by Shirl Henke
“Melanie, I'm so glad to see you,” Deborah said, closing the distance to hug the girl. She bent her silver-blond head to Melanie's dark one as they embraced.
Rafe crossed the room, and took the ugly shoe from Melanie's grubby fingers. “This is the kind of a stunt I'd expect from your brothers, not from a young lady of twenty-one.” With grudging good humor he tossed the shoe aside, hugged her, and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Ugh, what is this stuff all over you?” He sniffed. “Egg—rotten eggs!” he said incredulously, holding her at arm's length now, freeing her from Deborah's protective embrace to inspect her. “You look like an escapee from some slum riot.”
Melanie finally recovered her voice and her wits. “Oh, bother my clothes or a few silly eggs! What are you doing here? You never wrote you were coming for a visit. Did you bring Adam and Caleb and Lenore along?” Melanie's gold eyes were sparkling now, her initial shock fleeing as joy at seeing her parents replaced it.
Looking over her shoulder, Rafe saw the broadsides, picked one up, and scanned it. “This is not just a visit, young lady. We've come to take you home.”
“I'm afraid your grandfather's letters have been a bit more explicit about your exploits than yours have, Melanie,” Deborah remonstrated gently.
“Home? You mean back to Texas? To the ranch?” Her crestfallen expression was quickly masked as she replied with steel in her voice, “I have important work here, Papa, Mama. I just can't leave now.”
“Is that important work posting these leaflets? And does it include being pelted with garbage?” Rafe asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
“And being involved in a riot or two, not to mention having her life threatened by one Cyrus Juline, a slave catcher from Georgia,” Adam said with obvious distaste for the bounty hunter.
“Riot?” Deborah looked back at Melanie with concern.
“It was only a small riot on the Commons last month. I was out of range of the guns—”
“Guns?” Rafe thundered.
Melanie made a gesture of dismissal, as if shooting and mob violence were as commonplace for a Boston lady as attending the symphony. “Only a few men had guns, but the constabulary disarmed them before anyone was killed.”
“One man was shot in the shoulder and three people were badly injured by rocks thrown during the melee,” Adam added grimly.
“But the rock only grazed my temple. I hardly had a scratch! Considering all the Comanche raiders and renegades in Texas, I scarcely think you can consider it safer there,” she countered.
“But, Melanie, look at you,” Deborah chided. Ignoring the mud and garbage, she ran her hands over her daughter's hideous gray dress and looked down at the heavy high-laced shoe on Melanie's left foot. “You're dressed like an old lady, not the lovely young woman we visited here two years ago.”
Melanie sighed. “I should think my clothes would please you. Honestly, Mama, you of all people should realize it's not how a woman looks but how she thinks that's important.”
“Well I think you will take a bath, dress in some appropriate clothes, which your mother will select for you, and we shall continue this discussion at dinner,” her father pronounced with finality.
* * * *
“The letter must have followed us on the very next steamer,” Rafe said dejectedly. He sat at Adam's desk, rubbing his fingers in small, tight circles on his temples.
Adam was surprised to detect a few faint flecks of gray in his son-in-law's curly black hair. “You must tell Melanie. Lily was her natural mother. What will you do about Claude's estate?”
Rafe unfolded his long body from the chair and stood to face Adam. “I'll have to go to New Orleans and deal with my mother. The lawyers doubtless have her in tears by now. Damn that stubborn old fool, to die leaving me the whole estate just as if I'd stayed there and done as he wanted!” Rafe pounded the table in agitation.
The law firm of Beaurivage and LeBlanc's neat letterhead lay on the study table, as did another letter from the same packet, written in the bold, clear script of Rafe's brother-in-law, Caleb Armstrong. A late summer yellow fever epidemic had claimed both Claude Flamenco and Lily Duval Bertin.
“I’ll have to talk to Caleb about the estate. Hell, Adam, I don't want it! I told my father when I left New Orleans that he still had a daughter. He should have left his wealth to my sister and her husband as well as to his wife. I wanted no part of it or the hold it would have on me.”
“You can never undo family ties, son. Maybe you and your mother can reconcile your differences now,” Adam said.
Rafe gave a snort of disgust. “She and the rest of my illustrious Beaurivage and Flamenco cousins still refuse to admit Lenore and Caleb are alive, much less part of the family. When my sister eloped with an American, they disowned her forever.”
“Yet your father willed you and your children everything, although you married an American.”
“It's an old Creole tradition. Men can be forgiven any excess; women, none,” he replied in disgust.
Adam half smiled. “Sounds like some of Deborah's ideas have been rubbing off on you over the years.” He walked over to the desk and placed a hand on Rafe's shoulder. “You'll have to go to New Orleans not only for your mother, but to deal with the attorneys, son. Your sister doesn't need the Flamenco fortune, but your mother must be provided for.”
Rafe's shoulders slumped. “If only I didn't have to drag Melanie into this.”
“You have to tell her, son,” Adam said gently.
* * * *
“Why should I care if she's dead?” Melanie stood in the center of her bedroom with her hands on her hips. “She never loved me. She let Grandmère and Aunt Thérèse raise me—then you and Deborah. Deborah's my real mother, the one who loves me. Lily Duval never did!” Melanie's golden eyes were filled with pain. Her tiny body vibrated with fiercely restrained anguish.
Rafe understood her hurt. Lily had never accepted her firstborn child after the second one, a boy, died in an epidemic. Melanie reminded him of Lily in physical appearance, the high cheekbones and smooth olive skin with just a hint of copper in the complexion, the big eyes and long silky wealth of ebony hair. Yet anyone admiring the beautiful young woman would see the obvious resemblance to his own French-Spanish Creole ancestry and never suspect her Cherokee or African bloodlines.
“Lily's husband, Charles Bertin, died last year in a duel, Melanie. The attorneys say she left everything to you now. There may be some mementos, something you might want to keep. I'll understand if you decide not to visit the house on Rampart Street, but we do have to visit your Aunt Lenore and Uncle Caleb and settle your Grandfather Flamenco's estate.”
“Then home to Texas?” She smiled bravely though tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks as she slid into her father's waiting arms. “I'll think about what to do with her things,” she murmured hesitantly.
“Talk it over with your mother,” Rafe replied gently.
* * * *
Everything is exactly as I remembered, Deborah thought to herself as she numbly unpacked in their old quarters, the private apartment across the courtyard connecting to the Flamencos' New Orleans house. Despite the high ceilings, the late fall humidity was oppressive. Oh, for the dry air of north Texas. She sighed.
“You hate it here, too, don't you?” Melanie, looking small and forlorn, stood in the doorway to her parents' large bedroom. She had just left her own room at the end of the hall.
“I have little good to remember that isn't overshadowed by pain, that's true,” Deborah said, a haunted note in her voice.
“At least, Grandmère Celine is willing to admit you by the front door. If she had her way, I'd be sleeping downstairs with her slaves,” Melanie said bitterly.
Deborah walked over and drew her daughter by the hand to the large four-poster bed. As they sat down, Deborah reassured her. “She won't have her way, because your father owns this house now and what he decrees stands. You are his child, just as Adam and Caleb and Norrie are, and equally love
d.”
“Oh, Mama, you are such a special person!” Melanie threw her arms around Deborah's neck.
“Remember the first time you called me Mama?” Deborah asked softly. “You were twelve years old, such a proud, fiercely independent, and lovely little girl. I used every wile I knew to win you over, and it was worth it. Don't let the old hatreds here touch you, dear heart.”
“I won't,” Melanie replied with a catch in her voice. “But when I think of how my Grandmère Marie loved me and how this one hates me...”
“As soon as we get legal matters straightened out, we'll go home,” Deborah soothed.
“Do—do you think Aunt Lenore and Uncle Caleb will like me? I mean, they've lived here all their lives.”
Deborah smiled confidently. “Lenore is much more like your father than like your grandmother. She and I were best friends when I lived here. That's why your baby sister is named for her. In fact, I helped Lenore and Caleb elope and scandalized the whole family.”
“Including your papa,” Rafe added from the door, remembering the bitter fight he and Deborah had had the night she disguised herself in Lenore’s costume while his sister and her American slipped away from the masked ball and were secretly married.
Pain and guilt for the way he had treated Deborah were etched on his face as he came into the room. “Perhaps, we should have stayed at Lenore and Caleb's house, and to hell with Maman's hysterics,” he said darkly.
Deborah rose and went over to embrace him, her body transmitting a warmth and love that erased all the old hurts. “No, we can stay for the few days it will take to settle matters. We'll see the Armstrongs and their brood tonight.” Turning to Melanie, she said, “And I warn you, if you think two little brothers have been a trial, wait until you see all your cousins—Thad, Michael, Rafael, Burton, oh, yes, and one poor little girl as an afterthought!”
“The one named for you?” Melanie asked Deborah.
As her mother nodded, her father added with a grin, “And they all have red hair.”
“Does Uncle Caleb have red hair?” Melanie asked innocently.
“If he didn't, your aunt would be in pretty big trouble by now,” Rafe answered, and they all three laughed, breaking the tension and holding the past at bay.
They spent a delightful but exhausting evening with the Armstrong clan. Rafe's sister and brother-in-law and their children welcomed Melanie warmly, accepting the child of Rafe's mistress as openly as they accepted Deborah's natural children.
When they returned to the Flamenco house, Melanie was glad to sink into the soft bed in the room down the hall from her parents. Her five-year-old sister, Norrie, was already asleep next to her, and their brothers, Adam and Caleb, were doubtless drifting off next door; but Melanie lay awake ruminating.
Ever since she had come to live with her father and Deborah in Texas, she had been loved unconditionally, just as her grandmother and aunt had loved her back in St. Louis before their deaths. For the past four years, her Grandfather Adam had loved her in Boston. But after meeting Grandmère Celine and sensing the animosity radiating from the old woman, Melanie felt like an outcast.
Melanie had been born in this city, only a few miles distant, in a small white house on Rampart Street, a house she now legally owned. That's really it. It isn't the color bar in New Orleans or the dislike of a grandmother I never knew. Even my being illegitimate isn't the real hurt. It's Mère. Melanie lay very still as the thoughts washed over her in a tidal wave of fresh pain, like a newly opened wound, long suppurating and now freshly lanced. Willing herself not to cry and awaken her little sister, Melanie vowed to visit Lily Duval's house on the morrow.
* * * *
“Are you certain you want to do this?” Deborah asked as the carriage pulled up in front of the small white house.
“Are you certain you do?” Melanie countered, remembering the painful confrontation between Deborah and Lily that she had witnessed all those years ago.
“Let's go,” Deborah replied as she gave Melanie’ s hand a squeeze.
The house was much as her little girl's eyes had remembered it, expensively decorated and cluttered with too many pieces of doll-like furniture. Porcelain figurines and a silver tea service sat on delicately lacquered French provincial table-tops. Heavy brocade draperies were drawn against the sun. Despite the shade from several tall willows outside, the place was stifling with the musky aromas of perfume and death.
Both women were lost in the past as they walked inside, recalling old hurts. Here Deborah had confronted her husband's mistress and had discovered that he already had two children by Lily when she had just become pregnant for the first time. Despite the passage of years and the constancy of her husband's love, Deborah still felt the pain when she remembered Melanie as a small child rushing innocently into the midst of the bitter fight between wife and mistress. That child had been hurt most of all. Looking over at Melanie, Deborah said softly, “Let's go through her things and you select what you want to take home. Then the lawyers can sell the rest. You need never come here again, dear heart.”
Melanie looked around and made a small moue of disgust. “She loved expensive trinkets—china, porcelain, silver, jewelry. Although I expect we're the same size, I don't want her clothes. I know that,” Melanie said with finality.
Although Melanie's overly plain and sensible wardrobe was a continual frustration to Deborah, she knew the ‘‘bird of paradise” clothes of a kept woman would be completely unsuitable for her gently reared girl.
They spent several hours going through the small house room by room. Lily's husband had been a fencing master, killed in an affair of honor with another Free Man of Color over a year ago. From the first time he had seen Lily's daughter, Bertin had hated her because she was a distasteful reminder that his wife had been a white man's property. He had made her life a misery when she came back to New Orleans from St. Louis after the deaths of her grandmother and aunt. “We'll give all his things to the sisters to dispense to the poor,” Melanie said, and slammed his armoire door.
The expensive china and sterling they packed up carefully. Deborah offered a delicate suggestion to Melanie. “Someday when you're married and have a home of your own, you might want these dishes—they're truly beautiful.”
“Only the rose crystal punch bowl and cups. They belonged to Grandmère Marie,” Melanie replied tersely.
When they finally came to Lily's jewel cases, both women were amazed at the beauty and variety of the pieces—emeralds, pearls, sapphires, and rubies, even the icy glitter of diamonds, all set in delicate silver filigree or massive gold mountings. Melanie ignored most of it, selecting only a few old pieces of lesser worth that had belonged to her grandmother. When she opened one small black velvet box and took out a heavy scrimshaw necklace, Melanie heard Deborah's breath catch. Quickly, she looked up and saw an expression of anguish etched on her mother's face. “Papa bought this for her in Boston, didn't he?” Melanie knew the ivory carving was a New England whaler's art. He must have selected it for Lily during the same business trip on which he'd married Deborah.
“Melanie, that was a long time ago. Rafael and I were both different people then. I have a new life with my husband now. She can't hurt us anymore. But she still can hurt you, can't she?” Holding her breath, Deborah reached over and gently took the necklace from Melanie’ s nerveless fingers and replaced it in the box.
“Why couldn't she love me? Why? Everyone else did—you, Papa, Grandmère Marie, Aunt Thérèse—but the woman who gave me life didn't even want me in the same house with her! I used to overhear her and Papa. They'd fight about me when I was little. She'd want to send me back to Grandmère in St. Louis, and Papa would want me to stay here.
“Once, when he came over, she had left me alone in the kitchen—her servant had gone to market and no one was here to watch me. She was still asleep and I tried to reach some fruit on the table. I knocked the bowl over and it broke. I cut myself on the glass. That's how Papa found me—cut and cr
ying. I guess I was lucky I didn't eat any glass slivers with the grapes! After that, he let her send me to St. Louis a lot more often...”
Once the monologue stopped, the tears began, slowly at first, then increasing to a torrent. For Deborah, who knew how long that agony had been locked deep inside the girl, it was almost as healing a relief as it was for Melanie. They held each other and wept.
* * * *
By the time they arrived back at the Flamenco house late that evening, it was well past the dinner hour. Deborah had sent word by their driver not to wait supper on them. Eating in the same room with Celine was not conducive to good digestion for either Deborah or Melanie. The two went to the kitchen where the cook, Wilma, prepared them a delightful cold meal of thinly sliced roast veal, melon, and cool white wine.
While they ate and relaxed after an emotionally charged day, Rafe spent a bitterly unhappy evening with his mother and his cousins.
“Are the children asleep?” Celine asked Rafe when he returned to meet them in the study. He nodded, adding conversationally, “Deborah and Melanie are taking supper now.” He enjoyed reminding the intolerant Flamencos that his mixed-blood daughter was treated like the rest of the family.
“I've talked with the lawyers and they see no problem with my plans. All property will be given to you, Mother, but Caleb Armstrong will be executor.” He looked meaningfully over at his cousins, Jean and Philippe.
Celine let out a gasp of horror and considered fainting. One glance at the stony countenance of her son convinced her of the folly of such a ploy. Once, he would have rushed to comfort her, but no more. Now, he'd let her drop to the floor in a heap! “You've become as savage and unfeeling as those wild red Indians in that accursed Texas! Your father wanted you to take care of me, Rafael. You are my only son. That's why he left you in charge of everything, to—”