Iron Lace (4 page)

Louisiana Gulf Coast 1893

A
man took a wife for children. A man took a mistress for pleasure. In the latter, Lucien Le Danois had been most fortunate. He had taken a mistress who could bestow such pleasure that the most demanding of Creole men, had they known, would have knelt at her feet. But as fate would have it, Marcelite Cantrelle was also more capable of bearing children than Lucien’s wife, Claire.

A man merely looked at Marcelite and she grew heavy with new life, like the seed of the love vine, swollen with spring rain. Her body, wide-hipped and sturdy, was made for child-bearing. Her breasts were a lush invitation to suckle and grow strong. Lucien knew well the mystical wonders of her flesh against his lips, the enticement of her earthy fragrance.

Marcelite had already borne him one child, a daughter brought into the world in a matter of hours, nourished on mother’s milk and the freshest, sweetest fruits of the Gulf of
Mexico. Angelle was a black-haired, laughing nymph, brown from the sun, like her black-haired mother. When Marcelite went down to the beach to mend nets, two-year-old Angelle knew how to dance away from the white-tipped waves. At home, as their house filled with the spicy scent of the day’s catch cooking in the fireplace, she could climb the lone water oak outside their front door and, hidden among its moss-draped branches, call greetings to the fishermen who passed by.

Lucien attempted to think only of Angelle and Marcelite as he sailed across the Jump, the shallow pass that separated Grand Isle from Chénière Caminada. But, despite his best efforts, it was other faces that he saw.

The Jump separated more than two bodies of land. Earlier in the afternoon, he had said a stern farewell to his wild-eyed wife, and to Aurore, his only legitimate child. He could still feel Claire’s fingers clawing at his arm as he pushed her away, still see the accusations in Aurore’s pale eyes.

Why should he feel guilty? Hadn’t he made the steamboat trip to Grand Isle well after the summer season had ended so that he could escort Claire and Aurore back to New Orleans? Hadn’t he given Claire permission to stay these extra weeks, weeks she claimed to need in order to face the final months of her pregnancy?

As a husband, he could not be faulted. Perhaps their house in New Orleans was not as grand as the home she had once shared with her parents, but many men envied the large property he owned on Esplanade. Claire lacked for nothing.

And he had been patient. By all the saints, he had been patient as she lost baby after baby. A man could be outraged at a woman for less. He had watched and waited in silence as she failed to bring a son into the world to carry his name. Even
now, she was pregnant again. Even now, he waited for the day when she would take to her bed and disappoint him once more.

For all Lucien’s patience, Claire had given him nothing but one frail daughter whose skin was so translucent he could almost see her heartbeat. No one believed that five-year-old Aurore, their only child to be born alive, would live to adulthood.

So was he to blame if he took an afternoon for himself? He had promised Marcelite a visit before he returned to New Orleans. Months would pass before he saw her again, months when he would dream of her body under his.

The wind suddenly filled his sail, the harsh sigh of a God impatient with his excuses. The small skiff bobbed closer to the shoreline, carried by the waves breaking against the sand. The tide was low. Lucien rolled up his trousers and took off his shoes, then swung himself overboard to drag the skiff to the beach.

In the distance, despite the afternoon’s bursts of rain, he could see men in wide-brimmed hats offshore, casting circular throw nets. A cold front had come through, and the damp air was tinged with the pleasures of autumn. Two women, their homespun skirts dragging on the wet sand, piled storm-tossed driftwood to season for cooking and heating. Marcelite’s pile was farther up the beach, stacked tall by her own hands and Raphael’s.

Seven-year-old Raphael, Marcelite’s son by a former liaison, was a good child, a help to his mother, a guardian and companion to his sister. He was as captivated by Angelle as Lucien was, and because of his enslavement to Lucien’s daughter, Raphael had taken a special place in Lucien’s heart.

Lucien scanned the beach, half expecting to find the boy hiding behind one of the woodpiles, in a game they often played. But Raphael was nowhere to be seen.

Lucien murmured polite greetings to the women before he
made his way toward the village. The contrast between Chénière Caminada and Grand Isle was as wide as the pass that separated them. The large village on the
chénière
boasted over six hundred houses and bustled with the daily routines of its inhabitants. The fishermen and trappers of the
chénière
had large, close-knit families, and little contact with the outside world. Grand Isle was smaller, without a church or a resident justice of the peace. But in the summer months, Grand Isle swelled with the wealthy who escaped the punishing summers of the city and the fever that often came with the heat.

Lucien passed a small orange grove, its green-tinged fruit bending the branches into graceful arcs. Ahead, a group of frame houses set high on brick pillars lined the grassy path. As he passed, a group of women, chatting together and shelling crabs on the wide gallery of one house, called to him to get inside before it rained again. A small dog stepped into his path and sniffed his shoes, as if hoping to discover a story to share with a larger comrade asleep under the shelter of an overturned pirogue.

His destination was a leisurely fifteen-minute stroll away, past houses with vineyards and kitchen gardens. On Grand Isle, ridges of ancient, twisted oaks hindered every view, but here Lucien could see much of the village in one glance. The
chénière
natives had cut down their trees, to better feel the Gulf breezes on hot summer days.

He had come this way for the first time three years ago. He and a friend had sailed to the
chénière
from Grand Isle to buy a new fishing net as a gift for his friend’s wife. The net was to be a decoration for an autumn soiree with a seaside theme.

On arrival, they had been directed to Marcelite Cantrelle’s hut. Lucien had expected a toothless hag who would bargain
ruthlessly. Instead, he had been enchanted to discover a dark-haired temptress who negotiated with such charm that by the time his friend had his net, he didn’t even realize that he had spent twice the amount he had planned.

Lucien had gone back to see Marcelite often that first summer. He had found excuses at first—another net, advice on where he might have the most success fishing, a small gift for Raphael. But by the time August arrived, he and Marcelite had come to an unspoken understanding. He visited when he could, and brought her gifts and money. In exchange, she yielded her body exclusively to him. The arrangement suited them both.

Lucien had come this way many times, but he never failed to become aroused when he knew he would soon hold Marcelite in his arms. Now he rounded a bend, and her house came into view. Constructed of driftwood and thatched with palmetto, the house was as much a creation of local custom and culture as the woman who lived in it. In the distance, Lucien could see her, waiting in the shelter of the water oak. Her shirtwaist gleamed white against the weathered brown of the palmetto. He could see her hands sweep back and forth over a fishing net, tugging, straightening, tying, but her gaze was fixed on him.

When he drew nearer, she thrust the net aside and stood, but she didn’t come to him. She wasn’t a tall woman, but with her regal carriage and the proud tilt of her head, she gave the impression of height. She didn’t straighten her skirts or allow her hands to fidget. She waited.

When they were face-to-face, he gave a little bow. “Mademoiselle.”

“M’sieu,” she replied, in the husky, staccato accent of the bayous.

“Where are the children?”

She switched to English, since she knew he preferred it. “Angelle naps inside. Raphael explores.”

“I didn’t see him on the beach.”

“He goes farther each day, looking for treasure.”

“It’s the influence of that old pirate Juan Rodriguez.”

“Raphael seeks more than gold coins. He seeks a man to talk with.”

Lucien heard no reproach in Marcelite’s voice, but he felt it nonetheless. “He could do better than old Rodriguez.”

“Juan is good to Raphael. The boy could listen to his stories forever.”

Lucien propped one hand against the tree. The pose moved him closer to her. “And what could you do forever,
mon coeur?
”

She lifted her shoulders, and he watched the soft muslin collar glide along her neck. “Eat,
mais oui?
Sit in the shade and watch the herons catch their supper?”

“And what else?”

“I can think of nothing else I might want to do forever.” She lowered her eyes until her lashes shadowed her sun-kissed cheeks. “But perhaps I can think of something I would like to do often.”

His heart beat faster. He absorbed each detail of her, the way the light filtered through the branches and spangled her black hair, the tiny gold hoops at her earlobes, the strong curve of her nose, the sensuous curve of her lips.

Never more than at moments like this did he wish that time would cease its steadfast march and leave him alone with Marcelite, secure and content in the life they had fashioned here together. She was a mixture of the diverse nationalities that had long claimed this marshy peninsula as their own, a spicy combination of this and that, much like the gumbo she often served
him. It was her differences, as much as the things that made her like every woman, that compelled him to seek her out.

“I brought you a gift.”

She lifted her eyes. “Did you? You’ve hidden it well.”

“It’s a small thing.” He slid his hand inside his coat and drew out a rectangular package. “See what you think.”

She took her time, letting her callused, capable fingers pluck at the strings with the patience and delicacy of a well-bred Creole maiden. When the gift was revealed, she stared at it without removing it from its wrappings.

“It’s a folding fan,” Lucien said. He took it and flicked it open, revealing embroidered red and gold roses on butter-soft leather. “The frame is violet wood. From France.” He swept it under her nose so that she could enjoy the scent. “For when the breeze forgets to blow.”

“And where, M’sieu, do I find the hand I need to use such a thing?”

He laughed. “Open the fan in the evenings, when your chores are finished. Sit on your little stool, right here, as darkness comes, and think of me.”

“
Mais non
—it’s the mosquitoes I’ll think of.”

He folded the fan and touched her cheek with the tip. “And you won’t think of me? Not even a little?”

She examined him as a wife at the French Market might examine the day’s catch. “Why should I?”

“Marcelite…” He moved closer. “Haven’t you missed me?”

Her expression didn’t change.

“Don’t you like your gift?”

“My roof needs patching. My bed is damp. My house needs windows, a new door. I have no time to fan myself. I have no time to miss you. And now that I am with child again…”

He grabbed her arms. “What?”

“…I have less time than before.”

“You’re going to have a baby?”

“Where are your eyes?”

He let his gaze drop slowly, and he saw what he had missed. Despite her corset—which he knew she wore only for his pleasure—her waist was thicker. Her breasts, heavy and ripe, rebelled against the unaccustomed restraint and strained toward freedom.

“When?” he asked.

“In the spring. When the birds fly north.”

All the implications ran swiftly through his mind. “A son?”

She lifted her shoulders again, and this time it was not her neck, but her breasts that he watched in fascination, to see if they would gain the freedom they so longed for.

“Do you want my son, Lucien? If I have your son, what will life hold for him?”

He thought of everything he had to offer. His home, his name, the money and social position that had come to him through his marriage to Claire Friloux, his stature as an officer of Gulf Coast Steamship. All this he had to give, but none of it could he offer Marcelite’s child.

“What would you have me give him?” he asked.

“A house better than this one.” She gestured behind her, toward the hut where they had spent so many pleasurable hours. “A lugger, so that he can earn his way in the world. Later, perhaps, a place in your business.”

A son. Lucien felt his chest grow tight with longing. A son with Angelle’s black hair and laughing brown eyes. A son grown strong on salt air and hard work, a son who could never carry his name, but who would carry some essence of him
into the next generations. And perhaps, if fate decreed and Antoine Friloux, Claire’s father, did not outlive Lucien, a son who might someday inherit part of his estate.

“You’ll get your house,” Lucien said. He touched her cheek again, but this time his fingertips weren’t quite steady. “I promise to send a boat in the spring filled with lumber. Can you find men to build it?”

She nodded. Her eyes softened to the black of a moonlit bayou, her gaze flicked languidly over him. “Can you find a man to live in it with me sometimes,
hein?
A man to teach my son of the city?”

“Our son and our daughter.”

“Maybe we should go inside and see our daughter now?”

He knew that Angelle always napped away the afternoon. They would see a child soundly sleeping, curled in a ball on a mattress stuffed with Spanish moss. From experience, he knew there would be more enticing things to view.

He followed Marcelite, then crossed the room and made the correct sounds of fatherly approval as he gazed at Angelle, asleep under the tied-back folds of a mosquito bar. His daughter lay just as he had imagined, her cottonade dress twisted high above her knees, her cheeks rosy. She clutched the doll he had bought at her birth, well used and loved now, no longer perfect like the dolls in Paris fashions that lined Aurore’s room.