Cold Bayou

by Barbara Hambly

  ‘I overheard her say that it was a judgement of God, a remark to which Mr Trask took instant exception. Trask took his lunch at the Casita, by the way, waited upon by his valet – St-Ives is his name – and accompanied by Madame Chloë, who offered to see what Ellie might need. The Viellard girls were visibly repenting that they’d so vocally established themselves as Ellie’s enemies and thus couldn’t go along and hear whatever plans might be exchanged. All except Madamoiselle Charlotte, who never took her eyes from Evard Aubin and was heard to express the wish that Madamoiselle Trask would choke on a chicken-bone and die. So far as I could tell, no one spoke to either Locoul St-Chinian or his sister, nor to their respective spouses – Locoul’s wife’s name is Josèphe, by the way, and she is known as Madame Pepa, though Mesdames Aurelié, Janvier, and Miragouin called her other things as well. I must say I am deeply curious as to whether the good Father will put in an appearance tomorrow, and if not, what will happen then.’

  Half an hour later the ringing of the plantation bell summoned all the field hands – who had not been invited to partake of any feast whatsoever – to the overseer’s house. The libré contingent on the weaving-house gallery, just concluding a dessert of sweet-potato pie and the rather soupy ice-cream that had been intended for the wedding feast, had a good view of them, and of Michie Molina, sweating in his mustard-colored coat and top hat, giving out instructions, though he was slightly too distant to be heard. It was clear within minutes what he’d said, though, for men and women both were already forming up into work-gangs as they walked back to the quarters. They emerged very shortly thereafter, dressed in the ragged frocks or trousers of everyday labor. A few retired to exhume their own pig from the roasting-pit, but most of them moved back out toward the fields.

  ‘That isn’t fair!’ protested young Marianne Valverde. ‘They were supposed to get the rest of the day off to celebrate the wedding—’

  ‘But there hasn’t been any wedding, dear,’ explained old Laetitia. ‘And it isn’t good for darkies to be idle.’

  ‘All the same,’ commented Rose, as she, January, and Hannibal walked back to the big house an hour later, ‘in the circumstances, I should be miffed.’

  Mentally, January sighed. For all her quirky wisdom, her scientific erudition and her sympathetic understanding of human nature, Rose was every inch the daughter of a plaçeé. ‘All the things those folk have to trouble them,’ he said, ‘getting let off work, and then put back on again, is the least of their worries.’

  She nodded, seeing his point. ‘Yes, of course.’

  She had never grown up, as January had, not knowing if she’d wake up some morning to be informed that her mother or father, friend or brother, had been sold off in the night, never to be seen again. And that, January reflected wryly, was the easy part of being a slave, if your master also didn’t happen to be a drunken lunatic.

  What that did to you, Rose – much as he adored her – would probably never completely understand.

  Luncheon at the big house had finished, and the tables were being cleared up, disassembled, and carried to shelter under the house. The warm Gulf wind had kicked up again bringing the smells of storm and sea. Deprived of a wedding, the guests clustered on the gallery, waiting for Visigoth and Antoine to carry out chairs from the parlor (‘Are they going to put all those chairs back where they came from and re-assemble them again tomorrow?’ wondered Rose, and Hannibal returned, ‘Sufficit diei malitia sua.’)

  ‘I suppose that depends on whether they believe that Père Eugenius is going to be on the next boat tomorrow,’ said January. A gust of wind tore loose one end of the porch garland, making it thresh like an angry snake and shower the front steps with glossy oval leaves. ‘You didn’t happen to read if there is a boat tomorrow, did you?’

  ‘The City of Nashville, and the Democrat. The Sarah Jane and the Phoenix should be passing up-river sometime this afternoon. But I’d be willing to bet, at this point, nobody’s going to hail them.’

  January had already noticed that no flag flew from the landing.

  ‘I doubt even Madamoiselle Ellie will insist on it,’ agreed Rose. ‘For fear of missing Père Eugenius on his way down-river, if for no other reason – although there is something rather enchanting about the thought of the bridal party and the officiant chasing one another up and down the Mississippi for three days. At what point do we call it a loss and you pay up twenty-five cents to myself and Minou?’

  ‘With this many lawyers in attendance I can’t see anyone running the risk of being left out of … Well!’ Hannibal’s voice took on a note of pleased surprise. ‘The lawyers must be making some headway after all.’

  Above them, on the downstream corner of the front gallery, Charlotte Viellard and the handsome Evard Aubin stood in conversation, as if oblivious to Florentin Miragouin and his young son Gérard standing in conversation with M’sieu Brinvilliers – the Viellard attorney – a few feet away.

  ‘Not ready to approach her seriously,’ added the fiddler judiciously, pausing to study the tête-à-tête like a connoisseur examining a suspiciously fresh-looking Rembrandt. ‘He’s a good six inches too far from her for a declaration of love. But by the look on her face, at least he’s come up with a believable reason for snubbing her at the landing, other than the fact that she may be heiress to a far smaller holding than she was originally advertised to be …’

  ‘You leave them alone!’ Rose poked him sharply in the arm. ‘Don’t treat the poor girl’s humiliation like a scene from a play.’

  ‘Mea culpa – absit invidio.’ Hannibal executed a deep bow of apology. ‘All the world’s a stage …’

  But January had to admit – studying the couple – that his friend was probably accurate in his reading of the situation. The girl’s strained expression as she studied the younger Aubin’s handsome face seemed to corroborate the assertion that Evard was hedging his bets, not committing himself until the lawyers had had their chance to sit Veryl and Aurelié down before the wedding and work out a settlement.

  ‘Père Eugenius’ absence does seem to be rather fortuitous,’ he murmured.

  ‘Are you certain the good Father didn’t embark at New Orleans?’ inquired Rose, as they moved to circle toward the long U between the wings at the rear of the house, where steps led up to the gallery of the downstream wing – suitable for non-whites, given the number of family members gathered at the front of the house. ‘Perhaps a couple of hired bravos tipped him overboard?’

  ‘Had he been aboard,’ surmised Hannibal airily, ‘I’m certain Mr Trask’s “boys” would have guarded him with—’

  He turned his head, at the sudden soft drum of hoofbeats on the shell road that ran along the river’s edge. A single rider on a black horse, black hair flicked back from his brow with the wind of a light canter.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Hannibal. ‘More guests.’

  Rose nudged him indignantly.

  ‘No lawyer,’ January observed.

  ‘You men—’

  ‘Jules!’ Charlotte gasped, as the young man drew rein before the front gallery steps. Face aglow with joy, she slipped past Evard Aubin and ran, as lightly as a girl of her podgy build could scamper, down the front steps and into ‘Jules’s’ arms.

  Evard, left standing on the gallery watched them – January observed – with smouldering fury in his eyes.

  EIGHT

  Continuing their circle to the rear yard of the big house, January and his companions encountered Madame Chloë as she came past the kitchen on her way from the Casita. ‘Is Uncle Veryl in his room?’ she asked.

  Heads were shaken – ‘We’ve only just got here ourselves,’ explained Hannibal.

  ‘I don’t suppose Aurelié is in there with him?’ went on Madame Chloë.

  ‘She’s on the front gallery,’ provided the fiddler. ‘With all the lawyers. Devil with devil/damnéd concourse holds …’

  ‘Getting ready for a frontal assault, I should think,’ said Rose, as they all fell into step wi
th the girl and climbed the rear steps of the gallery, stepping carefully around Antoine and Visigoth, who were setting up a ladder to remove the garlands. They passed through the rear doors into the house, to find the vacant dining room and parlor still filled with chairs, garlands, and a half-constructed archway of boughs. Though all the French doors at the front of the parlor were open and the angry voices of the guests on the gallery came clearly through, the house itself seemed weirdly silent. ‘I’m still offering three-to-one odds that your mother-in-law hired agents in New Orleans to prevent Père Eugenius from getting on the boat, six to one that violence was involved—’

  ‘That’s a very charitable assumption about my mother-in-law,’ observed Chloë, rustling ahead of them to the door of Uncle Veryl’s room. ‘How do you define violence for purposes of the pay-off?’

  ‘I’d give five to three on violence from Florentin Miragouin,’ offered Hannibal. ‘Unlike Evard Aubin, he can’t back out if the marriage takes place and Sister Euphémie’s share in the family holdings diminishes.’

  ‘What odds are you giving on me?’ Chloë tapped at the door.

  ‘Oh, twenty to one at least,’ returned Rose.

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Not at all. You have no children, and I can scarcely see you putting yourself in danger for the sake of your sisters-in-law. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a consuming passion for Florentin—’

  Chloë raised her moth-fine brows with a pained expression. At fifty, Florentin Miragouin had lost most of his teeth and a great deal of his hair, compensating for these shrinkages by the addition of substantial avoirdupois. But she only said, ‘It’s Chloë, Uncle,’ in response to some inaudible murmur from within. Opening the door a crack, she added, ‘Benjamin, Rose, and Hannibal are with me.’

  ‘Good.’ Uncle Veryl’s soft-timbred voice had a note to it of unutterable weariness. ‘It will be a pleasure to see someone who is actually concerned for the happiness of the bridal couple, on the day of the wedding. Or what was to have been the day,’ he added bitterly.

  Entering the room, January saw a newspaper spread out across the foot of the bed – presumably the one Uncle Mick Trask had brought from town – and a plate bearing a slice of roast duck, a stuffed tomato, and some delicately-prepared rice on the corner of the dresser, untouched. The old man had clearly had new clothes made for his nuptials, a swallow-tailed dress coat – January had never seen him in anything other than a rusty and discolored narrow-skirted suit that dated back to the previous century – and two waistcoats of China silk in complementary shades of gray. His only revulsion from modernity appeared to have been the wearing of long trousers, but he seemed to have found a tailor willing to execute a pair of dove-colored unmentionables – they looked new – which he wore with the white silk stockings of his youth.

  Selwyn Singletary, in the room’s single bent-willow chair, was attired in what had obviously been his best suit since 1803.

  ‘How is Ellie?’ Uncle Veryl turned his pale-blue eyes anxiously upon his niece. ‘Is she taking this well? Did someone remember to send her a tray of food? Curse this belief in the ill luck of the bride and groom seeing one another on their wedding day – even if it’s not their wedding day …’

  ‘I made certain of it, Uncle. And went with her Uncle Trask to bear her company while she ate. Infamous of me to leave poor Henri to preside over that dreadful luncheon with Madame Aurelié …’

  ‘I simply couldn’t face it.’ Veryl shook his head again. ‘I simply couldn’t. I suppose I must go forth on the gallery and reassure my guests that there will indeed be a ceremony on the morrow.’ He passed a slightly unsteady hand across his forehead, like a man who strives to gather his thoughts. ‘I can’t think what can have happened to Père Eugenius. I hope he did not meet with some accident—’

  ‘According to Rose the odds are close to even that Madame Aurelié arranged it.’

  ‘Ah’d put ’em even mesel’, or better nor,’ put in Singletary, interested as always by any mathematical computation. ‘How’d you factor t’lasses, m’am? G’in their inexperience – how would a woman arrange such a delay anyroad?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it later, M’sieu,’ Chloë whispered, with a warning glance toward her uncle.

  ‘Oh. Oh, aye.’ Though deeply fond of his friend – and sincerely good-hearted – Singletary did tend to forget social and personal amenities when confronted with an intellectual challenge.

  ‘In truth—’ Rose crossed the chamber to give the bridegroom a niece-like kiss on the temple – ‘the entire episode may be a complete accident. Père Eugenius may simply have been delayed by the sudden illness of one of his parishoners – you know how feverish a summer it’s been, sir – and missed the boat.’

  ‘Six to one at least against that,’ pointed out Singletary, and Chloë – momentarily disregarding the old mathematician’s venerable years – kicked him in the ankle. ‘Ow, lass!’

  Rose turned back to Chloë. ‘Is there anything I – or any of us – can do for Madamoiselle Ellie, m’am? She must be devastated – if she isn’t fulminating with rage! As I know I’d be.’

  Chloë’s huge, aquamarine eyes traveled briefly to her uncle’s face, with an expression of speculation. Then she seemed to set her first thoughts aside, and said, as if choosing her words, ‘She certainly used a number of very un-lady-like expressions about both the steamboat and the river. And indeed, Rose, she seems to share the general belief concerning Madame Aurelié’s involvement in Père Eugenius’ delay. She is also—’ her brow puckered in another frown – ‘much troubled about remaining here at Cold Bayou over another night. The gris-gris sewn into her wedding dress upset her very much. Not that she believes that magic could work her ill,’ she added, with a glance from her uncle to Singletary. ‘She seems to be a very sensible girl on that subject. More sensible than any of my sisters-in-law, for instance. But the fact that someone could enter the Casita, apparently without Valla hearing it, frightens her a good deal, as well it should.’

  January drew breath, hesitating over how much of Valla’s movements last night he could disclose without getting the maid into serious trouble. The intruder had after all entered the Casita while Valla had been seeing her mistress’ guests out the front door, and probably could not have been prevented whether Valla had subsequently tiptoed out or not.

  But Chloë forestalled him with, ‘Her uncle said he’ll post some of his “boys” around the Casita tonight. There are eight of them, nine if the one who was put off the boat sick at English Turn recovers sufficiently to come down here by nightfall. That should at least spare Madame Aurelié the headache of finding a place for them all to sleep. If – good heavens!’

  She stepped back, startled, as the French door shutters of the room were opened quietly behind her and the bride in question herself slipped through.

  Her hair was still dressed for the ceremony, smoothly parted and with clusters of moonlight-yellow curls swinging enticingly above her ears, but she’d slipped into the frock of striped white-and-yellow muslin that Valla had worn yesterday – probably, guessed January, because it fastened up the front with a row of pearl buttons and wouldn’t require the services of the maid. Under the soft tints of rice-powder and rouge she looked haggard, her eye-paint streaked a little with tears.

  Veryl sprang at once to his feet. ‘My dear Ellie—’

  ‘If anybody tells me one more time—’ she pushed the curls back from her face – ‘about how I’ll bring down bad luck to everybody if the groom lays eyes on me, I’ll scream. I can’t stand this anymore, Mr St-Chinian! Cooped up in that house not knowing what’s being said or done. And Uncle Mick’s as bad as everyone else!’

  She turned to look up at January. ‘Will you go back to town, Mr J?’ she asked. Very slightly, he smelled on her breath the heavy sweetness of plum brandy, and heard the echo of it in her soft voice. He wondered if this were something Uncle Mick had provided her with, or whether she had a spare bottle secreted in the bedr
oom. That would certainly explain why Valla had forbidden him to enter, anyway. ‘Go back to town and find out if this priest is on his way here? If he’s not, would you fetch him, or another, or somebody?’

  ‘He’ll be on one of tomorrow’s boats, my dearest.’ Veryl nudged Singletary sharply and the old man, after a startled look of inquiry, leaped to his feet and let his friend escort the bride to the room’s sole chair, in which he’d been sitting. ‘According to the paper, the City of Nashville—’

  ‘But what if he’s not?’ The girl turned tear-filled eyes upon him. ‘How long are we going to sit here waiting not knowing anything? If for nothing else, what are we going to feed all these people, now that everybody’s eaten up most of what Mrs Molina had set by for the wedding? We can’t give your sister, and all those elegant folks, pone and molasses, and that’s what Valla tells me supplies mostly are, when the family isn’t here.’

  ‘There’s enough of everything for a reasonable dinner tonight, and a wedding-breakfast tomorrow.’ Chloë folded her neat little hands over the ornamental buckle of her belt. ‘Missy and Madame Molina are certainly competent to deal with that. I’ll write up an order for Duroque – the Viellard man of business in town – if you’d be so good as to drop it off there, Benjamin, if indeed you’d be so kind as to go up. And I’ll ask Molina to put out a flag on the landing for the Sarah Jane this afternoon.’

  Ellie looked as if she were about to make another suggestion that she and Veryl be the ones to go up to town on the up-river boat, but after casting a glance at her bridegroom – and at the formidable Chloë – she merely inquired, ‘Is there any chance Père Eugenius got off at the wrong landing? That he might be someplace up-river …?’

  ‘He is near-sighted,’ remarked Rose. ‘If he’d broken his glasses …?’ She blinked thoughtfully behind her own, and Chloë – whose spectacles were like the bottoms of wine-bottles – frowned as if evaluating the possibility.