Fever Season (13 page)

They collected Cyrus and the horses from the courtyard in the front of the hotel. As the three men walked the crushed-shell path along the lakefront toward the Washington Hotel, January asked, “What’s Madame Redfern doing running the Committee? She’s newly a widow and just over being sick, at that.”

Hannibal shrugged. He had a fresh bottle of Madame Viellard’s champagne in hand, but aside from a slight lilt to his well-bred, Anglo-Irish French he didn’t show the wine’s effect—not that he ever did unless well and truly in the wind. “If you know that much about her you’ll know of her determination to figure in society—society as Americans understand it, that is. They’re a repellently godly lot.”

Away from the hotels the darkness lay warm and silken, thick with the smell of water and decaying foliage, and the drumming of cicadas in the trees.

“What else do you know about her?”

“Redfern’s late lamented owned a plantation down
the river from Twelve-Mile Point and, as you say, has just shuffled off this mortal coil. But since God has almost universally been known to make exceptions to social rules if you hand His Representatives enough money, I suppose it’s perfectly acceptable for her to carry on whatever chicanery necessary for the good of the Church. You thinking of marrying La Redfern for her money? I toyed with the notion but gave it up.”

January laughed. “Just curious. A friend of mine had a run-in with her.” He wondered if there were any way of getting up to Spanish Bayou to have a look at the little house on Black Oak.

“Just as well.” Hannibal sighed. “The Redfern plantation’s on the block for about a quarter its worth, for debts—the man owed money to everyone in town except me—and she’s selling off the slaves for whatever they’ll fetch. They don’t think her creditors are going to realize thirty cents on the dollar.”

“Twenty-five,” said January, mindful of the conversation he’d overheard.

“Ah. Well. There you have it. So much for cutting a figure in society.” He took a long pull from the bottle, a dark silhouette against the gold-sprinkled lapis of the lake.

Cyrus Viellard, walking behind with both horses on lead, added, “I hear she still got that little place next by Spanish Bayou, that they can’t sell for debt cos of some way her daddy tied it up.” He spoke diffidently, as was his place. “Michie Fazende and Michie Calder, that was owed money, they’re fit to spit. But it won’t do her no good neither, cos it ain’t a farm or anything like that.”

Just a place where she could conceal poison from her husband
, thought January, as they mounted the rear steps of the Washington Hotel and made their way through the
kitchen quarters to where a waiter said they’d find “all them ladies havin’ a to-do.”

It was always difficult to get more than a general impression of a woman in the deep mourning of new widowhood. Entering the ballroom built behind the Washington Hotel, January had an impression of a stout little figure of about Cora Chouteau’s height but approximately twice the girl’s slight weight. Though the ballroom was illuminated as brilliantly as myriad oil lamps would permit, black crêpe and veils hid everything of her except the fact that she was on the verge of poverty: despite considerable making over to lower the waist and the addition of far more petticoats than the skirt had originally been designed to accommodate, Mrs. Redfern’s weeds were about fifteen years out of fashion. As January approached—with a proper air of deference—he had a vague view of a pale, square face and fair hair under the veils, but his clearest impression of her was her voice, sharp as the rap of a hammer. She was speaking English to a purpling and indignant Madame Viellard.

“I’m sorry if you feel that way, Mrs. Viellard, but as I’ve explained to you before, the musicians signed a contract.” Mrs. Redfern jerked her head to indicate a slender, gray-clothed man, like an anthropomorphized rat, hovering at her side. “Mr. Fraikes drew it up and it does specify that it is legally binding no matter what the date—”

“What is she saying?” All her chins aquiver, Madame Viellard turned to her son. Henri was a fat, fair, bespectacled man in his early thirties whose sheeplike countenance amply attested the relationship. “Does that woman
dare
tell me that the men I hired for my own party are
forbidden
by law to play?”

“It’s the contract, Mother,” explained Henri Viellard in French. “It invalidates even a prior agreement. I’m sure the men didn’t read it before signing. It isn’t usual—”

“Isn’t usual! Who ever heard of musicians signing a contract! They should never have done so! I paid them to play, and play they shall!”

Ranged among the buffet tables, a group of ladies in mourning or half-mourning—the fever had as usual struck hardest in the American community—observed the scene with whispers and gestures concealed behind black lace fans. With the utmost air of artless coincidence, they jockeyed among themselves for a position next to the short, burly, rather bull-like man in their midst. His self-satisfied expression accorded ill with his ostentatiously plain black clothing: presumably the Reverend Micajah Dunk. On the other side of the buffet the musicians themselves were gathered, every violinist, cellist, coronetist, clarionetist, and flautist January had ever encountered in nearly a year of playing balls and recitals in the city since his return last November. They clutched their music satchels and looked profoundly uneasy, and who could blame them? They played for both Americans and Creoles, turn and turn about. If they fell seriously afoul of Madame Viellard they could lose half their income, and if of Mrs. Redfern, the other half.

Hannibal sidled over to an excessively turned-out American gentleman in a cutaway coat with a watch chain like a steamboat hawser. “Sharp practice,” the fiddler commented in English. “Making them sign a contract.”

The man spat a stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of the sandbox in the corner. “Got to be sharp to stay in business, friend.” The ballroom was hazy, not only with the mosquito-smudges burning in the windows but with cigar smoke, and stank of both it and expectorated tobacco.

“Mrs. Redfern’s a better businessman than poor Otis was, if you ask me,” added another man, stepping close.
He had a weaselly face and an extravagant mustache, and spoke with the accent of an Englishman. “Of course, the same could be said of my valet. Pity her father’s no longer with us. Damn shame, her being sold out like that, but it would have happened anyway.”

“Anyone know what’s being done with her slaves?” asked somebody else. “She had a few right smart ones.”

“Like the one ran off with the money Otis got from selling those six boys in town two weeks ago?” The American spat again.

“Damn fool, Otis, insisting that money be paid him cash, not a bank draft or credit—but that’s the man for you! Hubert Granville tells me—”

“I hear she didn’t get but four-five hundred for good cane hands. Damn shame.” The American looked at January, and said to Hannibal, “That your boy? Looks like a prime hand. They’re paying eleven, twelve hundred apiece for good niggers up in the Missouri Territory. I could give you a good price for him.”

“My friend,” said Hannibal gently, “is a free man. We’re here with a message for Mr. Viellard.”

“Oh.” The American shrugged as if the matter were of little moment. “No offense meant.” He was still looking at January as if calculating price. January had to lower his eyes, and his hand closed hard where it lay hidden in the pocket of his coat.

“None taken.” The softness of his own voice astonished January, as if he listened to someone else and thought,
How can he be so docile? What kind of man is he?
Again he wondered why he had left Paris, except that to have remained there would have cost him his sanity from pain and grief.

Evidently some compromise was reached among Mrs. Redfern; her lawyer, Mr. Fraikes; and Madame Viellard.
Henri Viellard escorted his mother in queenly dudgeon toward the ballroom door, and Mrs. Redfern bustled importantly back to relate the results, whatever they were, to the committee of widows basking in the radiance of the Reverend Dunk. January noticed how the Reverend clasped Mrs. Redfern’s mitted hands and bent his head close down to hers as they spoke, like an old friend.

He guessed that money had changed hands somewhere.

Hannibal touched Henri Viellard’s sleeve as he passed, and drew him aside in the carved square arch of the ballroom door. “Monsieur Viellard?” said January. “I’ve come from Mademoiselle Janvier’s house.”

He did not mention that he was Madamoiselle Janvier’s brother. He’d met Viellard before but wasn’t sure the man remembered him, or remembered that he was Minou’s brother. It wasn’t something a protector wanted to know about his plaçée.

But Viellard turned pale at his words, gray eyes behind the heavy slabs of spectacle lenses widening with alarm. “Is she all right? Has she …? I mean …”

“She’s started labor, yes,” said January softly. “I don’t anticipate there being real danger, but it’s going to be difficult for her, and she’s in a good deal of pain. I’m going back there as quickly as I can. And if something does go wrong, I think you should be there.”

“Of course.” The young planter propped his spectacles with one chubby forefinger—their lenses were nearly half an inch thick and the weight of them dragged them down the film of sweat on his nose. “It’s … it’s early, isn’t it? Does she seem well? I’ll be—”

“Henri.” His mother’s voice spoke from the hall. “Do come along. Our guests will be waiting.”

Henri poised, frozen, lace-edged handkerchief
clutched in hand, eyes flicking suddenly back to January, filled with indecision, grief, and fathoms-deep guilt. Then he looked back at his mother.

“Come along, Henri.” Madame Viellard did not raise her voice, and though no woman of breeding would have held out hand or arm for any man, even her son, merely the gaze of those protruding, pewter-colored eyes was like the peremptory yank of a chain.

Viellard dabbed at his lips. “I’ll be there when I can.” His eyes, looking across at January’s, begged for understanding. “You’ll tell her?”

“I’ll tell her.”

Dominique was in hard labor all night. Weakening, exhausted, propped in the birthing-chair by her friends and her mother, she clung when she could to her brother’s big hands. Only once, when she was laid back on her bed half-unconscious to rest between contractions, did she whisper Henri Viellard’s name.

Shortly after dawn she gave birth to a son.

“I expect Henri will be along soon,” remarked Hannibal. He had walked over from the Hotel St. Clair with a napkin full of crayfish patties left over from the buffet and a bottle and a half of champagne. “Having gotten at least some musicians back, the company was determined to make the most of them. The dancing broke up only a half hour ago.”

“Throw those out.” January regarded the patties with a dour eye. “They’ve been out all night and they’re probably bad. It would serve Madame Viellard right if half her precious guests died of food poisoning. And drink to Charles-Henri.” He uncorked one of the champagne bottles, drank from it, and handed it to his friend. “Poor little boy.”

“With a father as wealthy as Henri Viellard he’s a not-so-poor
little boy.” Hannibal followed January into the house, leaving the crayfish patties, napkin and all, on a corner of the porch for the cats. “He’ll have an education—not that three years at Trinity ever did me noticeable good—and with luck a start in business. My beautiful Madame Levesque … my exquisite Phlosine.… Catherine, I kiss your hands and feet …” He made his way around the ladies in the room, pouring out champagne. “To Charles-Henri.”

January crossed through the little dining room to his sister’s bedroom, cleaned now of the smells of blood and childbirth. Sandalwood burned in a china brazier, to sweeten the air. Olympe had never come. There were a thousand plausible reasons, most probable of which being that others simply needed her care, but he felt the clutch of fear in his heart that he would return, and open her door, and find what he had found in Paris.

He pushed the thought away. Iphègénie and Madame Clisson had tidied the room, bathed Charles-Henri, made Dominique as comfortable as they could. She slept now, haloed in white lace and morning light, her son nestled against her side.

Poor little boy
.

She had done by him the best she could, January reflected. She had borne him to a white man, and a wealthy one. Her son would, as Hannibal said, have an education, probably a good one. He would be fair-skinned—octoroon, according to the usage of the country, and with any luck featured more like his seven white great-grandparents than the single African woman who had been brought across the Atlantic in chains to be raped by her captors. That helped.

It helped, too, to be a boy, especially if one’s father took care to see his son apprenticed to a trade or profession
and not raised as a “gentleman” in the expectation of an inheritance that might never come. Hèlier the water seller was a plaçée’s child, whose father had married a white lady and lost all interest in his Rampart Street mistress and her crippled son.

For girls it was another matter.

Too many among the respectable free colored looked askance at the daughters of the plaçées, assuming automatically they would be what their mothers had been. Rose Vitrac had told him about the pressure put on her pupil Geneviève by the girl’s mother, for Geneviève—before the fever had wasted her—was a beautiful girl, seventeen and with the fair-skinned beauty so valued by the whites. Even for those girls who had the strength to battle their mothers’ expectations, it was sometimes hard to marry among the free colored.

And if you wanted something different, something besides being a mistress or a wife?

An education is almost a guarantee of a solitary road
, Rose Vitrac had said, propping her spectacles on her nose in the stifling dark of the attic room above the school she had fought so hard to establish. Yet there had been that bright triumph in her eye as she’d added,
I’ve made it thus far
.

On his way to the little railway station later that morning—accompanied by Hannibal, who was declaiming
The Rape of the Lock
to egrets, cattle, and passing market-women for reasons best known to himself—January turned his steps to the modest cottage on Music Street where Uncle Louis Corbier rented rooms to colored professionals for the season. The old man himself was still asleep, but January ascertained from a servant girl sweeping the porch of the boardinghouse next door that no couple from town had arrived yesterday to sleep on the old
man’s floor and replace his departed servants in tending to his guests.