Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The color brought to mind the glint of gold coins. He took a purse from the pocket of his coat and dropped it in front of her. Fat and heavy, it made a clanking sound as it subsided on the tabletop.

  “Money? You are offering me money?”

  “Since you apparently have none, and must be in need of a round of visits to the seamstresses and milliners.”

  “I will not be a charge on you for my clothes.”

  Ryan strove for patience, though he could not be surprised at her objection. “In what way is allowing me to pay for what you wear different from paying for what you eat or where you sleep?”

  “It just is, and you know it.” She pressed her lips together with a mutinous frown and a look of disdain for the purse.

  “That dress that Hermine gave you is charming, but I’m a little tired of seeing it. And though the nightgown you wore last night had allure, I don’t think you want to wear it outside the house. Come, be sensible. Take the money.”

  “I can’t.”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair, his gaze intent upon Elene. The light from the courtyard caught the underside of her jaw line as she lifted her chin, making the skin appear translucent, like fine silk. It also glinted on the chain that lay along her neck with a fine cameo hanging from it. He stared at the necklace, and an idea came to him.

  “Let us make this a matter of trade then. You will give me a suitable guarantee to be held, and I will extend you a sum of money.”

  In flat tones she asked, “What might you have in mind?”

  “Not your delectable body, unless that is what you prefer?”

  Elene stared at him, her expression suspended, thoughtful.

  He shrugged. “Then perhaps the bauble around your neck?”

  “My mother’s cameo?” She put up her hand to clasp it in a protective gesture.

  “I would only keep it until you could redeem it. This is a loan, remember?”

  She remembered, but she also saw that he never expected to be repaid. The arrangement was an excuse to dress her in finery that he had bought. He was going to be surprised. She would pay him back. She would do it with the money she would make selling her perfume. She had considered parting with the necklace for the money to begin with, as much as she hated the idea. It would be much better to allow Ryan to hold it. He might not be at all pleased at the use she meant to make of his loan, but that was something she would face later.

  “Very well.” She bent her neck, drawing the chain off over her head.

  Ryan had expected more of an argument. Watching her, he tried to work out in his mind why she had capitulated so easily. He did not flatter himself that he had fooled her; he had expected they would reach one of those sophisticated arrangements where each might pretend to be acting from the purest of motives. He should have known she would not play the game the way it was written among men and women of the world. So wrapped in his own thoughts was he that when she held out the chain and pendant to him, he accepted it by rote. His immediate instinct was to hand it back, but something stopped him, some dignity in her manner, something firm in her eyes. The necklace in his hand was warm from her skin, smooth from rubbing against it. It gave him a peculiar sensation inside, but did not help his uneasiness.

  Elene and Devota went shopping. They discovered, not without surprise, that there was no lack of the items required for elegant dressing in New Orleans. The shops were filled with mousselines, laces, silks, velvets, taffetas, and embroidered stuffs. Also on the shelves were plumes and aigrettes, ornamental beads and buttons, ribbons, point-lace veils, and a surfeit of jewelry. There was, in addition, a wide variety of creams, powders, and face paints, and a fair quantity of perfume, most of it imported from France. Devota, eyeing the last with some disfavor, pronounced it dark with age, past its fresh prime.

  Nor were the streets empty. They rubbed shoulders with well-dressed matrons with mantillas over their hair and young girls in chip straw bonnets, and nodded as sauntering young bucks with dress swords at their sides and perfumed handkerchiefs in their sleeves stopped to bow. Nuns in black habits and white wimples smiled as they passed. Spanish soldiers in red uniforms with white cockades in their bicorne hats turned to stare after them.

  Elene and Devota bought lengths of figured and striped India mousseline for a few morning dresses, and a rose mull silk for an evening costume on the chance that such a thing might be needed. They also bought fine lawn for underclothing and some ribbons and laces for trimming. Stockings were essential, as were slippers and shoes, gloves and a bonnet or two against the sun. They spent nothing on seamstresses and little on milliners, however. With Devota’s help, Elene was quite capable of sewing her own clothing in the present simple mode, and also of trimming her own bonnets and hats.

  There was a fair amount of the money in her purse left, then, by the time the last purchase had been made and dispatched to Ryan’s house by the shopkeeper’s assistant. It would be as well to begin work on the perfume without delay, for there was only a drop or two left in the bottle Devota had given her. By the time the new was made, the old would be gone. Elene and Devota asked the direction of the nearest perfume shop and set out to find it.

  It was located on a muddy side street where the houses were of the French regime. It was far from impressive, being not an establishment in itself, but only a few shelves located in a back corner of an apothecary’s shop. The apothecary was a simple pill-roller. The man from whom he had bought the shop the year before had happened to have a stock of the pure flower, wood, and leaf essences in oils and pulverized powders, and so he had kept the shelves supplied. Though he also had alcohol, he had made no attempt to blend perfume.

  Elene walked up to the shelves, staring at the various amber, marigold, and clear liquids. There they stood, the floral and herbal, wood and animal ingredients in their flasks and bottles and vials and boxes, the scents that would give her security.

  She and Devota weighed the merits of the ambergris and civet binders, the Far Eastern waxes of myrrh and frankincense, and the chips of cedar and sandalwood. They sniffed the oil of jasmine and attar of roses and frangipani, the ground roots of Parma violets, the crushed rind of lemons and oranges, the powders of mint, anise seed, rosemary, and cinnamon, and the oils of cloves and daffodils and geraniums. They bought what they could get in the quantities that were available, though there were one or two things that Devota wanted that the apothecary did not have. The man behind the counter put their purchases into the basket the maid had brought since Devota did not want to trust them to a delivery boy. The maid took the clanking burden over her arm, and she and Elene left the shop.

  The sky was gray toward the southwest as they emerged, and the air was hot and still. A man hurried past them, and across the street a woman with a bundle of clothing on her hip dragged a whining child along by one arm in great haste while casting worried glances skyward. There came a grumble of thunder and a puff of wind. Elene glanced at Devota. It was going to rain. A shower in the afternoon was commonplace in New Orleans during the summer months, or so they had been told. They increased their pace. Ahead of them could be seen a two-story house with its projecting balcony that would offer some protection.

  Once more thunder made a muffled thudding, as if the air were too thick to carry a harsher sound. A fat drop of rain, incredibly warm, struck Elene’s face. Three more fell with full, splatting noises in front of her, wetting the ground in spots the size of a demitasse cup. A handful landed in scattered and uncoordinated rhythm. Elene began to run. Devota was on her heels, the stoppered bottles and vials in her basket making a delicate clinking sound.

  Abruptly the smut-colored sky disintegrated and the rain came pouring down. The last wild dash to shelter was made through what seemed an ever thickening wall of water.

  Then they were under the balcony, laughing, wiping water from their faces with their hands. A gust of wind sent a wavering curtain of water from the overhang above, splaying inward toward them. They stepped back, taking
refuge in the open doorway of a milliner’s shop.

  A small girl, who had been watching the rain, turned at their entrance and ran back to her nurse and two older sisters, and also her mother who was talking to the lady proprietor of the hat shop. As the child clasped her mother around the knees, the woman looked down.

  “Now, Zoe, don’t be shy,” she said in soft, elegant tones as she gave her a gentle push back toward her nurse.

  Elene smiled at the child before moving a bit further into the shop. She looked with interest at the mother once more. The woman was in the full bloom of lovely maturity and carried about her a charming air of confidence. Her manner toward the milliner at her elbow was a little distant without being at all condescending. She was attired in pale blue linen with a fichu of finest muslin edged in heirloom lace, a gown of such impeccable lines and quality that it could only have come from Paris.

  The milliner held a hat of fine leghorn straw dyed the same pale blue as the customer’s morning dress in her hands. She reached to pick up a sprig of daisies with white silk petals and yellow velvet centers from a basket of posies on the nearby counter. “Perhaps these marguerites, Madame Laussat?” she suggested, placing them on the hat’s crown. “They will lend such freshness.”

  “I think not,” the wife of the colonial prefect answered, tipping her head to one side. “I have no wish to appear to ape poor Marie Antoinette, turning myself into a milkmaid with daisy chains.”

  “For such a straw head covering, madame, one requires simplicity.” The milliner seemed inclined to bristle, as if she resented the slur upon her daisies or the failure of the customer to take her advice. She put down the daisies and began to smooth the straw of the hat with trembling fingers.

  “Simplicity, yes, that I like,” Madame Laussat said with great diplomacy. “Sweet peas, perhaps? Or else a circlet of leaves about the crown.” She turned to Elene. “What do you think, mademoiselle?”

  Elene moved forward. “The hat is for casual wear?”

  “For driving with my husband in an open carriage. He has a passion for exploring the countryside, and I find one must have more protection than a bonnet from this Louisiana sun.”

  “Then possibly, since your fichu is white, a trimming of wide ribbon will suffice? Nothing appears so cool as white, and you might have long streamers on your ribbons to wave in the breeze of your passage.”

  “Not to speak of their usefulness to tie it on. How very suitable, and chic. I am indebted for the suggestion, Mademoiselle…”

  As the other woman paused suggestively, Elene gave her name. At the same time, she received a malignant stare from the milliner for her interference.

  “Ah, yes, Mademoiselle Larpent.” Madame Laussat introduced herself, adding with a wave toward the children, “And these are my daughters, Zoe, Sophie, and Camille. Your curtsies, girls?”

  Elene exchanged solemn bows with the children before their mother went on. “I have heard of your trials on Saint-Domingue, mademoiselle. Please accept my condolences on the death of your father.”

  “Thank you,” Elene said, at a loss. “It’s very kind of you to concern yourself, but I don’t see how—”

  “How I came to know of it? From M’sieur Bayard, of course. What men they have here, do you not agree? So gallant in action and handsome in deed.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Elene said, her tone a shade dry.

  “Such an unfortunate thing this revolt; Saint-Domingue is a terrible place these days. My husband and I stopped there for two days in February, on our voyage here. Matters were so volatile that we did not leave the ship.”

  “It has been … very bad,” Elene agreed.

  “Indeed. I feel for you most strongly, but it’s much easier to sympathize, you understand, when such a man as M’sieur Bayard tells the story of a woman’s sad trials and valiant recovery.”

  Elene was given no chance to answer, even if she could have found something to say. At that moment, the milliner spoke. “These refugees from Saint-Domingue are many, very many,” she said with boredom and contempt in her tone. “They are none of them valiant that I have seen. They do nothing but gamble. The women are worse, flaunting themselves in bright colors in defiance of fashion, wearing décolletages cut shockingly low. And so dependent are they on the slaves who tried to murder them that they cannot now do one little thing for themselves.”

  Such an attack could not be allowed to pass without challenge. Elene gave the milliner a level stare. Her voice even, she said, “I’m sure the women of my island are much like those anywhere else, no better — and no worse.”

  “Indeed, and what of those who bring their slaves with them, proud creatures who wear the kerchief tied around their heads that they call a tignon, and pollute the minds of our servants with their worship of the terrible serpent god of the Voudou and their death wishes.”

  “They, too, are the same, as you will see if you look at my maid Devota here beside me.”

  The proprietor of the hat shop stepped back in haste. She closed her lips and did not open them again as she attended to the purchase of the colonial prefect’s wife.

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sun came out as bright and as hot as before so that steam rose in slow eddies from the tile rooftops with their dripping eaves.

  Elene and Devota took their leave of Madame Laussat and her daughters. As they made their way back toward Ryan’s house, Elene thought of the instinctive way she had sprung to the defense of those from Saint-Domingue. She had felt as if it were the island itself she was defending, as well as the way of life they had all lived there. Was it possible that she, like Ryan, considered herself more a citizen of her birthplace than of her adoptive country of France after all?

  Before work could begin on the perfume, the substances the apothecary did not carry would have to be found. When they reached the house, Devota consulted with Benedict, a delicate proceeding conducted with hauteur on one side and bare civility on the other. Afterward, she took a basket and went out. She did not say where she was going, and Elene did not ask, but the maid walked away in the direction of the river levee where the ships were docked, more than a hundred of them, with their masts making a cross-hatching pattern across the sky.

  It was over a week before all the essences were gathered for the perfume. Much of that time Elene spent sewing, making up the evening gown, the morning dresses, walking ensembles, and other items to fill in the deficiencies of her wardrobe. She and Devota also made a few things for the maid. Regardless, there was time left over to clean the storeroom chosen to be their workroom. Utensils were gathered, a large glass bottle in which to mix the various oils and powders in a base of alcohol, a china measuring container marked off in increments, a score of small bottles of dark blue glass to hold the finished scent, a tiny funnel with which to fill them, and minute cork stoppers to seal the fluid in them. While they worked, she and Devota tried names for the perfume on each other, but they all seemed too tame or too crudely erotic; nothing was quite right.

  The morning came when everything was assembled. Elene and Devota waited until Ryan left for his warehouses for the day and Benedict made his regular morning visit to the market for food. When the time was right, they repaired to the workroom.

  Elene brought paper, pen, and ink with which to record the ingredients and their quantities as they were added, for the only place the formula resided for the moment was in Devota’s head. The two of them threw back the shutters to allow the morning light to enter. They moved to the counter. Devota picked up the first vial. Elene took up her pen and wrote down jasmine, with the measurement beside it, then after that, bergamot.

  Step by step, one after the other, the precious fluids were mixed and poured together until the last vial was tipped for a bare few drops of frangipani. Devota lifted the large bottle of combined scents and gently swirled the amber contents. She put it down. She stepped back with a brief gesture toward Elene.

  Elene hesitated, then put down her pen an
d paper and picked up a fresh linen cloth that lay ready. She tipped the bottle to dampen the cloth with a few drops. She set it down, then waited a moment while she shook the cloth gently. Finally, she passed the cloth under her nose as she inhaled.

  She frowned, then took another cautious sniff. She turned to face Devota with disappointment in her eyes. “It isn’t right.”

  “What?”

  Devota took the cloth from Elene’s hand and breathed deeply. She put down the cloth and tipped the bottle to spill a drop on her wrist, waited for the alcohol to evaporate, then sniffed the skin-warmed shell. She made a sound of exasperation. Almost to herself, she said, “What can be wrong?”

  “Maybe the flowers aren’t the same here,” Elene ventured.

  “It isn’t that.”

  “You are sure you have everything you used in Saint-Domingue?”

  “Almost everything.”

  They stared at each other for long moments. Elene could guess what was missing. It was the vital ingredient that, according to Devota, gave the perfume its power over men. What that element could be, she had no idea. It might be one of the liquids or powders sitting so innocently on the counter in front of her, some subtle change in the way they were mixed together, or even the time and place of the blending. The perfume was different without it; that much was undeniable.

  “The fragrance is still good,” Elene said slowly. “Perhaps it will do?”

  “It might,” Devota agreed, lifting her wrist to smell it once more.

  A knock came on the workroom door. So great was their concentration that they both jumped, startled. They turned as the majordomo entered.

  “Yes, Benedict?” Elene’s voice was sharper than she intended.

  “A visitor, mam’zelle,” the man intoned with stiff dignity. “Mademoiselle Bizet.”

  “Hermine? Now?” Elene snatched off the apron she had donned for the mixing and ran a hand over her hair. To Devota she said, “We’ll decide later on the scent, when we have had time to think about it.”