ached as stones should not. I longed for him—and hoped I would never see him again. Pain, I found, was something one must endure and live with. A man or woman might be tested sorely, but never more than could be borne. We said we could not endure, but endure we did and went on living. As my father had lived with pain, now I learned to live with mine and tried not to let it weigh too heavily upon others.

  In my mother there was considerable change. Her restlessness, her air of hunting for something was gone. She hummed about the house, happy as a bird in the courtyard, her eyes bright, her lips smiling. Now that my father showed his love and his need for her, the sun shone brightly in her sky. My father was her sun and her sky, and while in many ways she would never change, she now had the walls of her prison safely about her and she was content. She would always flutter her eyelashes at every handsome man. She might never learn the dangerous consequences as she had so nearly come to learn them. And yet—I could not hate her as once I had done.