The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  He went up to his rooms, stripped and bathed with Georges’ assistance. Then he ate alone in the great salon, his meal consisting of a pot of black coffee, a crust or two of brown bread, and a bit of strong cheese. It was confounded lonely to eat thus in so huge a room. The manser vant’s footfalls echoed in the distance. He’d be damned if he would eat here again. Georges could bring his meals up to his rooms in the North Wing. And now he must ride out to the sugar house to supervise the sugar-making.

  He called a servant and ordered a fresh horse. Prince Michael was pretty well blown by so long a ride. Then he started out, his head busy with plans. Soon he must erect an earthen wall against floods. The fields adjacent to the river were uncomfortably low. And this matter of a wife for Achille—perhaps La Belle Sauvage would do. Achille was now in his prime—a giant of a black, intelligent and capable of carrying out the most exacting task without supervision. ‘Twould be well to preserve that strain; but as yet Achille seemed to pay scant attention to any of the women. Stephen wondered idly what Achille’s father must have been like. Deuced odd name he had. What was that that Tante Caleen had called him? Oh, yes—Inch—Big Inch. Hanged before the parish church in New Orleans. Yet there was no trace of rebelliousness in Achille. Caleen had reared him well.

  The smoke came up from the big chimney and inside the sugar house the slaves worked busily, dipping the syrup out from vat to vat with the buckets on the ends of the long poles set in rowlocks. The sweat glistened on the fat black faces. Sugar house blacks were always fat, Stephen observed; something about the nature of the work itself did it. Surely they ate no more than the others. Perhaps they breathed in sugar through their pores.

  Then Achille was coming forward, his white teeth gleaming in a smile doubly bright against his sweat-glistening face.

  “How goes it, Achille?” Stephen asked.

  “Good—ver good.” Achille was assaying English, now that he knew that Stephen preferred that difficult tongue. “We make much sugar, yes!”

  “Tomorrow I have an errand for ye. Go down to the St. Marie section to the small slave market—ye know where it is?”

  “Yes, maître—I means ‘yes, suh,’ I knows.”

  “Take a wagon and bring back two new blacks I’ve bought. And take Roget and Henri and Gros Tom with ye. Ye’ll need help with the wench or I miss my guess. By the way, Achille, look her over well and see how ye like her. She’s intended for ye if she suits your fancy.”

  “Yes, maître,” Achille said a little doubtfully. “I take a look, me.”

  “Ye’re a confirmed woman hater, aren’t ye, Achille? I can’t say that I blame ye.”

  “They talks too much, the wimmins,” Achile grinned. “Always they have the big mouth, yes!”

  “Yes,” Stephen laughed. “Well, keep them at it. I must ride out to the South fields to see how the late harvesting goes.”

  Up at the big house, Mike Farrel lay half asleep in the huge bed. Suzette was tiptoeing through the room, busily dusting the furniture. Mike raised up on one elbow.

  “Come here, gel,” he said softly.

  The dark eyes widened in Suzette’s soft yellow face. She hesitated fearfully.

  “I said come here,” Mike repeated in the same low voice.

  Timidly, Suzette took a step forward—then another. A safe distance from the bed she stopped.

  “Monsieur wants something, yes?”

  “Yes,” Mike declared. “Yez catch on fast. A little closer so’s I kin whisper.”

  Suzette’s warm red lips rounded into a little O of curiosity. She walked over quite near to where the big man lay. He smiled disarmingly, but his huge arm shot out suddenly, with all the speed and power of a grizzly striking.

  Suzette screamed—a high, edged sound, hanging on the air. Mike clamped a hairy paw over her mouth. Suzette reacted instantly from pure instinct. She kicked with both feet at the same time and brought her long nails upwards so that their points went raking across Mike’s forehead and into his one good eye. Mike released her instantly, bellowing with pain. Then she was gone from the room and down the stairs—a doe, buck pursued. In the pantry she hurled herself upon Tante Caleen, sobbing and fighting for breath.

  “Tante Caleen!” she wept. “That beeg one, heem— Oh, Tante Caleen!”

  “Hush, chile,” old Caleen whispered. “It been like that, yes. Always it been like that. ‘Tain’t no good to fight. Your mamam, now you—mebbe your child, yes.”

  Suzette drew herself up very stiffly and the sobbing stopped.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  Caleen looked at her; but when she spoke it was to herself she talked, not to the girl.

  “Long time nobody talk like that,” she said. “Not since my man, Inch. I wait for somebody like him, yes. I think mebbe Achille. But he grow up easy with no fight in him. Now I gits me somebody, and look what I got! Little yaller gal!” She snorted in disgust. Then her fierce old eyes softened. “Awright, Suzette,” she said calmly. “He don’t tetch you, him. I fix him, yes!”

  On Sunday, Stephen dressed with unusual care. Georges worked over him busily, bringing out the new dark green coat, never before worn, the pale wine-colored waistcoat and the crimson stock. Stephen’s breeches were fawn-colored and his boots a glossy brown, and Georges exclaimed proudly over each new article of attire. He shaved off the fiery stubble from his master’s lean jaw, skirting carefully around the great sideburns.

  Into the steaming water in the great oaken tub, he threw a concoction of Caleen’s, a perfume that smelled of pine woods and autumn and the good clean smell of dry leaves burning. Then he stood by with big towels while Stephen bathed. Afterwards he assisted his master in dressing.

  “When that lady see you now,” he beamed, “she git up on Prince Michael behind you and come home with you tonight, her. I bet you, yes!”

  “Ye’re an optimist, Georges,” Stephen said drily, and, taking his tall hat, his gloves and his riding crop, he went down the stairs.

  Outside Achille waited with Prince Michael. The big palamino had been curried and groomed until his coat shone like satin. Seeing Stephen, he whinnied softly.

  “Easy, old boy,” Stephen said as he swung into the new English saddle. Then he looked down at Achille and smiled.

  “Ye’ve done a good job,” he said. “How d’ye like the new wench?”

  “She wild, that one! She wild, but I tame her—she something, her!”

  “Then ye find her to your liking? Good. I was beginning to think ye as hard to please as Caleen. Take good care of things until I get back. Report anything out of order to Mister Wilson.”

  He touched his riding crop to the brim of his hat and was off in the easy rolling gait that Prince Michael could keep up for miles.

  Andre was waiting for him at the fork of the road that led out to his father’s plantation. His young face was gloomy and there were lines of fatigue around his eyes.

  Stephen whistled.

  “By Our Lady!” he laughed. “Ye have been working, haven’t ye?”

  “Yes,” Andre said. “That was not bad. Dear Papa is pleased as punch with me. But what I have to do today . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Stephen declared. “I’ll wager ye’ll find Aurore vastly sympathetic. She’s like that. But how did the visit from Colonel Rogers affect him?”

  “That was amazing! Papa took him all over the place, all the time deploring the enmity between the Creoles and the Americans. And I swear to you, Stephen, I never before heard him use the word American without adding pig to it, so that it was one word when he used it. Then he ordered Sarah to prepare a sumptuous dinner for the Colonel—and you know how stingy papa is. Afterwards they played vingt-et-un, and papa beat the Colonel. I strongly suspect the Colonel let him do it, for papa is no card player. And they parted the best of friends.”

  “Then papa approves of Amelia?”

  “To the extent that he is almost competition! Last night I called on her briefly, and papa insisted upon accompanyin
g me, stating that he wished to see how his daughter-to-be looked. And when be saw her—!”

  “He fell down upon his face?”

  “Exactly! How did you know?”

  “Amelia has that effect upon men. I knew her before, remember.”

  Andre’s expressive young face clouded.

  “Only as a friend, lad. Besides, I don’t like blondes.”

  “I think that was it. Golden hair is a rarity among us—and Amelia is lovely. Papa kissed her—a privilege I have yet to gain. The old devil!”

  Stephen leaned back in the saddle and rocked with laughter.

  Andre grinned at him slowly.

  “We turn here,” he said. “You’ve never been out to Bellefont have you?”

  “No, whenever I saw the Arceneaux they were always at their town house in New Orleans.”

  “Bellefont is something. it is as large in acreage as Harrows but it lacks so magnificent a manor. Odalie should be well disturbed in mind by now over your failure to pay immediate court.”

  “I shall make up for my tardiness with my ardor. How far is it now?”

  “Only about two miles. You should be able to see it in a little while.”

  They rode on in silence. The two miles slipped away under the hooves of the thoroughbred horses. Then they were turning into the big iron gates.

  Instantly there was a great scurrying among the little negrilions. They ran toward the big house shouting:

  “Monsieur Andre comes! Monsieur Andre and a strange gentleman! Ver’ fine on a horse like yellow cream and with hair like fire! I seen him, me!”

  The old groom was there at the foot of the stairs waiting, bowing grandly, with his battered old hat in his hand.

  “Goodday, Messieurs,” he beamed. “I take the hosses, no?”

  Stephen and Andre dismounted, throwing him the reins. Then they went up the stairs and into the big house where another ancient Negro took their hats, cloaks and gloves.

  “The Mamzelles be down directly,” he said.

  The two young men waited, saying little. Then there was the light whisper of footsteps on the winding stairway, and Aurore came down into the hall.

  “Andre!” she said. “And Monsieur Fox—how nice!” Andre’s face was scarlet under his tan, but Stephen bowed calmly over her hand with all the grace of a dancing master.

  “But I thought you were angry with me, Andre,” Aurore teased as she led the way into the drawing room, “I thought you swore never to call again.”

  “I—I came for a reason, Aurore.”

  “Oh—how mysterious! I am dying of curiosity.”

  Andre looked at her and took a deep breath.

  “I want to be released from my promise not to marry!” he blurted.

  Aurore looked up at him and shook with laughter.

  “But, of course, my poor friend! The Mademoiselle Rogers is lovely. I trust you’ll be very happy.”

  “Then you knew?”

  “Yes, Andre—I and everyone else who was at Harrow that night. I have never seen a man so smitten!”

  “It is only because you—are you sure you won’t change your mind, Aurore?”

  Aurore looked at him and her voice was very quiet.

  “Never, Andre,” she said, then again the teasing note crept into her tone. “Suppose I were to change—what would you do then, my Romeo?”

  Andre’s face was such a study of perplexity that Aurore and Stephen both laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled compassionately. “I shan’t change. My congratulations, my friend—I wish you every happiness.”

  Stephen made a little gesture of impatience.

  “Odalie will come down in a moment,” Aurore whispered. “She has been sulking all week because you hadn’t called. But don’t tell her I told you! Come, Andre, we must leave them alone. Besides, I want to enjoy the little of your company that is left to me.”

  Stephen’s hand went into his pocket and came out with the massive gold watch that wound with a key; but before he had time to open the case to look at it Odalie came through the door. Stephen stood up and went forward to meet her, his eyes lighted from somewhere within with a flame that leaped and danced as he looked into her face.

  “Goodday, monsieur,” Odalie said. “I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten your promise to call.”

  Stephen smiled, one eyebrow lifting mockingly toward the scar.

  “Would ye have cared?” he asked.

  Odalie’s black eyes widened and the gardenia paleness of her skin took on a faint trace of color. But when she spoke her voice was steady.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would have cared. Won’t you sit down? It’s awkward to stand and talk.”

  Stephen sank into a great chair facing her. “Ye’ve changed,” he said.

  “No—it’s you who have changed. I am still the same.”

  “As in the days when ye hated me and thought me a blackguard and a despoiler of women?”

  “I never hated you.”

  “Call me Stephen. ‘Tis over late now for formality between us, don’t ye think?”

  Odalie looked at him a long time. Then very simply, her voice sunk almost to a whisper, she repeated:

  “I never hated you—Stephen.”

  “I’m glad. I was never one to care too much what was said or thought about me, but what ye said or thought—that was a different matter. Ye cost me many troubled nights, Odalie.”

  Odalie smiled slowly. Watching the wine-red lips moving, Stephen knew suddenly that all the sunblasted days in the fields, all the nights of sleepless scheming, all the work and waiting and worry were nothing and if they had been multiplied a thousandfold they would have been still an insignificance against the gaining of this woman.

  “You know, Stephen, I’m glad of that,” she said smiling. “It pleases me to know that I meant more to you than—than a horse, perhaps.”

  “My Cod!” he exploded. “Is that what ye thought?”

  “Yes. You seemed a bold devil—utterly careless and reckless of anything or anyone that you wanted. I was unaccustomed to being looked at appraisingly like a slave girl. And whenever you spoke you made a mockery. I kept thinking: ‘Who does he think himself that he should look at me thus?’ ”

  Stephen threw back his head and laughed aloud.

  “Yet there were many men, very many men who looked upon ye with humility and awe and worship—and ye married none of them.”

  “I have not married you, Stephen!”

  “No—not yet. But ye’re going to. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

  “You’re impertinent! If you mean that for a proposal my answer is . . .”

  “Wait a bit, Odalie. Do not spoil things because of annoyance at my boldness. That, I cannot help. ‘Tis the way I’m made. There is too much between us now—far too much.”

  “What is there between us, monsieur?”

  “Stephen.”

  “Oh all right—Stephen.” Then: “But I see nothing between us—nothing at all.”

  Stephen looked at her and his face was still and unsmiling. Only his eyes were alive—moving like the strokes of an etcher’s pen, short, swift and unbelievably deft, limning her image as she was at that instant forever on his brain. His voice was very deep when he spoke.

  “There is Harrow.”

  “Harrow?”

  “Yes. Always I’ve had the dream of it—the great white house of which I should be master. But ‘twas ye that shaped it into reality. When first I saw ye, in the Place D’Armes on the day that Lafayette came, the dream became more than a dream—it became a need, a necessity—an obsession. And for the first time it was a means toward an end rather than an end in itself. Ye were the end, Odalie. Harrow was no longer important then—it was the mistress of Harrow that mattered.”

  “You—you built Harrow—for me?”

  “Yes. I could not have built it without ye. A house yes. Even a great house, perhaps. But not Harrow—not as it is now—sitting there under the oaks waiting,
every line of it with ye built into it. And until ye come it will have no life. Only ye can bring it completion.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “Nothing yet. I shall be patient. I’ll endure all the necessary formalities of a courtship. But it must end thus. It must, Odalie.” He stood up and she rose too, her eyes very wide and dark, searching his face. She laid a hand upon his arm. It trembled so that he felt it, through his coat.

  “I think,” she said, “that never before was a woman so honored.”

  Again the little glint of mockery stole into Stephen’s eyes.

  “Then why do ye tremble?”

  “Because I am afraid. I have never been afraid before. Other men I could turn aside, but not you, Stephen. You’re so direct and terribly simple and yet so endlessly complicated at one and the same time . . .”

  “Yet I am nothing to fear.”

  “I—I’ve made a sort of obsession of privacy, Stephen,” she said, but she was not looking at him. Her eyes were turned inward as though she were searching her own mind. “I’ve enjoyed being—well—cool and aloof—it made me different somehow. And I think now that it provoked men into greater efforts. I’ve never liked being touched, not even by my father. And even Aurore doesn’t kiss me. She knows I don’t like it. While in marriage— to such a man as you. . . .” Her eyes were suddenly bright with dismay. “Ma foi! What am I saying?”

  Stephen’s expression did not change.

  “Ye will find me patient,” he murmured. “And very gentle.”

  He bent over her hand, they strode through the door.

  She was still standing there, looking after him, her face bathed in crimson when Aurore came in.

  “What ails you?” the younger girl demanded.

  “I said the most awful—the most unladylike things. Oh, Aurore!”

  Aurore came up to her and put her arms around her waist.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, my dear. He didn’t seem to mind. You shall be mistress of Harrow—and that is something.”

  “Mistress of Harrow,” Odalie repeated after her, and her voice was filled with something very like glory.