A Tyranny of Petticoats

by Jessica Spotswood

  I hurry to Eugenie’s home at the back of the Quarter. I hammer on the door of the yellow stucco cottage, shifting from foot to foot, hoping no one will see me and mention it to Maman.

  Eugenie opens the door herself, and I barely cross the threshold before I’m pouring out the story — how Maman refused to even consider Antoine’s suit, how Etienne proposed, how I hope in time I can make Maman see reason . . .

  “In time? You expect a man like that to wait for you?” Eugenie shakes her head. By this time we’re sitting together on the cream-colored silk settee in the parlor. “I thought you had more sense than that, Maddie, I really did.”

  “She’s my mother,” I protest. “Even if I don’t agree with her, I have to respect —”

  “Do you? I thought you were in love — like something out of one of your novels, you said!” Eugenie’s voice is laced with lemons. “And now you’re willing to give him up to please your mother? I thought you had more spine than that too.”

  “I — I do,” I stutter, curling into myself. I suppose I deserve for her to talk to me this way. “But Maman loves me. She wants better for me.”

  Eugenie stiffens, her hand flying to her tight, fuzzy curls, which have gone every which way in the sticky heat. She is light skinned and fine featured, but that hair is the bane of her existence.

  Her brother, Charles, with his fine, straight hair and light eyes, could pass for white. Monsieur Reynard sent him to Paris years ago, and Eugenie and Madame Dalcour seldom hear from him. Eugenie says he married a white woman and doesn’t want his wife to know about his colored mother and sister.

  I think it broke Eugenie’s heart a little.

  I could cut out my careless tongue.

  “Do you think you’re better than me?” she demands.

  “Of course not! You could marry if you wanted.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “And then what? I’d have a carpenter for a husband. Or a liveryman.” She gives me a sideways look.

  Anger simmers in my stomach — and guilt, because haven’t I thought the same thing? “There’s nothing wrong with good, honest work.”

  “Not if you don’t mind your man coming home smelling of sweat and shit,” Eugenie says, and I gasp at her crude language. “No. I want more for myself than that. I want a fine gentleman like Antoine, a man who will provide for me and give me a beautiful life.”

  She looks pointedly around the parlor, and my eyes follow hers to the pink roses in the crystal vase, the fine china on the tea table, the thick patterned rug on the floor. Our rug at home is worn thin from the twins playing on it and stained from food they’ve dropped and mud they’ve tracked in. We can’t have pretty knickknacks anywhere within reach lest the little ones break them. And last time Papa brought Maman flowers, we found Marie Therese chewing on a magnolia.

  But our house is full of laughter too. Of the twins’ rambling, silly stories and Marie Therese’s babbling baby talk and Nanette humming songs. Of Papa reading stories from the Bible at night and Maman telling him the neighborhood gossip while she does her mending. The cottage around me now is silent as Saint Louis Cemetery. I remember my mother’s claim that Madame Dalcour is lonely. For all that I’ve envied her — well, it occurs to me for the first time that perhaps Eugenie is too.

  I lay a hand on her forearm. “If a fine gentleman like Antoine is what you want, then that’s what you’ll have. Nothing ever stands in your way, Eugenie.”

  “Because I know what I want,” Eugenie mutters. “And I chase after it.”

  I shrink back against the settee. This all seemed so simple at the ball, when Antoine and I were dancing. Maybe I am just as spineless and easily swayed as Eugenie says.

  Or maybe I just need one more opinion. A sign. From someone who has no stake in this.

  I shoot to my feet. “I have an idea,” I announce.

  The Widow Paris is known throughout the Quarter as a voodoo queen, a healer and conjurer. Women go to her for good-luck charms, husband-holding charms, money-making charms . . . and for darker purposes too. Maman says it’s all nonsense, but some of the girls at school swore by her.

  I get as far as her front door and then my bout of confidence fails me.

  “Are you going to knock or not?” Eugenie demands, tapping her boot impatiently.

  The way she looks at me — as if she’s expecting me to run home like a scared little mouse — gives me new determination. I reach up and rap on the door of the small one-story cottage.

  A tall dark woman in a simple pale-blue frock opens the door. “How can I help you?” she asks.

  “We’re looking for the Widow Paris? Marie Laveau?” I ask.

  The woman nods, her lips twitching in what might be a faint smile. “I am she.” She glances from me to Eugenie. “Are you here for a love charm?”

  I shake my head. Eugenie has gone uncharacteristically silent, staring at the pomegranate and banana trees in the front yard. It’s up to me to speak. “No. But I — I do hope you might be able to help me,” I say. “I’m at a — crossroads of sorts, and I don’t know which way to turn. My family says one thing, my friend advises another.”

  The young widow’s eyes fasten on mine. I assumed she was older, but she can’t be more than twenty-five. Her brown face is smooth, save for a few lines at the corners of her mouth.

  “Her parents are trying to force her into marriage with a man she doesn’t love,” Eugenie spits. “Out of some misguided notion of propriety.”

  “They wouldn’t force me,” I correct her. “They want what’s best for me.”

  Eugenie rolls her eyes. “And I don’t?”

  Marie looks sharply at Eugenie. The moment stretches out like a frayed hair ribbon. “I see,” she says finally. “Come inside.”

  Marie leads us into the front room. Dozens of candles are lit and incense burns; the room is small and close with the sweet, heady scent of it. There is an altar with fresh flowers and statues of three saints: Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things; Saint Peter, who is said to open the door to the spirit world and remove barriers to success; and Saint Marron, the patron saint of runaway slaves. Marie turns the big statue of Saint Anthony on its head, and I stifle a gasp at the irreverence.

  “I need something of yours for the gris-gris, chère,” she says. “Hair, or a fingernail, or . . .”

  The girls at school talked about this part, but a tremor of fear still runs up my spine. What if she uses this talisman to curse me or for some other dark purpose?

  Eugenie doesn’t give me time to think. She leans close, plucks a hair right out of my head, and hands it to Marie. I glare at her and adjust my tignon.

  “This will do,” Marie says. She opens a small wooden cabinet next to her altar. It’s lined with jars full of all manner of strange things: bundles of roots, herbs, hot peppers, sugar or salt, dirt, pins and needles, nails, and Lord knows what else. Some of them look to be animal parts. She mixes items from different jars into a little cloth bag, then chants some unfamiliar words, her hands reaching out toward her altar, supplicating the saints. The candles flicker. Eugenie is watching with wide-eyed fascination, but I bow my head because whether I believe in this or not — and truth be told, I’m not certain — it is clearly sacred to Marie.

  When she finishes chanting, I raise my eyes. Marie sprinkles holy water over the little bag and then hands it to me. “Keep the gris-gris on your person,” she instructs. “It will ward off those who do not have your best interests at heart. Without their false counsel, you will find your own way.”

  “Thank you.” I fumble in my reticule for coins. “I — I don’t know how much —”

  “Fifteen cents,” Marie says, and I hand her the appropriate amount. Between this and bribing Nanette, today has made quite a dent in my egg money. Marie studies my face. “Good luck to you, Madeleine.”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and gooseflesh rises across my skin. I nod, unsettled, and flee with Eugenie back out into the hot May sun.
r />   A week passes, but I am no closer to understanding my own heart. I spend my days helping Maman and Nanette with a spring cleaning, beating the quilts and rugs, hanging linens on the drying line in the courtyard. I am quiet, withdrawn. Maman eyes me and scoops extra helpings of gumbo into my bowl. I feign a headache to avoid attending a ball with my family; I cannot bear to face Etienne. He asked me to think more on his offer of marriage, and I do. I can’t stop thinking of it.

  I watch Maman and Papa.

  He works late sometimes, and he does come home smelling of sweat and dung and horse. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles at him across the dinner table while she relates the little details of our days. They beam at each other when Marie Therese takes her first wobbly steps. Maman cooks liver for him even though she hates the smell. Papa pours her a steaming cup of coffee every morning before he goes to work, and she always thanks him for it, even as she’s wrestling the boys into their clothes or nursing Marie Therese.

  Am I wrong about love? Is it founded on mutual respect, on like meeting like, not on heart-pounding, stomach-churning nervousness and pretty compliments?

  On the seventh day, Maman looks at the plummy circles beneath my eyes and sighs. “Why don’t you go visit Eugenie?”

  “Truly?” I ask, and she gives me a pained smile. I jump up and leave a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Thank you!”

  I change into a high-waisted petal-pink visiting gown, slip the gris-gris into the pocket of my skirts, and leave immediately, though gray clouds are threatening an afternoon storm. I’ve missed Eugenie’s gossip, her bossiness, her big, booming laugh — so unexpected in such a small girl. And last night was the quadroon ball. Did Madame Dalcour tell Antoine that my parents refused his offer? Was he terribly heartbroken? I’ve imagined all sorts of scenarios; now I’m desperate to know the truth of it.

  I’m striding down the Rue des Remparts when I notice the fine horse tied to the hitching post. I hesitate. Monsieur Reynard, perhaps? But he usually rides a black gelding. I notice horses, thanks to Papa. This one has white fetlocks and a gleaming chestnut coat, and it twitches its blond tail drowsily to ward off flies.

  I’m still standing there when the front door of Eugenie’s cottage opens and a man steps out.

  I blink, disbelieving.

  It’s Antoine Guerin.

  My Antoine.

  Calling on Eugenie and Madame Dalcour.

  My first, foolish thought is that he’s come to beg Madame to intercede on his behalf, to plead his suit to my parents.

  Then I remember that spark of envy in Eugenie’s eyes when Antoine first asked me to dance. Her words play over in my mind. I want a fine gentleman like Antoine, a man who will provide for me and give me a beautiful life. . . . I know what I want. And I chase after it.

  And I know with a sudden, terrible certainty that she hasn’t been pleading my case at all.

  I stand there, frozen despite the thick, sultry air of the coming storm. Antoine looks in my direction and — oh, no — his brown eyes meet mine. They don’t crinkle now; his lips don’t tilt into his charming, flirtatious smile. He doesn’t even nod. He just looks away, mounts his horse, and rides off down the street.

  Tears fill my eyes.

  I can’t pretend he didn’t recognize me.

  He looked me right in the face and cut me dead.

  Eight days ago, he held me close while we waltzed. He pressed my hand and told me I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and that he would speak to Madame Dalcour about our future. He said he loved me. And now —

  Unless I am much mistaken — and I truly don’t think I am — he’s become my best friend’s protector.

  I stare at the yellow stucco cottage, at the orange tree in front.

  Then I pick up my pink skirts and hurry away as fast as decorum will allow. Marie Laveau’s gris-gris, tucked into my skirts, brushes against my thigh with every step. She showed me who I could trust, all right.

  The rain starts when I’m halfway home. I duck down the Rue Burgundy. It’s the shortest route home, and the galleries over the banquettes will protect me from the downpour. But the Decoudreauxes’ shop is here. I keep my face turned away from the shop windows, but a familiar voice calls my name.

  “Monsieur Decoudreaux, good afternoon.” My smile comes out more a grimace.

  Etienne’s father stands at the open door of their shop. “Mademoiselle Madeleine, please, come inside until the storm passes. How is your family?”

  I cannot refuse without being rude, so I follow him. “They’re all very well, thank you.” The store smells of freshly cut wood and the lemon juice they mix into the furniture wax. Etienne stands behind the counter.

  “I’ll let the two of you visit a bit,” Monsieur Decoudreaux says, grinning as he abandons us for the workshop in back. He leaves the door ajar for propriety.

  Etienne comes out, running his hands along a dressing table. “Did you make that?” I ask, and he nods without meeting my eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  I daydreamed about sitting before a dressing table like that, fixing my hair just so in front of the looking glass, readying myself for Antoine’s arrival.

  My skin goes hot with embarrassment, and angry tears prick at my eyes.

  Etienne steps closer, lowering his voice. “Maddie, you look — not quite yourself. Are you unwell?”

  “I’m furious, is what I am.” The words come out before I can think them through.

  He takes a wary step backward. “Not with me, I trust?”

  “No. With myself, for being a fool.” He gestures for me to sit, and I plop down in a rocking chair, heedless of my posture. My hems are muddy, bedraggled strands of hair are escaping from my tignon, and I’m sure I look a mess.

  Etienne props his hip against a handsome desk opposite me. “I doubt you’re a fool. At least, you never have been before.”

  I look up at him. He’s a good man. He didn’t feed me extravagant compliments, didn’t flatter and flirt, but I’ve no doubt that he meant what he said. And if I’m to consider marrying him — well, he ought to know what I am, for better or for worse.

  “I almost entangled myself in a — an arrangement. Like Madame Dalcour. Maman told me she and Papa wouldn’t even consider it. And today — today I found out that the man I thought was in love with me has made Eugenie Dalcour an offer. I thought I was special, but it wasn’t me he wanted at all — any girl would do.”

  I bury my face in my hands.

  Etienne reaches out and pries my fingers away from my face. “He’s the fool,” he says softly. “You are special, Maddie.”

  He doesn’t let go of my hands. His bare fingers are big and warm and callused from his carpentry work.

  “That’s kind of you. Kinder than I deserve,” I say. My eyes meet his and then skitter away. “I — I didn’t even know him. Whether he has brothers or sisters. What his favorite food is. What games he played growing up.”

  “Are those things you think you should know about a future husband?” Etienne asks, and I nod. “Well. You know my brothers, and you know the games I played growing up because you were there. My favorite food is —”

  “Your mother’s lemon pie,” I interrupt.

  He grins. This one shows his teeth. “You remember that?”

  “How could I forget? You’d eat the whole thing in a trice if she let you.” I laugh, thinking of the way Etienne used to scale the trees in the Decoudreauxes’ courtyard to get at the lemons and then beg his mother to make him a pie.

  Etienne laughs too, then looks out the front window. The rain has stopped, in the way of spring storms. He stands, letting go of my hands, searching my face with his dark eyes. “May I walk you home?”

  “Yes,” I say, taking his arm. “I’d like that.”

  When I was twelve, I went on a road trip with my grandparents through the South. One of our stops was New Orleans. We took a steamboat ride down the Mississippi, ate beignets at Café Du Monde, and walked through the colorful streets
of the French Quarter. I was immediately smitten. Over the years, I’ve returned to the city half a dozen times, drawn by the fascinating history and the sense that there is no other place quite like it. When I had to pick a place and subject for my story, I knew immediately that I wanted to write about New Orleans and the gens de couleur libres.

  New Orleans in the early nineteenth century had three distinct castes: white, slave, and the gens de couleur libres, the free people of color. While the last are often remembered for the infamous quadroon balls and the arrangements between white men and free women of color, many were respected middle-class tradesmen and business owners. One very mythologized free woman of color was the voodoo priestess Marie Laveau. To read more about her, I recommend Carolyn Morrow Long’s A New Orleans Voudou Priestess: The Legend and Reality of Marie Laveau, and to learn more about the femmes de couleur libres, I recommend Emily Clark’s The Strange History of the American Quadroon: Free Women of Color in the Revolutionary Atlantic World.

  FOLKS AROUND HERE LIKE TO SAY WE came from the stars. Perhaps it’s simpler to think of us not as human but as creatures made of stardust — that if you cut us, not blood but constellations will pour from our wounds. And though I’ve never admitted to having such a thought to my sisters, when I stand under the night sky, with the infinite heavens stretched out above me like a shroud — it’s hard to imagine we came from anywhere else.

  Many years ago, when creatures made of rock and fire roamed the earth, both gods and mortals trembled in our presence. In the southern lands of Europe, they appeased us with figs and olives plucked from low drooping branches, and we licked the juices off our fingers with delight. A season passed, or perhaps it was a lifetime, and we closed our weary eyes and awoke to a world of snow and ice. In the north we were giants, dark and stoic. We sat at the foot of the Tree of the World as the frost turned our limbs black with cold.