The Creole Princess (17 page)

At the sound of her voice, he turned, pulling down the red kerchief tied across his mouth and nose. His slow smile as he watched her approach brought the familiar warmth to her body, and she had to suppress a smile of her own.

“I be hungry,” he said. “How’d you know?”

She stopped a safe distance from the forge. “You always hungry. When you gonna stop growing?”

Shaking his head, he laid the hammer on a worktable and rubbed his huge hands together. “’Twixt you and my mama feedin’ me, maybe never.” His laugh rumbled out. “I’m gonna grow right out the roof like Jack’s beanstalk. Does Madame know you in here?”

“She’s gone to town.”

“Then come here and kiss me. I’d rather have you than a biscuit.”

“You had me yesterday, and too many treats makes little boys spoilt and lazy.” She laughed at his chagrin. “Besides, it’s hot as the gates of Hades in here, and I could smell you all the way to the clothesline. Or maybe that’s the little mouse I just saw scamper in here. Did you see Luc-Antoine Lanier run through?”

Cain dragged his gaze from her face to look around. “No, but I been busy, last hour or so. Madame wants new carriage wheels.”

There was something odd in his expression. She frowned. “This isn’t the first time he’s done this, is it? Where is he?”

“I said I don’t know. I ain’t see him today.” Cain turned back toward the forge. “I got to get back to work. But I would like a biscuit, if Mama’s got an extra one.”

Scarlet stood tapping her foot, staring at his broad back. “Hmph. We’ll see.” She whirled and stomped toward the door. The big liar. What was he hiding? Outside, she skirted the corner of the shed, flattened herself against the wall, and listened. She could hear Cain pumping the bellows, the roar of the fire.

Then a small, childish voice. “Hey, Cain, reckon she’d bring me a biscuit too? I’m pretty hungry.”

Aha! She hadn’t been mistaken. Vindicated, she swept back inside just as Cain, a resigned expression on his gentle face, turned to greet his young visitor, who was peering out from behind Madame’s wheel-less carriage parked along the side wall.

“How’d you get back there without me seeing?” Cain dropped
the bellows and wiped his sweaty face with the kerchief. “You gone get us both in trouble.”

The boy grinned. “You really didn’t see me? I was real quiet.”

“No but
I
saw you!” In one outraged step Scarlet grabbed Luc-Antoine by the ear and hauled him out from behind the carriage. “Why you not in school, boy?”

“Ow! I was bored. And hungry.” The boy looked up at her sullenly from under an untidy mop of brown curls. “Maman didn’t have nothing to send with me for lunch, so I went hunting.” With a jerk of his head, he snatched loose. “Cain gives me something to eat most days. Don’t you, Cain?”

Cain shrugged, looking at Scarlet uneasily. “When I got extras, I do. You can bring back two biscuits, can’t you, Scarlet?”

She scowled at Luc-Antoine, avoiding Cain’s pleading eyes. She knew how Madame felt about the Laniers. But then she noticed the almost translucent texture of the little boy’s skin, the prominence of the high cheekbones. When his stomach gave a loud rumble, she sighed. “All right. I’ll be back in a minute. But you got to go back to school after you eat, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said with a dimpled grin so much like Mr. Antoine’s she slapped him affectionately upside the head.

“I ain’t no ma’am.” She turned on her heel and headed for the big house.

Martine, always contrary where Scarlet was concerned, seemed reluctant to part with even one of her famous cat-head biscuits. But when Scarlet told her they were for Cain, the older woman packed half a dozen in a cloth-lined basket and tucked in a jar of cane syrup and some links of pork sausage as well.

Scarlet hauled her prize back to the smithy and set it down on Cain’s worktable with a thunk. “I swear your maman is the most ornery colored woman in Mobile. No you don’t!” She swatted Luc-Antoine’s dirty little paw as it reached for the basket. “Wash your hands first! Both of you.” She gave Cain the look.

The two males, one big and black, the other small and pale, headed for a bucket of water Cain kept on hand for regulating his fire. They scrubbed their hands and faces, then reported to Scarlet for inspection. Using one of Madame’s silver table knives, she spread the biscuits with the thick, fragrant brown syrup and gave one each to Cain and Luc-Antoine. “Wait!” she said, just as the boy crammed a quarter of one of the giant biscuits into his mouth. “Didn’t your maman teach you to say grace?”

“Yes’m,” he mumbled around his mouthful, reddening. “Sorry.”

“Bow your head,” she said severely, winking over his head at Cain. “Dear Lord, we thank thee for these thy bountiful gifts. Help us to live our lives in gratitude to you and charity toward one another as you have shown it to us. Amen.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Cain had disposed of one biscuit and reached for another. “Amen,” he said, eyes twinkling.

They ate together quietly for a time, with Scarlet supervising to make sure the boy didn’t drip syrup onto his clothes nor lick his fingers. Cain she didn’t have to worry about, as his maman had refined his manners until he could’ve eaten dinner with the governor in the big house. There were some things she could be grateful to Martine for.

She watched him, enjoying the roll of shoulder muscles under his thin cambric shirt as he moved his arms and the play of a shallow dimple in one cheek as he chewed. His head was perfectly shaped, the coarse hair cut close to keep lice at bay, and his ears flat and well-proportioned. He would make a fine father for her babies. She put her hand on her stomach, imagining the swell and flutter.

“I can’t eat no more, I’m full.”

Scarlet blinked and focused on Luc-Antoine. He had both arms wrapped about his belly. Probably not used to eating so much all at one time. Say what you would about Madame and M’sieur
Dussouy—they fed their slaves well. “You ain’t gone be sick, are you?”

Luc-Antoine shook his head. “No, ma’am. That was sure good.” He glanced at the basket, where one lone biscuit remained. “Could I take that home and split it with my brother and sister? The baby don’t eat nothin’ but Maman’s—”

“’Course you can,” Cain said with laughter in his voice, tossing the biscuit to the boy. “Now you get on back to school ’fore Miss Daisy comes after you again.”

Scarlet grabbed his arm. “She knows he comes here? What if Madame finds out?”

“Finds out what?” The sugary-steel voice drew Scarlet’s attention like a gunshot.

Her mistress stood outlined in the doorway, kid-gloved hands clasped at her waist, her head tipped to one side with the feather in her hat poking out like a hen’s tail.

“Madame!” Scarlet slid down from the barrel she’d been perched on. There was nothing else she could say. Nothing was going to make Luc-Antoine disappear.

“Yes, it’s me,” Madame said coldly. “What do you all think you’re doing? Is this a tea party?”

“Oh, Madame, I’m so sorry,” Scarlet babbled. “We just stopped for lunch, I finished pegging the wash, Cain is working on your carriage, and it seemed like the Christian thing to do, feeding the little boy—”

“I was hungry,” Luc-Antoine said, disastrously drawing Madame’s gaze.

“You’re one of the Lanier children,” she informed him.

“Yes’m,” he said with no visible sense of self-preservation. “I’m Luc-Antoine.”

Madame inspected him top to toe. “So I see. You look like your father.” This did not seem to please her. “You also look like a ragpicker. I am all for charity, in moderation, but if I allow one child
to leave the school and come to me for food, I’ll soon have hordes here every day.” The sharp gaze suddenly returned to Scarlet. “You knew it was wrong to encourage him—didn’t you?”

Scarlet stared at her mistress for a long moment. She knew what she ought to say:
Yes, ma’am. It was wrong. I’ll never do it again.

But she
would
do it again.

When the silence apparently went on too long for Madame to bear, she took an angry step inside the shop. “You are the most ungrateful little snippet I’ve had the misfortune to be responsible for! I feed you well, give you my clothes—even let you spend Sunday afternoons with Cain, as if you were a married couple. And you repay my generosity by sneaking off from your work and stealing my food for little vagrants like this one.” The wintery blue eyes focused on Cain. “And you—I had thought better of you. Scarlet has obviously bewitched you. Clearly I can no longer trust either of you.” She drew in a pained breath. “Well, I’m sorry to say, there will be consequences. I must pray for guidance on how to handle this . . . this situation.”

Scarlet had expected to be slapped at the very least. Though Madame didn’t whip her house slaves as many did, her anger sometimes took physical forms.

She didn’t trust this display of restraint. And Luc-Antoine was involved now. “Please, Madame, let me take the boy back to school. I’ll make sure Miss Daisy doesn’t let him run off again.”

Madame’s expression was unreadable. “No, I’ll take him myself. You and Cain get back to work. I’ll deal with you later.”

“No!” Luc-Antoine jumped to his feet. “You ain’t my maman, and you can’t tell me what to do. You—you leave Cain and Scarlet alone. Alls they did was give me a biscuit.”

Madame gave a disbelieving crack of laughter. “You are right. I certainly am not your mama, and isn’t it a good thing? But you
will
respect your elders, little man. My pony cart is in front of the house. You will bring it around here to pick me up, and if you disobey again, you will be very sorry. Is that clear?”

Luc-Antoine stared at her mutinously for a moment. Finally he looked down, muttered “Yes, ma’am,” and scuffed past Madame out of the shop.

Scarlet exchanged an anxious glance with Cain, then dipped a curtsey and moved to do Madame’s bidding. She wouldn’t help anything with further argument.
Please, God, give me grace.

When the schoolroom door abruptly opened, Daisy looked up from reading Emée Robicheaux’s essay.

Emée, who shared a desk with Suzanne Boutin, the doctor’s youngest daughter, sucked in a breath and whispered, “I told you he was getting in trouble, Miss Redmond.”

The clearly prescient Emée referred to Luc-Antoine Lanier, who stood, clamped by the shoulder, at the side of the town’s most terrifying grand-dame, Mrs. Isabelle Dussouy. And Madame did not look pleased to be here.

There was little for Daisy to say but “Good morning, Mrs. Dussouy. I see you have found Luc-Antoine.”

The older woman released Simon’s brother with a little shove into the room. “I have indeed. I found him eating food stolen from my larder and socializing with my slaves. I believe he belongs in school with you?”

The implication being that Daisy had been derelict in her duty. Was she supposed to have left her other students alone while she went on a fruitless search for a little boy who had made a profession out of escaping adult supervision? Even Simon was inclined to shrug his shoulders.
Well, that’s Luc for you. He’ll come back when he’s hungry.

Daisy drew herself up, as she had seen her father do when challenged by an impertinent enlistee, and injected a touch of frost into her tone. “I thank you for your concern, ma’am. I shall make sure he pays for his imposition and works off the meal by helping
to muck your stables every morning the rest of this week.” She turned her darkest schoolteacher frown on the miscreant. “Will you not, Luc-Antoine?”

His mutinous expression folded when she continued to stare with relentless calm. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to Mrs. Dussouy. “I didn’t mean to steal. And please don’t whip Cain or Scarlet. They was just being nice to me.”

“
Were
being nice,” Daisy corrected him.

“Were.” Luc-Antoine sighed. “Couldn’t I just feed the horses? Or exercise ’em? I’m a good rider.”

Mrs. Dussouy looked outraged. “I wouldn’t let a little—”

“No.” Daisy reached to take his dirty little face in her hand, turning it up so that he met her eyes. “And you will go to Mrs. Dussouy’s early so you may be on time for school. You have missed several assignments, and you must work hard to catch up. Emée and Suzanne have quite passed you up today.”

The challenge of competing for honors with a couple of
girls
had the expected effect. Luc-Antoine plunked into his seat without another word.

Which left Daisy facing Mrs. Dussouy. She had never felt so young and unsure of herself. She straightened her spine. “You may depend on me to follow through with the boy’s punishment, ma’am. I don’t think he will try this particular stunt again. Thank you for returning him to me.”

“Well.” Madame sniffed. “One can hardly expect refined behavior from one of his mongrel pedigree, I suppose. But the damage to my slaves’ discipline is a serious matter. Once they get the idea they can converse on an equal basis with their betters . . .”

Daisy bit her lip, thinking of the deeply spiritual talk she’d had just this morning over breakfast with the family’s houseman, Timbo. Was she “better” than him? She was his mistress, in the sense that her father owned Timbo’s papers, supplied the food, clothing, and shelter that kept him alive, and demanded his unques
tioning obedience. But she depended daily on the wisdom gained from his gentle, slow-spoken answers to her often anxious questions. Timbo was in many ways the grandfather she’d never had.