Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  “It looks good on you. And your fan, the tignon — ” Marine touched her thumb and fingers together. “Perfect. Who would have thought to use turquoise with coral?”

  “I would,” Tansy laughed. Her headdress was a swirl of silk fastened with a broach of tiny turquoise chips.

  “Alain, how do you like Maman’s new dress?” Martine said.

  Alain glanced up from his line of soldiers. “Bonne.” He returned to the task of knocking over the dead and dying British line which Napoleon’s soldiers had just decimated.

  “Hmm,” Martine said. “I’m afraid you are not raising un homme gallant. Alain, a courteous gentleman, when asked to comment on a lady’s appearance, must say ‘Ah, trés belle.’ Or if she looks especially splendid, ‘Merveilleuse!’ ”

  With a flick of his finger, he felled the British general. “Merveilleuse, Maman.” The blue-coated officer marched over to the fallen red-coat and jumped on him. “Vlan! Pan!”

  Tansy grinned at Martine’s exaggerated sigh. “You better get dressed before Monsieur DuMaine arrives.” Enclosed carriages being notorious opportunities for seduction, Tansy had insisted on acting chaperone to and from the ball.

  “You can entertain him while I tantalize him with anticipation.”

  That would do very well, Tansy thought. She meant to have a private word with the gentleman.

  Tansy delivered Alain to Mrs. O’Hare, then let herself into Martine’s cottage just a moment before DuMaine’s handsome carriage rolled up. Tansy opened the door to a vision of masculine beauty. His waistcoat, cravat and tall collar gleamed white against the black cut-away coat. The fashionable long breeches showed off his long legs. His dark hair rose in a pomaded wave over his brow. He smiled knowingly as he took Tansy’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Ah, trés belle.”

  Tansy smiled, in part because she was as knowing as he about his intentions, her intentions, and Martine’s intentions. And in part because his compliment emerged in the exact tone Martine had used when she coached Alain.

  She offered him a glass of wine while they waited for Martine to emerge in her finery. While they sat companionably in Martine’s elegant little parlor, Tansy considered how best to approach a delicate subject. Though she was not accustomed to making assertions or giving ultimatums, that’s what she meant to do. She might lack the sophistication to address the issue with finesse, but she would have the man understand he could not misuse her friend.

  “I understand, Monsieur DuMaine, that neither you nor your man of business has called on Madame Bouvier.”

  DuMaine shifted in his chair. He drank from his glass. He touched his starched collar.

  “Perhaps you have been otherwise occupied these last days?”

  “Yes, yes I have been. Business concerns.”

  Tansy waited, expecting a declaration of his intent to open negotiations for Martine at the earliest possible moment. He merely sipped his wine.

  Deliberately, she allowed impatience to sharpen her voice. “Monsieur, I assure you. Tonight will be the last time you may see Martine until you have made arrangements with Madame Bouvier.”

  He leaned back in his chair, a smile on his handsome face. “And is it you, Tansy — may I call you Tansy?”

  “Madame Bouvier.”

  “Ah, I had not realized. You are — ?”

  “Estelle Bouvier’s daughter.”

  “I see.” His smile broadened. “And is it you, Madame Bouvier, who will stand between Martine and me? What does Martine say about your …” His eyes hardened. “Your interference.”

  Tansy leaned forward in her chair, her eyes very steady on his. “She will complain. She will rail at me. And she will not see you again.”

  She took a breath and straightened. She was not certain of the last part of her statement, but he need not know that. Tansy set her wineglass aside. “Monsieur DuMaine, you are well-acquainted with plaçage. You understand that a woman like Martine leads a precarious life without a patron. Her color robs her of those safeguards a lady of your class may expect. Her beauty and her upbringing have made her unsuitable for marriage with all but the very few, too few, men of color with her education. Monsieur, without the strictures of plaçage, without the protection of a man like you, she would be subjected to unpleasant, even dangerous choices in this life.”

  She knew she did not have to explain more fully. Women in her sphere of life sometimes transformed themselves into successful businesswomen with the backing of their first protectors. More often, however, a woman like Martine, or herself, who had no protector, ended up in poverty, worn down by worry and menial work. Far too often they fell into the clutches of men like Nicolas Augustine and the life-shortening perils of prostitution.

  “You must not expect Martine to give herself to you without the safety and security plaçage offers her. You see that, do you not?”

  He leaned over his knees, his gaze on the floor. At this moment, he did not seem so arrogant nor hard as she had thought. But whatever his feelings, or his reasons for hanging back, he could not have her friend without assuring her of his protection.

  His smile was rather rueful when he looked up at her. “You are a shrewd woman, Madame.”

  She laughed. “No one has ever thought me shrewd. But I believe I am complimented, regardless of your intent.”

  The man straightened his perfect cravat and found the pattern of the rug fascinating. Was he so shy of commitment? “You are a lucky man, Monsieur, if you should win an alliance with my friend. Not every man has the good fortune to protect a woman who is enamored of him.”

  His smile only raised one side of his mouth. “Is she enamored?”

  “I’m sure you know she is.”

  His expression sobered. He looked at her a long time before he spoke. “Madame, you know my reputation. Not entirely undeserved.”

  “You refer, I presume, to your inability to attach yourself for, what do the Américains say, the long haul?”

  DuMaine set his glass aside with the air of a man who’d decided to explain himself. “My first paramour was very young, as was I. We had a happy year together, at least I thought we were happy. And then I discovered she was unfaithful. Rather hurt, I must admit, I extricated myself from our alliance. For my second placée, I chose a more mature, more settled woman. She was also excruciatingly boring. I don’t wish to be indelicate, Madame, but you are a woman of the world. I think you will understand the significance when I say I was not entertained either in the bedchamber nor out of it.”

  “And the third?”

  Tansy believed the man actually looked pained. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “I could not please her.” He darted a look at Tansy. “I do not mean in the bedroom.” He actually blushed, and Tansy liked him the better for it. “The first weeks I thought we would suit, but gradually, and more insistently, every word or gesture from me seemed to irritate her.”

  He picked up his wine glass but merely dangled it from his fingers, his gaze rather sorrowful. “I don’t know why.”

  He glanced at her, embarrassed. “At any rate, Tansy — now I have revealed myself to you, you must let me call you Tansy. Perhaps you can understand my caution.”

  She tilted her head to look at him, considering. If she had not seen the tightened flesh around his eyes when he spoke of his third paramour, she would have faulted him for simply making excuses for himself. But his explanation was more than that. She saw it as an admission of regret, of disappointment and unhappiness.

  “And now,” she said quietly, “you are afraid Martine will hurt you.”

  DuMaine would not look at her. It could not be easy for a man to admit to vulnerability.

  “You do not know her. This ... ” Tansy sought the right word. “This enthusiasm she shows for you. It is not like her. She is as vulnerable as you, Monsieur. And I fear you will hurt her.”

  His head snapped up. “I will not.”

  “Martine wants love. She’s never had it. Can you give her that?”
>
  She thought his eyes misted for a moment. Softly, she added, “There are no certainties in life, Monsieur.”

  He breathed a shaky laugh. “Death and taxes, Tansy. Those are certain.”

  “Would you like another glass of wine?”

  “She will be yet another age?”

  She answered his smile. “She might.”

  As Tansy poured, Martine made her entrance. DuMaine’s eyes warmed, his face brightened.

  Martine posed a moment in her flame red gown, her shoulders bare, her arms uncovered between long gloves and very short sleeves. A single scarlet feather adorned her elaborate black silk tignon. A black velvet ribbon emphasized her slender neck.

  DuMaine strode two steps to take her hand and raise it to his lips. He murmured something Tansy was not meant to hear, and Martine glowed.

  “Ladies,” he said. “The ball awaits.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy nearly always arrived at the balls before Valere because he had to make his bows at the society ball before he came to her. Tonight, however, she saw he was looking for her. He spotted her immediately and strode around the perimeter of the ballroom to meet her.

  “A new gown? Very pretty.” Without another word he led her into the dance. Normally he would release her after a set or two to dance with other women. He didn’t mind that she also would dance with others. It was customary. She was his, everyone at the ball knew that, and nearly everyone circulated and traded partners and had a wonderful time. It was a small world, that of the subscription quadroon ball. The season tickets Valere bought for her and himself were priced so that only those gentlemen who took their placées, or their future placées, seriously were admitted to dance with the crème of quadroon society.

  After they had danced more than hour, Valere still did not leave her side. He led her to the refreshments and sat with her as she drank lemonade and he champagne. She opened her turquoise fan and fluttered it, no message intended, simply a cooling expedient. Valere relaxed into his chair and threw an arm across the back of hers. He tapped his foot as the orchestra played a quadrille. Tansy imagined that he would leave her in a moment to return to his wife. That was what he usually did, dance a while, drink a glass of wine with her, and then say goodnight and whisper in her ear if he meant to come by after the ball. Tonight, when she had finished her drink, he drained his and led her back onto the dance floor.

  When they danced by the orchestral platform, Tansy tried to catch Christophe’s eye, but he scowled at the music on his stand. She knew he didn’t need to read the sheet music as many times as he’d played these tunes. She shrugged, determined to ignore him if that’s what he wanted.

  She redirected her attention to Valere. She loved dancing with him, but she had to wonder why he was not at the other ballroom with his wife. It had occurred to her that if he was unhappy with Miss Abigail, it would make her own position more secure. See, she said to herself once again, I’m not so very nice after all, Christophe. Then in the next moment, she disproved her own statement. She felt terrible for wishing unhappiness on Valere and his wife. At any rate, Valere’s unusual attention soothed her worries. He did not intend to abandon her for the new Madame Valcourt.

  Valere led her onto the balcony to cool off. Not so many flowers in February, but a few late-blooming orange trees sweetened the air. Monsieur DuMaine and Martine stood in the shadows, their heads close together, but DuMaine’s hands were behind him and Martine’s played with her fan. Behaving themselves, she thought, and smiled to herself.

  Valere threaded her arm through his and leaned his elbows on the railing to watch a mangy dog sniffing along the gutter below.

  “Thank you for staying with me tonight, Valere. I’ve loved it.” He patted her hand. “I was worried you were annoyed with me for not being there when you woke up the other morning.”

  “Your mother made a fresh pot of coffee for me.”

  If he asked her, she would tell him where she’d gone. Wouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she? He didn’t ask. His thoughts were elsewhere, his gaze on the dog as it discovered a rat and gave chase into an alleyway.

  She tightened her fingers on his forearm and tried to keep the timidity out of her voice. “Did you wonder where I was?”

  He glanced at her. He patted his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  So he had no curiosity about where she’d been. No real interest in her life. She supposed she should not be hurt. It was not a surprise, and it had nothing to do with whether he were pleased with her. She swallowed the feeling of being of little consequence to him when he and Alain were the center of her life.

  Tonight was lovely, she thought determinedly. Here on the balcony, the faint scent of orange blossoms in the breeze, this moment was lovely.

  He bit off the end of the cigar, lit the match, and sucked air through the cigar until the tip glowed. He tossed the match into the street and leaned against the railing. “I suppose I will have to return. But first I need to develop the disgusting reek that is expected of me.”

  “Someone expects you to smell disgusting?” Tansy laughed.

  “My wife. She assumes I am smoking in the card room and expects me to reek of tobacco. Which she claims is revolting.” His tone strove for lightness, but Tansy heard a note of bewildered hurt. “And the list goes on. She despises the odor of onions, garlic, sage, lilies, roses, my cologne. Me.”

  Tansy ran her hand over his arm. “I’m sorry, Valere.”

  He shrugged. “At least she doesn’t stare at me. Her older sister stares at me.” He gave a mock shiver.

  “You’re handsome.” She touched his starched shirt front. “She’s probably infatuated with you.”

  “No. She is not. I believe she would give a toad the exact same regard.” Valere drew deeply on his cigar, waved it in front of himself and exhaled over his shirtfront. “That should do it.” He tossed it into the street, its tip arching red through the night. He squeezed her hand. “One more dance.”

  It was a waltz. She gave herself to the music, her eyes half-closed, Valere guiding her round and round. Too soon, the music stopped. He escorted her to sit beside her mother, Monsieur Girard at her side.

  Monsieur sat rather too close, Tansy thought, and wondered that her mother allowed it. Perhaps her mother encouraged him with an eye to the future. Tansy marveled, admiring her mother’s mastery of the fan, of flirtation, of instilling a rosy glow on an old man’s face.

  To her mother, Valere said, “Madame Bouvier, I am happy to see you looking so well. Girard, how do you do?

  On Estelle’s other side, Martine sat exuding happiness. She might have been a girl, the way her eyes shone with excitement when she grinned at Tansy. Valere bowed to her. He’d known her for years, of course, and even though Martine did not admire him, he thankfully did not seem to know it.

  Valere kissed Tansy’s hand and said good night. She watched him approach the corridor leading back to his new family with a reluctant tread and felt a pang of tenderness for him. She imagined he was surprised that his bride, and her sister, did not seem to like him. Valere was not a discerning man. He might easily have seen Miss Abigail’s eagerness to be wed and not realized it didn’t mean she was eager to be wed to him in particular.

  And he was now forever bound to a woman who did not care for him, poor man. She would try to make it up to him. He would need her kindness as much as her love-making as he adjusted to his new life.

  The handsome dark figure of Monsieur DuMaine blocked her view of Valere’s retreating back. He had two glasses of ruby-red sangria in his hands, both of which he handed to Martine. He winked at her, then bowed to Tansy. “May I have this dance?”

  He took her hand and held her close enough to talk to her without the entire room over hearing him. “You will be pleased to know that I have an appointment with Madame Bouvier tomorrow at four o’clock.”

  She stepped back so she could look into his face. He was grinning at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You see what ter
ror you struck into my heart, Madame. The notion of your baring your teeth at me if I should approach Martine again had me all atremble.”

  A quick surge of pride lightened her steps. Niceness did not define her. She had been bold. She had been assertive. And she had convinced this strong man to do what she wanted. She laughed with him and relaxed into his arms.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DuMaine drove the ladies home in his coach, handing each of them out onto the pavement at Martine’s front door. He brushed his lips across the back of Tansy’s hand. He pressed his lips to the back of Martine’s.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  Martine let them in and floated across the room trailing her shawl behind her like a train. She twirled slowly and gracefully into a chair, then smiled at Tansy as if she were a cat who’d just licked up all the cream.

  It was impossible not to smile back at her. “Well.”

  Martine grinned at her. “Well.” She unwound her tignon and tossed the black silk into the air to watch it cascade to the floor.

  Tansy sat down. “Martine, listen to me.”

  “Oh-so-suddenly-wise one, to what profound words shall I listen?”

  Tansy rolled her eyes. “Only this. But perhaps you already know it. Monsieur DuMaine is not the hard-hearted rake he appears. Yes, he has a past with women. He’s devilishly handsome, and he knows it. But he can be hurt, just as anyone can. He is looking for more than entertainment, Martine.”

  Martine clasped her hands together. “Oh, I hope so. I do hope so. I want to give him so much more than , well, sensual pleasures.”

  Tansy couldn’t take her eyes from Martine’s face. Naked yearning, fervency, vulnerability. And she had hid it under a hard shell of cynicism all these years. She reached out to cover Martine’s fists with her hand. “Then you will do very well together.”