Iron Lace (6 page)

They were on land again in a minute. Juan held out his hand and lifted him up. “Wha’ you hear?”

Raphael listened. The marsh was strangely silent. He frowned. “Nothin.’”

“Tha’s righ’.” Juan started toward the trees. “Nothin’. What birds didn’ leave, they listen, too.
N’est-ce pas?
”

“They listen for the wind?”

“Mais oui.”

Raphael stared at the trees as they got closer. From a distance, he hadn’t been able to tell that they were dead, but now he saw that they were mere skeletons of living trees, draped with mosslike funeral shrouds. He didn’t want to get any closer. The trees were dead, and he didn’t want to think about them.

“Come, I show you somethin’,” Juan said.

Raphael had little choice but to follow. As carefully as he
had watched their route, he knew he might never find his way back to Juan’s house or the village.

He followed two steps behind the old man, veering from side to side, just as Juan did. Juan stopped at the edge of the vague shadow cast by the middle tree. “Can you fin’ the sun?”

Raphael thought that was a funny question, since the sun was well hidden by thick black clouds. But he squinted into the sky, then pointed at the spot where he thought the sun should be.

“Good,” Juan said. “Remember.” Juan took eight perfectly straight steps forward, then turned so that his shoulder faced the trees. He took eight more steps, also straight. Here the almost imperceptible shadows of two of the trees intersected. He turned again, at an angle to the third tree, and took eight more steps. Then he stopped and pointed to the ground. “Here.”

Raphael ignored his fear of the trees and went to stand beside Juan. “What?”

“Here. You dig. Here.”

“Dig?” Raphael looked down. The ground looked no different from that surrounding it. He looked up at Juan. “Why?”

Juan put his hands on Raphael’s shoulders and pushed. “Go back. Try again,
hein?
”

Perplexed, Raphael turned and walked back to the edge of the shadow of the middle tree. When he faced the trees again, Juan had moved away. “Now,” Juan said. “Again.”

Raphael did everything Juan had done, even lengthening his steps so that they were as long as the old man’s. He ended up in what he was certain was the same place.

“Non!”
Juan came over to him and pushed him back to the spot where the shadows intersected, then turned him at a sharper angle. “Wha’ d’you see?”

Raphael squinted. Far in the distance, exactly facing him,
was a wide gap in the trees lining the horizon. He pointed. Juan nodded. “Oui. Now fin’ the spot.”

This time Raphael ended up where Juan wanted him.

Juan bent so that his face was only inches from the boy’s. “You can fin’,
hein?
”

“Oui.”

“If this win’ takes me,” Juan said, “you come back, you dig. You tell your maman to take you far ’way from this place, far ’way where no one knows you, no one knows your papa.
Vous comprenez?
”

Raphael didn’t understand, exactly, but he knew he wanted to obey. Hadn’t he dreamed of leaving the
chénière
himself?

“If this win’ don’ take me…” Juan shrugged. “Someday, somethin’ will.”

“What will you do when the wind comes?”

“I’ll get in my boat.”

“And sail away?”

The old man smiled. It was the first time Raphael had ever seen his expression change. “
Mais oui, cher.
An’ sail away.”

Lucien had stayed too long. Rain was falling by the time he made his way back to his boat, and dark clouds masked the fading daylight. The beach was deserted except for a small boy struggling to pull the boat farther ashore and out of the reach of the waves slithering toward its hull.

“Raphael!” Lucien hurried toward him, watching as the boy’s thin arms strained with the weight. Affection filled him. “Don’t worry,
mon fils,
I’m taking it back now, anyway.”

Raphael straightened and turned. A smile gleamed white against his dark skin. “I was afraid it’d wash away.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen.” Lucien ruffled Raphael’s
black curls. He had always thought Raphael a handsome enough boy, although he had the vaguely heathen look of some of the natives of the
chénière
and Grand Isle. Marcelite had told him that her family had come from Italy and Portugal, as well as France. Of Raphael’s father she had said little, only that he had left her before the boy’s birth, never to return. Lucien didn’t care to know more. He tolerated Marcelite’s past and even felt affection for her son. There was much he could overlook for what he received from her.

“You’re leaving now?” Raphael asked. He licked his finger and held it up. “The win’, she’ll take you quick.”

“You’re right.” Lucien ruffled the boy’s curls once more, then dropped his hand. “Maybe quicker than I’d like.”

“Juan Rodriguez says a big win’ is coming.” Raphael threw open his arms. “Big, like this. We’ll all blow away.”

The rain fell harder. Lucien had to bend to peer into Raphael’s face. He saw excitement, but not one trace of fear. He suppressed a smile. “You mustn’t believe everything the old man tells you,
mon fils.
It’s too late in the year for a big storm. Don’t worry your mother with stories. Promise?”

Raphael frowned. “Juan says if the big win’ comes, we should go to Picciola’s store.”

“There’s not going to be a big wind. I don’t want you making your mother upset.”

Raphael nodded, but his eyes were mutinous.

“Good.” Lucien took off his shoes and socks and threw them in the boat, along with his hat. Then he rolled up his trousers. “I won’t be back for a while. You must take good care of your mother while I’m gone.”

Raphael nodded again.

“Come on and help me get the boat in.” Lucien slung the
rope over his shoulder. Then he started toward the water, dragging the boat behind him. He felt the thrust as Raphael lent his weight. Lucien climbed aboard and let the tide carry him out before raising the sail. He looked back and saw Raphael watching him. As the boy grew smaller and smaller, Lucien waved his last goodbye.

As the boat drew near to the opposite shore a short time later, a larger figure watched him. At first Lucien thought it was Mr. Krantz, assuring himself that his guest had returned safely from his sail, or perhaps one of his employees. The figure grew more familiar until he realized that the man who waited so patiently in the rain was Antoine Friloux, his father-in-law.

Apprehension gripped him. Antoine wasn’t expected. Indeed, Lucien had left him only last night in New Orleans. Antoine must have come on a steamer he had hired himself.

But for what purpose? Antoine was not a man who relished physical discomfort. Yet now he stood in the steadily increasing rain. He made no move to assist Lucien as he waded in and pulled the boat to the beach; he just stood sternly, arms folded.

“Antoine?” Lucien shielded his eyes with his hand.

“Surprised, Lucien?”

Lucien moved closer. “Shouldn’t I be?” He studied his father-in-law, trying to find a clue to his behavior. Antoine Friloux was a tall, slight man with the pale skin of his daughter and granddaughter. His dark hair and mustache were always perfectly trimmed, and his collar was always crisply starched. Even now, with rain dripping off his overcoat and hat, he looked distinguished.

“I’ve had certain surprises myself in the last few days,” Antoine said.

“Is Claire—?”

Antoine waved away the question. “Claire is fine, as fine as a woman can be with a husband who plays her for a fool.”

Lucien couldn’t think of a response. He fell short of perfection, but what man didn’t? He labored to provide all that a woman could desire. He performed his social obligations as a man of his standing was required to; in public and at home he displayed the good manners and breeding of his class. In what way had he harmed his wife?

“Do you know what I mean, Lucien?” Antoine asked.

Lucien glanced up at the sky. It was quickly growing darker. “Shall we discuss this under shelter?”

“I’ve taken the cottage nearest the dining room for the night. We can talk there.”

Lucien nodded. He knew better than to show either irritation or dread. Antoine might be fifty, he might appear frail to one who didn’t know him, but his appearance was deceptive. The reins of both his family and his business were tightly twisted around his spidery fingers. His slightest whim could effortlessly change the course of either.

Thunder boomed in the distance as they made their way along the track past the dining room to Antoine’s cottage. Krantz filled the doorway of the dining room and nodded as they passed. Lucien was cold and wet enough to wish for either coffee or some of Krantz’s excellent brandy, but he knew better than to stop.

The cottage, formerly a slave cabin, was simple, attractive in the summer, like all the others, with wisteria vines blanketing the gallery railing and beds of flowers scenting the air. Now, with the hotel nearly deserted and rain battering the shingled roof, the cottage looked as desolate as a much-sought-after belle when the last waltz of the ball has ended.

Both men took off their coats and shoes at the door. Someone had laid a fire in the fireplace, and Lucien went to stand in front of it. Antoine crossed to the table, where a decanter waited, and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer one to Lucien.

“Rather a poor afternoon for a sail, wouldn’t you say?” Antoine asked, when his drink was half finished.

“It wasn’t bad when I left. Then the time got away from me. When I realized the weather was worsening, it was too late to do more than bare my head to the rain.”

“Did you consider stopping on the
chénière
to take shelter? I’m told the people there are quite hospitable.”

“I didn’t consider it. I knew Claire would be concerned if I didn’t come back tonight.”

“Quite the conscientious husband.” Antoine toasted him with the remainder of his drink.

“What’s this about, Antoine? I made the trip to Grand Isle at Claire’s request. I saw nothing wrong in going sailing this afternoon as a small compensation.”

“Small compensation?” Antoine laughed. “Oh, I think it was more than small, wasn’t it? From what I’ve been told, when you visit Grand Isle, your compensation is abundant.”

Lucien didn’t like the direction of the conversation. There were certain things all men did, but rarely discussed. That Antoine would come so dangerously close to mentioning his son-in-law’s mistress was unthinkable, the violation of a gentlemen’s code. Lucien didn’t know how Antoine had found out about Marcelite, but he didn’t see how Antoine could fault him for taking pleasure where he found it, not unless Claire was mistreated.

“All lives are made up of duty and occasional reward,”
Lucien said, when the silence had stretched too thin. “Mine is no different.”

“No? And what happens when the reward becomes a duty, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s very simple, really.” Antoine poured himself another drink. “Suppose something from which you take great pleasure becomes a burden. What do you do?”

“That would depend on what it was.”

“Let’s make it simpler, then. Suppose a man has a woman whom he loves. The woman is not his wife, but he has a wife and a duty to her. Now, let’s say that he must leave this woman because, if he doesn’t, he will lose everything he has worked his entire life to achieve.”

Despite the fire, Lucien shuddered with a sudden chill.

“I see you begin to understand,” Antoine said. “Let me proceed, then. So the woman, who was once a pleasure, is now a burden. Sadly, the woman is not the only burden. There are children, too. They, of course, are the reason he must leave the woman. The sanctity of his legitimate family cannot be breached. No chance can be taken that his bastards will inherit anything that belongs to the man, or his wife’s family.”

Lucien moved closer to the flames. There was no longer a point in denying anything, or in pretending that he didn’t understand. He could save himself only with a promise, but as he made it, his voice sounded shaken, even to himself. “Marcelite Cantrelle’s children will never inherit anything that belongs to the Friloux. You have my word on it.”

“Your word? Of what worth is the word of a man who consorts with the whore of a slave?”

Lucien could feel color draining from his cheeks. He faced Antoine. “What?”

“You profess not to understand?”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“You’ve seen the whore’s child, yet you’ve never seen the obvious?”

“Raphael?”

“Close your eyes and search his face in your mind. What do you find there?”

“Marcelite would have told me!”

“Not unless she’s a fool.” Antoine’s lip curled in disgust. “Would she tell you that the boy’s father was born into slavery, the son of a plantation owner and his house servant?”

He raised his hand to keep Lucien from interrupting. “Or would she tell you that when she became his lover, her own family drove her away to live alone and bear his child? And if you asked about her nigger, would she admit that he disappeared one night, never to be seen on the
chénière
again? Or that some say he was murdered by her brother?”

“No!”

“Yes,” Antoine answered. He swished what was left of his second drink, but he didn’t take his gaze from Lucien’s face. “When a pleasure becomes a burden, there should be much thought about how a man rids himself of it.”

Lucien stared at him, but his eyes were focused somewhere beyond Grand Isle.

“Neither your family nor mine has ever been touched by tainted blood. They can’t be touched now,” Antoine added, when Lucien didn’t respond.

“Even if what you say about Raphael is true, my daughter’s blood has no taint.”

“Can you trust a woman who gives her body so easily? What blood runs through her own veins, do you suppose? The people on the
chénière
are pirates, smugglers, fishermen. Do they care if a tinge of color darkens their skin? No, they care if the next breeze blows, the next ship comes by, the next fish bites. Can you say for certain that your Angelle’s blood is pure?”