My display of enthusiasm over the luxury seemed to warm her somewhat toward me. Her scowl eased into a look of amiable curiosity as she poured the buckets into the ceramic sink basin, clucking a bit about the water that had sloshed over the sides.
“Mrs. Lividais, I am,” she said, straightening from her task. She was about as tall as she was wide. Her small, clear black eyes watched me like a curious bird’s. “I be the cook, housekeeper, and whatever else is needed,” she announced proudly, in an accent that I was beginning to recognize as distinctly Cajun.
From my glimpse of her downstairs, I had imagined that the slow-moving woman would be silent, even sullen. But, as the water grew cold before my eyes, she began to entertain me with a lengthy account of how she ran Edward’s house. “I try to help him with Christine, too. What a trial that girl is! More trouble than my twelve all rolled together.”
“You have twelve children?” I asked, amazed.
“All girls. Good girls, too. You’ll meet my eldest, Odele, at supper. She works in the kitchen. We all have to work, those of us who can—what with that mus’rat-chasin’ man of mine drinking up whatever money we manage to bring home,” she added with an indulgent sigh.
“I go so you can get washed up now, yes?” she finished, handing me a towel and a cake of yellow soap. With a glance at the muddy hem of my dress, she said, “You look like you been down in the swamp chasin’ mus’rat youself!” A sudden smile lit up her black eyes and brightened the round face. The warmth, the touch of humor amazed me. She seemed a different woman from the dour creature I had noticed in the parlor. Later, I would discover that Uncle Edward’s presence seemed to have a similar effect on others, including myself. He had a way of draining the life, the enthusiasm from those around him, leaving behind only polite, well-mannered shells.
After she left, I washed in the water, soothing despite its coldness. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I realized with a start that I would have to rush to be on time for dinner. I hastily changed into my best dress, the silk one Christine had suggested. To my bewilderment, I saw that it was still sorely wrinkled from its long stay in my trunk, even though I had hung it out as soon as possible. But there was no time to have it pressed now.
As if to make amends for the condition of my dress, I took great pains with my hair, piling the deep chestnut waves high upon my head and pinning it in its most becoming fashion. The pins would not stay in and the unsteadiness of my fingers caused me to start completely over twice. I must have taken too long, for when I reached the bottom of the staircase, I could see that the others were standing politely around the table, waiting for me. I was surprised to see that Nathan was joining the family for dinner. I was guided by Edward into the empty seat to the right of Christine and her friend.
Edward, of course, presided at the head of the heavy, polished table with its cloth of elegant white lace. At his side, Lydia seemed the picture of perfection. Her shining hair had been tortured into tiny ringlets about the pale oval of her face. Though she wore a soft golden brocaded gown and Edward sported a waistcoat and dark trousers, neither Christine nor her guest had taken any pains with their appearances. Christine still wore the dark riding habit. Her hair was tousled as if she had barely bothered to run a comb through it. She and Nathan ate with the manners of a pair of hungry wolves, carrying on a private conversation that excluded the rest of us. Occasionally there would be a loud guffaw from one or the other, followed by an annoyed glance in their direction by Edward.
The meal was a banquet, with three different kinds of meat—ham, beef, and roast duck with orange sauce. Side dishes of rice and boiled potatoes accompanied the main courses. I had not eaten a real meal since Cassa’s gumbo last night, and found that I was quite hungry.
“Will you go horseback riding with me tomorrow?” I glanced up from the delicious roast duck, realizing that Christine was addressing me.
“I’m sorry. I don’t ride.”
“Well, you’ll have to learn if you’re going to stay here with us. Won’t she, Edward?” Christine, alone, seemed unintimidated by him. Without waiting for a reply, she added, “Don’t worry, Louise. Riding’s easy. I’ll start you out on Sugar. She’s the gentlest of the mares.” She took a swallow of tea. “Well go out to visit Cassa, and maybe I’ll take you out to Brule’s cabin.”
My interest sparked at the sound of the familiar names. “You know Brule, then?”
“Oh, everyone around here knows Brule! He makes masks for the Mardi Gras. He reads fortunes, too. I’m going to ask him to tell mine!” A puzzled look crossed her face. “But how do you know about him?”
“Nicholas took me to Cassa’s cabin last night when we got caught in the storm. Brule was there.”
“Oh, yes! Nick’s a great friend of Brule and Cassa’s.” She finished her potatoes. “Did you know some people around here think Cassa’s a witch?”
That’s enough of that kind of talk, Christine!” Edward scolded. Was it talk about Cassa or the mention of Nicholas’s name that had displeased him? “And you know I don’t want you going anywhere near Brule’s cabin. God knows, your head’s already filled with enough nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Christine insisted sulkily. “Brule really can see the future.”
Odele, Mrs. Lividais’s eldest daughter, came in with dessert, a rich fruitcake topped with sweet whipped cream and brandied cherries. I had neither accepted nor declined Christine’s offer to teach me to ride, and she did not pressure me. I was glad when Edward turned the conversation to other matters.
“Did your mother tell you much about our family, Louise?”
“Well, I know that the Dereuxs originally came from France.”
“Yes, we are a proud Creole family.” Edward’s gray-blue eyes sparkled with unaccustomed brilliance as he began to speak of the much-revered family tree, “Did you know that our ancestry can be traced back to the days of Louis XIV? It was for King Louis that Louisiana ...” With a dry chuckle, he added, “and yourself were named!”
I laughed politely. So we were descendants of the aristocracy! Perhaps that was why my mother had always seemed a bit disdainful of our sweaty, hard-working neighbors in Missouri. The tiny, secluded world of our single-room flat was a fantasy place where the Opera was just next door and the grand ball of the season was just around the corner. The more I learned of her upbringing, the more I understood her aloofness, the self-imposed seclusion.
As Edward prattled on, Christine caught my eye. She raised her dark brows and stifled a giggle at his next words. “There has been little foreign blood to taint our true French origin. Why, my own dear wife can trace her own line back to the court of Louix XVI.” Lydia, who had been silent through the meal, looked thoroughly bored. “And Christine’s mother, Therese, was a direct descendant of Louis Philippe.” He cleared his throat before adding delicately, “What’s more important, our blood is pure, untainted—”
“What he means,” burst in Lydia rather unexpectedly, “is that there have been no embarrassing incidences of cafe au lait.”
“Cafe ... ? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Darkies in the woodpile,” grinned Christine.
“Christine, kindly mind your manners,” Edward scolded.
“Why, you brought up the subject, Edward,” she retorted innocently. For the second time, I was aware that she referred to him only as Edward, never as Grandfather.
After dinner, Edward led the way into the parlor with its stiff wax flowers and dainty, uncomfortable chairs. Christine and Nathan slipped off to whisper together in the corner. The trying day and unusually heavy meal made me long to go upstairs. Instead, I sat captive with Lydia in the formal room with its cold, mock fireplace and silent grand piano. As we sipped our after-dinner coffee, Edward lit a cigar and began to talk about the house.
“Perhaps you’ve noticed that Royal Oaks bears a strong resemblance to Evangeline.” The same bright, almost feverish look came into Edward’s eyes as when he had spoken of our famil
y history.
“Yes. At first, I found the similarity—quite shocking.”
“Of course, the likeness is only on the outside.” Edward seemed almost apologetic. “The old house boasted thirty-eight rooms while Royal Oaks has only twenty.”
“Royal Oaks is a beautiful house,” I said, distracted. A concerned glance at Lydia warned me that something was troubling Edward’s young wife. I could tell by the way her lips trembled, the slight flush that had spread across her alabaster cheeks. Only I seemed to have noticed that Odele had filled her wineglass twice.
“I designed it myself. Many of the furnishings in this room axe the work of local craftsmen. Mallard of New Orleans handcrafted most of the chairs. And notice the Aubusson carpeting?”
I studied the tiny roses of the petit-point carpet, admiring the dainty handiwork. I remembered how my mother had sometimes sewn rugs to help pay the rent. She had always refused to do petit point. She had once told me that the special close work required by the petit-point stitch had caused too many a poor Frenchwoman to go blind.
“The bronze chandelier was imported from Versailles. Quite an expense. But the special effect is worth the little extra cost, don’t you agree, Louise?”
“It certainly—adds charm.” Shipping the heavy bronze piece from France must have cost a small fortune! Edward obviously had spared no expense in decorating his home, from the magnificent chandelier above our heads to the delicate Aubusson beneath our feet. I glanced around, trying to figure out what made the lovely, tastefully decorated room feel so uncomfortable.
“Oh, Louise.” Edward’s voice, anxious, almost impatient, broke my train of thought. What else had he found to impress me? “Did you happen to notice the tile in the hallway?” he asked. “It was imported from a little town in—”
“Italy” Lydia cut in, her voice razor-sharp with mockery. So I was not the first recipient of Edward’s rather long-winded prattle. I wondered how many times Lydia had heard all this before. I glanced over at her, then continued to stare, alarmed at the ugly emotion in her eyes.
She was glaring at Edward, a fixed, glassy stare that drained the beauty from her face. “You and this wretched house! Do you want to know what I think? It’s—it’s stiff and lifeless and dull. It’s—a mockery!” The words came out in an angry jumble. “It’ll never be another Evangeline. Never!”
Edward’s face darkened slightly, but I could detect no change in expression. “I must apologize. I believe my wife has had just a little too much sherry. Will you excuse us?”
Lydia rose suddenly and rushed from the room. Short, quick sobs shook her thin shoulders, bare and fragile above the lovely gown. Edward, his expression grim, followed close behind her.
“Don’t mind them, Louise,” Christine called from the corner. “Just a lover’s quarrel. It’s time for Nathan to go now. Why don’t you walk with us to the stables while Edward puts his drunken little wife to bed?”
“It’s getting late—”
“But you haven’t seen the gardens yet. Come with me to the stables, and on the way back, I’ll take you to see the roses.” She smiled. “You can be my chaperone. Edward would like that. He’s forever complaining that I’m too much on my own, but I won’t have some damned governess hanging about my neck,” Christine explained as we stepped from the parlor into the cool evening light.
Aside, Christine added, “Don’t mind Lydia’s moods. She hates it here. Edward brought her back with him from one of his trips into New Orleans—found her working in one of those swank gambling houses. She doesn’t think much of country living.”
“Have they been married long?”
“Only about a year. He should have known she’d be a tippler,” Christine confided as we walked along, Nathan quietly bringing up the rear. “Edward always locks the liquor cabinets, except when we have guests, like today. Lydia takes drops, too. Claims to have the vapors, but I’ve a feeling it’s the drops she likes!” Christine’s laughter seemed unnecessarily callous. Poor Lydia! She must be a very troubled woman. Had life with my uncle made her so unhappy?
The horses in the stables were of varying color and size. The bay horse, Sugar, had a long, ragged mane and gentle eyes. Though leery of horses, which to me all seemed huge and frightening, I felt immediately drawn to Sugar. “She’s the one you’ll take tomorrow,” Christine said, patting the soft muzzle fondly.
“But I’m not sure—”
“Oh, you’ll want me to take you out to see the country,” Christine insisted.
The ungainly brown mare with a spot over one eye belonged to Nathan. Another horse, a proud black stallion with a touch of white on each foreleg, stood back, wild-eyed and suspicious. “Thunder.” Christine held out her hand to him. “Come to me, my beauty” she coaxed. Slowly, giddily, the elegant Arabian sidled over. The horse looked so proud, so magnificent, I couldn’t imagine him letting anyone ride him. “He used to belong to Nicholas,” Christine explained, when Nathan was out of hearing range. That makes him special.”
Nathan stood waiting by his saddled horse, the short, sturdy kind that I supposed were practical for the swampy terrain. Christine wandered over to him and, slipping her slender arm through his, gave him a light kiss upon the cheek. He tried to draw her into his arm, but she stepped away lightly. “Louise is watching,” I heard her hiss. “Goodbye, Nathan.”
“Tomorrow, yes?” Nathan asked breathlessly, his brown eyes as gentle and adoring as the eyes of the horse that waited patiently for him.
“We’ll see.”
Reluctantly, the rather awkward young man, appealing despite his shaggy brown hair and crude clothing, mounted his horse and galloped away down the trail toward the bayou.
Christine made a face at his retreating back. “The silly goose. He thinks I’m going to marry him! That’ll be the day, when I grow fat and live in a shack and have a hundred children like his poor mother.”
“He seems like a nice young man to me.”
“He’s Cajun,” she replied with a shrug. “Edward would never approve.”
“Doesn’t Edward like Cajuns?”
“He’s poor,” she said, as if this settled the matter once and for all. “Edward doesn’t like anyone who is poor.”
Edward had explained during dinner that the Cajuns, like the Creoles, had their own colorful history. The Cajuns originally came from the French colony of Acadia. In 1713, when England won Acadia from the French and renamed it Nova Scotia, the Acadian people were cruelly exiled. The British burned their homes, then drove the Acadians into ships that scattered them among the various colonies. Families were broken up during the exile, never to be reunited.
Many of the descendants of the Acadians found their way to Louisiana. A peaceful, hard-working people, they shunned the big city of New Orleans. Most of diem became hunters and trappers, making a living from the land and the bayou.
I thought of the famous poem “Evangeline” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, for which the old house had been named. As Nathan galloped out of sight I caught the image of the charred ghost of the house from the corner of my eye. An involuntary shiver rippled through me. In the poem, the legendary lovers had been separated on their wedding day. I, thought suddenly of Nicholas, who had also been separated from his bride, though under much different circumstances. Fleetingly, I wondered what kind of a poem his sad story would make.
“Come on, Louise,” Christine prodded. We turned from the stables and began walking through the gardens. Large, shady magnolias scented the air, mingling with the fragrance of rose, jasmine, and mimosa. The feeling of horror, of sadness, which had caught me somewhat by surprise momentarily subsided, only to return even stronger at the sight of a grotesque stone figure which popped suddenly into view, poking a chillingly blank face out from behind a cluster of bright-pink crepe myrtle.
“What—what is that?” I gasped.
A winged creature with the body of a human, the face of a gargoyle, met my startled gaze. The creature was perched upon the edge of a
cracked and broken fountain near the edge of the rose garden. Two blank, lidless eyes gazed heavenward, as if in prayer. No water poured from the gaping mouth to spill into the crumbling fountain below. Only an inch or two of trapped rainfall from the recent storm filled the bottom, which was green and slimy with algae. Twisted green vines clung to the enormous, outspread wings. A monstrosity at best, neglect had made it an absolute eyesore.
The fountain used to be in the gardens at Evangeline,” Christine explained. “Your grandfather Raymond insisted that it be moved here after the fire destroyed the house. Edward was going to have it fixed and running for him.” She shrugged. “But then Great-gran died, and Edward never did do anything more with the ugly thing. He’ll probably have it torn down soon. Replace it with a mermaid, or something pretty.”
“I often wonder what my grandfather was like,” I said. Thoughts of him brought back the old feelings of resentment and hurt. My mother’s only sin had been falling in love. Why couldn’t he have forgiven her sooner? Why couldn’t he have at least tried to understand?
Christine sat upon the stone bench near the fountain’s base, beckoning for me to join her. “Sit here, then, and I’ll tell you all about him. He was an odd old man...” she began. “He kept to himself most of the time. He had been helping Nicholas fix up Evangeline, you know. And then the fire broke out. After that, he never was the same. It was as if the ruin of the old house killed something deep inside him.”
“He came back to Royal Oaks to live, hiding in his dark room that was filled with things he had managed to salvage from the fire. He seldom came out. He had injured his leg during the war, you know. He was worse after the fire. It pained him to walk, though most evenings he would hobble out here with his cane and sit in the gardens. Edward had the roses put in especially for him—six different varieties so that some would be in bloom all year round.”
A cool breeze fanned the scent of winter roses our way. The fragrance reminded me of Mother’s favorite perfume. She, too, Had been fond of roses.
The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras Page 7