Creole Hearts (27 page)

"All women be pretty much the same when it do come to men. You see she be happy."

"That's all I want for her."

"All I wanted for you," Odalie said, "Didn't do no good. It be true, just the same, I be dying happy now I know the child."

"You're going to live to see her married, just as I told you."

But Odalie did not. She died before Mardi Gras and Madelaine wept as she watched the black woman, who'd been a mother to her, laid to rest in her own vault. Now she had no one.

Madelaine tried to tell herself she didn't expect to see John again, but ever since Guy's return she'd hoped she was wrong, that John would come calling. After she buried Odalie she buried that hope as well. A leaden weight rested in her chest when she thought about him. Seeing Cecile's obvious preference for Fabrienne only increased her distress.

As the year passed, Madelaine grew more and more despondent. She tried to busy herself with the quadroon children she taught, but her pleasure in their accomplishments dwindled.

At Cecile's coming out ball in December, Madelaine had no choice but to let Fabrienne take the credit, for her brother's wife had arranged everything—even choosing Cecile's gown at the girl's request.

I'm nothing to anyone, Madelaine thought. Not even to myself.

John Kellogg had never come back to New Orleans. Even though he was in Baton Rouge, there might as well be an ocean between them as the few miles of the Mississippi that separated them.

She'd never felt so alone in her life.

Cecile had looked forward to her coming out ball, but at the same time she feared it. She smiled up at her partner, her lips stiff from polite smiling. So many strange young men, so many hands touching her, whirling her about in the waltz.

She didn't like being handled by men she barely knew, even in the formal patterns of a dance.

Cousine
Fabrienne had gone to much trouble to arrange this ball. Cecile adored Fabrienne and
Cousine
Guy, too. She tried to like
Cousine
Madelaine, but it seemed Madelaine always wanted to hug her, to touch her in some way.

The Sisters in France had been kind, had loved her, but they didn't show fondness by hugs and embraces. She still wasn't used to these open displays of affection. Fabrienne understood, but Madelaine didn't seem to.

Yet none of them, neither the Sisters nor her New Orleans cousines, ever answered her questions about her parents, always putting her off.

Who was she?

"You're the most charming girl in the room," her waltz partner said.

Cecile blinked, coming back to where she was.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He was handsome enough, this dark eyed man who twirled her about the floor so expertly. Why couldn't she respond to him?

Cecile glanced swiftly about the room yet one more time, although she was quite certain the only man who counted wasn't here.

"Is there anyone you'd like to invite who I've forgotten?" Fabrienne had asked her before the ball.

Cecile had shaken her head. How could she tell Fabrienne that, unknown to any of her
cousines
, she'd met a man with eyes the color of sable, a man whose touch she welcomed? Whose kiss she longed for? How could she tell them that the man lived at En Dela—and that his stepfather was
Cousine
Guy's bitter enemy?

Gabriel Davion hadn't been invited to Cecile's coming out ball.

Chapter
27

On November 13, 1833, Guy sat in his library looking out at the setting sun. He'd been sick with worry that Fabrienne or Cecile, as newcomers to Louisiana, would be visited by Bronze John when, in September, New Orleans was decimated by yellow fever deaths. This epidemic on top of those hundreds struck down since June of the dreaded cholera.

He'd kept everyone at Lac Belle, avoiding the city. Indescribable horrors went on in the town when the epidemic was at its peak: Bodies were thrown into the river, bricks tied to their feet to weigh them down; loved ones were buried within the courtyards interments took place at the cemeteries continuously throughout the day and on into the dark by candlelight.

There were so many deaths that the corpses were stacked like wood—not even in coffins—and in deserted hospitals the wards were filled with putrefying bodies, the doctors and nurses dead beside their patients.

A dark, thick cloud from the constantly burning tar and pitch fouled the city, making breathing difficult. The cannon, fired along the streets in the hope the gunpowder would purify the air caused numerous fires. New Orleans had taken on all the aspects of Hell.

Only two days earlier, a terrible rain storm had roared in from the northwest with violent winds and lightnings, sweeping away the deadly miasma, washing the streets clean, and ridding the city of not only Bronze John but the cholera as well.

Just the same, he'd forego use of the townhouse this year, Guy decided. Lac Belle was safer. Thank
le bon Dieu
his beloved Fabrienne had been spared. Cecile, too, of course, but Fabrienne was his first concern.

The wisest thing he'd ever done was to marry Fabrienne. She managed Lac Belle with a flair that all the Creole women tried to copy. She'd taken Cecile to her heart and guided the girl suitably, while at the same time encouraging her to come out of her shell of shyness. And she loved him in every way a woman should love a man.

If only he could be as happy about New Orleans. It seemed to him that, while he'd been in France, the city had puffed up like a poisonous toadstool, expanding up and down river and all the way to Lake Pontchartrain. The railroad from the city to the lake was finished, some four and a half miles of track.

"We have the first railroad in the entire south, the first one west of the Allegheny Mountains," Rafe had said proudly. "Think of it!"

Guy hated to. He hated the puffing engine, nicknamed "Smoky Mary" because of the black smoke that choked the countryside every time it passed. He disliked the crowds who rode the cars to the lake of a Sunday. No longer was Lac Belle isolated and peaceful. The epidemic had stopped the excursions for a time, but they'd resume. He was certain of that.

So many steamboats crowded the levee that at night their lights made it seem as if a
faubourg
, a suburb, had sprung up atop the water. He'd sold his interest in the boats, finding them no longer either amusing or a source of pleasure.

Ocean-going ships, their grey sails furled, mingled with the white steamboats on the river. The waterway both up and downriver from the city was as clogged and busy as the streets.

And the attitude in the city was changing. Never before had the Creoles despised the free blacks. They'd viewed them with some wariness since, after all, one knew who they'd side with if a slave rebellion erupted, but there was no hatred. If a free man of color didn't have the right to vote, he did have many other privileges equal to any Creole.

Now restrictions and curtailments were enacted monthly, it seemed. The new laws changed Creoles' attitudes toward the free coloreds, even though the laws were initiated by Americans.

Damn the Americans for their increasing control of everything. It was ruining his city.

He hadn't yet spoken to Madelaine about giving up her teaching of the free black children. She'd stopped during the epidemics and he was determined she wouldn't start again, for he'd been warned that his sister wasn't safe with those "nigger brats."

He sighed. She was safe enough with the blacks. It was the whites who threatened. She'd been so despondent lately he'd put off the task, but he must tell her soon. Order her, for she had no choice.

He'd do it right now, this moment. Guy rose and crossed the room, only to be interrupted by Leroy's appearance in the doorway.

"A man say he want to see you, Monsieur"

Guy sighed. He'd heard the knocker but

"Who is it?"

"He say he be Docteur Kellogg."

Guy's eyes widened. "Bring him here," he said.

He greeted John warmly, offering him brandy.

"No, thank you. I try not to drink when I'm working."

"Perhaps coffee?"

"Yes, I'd like coffee."

"Did the army send doctors in to assist during the epidemics?" Guy asked.

John shook his head. "I'm no longer in the army. I did come down from Baton Rouge to help out. I've set up a practice there. Thank God the worst is over. There hasn't been a new case of yellow jack or cholera since the storm."

"You'll be returning, then, to Baton Rouge?"

"Yes. I've done quite well since I've been there. I have no worries about money."

"I see." Guy was puzzled. Why did Kellogg tell him how well he fared financially? It seemed unlike the man. "Well, the best of luck for the future," he added.

"Thanks." John took a deep breath and sat straighter in the chair. "Since I'm quite securely established," he said, "I've come to ask you for your sister's hand in marriage."

Guy couldn't speak, so shocked was he at this request.

"Madelaine thought it best that I speak to you first," John said, eyeing Guy levelly.

Rage gathered Guy's wits together. "You marry Madelaine?" he cried. "An American marry my sister? Never! Never while I live!"

Guy glared at John Kellogg. Dieu, he'd challenge this presuming American. They all wanted to take over. The city. The Creoles. His very family. This one, at least, wouldn't get what he wanted.

"Docteur Kellogg," he began stiffly, "I--"

The door flew open and Fabrienne rushed in. She ran to Guy and grasped his arm. "You must come immediately," she cried. "Hurry!"

Guy, who'd been about to order her from the room, stared in alarm.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't ask questions, come quickly!" she demanded, tugging at his arm.

Guy allowed himself to be led toward the door. He'd never seen his wife so distraught. What could be wrong? Was Cecile ill? An accident?

Fabrienne shut the door firmly behind them and took Guy to the foot of the stairs, where she stopped and faced him.

“Don’t you dare challenge that man to a duel,” she said, “He wants to marry your sister—in the
nom de Dieu
let him! I understand he is perfectly respectable, a doctor. What’s the matter with you that--”

“Enough!” Guy roared. “How dare you interfere in my affairs?”

“
Pouf
,” she said, They’re my affairs, too. Madelaine is terribly unhappy at Lac Belle, for I’ve taken her place in the house and she has nothing to do. Would you deprive her of the only man who’s likely to offer for a forty-five year old spinster? Don’t be a selfish fool,”

“Fabrienne—“

“I’ll be very angry with you if you don’t listen to me. Being a man you’ll do what you wish, but I warn you—a challenge is not in any of our best interests. I’d like to be friends with Madelaine, but how can I when she resents me so? If she marries the feelings between us will improve.”

“A wife doesn’t interfere in these matters,” Guy repeated, shaken more than he liked to admit by what Fabrienne had said. Was it true?

“You’ll destroy Madelaine if you persist in your wrong headedness,” Fabrienne insisted,

“She can’t be seriously interested in marrying this—this American, Guy sputtered. “It’s true that Kellogg has mooned after my sister in years past, but she? Never!”

“I love him!” As she spoke Madelaine rushed down the stairs towards them and Guy realized she’s been waiting on the landing above.

“I love John Kellogg and I’ll marry him if he wants me. I saw him come to the door. Did he ask you?”

“I was barely in time to stop the challenge Fabrienne put in. “If you hadn’t told me who he was, Madelaine, then we’d be facing a duel.”

“A duel?” Madelaine put her hands on her hips, glaring at her brother. “Tanguay La Branche, how could you? I’m through with you and your ridiculous adherence to the past. I'll leave this house immediately and I will marry John, whatever you say."

Guy looked from one to the other of the women, overwhelmed. What were things coming to when women spoke so to the head of the household?

Madelaine, starting for the library, turned again to her brother. "Furthermore, it's cruel of you to deprive Cecile of the truth about her birth. I can see she's unhappy not knowing. It's wrong to lie to her. As for me—John knows, has known from the beginning about Cecile and he loves me anyway. What do I care how others feel?" She whirled and ran from Guy.

Fabrienne shrugged as if to say—you see?

Guy, anger and frustration roiling inside him, strode to the front door and, banging it behind him, flung himself down the front steps and into the evening.

Louisiana wasn't what it had been, nor was the world. Everything he could see as he stomped along the road toward the city spoke of growth, of the cursed American drive for progress, no matter who or what got trampled in the process.

Like the Creoles were being trampled.

He'd fought to have the French language retained in the legislature and had won. Now he foresaw a day when there'd be no battle because everyone would speak English and the reason for allowing the French to be spoken would disappear.

How well he remembered the census of 1810 when he and his friends were amazed to realize that 76,556 people lived in Louisiana. What had the count been in 1830? Nearly 216,000, as he recalled. New Orleans had suffered the most from this influx. Not only Americans, but Irish, Italians, everyone came to the city, changing its ways.

No longer could he stroll along the old streets, Royal, Orleans, Esplanade and recognize everyone he met. Strangers sat in  the coffee houses and thronged to the French Market.

The trouble with the Americans was they saw no need to take the time to enjoy life, to meet with friends over a brandy, to talk of nothing in particular. They hustled about their business, always in a hurry. Why couldn’t they see that business should be transacted leisurely, By friend, in a coffee house? Why didn’t they see that it should be a part of a man’s life, but not his reason for living?

Guy walked on through the city, coming at last to the levee, where he stood staring at the the double-stacked steamboats gleaming white against the dark water. Thousands of them came to port here in a year’s time. Thousands. He could remember when there was only one steamboat on the Mississippi—Fulton’s
New Orleans
.

Still, he couldn’t really complain about the boats. The side-wheelers had done well for him and he’d helped proliferate them. His profits had climbed, too, from the increased population, more shipping, the need for more sugar. If the war with the British had almost destroyed, the Americans must be given credit for making him many times as wealthy as his father had been.

But the quality of life suffered. He watched the bustle on the wharves. Once he’d have though the port crowded if three ships were at anchor at the same time. Now they were so busy they loaded day and night.

A light flashed across the dark sky and disappeared above the southern horizon. Like one of the rockets we waited for the night at Chalmette, he though. So many of us, all trusting Jackson to lead us to victory.

The great general Jackson—he was President Jackson now—yet he never forgot a man who fought with him.

Why do I complain? He asked himself. Hasn’t my life been good, all in all? I have a loving wife, even if she does try to manage me as well as Lac Belle. The plantation is greater than the old one at La Belle, certainly more profitable.

In France, Denis is a son to be proud of, and Anton will be, in his way. My niece, Cecile, is all I could have wanted in a daughter. I only regret that I didn’t listen to Madelaine and bring her to live with us sooner.

Madelaine. Did I destroy my sister’s life? Poor Philippe—I never intended to kill him. What did I intend with John Kellogg? To rid myself of all Americans by running a rapier through one of them?

I must put a good face on this marriage, whether I approve or not. I don’t want to lose my sister. Fabrienne is right, Madelaine needs to have a husband. If she loves Kellogg, why not let her be happy? Yes, I can and will agree to the marriage.

Cecile is another matter. I can’t agree she be told or her origins. My sister calls my respect for the past ridiculous. She can’t see a man must be true to his roots, to what has gone before. Cecile will remain a La Branche. She must never know she bears the hated name of Roulleaux.

His thoughts broke off as another meteor arced overhead, followed by two more, then a dozen others, so many of them that he stood watching the night sky in wonder. The entire sky blazed with shooting stars. The heavens became a coruscating brilliance.