Charlotte nodded, and stood for a moment beside the low bed, gazing hungrily down at the young man who had ridden alone from town to take her in his arms. And January reflected – surreptitiously mixing the smallest possible dose of laudanum-and-water for himself from the bag that the valet handed him, because the pain in his ankle was making his hands shake – that in thrusting his sword through his rival, Evard Aubin had probably destroyed whatever chances he might have had of marrying into any share – large or negligible – of the Viellard-St-Chinian holdings.
Unless of course Jules Mabillet did die, in which case Charlotte would be nearly desperate to secure a husband for herself.
And if – and it was a great if – the next attempt on Mamzelle Ellie succeeded.
Once Charlotte had taken herself away – presumably to find Gayla and conciliate her into not digging up whatever juju-ball of white wax and honey she’d buried under the room where Jules lay – January unpinned the bandages on the wound. He could understand the girl’s terror. The flesh around the puncture looked angry and swollen, and was hot to the touch. The fluid that stained the bandages – where visible around the edges of the bloodstains – had a greenish tinge, and a smell he didn’t like. Though he himself felt sick with the pain that had spread from his foot to every inch of his body, he opened the wound, very slightly, with his scalpel, then washed it again more deeply with spirits of wine and dusted it once more with basilicum before wrapping it in clean bandages. Despite his little lecture to Charlotte about voodoo remedies, he took from his bag a twist of paper containing his sister Olympe’s sovereign febrifuge – powdered willow bark – and mixed it with the hot barley-water that James delivered to him from the kitchen.
‘You look like you could do with some of that yourself, sir,’ observed the white-haired valet, after January had administered the draught and laid the young man back onto the pillows.
‘I could do with some cold compresses and about a week in bed with my foot elevated. Has there been any sign of the City of Nashville?’
James shook his head, and poured out a second cup of the barley water for January. ‘But it’s early yet, sir, not even ten o’clock.’ He steadied January’s hands around the cream-colored Queensware. ‘With the weather shaping up as bad as it is, I’m not that sure any boat’s going to put out from town today.’
At least, reflected January, that’ll save Père Eugenius the effort of chasing the bridal party up and down the river.
The next moment, as Archie appeared in the doorway, met his eyes, and then vanished again, the older man said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir. Do you need me further? Michie Veryl sent word for me to pack up his things, and such as matters are we have no way of knowing when or if the Louisiana Belle gonna be by up-river …’
‘Go,’ said January. ‘In a few minutes I may ask you or Archie to help me get back to the weaving house.’
‘Of course, sir.’
January wondered what kind of upheaval was going on there, and how many people were going to go streaming down to the landing when – or if – the up-river boat steamed into view.
He rose from the stool beside the bed, staggered to the bent-willow chair nearby and sank into it, trembling with exhaustion and pain. And should I be one of them?
Whatever information there might be in the Cabildo, it would take Hannibal more than a morning to find it.
Getting Maman – and Minou – out of here on the Belle is what I need to do. And if Uncle Veryl is leaving, Singletary is leaving, so in fact it will be my duty as a physician to go …
Beside him, Jules whispered, ‘Maman?’ in a broken shred of a voice.
‘She’ll be here presently.’ It was a complete lie, but he guessed his patient was half delirious with fever and pain. Like Charlotte, Jules needed reassurance at this point, more than truth.
I’m the only physician in this part of the county – always excepting Madame Molina. Is it my duty to remain?
‘I tried,’ murmured Jules. ‘Maman, I tried. It hurts, Maman, please give me my medicine. I’m sorry, I tried, please …’
Having already dosed the young man with about ten grains of opium – as far as he could estimate the strength of Godfrey’s Cordial – January wasn’t about to ply him with more until evening (If I’m still here in the evening), but given the depth of the wound and the degree of inflammation, he guessed the pain was still severe. He limped and staggered to the door, hoping to catch James or Archie on their way in and out of the next room: All I’d need is for Mamzelle Charlotte to come back in and hear him, and decide that he needs more Cordial.
Instead he saw Old Madame Janvier emerge from her room in the opposite wing – impeccably dressed in the second mourning that she’d worn for over forty years – and signed to her. Many white women would have taken it deeply amiss that a black man would even think of summoning them to him – and in the men’s wing of the house at that – and would have retreated in dudgeon. But Madame Sidonie descended the gallery steps, crossed the yard with Thisbe trotting at her heels, and came to where he stood, though of course it would be unthinkable that she enter the room itself. She looked through the door, however, and asked, ‘How is he? Thisbe, no,’ she added, as the little dog attempted to investigate the sick man’s bedside. ‘Sit, mamzelle.’
‘It’s early days, m’am. It’s to be expected he’ll be in a great deal of pain, in spite of the laudanum. He’s quite feverish, calling on his mother.’
Her lips tightened and her dark quick eyes went to the sweat on his own face, which he knew must be ashen with fatigue and pain. ‘And how are you?’
‘In better case than my patient,’ he replied. ‘Which is about all that can be said.’
She returned his weary twist of a smile with one of her own, and glanced at the gray, louring morning sky. The rain had ceased and the ground steamed between the long wings of the house.
‘I take it he can’t be moved?’
‘No, M’am. And it is imperative – both because my own injury will quickly render me unable to attend on him as I could wish, and for other reasons as well – that I return with my mother to New Orleans. Is there any physician – any at all – in the parish? I’m told Madame Molina—’
‘I wouldn’t trust the woman to mix a mustard plaster.’ Sidonie Janvier’s glance slid sideways to him again and she asked, ‘Looking to get out before Uncle Mick locks you up?’
January felt the heat of dread prickle his hair. ‘I take it my mother has spoken to you of this?’ He was astonished at how level his voice sounded.
‘She asked what I could do to protect her, if worst came to worst. She seemed to take it for granted that Henri would be able look after Dominique and Charmian – she’s obviously never seen Aurelié when someone’s offered her money – and whether your existence slipped her mind in the stress of the moment, or she believes you to be able to deal with any number of Hibernian thugs, I was unable to ascertain: she didn’t mention you at all.’
‘Excuse me while I find my smelling-salts,’ January said drily. ‘I think I’m going to faint with shock.’
‘I’m perfectly willing to nurse Jules for a day, if you feel it necessary to slip onto the Louisiana Belle the moment she pulls into the wharf. If she pulls in,’ she added. ‘Myself, I shall be very surprised if any boat sails from the Balize today. The weather is almost certainly worse down-river, and there’s less protection if the storm turns nasty. Any down-river boats will almost certainly stay tied up at Carmichael’s woodyard at English Turn until it blows over. And if that piddling excuse for a levee crevasses I shouldn’t be surprised if we’re all trapped here for two days.’
Death in the water. Olympe’s voice, and the memory of his dream, flickered again through his mind.
In the shadows of the room, Jules called out again, ‘Maman …’
Damn it, thought January savagely. Damn young fool and double-damn Evard Aubin. ‘I still wouldn’t want to be answerable, should he be moved,’ he said. ‘I sup
pose I shall have to remain – Uncle Mick or no Uncle Mick.’ Mentally, he cursed the Hippocratic Oath. ‘If the Belle does put in today, might I beg you to get my mother out of here, if you can? I’ll send word to Madame Mabillet—’
‘Let me write it. I am deeply fond of Marie-Honorine,’ she added, when January raised his brows inquiringly. ‘But she is a woman of strong character, and volcanic impulse. I wasn’t at all surprised to see her son come riding up to the door like Young Lochinvar – it’s precisely the sort of thing that Marie-Honorine Mabillet herself would have done, twenty years ago. If Jules feels that degree of passion for Charlotte, despite Veryl disrupting the family over that brass-haired floozy, I’m only surprised that Jules didn’t carry the poor girl off over his crupper. Personally,’ she went on, shaking her head, ‘I wouldn’t have thought anyone … But there’s no accounting for tastes.’
‘Since Charlotte seems to feel a like degree of passion,’ said January, ‘I am afraid, Madame, that I need to beg another favor of you. I don’t know any of the sisters well – nor whether any of them can be relied on …’
‘None of them can. Cretins, all of them. Their father couldn’t be trusted to walk down the street without a minder.’
Having heard this evaluation of Henri’s father from his own mother, January maintained a tactful silence on the subject, saying instead, ‘The fact is that I fear that Mamzelle Charlotte may attempt to implement remedies of her own.’
‘Oh, peste! Not the filth she gets from that voodoo maid of theirs?’
January nodded. ‘When I came here I found them – Mamzelle Charlotte and Gayla – preparing to give him a preparation which I’m pretty sure contains moonflower – datura – jimson-weed, it’s also called, which in small quantities can trigger hallucinations, and in larger concentrations can kill. Even in a small amount I wouldn’t like to see it given to someone so weakened as M’sieu Mabillet. Judging by Mamzelle Charlotte’s distress over Michie Jules’ condition, I’m also concerned that she’ll simply dose him with more laudanum than is good for him.’
‘The girl has the brains of a louse. God knows what Jules sees in her, particularly now that it looks like there’ll be far less money in the offing. I shall do what I can.’ The old lady shook her head. ‘I’ve told Aurelié more than once to get rid of that maid of theirs. I’ll swear the girl can read and write, for all she pretends she can’t – she must have something on Aurelié, or on one of the younger girls that will foul their chances of a decent match. No one in their right mind should have a house-servant who knows her letters.’
It crossed January’s mind to wonder if this had, indeed, been the reason the lovely Valla, for all her skill as a hairdresser, had been sold as a field hand.
‘Not that this absurdity of Veryl’s hasn’t sent every sensible mama in Louisiana scampering like field-mice for the hills, dragging their sons behind them.’ Madame Sidonie looked past him again at the handsome face of the young man, turning restlessly on the pillow. ‘And I will minimize the danger when I write to Marie-Honorine. For all her vapors and crochets and fancied ailments – I don’t wonder Jules is begging for medicine, she’s kept him on a steady diet of laudanum and paregoric since he cut his first teeth – she’s just as likely to leap on a horse and try to come down here to nurse him. She thinks she’s straight out of a romance herself, you know.’
And in spite of herself, Old Madame Janvier smiled. ‘When Claud Mabillet’s mother sent him back to France, Honorine – Picard, she was then – cut off her hair, disguised herself as a page-boy, and stowed away on the same ship. Got Jean Lafitte to take her down to the Balize to do it. Jules is the apple of her eye, her youngest boy and the only one she has left now. She would do anything for him. I’ll watch him for her – and for you. Now you,’ she added, ‘get back to the weaving house, and get some rest. That ankle of yours must be blown up to the size of a watermelon and hurting you like the Devil, and if the Louisiana Belle does make its appearance, you’re going to need all your strength to evade Uncle Mick and get on it.’
January said wearily, ‘Oh, joy.’
FIFTEEN
Unfortunately, rest was not something January was destined to achieve that forenoon, neither at the weaving house nor elsewhere. James got him onto Keppy and across to the rickety structure, and up its tall gallery steps to Dominique’s room. But every instinct January possessed told him that to take any sort of anodyne would be the act of a fool, both because Jules Mabillet might take a turn for the worse at any time and require clear-headed assistance, and also because he himself might unexpectedly have to flee from Uncle Mick. Half sick with pain, he instructed Sylvestre St-Chinian and Jacques Bichet in constructing a sling to elevate his foot, and this helped. So did the dish of stew and callas that Minou brought him from the kitchen.
He was not, however, permitted to enjoy any of these items in peace.
‘Did you search the Casita?’ demanded his mother, coming in hard on Minou’s heels. ‘You were over there,’ she added, in annoyed disgust, when January only stared at her. ‘Surely you could have taken the opportunity to slip into that cocotte’s bedroom and see if she has any proof of that idiotic claim of hers. Myself, I believe that yellow slut made the whole thing up, out of jealousy of her betters.’
Her taffeta petticoats swished as she paced the room. In her frock of red India-print chintz and a red-and-gold tignon roughly the size of a watermelon, she gave the impression of an immense and murderous rose. Contradicting herself, she added, ‘Where else would that impudent little tramp have gotten that story, except by spying on her mistress’ papers?’
‘For one thing, Maman—’ January reminded himself that of course his mother would disregard a mere broken ankle – ‘I doubt Madamoiselle Trask would have such papers with her. She’s as illiterate as your cats—’
‘She could still have told the girl of it. Clearly the Irlandaise gave her presents, and that usually means confidences as well.’ Rage flashed like silver razors in her voice, but her hands gave her away, twisting at each other and at the delicate fabric of her skirts.
She was terrified.
‘For another,’ he argued patiently, ‘even were I nimble on my feet, which as you may have noticed I’m not, I was with Mesdames Aurelié and Chloë. Uncle Veryl and M’sieu Singletary were in the parlor with Madamoiselle Trask. There was no opportunity for me to “slip” anywhere.’
‘Pish.’ She dismissed both his reasoning and his injury with a flick of her hand. ‘One can always make an opportunity if one wishes. Sometimes I just can’t understand you, Benjamin. All you seem to think of is how you’ll look to les blankittes …’
January didn’t even bother to contradict this statement or to point out the years of trouble she had taken to learn exactly how to dress, how to paint her face, what wines to order and what literature and music to patronize in order to keep her white protector enthralled. In any case she wouldn’t have listened even had he managed to get in a word between hers.
‘Up until a month ago the girl lived in an attic in the Swamp, with all her worldly goods crammed in a carpet bag. I don’t doubt she still has the habit of keeping anything really valuable where she can grab it before she runs. I should think for your own sake, even if you have no care for me …’
‘You know I care for you, Maman …’
‘You don’t act like it.’
She averted her head slightly as she made this too-familiar accusation – which January was long used to hearing – and stepped out onto the gallery. Her eyes turned towards the shell path that ran from the Casita to the big house, as January had seen them do half a dozen times as she’d paced. Now she said, ‘Drat it,’ and he realized she’d been watching the path all morning. ‘Stupid bog-trotters are taking her food from the kitchen – the trollop is probably too afraid to stir forth. Who did it, do you think?’ The sidelong glint in her eyes made her look strongly like her elder daughter. ‘I suppose it could have been anyone … That’ll teach the little bit
ch to go about dressed like her betters.’
‘Maman!’ protested Minou, who had sat all this while on a stool beside January’s bed, the bowl of stew and a bottle of ginger beer in her hands. ‘The poor girl is dead.’ She turned her head, at the sound of Charmian’s voice from the next room, where she and the other children played under the watchful eye of the nurse Musette.
‘You are being a cry-baby,’ the four-year-old stated in her precise accents. ‘Crane-flies don’t bite.’
Stanislas’ voice lifted in a treble wail of horror and there was a scramble of feet running along the gallery.
‘What is it, darling? What’s the matter?’
Dominique sighed, set the bowl down next to January’s low pallet, and slipped past her mother to the door. ‘If we don’t get out of this place soon I’m going to slap that woman.’
Livia Levesque swung around from the door, frustrated anger flashing in her glare. ‘And I suppose you don’t think any more of this trouble than she does,’ she snapped at January – as usual directing her ire at her son rather than her beloved quadroon daughter. ‘If we all end up on the auction block you’ll wish you’d put yourself out a trifle more, for all of our sakes!’
And with an angry swish of her skirts she strode out onto the gallery, just as big, scattered raindrops began to fall again.
Since at the moment there was no one close enough to call, to discover if the Louisiana Belle had come into sight downriver yet, or to send for Luc, January took advantage of the momentary quiet (except for Solange Aubin’s voice raised in defensive maternal fury in the next room) to pick up the bowl of stew, for he was by this time profoundly hungry despite the pain. He hadn’t eaten more than two mouthfuls, however, when a clumber of heavy boots on the gallery stairs made the whole weaving house vibrate. He guessed immediately who it was and set the bowl down, and, yes, it was Uncle Mick who darkened the French door moments later, followed by his boys. And by Martin Loudermilk, Locoul St-Chinian’s American lawyer.
Cold Bayou Page 17
