The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “Ye’re the brother of Henriette and Clothilde? By our Lady, how different ye are! One would never suspect the relationship.”

  “Monsieur intends that as a compliment?”

  Stephen laughed. “Either way I’m wrong, aren’t I? Your pardon, Monsieur Cloutier. I had no wish to offend. ‘Tis just that your family seems the soul of honor and respectability while ye have the look of fine roguery about ye. I like the look—’tis becoming to a man.”

  Phillippe Cloutier smiled.

  “I am the black sheep,” he admitted. “ ‘Tis the reason for the long extension of my grand tour. But I trust I shall see more of you, sir.”

  “Dine with me at Harrow,” Stephen invited. “I knew Paris well—there are many things I would like to ask ye about.”

  Phillippe made him a low bow, and bent for a moment over the hand of Odalie. Then he turned and followed the others.

  “Birds of a feather,” she murmured. “The two of you seem cut from one cloth.”

  She opened the door to the smaller guest room and led Stephen toward a Louis XIV divan. But Stephen did not sit down.

  “Odalie,” he said. “Ye know what I want to ask ye?”

  “Yes, Stephen.”

  “And your answer is?”

  “Stephen I . . . I don’t know . . . it’s all so strange . . .” He stood looking at her, the candle light dancing like fire in his eyes, his jaw set, the great scar visibly reddening.

  “Come here, Odalie.”

  “But, Stephen . . .”

  “I said come here.” The words were very quiet. Odalie got up and came over to him. He slipped his arm lightly, loosely, around her waist and stood looking down into her face.

  “Ye’re beautiful,” he said, “enough to drive a man to despair. But I have worked too long, and waited too long. I am not waiting longer.” He bent his head down and locked his lips expertly against hers. At once her hands came up against his chest, pushing him gently away as always. But his arms tightened, so that she would have cried out in pain had she been able. But her mouth was against his, stopping her cries, stopping her breath. She hammered at his chest with both hands, but he drove his iron hand inward at the small of her back so that her body ground against his warm and soft through all the layers of clothing. And then suddenly the hammering stopped. Her lips softened and parted and the sweet young breath came sighing through. He felt her move, straining upward against him, and her arms stole softly around his neck. They were velvet soft where they touched, but they burnt him like a brand. Abruptly he released her.

  She fell back, her black eyes as wide as the night, dancing suddenly with the diamond brightness of her tears.

  “Stephen,” she whispered. “Stephen . . .”

  “When?” he demanded sternly.

  “In the Spring,” she said.

  “The twenty-fifth of April,” Stephen said softly. “The anniversary of the day that I first saw ye.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes . . . Oh, Stephen . . .”

  At once he was at her side, locking her again in his arms. Strange how strong they were, she found herself thinking, like bands of steel for all his slimness. And again she lifted her face upward to meet his kiss, then the thinking stopped altogether.

  XI

  THE wind that swept down over the face of the Mississippi on the night of April 25, 1829, was a laughing wind. It raised little wavelets which the moon caught and topped with silver. It caught the fat, fleecy clouds and spun them out into fine tendrils of lace so thin that through them the watchers on the levee could see the stars. The moon had tangled itself in the oak branches and was spilling silver over the alley of trees that led up to Harrow. And the great house itself was ablaze with light.

  On the levee, on the galleries, on the belvédère the Negroes watched and waited for the new yellow maple coach of their master to turn from the river road into the oak alley bringing Stephen Fox back to Harrow—Stephen Fox and his bride. Achille and Georges waited upon the newly built levee from which they could command a view of the river road unbroken for almost a mile. Achille had his ancient shotgun in his hand, and now as the sleek brace of roans rounded the bend, pulling the coach at a spanking trot, he freed his arm from Georges’ sudden grip and fired the cannonlike weapon into the air.

  At the sound of the shot, the cries and laughter burst from the throats of all the Negroes. The house servants with their blue kerchiefs tied about their heads came thronging out upon the galleries, talking and laughing in an excited but subdued babble. And all the field hands converged upon the house, bounding along as fast as they could run, waving the red kerchiefs that distinguished them from the house servants and letting their laughter roar up from throat and chest and belly.

  The instant the coach stopped it was surrounded. The livened footman climbed down from his high perch, bustling importantly and laying about him freely with his cane, clearing a path for his master.

  Stephen got down through the door which the footman had opened and extended a hand into the darkened coach. The slaves held their breaths as the slim white arm stole out and took his gently. Then Odalie stepped down upon the little half step, and they crowded in closer, their eyes shining whitely in the darkness.

  Odalie hesitated fearfully.

  “Speak to them, my darling,” Stephen whispered. “They’ve all come to see ye.”

  All Odalie could manage was a feeble: “Good evening, my people,” and the air was rent with a great gale of excited laughter and chatter. Then Stephen swept her up into his arms so that her dainty silken slippers should not touch the earth, and marched with her through the cheering crowd up the sweeping flight of stairs and into the great hall of Harrow, with all the house servants trailing behind them.

  The field Negroes crowded near the door, but they came no closer, all of them packed in a great semicircle around Harrow. All of them—except one. In the shadows of the oaks La Belle Sauvage lingered, her great yellow-brown eyes glowing in her velvety black face. Clad now in the Mother Hubbard garments of a slave woman, her carriage was still regal and her beauty was a source of trouble to all the younger slaves upon the plantation. Coming away from the door, Achille saw her there, lurking in the shadow, and moved toward her silently. Tonight was the night for nuptials for the good young master—why not then for him? No longer did La Belle Sauvage fight and claw at him with her daggerlike nails; but her method of eluding him now was even more maddening. She simply looked through him and passed him as though he did not exist. But tonight as he stood trembling beside her, she turned and looked at him. Then at last she spoke.

  “Slave Nigra!” she spat, and turned and walked away from him, swinging her hips like a queen. The rage mounted up in Achille’s throat until it was brine and black bile and fire. He came up to her and caught her by the shoulder, spinning her around to face him.

  “You my woman!” he said. “I your man, me!”

  La Belle Sauvage looked at him and her full lips curled contemptuously.

  “You no man,” she said flatly in the horrible mixed gumbo French she had acquired. “My tribe man no make slave. Warrior him die, but him no make slave. Even woman no make slave— die first, killee self first. In my tribe never no slave.”

  “You slave, you!” Achille cried. “What for you think no; girl? You slave just like me, you!”

  “No slave,” she taunted. “No work—no bow down. Sauvage still princess. Make slave I kill me, yes!” Then she turned and walked away in the direction of the cabins. Achille walked along beside her, his brow furrowed with thought. She had no right to say that, her. She had no right to make him feel like a dog or a horse or any owned thing. Yet he must have her, with all her arrogant beauty that was like a night without stars.

  They were passing his cabin now. Achille’s little eyes narrowed. He looked at the girl out of the corners of them. Then all at once without any warning he swept her up as lightly as a leaf into his arms. She kicked out and tore the skin of his face into ribbons, but he sh
ouldered his way into the cabin with her and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Up at Harrow, Stephen fingered the long-stemmed goblet of wine. He was in his dressing gown and the wine remained untouched. His eyes swept ever again toward the closed door behind which he could hear Odalie moving up and down—hear her footsteps moving and the soft rustling swish of her wedding garments as she removed them. This was maddening, this waiting. And when at last her voice came trembling through the door, very high and edged and frightened, he stood up so suddenly that the glass crashed to the floor. Where the wine touched, it left a stain like blood.

  Then he pushed open the door gently and stood with his back rigid against it, staring at her. Her gowns was of lace net and silk and her hair was all darkness against the candles. She stood there trembling so violently that he could see it even across the vast bedroom and, as she turned her head half away from him, he could see the great tears spilling over the incredibly long lashes, gleaming like diamond drops in the candle flame.

  “My God!” he whispered. “My God, but ye’re beautiful!”

  Then he was striding across the room with long slow steps toward where she stood, shivering as from an icy wind.

  “I’m afraid!” she wailed, as he drew her gently to him, “Oh, Stephen, I’m so afraid!”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Ye’ve nothing to fear.” Then he bent and kissed her lips softly. They were so cold that they burnt him. He kissed her once again, harder, but this time the hands came up against his chest pushing against him.

  “Stephen!” she said. “You said you’d have patience! You promised, Stephen, you promised!” Then she struck out wildly with her fists, hard against his chest, his shoulders, his throat.

  Stephen’s fair brows knitted together, and the scar was a brand of scarlet. Something very like to madness exploded in his brain. The years of waiting, of work, of anguish of mind and heart— for this! His lips came away from his teeth in a grimace of agony. He jerked her to him so hard that the single cry: “Stephen!” broke in half upon her lips. Then just as abruptly the rage was gone and the desire and in their place was an icy, echoing emptiness. He released her quite suddenly and spun on his heel. In the doorway he turned.

  “Goodnight—Madame Fox,” he said. Then he turned through the door and was gone.

  Odalie lay weeping across the great bed. She had intended to submit. She wanted to be a good wife—she wanted to give Stephen tall manly sons with hair like foxfire and an arrogant lilt to their walk; but this thing—this horror of being touched—this dwelling within the sanctity of her person was too strong. The fear was too strong and she could not let go. After a time her sobs quieted. She stood up and crossed the room. At the door she hesitated—then at last she pushed it open.

  The hallway was vast and dark; she trembled like a small woods creature crossing it. On the far side the light from the candles in Stephen’s room edged the door with silver, and laid a line bright across her face from forehead to chin. In it, the one of her eyes that it touched swam with tears that caught the light like jewels. Then at last her hand came down upon the knob and she was twisting it, pushing the door open with sudden strength.

  “Stephen . . .” she whispered.

  He looked up from his long white pipe of Irish clay and the hardness went out of his eyes.

  “Yes?” he said and his voice was gentle. “Yes, my dear?”

  “I’ve come to be your wife,” she said. “If you still want me—after that . . .”

  He put down his pipe carefully and stood up.

  “Still want ye,” he said. “Still want ye? Oh, all ye blessed saints in heaven!”

  She took a half step forward and the next instant she was in his arms.

  Afterwards, it was very quiet at Harrow. There was no sound except the quiet rustle of Stephen’s breath as he lay sleeping, one arm around the shoulders of his bride. But Odalie was awake, lying there in the crook of her new husband’s arm, and her silken pillow was sodden with her tears. This—this was marriage! This was how a man expressed the tenderness that was within him and the devotion. Then human beings were animals after all and no better than the other animals despite all the lace and perfume and poetry. . . lace and perfume and poetry leading up to this! And there were years of this before her, years of steeling herself to submit, of shaping herself into a dutiful wife. Yet she must.

  She raised up and looked down at Stephen’s sleeping face, clear in the moonlight that was pouring in through the window. The scarred side was turned down next to the pillow and sleep had eased and softened all the lines, until his face was as she had always imagined the face of an angel, strong and beautiful in its manhood, with the cynicism and the mockery erased. The great red ringlets curled damply over his high white forehead and the lines of pale pink freckles curved over the bridge of his nose.

  “I love you, my husband,” she whispered. “For you I’ll be patient and submissive and try to comprehend.” Then very softly, she began to pray.

  Stephen waited at the foot of the stairs as Amelia and Andre alighted from their landau. It was still early in the summer and the blasting heat of the bayou country had not yet made itself felt. Amelia was cool in her summer dress of thin India muslin, despite the great ham-shaped sleeves, and the numerous petticoats. Her face, under the big straw hat, was radiant. She waved her little ruffled parasol at Stephen and smiled. Stephen smiled back and bowed grandly over her white gloved hand. Andre strutted about like a turkey cock, looking for the moment so much like old Le Blanc in one of his more expansive moods that Stephen laughed aloud.

  “So!” he laughed. “Already I am to become a godfather!”

  “Stephen!” Amelia’s face was stricken. “How on earth did you know?”

  “My apologies, Amelia. I didn’t mean to be so indelicate. But look at him, will ye—what else could make him strut so? And your face, my dear—it has the look of the angels.”

  “You won’t tell your wife?”

  “Of course not! But come—she’s been on pins all day waiting on ye two.”

  Going up the curving stairs, Andre looked at his friend.

  Stephen’s face was still, and the laughter had gone out of his eyes.

  “Stephen . . .”

  “Yes, Andre?”

  “How goes it with you? You’re happy, my old one?”

  “Divinely.”

  “Ma foi! Andre thought. Never have I heard it said with less enthusiasm. Still, one never can tell about Stephen. He flies hot and cold with little or no provocation.

  Odalie came out on the gallery to greet them. Her dress of flowered chintz was cool and sweet, and her black hair, worn loose despite the fashion because Stephen liked it so, blew lightly away from her shoulders in the summer breeze. She extended both her hands to Amelia and the smile on her face was genuine.

  “I’m so glad,” she said, speaking in English with only the faintest trace of an accent. “I’ve been looking forward so to meeting you. Of course we did meet before—but there was such a crowd, and we had no chance to talk. Come in, my dear. I was beginning to think you’d never come.”

  “We’ve been so busy,” Amelia murmured.

  Stephen glanced at her with one eyebrow arched until it almost touched the scar.

  “That ye have!” he laughed. “Of that there is now no further doubt!”

  “Stephen!” Odalie said sharply. “Please forgive my husband, Madame. At times he has the most abominable manners.” She linked her arm through Amelia’s and walked ahead of the men.

  “You’re so beautiful,” she said warmly. “Stephen literally raves over you—and now I see why. Of course I’ve seen the German girls from Law’s Coast—but such hair and eyes as yours! How I envy you!”

  “It’s like old straw,” Amelia declared. “Andre often repeats what your husband said when first he saw you: ‘Hair like midnight cascading from God’s own heaven, unlighted by a star.’ And so it is.”

  “Stephen said that? Strange he never told
me. I like it though, that phrase. I’ll remember it. Thank you very much, Madame Le Blanc.”

  “Please call me Amelia. I hope we’re going to be friends.”

  “But of course! And you must call me Odalie. But here we are. You must sit there across from me, so we can talk. It’s been ages since I’ve talked to a woman other than the slaves. And you can scarcely call that conversation, can you?”

  “But your sister?” Amelia asked. “She comes to see you often, doesn’t she?”

  Odalie’s lovely face clouded.

  “No,” she said. “No she doesn’t. In fact, she’s visited us only once since we’ve been out here. Of course, it is a long ride . . .”

  They took their places at the table and the slaves brought the gleaming dishes. While they ate, Odalie kept up a running fire of small talk, but Stephen said scarcely a word. He sat back in his chair watching her, and his eyes were somber.

  She’s too eager, Amelia decided; she’s trying too hard to be pleasant. She isn’t like this really. I had the feeling before that she was rather reserved. Still, I shouldn’t make rash judgments.

  Andre cleared his throat.

  “Everything goes well, Stephen?” he got out.

  “Everything.”

  There was a little pool of silence in which the clinking of the knives and forks sounded too loudly.

  “You’ve heard about Tom Warren?” Andre tried again.

  “No,” Stephen said. “What about him?”

  “He grows richer by the minute. I don’t know how he got his start. ‘Twas rumored that he made a killing in wheat at first, but that couldn’t be for all his wheat burned in that warehouse of yours, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said. “It did.”

  “Strange. I heard it from people who should know. You don’t see much of him, do you?”

  “He hasn’t been out to Harrow in nearly two years. I guess he’s busy. Someday I’m going to look him up—when I get the time.”