Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (19 page)

“Look dere, Cleo. See dat lil’ cloud up dere? Don’ it look
like a white butterfly? De bestest sign a man kin have. Dat white butterfly be
fo yo and Remy. I’s sure of it.”

He thumbed away the tears under her eyes. “You gone put on
de good show in de house. You don’ let nobody see anyting diff’rent.”

Cleo nodded. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Sam’s leathery
cheek and hurried back to the house. She wanted to be behind the closed door of
Josie’s room when LeBrec left Madame Emmeline’s study.

New Orleans: City of music, dancing, dining. Josie loved
being in Tante Marguerite’s house and reveled in a whirlwind of parties and concerts.
But the afternoon hours of dreary winter days -- Josie sighed and put her book
away. The print was too small, and Cleo had already read it to her last year
anyway.

The hall clock chimed three. Abigail had said she’d call at
three, and as
une américaine
, she would actually arrive at that time.
Josie had introduced Abigail to several of her Creole cousins, and they had
adopted her into their circle. Still, Abigail continued to seek Josie’s
company, and Josie thought she knew why. If Abigail were to ever leave the
house, she required an escort, of course, and Albany Johnston willingly
attended her if Josie were included.

Josie heard her aunt’s butler answer the knock on the door.
She picked up her cape and bonnet and went to the parlor to meet her friends.
Albany Johnston waited for her alone.

“Abigail sends her regrets,” he said. “She’s indisposed with
a cold. But rather than disappoint you – I know you need to get out of the
house now and then – I thought perhaps Madame Lambert might accompany us on a
walk.”

Always, Albany couched his invitations in terms of what
would be good for her, Josie thought. Just one more of the little annoying ways
he made her feel like a child. And was it quite proper he should come calling
without Abigail? Still, she had looked forward to getting out.

Josie sent for her aunt’s seamstress. Madame Lambert was an
ancient widow, kept on for mending and for charity’s sake, an excellent woman
if a bit deaf. Yes, she said, she would be pleased to have a coffee with
Monsieur and Mademoiselle, only give her a moment to fetch her bonnet.

Once outside, Albany offered Josie his arm. Madame Lambert
trailed along behind them in her widow’s weeds. Josie pitied the old woman’s
stale black dress, almost as faded as the one she’d had to wear at Maman’s
funeral. Josie’s own wardrobe was brand new, though of course everything was
still black. When her mourning period was finished, she decided, she would give
her gowns to Madame Lambert.

Jackson Square bustled. Albany allowed Josie to stop to watch
two little black boys singing and dancing. They had a ragged old hat on the
ground with a lone penny in it to entice bystanders to drop a few coins in. The
boys sang and clapped their hands in rhythm with their shuffling feet. They
finished with a flourish and grinned at Josie.

“They’re adorable,” Josie said.

Albany tossed a coin in the hat and drew her away. “
Merci
,
M’sieur,” the boys called. “
Merci, jolie
Mam’zelle.”

The first weeks in New Orleans, Josie had looked for
Bertrand Chamard at every event she attended. Disappointed, she learned he had
not yet appeared in town. Other days her heart would leap at sight of a figure
very like Phanor DeBlieux’s. Surely just in the next street, or around this
corner, she would see him. She knew he was still in New Orleans because
Grand-mère had relayed Monsieur Cherleu’s praise of Phanor’s good sense and
reliability, qualities rare in a Cajun, Grand-mère added.

Between the two hoped-for sightings, she kept herself in a
near constant state of anticipation, yet neither handsome gentleman had
appeared in front of her to sweep the hat from his black hair, brown eyes
twinkling.

“I want to show you something, Josephine,” Albany said. Her
heart sank. He was leading her toward the levee. No doubt there were ships in
the river, and she’d have to hear all about where they’d come from and what
they carried. Albany was obsessed with the amount of commerce flowing through
New Orleans.

“Wait, Albany,” she said. They were passing a vendor slicing
plantains into a cauldron of bubbling hot oil. “Madame Lambert perhaps would
like a cone of fritters?”

“Of course,” Albany said. Josie touched his sleeve and
smiled up at him. “Me too.”

He laughed indulgently and bought them each a paper cone of
plantains sprinkled with brown sugar. “You’ll ruin your gloves,” he said.

“No, I won’t.” She pulled her kidskin gloves off and handed
them to him to put in his pocket.

Josie was right about the lecture on commerce. Albany
pointed out the barges carrying cotton bales from up-river, the casks of
molasses being loaded onto a ship, and the tuns of wine and beer off-loading at
the dock. He seemed oblivious to the cold wind, which Josie was keenly aware of
as it blew right up her petticoats.

“Your grandmother’s own molasses and sugar likely unloaded
at this very dock last year,” he said. Josie nodded and tried to be attentive.
She knew exactly how many kegs her grandmother had sent downriver. Of course,
Toulouse had produced neither molasses nor sugar this year.

Albany led Josie and Madame Lambert to the café where the
three of them had coffee. It was warm enough most days to sit outside, if one
were sheltered from the wind, and the coffee was strong and hot. Albany
entertained Madame Lambert while Josie sipped her
café au lait
and
watched a juggler across the road. He wasn’t very good at it. Only three balls,
and he often dropped one, but she admired his perseverance. He was one of the
few redheads Josie had ever seen, one of the new Irish immigrants she’d heard
about. They were all so poor. No better than darkies, really, Madame Lambert
said behind her fan.

Albany led Josie and their chaperone along the Rue Esplanade
back to Tante Marguerite’s townhouse. Once inside, he recommended Josie take a
rest before the supper bell rang. “You mustn’t overtire yourself,” he said.

Josie stifled a retort that she could have walked twice as
far and twice as fast if only he hadn’t insisted on watching the ships in the
river.

“Thank you, Albany,” she said. “It was lovely to be out
today.”

Pulling her bonnet off as she climbed the stairs to her
room, Josie’s aunt called to her from her bedchamber. “Josie? Come in here,
dear.”

Josie tossed her bonnet on Tante Marguerite’s writing table.

“Did you have a nice walk with your
américain
? Such
an imposing man. Very handsome, you lucky girl.”

Josie sighed. “Would you have guessed there was a ship in
the river all the way from Madagascar, an island off the east coast of Africa,
exporter of such goods as cloves, coffee, vanilla, and sisal?”

Tante Marguerite smiled. “Don’t be too hard on the man,
Josie. They can’t all be poets.” She held an elaborate gown up in front of
herself. “What do you think? Shall I wear the cream silk tomorrow night?”

Marguerite had invited a few friends over for a buffet,
nothing elaborate. Still, candlelight and wine could only do so much for ladies
of a certain age. She chose her gowns and jewelry with great care.

Josie wondered if Alphonse, Tante Marguerite’s nephew on her
husband’s side, would be there again. Alphonse had been dashing in his buff trousers
and bottle-green waistcoat the last time she’d seen him. On the other hand, she
hoped Oncle Sandrine’s old bachelor brother Monsieur Breton would not be there.
He had been all too attentive, and she disliked his yellow teeth and the smell
of his
eau de toilette
.

The following evening, Josie donned her second best party
dress. It was necessarily black, but it was cut in the latest style and adorned
with really lovely black satin ribbon. With her hair curled and her cheeks
lightly rouged, she was every inch
la belle
.

Tante Marguerite’s parlor glowed with candle light.
Delicacies were spread on the mahogany table for people to help themselves
throughout the evening. The second parlor had been cleared for dancing, and the
musicians played quietly.

Josie sat on the yellow damask sofa with her skirts spread
prettily around her. Cousin Violette kept her company. She was two years older
and becoming a little desperate for a fiancé, Josie thought. Twenty, and still
no suitor in sight. What was she doing wrong? The gentlemen hardly noticed her.
Perhaps it was Violette’s long nose, Josie thought, but other girls less pretty
than Violette found husbands.

Tante Marguerite’s nephew Alphonse arrived. With a charming
bow, he addressed her, and Violette, as was proper. Then he pulled a chair near
Josie and began to tell them about the morning’s horse racing. He made Josie
laugh as he described his sure bet falling farther and farther behind in the
second race.

Violette waved her fan as if she’d never been more bored.
Perhaps that was the problem, Josie thought. Her cousin was dull because she
found everyone else so.

Josie told Alphonse all about her gelding at home, and how
she’d been thrown at Abigail’s. He swore he’d have swooped her from the horse’s
rearing back before she could have hit the ground. The good humor in his eye
canceled the braggadocio; he was utterly charming. But just a boy, she
thought, compared even to Phanor, several years Bertrand Chamard’s junior, and
only a little older than Josie herself.

Monsieur Breton of the yellow teeth hovered nearby, but
Alphonse did not yield his hold on Josie’s attention. Manners dictated that the
fragrant gentleman instead engage Violette in conversation. Violette did her
best to be entertaining, Josie thought. At least she didn’t yawn, but her
fluttering fan and shrill laugh at every remark Monsieur made were hardly more
endearing.

The musicians broke through the hum of the busy room with
the first notes of a quadrille. Alphonse stood. “Will you dance?” he said and held
out his hand.

Then the magic of the evening began. The violins, the
wavering candlelight, the scent of lemons from the courtyard -- Josie floated
over the polished floor, unmindful of the black dress among the swirl of green
and blue and lavender skirts.

The heat of the dance drove the pair to the punch table
where a white jacketed servant ladled sweet frothy wine punch into crystal
cups. Behind her, Josie heard a whispered, “Disgraceful!” She idly wondered who
had offended the old women of the party until a second voice said, “Hardly in
mourning six months, and on the dance floor already.”

She flushed to her very toes and tears wet her lashes.
Alphonse had heard them too. He leaned over. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

She shook her head to absolve him. “It’s not your fault. I
didn’t think either.”

He led her to a settee away from the dancing and sat with
her. “You mustn’t mind,” he said. “Those two old biddies always criticize. I’ve
heard them snipe on other occasions, believe me.”

“But they’re right.” Josie felt deflated, the magic of the
dance floor reduced to the realities of etiquette.

Tante Marguerite excused herself from a circle of guests and
approached Josie. Alphonse stood and offered her his place on the sofa, then
hesitated. Was he to excuse himself from Marguerite’s censure, or remain to
give Josie support?

Tante Marguerite settled herself and smiled at Alphonse.
“Might I have a glass of wine, my dear?” she said.

With Alphonse disposed of, Marguerite patted Josie’s hand.
“Don’t worry,
chérie
. My dear old friends --.” She nodded to the stern
ladies across the room. “They imagine they are the final word on propriety. But
I know my sister would be happy to see you smiling again. And your papa never
cared what anyone thought, did he?”

Alphonse returned with a flute of champagne, which
Marguerite accepted with a wink. “Enjoy yourselves in my home,” she said, and
left them to smile awkwardly at each other.

Even with their hostess’s blessing, however, Alphonse did
not suggest another dance. Instead, they adjourned to the banquet table and
filled their plates with shrimp, curried oysters, pickled okra, and ginger
cake. They found a spot on the gallery overlooking the
Rue Royale
and
dined with moon glow on their faces.

Another white jacketed servant took their empty plates from
them, and they leaned against the wrought iron rail to watch the street life
below them. Alphonse remarked on the drunken crew on their way to the bars on
the riverfront, and Josie wondered who the woman in the red hat might be waiting
for as she stood under the torch lamp on the corner. Alphonse made no comment,
but drew her attention to a fine pair of horses drawing a carriage up the
street.

The carriage stopped just below them. A man in a black top
hat stepped down. As he turned to speak to the driver, the scarlet lining of
his cape caught the light. A very elegant gentleman, Josie thought. He tapped
the carriage with the tip of his cane and entered Tante Marguerite’s door.

“Oh.” Josie put her hand to her throat as she recognized the
man in the satin-lined cape.

“Do you know him?” Alphonse said.

“It’s my cousin.”

Alphonse nodded to the parlor behind them. “Would you like
to go in to speak to him?”

Josie opened her fan. “It’s stuffy in there, don’t you
think?”

She continued to laugh in the right places as Alphonse
entertained her with a story about getting lost in the cane when he was a
youngster, but her mind was on Bertrand.

She’d so often relived the moments at the Johnstons’ when
Bertrand had smiled at her over his port, had sung to her heart alone. No one
else had ever kissed her, and she’d filled lonely hours dreaming of his lips on
hers.