Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Off to a cottage…you two alone? When will he make you an honest woman?” Bettina teased as she placed Genevre’s colorful wooden blocks in a basket.

  “We’ll hardly be alone. Also…there may be a wedding next year.” Volet grinned and swayed the child’s dress from side to side.

  “Vraimont? Or are you teasing me too?” Bettina straightened and stretched her back. “If it is true, I’m thrilled for you, Maman. I will make a flowered bonnet for Genny to wear as your flower girl.”

  A knock sounded on the front door.

  Bettina went and opened it. Geralde stood there with his warm smile.

  “Good evening.” She sighed and her heart fluttered. Now that he loomed before her in the flesh, she had to drag out her conflicted feelings and examine the corners of her confusion.

  She glanced over his shoulder, since she’d caught again a Negro man ostensibly spying on her. She’d told the sheriff, but no one could catch him in the act.

  Geralde tipped his beaver hat. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, forgive me.” She stepped aside and he walked through. He smelled like leather and winter. “I am relieved you have returned safe.”

  “Good evening, Geralde. So nice to see you.” Volet put her embroidery in a basket and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I am off to bed.” She winked at Bettina and swept down the hall and into her room.

  Bettina crossed her arms and tapped her fingers. “Would you care for coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” Geralde removed his hat. “I am barely safe after Spain closed the port and the United States threatened to attack us.”

  Two month’s previous, the Treaty of San Lorenzo which allowed the United States access to the port of New Orleans, came to an end.

  “We spent tense weeks here, I assure you.” Soldiers had swarmed everywhere, no one certain what to do next. “Charlotte says the old man in charge of the port isn’t right in the head…at least Spain reopened in time.”

  “Morales, yes she’s correct about him.” Geralde smiled, took off his jacket then pulled out a carved wooden box. “I brought you a New Year present.”

  She hadn’t seen him since September, since Chris started school, and grew shy under his attention. “So very generous you are.”

  “Did you miss me at all?” He leaned forward with his cheek. “A kiss here, perhaps?”

  She kissed him quickly. A smooth, clean cheek. “I did, yes.” Yet she valued him as a friend, an occasional uncle to her children. She waited—right this moment—for some miracle to overtake her, a heat in her blood to urge her to throw herself into his arms. Her muscles clenched, her feet rooted to the floor.

  He opened the box with the flourish of a showman. He drew out a necklace constructed of blue, green and beige polished stones and carved wooden beads.

  “It is beautiful. I am flattered, but—”

  “An old Indian gave this to me, for three bottles of whiskey. Says his tribe has made these for generations. Look at this detail on the beads.” He held it closer to her face, rotating the item so it sparkled in the candle light.

  “Really, Geralde, I cannot accept this.” Gifts to her children were one thing, but this jewelry looked too expensive.

  “And why not? After I hauled it all this way, breaking my back. Followed by thieves.” His jocose manner made her smile.

  “You have a delightful smile.” He raised his arms and slipped the necklace over her head before she could react.

  She thought of a different necklace, inadvertently picturing her father in a similar gesture with another gaudy piece of jewelry. Then the day she and Everett had examined it, trying to decipher its value and why her father had put the stolen funds into the necklace’s purchase.

  She lifted her hands and ran them over the smooth beads and rough wood. “I don’t deserve such a present.”

  “You’re worried I’ll expect our courting to advance, aren’t you?” Geralde moved closer, his tan face near hers and she trembled. “Am I so out of place to wish that it might?”

  “You have been so patient with me. I could not have asked for more.” Many times she should have discouraged him so as not to waste his effort.

  “Haven’t your feelings changed a little toward me?” He bent closer, his lips hovering next to hers. She felt his warm breath, yet that distant tingle she’d experienced in September didn’t resurface.

  “Please, I am sorry. I do not feel right about any of this.” Her pulse in her throat, she stepped back, pulled off the necklace and handed it to him. “I will not be unfair to you. You deserve better.”

  “I see. I am sorry, too.” Geralde fingered the beads in his palm, his expression somber. “I thought my perseverance all this time meant something.”

  “You have been a wonderful friend. Maybe I will never care for another man the way you wish me to.” Her throat tight, she really was regretful. She wished she could be gracious, even wanton, and accept the gift and his kisses.

  “You won’t allow yourself to care for anyone else.” Geralde shook his head. She didn’t care for the pity in his eyes. “You shouldn’t be so wrapped up in and…sad about the past. Will you tell me about this man you loved so passionately?”

  “Mais non. I-I cannot discuss him.” With her recent dreams, Everett had wormed his way again into her heart. Despite her resolve, the slave woman’s prophesy now haunted her. Your man, he waits for you.

  “Very well. I see where I stand.” Geralde dropped the beads with a clatter back into the box and stuffed the box in his coat pocket. He slowly put on the garment and his hat.

  “I hope you can forgive me for…not having enough courage. You have been so kind to me and my children.” Bettina averted her tear-filled gaze and paced toward the front door, sickened by her inadequacy. “Merci for visiting me this evening. I will bid you good night.”

  “Then I must say goodbye, Madame Camborne. I hope all goes well for you and your children in the future.” Geralde nodded, tipped his hat and walked out. She heard his footsteps trot down the porch steps.

  She pressed her face against the closed door and wept.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bettina dipped her quill into the inkwell and scratched her total. She wiped the nib clean, set the quill in its holder and flexed her fingers over the parlor table. Her head swirled with numbers. “I cannot believe it is 1799. Where did the time go?”

  “You should not work on the Lord’s day.” Volet settled onto the sofa with her cup of coffee. “You will ruin your eyesight with all that close work. Please stop bringing those ledgers home.”

  Genevre sat on the floor trying to connive her brother into kissing her new doll. Christian laughed and pushed the doll away. He bent to his toy soldiers lined up in ranks along the rug. The children still wore their Sunday church clothes.

  “I only needed to balance this ledger to rest my mind.” Bettina stretched her neck, hand under her chin. “The flour prices have come down, tres bien. The profit was so thin I was worried, but we will do all right.”

  “I keep saying, yet you never listen, that you work too hard.” Volet softened the scold with a smile and sipped her coffee. “When will you realize you need more enjoyment in your life?” Now her mother narrowed her eyes. “You certainly discouraged Monsieur Portier.”

  “As you keep reminding me, Maman.” Bettina sighed and wiped ink from her fingers.

  “Where is Uncle Geralde?” Chris glanced over. He’d asked this question numerous times in the last two months.

  Bettina massaged the muscles in her right shoulder. “He is away on business.” She regretted their lost friendship, her inability to form a relationship with him. Bettina glared over at her mother. “You are right, Maman, about my working too hard. I will make a compromise with you.”

  “Such as?” Her mother’s eyes bri
ghtened.

  “If you and Jean will not mind, I would like to attend Carnival with you next month.”

  “Ma foi, we’d be delighted.” Her mother at first gaped her mouth in exaggerated shock, then lifted an eyebrow. “If you promise not to change your mind at the last minute.”

  “I promise. I want to experience the celebration. Two times have passed and I’ve resisted.” Bettina might dispel her guilt over Geralde by proving she could rise above her sadness. She turned her attention to her children. “Gen, don’t stick your baby in Chris’s face. Please stop now.”

  Genevre grimaced and rocked her doll.

  “I will hold you to your pledge. What shall we wear?” Volet tapped her chin. “I have given this deep thought. I might attend as Hera, queen of the Olympians, and Jean could be Zeus.”

  “I don’t know if I will wear any costume.” Bettina had enough trouble deciding who she was…or where she’d end up. She stood and walked to the window. The January mists floated over the bayou, circling the tupelo trees. She turned to gaze on her little family.

  Genevre swung her doll and sent Chris’s soldiers flying across the floor in pings of tin.

  “Genny!” Chris scrambled on his hands and knees to scoop them back up.

  “Young lady, for shame on you.” Bettina hurried forward and plucked up her daughter. Genevre struggled to be released. “You are off to a nap if you cannot behave.”

  “Oh, give her to Grand-mère, don’t send her to bed.” Volet pouted and held out her arms.

  “No, I won’t go to bed,” Genevre insisted. The child reached for her grandmother.

  “Then apologize to your brother.” Bettina tightened her arms around the solid, wriggling body of her little girl.

  Genevre gazed down, one finger in her mouth. She finally pulled it out. “I’m sorry, Chris.” She didn’t sound that repentant.

  “She’s mad because I won’t let her play.” Chris realigned his regiments. “She doesn’t understand about the French and Indian wars.”

  “I hope she never knows a war first-hand.” Bettina kissed her girl’s cheek then placed her anxious child into Volet’s lap. “You will spoil her, Maman. How I still miss Oleba’s gentle presence with the children.”

  Volet stroked the little girl’s silky hair. Genevre nudged at her hand to discourage her. “You cannot go through life missing people, dear. Such laments will only keep you unhappy.”

  “I’m aware of that. I plan to throw caution to the wind and carouse at Carnival.” To carouse was her intention anyway. Bettina bent to pick up two stray soldiers in a corner. She handed them to her son who smiled up at her with his father’s smile. She patted his head.

  “Do you recall attending in Paris when I was about eight, Maman? The big soiree at the Tuileries?” Bettina remembered her father’s firm hand holding hers. Another person she missed. She brushed any sadness aside. “I will ask Fred to watch the children.”

  “If you can drag him away from his sweetheart.” Volet hugged her granddaughter who protested and twisted to crawl from her lap. “Jean wanted us to dress as Louis XV and Madame de Pompadour, but I refused that notion. I don’t care to flaunt reminders of the Royal Court. I can’t believe the Duc d’Orleans, Duc de Montpensier and Comte de Beaujolais were in New Orleans last year, and I had no strong desire to renew old acquaintances.”

  “I wondered if the royal brothers being so close bothered you, as you and Papa knew their parents at Court.” Bettina gazed around for any more missing troops. “They should have stayed longer to attend Carnival as themselves, the poor displaced ancient regime. I do feel sorry for them.”

  “We were all displaced, if you recall. If you ask me, their father was one of the instigators for radical change,” Volet streaked a hand across her throat, “though what good it did him.”

  Bettina thought briefly of Madame Ray’s supposed interest in ci-devants. Fortunately, she’d heard no more from the harridan.

  “I wish we had paid our respects to the royal brothers. They might have had news from France that never reached the newspapers.” News about what, English prisoners of war? She fought against the insane idea she needed to return to Congo Square to ask the voodoo woman for more details. Or perhaps a charm to wipe away the past and revel in the present.

  “You could go to Carnival as a nymph. I’ll help make your costume.” Volet flashed the coquettish smile she usually reserved for Jean. “Something scanty and alluring.”

  “I’m no longer very nymph-like.” Bettina heaved up the willow basket full of dirty laundry. “I know it is Sunday, but washing does not wait.” In the kitchen she put the big iron pot on the fire to boil.

  A shadow passed the window. Bettina glanced out and heard a rustle in the bushes, then footsteps hurrying away.

  * * * *

  Surrounded by a cacophony of voices and music, Bettina strolled beside Jean and her mother through the narrow streets of New Orleans. Torches flickered over the heads of the gathering people in the dusk. Fanciful characters—princesses, kings, queens, devils and angels—laughed and chattered.

  “The Spanish have condemned our bacchanal as wicked and decadent.” Volet swirled her flowing white toga. The peacock feathers attached to beads strung around her slim waist swayed.

  “Will armed soldiers be here tonight?” Bettina scanned the crowd. She was determined to celebrate and wanted no interference.

  “Mon Dieu, let us hope not. Spanish officials have tried to suppress Carnival for years. They’ve attempted to wipe out many of the old French customs here,” Jean said with a chuckle. “Still, the Creoles slip around them.”

  Bettina thought of Alverez, and the stagnant life her mother would have led if she’d married him. She smiled at Jean and Volet.

  “Fred certainly wanted to join us tonight. Perhaps next year.” Bettina stepped carefully over the loose-bricked banquettes. She’d splurged and wore a silk high-waisted gown of pale blue, with a darker blue, three-quarter over tunic. After much debate, she’d still tucked a white fichu into the low-cut bodice.

  “He’ll enjoy his evening with the children, especially with his Anaïs beside him.” Volet clung to Jean’s arm as they maneuvered through the people on Bourbon Street. The scent of perfume and body odor drifted on the air.

  “I wonder if they will behave once the children are in bed.” Bettina laughed. Fred and Charlotte’s cousin were now betrothed.

  “The city has gone mad this Fat Tuesday.” Jean slipped his sturdy arms around the two women as he escorted them through the revelers. He lumbered along in his white and brown draped toga with two yellow felt lightning bolts sewed onto the front. “People are getting brazen, parading around the streets. Usually it’s more contained, inside. There are refreshments over this way.”

  A roar of laughter trilled from every direction as the river of shifting bodies flowed through the city like a colorful serpent. The balconies above were decorated with bright flowers and crowded with noisy people.

  “I’m sorry we missed the carriage procession, when the elite parade in their finery, then go off to their exclusive balls.” Volet waved her peacock feather in the air.

  “The elite, are those the Creoles, the descendants of the original French settlers?” Bettina asked.

  “Presumably of noble origins. All very snobbish.” Jean chuckled again. “The Frenchwomen would never admit that some of them are descendants of the harlots and cutpurses from La Salpêtrière prison.”

  They stopped in front of a café where calas and other sweets along with wine were offered for sale.

  “A wild celebration, much like I imagined.” Bettina accepted a glass of wine after Jean paid the café owner. Volet took a glass and they both drank.

  The red wine warmed Bettina’s stomach and slipped down smoothly.

  Several Negro slaves carrying tor
ches cleared the way to the left for a promenade of young women in swirling, frilly gowns.

  “There are some of those pompous elite now,” Jean muttered.

  “Ah, the debutants,” Volet said with a grin. “Aren’t they pretty.”

  Bettina might have been one of them, in another time, another place, before the revolution disrupted her life. She sipped the remainder of her wine.

  A man nearby played a fiddle while spectators clapped their hands. Bettina swayed her hips with the beat of the music.

  “A good evening to you.” A voice boomed at Bettina’s side.

  She started and turned to see Geralde Portier. He wore no costume, but looked dashing in a linen shirt, buckskin breeches and jacket, and a friendly smile.

  “Bonsoir, sir.” Bettina returned the smile, suddenly aware of how the white of his shirt set off his deep tan, and how warm his gaze was considering their previous encounter.

  “And you have ventured out to celebrate, Madame Camborne, so very commendable.” His shining black eyes brimmed with mischief.

  “Mais oui, I decided not to deprive society of my brilliant company.” Bettina sipped a second glass of wine. “So you see I’m not as sad as you might have thought.”

  Geralde laughed graciously and made a slight bow. “Please don’t hold those words against me, fair Madame.”

  “If you promise not to remember our last…visit.” Bettina wanted to forget how cold she’d behaved toward him. Her guilt. The relaxing affect of the wine helped. “You know Jean Treuet, and my mother, Volet Jonquiere.”

  “Yes of course. Jean and I go back a few years.” Geralde shook hands with the sheriff. “And Madame Jonquiere, again an honor. Isn’t this a grand city, especially on this night? Revelers have taken over the entire area. I think most of Louisiana is here.”

  “Geralde, what is it with this enlarging the port, your surveying for the Governor? What is Spain up to?” Jean asked.