Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
“Julien’s role… remains to be seen,” the Creole banker replied obliquely.
“As his personal banker, are you not privy to his intentions? Will he regain control of the Canal Street property, do you suppose?” she asked boldly.
“I am not at liberty to say, my dear, inquisitive
amie
.”
And at that moment Corlis determined that the dashing André Duvallon was not necessarily enamored with her auburn hair but rather with what he could learn from her about her husband.
Apprehensively she glanced toward the darkened end of the veranda where orange points of light glowed intermittently, a sign that Randall, Ian, and their male companions were still smoking their cigars. It certainly wouldn’t do for Randall to observe her deep in conversation with a banker who later might refuse to offer the funding they required to stay in business.
She noticed that André was also observing the cluster of men conferring on the porch. Now that he had exhausted his quest for information, clearly he would prefer to be among their company rather than hers.
Damn the man’s gorgeous blue eyes, she thought dolefully. Nothing in this blasted swamp was ever what it seemed.
“I do believe, André,” she said in a fair imitation of the blushing magnolias that she’d observed conversing earlier with the handsome bachelor, “that I would greatly appreciate something cold to drink right about now, wouldn’t you? Would you be so kind as to escort me to the house? And then I will leave you to the adoring young ladies who breathlessly await your return to the veranda.”
No longer arm in arm, she and André strolled down the gravel path in the direction of the beautiful house, its stately windows aglow in golden candlelight.
What would become of the children if Jeffries & McCullough didn’t get work? She and Randall simply couldn’t keep up the pretense of the successful young couple from the North for very much longer.
She envisioned her little ones asleep in their cots on Julia Street. With all her soul she yearned to be far from this graceful mansion where she sensed that most of the smiling faces and the polite conversations she had overheard tonight masked a labyrinth of treachery and betrayal.
A few minutes later André Duvallon clasped his goblet of plantation punch and politely inclined his head in a gesture of farewell.
“Well, if you insist you must retire, do let me relieve you of that,” he urged, accepting her half-full glass with his free hand and setting it aside. Corlis nodded in polite response as they walked in silence toward the curving staircase.
“Good night,” she said simply.
Then she turned away from her escort, delicately lifted her long skirts, and began ascending toward the guest wing. She heard the sound of the handsome banker’s footfalls as he retraced his steps across the parquet foyer. She glanced over her shoulder in time to observe him stride past the wide front door to join a cluster of die-hard merrymakers talking and laughing on the shadowed veranda.
When she reached the landing, she gazed down the long, carpeted hallway and wondered bleakly if she would be able to find the bedchamber assigned to Randall and herself. And even if she did, she would then be faced with the daunting task of escaping from her stays and corset without assistance.
Suddenly a strange noise drew her attention.
On her right a door stood slightly ajar. From inside, she was startled to hear the muffled sound of someone weeping inconsolably. For a moment she hesitated and then pushed the door open a few inches wider. A large mound of white dimity edged in ruffles lay heaving in the middle of a massive four-poster plantation bed. Corlis blushed scarlet, thinking that she had stumbled upon a most indelicate scene. Then she realized with a start that Adelaide LaCroix had flung herself onto the middle of her mattress and was crying her eyes out.
Corlis’s satin slippers moved silently across the Turkish carpet that nearly filled the large high-ceiling bedchamber. A large armoire took up one wall and a mirrored dresser the other. Portraits of LaCroix ancestors stared vacantly at each other across the room, indifferent to the young matron’s distress.
“Hello…” Corlis whispered, feeling uncertain about what to do next, or even how to address her haughty hostess. Should she call her Adelaide or Madame LaCroix, considering the sobbing woman’s present state of disconcerting dishabille? She placed a gentle hand on the trembling shoulders of Julien LaCroix’s unhappy wife. “It’s Corlis… Corlis McCullough. Can I help?”
Adelaide abruptly ceased her heart-wrenching lament but did not respond beyond burrowing her bloated, tear-stained face more deeply into the quilted silk coverlet.
“You poor dear,” Corlis ventured. “What has happened?”
Adelaide gave a little gasp and rolled over on her back. Stifling another sob, she awkwardly managed to pull herself to a sitting position on the bed and dabbed her eyes with a lacy linen handkerchief. She reached for a glass on the bedside table and took a deep draught of its milky green liquid. An aroma of licorice wafted across the coverlet.
Absinthe.
The devil’s own drink, Corlis had heard it called. The national libation of France. Its aficionados and detractors alike credited its fiery contents with producing a veritable state of altered consciousness in those who imbibed more than a single glass.
Adelaide’s glass was nearly empty, as was the bottle that stood next to it.
“He’s… g-gone to her!” Adelaide wailed, her words slurring as her voice rose to a pitch that would set dogs to barking. “He thinks he’ll… g-get the property back from… that… woman!”
Corlis retraced her steps to the bedroom’s threshold and firmly shut the door leading to the hallway. Then she returned to Adelaide’s bedside and enclosed the woman’s pudgy hand between her own slender ones.
“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” she asked gently. “Why not let me summon your maid?” The poor woman was obviously beside herself.
“No! No!” Adelaide shrieked, shaking her head fiercely. “Don’t c-call for her! I c-can’t
bear
that woman.” She leaned her tear-stained face close to Corlis and whispered hoarsely, “Maisie’s
Julien’s
friend! He’s probably… probably had his way with her since… since they were practically children!” She brought the glass to her lips once again and took another gulp of its greenish contents. “Med’cine,” she noted with a slight hiccup.
Corlis barely succeeded in retrieving the tumbler from her hostess’s hand before Adelaide flopped backward on the mattress. “Oh… Madame LaCroix,” she chided gently.
“C-Call me Adelaide,” Julian’s wife sobbed, reaching for Corlis’s hand. “You’re a n-nice woman,” she said, her speech thickening. “Even if you are from Pennsylvania. S-Sit here!” Her eyes fluttered closed while she patted the mattress beside her. “Keep me company till I fall asleep.”
Adelaide’s plump cheeks exhaled an enormous sigh. Even so, her hand did not relax, and she held on tightly to Corlis.
“That’s good,” Corlis whispered soothingly, relatively certain that the woman would soon pass out. “Just go to sleep now. Things won’t seem so dire in the morning.”
That’s what people always said, but it was never true. Life for
the McCulloughs was dire indeed.
“I don’t really
care
… if he has her… you know what I mean?” Adelaide said suddenly, startling her companion. “It would actually be of some relief to me.”
Has
who
?
Corlis wondered. The servant, Maisie, or some other woman Julien had gone off to see? She thought suddenly of the owner of the Canal Street property—Martine Fouché. Annette—her dressmaker—spoke of the
placèe
in the hushed tones of an acolyte. It was highly probable that Adelaide LaCroix’s husband had deserted her tonight for Martine’s cottage on Rampart Street.
“In fact, if he
is
with her, it would be easier all ’round,” Adelaide commented in a tone drenched in self-pity. “It’s jus’… jus’…”
She began weeping again.
Corlis absently patted the woman’s plump hand in what she hoped was perceived as a kindly gesture.
“Julien’s such a fool, though,” Adelaide mumbled. “He’s always… always been a fool… about such things. Thinks he knows the whys and wherefores, he does. Ha!” Adelaide expelled an unpleasant snort. “But I know… so… so much more about Mademoiselle Fouché than
he
does. Ha… ha!” The woman’s laugh sounded like a witch’s cackle. “Isn’t that ironic? I know what Julien
doesn’t
know… I know how she’s pretended to—” Adelaide flung the crook of her arm over her eyes and pursed her lips in a pout. “Oh, well… What does it matter…? What does
anything
… matter?” she murmured piteously.
The next thing Corlis knew, Adelaide’s heavy breathing became the labored exercise of a drinker falling into an alcoholic stupor. Corlis waited. Except for the sound of the woman’s inhaling and exhaling, the bedchamber was now silent.
And then it became patently obvious to Corlis that Adelaide Marchand LaCroix had, indeed, passed out.
Chapter 13
October 30, 1838
Faster, Albert!” Julien shouted at the glistening black back of his father’s slave. The muscular servant had been poling the pirogue downriver, hugging the shore, for more than half an hour now. “Ten picayunes if we arrive in New Orleans in under three hours!”
Julien had commandeered Albert from his father’s sickroom and ordered the manservant to the Reverie dock to take him to the Crescent City. From this moment on, Julien didn’t give a damn if Etienne LaCroix’s bedpan got emptied on time or not!
Julien seized the other pole that lay inside the long, narrow boat and added his efforts to the enterprise. He’d dashed like a madman from the plantation house to the water’s edge, only to discover a spooning couple had claimed the deck of the small steam packet tied up to the dock for their trysting place. Without thinking, Julien made for the sleek, slender pirogue instead. The pole’s smooth, rounded wood felt good in his hands. The murderous rage that had propelled him out of the house and away from his wife began to abate. Soon the steady poling of their small craft fell into a soothing rhythm.
Place… push…
pull away. Place…
push…
pull away.
He had discarded his frock coat, removed his collar, and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Sweat shone on his forearms and trickled down his chest as cooling air brushed against his skin. The moon, a large, luminous disk that hung suspended in the night sky, served as a last memento of this year’s
roulaison
.
Thank God cane cutting was over, Julien thought. Perhaps by next harvest Etienne LaCroix would be in his grave, and as his son and heir, he would be—
He felt himself lose the rhythm of his stroke, and as a result, nearly pitched into the surging river. Albert glanced over his shoulder and frowned.
“Sorry,” Julien said shortly. He waited, watching Albert’s movements intently, and rejoined the stroke.
Place… push… pull away…
***
Althea Fouché had already ordered their household slave to serve the coffee and croissants for breakfast when she heard a sharp knock on the front door. Martine, who sat at the pianoforte fingering a Chopin
étude
she had learned in Paris, glanced at her mother with a puzzled expression. Then she instructed Elfie to see who it could be at the ungodly hour of ten in the morning.
“A Monsieur LaCroix, ma’am,” Elfie reported in a low whisper as she gestured toward the half-opened front door.
Martine and Althea exchanged looks of astonishment.
“Mon Dieu!”
Althea exclaimed under her breath. “Why would that man come here without first leaving his card? And on a Sunday!” she added indignantly.
“Please inform Monsieur LaCroix that I am not receiving visitors at this time,” Martine said sotto voce. It was the truth, she thought distractedly. She was still wearing her loose-fitting bed gown made of sheer white lawn and her flowing bed jacket of the same thin cotton, decorated with ruffles around the collar and cuffs. “Be very polite!” she warned Elfie sternly. “Tell him that perhaps he might call next week at—”
“But next week would be too late!” a voice declared from the door.
Martine and her mother turned to stare incredulously at the intruder Julien LaCroix who had advanced into the parlor. He handed his walking stick and top hat to the round-eyed Elfie and made a slight bow.
“Monsieur…” Martine temporized, rising from the piano bench near the wheeled trolley on which their breakfast had been laid. “As you can see, we are not dressed properly to receive you.”
“It is of no consequence,” Julien said, gesturing as if to sweep her objections aside. “At Wednesday’s ball at the
Salle d’Orleans
, the beautiful Martine Fouché’s many admirers will be dueling over the opportunity to become her protector. I wish to advance my cause early, and more privately,” he added, lifting Martine’s slender hand and bending over her honeyed fingers. Then he turned and performed the same gesture of respect to Althea.