Queen of the Mardi Gras Ball

by Lynn Shurr

  Knowing the grease would stain her kid gloves she reached in and took one anyway. The powdered sugar snowed over her coat and caught in the silvery fur collar when she took a bite.

  “Bon, no?”

  “As good as any in New Orleans.”

  Behind her cash register, Madame Pommier beamed, but directly in front of Roz, Pierre’s mother gave the city woman a hot, angry glare. She said something to her husband in a rush of Cajun French. The only word Roz caught was “trouble.”

  “Don’t mind Alida. She still mad she can’t drag Pierre to church by da ear no more. He ain’t much for religion.”

  “Too much school, dat’s what,” Alida Landry snapped. “Too much in da city.”

  “Please tell Pierre I asked after him. I’m staying with the André St. Rochelle family if he has the time to call.”

  “Sure t’ing.” Simon Landry nodded pleasantly as he steered his wife toward the door.

  Alida let out another burst of French. Roz understood none of the words, but they had the tone of “not a chance in Hell.”

  From her place in line, Loretta St. Rochelle watched and thought, Oh, yes. Rosamond would be quite a bother.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pierre didn’t come to call. Rosamond took up a place on the front porch and spent hours reading there on the wicker lounge with a quilt over her legs and a heavy sweater covering her dress. Loretta suggested she might be more private on the side porch, but Roz replied she liked to watch the cars and wagons go by. All the vehicles in Chapelle seemed to be the reliable Ford Model T in its standard black color. One of them slowed as it passed, and she stood up letting her book drop and the quilt slide to the damp porch floor, but the car moved on. She couldn’t be sure Pierre Landry had been behind the wheel.

  When she grew too chilled, she took her book inside and sat in the warmth of the kitchen where Ethel, the cook, tempted her with pralines right off the marble slab, and slices of pecan pie cooled just enough to eat.

  “Gon’ put some meat on yo’ bones,” Ethel promised.

  “You remind me of Oralee, my cook in the city.”

  “Doan know nobody in Naw Or’lins. Dis here weather makin’ my pralines all sticky. Never seen so much rain.” The cook looked out the back window. “You gon’ cotch a cold you keep sittin’ outside. You be too puny to fight it off.”

  “If I stay here long enough, I’ll get fat on your cooking.”

  “Not de way you walkin’ all over town.” Ethel watched the rain come down and shook her head. “Miz Roz, dey talkin’ ’bout you. Had it from Verna Harkrider’s girl. Dey sayin’ you shot yo’ husband and gon’ get divorced ’cause of it.”

  Roz stared into the black pool of coffee in her cup. She had a bitter taste in her mouth from the last bite of the pie, a bad pecan maybe.

  “He beat me, Ethel. He beat me, and I lost the child I was carrying. Truth to tell, I wish I had killed him—that he wasn’t waiting there in New Orleans for me to come back. I guess that makes me unrepentant.”

  “Had a man who beat me, had my boys by him. I was raised Cat’lic. My mama was so strict she wouldn’t let us never eat nuttin’ befo’ Mass. Always fish on Fridays. When I divorce dat man, she say I damned to Hell. Know what? I gots myself a new church, the AME. I may never go to Cat’lic heaven, but I be singing wit’ de AME choir in paradise. Dat’s how I figure.”

  Loretta bustled into the kitchen. “Are the pralines ready for the Garden Club meeting, Ethel? Pie before dinner, Rosamond? You’ll lose your lovely figure. Heaven knows I lost mine to having children.” She put her fingers up to her plump cheeks. “Oh, I’m so sorry I said that.”

  “Here be your pralines, all packed up for de meetin’,” Ethel said a trifle sullenly.

  “I suppose you let Henri run off with some of them,” Loretta went on, trying to act normally.

  “My pies and pralines don’t hurt nobody.”

  “Of course not. They are divine, as I tell all my friends. Roz, won’t you come with me? Afterwards, some of us are going to decorate the church with greenery. You’ve been here two weeks, and it’s time you met some people in Chapelle.”

  “But, do they want to meet me?”

  “I don’t know why you would say that.”

  “If I could borrow an umbrella, I think I’ll walk to the library and get a new book.”

  “Certainly you may borrow an umbrella. There are several in the hat stand by the front door. Louisiana weather, you know. Come, I’ll show you.”

  Roz followed her down the hall and selected an umbrella as Loretta pulled a stylish dark green hat with the tiniest spray of quail feathers on the side over her thick bobbed hair and buttoned up a brown wool coat trimmed in beaver.

  “Sammy is bringing the car around. Why don’t we take you to the library? It’s on the way to my meeting. Emmaline will never forgive me if you catch your death of cold while you’re visiting.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get my wrap.”

  Sammy ran up the walk and held two black umbrellas over the ladies’ heads as they made their way through the downpour to the automobile. He opened the back door, keeping them dry all the while.

  “You know, Rosamond,” Loretta began as soon as they were seated, “you shouldn’t spend so much time in the kitchen talking with the servants. I know your mother would not approve.”

  “Oh, my mother doesn’t approve of much that I do.”

  “She has your best interests at heart, dear. If you live with us quietly until the divorce goes through, you know that afterwards, you may seek an annulment and be free to marry again within the church. Under the circumstances, I am sure an annulment won’t be any problem, and of course, the St. Rochelles have the money to pay for it.”

  “I’m aware of that. The last time I did as my parents wanted, I married Burke Boylan. Now, they want to buy back my maidenhood,” Roz said, that bitter taste in her mouth again.

  “I know a year seems like a long time at your age, but if the divorce is granted on separation rather than on, well, violent acts on both sides, it will be so much better for your reputation. You can go on with your life as if none of this ever happened. Oh, and I wouldn’t make any more inquiries about Dr. Landry. You know how people will talk, a St. Rochelle running after one of the Landrys.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. The St. Rochelle reputation must be protected at all costs. Frankly, I’m surprised at you, Cousin Loretta. I thought that you and André had defied the family by marrying because a Chapelle girl wasn’t good enough for the St. Rochelles. The city cousins say the only reason Chapelle has a bank is because they had to give André a way to make a living here.”

  Loretta colored all the way to the rim of the hat pulled down nearly to her eyes. “The Duchene family is descended from French royalty driven out during the Terror and forced to make lives in Louisiana.”

  “Yes, it seems that everyone in Chapelle is descended from French royalty except the Cajuns. At least they don’t lie about their origins.”

  “I’ll have you know my daddy owned the biggest mercantile in town. The dress I wore to the bal masque of Rex came all the way from Paris. All my girls have been or will be debs. None of them have ever made a misstep and the three oldest married very well. That’s why I was asked to look after you, to keep you in the arms of the Church until you are free to take your place in society again. The St. Rochelles asked a favor of me, Loretta Duchene, who was never good enough, no matter how hard I tried.”

  Roz thought at first the rain had blown in through a crack in the window and landed on Loretta’s cheek, but those were tears, genuine tears, rolling down her keeper’s soft-chinned face.

  “I’m sorry. What I said was cruel and ungrateful. I’m having trouble with gratitude right now. I keep thinking of women who can’t afford an annulment, who stay with brutal men because the Church tells them they must. My heart says this isn’t right.”

  “There I sat in my beautiful gown at the Rex ball after all the debs had danced, a
nd no one came to call for me. Daddy had begged the invitation from a business associate in the city, and nobody knew who I was or cared. Then, I looked up, and there stood André, so tall and handsome. He asked why the loveliest girl at the dance looked so sad. I said no one had asked me to dance. If that was all it took to make a pretty woman smile, he said, then it was totally within his power to make me happy,” Loretta went on, entirely caught in the past.

  “Cousin André said that?” Roz would have sworn portly, balding Cousin André’s greatest love was squeezing big profits out of his tiny bank.

  “He found excuses to come to Chapelle, said the town was growing, needed a bank, and he wanted to look for a good location. One night after Daddy had gone to bed we snuck out to Broussard’s Barn and got married. The St. Rochelles tried to have it annulled at once, but we told them we’d made a baby, a lie we worked hard to make true. We had our union blessed by the Church, of course. And then my girls started coming one after another. André looked at each one and said, ‘Another beautiful daughter, I’ll bet she’ll be queen of the Mardi Gras one day.’ By the time Henri made his appearance, my dragon of a motherin-law was dead and gone. She called my lovely girls the country bumpkins.”

  “Yes, I remember Great-aunt Mildred. She slapped me across the stomach if I slouched, but Uncle Bert slipped me quarters for treats. Were any of your girls Mardi Gras queens?”

  “Oh, yes, each in their turn, but just here in town. André is a pillar of the community and a very successful businessman. That matters even more than ‘who’s your daddy’ in Chapelle.”

  How gladly she would have given her crown to one of Loretta’s girls. Roz opened her handbag and handed Loretta a compact mirror. “Here, fix your face before you go to your meeting. Don’t let those garden club ladies see you crying.”

  Loretta glanced around, suddenly aware that the car was parked by the Methodist church hall, which housed the town’s tiny one room library. She blotted her face with the powder puff and used her embroidered hankie to erase the dark rings under her eyes.

  Handing the engraved silver compact back to Roz, she said, “Thank you. Take an umbrella with you. It’s sure to rain again, Rosamond. Sammy, I’ll be late. Step on it.”

  The rain had ended, and Roz dodged the deep puddles left behind right up to the door of the hall. She entered and headed for the room where ladies of Chapelle had set up a small lending library stocked mainly with their donations. The gray-haired volunteer sitting at the old oak desk told Roz the previous week that as a visitor, she would be allowed to take out only one book. When that was returned, she could have another. Roz planned to trade Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Links for the Mysterious Affair at Styles. The waiting list for the single copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was dreadfully long, she had been informed.

  Roz smiled at today’s volunteer, a black-haired, sharp-eyed woman who watched her every move as if Roz planned to smuggle Peter Pan out under her coat. She ducked behind the single stack where she couldn’t be seen just to irritate the woman who had to get up out of her chair and stretch to see around the corner. Roz waved her fingers at the vigilant volunteer and withdrew a volume of short stories from the shelf.

  She thumbed through In Our Time by Ernest Hemingway, which seemed to be a collection of depressing stories about the Great War. She reached the back of the book and was about to close it when she noted the name signed half way down on the book card in its manila pocket. Pierre Landry had held this book in his hands not more than a week ago. She couldn’t seem to put the volume back on the shelf. No doubt he read short stories because he had no time for longer works, for phone calls, or personal visits. Despite her flare of anger, Roz hugged the book to her chest for just a moment. The librarian of the day gave her a very peculiar look.

  “Please put the book back on the shelf where you found it, Miss, if you aren’t going to check it out.”

  Rosamond St. Rochelle, book molester, whatever would people say? “I may want this one, but let me look at the Christies again. No chance I could take home two, I don’t suppose?”

  “That would be against the rules, Miss, unless you are a resident of Chapelle, and I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Sadly, just a visitor. I’m a guest of André and Loretta St. Rochelle.”

  Roz drifted up the alphabet to the C’s, intentionally keeping the Hemingway tucked under one arm. The door to the library opened, and another patron entered, shook out her umbrella in the hall, and then propped it next to Rosamond’s against the wall. The ersatz librarian was forced to return to the desk to serve the next customer.

  “Slow today, Verna?” the newcomer asked.

  “The rain keeps people away. I have time on my hands, I’m afraid, Rena.”

  “Well, you can always read!” The two ladies shared a laugh.

  Roz stayed behind the stack, but watched Verna beckon silently to the other woman through a break in the books. Quietly, Roz came as close to the desk as she could without being seen.

  “That’s her back there, Rosamond St. Rochelle. The newspaper said she was visiting André and Loretta for a long stay,” Verna whispered.

  “Poor young thing. Loretta said the girl miscarried her first child and is having difficulty getting over it,” Rena answered softly, the wattles of her aged neck wobbling.

  “Not what I heard from my Aunt Gertie in New Orleans. Truth is she shot her husband and threw herself down the stairs to get rid of the baby. You know these flapper girls. They want to sleep around and not ruin their figures with children. The high and mighty St. Rochelles are trying to cover it all up, but the word is out. She might even be a little…you know, loony.” Verna spun a finger around her ear.

  Roz popped out from behind the stack. She laid the Hemingway on the desk. Looking Verna in the eye, she pointed to a shelf holding a dozen books marked on their spines with a red letter A, which appeared to have been painted on with nail lacquer.

  “Give me The Scarlet Letter by Hawthorne. The nuns at Mt. Carmel Academy wouldn’t allow it in their library, but I think it might be exactly the book for me.”

  Verna lowered her eyes as she stamped a due date on a slip of paper and had Roz sign the book card. “Since you’re staying with the St. Rochelles, you could have two books if you want. Everyone knows André and Loretta.”

  “This is all I want, thank you.” Roz seized The Scarlet Letter and marched over to get her umbrella.

  “Think she heard me?” Verna asked in an undertone.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Rena, gazing at Roz with sympathetic eyes. “So young.”

  Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t let them see you cry. Roz started out of the church hall but a gentle hand on her arm waylaid her. She spun around. Reverend Grant held out a Bible.

  “I know the St. Rochelles are affiliated with the Catholic church, but I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been attending services with us the last two weeks. I thought, perhaps, you’d like to have a Bible. I know reading the Scriptures isn’t encouraged by the Papists, but the good word does bring comfort in time of need. Ah, I see you’re reading The Scarlet Letter. We’ve come a long way since those days.”

  “Do you really believe that, Reverend?”

  “I do. I hope to see you again this Sunday, Mrs. Boylan.”

  “Perhaps. Good afternoon, Reverend.”

  Roz walked out into a new shower. Despite the umbrella, the wind blew the rain against her face. She was free to cry all the way down Main Street without anyone noticing at all as she clutched the two volumes close to keep them from getting wet.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Roz stopped displaying herself on the front porch and tried to stay out of the warmth of the kitchen for Loretta’s sake. She avoided Pommier’s Bakery, and instead accepted a slice of lemon pound cake and some very good coffee from the Methodists after service. The aged woman named Rena made a point of speaking to her, and Mrs. Grant introduced Roz to others in the congregation. Methodist fellowsh
ip didn’t last nearly as long as the line at Pommier’s, and Roz found herself back at the house before her hosts. She had nothing to do but sit and read in the parlor.

  The Scarlet Letter, as it turned out, wasn’t nearly as spicy as its banning at Mt. Carmel implied. In fact, Roz found it rather a drag despite her sympathy for the outcast Hester cooped up with her slightly creepy child, Pearl. The Bible, now, turned out to be much juicier than expected. From the very beginning, the Bible abounded with murder, incest, betrayal, and adultery taken to its highest levels by good King David. As for the Song of Solomon—no way that psalm talked about the Church. Roz suspected the poem to be simply too beautiful and passionate for even the fathers of the church to excise.

  Bearing a grease-stained bag, Henri raced into the room with his offering for Roz. “I brought you some beignets, Cousin Roz. Whatcha reading?”

  “The Bible.”

  “Any good?”

  “They should probably put a red A on the spine. Let’s go back in the kitchen, and we can eat these with a glass of milk. No, on second thought, ask Ethel to bring a couple of glasses of milk in here.”

  Ethel brought two glasses of milk on a tray and set it down with a thunk on a marble-topped table next to Roz. She stood there for a minute, her big bosom heaving over the beverages. “Just so’s you know, I gots Sunday dinner to finish up. Den I go to my own church rest o’ the day.”

  Roz noted Ethel’s polka-dotted dress covered by a large white apron splotched with whipped potatoes. Ethel had her best hat secured to her head with a pin large enough to spit a chicken and driven through her small steel-wool topknot.

  “If we want more milk, I’ll pour it. Enjoy your church service.”

  “Nuthin’ I enjoy more dan praisin’ de Lawd, Miss Roz.” Ethel stomped back to the kitchen.

  “That was a close one,” Roz said to Henri. “She could have killed us both with that hat pin.”

  “Aw, Ethel’s okay, just kinda touchy. She lets me have cookies between meals. Don’t tell Mama.”