Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (17 page)

Downstairs, Baudier escorted her
to breakfast. Sunlight poured through the open doors and Deborah Ann stepped
into the brick-paved courtyard shaded by banana trees and crepe myrtles. Mine,
now, she thought.

“You set here, Madame Chamard, I bring you breakfast out.” Baudier pulled a wrought iron chair out for her and seated
her at the filigreed table. Last night, slightly intimidated, she’d seen this
old man as the keeper of the Chamard household. This morning, she saw him more
clearly: he was one of her slaves, and she herself was keeper of the Chamard
household.

He returned with a tray laden with eggs, ham, corn cake,
honey, bacon, peppers, bananas, grapes, and steaming beignets. Deborah Ann
contented herself with the corn cakes and coffee. Chickory.
Marcel’s people had not kept any of the French roast back, then? She’d have to
take a hand in the kitchen here. At her father’s house, she’d had the foresight
to see to it that cook stockpiled a hundred-weight of good Cuban beans.

After breakfast, she explored the three stories of the
Chamard townhouse. It was evident this was a house of men. The drapes, in spite
of the family wealth, were outdated and even worn on the hems. The carpets had
faded. The unused bedrooms were musty. When had Marcel’s mother died? It must
have been many years ago, and no one had taken a hand with the house slaves
since. The whole place needed a good cleaning before she could even think about
bringing in decorators.

On the third floor Deborah Ann found a nursery. Open windows
could make it an airy room, but for now it was hot and dusty. She lifted the
mosquito netting covering the walnut crib. The wood needed a good oiling. The
ivory silk drapery was water stained and brittle. The bare mattress was
sprinkled with the dried-out carcasses of black bugs.

The rest of the room was no better. Yellowed wallpaper
peeled away from the wainscoting. There were spider webs in every corner.

But this could be a beautiful room, someday.

Why someday? What she and Marcel had done last night, that’s
how babies were made.

She marched to the landing in the center of the house and
called down. “Baudier!” When his grizzled head
appeared thirty feet below, she said, “Send Aisha up with some dust rags and a
bucket of water. And an apron.”

The four large windows had likely not been opened since
Marcel and his brother Yves were children. Deborah Ann had to get stubborn
about it, but she heaved every one of them up. Morning air wafted in, setting
the dust motes dancing.

With her hands on her hips, she surveyed the room. Blue, she
decided. She wanted this room to be blue. Not a sky blue. Robin’s egg blue with
a touch of green in it.

While Aisha attacked the cobwebs, Deborah Ann stripped the
old ivory bedding from the crib. The mattress would have to be burned. She
looked down into the courtyard to make sure no one stood below and tossed the
thing out the window.

She forgot about the war. She forgot to fret about when
Marcel would come home to her. This room is where her babies would sleep and
play. This room would hold her heart.

The cathedral chimed the hour. Marcel might be home at any moment,
and here she was, looking like a woman who’d labored for two hours. Her apron
sported streaks of grime like battle scars. Perspiration had spoiled her
neckline, and her fingers were actually dirty.

She hurried downstairs to Marcel’s bedroom to clean up. She
had no other clothes here, there having been no time to prepare, and anyway,
she wouldn’t live here until the war was over. She would have to make do with
the wash basin and endure the sweat-dampened chemise under her gown.

Marcel still did not come.

“Don’t you wan’ eat, Madame
Chamard? Biddy got a nice chicken in the pot, and some of them new potatoes
with the skin on ‘em.”

“No, Baudier. Call the carriage,
please. I shall dine at my father’s house.” Maybe Marcel would be there. And if
he wasn’t, and he came home to an empty home, well, that might show him she was
not to be neglected. He had not married a child.

Marcel had come and gone at the Presswood mansion. Don’t
fret, her father said over lunch. Chamard’s getting married had not been part of
his mission to New Orleans, he reminded her. He had a number of people to see,
and he had to be discreet. They didn’t want Beast Butler sniffing around.

Upstairs Mammy poured a bath for her and helped her out of
the soiled purple-striped gown. “That Mister Marcel, he done right by you. You
glowing like the moon, honey.”

Deborah Ann blushed. He had done right by her, for a fact.
“I might at this very moment be with child,” she whispered.

Mammy laughed out loud. “You could be at that.”

After her bath, Deborah Ann chose a pale green gown of
cotton lawn. She pinned her hair up except for a fat sausage curl hanging down
over each ear. Tonight, when she and Marcel were alone in his room, he would
pull the pins out and let it all fall down.

“You want I should go on over with you tonight?” Mammy
asked.

“They have a little pickanniny
there who can help me in the morning. And I may not come home until supper
time. That house, those servants – Lord knows when the silver has been
polished. The chandeliers are positively begrimed. ”

Mammy put her hands on Deborah Ann’s shoulders. “Listen to
Mammy now, honey. When Mr. Marcel leave you in the morning, you ain’t gone
carry on none, y’hear? You send him off to war with a
smile on you face.”

“Yes’m,” Deborah Ann promised.

She took Marcel’s carriage back to Rue Royal. At the house
across the street, servants were tacking black drapery to the doors and
windows. Deborah Ann crossed herself and prayed to Mary Mother of God that
there would be no black crepe in her future.

The afternoon passed slowly. Deborah Ann settled into her
new parlor and amused herself by mentally redecorating as she embroidered. The
deep red wallpaper and upholstery would have to go. The drapes too. She wanted
something lighter, maybe cream and blue. But, with the blockades, it might be
another year before new fabrics and fashions made it to New Orleans. When the
weather broke, she’d survey the attic, see what was worth bringing down. Just
as she’d had to be content to marry in an old dress, she’d have to be patient
about this fusty old house.

At last, Marcel came in, hot and sweaty from the August sun.
She rushed to meet him in the hallway, not caring a whit that he smelled of
sweat and horse. He grabbed her up with a smile that showed he remembered what
they’d done in the bed upstairs. Though a married woman now, she blushed as he
plastered a kiss on her cheek.

“How do you do, Madame Chamard?”

“I’ve missed you. Come in here and tell me where you’ve been
all day.”

Marcel stripped off his broadcloth coat. “Hotter than an
oven out there. You don’t mind if I loosen my tie?”

A thrill of intimacy tingled up her spine. “Of course not.”

Marcel sat down, his fingers working his neck-piece. “First
place I went was your father’s. Mr. Fowler and Mr. Armstrong joined us.” He
nodded toward the heavy breast pocket in his jacket. “Very generous men.
Colonel Taylor can buy more horses. Then I briefed a gentleman whose name I may
not mention. He will get General Mouton’s report to President Davis.”

Deborah Ann stood before him, her bottom lip caught behind
her upper teeth, wondering if she dared.

“Taylor says he has the men to expand the cavalry, but they
need more mounts. And Mouton wants mules for the artillery.”

“Would you like me take your boots off?”

Marcel seemed taken aback. Was it too familiar? They’d only
been married one day.

“Deborah Ann, you do not have to take my boots off.”

She shouldn’t have asked. Eyes on the floor, she took the
sofa across from him, her hooped skirt a barrier between them. She wanted to be
closer, to be in the bed upstairs, but he wanted to talk on and on about the
war.

He must have read her face. Dear Marcel, he changed the
subject.

“I’ve been to the lawyer,” he said. “Frederick Marchand. His office is on Magazine Street. If you should
need funds while I’m gone, for anything, he will see to it.”

And now business! She’d been yearning for him all day, and
he hadn’t given her a thought. And he’d be leaving tomorrow. But she was a
married woman, now, not a girl. She wouldn’t carry on.

“Marcel, please, come sit by me.”

Obligingly, he moved her skirt aside and sat close to her on
the old red sofa. He draped his arm behind her and teased the curl over her
ear. It sprang back, and he smiled. “Pretty as a picture.”

She leaned into him and again, that curious hint of jasmine.
Not a man’s fragrance at all, in her experience.

Understanding seized her. She stiffened and drew back. She
leapt to her feet, skirt swaying as if in a fitful wind.

Her husband. With that woman. She’d never been more certain
of anything.

“Jasmine! You’ve been with her.”

His eyes, so cold. They looked at her like she was a
stranger, not his wife!

“Deborah Ann, sit down.”

He didn’t deny it! He didn’t even pretend not to understand.

She pointed her finger at his heart. “You married me. You
made love to me.” Her voice rose into a child’s shrill wail. “And then you went
to her!”

Marcel was on his feet. “Deborah Ann. Calm down.”

Her body shook. She couldn’t breathe. Betrayed! She yanked
the sapphire ring off her finger and threw it at his feet.

“Deborah Ann, you’re going to faint if you don’t sit down.”

She’d never seen him like this, his eyes blazing mad. He
grabbed her arms and forced her into a chair.

“Listen to me,” he demanded. “I smell like a horse. And
maybe I smell like jasmine. Deborah Ann, I have worn the same scent since I was
fourteen. My father has it made up especially for us. We all wear it. All the
Chamards.”

Her fists were pressed against her mouth, but she was
listening.

“It’s mostly sandalwood. Maybe it has jasmine in it, too. I
don’t know. Now take a deep breath, Deborah Ann.”

A fit of trembles shook her. Why hadn’t she ever noticed
that note of jasmine before? They’d been close to each other last winter, in
the ballrooms, on the veranda. The heat? The August heat brought out the
undertones?

Marcel retrieved the ring. He knelt before her and took her
hand.

“Deborah Ann, I am going to put this ring on your finger one
more time. Do not take it off again. Understand?”

She shook her head. “I won’t,” she whispered.

He raised her from her chair and took her with him to the
sofa. Meekly, she allowed him to sit her down, let him hold her hand.

But it wasn’t over. He had not denied the woman.

She had to be calm. She swallowed the tears in her swollen
throat. “Marcel, I know about the woman.”

“And what of it? Until yesterday, I was a free man.”

She looked at him, all the hope in her heart poured into two
words. “And now?”

He pushed the curl behind her ear. “And now I am a married man.”

“You won’t see her again?”

“Of course not.”

Nicolette had almost let Finnian McKee kiss her. She’d
wanted to close her eyes, to surrender her mouth, to melt into him. But that would
have been bone-headed. He’d nearly fled from her after he’d danced her around
the room, then last night he looked as though he’d devour her. She’d be a fool
to trust him – he’d half believed she was a rebel spy! And by his own admission
he was confused.

With sudden insight, she understood: The captain
thought she was white. He’d not meant to be insulting with his remarks about
belles and fair complexions. The realization did not lessen her rising
irritation. She’d certainly done nothing to indicate she was white. She’d worn
the tignon every single day. The man was obtuse, to say the least.

No, there could be nothing between them. She gathered her
purse and umbrella, hardly knowing whether she dreaded or yearned to see him
again this morning.

“Nicolette?” her mother called.

Nicolette stuck her head in the doorway where Cleo and
Pierre lingered over chicory coffee.

“Where’s William?”

“He’s across the river with André’s troops,” Nicolette
answered.

“No. He came in late last night. They dismissed them because
of the storm.” Cleo’s husband Pierre, mahogany-dark, small and delicate, was a
man whose growth had been stunted from malnutrition during his slave boyhood.
“I would be happy to walk with you, Nicolette, but William. His size alone
scares people off.”

“Thank you, Pierre. It isn’t necessary. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Pierre said, “but think a
moment. You could be taken up. A planter sees you helping the Union, and before
we even know you’re missing, you’re on your way upriver to slave in some rich
man’s field. Remember Claudette Debousier?”

“Papa would not allow it,” Nicolette retorted.

“Of course he would not,” Cleo said. “If he found you.”

Nicolette’s inner eye saw Claudette in chains, in the dark
hold of some steam ship going upriver to the plantations. There probably was
not a free man or woman of color in all the South who did not fear being
enslaved. If a slaver, or an enraged Confederate gentleman, kidnapped a woman,
slapped her in chains, removed her from the neighborhood where people knew her
and might speak for her, then he could sell her upriver or off-river with no
questions asked. Claudette’s family, free colored of means, had never found
her.

And Nicolette’s vaunted light skin would be of no avail. She
would be deliberately sunned, but not too much. The slaver would want her white
enough to bring a good price but not so white the buyer balked. They’d give her
a brothel-bloom, that’s what some people called the light skin tones of
desirable colored women.