Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  The acrid smells of unwashed bodies mixed with the spicy scent of food for sale.

  “This is quite a gathering.” Bettina stepped beside Geralde as he clasped her elbow and escorted her through the people. He’d returned the same friendly and solicitous gentleman, ensuring her ease in his presence.

  Other whites watched from the side-lines. Spanish soldiers stood not far off as if waiting for problems to erupt.

  “I’m surprised the planters let their workers congregate here.” Fred grinned and stared around. He wore a wide-brimmed leather hat with a feather in the band and looked like he belonged on the frontier.

  “Sundays are the slaves’ days to socialize,” Geralde explained as he squeezed them through the crowd to the dancers. “They’re allowed to within reason.”

  The black men, wearing homespun or cast off clothing, pinged on triangles, or strummed banjos. The women swirled about, undulating in sinuous dances. Other men slapped themselves with their hands or spoons.

  “I thought the Africans played drums.” Bettina swayed with the sounds. She made an effort to enjoy Geralde’s warm hand on the small of her back.

  “They’re not allowed drums. The owners fear some communication to start slave uprisings, like the ones on the islands, where whites were slaughtered. So they improvise.” Geralde pointed to various dancers. “They perform the Bamboula, and the Flat-footed-shuffle.”

  A strange singing rose up from the participants, sometimes mournful sometimes happy.

  Fred moved with the cadence of the music, his shoulders twitching. “I like it, it’s wild.” He stared wide-eyed at the women in their seductive dances. Soon he would seek out female companionship. Bettina tried to merge the little boy she’d tutored with this maturing young man.

  The Saint Louis Cathedral chimed out the hour of four o’clock.

  Geralde clapped his hand against his thigh in rhythm.

  Bettina started to move her hips with the music.

  “Would you like to dance?” Geralde grinned at her, his smile inviting.

  She flushed. “No, I would rather watch the show. This is their time to celebrate, not mine.” She thought of Oleba, and a slight regret crept in. Her maid had followed her heart.

  A slave woman undulated toward the perimeter of the dancers. She waved something in her hand and twirled closer. Her purple tignon was tied with knots and loops, almost braided about her head. Her long narrow face held piercing black eyes.

  “She’s staring toward us.” Fred laughed and shifted from foot to foot. “Oh, no, here she comes.”

  The woman slowed her writhing body barely three feet away and pointed her finger in Bettina’s face. Bettina recoiled.

  “I think she has a prophesy for you.” Geralde put his hands on her shoulders. “Some of these people practice the ancient voodoo.”

  “For me? Mais non. You must be mistaken.” Bettina wanted to step away, to sink back into the crowd. Why would she be singled out?

  The slave nodded and beckoned with her finger, her dark eyes wide.

  Geralde tugged Bettina forward. “She might have some sage advice. Don’t be shy. It can’t hurt to humor her.”

  People nearby whispered or laughed nervously.

  Bettina finally stepped close to get the matter over with. The woman smelled like grease and spice. She reached out and touched Bettina’s cheek with a dirty finger. Bettina held her breath, this idea ludicrous.

  The woman thrust up a cloth bag scented with herbs. “You have suffered great loss.”

  Bettina tried not to laugh at such an ordinary declaration. “Yes, thank you.”

  The woman turned once, her eyes narrowed, a tilt of her head. “Your man, he waits for you,” she whispered.

  Bettina waited for the slave’s gaze to dart to Geralde, and prepared herself to flush with embarrassment. She stepped back, hoping to discourage the woman.

  A nearby male slave snapped his spoons over his knees, click, clack, click, clack.

  The woman continued to scrutinize her. Then she leaned forward with a small shake of her purple-clad head. She stroked the bag, the scent pungent. “Not here. On familiar soil.”

  Bettina gulped, unsure she heard correctly. Familiar soil? England? Her hands shook and she lurched back. She stumbled on Geralde’s foot. He steadied her.

  The slaves sang, voices loud, triangles chimed, hands slapped. The woman nodded, a slight wink of one eye. “You understand, ma cherie.” She swirled and vanished like smoke back into the dancers.

  “Was it something important? I didn’t catch much, soil and...a man?” Geralde pressed his hand again on Bettina’s shoulder. He rubbed her tense flesh, but she didn’t feel comforted. Everett’s voice came back to her, clear as if he stood nearby. She trembled with a chill and heat intermixed.

  “What did she say? I couldn’t hear,” Fred asked, his grin broad.

  “Words I do not understand.” Bettina waved their questions aside, like mosquitoes, certain the words would buzz back to nip at her. The music now thudded in her brain, tightening behind her eyes. “I have a headache, Geralde, may we leave now?”

  “Of course, are you unwell?” He steered her gently out of the crowd.

  “I will be fine.” Bettina walked faster, the buzzing of thoughts already biting her.

  Familiar soil…France?

  Chapter Ten

  “The damned millers raised the price of flour again.” Charlotte grimaced at the bill she held as they stood at the café counter.

  “Such bad language, mon amie.” Bettina took the bill and read the numbers. “That is high. Why does the price keep increasing?”

  “Auburt says the butchers and millers volunteered a tax to help pay for a new New Orleans lighting system. Governor Gayoso tried a chimney tax, but it hasn’t raised the funds.” Charlotte glanced around the dining room. The last customer had already left, the afternoon late. “They’re manipulating the price and passing the expense on to the people.”

  “We might have to cut back on pastries and bread.” Bettina sighed and flipped open a ledger. “This is too expensive to continue.”

  “The Cabildo is demanding records of all the costs from the millers.” Charlotte straightened a few chairs. “We hope that will put a stop to this practice.”

  “Our profits will be cut into in the meantime.” Bettina bit down on her lip. It was May and Chris would start school in four months. The cost of tuition wasn’t cheap.

  The bell tinkled. A woman sauntered into the café. Feathers rose up from her gray hair. Her peach colored gown clung to her bulk. She resembled an overstuffed pumpkin. Bettina looked closer, a flicker of remembrance.

  “Can I bring you anything, Madame?” Charlotte asked. “Tea, coffee, an éclair?”

  The old woman stabbed her gray gaze toward Bettina. “So you are over here, away from our grand city, ma ci-devant.”

  With a start, Bettina recognized Madame Ray, whom she’d spoken to when she’d searched for her mother. As before, Bettina bristled under the woman’s sharp scrutiny. “Yes, Madame, I am here. What is it you wish?”

  Madame waddled around the room, swishing her skirts. “You never came back to visit me. I was very disappointed.”

  “I do apologize, since you so kindly directed me to my mother.” Bettina forced a smile. The woman’s previous invitation was more eerie than friendly. Bettina had been anxious to leave the harridan’s presence. “Would you care for a sandwich?”

  “Non, do not bother.” Madame waved up a chubby arm, her feather fluttered. “My appetite is low. I have been out of the city for a while, ill with God knows what pestilence.”

  “Why did you wish to see me again, Madame?” Bettina picked up a broom from the corner, to do something with her hands.

  Charlotte began to wipe tables, watching the old w
oman with mistrustful eyes.

  “I looked for you in New Orleans. Who knew you had gone here to this provincial town.” Madame Ray’s plump mouth pinched into a sneer.

  Bettina’s skin prickled. She swept up crumbs from the floor. “Again, why is it you are interested in me?”

  “I am curious about the displaced aristocrats, that’s all.”

  “In what way? Do you wish to speak to my mother?” Bettina gripped the broom handle and wished she hadn’t offered. She had the sudden urge to protect her mother from this strange, prying woman.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Madame turned her head, her gray eyes taking in the café. Her double chins quivered. “Do you work here, since you wear an apron?”

  “I am part owner.” Bettina stood straighter, head high.

  “Ah, so many forced to work for their bread these days. A shame, is it not?”

  “I find work very satisfying. Is there anything else I may do for you?” Bettina moved toward the front door, hoping the woman would take the hint and depart.

  “We have some leftover gumbo,” Charlotte said, her tone arid.

  “That slimy swill? No thank you.” Madame Ray grimaced and swished her skirts again. “So you do plan to live here from now on? You must have brought money with you to invest in this…place.”

  “Money and where I plan to live are my business, Madame.” Bettina filled with impatience, but cringed at the mention of “money.” She opened the front door. “If you will not tell me your exact reason for visiting me, we need to close the café.”

  “Eh bien, I will be on my way. I hope to be in my new home on the lake this summer, before the stifling heat.” Madame sauntered out, feathers waving. “Perhaps we will meet again, soon.”

  “I do not trust that woman.” Bettina almost slammed the door. “Why is she so interested in me?”

  “I’ve seen her before.” Charlotte moved beside her. “Aubert says Madame Ray was under suspicion for revolutionary activities a few years ago.”

  “Mon Dieu. I want nothing to do with those people.” Bettina’s breath hitched. The face of Gaspar and Bernard Little sliced into her mind. Was Madame curious because she’d possibly heard the rumor about Bettina’s father? Or did she work for the same people who’d sought her out before? Bettina’s heart squeezed with the fear that someone stalked her once more. She’d have to remain vigilant and steer clear of Madame Ray.

  * * * *

  Bettina straightened her son’s dark blue jacket, and smoothed down his unruly hair. “Are you ready, mon petit? You remember what I taught you?”

  “I’m starting school. I’m not small anymore, Maman.” He grinned up at her, his book satchel tight in his arms. At six, he’d grown tall and thin and was eager to be off.

  “I know, and I am so proud.” She wrestled between happiness and the poignancy of his growing up, soon to start a life separate from her.

  “I’ll walk him over on his first day.” Fred rubbed a knuckle over Christian’s head. “You don’t want to be seen with your mother, do you?” Christian laughed.

  “I want to go.” Genevre tilted up her chin, her mouth defiant.

  Bettina smiled at her three-year-old daughter. “In a few years you will attend the girls school at the Ursulines in New Orleans. A very old and prestigious school.”

  “There’s Uncle Geralde.” Christian ran out onto the front porch. The September morning breeze rose up from the river. A white heron stepped along the bayou’s edge.

  Geralde walked up on the porch and grinned at Chris. “I brought you a writing box set for your room.” He carried the wooden item in and set it on the table.

  The mahogany piece with maple inlay had drop side handles and a side drawer for papers. Geralde opened it to show a leather-covered writing surface and more compartments for paper and writing implements. “It has a riser mechanism so you can use it as a reading stand.”

  “Oh, Geralde, this is far too generous. I wish you had not.” Bettina stared at the beautiful piece, her eyes moist. His kindness stirred her closer to him.

  “Not generous enough for this little man.” He ruffled Chris’s hair.

  “Come on, it’s time to walk to the church.” Frederick towered over them all. At seventeen, his voice boomed out as a man, and the local girls were taking notice of him.

  Chris ran his fingers over the leather in the box. “Thank you, Uncle Geralde.”

  Bettina warmed to their interaction. Geralde, even though often gone for weeks at a time surveying, was a warm presence in their lives. His patience with her was remarkable, and his kisses so far were only on her cheek.

  Bettina had forced herself to shrug off the voodoo woman’s prophesy as absurd.

  Fred opened the front door and Chris clattered down the steps in his new leather shoes. Despite the price of flour, Bettina splurged on good shoes for her son. She deprived herself of new clothes or shoes to balance her budget.

  “I think we can meander along, far behind.” Geralde seemed to guess Bettina’s wishes. He reached down and picked up Genevre. The little girl smiled at him, though she’d taken months to act at ease. She now settled into his arms.

  “We will try to behave discreet.” Bettina laughed and followed them outside. A warbler called from a cypress tree.

  Fred walked with Chris over the bridge. The café door opened and Volet peered out.

  “Wave to your Grand-mère,” Fred said. Both boys waved.

  Volet pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, be a good boy at school.” Her mother gave Geralde a huge grin as Bettina strolled by with him.

  Charlotte waved from behind the window.

  Fred hurried Chris along the road and they crossed the square past the dwarf palmettos to the church.

  Out of recent habit, Bettina stared around to see if anyone she didn’t know watched them. Did she expect the rotund Madame Ray to lurk behind the willows?

  Bettina stopped at the edge of the square and watched the boys enter. She blinked back tears.

  “Don’t cry, Maman.” Genevre made a pretty pout, her corn silk hair draping past her shoulders.

  “Your little boy, growing up. It was bound to happen.” Geralde hugged Bettina’s shoulders and she sniffed.

  “I am only happy,” she said, kissing her daughter’s plump cheek.

  “I hope you are.” Geralde smiled and his dark gaze was sweet, yet assessing. “I have another long trip to go on, up the river. I could be away a few months. Will you miss me?”

  “Yes, I will,” she said truthfully as they strolled back down the river road. “So you must take good care of yourself.”

  “I’ll bring Fred back a beaver hat. Though they’re out of fashion now with the new silk hats from Europe. It’s hard on the trappers.” He shifted Genevre and put his arm around Bettina. “What shall I bring you?”

  “I do not need anything.” Bettina moved easily beside him, warmed in his embrace. “I’ve learned not to waste money on frivolous items.”

  People strode by on the road, heading for breakfast at the café. Shouts came off the Mississippi from the riverboats and ferries.

  “I want a hat.” Genevre placed both hands on her head.

  “Sur l’heure. I’ll bring back a hat fit for a princess.” He bounced the little girl in his arm and she giggled.

  Bettina laughed and leaned into the heat of him, an action that surprised her. A tingle started low in her abdomen. Her body reacted with desire, hungry for a man’s touch. Soon, it might be time for her to give herself in an intimate way again.

  * * * *

  Bettina kissed Chris as she tucked him into his rear porch bed. The jalousies were shut and windows latched against the slight December chill. “Sleep well, mignon.”

  Chris tugged at his covers, then he sat up, eyes serious. �
��Maman, is Papa ever coming home? Where is he?”

  Bettina swallowed her surprise. Chris hadn’t asked about his father since they’d settled into the cottage. He’d been so young when Everett left on that last voyage. How much could he possibly remember?

  “I hope he will return, but I do not know.” She sat on the edge of the bed and clasped her son’s hand. “Papa is…out on the ocean, and the ocean is huge.” The past several nights she’d writhed through tumultuous dreams of Everett, waking in a sweat of intimacy once shared. A few weeks ago she could have told Chris that he might never see his father again—now the words bunched in her throat. “You go to sleep, and think good thoughts. I love you.” He settled back down.

  Bettina ambled down the hall, checked on her sleeping daughter, then entered the parlor. Ships tossing on the sea under fire flowed through her brain.

  Volet sat on the sofa embroidering designs on a dress for Genevre. “You look very gloomy. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m only tired.” Bettina picked up a few discarded items of clothing. Fred had left an hour before to visit with Charlotte and Aubert, and their pretty young niece, Anaïs.

  “You need to take a holiday. When will Geralde return? What has it been, three months?” Volet held up the dress and inspected her work.

  “Yes. He should return soon, I believe.” Bettina folded the clothes in slow deliberate strokes. She’d tucked Geralde into a drawer in her mind. His long absences made it easy.

  “What are you doing for New Year? Jean wants to take me away from the town.” Her mother sounded dreamy, like a happy woman in love. “He has a friend who owns a couple of lake cottages and hosts people there.”