The River Palace: A Water Wheel Novel #3

by Gilbert, Morris

  Harry grinned, stretching his thick, wet lips wide. “Cara, she did that old cat the Widow Hacker in the eye, and I say good for Mrs. Tabb and good for you. I know you’re talented, you play wonderfully and sing like an angel in church, and the Widow Hacker’s niece Constance looks as if she’d faint if she had to open her pruney little mouth open wide enough to sing. And I hear you’re the shining star of the Independence Day Concert.”

  “I’m not the star,” Cara protested, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I’m just lucky Captain Nettles has given me a solo, there are several really good performers in the Donaldsonvile Players.”

  “Yeah, Captain Nettles, that slick bluebelly, he is lucky to have you,” Harry said. Pulling the horse to a stop, he reached behind the seat and brought out a small bucket. It was filled with melting ice, and held a bottle of lemonade. “Here, I brought us a cool drink.” He popped open the bottle, took a long swig, then held it out to Cara. Sliding his arm along the back of the seat, he pulled her so close to him she was crushed against his side. “’Fraid you’ll have to share with me, Cara,” he said, and leaned his head down. Before Cara could move, his wet lips brushed hers.

  With all her might Cara pushed him, jamming the bottle hard against his ribs, and it tipped and ran down in his lap. He jerked, and she jumped out of the buggy. “I’m not sharing anything with you, Harry Stokes! I knew it, I knew I never should have gotten in that buggy!” She hurried up the road, taking hard angry steps, swinging her arms, all genteel lady’s mincing walk forgotten.

  “Wha—! Cara! Come back here!” Harry bellowed.

  Cara didn’t bother to answer. When she came to a side road about an eighth of a mile from where she assumed Harry still sat dabbing his lap, she veered off the road, cutting through the corner of a sugarcane field, and came to a small pasture with one old horse placidly grazing. It was a shortcut to town that she’d known since she was a child, though she normally didn’t take it now because cutting through sugarcane is no easy thing to do in a long skirt and petticoat. But she didn’t want to hear any further nonsense from the likes of Harry Stokes when he caught up to her on the road. She reflected with satisfaction that his ride back into town was going to be wet, sticky, and uncomfortable. Served him right.

  OCTAVIA TABB PUT HER hands on Cara’s cheeks and lifted her face. Her small birdlike eyes flew open in alarm. “Cara Cogbill, you’re as flushed as a tomato! Don’t tell me you’ve been letting the sun hit you in the face, child, no, no! How many times have I told you that ladies must never be freckled!”

  “Many times, ma’am,” Cara answered submissively. “But no, Mrs. Tabb, I’m afraid I hurried a little to get here, and it’s so hot today.”

  “Yes, yes, well, put up your things and hurry to help me with Mr. Tabb’s supper. You know we must have Mr. Tabb’s supper all ready for him so that we can get to rehearsal tonight on time. Captain Nettles is so very strict on punctuality, and I don’t blame him, because what about those silly Bastien sisters, always lollygagging around . . .” Her voice faded out as she bustled out the back door to the detached kitchen behind the house. She was a short, rather rotund woman, but was quick and sharp in her walk and movements and speech when she was attending her household duties.

  Over the years, Cara, who had a certain insight into people, had come to know and understand Octavia Tabb very well. She was a snobbish, stubborn, and sometimes spiteful woman, but on the other hand, she had shown herself to be kind, patient, and even generous to Cara. It had puzzled her at first, because even at thirteen years of age, when Cara had first come to work for the Tabbs, she understood that she and her family were Poor White Trash, while the Tabbs and the Stokes and the Hackers and the Bastiens were Upperclass Society, and with Mrs. Tabb’s pretentiousness it would seem that she would never have thought of Cara as anything but a lowly servant. Cara had seen her and Mr. Tabb together, and their quiet, unassuming enjoyment of each other’s company, and she knew that the couple had never had children. Cara thought that Mrs. Tabb would have been much more the nice lady she could be, instead of the fatuous social climber that she was, if she’d had children. Cara didn’t fool herself that she was like a daughter to Mrs. Tabb, but she thought that she had brought out some deeply buried maternal instinct in her.

  Cara hurried to her stifling box of a room, one that had originally been a pantry but now had a narrow bed and chest. She took off her bonnet, fichu, and gloves and threw them on the bed to almost run out to the kitchen. When Mrs. Tabb said to hurry, she meant it.

  It was Friday night, and it was a mutton night. Mr. Tabb had regimented menus, and on Fridays he either had mutton or pork chops. Cara hated mutton night; she didn’t like the smell or the taste of the meat. But at least it was easy to cook. Mrs. Tabb was already talking, and zipping around putting pots of water on the stove and getting out the turnips and corn on the cob. “. . . sauce for the mutton, you know Mr. Tabb always says that you make it better than I do. And I got some beautiful sweet potatoes so we can make a sweet potato pie, Mr. Tabb does love them. Hurry, girl, it won’t be a minute or two before this water boils.”

  She stopped for a breath, and Cara murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” as she started cutting the hock off the leg of mutton.

  Mrs. Tabb was a talker, except, of course, when she was in Polite Society; then she was elegant, cool, and dignified. With Cara she kept up a continual running commentary. “I’m worried we won’t have Mr. Tabb’s supper ready by six thirty, so do hurry, Cara. It is so exciting to have our very first dress rehearsal tonight, I simply must have you touch up my costume with the iron before we leave, it seems to me that the hem flounce isn’t quite as crisp as I’d like, and you can iron so much better and more efficiently than I, and I want to check your dress too, because I won’t have it said that your costume isn’t quite as good as that Constance Hacker’s, though hers is very boring, if you ask me, just a starred blouse and a striped skirt, in fact if Captain Nettles hadn’t recommended it himself I’d think it was a little bit vulgar . . .”

  The Donaldsonville Players, as Captain Joseph Nettles had named them, were putting on a grand Independence Day Concert for the Fourth of July. Captain Nettles had been assigned to Fort Butler in Donaldsonville since the building of the fort in 1862, and his posting had been a bigger blow to him than if he had been grievously wounded in battle. He wanted to be in New Orleans, for he was from New York, and fancied himself an artistic, sophisticated gentleman who needed genteel occupations such as the theater and the opera, and Donaldsonville offered nothing like that. In spite of vigorous political wranglings, he couldn’t escape prosaic Donaldsonville, and so he had proceeded to create his own sophistications, and had formed the Donaldsonville Players, a sort of disingenuous name since they hadn’t yet actually put on any plays. They did concerts, with singing and poetry recitals and dramatic readings and historical tableaux.

  At first the Players had been Captain Nettles and his wife, Eliza, and five other officers and three other wives. But by 1863, when the Union had gained control of the Mississippi River and had effectively split the Confederacy in half, and the war was so far to the east and west of southern Louisiana, the townspeople of Donaldsonville had slowly become interested in the Players. Captain Nettles was elegant, charming, and courtly, and he had managed to flatter and cajole many town ladies into joining the troupe. That meant, of course, that the audiences grew exponentially, for they were mostly the soldiers stationed at the fort, and they’d go anywhere to see pretty girls.

  Mrs. Tabb was still rattling on as Cara was beginning to make the sweet potato pie. By now Mrs. Tabb was sitting at the worktable with a glass of sweet iced tea, fanning herself vigorously. This happened quite often when Mrs. Tabb said that “we need to cook this” or “we need to take care of cleaning those curtains today” or “we should pay special attention to the urns and vases in the drawing room.” Most of the time Cara ended up doing all of the work while Mrs. Tabb talked. Cara didn’t mind, for she knew that Octav
ia Tabb was a very lonely woman.

  “. . . and it’s so obvious that Captain Nettles realizes that your musical gifts are far above any of the other young ladies’, though of course you couldn’t possibly be expected to exceed the talents of the more experienced ladies, such as Mrs. Nettles, and you know that I’ve been playing an instrument and singing since I was a very young girl, younger even than you,” she said placidly. “Still, you outshine the Bastien sisters by a country mile, and no wonder, for Carolyn Bastien is a woeful singer and plays the piano even worse, and her daughters take after her. Naturally, Captain Nettles, being a man of such discriminating tastes, has shown a marked preference for you,” she said with satisfaction. In her mind, she was responsible for Cara’s talent, and any recognition given to it was in reality a compliment to her genius.

  Cara frowned slightly. “I didn’t think that Captain Nettles had shown me any special attention.”

  “Certainly he has! After all, your solo tonight is going to be the grand finale,” she said smugly. “Mrs. Hacker badgered poor Captain Nettles unmercifully for Constance’s dismal piano solo to be the grand finale, but he stood firm. I think he sees much potential in you, Cara, as I always have, and I believe that he’s going to make sure that you are featured in all of the productions of the Players. You know, he said to me once, in strict confidence, that there was a new play he’s giving serious consideration, and he said that there’s a part in it that I would be absolutely stunning in performing . . .”

  Cara’s thoughts wandered. She thought that Mrs. Tabb was exaggerating Captain Nettles’s estimation of her talents. Captain Nettles was in all ways an average-looking man in his thirties, average size, brown hair, brown eyes, with even features. One would scarcely notice him passing in the street. But he was undoubtedly charming, with a ready smile and he showed great courtliness to ladies.

  But Cara, with her heightened sensitivity, was wary of all men, including Captain Nettles. One hard lesson that she had learned was that, even with all of her acquired graces, and though she was very careful to conduct herself with the utmost decorum and modesty, never flirting or coy or bringing any attention to herself whatsoever, men still treated her differently than they did girls of the upperclass families. At least, the Union soldiers did, and even some of the older men of town who hadn’t gone to war and who, Cara thought indignantly, should have known better, being brought up as Southern gentlemen. They called her by her first name without asking her permission, monopolized her conversation even when she politely tried to extract herself from them, and some of them even had the nerve to touch her, to put their arms around her shoulders or her waist. They never treated the Bastien sisters or Constance Hacker that way.

  But Captain Nettles had never shown the least unwelcome familiarity to Cara. Once or twice she noticed a certain intensity in his mild brown eyes as he watched her sing, but she was shrewd enough to know that that happened to her a lot with men now; she supposed they couldn’t help it. She had noticed that Eliza Nettles, who would be an attractive brunette if her face weren’t quite so hard, watched her husband like a she-wolf. Cara had seen this as simply a woman’s blind jealousy, because as far as she could tell Captain Nettles behaved himself with all the girls. And, she thought with a grim inward smile, he’d better. If he didn’t, Cara suspected that Eliza Nettles would make him pay.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, ALL of the Donaldsonville Players were sitting in the front rows of the Opera House, the third floor of a large brick building that housed Tabb’s Apothecary on the first floor and Edwards & Diggs Shipping offices on the second, for the building was close to the river. The third floor had been empty, and with Mrs. Tabb’s urging, Mr. Tabb, who owned the building, had cleaned it up and had a stage built and had even furnished benches for a hundred people for the theater.

  Captain Nettles took the stage and clapped his hands for attention. The twitterings of the sixteen ladies, and the bass murmurs of the five men, died down. “I’m sorry to say that Mrs. Nettles won’t be here tonight, although I don’t think she’s sorry, herself.” He smiled engagingly. “She received an invitation from Mrs. Lavinia Heth, Colonel Rufus B. Heth’s wife, to come to New Orleans and attend a performance of Don Giovanni at the French Opera House. Colonel Heth, as you may know, is General Nathaniel Banks’s adjutant and is the Military Police Commander of New Orleans. My Eliza is a distant cousin of Mrs. Heth’s, and was so delighted to receive the invitation, not to mention to see Don Giovanni. However, she will be back on Monday. Of course she wouldn’t miss our Independence Day Concert.” Eliza Nettles was always a star performer in their productions, though she was a rather indifferent soprano.

  The rehearsal began, and it was rather confused, as they had never done a costume rehearsal before. The men all wore their military uniforms, but several of the ladies had full dress changes. A small dressing room hardly could accommodate eight women in full hoop skirts, changing clothes, and the atmosphere became very tense, as it was also suffocatingly hot in the tiny windowless room. But Captain Nettles managed to soothe them all, flattering them, praising them, and soon they were all relatively happy and preening. Cara noticed that he was in particularly high spirits tonight, his voice louder than usual, and she thought she smelled liquor on his breath when he was close to her.

  Cara’s costume change didn’t come until the second-to-last song of the concert, so all she had to do until then was to put on her sash, a shoulder-to-waist satin length of red, with blue stars outlined in white, which all of the ladies wore in differing red-white-blue combinations. She was wearing a hand-me-down dress that Octavia Tabb had given her, a simple icy blue with a bit of white lace on her collar and sleeves. Cara didn’t have a hoop skirt, so she only wore her petticoat.

  They went through their repertoire, the patriotic songs, the heartfelt reading of “O Captain, My Captain” by Captain Nettles, and Constance Hacker’s solemn and stately piano solo, Pachelbel’s Canon. Then, with some flurry and confusion because Eliza Nettles was absent, came the next-to-last song of the evening, “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” Octavia Tabb in her solid crimson red dress with sash, representing Freedom, and Mary Louisa Stokes in her dark blue, representing Independence, were both ready with their flags to sing and march their choreographed steps, but they were sadly disconcerted by the missing Union, Eliza Nettles in solid white. Finally Captain Nettles got Cara to fill in, and they went through the song and the steps—which Cara had unconsciously picked up—three times, at Mrs. Tabb’s insistence.

  Then it was time for the grand finale, and Cara hurried to don her costume. She was the Statue of Liberty, with a fine, long, heavy piece of silvery-gray satin to serve as her toga, over her dress, of course. She had a torch made of wood and painted with silver gilt, with stubby candles in it that gave a very convincing flame. Her crown was pasteboard, also painted with silver gilt, but outlined with real silver thread. Finally she got her toga wrapped and draped properly, and Captain Nettles obligingly lit her candles. In great state she slowly walked back and forth across the stage, holding her torch high, singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in her strong, true soprano. It rang throughout the big, empty room. At the final Glory, Glory Hallelujah! all of the players joined her in a rousing finish. After a long, stirring His truth is marching on! they gave themselves a round of applause, except for Cara, who was still holding her burning torch.

  It took about an hour for the company to change back into their regular clothing, carefully pack away their sashes and costumes, and finish visiting with each other and, of course, the endless entreaties of Captain Nettles for this, that, and the other. When almost all had left, he came to Cara and said, “Cara, I really think that we need to go over your solo again. Not that there was anything wrong, oh, no, my dear, you were flawless! But we need to make certain that your costume change goes smoothly, and especially we need to see about this torch thing. Certainly you can’t come out on stage and get me to light it as we’re all finishing ‘My Country ’Tis
of Thee.’”

  “All right,” Cara said uncertainly. “I’ll let Mrs. Tabb know. Or perhaps she might wait for me.”

  “No, no, I’ve already explained to Octavia, I’ll take care to see you back to the Tabbs’ house. We shouldn’t be more than another half-hour or so,” he said smoothly.

  There were still four or five ladies about, clamoring to talk to him, so Cara went on back to the dressing room to unpack her toga and unwrap her crown from its protective tissue. She had just gotten her toga unwrapped when Captain Nettles came into the dressing room. Suddenly Cara was wary; this was unseemly, even though she wasn’t actually changing clothes. She froze, holding the long heavy length of satin in her hand, and stared at him.

  Casually he walked over to her and caressed the satin she was holding. “This is such a lovely, sensuous fabric. It suits you, Cara. You should always wear silk and satin.” He put his arms around her and pulled her to him. Cara was so shocked that she was numb, and she looked up at him, and saw that his mild countenance had changed. His eyes were dark, his pupils contracted, and his jaw tensed. Before she could react he bent and planted his mouth on hers, kissing her with a roughness that frightened Cara half to death. With all her might, she pushed his chest, but he was strong and he only pulled her so much closer that she could hardly breathe.

  She did the only thing she could think of: she bit his mouth savagely. He yanked his head up and slapped one hand to his mouth, which was bleeding. “You stupid little minx! What have you done!”

  Trying desperately to writhe away from him she shouted, “What have I done? You pig, when I tell Mrs. Nettles, I hope—”

  “No! You filthy little—” One hand kept a grip on Cara’s arm, but now she yanked it away from him, pushed past him, and ran out onto the stage. He followed her, and grabbed her again. Cara turned on him and landed a hard stinging slap on his face. They grappled, and wrestled, and Cara fought like a cornered vixen. And then—as suddenly as if they’d been struck by lightning—Nettles fell off the stage. He made a sickening, crashing, crunching sound when he landed face-down. Cara stared down at him in shock. One arm was all awry, obviously broken. A trickle of blood came from his nose.