Her sister’s cabin became a meeting place, and she had visitors from the quarter and from the big house, bringing advice, food, or a sweet tit for Gerant. Even Oreline came, a worried look on her face, repeating over and over that everything would be all right, holding Suzette’s hand as she drifted back to sleep.
Voices drifted in and out of her awareness, advising her how to tell the difference between this cry and that cry, but Gerant’s wailing vibrated deep to her core and communicated nothing but endless need. He accused her with each breath he took. Whenever he pushed away her breast, Suzette knew that he wanted someone else more worthy to be his mother. Exhausted, Suzette slept through much of it.
She resisted the talk around her, but whispers pierced the cushion of her sleep and she heard them anyway. “All that fancy talk and dress, up at the big house acting like she belong there, but she’s come home to her own,” they said.
Elisabeth came every night and walked with Gerant, humming familiar lullabies. Palmire used her strong arms as if she were swinging the hoe and wordlessly rocked Gerant into peace. Suzette fell deeper into her failures, heavyhearted in the face of how she had disappointed everyone.
For the first three weeks after Gerant’s birth, life was an expanding panorama of ruined dreams and expectations.
* * *
Suzette got down on her hands and knees to scour underneath the dining room table with a stiff brush and sudsy water, taking care to clean between the floorboard cracks. Louis Derbanne had taken to dropping his food and drink wherever he happened to be, and there seemed always to be a wet spot or hardened crust Suzette needed to get to before Françoise found it. It seemed as if everything had changed in the sixty days since Gerant was born. Every minute of her day was filled with someone pulling at her, trying to take possession of her hands, her breast, her mind, or her heart.
Louis had been an old man for a long time already, but he seemed more fragile to Suzette now, like one of the Derbannes’ fine cracked dishes that had to be handled with extra care because it was too good to throw out. It fell to Suzette to put him on and lift him off the bedpan and to wash him. She hand-fed him special foods that he could chew and keep down. He seldom rode out to the field anymore, preferring to sit on the front gallery with his bottle of bourbon, nursing a tumbler full of the dark brown liquid, and she cleaned up after him when his weakened stomach rebelled.
Oreline entered the dining room in a flurry of impatience. “There you are. I can’t find my lace gloves,” she complained to Suzette.
“They’re up on the top shelf of the armoire, where they’re supposed to be, Mam’zelle,” Suzette said. Her hands stung from the hot water.
Oreline paused, as if in a debate with herself. “It’s good to have you back. I know she’s your sister, but Apphia didn’t have good house sense,” she said in the soft, accepting tone of long ago. “She never got my hair right.”
“I’ll find the gloves,” Suzette said. She got to her feet and put the pail aside.
Oreline followed Suzette back to the bedroom, and Suzette used the stepstool to reach the gloves.
“If you don’t need me further, Mam’zelle, it’s been three hours.”
“Go on, then,” Oreline said, indulgence edging her tone. “Do your business.”
Suzette hurried down the path to the cookhouse, and she heard Gerant’s loud, blustery cry before she got to the door. He was hungry. A staccato whimper meant he was uncomfortable, a rolling howl begged for attention. Elisabeth was chopping vegetables at the worktable when she came in. She looked up at Suzette and went on with her work.
Suzette sat down and brought Gerant to her breast, mother and son in their quiet time. Her thoughts turned to her own mother. Since Gerant, Suzette had begun to think of Elisabeth as the strongest link in a growing chain. Blessedly, her mother was still strong and healthy and in firm control of the cookhouse.
* * *
Eugene Daurat returned from his three-month trip to France just as the persimmons were ripening red orange on the south field trees. He brought back a delicate figurine for Françoise to replace the one Suzette had broken, a bottle of Madeira for Louis, and a fashionable bonnet with festive green streamers for Oreline. The Derbannes gave a party to celebrate his return to Cane River, and Suzette served.
Each day flowed into the next, and Rosedew returned to its routines. On a late summer day, when Gerant was nearly a year old, Eugene caught Suzette alone out behind the springhouse as she was carrying back a pail of water for the house.
“Suzette, go to the rock this afternoon after supper. I will meet you there.” He used the honeyed voice of possession, but Suzette had fallen out of the practice of considering her trysts with Eugene to be part of her duties on Rosedew.
“M’sieu Daurat, I have to get things ready for the soirée tonight. There is no time. Madame Françoise is waiting on me. It is impossible to get away today.”
The mention of Françoise’s name put him off, but she knew it was only a postponement. Her mother had gone to Françoise once to ask for her help. She could not go again. It was up to Suzette from now on.
It reminded her of cats with the mice they caught around Rosedew, toying with their food before they ate it. After the first capture they would pretend to let the mouse go on its way, pulling back just enough to encourage hope. Only then would they shoot out the fast paw or deliver a quick nip to the neck, trapping it once again into the game. She had once watched an old tomcat get careless near the smokehouse. The mouse had dashed to freedom, damaged, probably easy game for the next predator, but it had gotten away. Escape was unlikely, but it was possible.
5
S uzette almost envied Louis his contentment. He liked to stare out for hours while he sat on the gallery in his rocker, cup balanced in his hand, at one with the motion of the chair. He seemed to lean his mind into the landscape, his eyes scanning the scope of Rosedew, the muscles around his mouth locked in an expression of permanent amusement. From time to time he would push himself out of the rocker with his frail arms, carelessly dropping the tin cup they had decided to give him after so many broken glasses. With a great sense of purpose he would first stand erect, testing the uncertainty of his knees, and then limp away stiff legged on his own beyond the boundaries of the house. No one ever knew where he was going or why he was in such a hurry to get there. Suzette supposed he was answering a special call that only he could hear. Perhaps he was on his way to meet some cronies for a friendly smoke and a drink, or off to give instruction on the running of his plantation. But before long he would forget why he had started out or where he should go next.
Everyone on Rosedew and on the surrounding plantations had become used to seeing Louis alone and seemingly bemused, suddenly appearing in new and unexpected places. Before his mind had gotten so clouded, he would turn most often toward the quarter and the familiarity of Palmire’s cabin, whether she was there or not, but that phase passed and he branched farther out. Once he got as far as Henry Hertzog’s barn. Whoever found him would lead him back to the big house on Rosedew, turning him over to Suzette. He seldom resisted or argued and was content with whatever companionship was offered on the leisurely journey back to where he had started.
His wandering lessened as arthritis settled in his knees, and the time came when Louis Derbanne never left the front gallery at all. As he approached the seventh decade of his life, they all had to face the reality that he was dying. It was as if a protective cloak had been pulled away from the plantation and exposed the temperamental nature of the delicate machinery underneath. There was not a single position that would be the same without the continued labored breath of the master of Rosedew. It had been years since Louis had ridden across his land, tall in the saddle. The day-to-day affairs of the field had long been turned over to a succession of overseers, and life in the quarter was grinding and capricious. But Louis Derbanne’s presence on the front gallery of the big house still had meaning, defining an imaginary point below which thi
ngs could not sink.
He died in his sleep with his affairs in order, leaving a respectable sum for the Catholic Church, as well as declaring his love and recognition of his faithful and loving spouse, Françoise Rachal Derbanne. All of his goods that remained after Françoise’s death were to be divided among Oreline and two of his other favorite godchildren. It was the other story that spread quickly through the quarter. Louis Derbanne had freed three of his slaves in his will. One was an old family servant inherited from his father, beyond working age, and the other two were his own natural children by a slave woman who had died years before. But he had not freed his three children by Palmire.
Françoise took to her sickbed for two weeks after the reading of the will. Without Louis on Rosedew, she was just one more unschooled widow along Cane River. Without Louis, Oreline had lost yet another of the male protectors she needed to marry well and take her place in Cane River Creole society. And without Louis Derbanne, dreams of promised freedom and humane treatment in the quarter died a quick and suffocating death, like a sputtering fire that can’t get enough air to keep itself burning.
* * *
early 1840
Natchitoches Parish
The succession of Louis Derbanne opened, consisting of a number of documents:
4 March 1830, Testament: I, the undersigned Louis Derbanne of the parish of Natchitoches, in the state of Louisiana, declare that I am Catholic Apostolic, and Roman, that I wish to die in the religion of my ancestors, which I wish while I am of sound health and body to regulate my affairs. I will and ordain that the present be my testament, expressly and formally revoking any other testament or codicil that I may have previously made before the present testament, and that it be the only valid one. As a Catholic I give to the Church of St. François de Natchitoches the sum of 10 [piasters] “un fait payée.” I pray that Messieurs Embroise Lecomte and Dassis Bossie will wish to be my testamentary executors, without them having to make bond, yet still to make a judicial inventory, as soon as possible after my death.
I give and bequeath to my godchildren [plural] and niece [singular] Marie Aimé Lavespere, Seraphine [Seraphim?] Chaler, and Marie Oréline Derbanne, all my goods that remain after the death of my faithful spouse, Marie Françoise Rachal. I wish to give testimony of my love and my recognition to my faithful and loving spouse, Marie Françoise Rachal. I leave to her the enjoyment and use of during her life only, all of my goods. I expressly dispose of any security to my heirs and until the death of my said wife, she has the right to enjoy and hold possession of my goods.
I ordain that three of my slaves be freed after my death: Jeanne, Negress; Marie Pamela, griffe [mixed black & Indian]; and Marie Apoline, mulatress. These three slaves are to be free by my [3 illegible words].
Made and passed at my domicile this 4 March 1830. /s/Ls Derbanne. “Neveriteur” C. E. Greneaux, Parish Judge.
Succession of Louis Derbanne.
* * *
Eugene proved to be a pillar of strength for Françoise and Oreline. He stayed on Rosedew for four weeks after Louis died, helping Françoise adjust to running a plantation as large as Rosedew alone. She could neither read nor write and was without the youthful enthusiasm to take on new challenges. As was the way along Cane River, the extended family formed a tight protective circle around the widow. Between the Derbannes, Fredieus, and Rachals a steady stream of visitors came daily to Rosedew to keep her company, play cards, bring gossip, and help oversee business affairs.
Suzette had done her best to avoid being alone with Eugene, trying to keep out of his way. She made up one excuse after another why she could not meet him when he wanted, but he was such a regular on Rosedew now that she could not always keep her distance. Their rendezvous were less frequent, but over the months his insistence was impossible to escape. Suzette approached her meetings with Eugene Daurat with the same state of mind she had when cleaning the outhouse. The task had to be performed from time to time, and when finished she could go on to other things she didn’t mind as much. She no longer looked for hidden signals or explanations, and the fewer words exchanged the better. By first picking, Suzette knew another baby was due in the spring. Eugene’s mood for starting something new seemed to follow the schedule for the planting of the new cotton crop.
On a sunless, soggy day in September, Eugene commanded her to meet him in the barn after supper. This time she didn’t try to avoid him.
Suzette set out into the beating rain and got to the darkened barn first. She swung open the wide door and closed it carefully behind her. The horses and mules were already bedded for the night, but the wind and rain made them edgy, and they pawed at the earth in their stalls. A small hole in the roof off in the far corner let in a steady dripping of rain on the hay beneath. She waited for Eugene there in the dark, hoping no one was looking for her. The moldy scent of the damp hay was sickening, and the barn was drafty and cold.
When at last the barn door swung open, she made out a shapeless form slipping inside furtively. Only when the door was fastened again did Eugene light the kerosene lamp he had brought. He struck a matchstick against the match safe, and the horses whinnied nervously.
He turned the wick on the lamp down low, dimming the flame, and set the lamp down near the door. “Where are you?” he called out.
Suzette squeezed out her courage. “M’sieu Eugene, it’s about the boy, Gerant.”
Eugene grunted, giving her no encouragement. He began loosening his pants as he moved toward her.
“If you freed him now, he could have a different life. He’s your blood.” The wind made a shrill noise as it thrust the rain against the roof. “And there’s another child on the way.”
Suzette watched Eugene’s hands freeze on his trouser buttons. His face clouded.
“Who says it’s mine?” he got out at last.
As if anyone would want her as long as he had his mark on her, Suzette thought. “It’s yours, M’sieu. Another boy, I’d say, by the kicking.” He hadn’t even noticed her rounding belly. “They both could be bought out as soon as this one is born, and raised free. I’ve seen it happen.”
Eugene didn’t answer, staring at her. He hesitated for only a few moments, and then he nimbly buttoned his pants back up. Without a word he picked up the lamp and went back out into the rain, leaving Suzette in the darkness.
From that day forward her prayers of the last two years were answered. He left her alone.
* * *
Suzette asked Françoise on a Friday to be allowed to go to early mass the following Wednesday, promising to make up her chores later. Indifferently, Françoise gave her a pass to attend St. Augustine alone.
Before the plantation bell rang, Suzette put on her checked calico josie and set out for the long walk in the dark. Mass had started by the time she arrived, and Suzette quickly picked out her marraine Doralise’s sorrel mare and brown buggy. She stood quietly, waiting for the service to end. At last the church began to empty out its early morning worshipers, and she saw Doralise coming toward the buggy with her daughter, Elisida, and Azenor Metoyer, the gens de couleur libre Elisida was engaged to marry. Suzette was relieved that Doralise’s husband, Philippe, was not there. There was something about him that frightened her.
Even with downcast eyes, Suzette managed to admire her godmother’s profile as the three approached the carriage. Doralise was a dignified, well-bred woman, everything Suzette wished she could be. As Doralise got closer, she turned stiffly toward Suzette in welcome. Suzette quickly looked away from the expanding circles of puffy dark flesh that formed petals around one of Doralise’s eyes. The gossip must be true, that Philippe had taken to beating Doralise so often and acting so strangely that even his own high-and-mighty family was considering locking him up somewhere. Doralise’s face reminded Suzette of a ripe peach she had once found on the ground in the big garden, seemingly so perfect until she’d picked it up and exposed an oozing, rotten wound on the underside.
“Good morning, Suzette. I wouldn
’t have expected to see you here. Did you need to talk to me?” Doralise asked.
The bruise distracted Suzette. Stammering, she began anyway. “Marraine Doralise, I’m going to have another baby. I want to ask you to be his godmother.”
“Another baby?” Doralise asked with some surprise, but not unkindly. “Is it the same circumstances as before with Gerant?”
Suzette felt herself go hot. “Yes, Madame,” she forced herself to say. She would have liked to turn around and begin the long walk back home, but the baby had to come before her pride. He would need more protection than she could give. Doralise was a free colored woman, one of the Ones with Last Names. She had land, money, and slaves of her own.
“I think this is another boy,” Suzette offered.
Doralise turned her head slowly, and her breath caught as if with pain.
“Suzette, you must be more careful. This is your second baby, and you are what? Fifteen, sixteen?”
Suzette pricked the bubble of bitterness before it had a chance to rise. As much as she loved Gerant, as much as she would do to protect the new life inside her, their making had nothing to do with how careful she was allowed to be.
“I’ll be seventeen come harvest. I do what I’m told, Madame. I can’t do more. This baby is coming, and he needs someone who can help him, like you promised my mother you would help me before I was born.”
Doralise’s face softened. She gave more of a grimace than a smile.
“Yes, I will be godmother to your baby, Suzette.”
There was nothing else for them to say. Elisida was already high above them, waiting impatiently in the buggy with Azenor Metoyer, carefully looking away from her mother and the girl-woman slave. They were clearly waiting for Doralise to finish talking so they could go home to their own life, a very different life.
Cane River Page 6
