Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  As I say, I believed I had reached the depths of torment. But there was worse in store. That afternoon I heard the sound of Caro’s voice raised in excitement and I went out on the gallery to see what was happening. Uncle Robert stood below me in the courtyard speaking to Delphine, and with him were Isabelle Law and Justin’s son, Lanny. Clearly I heard him instruct Delphine to give them a room across the courtyard from mine.

  Unbelieving, I watched Delphine lead the way upstairs. When Uncle Robert followed and retired to his study, I hesitated only a moment. I had to know what this meant. I had to know why my uncle had taken such a step. For Justin’s sake, I had to know.

  Caro was chattering happily to Lanny as Delphine showed his mother the room. I left the gallery and went to the door of my uncle’s study.

  He called to me to come in and I think he knew by my face when I entered that I would not be easily put off. He could not know what prompted my feeling about the matter, but he knew I was in earnest.

  “Why have you brought Justin’s wife to this house?” I asked, without preliminaries. “How did you know she was in New Orleans?”

  “Please sit down, Skye.” He was suave as ever, unruffled. “Do you presume to question my actions? What is this to you?”

  “I’m asking for information,” I said.

  Uncle Robert moved his hands in a gracefully vague gesture. “Ah, well—a woman’s curiosity. Monsieur Justin’s wife is the daughter of an old friend of my childhood. She has asked for my protection. After all, you brought the boy here yourself. That was when I first saw him and learned his name. I knew Madame Law had used the name Fontaine on the stage.”

  I felt that what he was saying was only partially true, and I waited for more.

  “New Orleans is a rough city, as you yourself have discovered,” he went on. “This poor woman is alone and she feared some violence from her brutal husband. Madame Pollock came to me after his intrusion this morning. It is possible that the fellow might even attempt to take the boy from his mother. In this house both will be safe. I have explained the matter to my wife and she is completely satisfied. May I ask, Skye, what it is you suspect me of? And why you are disturbed about the woman’s coming here?”

  I knew only that I did not trust him and that somehow this was a move against Justin. Whether or not Mrs. Pollock had mentioned my presence this morning, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care. There was no truth in my uncle at that moment and I did not want to struggle with explanations. I turned away abruptly and went out of the room. As I walked down the hall, I heard Uncle Robert laughing, alone in his study. The sound was eerie, and somehow evil.

  My first thought was that I would find a way to get Lanny out of the house myself and take him to Justin. But this was not so easily managed. The servants had been set on guard, and Delphine seemed to be everywhere. Neither the boy nor his mother were permitted downstairs and I knew if I attempted to take him out of the house there would be a hue and cry before I reached the street.

  Of course the household buzzed with questions about this woman who had been set down in our midst. Mama was all atwitter over the fact that Justin had a wife about whom we had known nothing. Aunt Natalie, of course, adapted herself in every way to her husband’s wishes, but I believe she was distressed at having a woman of the theater put into her good Creole home.

  The news that Isabelle was Justin’s wife and Lanny his son came clearly as a surprise to Courtney. Since Justin’s mother had not written to him he had never let her know about his marriage, or the birth of his child, so not even Aurore knew of her grandson’s existence.

  Only Lanny, of us all, profited by this move into Robert Tourneau’s house. Aunt Natalie, Mama and I all gave him our affection, and he delighted in a friendship with Caro and my father. His mother treated him either with apathetic indifference, or else scolded him endlessly.

  I took little joy in living these days. Each morning brought pain and there was a shriveling in me at the very sight of Isabelle Law. Oddly enough, she sought me out as someone she might talk to in her lonely captivity. I know she feared my uncle and slipped out of his sight whenever possible. She had nothing to say to Aunt Natalie, nor did she care for my mother, who plainly showed distaste for her. But since I, in my lethargy, showed nothing at all, she sought my company whenever I was not quick enough to escape her.

  One unhappy morning she came to my room while I sat listlessly sorting embroidered lingerie which Aunt Natalie had given me, packing the things into a chest scented with the inevitable vetiver root. Isabelle did not ask if she might come in—the door stood open and she entered. There was a limp and pallid quality about her which set my teeth on edge. She was so wispy, so easy to hurt, that I had to suppress a desire to hurt her, as she without knowing it hurt me through her very existence.

  She fingered a fine linen nightgown and sighed dejectedly. “You are lucky, Miss Cameron. How well I remember my own wedding and how little I had.”

  Everything had been hers, I thought, turning away from her. She had married Justin.

  She dropped the nightgown on the bed and went to sit in my little rocker. More brown was showing at the roots of her hair and she was using less rouge since she had come to this house. She sat in the rocker and twined her fingers nervously together.

  “Justin and I had nothing in those early days,” she went on. “I had run away from home with a traveling theatrical company as a stage-struck young girl. Times were bad in Colorado and the company closed. So I took a job as a waitress in Leadville. Justin and I were two lonely people a long way from home and we had the background of Louisiana to bring us together.”

  “You don’t need to tell me these things,” I said stiffly. “It must be painful to remember.”

  Her lips quivered. “Everything is painful to remember. Of course Justin recognized that I came from a gentle home and was above the work I was doing in that rough café. He couldn’t wait until he got me out of the place. How insistent he could be in those days!”

  There seemed no way to stop her. I went on with my task, trying not to hear, but listening to every word in spite of myself, both repelled and fascinated.

  “Of course I’d never have married him if he hadn’t had such faith in that mine,” she informed me, twining and untwining her fingers. “He built up my hopes so that I was willing to put up with poverty for a while because of what I’d have later on. But Justin was gone most of the time and sodden-weary when he was home. He wouldn’t give up. He and that partner of his said they’d make it pay off eventually.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Then he committed that terrible crime!”

  I glanced at her and saw her shudder. I had to ask the question that had filled me for so long.

  “What happened?”

  But she darted away from the question at once. “I don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes I still dream about it at night. After that I was terrified of Justin. All I wanted was to change my name and get away from Colorado. I had my chance when they put him in prison. It took months to reach Louisiana, where I could leave the baby with his grandmother. Then I was free and I did pretty well for a time too.”

  I said nothing and after a moment she got languidly to her feet and went to my dressing table to peer at herself in the mirror.

  “I’m not so bad-looking even now,” she said as if to herself. “After all, I’m no more than five years older than Justin. Sometimes I’m tempted to have a try at marriage again. It seems a shame for all that silver money to be wasted. He loved me once—perhaps he would again.

  I must have made a sound, for she whirled away from the mirror, offended. “Oh, you needn’t think I’m not attractive to men. I’m no silly young girl now. I know a trick or two to get around them. And I ought to know how to get around Justin.” Her expression went suddenly dreamy. “He never let me alone in the old days. Often he told me I was the prettiest thing ever, and the sweetest and warmest. There’s no reason why that can’t come again if I really put myself to
it.”

  I could endure no more. “Please,” I said, “I’ve a headache. I want to lie down for a little while.”

  She shrugged indifferently and wandered out of the room. I did not lie down. Shamed and sickened, I made myself work busily sorting and packing. I would not think of what she had said. The words must be erased from my mind, forgotten.

  But spoken words that cut deeply are not easily dismissed. That night when I lay sleepless in my great bed, listening to the hum of mosquitoes outside the barre, I could see Justin’s face clearly in my mind. But it was not at me that he looked, but at the young Isabelle. Her words returned to whisper cruelly through my mind. With my cheeks burning I could see her in his arms, held close against him. I knew just how hungrily he must have bent his head to kiss her.

  The night was so hot and so long. The pictures came endlessly, tormenting me.

  TWENTY-THREE

  There was no word from Justin during these last days of August. Somehow I had expected him to make a forceful move, perhaps appear at the house and demand his son. But nothing of the sort happened. Courtney said his brother was away from the house much of the time, busy launching his steamboat business. There were nights when he did not come home to the Garden District at all, but stayed in his rooms on Dumaine Street.

  The fact that nothing happened troubled me. I had a feeling that Uncle Robert continued to scheme, and that with the passing of time the chance of Justin gaining possession of his son grew increasingly slight. It began to seem that everything hinged upon Uncle Robert’s motive in holding Isabelle and the boy. Why had he instituted himself their “protector”? Why had Lobelia Pollock reported to him so quickly that day when Justin had gone to her place and discovered his wife? Why was it that Uncle Robert was so set against letting Justin recover his son?

  The more I pondered these matters, the more it appeared that Mrs. Pollock herself knew most of the answers, and I wondered if she could be persuaded to talk. According to Lanny, she had been kinder to him than his mother had. She might be aggravated sometimes about his running away, and she might scold, but she had often intervened when his mother wanted to punish him. It was possible that she might answer a question or so. I could at least try.

  Once I had made up my mind, I waited for my first opportunity to slip out of the house unnoticed. My chance came in midafternoon of a September Sunday. Since Mrs. Pollock appeared to go to the Bird at irregular hours, I didn’t know whether I would catch her or not.

  As it happened, I met her on the way, hurrying down St. Peter toward Bourbon, elaborately dressed for her duties at L’Oiseau d’Or, and hardly willing to pause as I spoke to her.

  “Can’t stop now, dearie. I’m later than usual and these Creoles love to gamble at all hours, you know. Especially on Sunday.”

  She would have rushed breathlessly by if I had not turned and walked beside her.

  “When may I see you?” I asked. “There’s something important I’d like to talk to you about.”

  She threw me a quick, shrewd glance. “Come along now, if you like. Once I’m at the Bird and can keep an eye on things, we can talk all you want. I’ve a nice private room and I’ll see that no Creole gentleman glimpses you.”

  I did not hesitate. What Uncle Robert might think about my visiting such a place no longer mattered, and I was eager to catch her while she was in a friendly mood.

  “Here, take this,” she said, and removed the cloud of purple veiling from the brim of her large hat. “Wrap yourself up in that purple fog and nobody will identify you. What your doting Uncle Robert don’t know won’t hurt him, dearie.” Her shoulders shook with a sudden gust of laughter, and spangles glittered in the sunlight, bouncing on her quaking bosom.

  I tied the veil on, reassured. She might be working hand in glove with Uncle Robert, but she wasn’t above playing a trick or two upon him.

  So that was how I came to visit L’Oiseau d’Or that Sunday afternoon in the Vieux Carré. I must confess that I was curious, and once hidden beneath the smothering veil, I was not nearly so appalled at entering such a place as I suppose I should have been.

  The house on Bourbon Street looked no different from any other, with its iron-lace balconies and charming courtyard. Evidently a Palace of Chance which catered to the crème de la crème of New Orleans male society must be run with grace and decorum.

  Lobelia’s key let us in a side door and she hurried me through a dim and musty hall and into a small sitting room that was tastefully furnished. The draperies at the windows were of rose satin and the Aubusson rug soft rose, mingled with green. The crystal chandelier was as fine as that in any Creole parlor, and the expensive furniture must have come from France.

  “Throw back that veil so you can breathe,” Lobelia directed. “Not bad, is it? Of course your uncle knows the best when it comes to furnishings. Personally I like things a bit gaudier, but I’ll admit he knows gentlemen’s tastes.”

  I stared at her as I put back the hot veil. “Uncle Robert? What has he to do with this?”

  “Whoops!” said Lobelia gaily, moving toward the door. “Looks like I’ve let a cat out of the bag. Not that it matters, being as how it’s all in the family. And anyway, I’m getting a bit sick of your uncle’s airs. Yes, of course—he owns the Bird. He set me up in business years ago, and it has paid him well. I know how to run a place like this and he can stay out of sight. But sit down and rest your feet, dearie. I’ll be back in two shakes when I’ve seen how things are going.”

  I seated myself on a brocade sofa and stared at the door Lobelia had closed after her. Even though I was well disillusioned with my uncle I knew enough about Creoles to be shocked by the information she had just divulged. There were only certain professions with which a gentleman might correctly associate himself—if he worked at all. Certainly a gambling establishment was not one, though gentlemen attended such places readily enough. I recalled what Tante Aurore had said about Uncle Robert’s obsession for acquiring money—again not a Creole trait. It seemed that he was so possessed by a driving desire to maintain his way of life as he had always known it, and recoup his disastrous losses after the war, that he would stop at nothing. Most gently bred Creoles of the older generation would fade quietly away in poverty, rather than change their concept of what was suitable for a gentleman. This was one reason why the Americans, who had no such notions, had been able to come in so vigorously and take over the business of the city.

  In Uncle Robert there was a strain of iron that did not altogether mix with the softer metal of the Creole. So—he was involved in this business of making money through the weakness of others, though still maintaining a surface respectability. I was sure that the surface appearance would be tremendously important to him, and that he would never be seen within these walls except as a patron. Now I could understand why Lobelia made visits to my uncle’s office in the role of a “client.”

  Before long Lobelia returned, still breathless, but apparently in control of whatever needed to be controlled. She seated herself in a chair before a delicate rosewood escritoire and grinned at me rakishly.

  “As I was saying, these are pretty fancy quarters for an office. At times it’s necessary to have a quiet place to talk to an inebriated gentleman, or to those who have lost more than is healthy and are feeling reckless. Not that there’s much trouble with Creoles. They consider it a disgrace to be seen intoxicated in public. Now then—tell me what it was you wanted to talk to me about. I can’t stay for long, and I don’t expect you want to either. By the way, how is Lanny, poor little fellow?”

  This was my opening. “It’s because of Lanny that I’m here,” I told her. “He said you were kind to him and I’m worried about the way his mother treats him.”

  Lobelia snorted. “A fine one she is! Probably never wanted a kid in the first place.”

  “Don’t you think the boy’s father would take better care of him than the mother?” I asked.

  A wary expression came into her eyes. “Suppose yo
u come across with just what you’re trying to say, dearie. I’m not much good at hedging. Speak your piece and I’ll listen. What’s more I won’t give you away to your uncle.”

  “All right,” I said. “I want to know why Uncle Robert has taken this unlikely interest in Isabelle Law.”

  Mrs. Pollock twisted her mouth wryly. “Well now, he went to a lot of trouble to keep track of those two all these years. He knew when Justin went to jail and he knew he left a wife and child outside. He knew when the grandmother in Louisiana died a year or so ago and when the boy started traveling with his mother. When Justin showed up in town he sent for them and brought them both here. He put me in charge of ’em and didn’t show his face at the Pontalba at all. That’s why he didn’t know the boy when you brought him to the house that time.”

  “Uncle Robert brought Lanny and Isabelle here? But what is this to him?” I persisted.

  She was silent for a moment, staring at me speculatively. “I can’t tell you that, dearie, because I’m not sure. Maybe this is just a way of getting things to go the way he wants them to. You know how much he likes to run people. Though he don’t run me as much as he thinks.”

  This seemed to be all she could tell me, and it seemed only to increase the puzzle. As I thanked her and rose to leave, she came to the door with me.

  “Since you’ve come this far, you might as well have a peek at the rest of the place. There’s a way so nobody’ll know you’re looking.”

  She grinned at me wickedly and I think she liked the idea of again flouting Uncle Robert through me.

  I followed her into the hallway and now I could hear the sounds of laughter and talk from the gaming rooms, and, the cries of what Lobelia said were croupiers. She opened the door of a dark little room, scarcely larger than the interior of an armoire. Her plump, damp hand closed over mine and she drew me to a place where a peephole opened into the next room.

  The blaze of light blinded me for a moment. There were gas globes everywhere, glaring and harsh and I had to blink a few times before I could see. The room before me was lavish with gilt and marble. A long table bordered with numbers and sections of red and black stretched down its center. Men stood about it, watching intently the spin of a wheel.