by Frank Yerby
After a moment or two, she turned to leave the screened enclosure, but as she crossed the gallery, Achille came up the stairs, holding his hat in his hand.
“Mistress,” he began.
“Yes, Achille?”
“That Mister Wilson—he ups and dies, him. Maître say I tell you right away, but I fergit. Anyways, they all cry very loud down there, yes. Mistress come?”
“Yes, Achille. Go and hitch the little cabriolet. When you have finished, bring it around here. Be quick now.” She went into the house and called Zerline. When the girl came, Odalie ordered her to gather up all the foodstuffs left in the house. Then, slipping on a sunbonnet, she started for the Wilsons’ with Achille at the reins.
The house of the overseer was dirty and ill-kept. Odalie went to work at once with the help of three slave women. The children were bathed, dressed in clean linen and fed. The house was swept and dusted. And poor Madame Wilson, prostrated by her loss, found the wine and small cakes vastly stimulating, and sobbed out her gratitude upon her mistress’ shoulder. Between sobs, she dictated to Odalie a list of relatives who were to be invited to the funeral. And, since it was far too late to have the invitations engraved as was customary, Odalie wrote out the melancholy little notes in her own fine hand. Then she dispatched Georges on horseback to distribute them. The funeral must be held early tomorrow—before the blazing sun advanced too far above the horizon. Mister Wilson had been rather too long above ground now for this heat.
Coming back from the city, Stephen found her still at the Wilsons’, busily engaged in half a dozen tasks at once. He stood in the doorway, dusty and stained from his ride, his face reddened by the never-ending sun.
“Odalie!” he said sharply. “Have ye taken leave of your senses?”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she said brightly. “There are so many things to be done . . .”
“None of which ye shall do, my girl. Get ye up this instant and ride back to the house. So it’s working ye are! Working and looking into the face of the dead while ye carry a child! Where is Caleen? By all the saints, I shall have her thrashed for letting ye out of her sight!”
“But Stephen, somebody had to help these people! I felt it my duty . . .”
“Your duty, my dear, is to yourself and this child. Come now.”
“Sometimes, Stephen,” Odalie said tartly, “you’re positively impossible!”
The following day the inconsequential Mister Wilson was laid to rest with ceremony. And Madame Wilson and all her brood left Harrow for the great Prudhomme estates, having declined with thanks Stephen’s offer of a permanent home at Harrow. Stephen spread a huge table to all the legions of Prudhommes—seemingly there were no other Wilsons in existence—and their grief at their daughter’s loss had little effect upon their appetites.
“The only sadness there,” Stephen whispered to Odalie, “lies in their recognition of the fact that ‘twill be impossible to marry her off again. What a crew to feed! Can’t say that I blame them.”
Throughout the fall the heat continued. The smokestack of the sugar house stood up straight and tall, but no smoke came out of its gaping mouth. There was no cane for the sugar. Had it not been for Tom Warren’s loan, Stephen would have had to sell some of the land to meet his notes, but as it was he was able to ride over into winter with a comfortable margin of security.
The heat was a great burden to Odalie. Delicate by nature, she continued to have sieges of nausea and fainting. No longer could she walk abroad now. Swollen ankles and knees kept her abed most of the day; and her now misshapen figure was a source of endless worry to her. She was constantly in tears, fearing the permanent loss of her former litheness, storming at Stephen, swearing she hated him, accusing him of cruelty and worse, vowing to leave him forever.
All this Stephen bore with great patience—especially after the heat had abated early in the fall. For now the driving fall and winter rains had set in, and he knew that next year the crop would be good. Odalie would be occupied with the child, and would, therefore, give him little trouble.
The winter went by slowly. Never, it seemed, would the icy rains cease. Stephen rode out once or twice, wrapped in his greatcoat, to inspect the levee. By spring, he suspected, they would need all its strength. When the snows of the Northern Territories had melted, and the spring rains begun, it was no telling what height the river would reach. On these tours of inspection, he stopped at the slave cabins to see after the welfare of his people. It was troublesome not having an overseer, but Stephen was determined not to hire another until he had found a man whose qualifications were really suitable. One by one he entered the cabins, checking them for warmth and dryness, and also for cleanliness. Many a black was put to work with broom and mop in the middle of the night because his master, visiting unannounced, found the cabin offensive to his nostrils.
One of the last cabins to be visited was that of Achille. It was scrupulously clean, and the big slave had made rude furniture for it, fashioned, as far as Stephen could see, in imitation of the furniture up at Harrow. On the bed La Belle Sauvage lay, moaning softly.
“How goes it with her?” Stephen asked.
“Bad, maître. You think she lady, her! She suffer like lady—not easy for her like field woman.”
“Sauvage princess,” the girl on the bed got out between moans. “No field woman, me! No slave!”
“Hush,” Achille growled. “You don’t talk like that to maître, no!”
“ ‘Tis nothing, Achile,” Stephen said. “They all want a bit of humoring when they’re like that.”
He looked up from the bed toward the rough stone mantel.
On it two candles flickered, and between them was a little carved wooden figurine. Stephen looked at it, his brows rising. The figurine was of some dark wood, and had been carved by the hand of a masterly craftsman. It was something out of Africa, Stephen decided, some fetish or tribal god. Walking over to it, be picked it up in his hand. God and Our Lady, how hideous it was! Holding it there loosely in his palm, it seemed almost obscene. He turned to Achille.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“Wanga!” Achille muttered uneasily. “Powerful Wanga—maître mustn’t touch!”
“Ye worship this monstrosity, Achille?”
“I Catholic, me,” Achile declared. “Same as maître . . .”
“But the girl?”
“Her still wild, maître. She no understand, her.”
“I see. Belle . . .”
The great yellow brown eyes glowed up at him.
“Ye must not worship this thing,” Stephen said calmly. “ ‘Tis only wood. It has no power over ye. See, it burns like any other wood.”
He tossed it lightly into the fire. La Belle Sauvage sat straight up on her bed and made the cabin quiver with her screams. Strongly but gently Achille pressed her back upon the bed.
“Maître go now,” he said. “She have fits sho. Best that maître go now.”
“Ye’re right,” Stephen said. “Sorry that I disturbed her.” Wrapping his greatcoat about him, he went out into the driving rain. He walked slowly toward Harrow, disregarding the rain completely, his brow furrowed with thought. I should have Father DuGois come out and teach them, he thought; but what would he say to my own laxity? ‘Tis troubles enough I have without having my soul looked into. He sighed and plodded on through the rain.
As he approached the house, he saw a horse standing near the foot of the stairs. The animal was evidently spent, for it stood with its forelegs wide apart, and its belly heaving. Coming closer, he could see the rain steaming up from its sides.
“Poor fellow,” he said. “Ye’ve been cruelly used this night. I wonder who on earth . . . ?”
He started up the great stairs, but as he neared the top, the doors swung open and the warm yellow light poured out.
“Maître,” Georges’ excited voice called. “Guess what! You never guess, maître—never in a hundred year!”
Then Ti Demon was shoulderin
g Georges aside, his big white teeth gleaming in a huge grin.
“Monsieur Andre tell me bring you this,” he chuckled. “Portant message. Very ‘portant!”
He extended a rainsoaked piece of paper to Stephen. Stephen opened it and read:
“My dear Stephen:
“It’s a son and heir! He is beautiful beyond belief—with Amelia’s hair and eyes and the set chin of the Le Blancs. Papa has gone insane with joy. I am taking the liberty of naming him Stephen, after you, my old one! We are eagerly awaiting your visit.
“Andre”
Stephen’s pale eyes were very clear, and a little smile played about the corners of his mouth. So soon? he mused; why ‘tis but February. Andre a father—quite a strain upon the imagination, that. He turned to Georges.
“Take Little Devil up to your quarters and give him dry clothing,” he said. “Also ye may open a bottle of Tafia; but if either of ye becomes quarrelsome, I shall have ye both soundly thrashed. And see that his horse is stabled and fed.” He spun on his heel and marched in the direction of Odalie’s room.
“How are ye, my dear?” he asked as he crossed to the bed upon which she was lying.
“What do you care?” she stormed. “You got me like this! And now you stay away forever and care not if I die!”
“Softly, my dear,” Stephen said. “Ye should not excite yourself so.” He sat down beside the bed. “Andre and Amelia have their wish,” he told her. “It is a son at La Place. They’ve called him Stephen in my honor.”
“Oh, Stephen, they can’t! You mustn’t let them!”
“Why not? The name will not harm the lad.”
“But, Stephen, what on earth will we call our baby?”
“Holy Saints! That I had forgotten. That does put a different face on things, doesn’t it?”
“Stephen . . .”
“Yes, darling . . .”
“Would you—mind very much if I called him Etienne? I know you don’t like French names, but after all the meaning is the same. Besides it is what I would have called him anyway—my little ‘Tienne, even if you’d named him Stephen.”
“Suppose it is a girl?” Stephen grinned. “What then, Odalie?”
“Oh, Stephen, no! It can’t be! I’d die if it were only a girl!”
“Ye’ll love and cherish it, whatever it is,” he said gently. He kissed her and got to his feet. “Call it whatever ye like,” he said softly, and crossed the room to the door.
The ice left the rains, and they were warm with fragrance. The spring came whispering in with rains that probed like warm fingers into the black earth. And where they touched, the earth greened and blossomed. Already the cane was up, taller than it usually was by midsummer, and the cotton stalks clustered over mile after mile of fields. The river, swollen by the months of rainfall and the melting snows of the North, was growling a few scant feet below the top of the levee, and Stephen found it necessary to have his Negroes patrol the earthern wall day and night lest an unexpected break catch them unawares.
Now that it was almost time for her travail, Odalie found herself surprisingly well. Except for the heaviness and fatigue, she was not much troubled. The nausea and dizziness had disappeared and time, weighted with idleness, hung heavy upon her hands. Often now of an evening she was driven into New Orleans in a heavy coach, to attend the theatre. Heavily veiled, she would descend from the coach at a private side entrance of the Théâtre D’Orleans, and being met there by a special attendant, she would be conducted up a hidden stairway to the Loge Grille that Stephen had ordered reserved for her. Sitting there behind the lattices that enclosed her box, hiding her from the public eye, she could enjoy the new series of light operas that John Davis had introduced. Often, indeed usually, Stephen went with her, but when he could not, Georges and Caleen and often Zerline were at her side every instant that she was away from Harrow.
Sitting beside her late in the spring, Stephen peered through the lattices at the stage. La Dame Blanche, he decided, was but an indifferent opera, and the singing less than fair. Still, if it pleased Odalie . . . He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. Her face was very white—unnaturally so, and there was a noticeable grimace of pain hovering about her mouth. He stretched out his hand, and she caught it suddenly. Her grip was fierce, the fingers biting into his arm.
“Stephen,” she whispered. “I—I don’t think I’d better wait for the ballet.”
He stood up, taking her arm.
“So,” he said, his voice all concern. “It’s come?”
“Yes, Stephen—it’s come—and we’d better hurry!”
“Doctor Terrebonne’s is but a few blocks beyond. I can take ye there. . . .”
“No, Stephen, no!”
“Why not? ‘Tis the safest thing to do.”
“Harrow, Stephen—he must be born at Harrow! We cannot cheat him of that!”
Stephen bent and swept her up into his arms. He went down the stairs to the waiting coach.
“Harrow,” he said to the coachman. “And be quick about it! Georges!”
“Yes, maître?”
“Get ye over to Dumaine Street and tell Doctor Terrebonne that we shall expect him at Harrow within the hour. Tell him it’s urgent—very urgent. Be off with ye now!”
All the way on the long drive out to Harrow, Odalie held Stephen’s hand tightly. Never did she permit the slightest moan to escape her lips, but at times her grip tightened, tightened until her knuckles whitened visibly from the strain and a fine dew of perspiration filmed her brow and the corners of her mouth.
Stephen drew her head down upon his shoulders and tried as much as he could to protect her from the jolting, swaying motion of the coach. “Damn this road!” he muttered each time the wheels dug into a rut.
Then they were swinging up the alley of oaks before Harrow. The coachman brought down his whip sharply across the laboring animals and they broke from their trot into a headlong gallop. It was the first time they had ever felt the lash. The coachman pulled them up before Harrow, sawing their mouths so cruelly with the bits that they reared and the whole coach bucked and shivered.
“Damnation!” Stephen thundered. “Do ye want to kill us all?” Slowly the terrified horses quieted. Stephen leaped to the ground. Then he put his arms inside the coach, and Odalie sank into them. He went up the stairs very fast yet very smoothly, only to find old Caleen waiting at the top.
“The grand chamber is ready,” she said, “but the water is not yet to a boil. Soon it be ready, yes. The maître be very careful. I take care of maîtresse, me.”
“How the devil did ye know?” Stephen demanded.
Caleen smiled.
“Caleen have ways,” she said mysteriously. In truth she had been watching from the belvédère and had seen the coach thundering up the river road. Only one thing, she knew, would make the master drive so fast with the young mistress aboard. But never would she tell him that. Better to have him believe in her mystic powers.
Stephen carried Odalie into the master bedroom, and lay her gently on the great, canopied bed. Then Caleen and Zerline undressed her, moving very slowly and gently. Stephen paced the floor in a black fury. Why the devil didn’t that cursed saw-bones come? Odalie’s face was twisted, but not a whimper did she permit to escape her lips. She stretched out her slim hand to Stephen, and he knelt beside the bed, his face so drawn that the great scar was livid against his pallor.
“It is nothing, my husband,” she whispered. “I am all right. Do not worry so . . .”
Then her face was contorted in a grimace so acute that Stephen sprang upright.
“Georges!” he roared, then turning to Zerline: “Get Georges! Tell him to ride at once to the city and fetch that damnable doctor! Tell him to ride Arrow and I care not if he breaks his wind and limbs so long as he reaches Dumaine Street within the hour. Get on with ye now! Move!”
Zerline was out of the bed chamber at once, her skirts swirling as she ran.
“Not Arrow, Stephen,” Odalie whi
spered. “Give him some other mount.” She knew well how Stephen loved the sleek black stallion he was grooming for the fall races at the Metairie Track.
“There is none here half so fast,” Stephen said. “Rest quietly now, my darling—ye must conserve your strength.”
An hour and a half later, Doctor Terrebonne arrived. Stephen was hard put to conceal his impatience at the delay. But the fat little Creole physician was filled with such bustling good humor and confidence that it was easy to relax in his presence.
“Ah, monsieur,” he said merrily. “I can guarantee you a fine son, perhaps, but I cannot swear that if this pacing and gnawing of nails and palpitation of heart does not cease that Madame will not find herself a widow this night. You have whiskey?”
Stephen nodded.
“Good. Go then and get splendidly drunk, but stay out of my way. I will brook no interference. I will need the assistance of a woman—one with strong nerves. None of these young wenches now.”
Stephen inclined his head dumbly toward Caleen.
“Come,” Doctor Terrebonne said, then smiling broadly, he added: “Perhaps I shall have need of a witch!”
The examination took agonizing aeons of time. Stephen stood outside the door of the bedchamber and waited, rigid as a statue. When, at last, the little doctor came out, Stephen strode forward to meet him.
The physician’s round, owlish face was grave. Stephen looked at him wordlessly—unable to speak.
“I want you to dispatch a man to the house of my colleague, Lefevre. Tell him to take over my practice for tonight. I’m remaining here.”
“It—it’s that bad, doctor?”
“Yes,” Doctor Terrebonne said. “It’s that bad.”
“God and Our Blessed Mother!” Stephen whispered.
“She is not built for childbearing. She is too slim in the flanks and the child seems unusually large. And again, like so many of our patrician Grand Dames, she is too delicate. If she survives this one, it must be the last. Remember that.”
