Cold Bayou

by Barbara Hambly

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘People get frightened at the prospect of losing money they think is going to be theirs, my nightingale. And frightened people act out of impulse – especially if they don’t consider the person who’s taking the money is quite human.’

  ‘An “American animal”,’ Rose quoted her mother-in-law and any number of Uncle Veryl’s relatives. ‘An “Irlandaise”.’

  She frowned to herself as they edged between the tables. Those on the upstream side of the house, where the shade was better, were – to judge by the chairs at the heads of them – for the white relatives and friends. On the downstream side, benches would obviously do for ‘the other side of the family’.

  ‘That’s worse than your speculations last night about Mamzelle herself,’ Rose remarked after a time. She paused again, this time to let the housemaid Lila pass her, arms weighted with napkins. In addition to Madame Aurelié’s three housemaids, the ladies’ maids of nearly every female guest had been pressed into service, and there had already been a number of sharp quarrels between Madame Aurelié and her daughters over whether Gayla and Etta should be pressing out frocks and petticoats or polishing silver. ‘It might almost lead one to suspect that you paid heed to Olympe’s dark warnings of evil seen in the ink-bowl.’

  ‘It might,’ January agreed. Rose – a naturalist to her fingertips – shared Ellie Trask’s perfect skepticism. For himself, it was harder to say, that dream was just a dream.

  The slaves Luc and Antoine appeared around the corner of the house, carrying benches. January and Rose were far enough along the path that led back to the weaving house that they could see Valla hurrying down from the Casita. Antoine said a word to Luc and set down his end of the burden, almost running to meet her. The maid stepped back from him and the manservant reached to take her hands.

  Not the gesture, January thought, of a man asking for instructions about seating arrangements and the stringing of garlands.

  What was said he could not hear, but the young woman gestured emphatically, and Antoine violently shook his head.

  ‘In any case,’ Rose’s voice went on, ‘I challenge you to tell me how poison could be slipped into the nuptial champagne without doing away with poor Uncle Veryl and half the wedding guests as well.’

  January returned his attention to her. ‘Nothing simpler. In the pantry I saw two bottles of Hooper’s Female Elixir – something a great number of females take a great deal more often than they should. This is probably the only occasion on which Madamoiselle Ellie’s household goods are going to be easily accessible to those members of the family to whose property she will very shortly have legal claim. If it were me, I’d put something in it.’

  His eyes met Rose’s again, thinking of that cloaked form glimpsed on the rear gallery of the Casita in last night’s windy darkness.

  ‘Female Elixir,’ mused Rose, as they resumed their stroll toward the weaving house, ‘if it contains as much laudanum as those nostrums generally do is the one medicine that I’ll wager Madamoiselle Ellie isn’t going to throw away on anyone’s advice. It might do to have a quiet word with Uncle Veryl – and with Ellie – on the subject, after the wedding and before they get on that steamboat.’

  SEVEN

  ‘Well, about damn time.’ Old Uncle Bichet – born in the rose-red city of Timbuktu but who had now, for forty years, played bass fiddle for the well-off white folks of New Orleans – walked to the end of the weaving-house gallery, from which a fair view could be had of the long yellow reach of the Mississippi between Wills Point and English Turn. The moist, spooky winds of the night and the early morning had utterly died, and the sun blasted the dark-green cane-fields like a molten hammer. The cane-hands, scrubbed and clothed in their least-tattered and cleanest garments, had been loitering around the big house and its environs for two hours.

  The Vermillion from New Orleans, which was calculated to have arrived at ten, was late.

  ‘That her?’ January rose from among the other musicians and walked to join him, shading his eyes to descry the distant smokestacks.

  The old man’s grin flashed all the myriad gaps in his teeth. ‘If it ain’t, gonna be some perturbed folks in the big house.’

  ‘If it ain’t—’ January sank his voice to exclude everyone but the little circle of musicians who had, with Rose and Nicolette Charpentier, been playing Black Peter for most of the morning with Hannibal’s worn-out pack of cards – ‘does anyone want to help me cook and eat Stanislas Aubin?’

  Hands were eagerly raised amid stifled guffaws. After a night and a morning in the environs of the weaving house, everyone was heartily sick of Madame Solange’s whining and ill-mannered four-year-old, whose rude faces and ruder remarks his doting mother considered evidence of a wit to rival Walpole and Voltaire. From within the weaving house, Solange’s voice wailed shrilly, ‘How can you?’ and the usually saintly old Laetitia St-Chinian snapped, ‘Well, it’s perfectly true …’

  ‘Ladies.’ admonished Sylvestre St-Chinian (for the thousandth time since yesterday afternoon). ‘Ladies …’

  Solange’s non-stop panagyrics of her offspring, and his mother’s caustic commentary, notwithstanding (though January was ready to drown both of them in the rain-barrel at this point), he felt a certain degree of sympathy for them. The wedding was to be followed by a ‘breakfast’ – currently reposing in decorative state under an army of miniature gauze pavilions on trestles behind the kitchen, under guard – but it followed that nobody was going to partake of this meal before the ceremony, which was now two hours overdue. Laetitia St-Chinian’s daughter Marcellite had fainted twice and Bergette – Dominique’s maid – had had hysterics. According to Chloë (who had quietly sneaked Dominique a couple of slightly stale batter-cakes pilfered while ‘inspecting’ the Molina kitchen) the situation was worse in the big house. There had been a screaming fight already between two of the Viellard girls, Madame Aurelié had slapped her maid, and the Viellard and Janvier lawyers – who were sharing a room – had had to be forcibly separated from calling one another out over whether the father of the current King of France had been a traitorous dog or a patriot.

  January had arranged through Luc to purchase a quantity of hoecakes from a couple of the slave women in the quarters. Under other circumstances he’d have assumed that the several quiet conversations he had glimpsed between Valla and Antoine involved similar negotiations, but no, had said Luc, that wasn’t the case. Valla scorned slave rations – ‘An’ anyways,’ Luc had added, ‘I doubt she’d do anything that’d put her beholden to Antoine. They was sweethearts, back when they was both Michie Molina’s house-niggers. Thought she was too good for him.’ The young man shrugged. ‘Far’s I could tell, she thought she was too good for Michie Molina. But that’s why he been pushin’ to get a word with her now she’s back. I don’t think she’d buy bread from him if she was starvin’.’

  January had divided his hoe-cakes with Rose, ungallantly glad that pretty much everybody else in the weaving house, like Valla, considered themselves too good to partake of slave rations. ‘More for us,’ he’d said.

  But that had been an hour and a half ago and he’d definitely added his voice to the chorus who had – just before Uncle Bichet had spotted the approach of the Vermillion – been urging Hannibal to go up to the kitchen and prostitute himself to the cook. Thus it was not entirely from any sense of rejoicing in a family occasion that January and Rose joined the throng of plantation guests and personnel half an hour later as everyone gathered at the landing to welcome the vessel to shore.

  The river being reasonably high for early September, the Vermillion – a medium-sized stern-wheeler of the sort which could nose its way up the shallower water of bayous – was able to dock at the long pier which extended into the river. Up-river and down from the landing, the yellow water was dotted with snags and towheads where washed-down branches – whole trees, sometimes – lurked underwater, but a glance showed January that Michie Molina had used the low-water mont
hs of summer to have work-gangs keep the vicinity of the landing clear, a horrible task which he remembered all too well from his early childhood.

  Although Madamoiselle Ellie remained at the Casita, as befit a bride on her wedding-day, January glimpsed Valla, resplendent in yet another new dress – this one pale green muslin starred with pink flowers with a tignon nearly a foot and a half tall to match – among the house servants. On the fringe of the group of house servants – and he recalled just how firmly the caste-lines were drawn among the bondsmen and -women as to who was equal to whom – he saw Antoine, his long, handsome face several shades darker than Valla’s but still lighter than the lightest of the field hands, watching the maid with a kind of aching intensity. Sweethearts, back when they was both Michie Molina’s house-niggers, Luc had said.

  Love? January wondered. Or simply expedience on one hand and proximity on the other?

  And – given the probable cost of the midnight blue silk frock Madame Molina wore (an appeasement gift?), and of the ivory cameo at her throat – presumably a triangular affair of which the overseer had not been aware.

  Or maybe he had.

  Maybe he just didn’t care.

  A young man leaped lightly from the steamboat’s deck up onto the pier. His honey-colored hair and long, rectangular features reminded January instantly of Solange Aubin, and indeed, the next moment Chloë’s uncle Basile Aubin detached himself from the white portion of the group on the levee and strode forward to meet him. Evard, January recalled from his mother’s airy recital of the more tangled ramifications of the St-Chinian/Viellard family tree. Who was courting one of the Viellard girls. Charlotte?

  Yes, Charlotte: the youngest of Henri’s sisters surged forward on Basile Aubin’s heels, with a glad cry of ‘Evard!’ and a lace handkerchief fluttering in welcome.

  But Evard, trailed not only by his valet but by an older white man whom January guessed was yet another family lawyer, and his valet, went at once to his father and barely gave the girl a glance. Charlotte fell back an uncertain step, hand to lips in distress, and her brother put an arm around her shoulder with, January guessed, re-assuring words.

  Old Laetitia, at January’s other side, gasped, ‘Good Heavens!’ at the sight of the next group coming down the pier, led by the man whom January recognized as Locoul St-Chinian – that disinherited son whose father’s death last year had left Veryl with a substantially increased interest in the St-Chinian property in the first place. The man who hurried to keep pace with him was big and thickset, with the remains of a florid handsomeness and tobacco-stains on his too-gaudy waistcoat. St-Chinian had yet another family lawyer in his wake – January knew this one by sight also, an American named Loudermilk – and both men were trailed by women who kept as far apart from one another as the width of the pier allowed. St-Chinian’s wife – his second, January recalled – was French Creole, as his first had been, but (according to his mother) of much lower social standing. The other man’s, trailed by a younger couple who were clearly her children, was almost certainly that Fleurette whom old César had disinherited for marrying an American.

  ‘The nerve!’ breathed old Laetitia. ‘I’ll dare swear they were never invited – my goodness, Locoul’s gotten stout! He used to be thin as a broom-handle! So that’s Gloyne Cowley! Mama always said he was handsome enough to die for – or at least to be disinherited for …’

  ‘That was nearly thirty years ago,’ Rose reminded her, wrinkling her nose a little as the florid American spit tobacco on the pier, then stuck out his hand to receive Veryl’s welcome. ‘Ou sont les nieges t’antan?’

  Aurelié, at Veryl’s side, drew back in pained indignation. The lawyer Loudermilk strode over to break into the discussion among the Aubin men (That settles it, surmised January, the third man has to be their lawyer) and all three drew back from him as if he’d pissed on their shoes.

  The usual reaction, he knew, to three French Creoles when approached by an American.

  All eyes went to the deck of the Vermillion, searching for the tall, rather rawboned, bespectacled form of Père Eugenius, one of the junior priests who served at the St Louis Cathedral in town.

  Instead, another group of men disembarked, even more American – if that were possible – than the lawyer Loudermilk and the tobacco-spitting Gloyne Cowley. The man who strode in front was somewhat above middle height, though he gave an impression of bulk and power: wide-shouldered, his once-handsome face a roadmap of most of the circles of Hell, his dyed-black hair shiny with pomade that flashed nearly as bright as the six-carat diamond stuck in his neck-cloth. The inevitable valet that followed him was so much darker than the usual house servants purchased by Southerners that January guessed he had to be a free man, and dressed with such excrutiatingly modest good taste as to be nearly invisible. The other men, ranged like a wall between chief and valet, were of a type that January had seen on the waterfronts of New Orleans or driving goods-wagons in Washington City: unclean frock-coats of exaggerated cut and cheap manufacture, trousers tucked into heavy boots, gaudy silk neck-cloths and gaudier shirts. Beneath their high plug hats, their hair was cut close at the back, its anterior length plastered to the temples in extravagant, curling locks glued down with dried soap.

  Their chief strode straight up to Uncle Veryl – who had scarcely recovered from his polite dismay at encountering Locoul St-Chinian and family – shifted the cigar over to one side of his rat-trap mouth, and introduced himself, in bad French but a not-unpleasant baritone: ‘Mick Trask, at your service, sir. You’ll be Mon-soor St-Chinian, I take it? That’s to wed my little Ellie? Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  He grasped Uncle Veryl’s kid-gloved fingers in a crushing grip.

  Understandably appalled beyond speaking, Madame Aurelié – and every other member of the group on the landing, black, white, and in between – turned as one toward the Vermillion, seeking the reassurance of the priest’s appearance.

  But the only persons now on the pier were a couple of half-naked stevedores engaged in tossing the ropes back onto the deck. They leaped nimbly back across the widening yellow water, and picked up poles to shove the boat towards the river’s main channel. With a loud hissing of steam, the engine engaged, and the great stern wheel began to rotate.

  The Vermillion surged on its way down toward Willis’ Point.

  Luncheon was served soon after.

  ‘Thank God for small favors, anyway,’ remarked Hannibal, when he strolled back to the weaving house, upon whose gallery trestle tables, hastily removed from the front lawn, had been set up for the benefit of the shady side of the family. (A mere meal, as opposed to a wedding feast, being deemed insufficiently festive to include ‘crocodile eggs’ dining in the same area). ‘Malum quidem nullum esse sine aliquo bono, though I can’t say food will improve anyone’s mood over at the big house, given the additional guests that have to be accommodated. But Mr Trask – he’s Ellie’s uncle, by the way, her father’s brother – brought a newspaper with him from town which proves conclusively there won’t be another down-river boat today. And believe me, the schedule was studied with the intensity of a treasure map. So there really was no point in waiting.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ he added, as Nicolette, Dominique, and January’s mother all moved toward the makeshift serving-tables at the far end of the gallery, with offers to provide him with nourishment. ‘I was seated with Trask’s “boys” and a mixed assortment of family lawyers – a feast more reminiscent of Beowulf than of Trimalchio, I may say, in its potential outcome as well as its conversation. Between being ignored by the legal fraternity and glowered upon by the Irish brotherhood for being an Orangeman, I was pleased to shovel most of my meal into my pockets when nobody was looking and beat a retreat. Thank you,’ he said again, as Nicolette scooted sideways on the bench (crowding Sylvestre’s sons and old Laetitia almost off the end) to make room for him.

  ‘He led the goddess to the sovereign seat,

  Her feet supported with a stool of state
/>
  (A purple carpet spread the pavement wide);

  Then drew his seat, familiar, to her side …

  ‘That’s most kind of you.’ He proceeded to extract from his pocket several layers of napkin which contained a quantity of barbequed pork, a white roll, and a stuffed tomato artfully swaddled in lettuce leaves.

  With a coquettish smile, Livia Levesque fetched him a clean fork and spoon. Not to be outdone, Isabelle Valverde brought a glass of lemonade.

  ‘What happened to Père Eugenius?’ asked Rose, and the fiddler shook his head.

  ‘Not the whisper of a clue,’ he said. ‘But everyone agrees that he wasn’t on the boat. Half a dozen passengers disembarked at English Turn, but no priest. Of that all were certain.’

  ‘Anyone want to bet that M’am Aurelié bribed him to stop at home?’ old Sylvestre suggested.

  ‘You can’t bribe a priest!’ cried Solange indignantly, and Livia cackled with laughter.

  ‘Oh, can’t you just?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her to try.’ Minou’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.

  ‘More likely,’ theorized January, ‘she paid someone else to delay him.’

  ‘Assault him in an alley?’ inquired Rose, interested. ‘Leave him bound hand and foot in his own confessional?’

  Solange and Laetitia looked horrified at this, and January said, ‘More likely manufacture an emergency of some kind to make him miss the boat. Did Madame Aurelié look surprised at all by his absence, Hannibal?’