As the days grew shorter and cooler, the plantation bustled with preparations for harvest. Although cane was left in the fields to ripen as long as possible, it had to be harvested before the first frost.
The sugar house was cleaned, and the coopers finished the barrels to hold the yield. In the big house, coats and jackets were sewn for every slave on the plantation. Now gangs of men were cutting wood to power the steam engines of the sugar mill.
One October night, the Franklins read in the parlor, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and occasional whimpers from Jupiter, who lay at Simone’s feet, chasing rabbits in his dreams.
Tom looked up from his book. “We start harvesting tomorrow. That means long days. This is likely to be the last evening we get to spend together for a while.”
Rising, Simone stepped over the big dog and went to curl up in her husband’s lap. “I’ll miss you, mon amour.”
“You’ll miss our poker games.” He chuckled, shifting in his chair to accommodate her small form. “How much do I owe you now?”
“You nearly quadrupled my household allowance this month with your last double-or-nothing bet.”
He laughed. “It’d be easier to give you the money, but it’s more fun to cut the cards.”
Simone laid her head on his shoulder, and they stared at the flames in companionable silence for a time.
“Darlin’,” Tom said quietly, “are you happy here?”
Lifting her head, his wife stared at him in surprise. “You know I am.”
“You’re not bored or lonely, living in the country?”
“No.” Then she asked, her voice uncertain, “Are you?”
“How could I be bored with a woman like you—sharp mind, sharper tongue, and all the rest nicely curved?” He grinned, running his hand over her hip. “I just thought you might like to go down to New Orleans while I’m busy with the harvest.”
Capturing his hand, she tucked it around her waist and said firmly, “My place is with you, Tom, especially when you’ll be working so hard. We’ll have fun later.”
“Then we’ll work hard through harvest and play hard when it’s done. But now, madame,” he announced, “we must sleep hard. I have a feeling it’s going to be one hell of a week.”
The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, the field hands were assembled at the edge of the ocean of cane, each carrying a big curved cutting knife. As they waded into the cane, one of the men began to sing, and the others joined in, finding a rhythm for their labor in the song. One slice near the ground, and the stalk was free; two quick strokes down either side, and the leaves were gone, another cut at the top, and the tassels of new growth fell to the ground. And so it went, hour after hour.
The cane was hauled to the sugar house for grinding to extract the juice. Smoke from the wood fires billowed from the chimneys as the steam machinery ground noisily, separating the juice from the bagasse, the cane pulp. Huge kettles of juice thickened into syrup over open fires. Slaves, sweating despite the autumn chill, fed the flames continually. They worked among the giant wooden hogsheads in which the thick syrup, la cuite, would be stored until it granulated. The part that did not granulate would be molasses.
Simone saw little of Tom for nearly two months. He rose before she did to be at work by dawn and returned near midnight to collapse into bed. She did not go to the sugar house, unwilling to be in the way. Harvest, grinding, and boiling were grueling tasks requiring close attention. The master of LaVictoire worked side by side with his men, feeding the grinder, tending the boiler, consulting with his sugar-maker.
When she did spend time with her husband, Simone worried over the dark circles under his eyes. But Tom was flushed with success, certain the harvest would be profitable and that cane was the business for him.
Just before Christmas, sugar making ended, and Ethan and Gisèle and their new baby, John Adams, arrived for the holidays. Their host rested for the first few days of their visit, but soon he and Ethan were embroiled in planning a house party for the first week of January. When Tom realized that his and Simone’s wedding anniversary fell on Twelfth Night, nothing would do but that they celebrate both in a cheerful conglomeration of festivities, beginning the day after New Year’s and culminating with a ball on Epiphany.
The guests at the Franklins’ first house party were a lively group. Besides family and neighbors; Zack, the Andersons, the Nashes, and Jim Reynolds, Franklin Steamboats’ manager in New Orleans, and his family arrived on the Bayou Queen. The only shadow on Simone’s good spirits was Lisette’s gentle refusal to visit with them openly now that she and Tom were a respectable married couple.
During the cold, cloudy days, the men hunted or fished while the ladies remained inside. In the evenings, everyone gathered in the parlor for music, singing, or recitations.
On Twelfth Day, a plum cake was served at breakfast. Dulcie found a bean in her slice and was crowned queen for the day. At the ball that night, she was installed on a dais to accept playful homage from the other guests. Nearby, Zack and Jeremy discussed the possibility of annexation for Texas while Ethan explained the workings of the telegraph to Betsy Reynolds.
“I’ll tell you,” Tom was saying to Hiram, “the screw propeller will make it possible for steamboats to cross the ocean. Paddlewheels are too unreliable.”
“I can see that sailing ships will be obsolete one day,” the attorney granted, “but screw propeller vessels are still unproven.”
“They’re testing them now in England. We could--”
“Make a fortune,” Simone interrupted wryly, eliciting a laugh from Hiram. “I’m sorry to disturb you, gentlemen. But, Tom, don’t you think you should make your toast to the queen now?”
Taking Simone’s hand, he stepped to the center of the room and lifted his glass toward the dais. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “it is my privilege to propose a toast to Dulcie Anderson, the queen of our Twelfth Night.”
When everyone had saluted the queen, Tom lifted his glass again. “And I propose a toast to Simone Devereaux Franklin, who became the queen of my life, one year ago today. Happy anniversary, darlin’,” he murmured, kissing her as their guests applauded.
Simone worked sluggishly in the hothouse her husband had built for her. He had gone to New Orleans on business at the end of January, nearly two weeks ago, and she wished now that she had gone with him. She was lonely.
Tamping down the soil in the clay pots on the table in front of her, she hollowed out the center in each, remembering the rhyme Rosette had taught her. “Plant four seeds for one to grow: one for the blackbird, one for the crow, one for the cutworm, and one to grow,” she chanted, setting a bulb in each pot, pushing them deep and covering them.
Suddenly a steamboat whistle rent the quiet.
“The Bayou Queen,” Simone gasped, whipping off her apron and wiping her hands on it. She might not be at her best, she decided, but she would not take time to change. Patting at her straying hair, she raced to meet her husband, reaching the landing just as a deckhand leapt to secure the boat.
“Simone!” Before a gangplank was down, Tom had joined her on the dock. Smiling, he opened his arms, and his wife threw herself into them, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly.
“Oh, Tom, I’ve missed you so,” she whispered in his ear.
“And I’ve missed you.” He swept her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug before he set her down and ordered playfully, “Let me look at you.”
He inspected her, breaking into a broad smile. “Nope, you haven’t changed. I’d know you anywhere, Mrs. Franklin. You’ve got a smudge on your nose.”
“You haven’t changed either,” she said with a sniff, accepting the handkerchief he offered. “You still say the most flattering things. But I’m glad to see you. I was beginning to worry.”
“Trouble with the boiler. The Bayou Queen is about on her last legs. But just wait till you see what I brought you.” He moved from her line of vision so she could see
the boat. The gangplank was in place, and a passenger was ready to disembark.
“Lisette!” Simone cried excitedly.
The women came together with a flurry of hugs and chatter.
“Tom convinced me to come, now that your other visitors have gone,” Lisette was saying when he joined them with another guest.
“Sugar, this is Gabriel DeLatte, a maker of daguerreotype portraits. Monsieur DeLatte, my wife, Simone.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur DeLatte. Welcome to LaVictoire,” she greeted the slender young man graciously.
“Call me Gabriel, please,” he requested with a charming smile. “After all, we are almost old friends, Madame Franklin. Your maiden name was Devereaux, no?”
“You’re Maryse DeLatte’s son!” she cried, recognizing him as the son of a quadroon placée. “I used to see you on Sundays at Congo Square.”
“Oui, before I was shipped off to France to be educated,” the elegant octoroon acknowledged.
“I have this idea, darlin’,” Tom explained as they all trooped toward the house. “Instead of having our portraits painted, we’re going to have daguerreotypes made. It’s the very latest thing. Just wait till you see. Gabriel brought some samples of his work.” He nodded toward the bag the young man carried.
When she saw the samples, Simone discovered Gabriel was an artist. The images he captured were of living, breathing people, not stiffly posed mannequins.
Willing to humor her husband, she sat the next day for the young man. Lisette kept her company, but the process was long and required patience from both photographer and subject. Gabriel was unfailingly polite, and it was from him that Simone learned of Tom’s bigger plan. He wanted a visual record of plantation life, from the planting of new cane to harvest and sugar making. She shook her head, in disbelief. Still, her husband’s passion for all things progressive was a small vice in a good man.
When he had developed Simone’s picture, Gabriel pronounced the petite Creole woman not only lovely but photogenic. He began to follow her on her rounds, juggling equipment, insisting she freeze while he took a picture. He even set up his camera at a distance when she did not know it and took her picture while she bathed Jupiter. The image was blurred, but it captured the look of sheer determination Simone wore as she wrestled the big dog into the tub.
“Look at it!” Tom whooped with laughter when he saw it. “I told you, you’re the stubbornest woman I’ve ever met—and here’s proof. This is the gal I love.” To her horror, he commandeered the daguerreotype and cut it to fit in his watch cover.
She tried to wheedle the unflattering image from him the next morning in the privacy of their bedroom, but she succeeded in doing nothing more than arousing his amorous instincts.
After lengthy, languorous lovemaking, she slid from the bed and went to the vanity. Propped against the headboard, Tom watched appreciatively as Simone piled her hair on top of her head, her firm breasts displayed to their fullest as she lifted her arms. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
Going to the tub that awaited her on the hearth, she paused to test the water, her back to him. Even though they had just made love, her nakedness brought a tightening to his loins. Her smooth back tapered to a narrow waist; her buttocks were round and firm; her legs, slender and graceful.
Tom went to kneel, naked, beside the tub. “You’re so beautiful, Simone,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on her wet shoulder.
“I’m glad you think so, mon amour.” She smiled at him tenderly. “I only hope you continue to like my figure as it changes.”
He frowned in puzzlement.
“I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you,” she said. “We’re going to have a baby, Tom.”
“A baby?” he repeated. Getting to his feet, he stared down at her incredulously. “But when . . . how?”
“Toward the end of summer,” she informed him, laughing aloud. “And I think the ‘how’ happened when harvest was over.”
“You’ve got to take it easy, darlin’. Let’s get you out of that tub before you catch cold.” He lifted her from her bathwater before she could protest. Cradling her against his bare chest, he carried her, dripping, to the bed and laid her down gently. “We’re going to take special care of you now. You can’t work so hard. And you’ve got to give up fencing for a while. And horseback riding.”
“And posing for daguerreotypes,” she added firmly.
Tom’s blue eyes gleamed. “What if --”
“Don’t even say it, Thomas Jefferson Franklin. I will not have my picture taken in that condition, not for you or posterity.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, darlin’,” he soothed his wife indulgently. “Besides, I have a picture of you . . . in my watch.”
Marcel Baudin strode along rue Condé. It was good to be back in New Orleans on this fine summer day. Perhaps he should commemorate his return, he mused, pausing in front of a daguerreotype studio.
A bell jangled when he opened the door, and a tenor voice called from the back of the shop, “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
The fair-haired Creole wandered from picture to framed picture while he waited. He stopped short when his eyes alit on a familiar face. On a small easel was a portrait of Simone Devereaux. The blood rushed to his head, and the familiar, maddening pounding began.
When Gabriel DeLatte emerged from the workshop, smiling, Marcel grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the easel. “Where did you find this woman?” he bellowed.
The photographer blinked in shock. “Madame Franklin?”
“Madame Franklin?” the scarred man repeated blankly.
“Oui, of LaVictoire.” Gabriel wrenched his arm free.
“The Devereaux plantation . . . I should have known!” Marcel howled.
Gabriel was suddenly apprehensive. He had not asked permission to use the picture in his shop, but, then, he had not expected to be confronted by a madman. “Please, monsieur, I think you should go now.”
His unwanted customer did not seem to hear him. He stared at the daguerreotype, as if mesmerized. “Simone is married?”
“Quite happily. Now will you go?” Gabriel tried to usher him to the door.
“She should have been mine!” Marcel roared. He clutched at his head with both hands. The world was enveloped in a red fog. He advanced on the octoroon, remembering nothing until he stood in the shambles of the studio. While the injured man moaned among his ruined equipment and displays, Marcel snatched up Simone’s portrait and stormed out.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The bright October sunlight streamed through the open doorway of LaVictoire’s chapel, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The baby cradled in his arms, the priest dipped his hand into the baptismal font and asked, “What is the name of this child?”
“Aurora Marthe Marie-Louise Franklin,” Tom answered with a sheepish smile. “She’ll always be Rory to me. I still say the name’s bigger than she is,” he muttered to Simone, who had insisted on naming the baby after both their mothers.
Anointing Aurora’s mop of black curls, the priest intoned, “Aurora Marthe Marie-Louise, I baptize you . . .”
Silently, Simone offered a prayer of thanksgiving for her young family and for Zack and Lisette, Rory’s godparents.
Lisette had arrived not long after the baby’s birth, bringing with her the news that Marcel had been committed to an insane asylum.
He had gone completely mad, wrecking Monsieur DeLatte’s shop and severely beating the slight photographer. Then he had rampaged up rue Condé, smashing shop windows and terrorizing passersby. When the police tried to restrain him, he had attempted to run one of them through with his sword. Only his father’s influence had spared him the embarrassment of a public trial. Discreetly, Marcel had been whisked away to an asylum in North Louisiana.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Tom had asked with an injured expression when Simone finally told him of her ordeal. “I would have protected you—or died trying.”
“Which is precisely why I didn’t tell you,” she retorted. “Do you think I wanted to lose you?”
At that, his hurt had melted away, and he had managed a rueful smile. “I knew you loved me, honey, from the beginning.”
Yes, Simone thought now as the autumn sun bathed her loved ones in gold, she had much for which to be thankful.
The following spring, Simone returned to New Orleans, a mature and captivating woman. The Franklin family, accompanied by Rory’s nurse, Celestina, arrived aboard the Dixie Queen, their newest steamboat, as it steamed downriver for the very first time.
No longer in hiding, Simone attended the theater and the opera and the races. She and Tom attended balls on both sides of Canal Street. Though in demand as a dinner guest and a dance partner, she was always ready to slip away from would-be admirers and into the arms of the most desirable man present: her husband.
Simone was the talk of New Orleans. Her name might be mentioned over tea in the Garden District, over café in the Vieux Carré, and, one warm morning, over the clatter of Smoky Mary, the train that carried picnickers to Lake Pontchartrain.
“I heard she goes out without even a maid to accompany her,” a woman confided to her friends.
In the seat in front of the three Creole women, Simone glanced at her husband, but he did not seem to be listening.
“I understand,” another contributed to the gossip, “that she receives Lisette Dupré as a caller quite frequently.”
“To her home?” the third gasped.
“Just last week, Reynard, my eldest son, told me he saw her coming from Exchange Alley,” the first woman interjected eagerly.
“What did he do?”
“He tipped his hat as a gentleman should. Apparently, she bade him good morning and said she was taking a shortcut from her bank.”
The women shuddered delicately, and one of them clucked, “From her bank. Imagine a Creole lady doing such a thing.”
“Oui,” sighed another. “As if it was not enough that a Devereaux, one of les bonnes familles, married a Kaintock.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 30
