The Exiles (3 page)
“I’m glad you think so.”
“There is one matter that I should mention. I assure you I looked at a dozen plantations, and this one was the best. However, it has no house that would be suitable for you and Mrs. Fontaine.”
“What sort of house is there?”
“It is no more than a cottage. I think, sir, you will have to think about building your own house.”
“I would like that very much. I have looked forward to building my own home for some time, and my wife has a box full of ideas about it.”
“Well, when it’s time to begin I can recommend builders. And of course many of the slaves are expert craftsmen. It might pay you to invest in a few of those. Plenty of them are available at fair prices.”
At that moment a knock sounded at the door. Harcourt looked up and said, “Come in.”
A woman entered, carrying a small child. Harcourt looked irritated. “Yes, Mrs. Wells, what is it?”
“I don’t think Neville is well, sir. Shall I take him to the doctor?”
“Yes—yes, take him, Mrs. Wells! You don’t need to ask me everything.”
The woman flushed, then turned and left.
“Your son?”
“Yes, his mother died at his birth. His name is Neville.”
“He looks like a fine boy.”
For a moment Harcourt hesitated, and then he said, “He’s like his mother.” Somehow he made the words sound like an accusation.
Uncomfortable, Cretien quickly said, “I must go now. My wife will be wondering about me. We’ll be leaving to see the plantation early in the morning.”
Cretien left the office and walked the streets for a while. New Orleans was a colorful city with no tall buildings, for the sands of Louisiana would not permit such things. His mind leaped ahead, and, as always, he was excited at the thought of a new project.
He took a turn through the old town where the Americans, the Kaintocks, stayed. He was surprised to see the large number of brothels, saloons, and gambling houses. The streets were crowded with rough looking men, and he thought
, I wouldn’t like to be here at night without a pistol.
He turned and went back to the hotel, looking forward to seeing the plantation in the morning.
Jacques had made himself available to take the Fontaine party to the plantation. He was ready and waiting early, and after a good breakfast Cretien and Aimee found themselves passing through the wilds of Louisiana. After leaving the city of New Orleans, “wilds” was the proper way to describe the countryside. The land was flat, of course, much as it was in New Orleans, but the pale earth seemed to grow darker and wetter as they rode farther away from the city. The large trees that they did not know were called sugarberries by Jacques, and the Louisiana birds flocked to them for their sweet, reddish fruit. Live oaks were the most spectacular trees. They towered some seventy or eighty feet, and some of the lower limbs spread out to enormous distances, adorned with Spanish moss, which looked like huge birds’ nests. The streams they passed were the color of milk chocolate, almost as if the earth had melted; and once, as they passed by a wide stream, an alligator raised his snout.
Aimee shivered. “What a horrible beast!”
“The Cajuns, they like to hunt the alligator. They use their hides and even eat their meat,” Jacques offered.
“I wouldn’t eat one of those things if I were starving!” Aimee exclaimed.
“Well, I don’t know about that. We’ve eaten snails,” Cretien teased her.
“A snail is better than that thing!”
They stopped once to water the horses at a small stream, and Aimee was pleased by the white birds she saw.
“They are called egrets,” Jacques said. “And look. There is a blue heron. He is a serious-looking fellow, no?”
They watched the heron as he moved slowly, his long legs seeming inadequate for such a large body. Once his head flashed down as quickly as a thought, and he came up with a small fish. He tossed it into the air, caught it expertly, and swallowed it whole. The party watched the bulge as it went downward, and Cretien laughed. “He doesn’t bother chewing, does he?”
The air grew hotter as they made their way, and the humidity was much worse than in Cuba. Aimee fanned herself and pulled her dress away from her neck to let the air circulate. “Is it always this humid?”
“No, the winter here is nice—not as humid. You will like it then.” Jacques turned, his white teeth flashing at her. “Sometimes you don’t know whether you’re in the ocean or on dry land, it is so wet. But you will get used to it.”
As they drew nearer, Jacques pulled up at a shack to ask directions, and an old woman came out. She spoke French, and when Cretien asked her if she knew the way to the plantation, she grinned toothlessly and pointed. Then she came closer and said, “You will live there, sir?”
“Yes, it will be our home.”
“Ah, if you want a juju or a love potion, you come to me. If you have an enemy, I can put a curse on him that he will die screaming.”
“I don’t think we will require that,” Cretien laughed.
“Then perhaps a love potion. You come and see me. I can make any spell you want. You come and see Ma Tante.”
“I don’t need a love potion. I’ve got all the love I need right here.” Cretien smiled and put his arm around Aimee.
Thirty minutes later they pulled off the main road and went down a much narrower lane until Jacques said, “That must be it.”
They had been passing through cane fields, but now they had come out into an open space. A cottage occupied the center of a small ridge overlooking the fields, and several smaller shacks, obviously slave quarters, were off behind it.
“Don’t be disappointed, darling,” Cretien said quickly. “We will build a fine house. Even today we’ll find a location, and I’ll get started at once.”
As the carriage pulled up to the house, a woman came out. She was in her forties, a solid woman with a pleasant face and black hair covered by a kerchief. She smiled and curtsied. “May I help you? My name is Marie Bientot.”
Cretien introduced himself and said, “Is your husband here?”
“No, he is out at the far field, but I will send someone for him.” She turned around and called, “Brutus!”
A huge black man, who was carrying wood from a pile, dropped it and came over. He was an enormous man, muscular, with a rather sullen look.
“Brutus, go fetch my husband at once. Tell him the master’s here.”
Without a word the black man turned and plodded away.
“What a massive fellow. He looks rather villainous,” Cretien murmured.
“He’s not the best of the slaves, but he is strong. Will you come inside the house, sir, and you, madame?”
They got out of the carriage and went inside. “My husband and I live over there.” She waved her hand toward the window. “But I wanted to fix the house up.”
“It’s very nice, Marie,” Aimee said.
“You look around, and I will fix you a lunch. We will have a fine dinner tonight.”
Cretien and Aimee wandered around the house. It was a very modest place, but it was clean and large enough and seemed to be well kept. Then they stepped outside.
“It’s not much, is it?” Cretien frowned. “I thought it would be better than this.”
Aimee turned to him, reached up, and touched his cheek. “It will be very nice when we fix it up. And we’ll be here every day while the house is going up.”
Cretien smiled at her. “You’re a patient woman. Most women would rather stay in town at a fine hotel.”
“No, this will be our home until we build the big house. We will call it Fontaine Maison, for your name will be on it.”
Cretien reached out and took her in his arms. He kissed her and said,
“Our
name will be on it. We will have a good life here,
mon chère!”
A sense of pride came to Aimee Fontaine as she walked out of the house to greet her visitors. She thought of the almost two years that had passed as Fontaine Maison was rising, and she was filled with a strong sense of possession. The house had become her life, for although Cretien was drawn often to the city, where he enjoyed the theater and dining and excitement of cosmopolitan life, Aimee loved the plantation.
She paused for a moment as the carriage pulled up and turned to look at the exterior of the house. The French influence on the structure was strong. She had wanted to make it a miniature Versailles, but not quite that formal.
Fontaine Maison was a raised structure with large columns in the lower story and colonnettes in the upper. It had a typical French roof slanting upward to a peak, and she had designed it with many, many windows so that every room would be bathed in light. The house was surrounded by a white fence that also protected a large garden. In years to come it would be more attractive, but at least the seeds were sown.
Aimee felt a strong love for the place, and at the same time a guilt of sorts. She had prayed that she would not make the house an idol, but it had become a haven for her, and she loved it with all of her heart.
A tall man stepped out of the carriage and turned to help a woman. Aimee at once advanced, saying, “Monsieur Despain, Madame Despain, I welcome you to Fontaine Maison.”
Charles Despain was the mayor of New Orleans, and his wife, Margaret, was one of the social leaders in the city. The Fontaines had visited many times with the Despains in their home.
Despain removed his hat and bent over Aimee’s hand to kiss it. “We are an imposition, I fear.”
“Not at all. Come inside. My husband is not here, and I’m afraid he won’t be back until tomorrow.”
She turned to Margaret, who kissed her. Margaret Despain, an attractive woman in her late forties, had a real affection for Aimee. Hers was one of the true friendships that Aimee had formed since her arrival in Louisiana.
Now Aimee said, “Are you hungry? There is food ready.”
“No, first you must show us the grounds,” Margaret insisted.
When they had seen the outside, Aimee urged them to come in. “It is a little cold for March. Come inside to the fire.”
They entered the house, where they were served
cafe au lait
and pastries. “Our cook is a Cajun,” said Aimee, “and fixes the most fiery dishes you can imagine. She makes the best gumbo in the world.”
“‘In the world’ means New Orleans. I don’t think gumbo is enjoyed anywhere but Louisiana,” Despain said.
Aimee took them on a tour of the house, and the pair exclaimed many times over the exquisite furnishings.
“It feels so much like a home!” Margaret exclaimed. “Many grand houses seem more like museums, but this house has a comfortable feel about it.”
“I must confess I love it, Margaret. Too much, perhaps. It’s easy to learn to love things instead of God.”
Margaret laughed and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I think you should preach a little of that doctrine to my husband. He’s stocking up with houses and land and money as if he were going to live forever.”
Despain laughed shortly. He was, indeed, a man who loved things, but he did not like to be reminded of it. “Well, I know I won’t be on this earth forever, but I intend to enjoy the time I have here. Now, show us some more of the house.”
The three ended their tour in the drawing room. It was a large room with deep burgundy rugs on the polished hardwood floors and velvet curtains of the same color pulled to one side at each of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were papered with a flocked gold-and-burgundy paper and were decorated with numerous paintings of landscapes, all with gilded frames.
A large stone fireplace took up almost the whole wall at the far end; the grate and accessories were made of ornate wrought iron, and a large mantel above held tiny porcelain boxes and vases of all shapes and sizes. There were four high-backed chairs of red-and-ivory damask flanking the fireplace, and a large couch of ivory damask took its place among these. More of the same chairs were placed along the walls of the room, with highly polished mahogany tables and glass lanterns at the sides of some. A beautiful piano stood open with an array of music on its stand.
Despain said, “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be spending less time here when you go to your new town house.”
A silence came over the room, and the Despains saw distress in Aimee Fontaine’s eyes.
“A house in New Orleans?” Aimee said, a thickness coming to her throat. Suddenly the room was uncomfortable.
“My dear, you should not have said that!” Mrs. Despain said.
Mr. Despain flushed and stammered an apology. They had lunch and then quickly made their departure. No one spoke again of the house in town. As soon as they were in their carriage, however, and pulling away from Fontaine Maison, Margaret turned to her husband.
“You are a fool, Charles! Why did you have to mention the house?”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but I didn’t know it was a secret.”
“Well, it obviously was! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get elected to any office. You’re the most tactless man who ever lived!”
Despain slumped down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes while his wife continued to rebuke him. Finally he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. “Well, how am I to know what to say and what not to say? I supposed that Cretien had told her about the house.”
“Well, he obviously hadn’t. He was planning a surprise.” Margaret shook her head. “I’m glad you didn’t mention seeing Cretien having dinner with that actress. What’s her name?”
“Nan Strickland.”
“She’s nothing but a harlot. If I ever hear of you running around with harlots, I’ll see to it that you’re sorry!”
“I’ve got no intention of running around with harlots, and you know it!” Charles protested. “And besides, you don’t know that Fontaine is guilty of anything—except indiscretion. He should know better than to be seen in public with a woman like that.”
“Oh, you mean it’s all right in private?”
“I give up. Have your own way.”
“I’m worried about the Fontaines, Charles. Cretien is gambling a lot, and sometimes he doesn’t go home for days.”
“It never pays to meddle in other people’s marriages. They have to take care of themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”