Ciji Ware (21 page)

However, the physical side of marriage had revolted Adelaide. Night after night she’d declined to share his bed, pleading sick headaches and a myriad of similar indispositions. So Julien had found himself in Paris’s most exclusive brothels. Now he faced the golden-skinned Martine, who had been raised since babyhood to a life of pleasing men—white men. Surely she had never shied from complying with Henri Girard’s carnal needs. After all, Girard had certainly enjoyed nearly a decade of—

Girard is dead, Julien reminded himself. By eating and drinking to excess, the foolish man had forsaken this poor girl, her mother, and her child. Perhaps, he thought with sudden inspiration, he would offer
himself
to sweeten this proposed trade of the Canal Street property for a possession more suitable to a woman of color. And besides, this beautiful creature would surely welcome a new protector, one who could shield her little family from an uncertain future clouded by threatened lawsuits and possible unpleasantness. As for Julien, a permanent arrangement with a woman as appealing as Martine Fouché would avoid the rigors and risks of patronizing the strumpets on Girod Street.

For the moment Julien LaCroix determined to say no more to Martine about exchanging the land once owned by LaCroix & Girard. He could well afford to wait. In fact, all manner of delicious anticipation flooded through him, lifting his heart and stirring his groin.

Martine Fouché was a breathtaking and totally unexpected surprise. Put in his path, amazingly enough, by a series of misfortunes.

One man’s misfortune is another man’s good luck.

The thick mantle of gloom under which Julien had lived began to dissipate for the first time since he had stood in front of the stern priest in Saint Louis Cathedral. Then, for no reason he could fathom, in his mind’s eye he imagined the figure of Henri Girard lying in a coffin, cut down in his prime.

How tragic to die so unexpectedly, Julien mused, and to have indulged in such apparent gluttony when the man had everything to live for… and when he had Martine Fouché awaiting him in this warm and inviting cottage. A mere seven-minute walk from the impressive, iron-balconied LaCroix town residence located on the Rue Dumaine, he considered happily, within earshot of the sounds of the river traffic and the tall cathedral’s sonorous bells. “It is most kind of you to extend an invitation for me to return to this delightful home you have made with your mother and daughter,” Julien said warmly as a plan began to evolve in his mind. “Upon my next visit, I shall send word in advance, to assure myself that I do not impose…”

“It is you, Monsieur LaCroix, who are most kind,” Martine replied with a sidelong glance that Julien found highly provocative. “My mother and I look forward to our next rendezvous.”

Julien spared a glance for the formidable Althea LaCroix and knew, instinctively, that she and her exquisite daughter would prove to be women to be reckoned with.

***

Randall McCullough studiously avoided his wife’s critical stare and instead gazed directly into the pier glass, concentrating on securing his stiff white tie at the proper angle. Outside the window, the clip-clop sound of horses’ hooves pulling a carriage was muffled by the spring rain that was coming down in veritable sheets and splattering in a staccato tattoo against the glass panes.

“I feel perfectly well, Randall,” Corlis Bell McCullough announced in a sharp tone, “and I am still able to fit into my ball gown. So, I fail to understand why I cannot—”

“ ’Tis unseemly for you to leave this house, that’s why!” he responded irritably. “A woman in your advanced condition shouldn’t be traipsing about at night in the rain. And besides, Ian and I will have a chance this evening to speak privately with Julien LaCroix, without that interfering lawyer, Lafayette Marchand, hanging about.”

“And how is that?” she asked, curious in spite of herself.

“Marchand has gone upriver to visit his sister for a few days.”

“I wouldn’t judge Julien’s brother-in-law as interfering,” Corlis commented. “I heard from my dressmaker who’s a friend of Marchand’s tailor that he’s not at all anxious for Adelaide’s inheritance to be invested in some scheme to enhance the Canal Street property should Julien ever secure it from Mademoiselle Fouché. I can certainly understand that point of view,” she added, arching her eyebrow meaningfully.

“I will thank you not to interfere with my business dealings, Corlis,” Randall said imperiously.

“Even if the money you’re investing in this latest scheme came from the sale of my family’s diamond jewelry?” she asked accusingly. Her husband maintained a stony silence as he eased his black cloak onto his shoulders. “If you ask me,” Corlis continued, undaunted by his dark expression, “I think ’tis right decent of Mr. Marchand to visit poor Adelaide LaCroix and try to cheer her up a bit. The poor thing’s had to nurse Julien’s father night and day, for pity’s sake, while her husband gads about town!”

“You know nothing of these matters,” Randall said loftily, “so I would appreciate it if you did not speak as if you did.”

“Well… what I do know,” she responded with a tight, tart smile, “is that three gentlemen dressed up in fancy clothes on a sodden night like this—but without their wives on their arms—can only be making their way to one destination.”

“And that is?” Randall said, glaring at her to hide his chagrin.

“The Salle d’Orleans,” she retorted, “and don’t think I don’t know it, even if poor Adelaide LaCroix pretends to be dim as a post about these things!”

“No decent woman talks about a place like that!” Randall declared self-righteously.

“Ah… but supposedly decent men like you go there, don’t they, Randall McCullough?” she responded, angrily putting her hands on her expanding waistline. “ ’Tis nothing but a glorified slave mart, that’s what the Orleans Ballroom is! And as a white man, and a Scots Presbyterian to boot, you should be ashamed to be seen there. Business matters! My stars!”

And with that she flounced out of the bedchamber and refused to bid her husband farewell when he departed for the night.

***

The exterior of the Orleans Ballroom was not in the least imposing. However, Julien never ceased to feel a rush of anticipation when he entered the nondescript building. Its mammoth interior was adorned with elaborate crystal chandeliers, expensive paintings, and voluptuous statuary—a hint at the sumptuous array of womanhood invariably on display there.

The walls of the room were remarkable for their inlaid and paneled woods and a floor made of three layers of pure cypress and a layer of oak—said to be the finest anywhere in the United States for dancing. The chamber was also noted for its lofty, ornamented ceiling and balconies that overlooked the gardens at the rear of Saint Louis Cathedral.

Julien had always found it ironic that New Orleans’s holiest sanctuary was within a stone’s throw of an establishment devoted to white churchgoing gentlemen blessed with means and social standing to select black mistresses in full view of their peers.

And what a selection there was tonight!

Julien lounged against the richly paneled wall, awaiting the arrival of Randall McCullough and Ian Jeffries. He allowed himself the pleasure of drinking in the alluring sight of bright-colored satins, rustling taffetas, velvets, and richly embroidered watered silks, the expensive laces and the astonishingly low-cut bodices of the women whose charms and favors were available—for a price. Burnished golden skin was in evidence everywhere, making this gathering unlike any in southern Louisiana.

Julien surveyed the elegant room full of gorgeously attired people, reflecting that the Free People of Color certainly raised beautiful daughters well schooled in French and poetry and the arts of carnality. As he watched the coquettish looks flashed in his direction, he knew that behind the discreet flirtatiousness exhibited by those whose charms were on display this evening lay a deadly serious purpose.

Free Women of Color were forbidden by the Code Noir, the Black Code, to marry either their own slaves—which they prized as much as did their white counterparts—or the slaves owned by white men. And of course, it was unthinkable and illegal for them to marry into the white race. As a result, free black men and women could establish legitimate families exclusively among their own free ranks.

The only other choice was to increase their coffers by offering the most exquisite of their young women in quasi-permanent “arrangements” to white men of wealth and status, who, in turn, would endow yet another generation of light-skinned blacks with freedom for the children of those unions, along with money and support.

This system—
le plaçage
—was destined to perpetuate itself as long as arranged marriages among the most prominent white families were reinforced by a religious dogma that forbade divorce. Love, or even lust, seldom entered into marriage between whites, Julien thought sourly, considering his own unhappy union with Adelaide. Sheer monotony, if nothing else, in Louisiana’s prim and proper white households was the principal cause of the continued success of the Quadroon Balls.

“Ah… Julien… there you are!” exclaimed Ian Jeffries, interrupting Julien’s reveries. The blustery American strode over to LaCroix with Randall McCullough following in his wake. Both men were, as was Julien himself, smartly fitted out in opera attire. “We were held up by the rain and an absolute jam of carriages at the front entrance.” He lowered his voice and added discreetly, “Have you seen her yet?”

Julien was about to answer when he glanced up at the balcony above them.

“Ah… yes,” Julien said on a low breath. He was surprised to acknowledge to himself the relief he experienced at the sight of Martine Fouché, who had indeed made an appearance at the ball These last weeks she had politely declined his repeated requests for a meeting to discuss all manner of proposals he was ready to extend to her. Bouquets of flowers, bottles of champagne, and finally, a beautiful porcelain figurine he had bought in France had accompanied the notes delivered to her door. As far as Julien was concerned, a six-month bereavement was quite enough for the dazzling mademoiselle. He had proposed they meet on this neutral ground where they could discuss “matters of great import to us both.”

Tonight, thank heavens, Martine Fouché was highly visible. She had stationed herself on the balcony and was sipping a cordial from a crystal glass while speaking quietly with her mother. The young woman’s lustrous black hair was swept up and fastened with a brilliant garnet. Her gown was of midnight-blue watered silk, only a shade lighter than the black bombazine she had worn the last time he’d seen her. The garment, whose muted color signified her recent loss, was utterly without ornament but exquisitely cut and fitted to her perfect shape. Martine’s beauty and simple elegance attracted the attention of every person in the room.

Yet she was standing alone upstairs with only her mother for company.

Nearly all thoughts of the Canal Street property had fled from Julien’s thoughts. He would make his proposition known concerning that particular matter at another time, he assured himself. It was suddenly clear that intimidation of any sort was not the path to securing all of his goals. His principal intent tonight, he realized, was to get past Martine’s mother and speak with this stunning young woman alone.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed his two male companions, “I’ve decided another approach would be more conducive to our ultimate aims than the one for which I summoned you here. Why don’t you explore the cardrooms and avail yourselves of the libations and appealing company while I make my presence known? I’m sure you can amuse yourselves while I have a word with Mademoiselle Fouché.”

The two men exchanged puzzled glances and then drifted off toward the cardrooms where boisterous games of faro were known to erupt into duels at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile, Julien found the stairway and made his way toward Martine. Yet he hesitated to approach immediately, sensing that Althea Fouché was preparing to depart, perhaps to find a liveried manservant to refill their refreshments. Biding his time, Julien stood behind an ornamented pillar and waited.

When Martine was finally alone, he stepped forward and said in a calm, low voice, “Good evening.”

“Oh!” Martine said with a little gasp. “You startled me!”

“That was not my intention,” he said, smiling. “May I renew your cordial?”

“Ah… but no, thank you. Maman is seeing to that.” She cocked her head and added, “But then, you knew that perfectly well, did you not, monsieur? What is it you would like to talk to me about? The Canal Street property, is it?”

The woman was obviously not easily hoodwinked by flattery—nor cowered by threats. Julien hoped his face wasn’t flushing as he gazed steadily into her brown-gold eyes. “Not at all. I was merely hoping for permission to call on you tomorrow.”

“You find daylight more propitious for a business discussion?” she asked, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. He marveled at her perfect use of French and her elegant syntax. Had she studied in Paris? There were so many things about this fascinating woman he wished to know.

“I was not thinking of business at all. I was hoping that perhaps one day soon, we could stroll by the river with your daughter, Lisette. I am told she is going to be a beauty like her mother.”

“Ah… monsieur… what clever ploys you enlist on your behalf,” she said, her smile broadening into one that was half coquette, half proud
maman
.
She heaved a sigh and opened her fan, waving it near her delicate chin in a graceful, languid motion. “To praise the daughter first is quite endearing to a doting parent such as I. And you are right. I would enjoy escaping the confines of my cottage for a brief while.”