Her father stepped inside, and Damita saw that he was upset. “What is it, Papa? What’s wrong? Somebody sick?”
“Damita, come with me.” Her father’s tone was cold, and the look in his eye chilled her. She had seen him angry at others, but never had he looked at her with this expression. “What is it, Papa?” she asked again.
Alfredo turned and walked out of the room. Damita followed, and he led her up the staircase to the third floor, where the servants’ rooms were. He opened one door, stepped inside, and Damita followed him. She stopped dead still. “This is Rissa’s room.”
“I know whose room it is. Come in here.”
Again his voice was cold, and fear grabbed Damita. She stepped inside and saw that Rissa was in bed, but she was lying facedown. Her black hair had come down loosely, and her arms lay outside the sheet covering the rest of her body.
“What’s wrong?” Damita whispered.
“This is wrong.” Her father reached out and lifted the sheet. For a moment, Damita could not speak. Charissa’s back was crisscrossed with welts, all of them blue, and some of them oozing blood.
“Did you order this done, daughter?”
“I . . . I told Garr to punish her, but I didn’t mean this.”
“You’re a fool to let that man beat this girl! Don’t you know his reputation?”
Indeed, Garr was known as a cruel man, and that was why her father took him out of overseer’s work and restricted him to the barn and carriages. But in her fury at having her dress soiled, Damita had forgotten that. “I didn’t intend this.”
“I could shoot that man! In addition to being barbaric, he was just stupid to mark up a valuable girl like this. And you should have known better.”
Damita could not bear to look at the lacerated back. She saw Charissa glaring up at her and met her eyes. Hatred flared in them. Damita could not speak anymore and turned away, sickened by the sight.
“I’ll have to send for Dr. Morton. Ernestine has done what she could and given her something that will ease the pain.” Turning to the figure on the bed, he said, “I’m sorry this happened, Rissa.”
The beaten girl made no sound, and Alfredo left the sheet off of her back. He stepped outside the door, saying roughly, “Come out of there, Damita.”
As soon as they were outside, he grabbed her arm and led her down the hall, where he stopped and faced her. “You’re a fool, Damita, and inhumane besides! I know you’re not kind to underlings. You never have been, but I never expected anything like this. I’m so ashamed of you, I can’t speak.”
Her father whirled and left the hall, and Damita began to tremble. Tears came to her eyes, and she pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule and held it over her face. She stood there for what seemed like a long time, then turned and looked at the door. I’ve got to go back and tell her I’m sorry.
She walked to Charissa’s room and entered. The young woman had not moved. Damita could not face those eyes that seemed to bore into her, nor could she bear the look of the bloody back. “I’m—I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispered.
Charissa merely responded, her voice like steel, “Yes, you did.”
Damita turned and fled the room. She ran down the two flights of stairs and found her mother in the hall near the kitchen. Elena said, “Your father’s told me what happened.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t tell him to beat her that savagely.”
Elena knew her daughter very well, and she put her hands on her shoulders. “You must learn to be kind, Damita,” she said. She turned and walked away, leaving Damita alone in the hallway.
Chapter three
Although it was only slightly past nine o’clock in the morning, the streets of the French Market were already crowded. Damita and Charissa had to thread their way through the throngs of customers who, like them, had come to buy food and supplies. A babble of languages broke the morning air: English, French, German, and Spanish. The streets were lined with shops of all sorts, but selling was not confined to them; many individuals stood next to their wares and advertised loudly. A black woman with a large bowl on her head called out, “Fine fritters!” Damita stopped and bought two of the rice fritters. “Very hot,” the black woman said, grinning as she took the coin from Damita.
Damita turned and handed one of the calahs to Charissa. “Eat it while it’s hot,” she said, smiling.
“Thank you,” replied Charissa, without expression. She took the calah and bit into it, but she felt little friendliness. It had been four months since the beating had taken place, and during that time the two young women had been wary of each other. Damita had made some effort to reconcile with the slave girl but was ready to give it up as hopeless. Charissa never spoke of it, but her eyes showed a cold bitterness whenever she looked at her mistress.
The two women passed by a woman who cried out, “Blackberries—berries very fine!” Another, called a praline mammy, vended pecan and pink or white coconut pralines from a basket.
Damita paused in front of an Indian woman who sold herb roots. She bought some of the filé, or pounded, dried sassafras leaves, for making gumbo. As she was doing this, Charissa bent over and touched the fat cheek of the woman’s baby, who grinned at her and made her smile.
Damita saw this and said, “That’s a beautiful baby, isn’t it, Rissa?”
She insisted on using the nickname, which rankled the young slave. “Yes, ma’am, very nice.”
As the two made their way through the market, Lewis Depard hailed from across the street. He took off his hat and greeted Damita with a warm smile. “How fortunate to meet you, Damita. You are shopping, I see.”
“Yes. Our cook asked me to pick up some things. How are you, Lewis?”
“Could not be better.” Lewis did indeed look handsome, and he sounded eager as he said, “I was going to call on you later in the day, but we are well met.”
Charissa stood by, listening to the two. It was as if she did not exist. She had noticed that slave owners were able to blot out their human possessions, treating them like furniture. At times she wanted to scream, Look at me! I’m a human being. Don’t ignore me. But this, of course, would not have been wise.
She shrugged her shoulders in the morning heat, and the memory of the brutal beating rose in her mind. The pain was gone, but she still had fine scars left from the wounds of the rod. Alfredo had replaced Garr Odom with an older man named Batist Laurent, and she was grateful to her master for getting rid of him. Alfredo had been kinder than she expected, calling a doctor in to treat her and keeping her from work for two weeks after the beating.
But Charissa could never bring herself to forgive her mistress. She knew Damita only as a thoughtless young girl, who perhaps cared for her own people but had no compassion at all for the poor or especially for slaves. She looked at Damita, whose eyes were bright as she spoke to Lewis Depard. She’ll probably marry someone like him. She can marry anyone she wants to.
The couple began to walk, and Charissa followed. Lewis said, “I was coming over to ask if you would go to the Quadroon Ball with me tomorrow night.”
“I’m not sure Mama would let me go.”
“Oh, I think she would, if you asked right.” Lewis smiled, his white teeth flashing against his olive skin. “I notice you get pretty much you want. It might be wiser to get permission from your father. You wind him around your little finger—as you do every man you meet.”
“What a frightful thing to say!”
“No offense. I think it’s charming. Will you go?”
“I will if Papa says so. I’ll send you word.”
“Good. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”
Damita found her father standing at the iron railing of the balcony, looking at the sidewalk. He seemed preoccupied, and she hesitated for a moment, making her plan. She knew that she could get almost anything out of him she wished, but going to the Quadroon Ball was not something most young ladies did. She had confidence in her wiles, however, and mo
ving forward, she tucked her arms under his and hugged him from behind. “Papa, what are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just watching the people go by.”
Damita saw that a heaviness hung about her father. It troubled her. “What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”
Alfredo turned and looked at her. He tried to smile, but it was a weak effort. “I get a little weary of struggling, daughter.”
“Come. Sit down and tell me about it.” Damita pulled him to a wrought-iron bench, and when he sat, she held his hand in both of hers. “What’s wrong? Is it business?”
“I’m afraid so. The cotton crop was disastrous this year.”
“What happened?”
“It was the drought. Ordinarily, we have too much water in this area, but this growing season, the rains didn’t come. The crops were very poor.” He shook his head and added, “I don’t know how in the world I’m going to arrange to pay off the loans.”
Damita did not know much about business, but she had heard enough from her parents to understand that the plantation was heavily mortgaged. She squeezed his hand, saying, “Why, Papa, they’ll be glad to renew your note.”
“I hope so, but I never get ahead, daughter. Most years we just make enough to pay the interest and a little on the principal. This year, it’s going to be even harder. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell off some of the slaves.”
Damita knew that many slaves worked out on their plantation. She did not know any of them personally. In fact, those who actually grew the cotton and lived in their own little houses by the fields were completely foreign to her.
“Damita, I may have to sell Charissa.”
“Sell Rissa? Oh, Papa, I hope you don’t do that.”
“I don’t see why. She hasn’t been satisfactory, has she, since—”
He broke off, but Damita knew exactly what he meant. “I think I can do something with her. She’s still resentful over the beating she got, but that will pass in time.” Damita did not believe this, but for some reason, she wanted to hang onto the slave girl. It had become a challenge to her. “I’ll tell you what, Papa. I won’t buy any new clothes, and Mama and I will get together and cut other expenses. Perhaps we could even go live on the plantation and rent this place out.”
“I’d hate to do that. Your mother loves the town house so much. And you’d be bored on the plantation.”
“We’ll do whatever we have to do, but promise me you won’t sell Charissa.”
“I can’t promise that, Damita, but I will say this: It will be a last resort.”
Damita accepted his statement as a guarantee and began to talk about other things. She was always able to cheer her father up, and finally, when she saw he was in a more agreeable mood, she mentioned casually, “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Lewis Depard wants me to go to a ball with him tonight.”
“Another ball? Don’t you ever get tired of them?”
“Oh, they are a bit boring, but Lewis is entertaining.” She was hoping that her father would not ask which ball, and he did not. He merely said, “All right, daughter. Do you care for Lewis at all?”
“Oh, as I said, he’s entertaining.” Damita shrugged. “But he doesn’t have much depth. I don’t think he ever has a serious thought.”
“I hear he shows a passion for dueling. He’s getting quite a reputation for that. He’s already had several duels, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, he has, but he hasn’t killed anybody. He’s such a good swordsman, he just pinks them in the shoulder and then it’s over.”
“I don’t like this dueling thing. I never have. The best man isn’t always the one who can use a sword—or the pistol—the best.”
Damita agreed with him at once, then kissed him. “Don’t worry, Papa. Everything will be all right.”
The Quadroon Ball was held next to the Theatre d’Orleans. Gambling took place on the first story, and the ballroom was above it. As Damita stepped inside for the first time, what she saw stunned her. The dancing area was without equal in New Orleans. The floor and walls were made of beautifully finished hardwood. Expensive chandeliers decorated the high ceiling. She glanced at the balcony that overhung Orleans Street, and as Lewis took her to the back, she saw a curving stairway leading to a cool, expansive courtyard filled with flowers.
The dance had already started, and although Damita had seen quadroons and mulattoes before, the variety of their skin colors caught her eye. Some of the women had skin the color of a ripe peach, others of soft, brown velvet. Some were ivory, and others were creamy white. She studied them, noting that the eyes of most of the women were brown or ebony, but that some had blue or green eyes. Almost all of them had very wavy hair, most of it reddish or light brown. They also had finely rounded figures and had learned how to carry themselves well. They held their heads high, but their lashes veiled their eyes.
“I never saw so many beautiful young women.”
“It is a sight to behold,” Lewis said with a grin. “But you’re the most beautiful of all.”
“You flatterer! You men can never tell the truth.”
“But I mean it, chérie, you know I do.” He took her arm and said, “Come, you’re the best dancer I know. Let’s give them something to watch.”
Damita was, in fact, an excellent dancer. She loved to dance and showed natural grace. Lewis swung her around the floor, and the elaborate dresses of the women—green, crimson, yellow—made a kaleidoscope of color. The music filled the hall, and the hubbub of voices made a pleasant sound.
After several dances, Lewis said, “It’s time for refreshments.” He led her to where several long tables stood. Behind them, black men wearing white jackets and flashing smiles served liquors of all sorts—champagne, sherry, bourbon—as well as platters full of delicious bits of food. Damita refused the alcoholic drinks, taking instead a glass of punch. Lewis ordered a bourbon.
Lewis’s many friends bombarded him, asking for dances with Damita. He reluctantly surrendered her, warning one young man, “Just one dance, Daniel. Then I must have her back.”
“We shall see about that,” the young man said, grinning. He swung Damita off to the dance floor, and Damita found that, like Lewis, he was charming and talkative, but he held her much too tightly.
Suddenly a voice said, “I believe that I must have this dance with the lady.”
Damita turned quickly and saw a man, at least six feet tall and dressed in the latest fashion, smiling at her. The bluest eyes she had ever seen sparkled from a handsome face framed by auburn hair. She had no time to protest, nor did Daniel, for the man simply took her in his arms and swept her into the dance. “My name is Yancy Devereaux. I would be pleased to know your name.”
“I do not give my name to strangers.”
“What an unfriendly thing to say!” Devereaux had a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep set. He was roughly handsome. His skin was tanned, and Damita was aware of the power in his hands, which were broad and thick.
“If you won’t give me your name, I’ll think New Orleans ladies are proud.”
Damita hardly knew how to respond. The man impressed her; he had a strength that seemed to flow out from him, and she felt like a child in his arms. “You are a Kaintock, aren’t you?”
“Not me. I come from Virginia.”
“We call all Americans ‘Kaintocks.’”
“Well, that’s hardly true, is it?”
Damita felt herself drawn to the man and rebuked herself for it. He’s nothing but a rude American! Probably comes down on the flatboats. But the thought was wrong, and she knew it. She had seen the flatboat men—dirty and muscular, wearing rags, foulmouthed—and this man was none of that. He spoke easily of the ball, and finally the dance ended. “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I wish—”
A voice cut in, saying, “You are insolent, sir!”
Both Devereaux and Damita turned to see Lewis standing next to them. He had been drinking, and his face was flushed. His eyes shone with a belligerent light. “I must
ask you not to dance with Señorita Madariaga again.”
“I assume you are her husband,” Devereaux said with a smile.
“That is none of your business.” Lewis’s eyes were flashing, and he stepped closer. “You will now leave this hall. I will not permit you to stay.”
“Does the hall belong to you?”
“I will not argue. You have insulted Señorita Madariaga, and you will either leave or you must answer for it. But before you leave, you will apologize for intruding upon her.”
Devereaux seemed amused, Damita noticed. He was a much larger man than Lewis Depard. Quickly, she said, “Please, sir, do as he says. It may be dangerous if you stay.”
Devereaux turned to face her. “Dangerous? In what way?”
“Mr. Depard is an excellent swordsman. He has proven himself several times. He is also a skilled pistol shot.”
“Really! I’m fascinated to hear it, but I refuse to leave.” He turned to face Lewis. “Now what?”
“In that case, sir, I must ask you to come with me, and we’ll settle this as gentlemen—although you are not a gentleman, I see.”
“I expect I’m not, according to your definition. So, you’re challenging me.”
“Yes. Do you accept?”
“Certainly. And as the challenged party, I choose the weapon.”
“Exactly. You can have sword or pistol.”
Devereaux looked up for a moment at the ceiling, then looked back down and met Depard’s eyes, saying, “Neither. I choose broadaxes.”
Everyone had stopped to watch the scene. New Orleans loved its drama, and a murmur went up at the American’s words. “Broadaxes!” Depard exclaimed in a high voice. “What are you talking about?”
“I expect you’re better with a sword or a pistol than I am, but I’m probably better with an ax than you are. So, we’ll get two axes and flail away at each other until one of us is dead. Will that satisfy?”
Lewis Depard turned pale. “You mock me, sir.”
“I certainly do, and I mock this whole stupid idea of duels.” He turned to Damita and said, “Thank you, Miss Madariaga, for the dance.” Turning to Lewis, he said, “I’m staying at the Majestic Hotel. If you care to accept my terms, we will get axes and attack each other until the blood flows freely. Good evening, sir.”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 30
