Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  “Hmm.”

  “Get dressed, beloved. I’ve made your supper. And Alain has something to show you.” She got up from the bed. “Valere?”

  “All right. Give me a minute.”

  He still didn’t move. “Would you like me to prepare a bath?”

  He sighed heavily. “Takes too long. Just a basin.”

  Fireflies flickered in the courtyard when Valere came to the table. “I can’t stay long. Have an engagement tonight.”

  “Of course. But it’s early yet. Sit down, eat. Relax with Alain.”

  She served him a bowl of hearty stew, fragrant with spice. Valere had little to say, still logy from sleeping too long in the hot afternoon.

  “Shall I tell you something funny from this book I’m reading?”

  He spooned gumbo into his mouth and shrugged.

  “There’s a hero named Candide and this fool named Pangloss who, no matter what misfortune befalls, believes all is for the best. The port of Lisbon — in Portugal?” She looked at him to see if he knew where Lisbon was. She got no reaction. “Well, just as Candide arrives, a terrible storm tosses his ship about and a man is thrown overboard. In a moment of great bravery, Candide is about to jump after him, to save him, but his friend Pangloss holds him back.”

  She felt a little desperate. Valere was in an ill temper. He all but ignored her. She went on, hoping to at least divert him.

  “Well, says Pangloss, there is no need to rescue the man. Why?” Valere did not even look up for the punch line. She could only finish the story. “Because the Bay of Lisbon was made for this very purpose, for this man to be drowned in it. And so, in this best of all possible worlds, the man’s drowning is the best of all possible events.”

  She gave a little laugh. It had seemed funny to her when she read it, but now. Valere put his bread down and looked at her. “You read too much. This is mere silliness.”

  She suddenly felt very small. Very dull. “Yes, Valere. I suppose it is.”

  She placed the pineapple spears on the table, sprigs of mint at the edges making a pretty plate. Valere stabbed a chunk directly from the plate and put it in his mouth. Tansy glanced at Alain, hoping he wouldn’t emulate his father’s bad manners.

  “Are you finished, Alain? You may bring your slate to the table.” She looked at him conspiratorially. He’d waited all week to show his father that he could write his name.

  Alain returned with chalk and slate. “Look, Papa.”

  Valere wiped his mouth with his napkin. “All right.” He pulled Alain on to his lap. “Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

  Proudly, Alain began forming his letters. Valere speared another piece of pineapple and gestured with it toward Tansy.

  “By the way, I won’t see you in the coming week. Maybe not the next either. Getting married tomorrow.” The blood rushed through Tansy’s ears, nearly drowning out his next words. “I’ll have to spend some time with the bride, all that.”

  She’d had no idea the date had been set. She would not even have known he was betrothed if Martine hadn’t told her. She’d thought he’d marry in the autumn, maybe not even till Christmas.

  She smoothed her napkin on the table. Folded it, smoothed it. Folded it again. “I see.”

  Valere shook his head. “I don’t know how I’m to endure five days shut up in the bedroom with Abigail. We can’t go out, no one can come in. Her mother insists on it. Where did such a custom come from? I’m certain my brothers never had to do it.” He shook his head again. “Insane.”

  She agreed it was a stressful way for two people, strangers, really, to begin a life together. But did he really expect her to sympathize with him?

  “A, L, A … you’re writing your name? Well done, young man. Hop down, now. I have to be off.”

  He tousled Alain’s hair. He stooped and gave Tansy a quick kiss. “Thank you for supper. Wonderful gumbo.”

  He crossed to the mahogany humidor Tansy kept for him and plucked out a cigar. He tucked it in his pocket, found his hat and cane, and he was gone.

  Tansy washed the dishes, unable to settle herself over Valere’s marriage. Tomorrow! She hadn’t had time to prepare herself. She pressed the back of her hand against her nose. Stop it, she told herself. The past is past. The future may never come. She wiped her face on her apron. There is only now. And now is not so bad.

  An hour later, Tansy heard Martine come through the gate. She quickly splashed cool water on her face and applied a light dusting of powder. She’d stay out of the candle light and Martine would never know she’d been crying.

  Martine was teasing Alain. “Did you save me some supper?”

  Tansy glided into the room with a smile. “We did. But, alas, our greedy papa ate all your pineapple, didn’t he, Alain?”

  “May it burn his stomach!”

  “Martine!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean it. Where’s the corkscrew?”

  Alain participated in removing the cork, twisting the screw until Martine pronounced it enough. She held the bottle and he pulled, the cork flying out with a satisfying pop.

  Once Martine had eaten and Alain been put to bed, they put their feet up on the low table and poured themselves a second glass of wine.

  “I hope you and Alain had a good evening with your Valere.”

  “Of course.”

  Martine wiped at a drop of wine on her glass. “I only ask because it looks to me as if your lovely eyes are swollen.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Tansy waved her glass to show how inconsequential the news. “Valere is marrying Abigail Windsor tomorrow. I suppose I was a little maudlin about it.”

  “Hmm. I don’t suppose you received an invitation.”

  Tansy shot her a mean look.

  “It doesn’t have to change anything, you know,” Martine said.

  “I know. He’d have told me if he wanted to …”

  “Cancel the contract. It’s such a cold, bloodless phrase, isn’t it? But one gets over it. As long as you have a break-away clause to protect you. And knowing Madame Estelle, you do.”

  Martine had endured the end of two arrangements. The first, the gentleman had had the bad taste to actually fall in love with his new wife and terminated the contract. With a generous settlement, of course. The second time, Martine had made a point of engaging with an elderly gentleman, always looking to the future. He died six months ago, leaving her a modest though respectable sum. She now trolled the quadroon balls for a new protector, not because she needed the money, but because she was bored, she said. Lonely, Tansy thought.

  They lay their heads back, lost in their thoughts. Then Martine asked, “Do you ever dream, Tansy?”

  “Of course I dream.”

  “No. I mean wide-awake dreams. Do you not ever wish for more? For, I don’t know, adventure, romance, snow-capped mountains, a carriage with matching gray horses?”

  The muscles in Tansy’s neck tightened. Martine, always prodding, always poking. “I have everything I need. I’m content. No need for matching gray horses.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “What do you dream about?”

  Martine waved her hand in the air. “Oh, the usual. A handsome stranger, tall, of course. Wealthy, preferably. He’ll waltz divinely. He’ll come into my life like a windstorm, sweeping me up, adoring me. Claiming me. He’ll make love like a stallion.” She thought a moment. “And we’ll make each other laugh.”

  Tansy smiled. “A fairy tale, Martine. But I wish you your prince with the endurance of a champion, a shining aura over his head, and a bouquet of red roses to throw at your feet. I’ll dream of that for you.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Am I not your best friend?”

  They poured themselves another glass of wine and settled back. “I saw her a couple of weeks ago, on Canal Street,” Tansy said.

  “Miss Abigail? Dare we hope she’s short, fat, has a big nose with warts — or no — no nose, thin lips, and … let’s see … she’s near-sight
ed and has only three teeth in her head?”

  “Alas, none of those. She’s blonde, blue-eyed, petite. Very pretty.” Would she make Valere happy? Tansy knew just when to touch, how to touch, where to touch to bring Valere to ecstatic climax. She rubbed her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “But I doubt Miss Abigail’s convent education included instruction in how to please a man.” Did she read? Not that Valere would care if she were as ignorant as ... as he.

  Martine snorted. “You know, the reason the wedding distresses you is because, deep down, you’re convinced that if you make love with a man then you must love him. Or worse, that he must love you.”

  Tansy closed her eyes. Did she believe that? Of course not. She was not a child. But making love could grow into love. And it had. She and Valere loved each other.

  “You think I’m cynical,” Martine said, “but your head is full of romance. If you would only realize that what you have with Valere is perhaps more than simply business, but not much more. He has not and will not give you his heart.”

  Temper flashed heat over Tansy’s face. “You know nothing about Valere’s heart.”

  “I know men. And yes, I also know of placées whose patrons kept them for the rest of their lives. Maybe that was love. Or maybe simply habit. But for most of us? Ask yourself this, what would Valere do if you died?”

  Tansy tightened her fingers on the lace at her bodice. “What a dreadful thing to say.”

  “Tansy. Think. How long would it be before he found himself a new honey to keep here in this very cottage?”

  “He’d be lonely.”

  “He’d be horny.”

  “You are the most atrocious crapehanger.” She should just go to bed. Martine did not understand. She and Valere had been lovers for more than five years now. How could there not be love?

  “I see you twisting that lace. I’ll go. But just one more question. The weeks before Alain was born and he had to abstain from sex, with you at any rate, how often did Valere come around? Two questions, sorry. And how old was Alain when he first saw his son?”

  “That’s enough.” Tansy stood. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Wait, Tansy.” Martine put her wine glass down. She kissed Tansy’s cheek. “Don’t go to bed mad at me. I only want you to take care of your heart.”

  “I do. Valere does.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy put the wine glasses in a basin of water so the mice wouldn’t lick themselves giddy on the drops at the bottom. She rinsed out the bottle to discourage the palmetto bugs from doing the same. Then she blew out the candles.

  As she undressed in the ray of moonlight, she remembered Martine had been in love once. They had both been nineteen, Alain a baby, and Martine’s first patron had just abandoned her for his bride. A handsome Creole, the handsomest man either of them had ever seen, had waltzed Martine through the evening. They met again at the next ball, and the next. Renault, his name was, a cane planter. He called on Martine’s mother to propose a contract. Tansy and she had hovered on the other side of the parlor door while Madame Dubois and Monsieur Renault discussed terms. Martine’s eyes had been full of stars, her heart pulsing for this man.

  The contract papers laid out on the desk, Madame Dubois picked up a quill to hand to Monsieur Renault.

  The door squeaked open. “Madame?” Maggie, the cook, peered into the room. “Please forgive me, but … a man at the back door says I didn’t pay him for the last box of coal, and I know I did.”

  “I’ll deal with him shortly, Maggie.”

  Maggie cleared her throat. She widened her eyes and raised her brows. “He’s very insistent. Perhaps you should come right now.”

  Even hiding behind the other door, Tansy had heard the urgency in Maggie’s voice. Martine’s mother had excused herself, taking the quill with her, and followed Maggie to the kitchen. Maggie had heard from the Duvall’s cook who’d heard from Monsieur Renault’s valet that the gentleman had twice undergone treatment for the pox.

  Madame Dubois had sent him away. Martine had cried. And cried. She’d grown pale and lost weight. Her mother kept her home from the balls until she recovered her looks, then insisted that Martine don her best gown, rouge her cheeks, and reenter the fray. That led to her second protector, whom she accepted with a cold eye on his mortality. By then, Martine had lost faith in love. She developed a shell around her heart that only Alain and she were allowed to penetrate.

  Tansy did not discount Martine’s disappointment, but her starry-eyed state over that Monsieur Renault had been mere infatuation. Martine knew nothing of the kind of love she and Valere had, the kind that grew into comfort and ease with one another.

  Martine was right, though, about the weeks before Alain arrived. Valere had excused himself, saying he had a new race horse he was running this season and simply could not find the time to come by. She had thought she would die of boredom. She ached all over and she wished he’d come and rub her back or help her pass the waiting. And the day after Alain was born? Christophe showed up, with his mother, to see the new baby. He had immediately gone to the crib and, without a moment’s hesitation, picked Alain up and cradled him in his big, sure hands. How long was it before Valere came to see his son? She remembered exactly. It had been three weeks, long enough for her to have healed. And then he had refused to handle his son, afraid of how tiny he was.

  But that was four years ago. Valere had been merely twenty-four. He’d grown up since then. And wasn’t this the best of all possible worlds?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning of Valere’s wedding, a fine day of blue skies and balmy breezes, Tansy picked up Candide and put it down. She tatted lace a while, and lost interest in that. What if she strolled over to Jackson Square, just by chance happening to be there when Valere and the new Mrs. Valcourt emerged from the cathedral? But if he should see her, she would die of mortification. He’d ignore her, and that would hurt. Worse, she might embarrass him.

  Determined to shake off her gloomy mood, she enlisted Alain in a thorough housecleaning. First they rescued toys from under the bed. Alain had a tendency to toss the blocks all together in the toy box, and that wouldn’t do. She helped him sort them so that the red blocks were with the red, the blue with the blue. Then she refolded all of his clothes, arranged his shoes so they were precisely placed side by side, each heel the same distance from the edge of the shelf.

  Next they gathered sheets and filled the washtub with water from the cistern. The two of them were up to their elbows in suds when Maman Estelle dropped in.

  It did not surprise her that her mother should come this particular morning. Fierce as a hawk in protecting Tansy as she’d negotiated her way through the plaçage market, she nevertheless was ever ready to twist whatever thorns she could find embedded. And the marriage of one’s patron was indeed a thorn.

  “I find you in quite good cheer.” Estelle peeled off her lace gloves and tossed them on the table.

  “And why not, Maman?”

  Estelle eyed her knowingly. “Why not indeed?” Absently she licked her thumb and wiped at a smudge on Alain’s cheek. “So. You mean to hide here instead of positioning yourself outside the cathedral in self-pity?”

  “As you so often point out, what Valere does when he is not with me is none of my affair.”

  “I have taught that, but whether you absorbed it I’ve always had my doubts. You are entirely too attached to him.”

  Faced with her mother’s nagging criticisms and her habit of shredding tender feelings, Tansy often found herself sounding very much like Martine. “Isn’t that what he buys when he provides me with this house, an allowance, a child with his name? My attachment?”

  “A seeming attachment would be sufficient.” She narrowed her eyes. “And why are you doing your own sheets? Have you not received your allowance?”

  Tansy considered her mother. Estelle’s face was still unlined, her figure trim, her hair black, though that might be the result of dye judiciously applied. She had ha
d three patrons in her day, and might yet find herself an old gentleman who’d enjoy the comforts of a mature woman. Had she cared for any of those three men, including Tansy’s father?

  “My allowance is fine. Marie comes on Tuesdays. I wanted them clean today.”

  Acerbic, even mean, Maman was no fool. Tansy might as well acknowledge Valere’s wedding hurt her. She stilled the laundry paddle and looked her mother in the eye. “I’m not like you, Maman.”

  “More’s the pity. Hurt feelings where your gentleman are concerned are entirely pointless. Bring your comb, Alain. Your hair is a mess.”

  Tansy stirred the wash pot, the lye-scented steam wafting into her face.

  “Look at you. You’ll spoil your complexion in that heat.”

  Tansy bristled at yet another well-worn admonishment. Don’t sit in the sun. Don’t get your hands dirty. Don’t slouch. Don’t ever, ever show your displeasure. Except for a tightening around the mouth, Tansy obeyed that last stricture.

  “I have fruit and bread and cheese if you’ll stay for lunch, Maman.”

  Estelle waved her hand. “I have an engagement.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Valere habitually dropped in several times a week, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening. Tansy kept herself ready. Sweet-smelling, sweet-tempered, available. With no expectation of his coming this first week of his marriage, she realized how much of her life she spent waiting for his unannounced visits. After her first day of discontent, she found the certainty that he would not call liberating. She and Alain had the entire day to do as they pleased.

  She packed a picnic and set out for the park, the two of them swinging hands and enjoying the day. Midway up the block, she tightened her grip on Alain’s hand. Colette Augustine lounged in the doorway ahead, idly smoking a cheroot. She wore red velvet though it was still morning, and she allowed long tendrils of silky black hair to escape her tignon.