by Ali Vali
“We all process differently, and I refuse to lose another thing,” she said to her father’s smiling face. Her life had been cursed almost from the very beginning, and she had survived by finding a place that insulated her from as much pain as possible. She kept people from seeing who she truly was, even if that perpetuated the loneliness. She had earned her reputation as a bitch, but she dictated the terms of every relationship she had. That way no one ever mattered enough for her to consider death as a remedy for the lost happiness.
“That’s where you and I differ, Daddy.” With a deep breath, she buried the pain of losing him so she could try to salvage what was left of their family’s legacy. “Giving up isn’t in my nature.”
*
Tourists as well as the locals flocked to Café du Monde, a New Orleans tradition. The open-air shop served only coffee and beignets, small pieces of fried bread dough covered in powdered sugar that, like fingerprints, were individually unique even though machines now cut the dough. To Kendal the coffee shop with its brass kettles of steamed milk and constant motion was a microcosm of the city.
The waiters, an interesting reflection of the face of New Orleans, had originally been white men who later moved to finer establishments in the nearby French Quarter. Then African Americans moved into the vacated positions and were replaced in droves by Hispanics, who in turn lost their jobs to the new Asian immigrants. Strangely, the new minority in town was once again old white men.
History’s most valuable lesson was that oppressors eventually became the oppressed. Or, as Kendal often thought, it was fate’s way of displaying its sense of humor as it balanced the scales of justice.
“You want beignets with that?” the waiter asked.
She chose a seat at one of the tables along the rail, a prime spot for people-watching, but the streets were mostly empty that morning because of the chill blowing off the river. Most of the customers were jockeying for one of the seats under a heater inside. “Sure, why not.”
“Make it four orders and another café au lait.” Again Kendal didn’t have to turn around to see who spoke. The voice was another familiar ghost in her head.
“What’s the matter, Charlie, don’t you trust me?”
“The Clan sent me to warn you. Henri knows you’re here and he’s preparing.” He sat across from her and put his folded hands on the slightly sticky Formica-topped table. They knew each other well enough to be silent for a while.
“Tell me, Charlie, do you know how pistolettes got their name?” she asked finally, cocking her head to the side and waiting for his answer.
“Small French breads used for sandwiches? Those pistolettes?”
Her smile made him smile back. “Those pistolettes.”
“No, but I have a feeling I’m about to.”
“Once upon a time, before the technology that made all loaves of bread taste exactly alike, bakers would rise early every day to make dough. They mixed the same ingredients, in the same measurements, and kneaded. The surprise always lay in the yeast. Would it rise? Would it bake correctly? Finally one of the French bakers got smart. He mixed, he kneaded, and he waited for the dough to rise. Only then, instead of baking loaves that might or might not turn out, he baked small individual loaves.”
“So he could correct the dough accordingly, right?” Charlie asked. Long gone were the days when he interrupted, wanting to know what these talks were about. They were always educational and relevant, so he sat back as if waiting for the rest of the story.
“Correct. When the small loaves turned out well, he would walk outside and fire a pistol to signal the town. The shot meant he was putting in the full loaves and they’d be ready within the hour. Those who couldn’t wait could buy the small loaves. In time they came to be called pistolettes for the shot fired every day.”
They were silent as the waiter filled the table with their order and accepted a bill from Kendal, walking away with a bounce in his step when she waved away the change. “As interesting as that story was, I’m not sure why you told it.”
“I already know my brother’s aware of my arrival. He was kind enough to visit last night or, rather, early this morning.”
Charlie leaned forward in clear alarm. “Where?”
“By the river, close to dawn, and I wasn’t surprised to see him since I meant to draw him out. I’m always the eternal optimist when it comes to Henri, but he’s eternally predictable. He warned me to leave, so obviously my arrival won’t make him see the error of his ways or motivate him to clean up his own messes in hopes of saving himself.”
“That was stupid, Kendal. You know what he’s capable of. You shouldn’t leave yourself so vulnerable.”
She laughed before she bit into a beignet. “His visit was like a pistolette, Charlie. The real loaf is in the oven baking. It isn’t quite ready yet, so I have time. Two of his little helpers weren’t enough to do harm, just send a message.”
His eyes, the exact shade of hers, narrowed and Charlie still didn’t look happy. “The Clan wants—”
“I know what they want. They came to me, remember? And if they sent you out to pass along messages because they believe I have some misplaced family loyalty to Henri, tell them not to worry. He ceased to be my brother long ago.” She seldom used this tone with Charlie, but she hated being spied on. “I don’t need a babysitter. Make sure you tell them that too.”
“I’m just looking out for you, old friend.”
“I know, and I love you for it, but I understand the Old Ones just as well. They’ve already had Morgaine contact me about how out of control my brother has become. A few more converts and there may be a change in management within the Genesis Clan, and the Elders will spend eternity polishing Ora and Henri’s boots.”
“That’s what they’re afraid of.”
“Yes, it is, but remember, Charlie, we live life in bits, one choice at a time. Some bits come out better than others, and some are worth remembering over and over because they were worth every minute.”
She brushed off her fingers and stood. “Tell the Elders I know what needs to be done, so they don’t have to worry. As for Henri, he’s about to find out what price his choices have cost him.” Charlie couldn’t say anything that would affect her plan, so she left it at that. For once she didn’t have a lot of time to finish this task. Ironic for someone who had nothing but time.
*
Kendal walked through the French Quarter as it came to life for another day of tourists and fun seekers. Trucks were delivering various supplies in front of restaurants, blocking a lane of traffic, and the bars were busy restocking from the night before. None of them interested her as she strode in her usual brisk clip until she was at the other side of the neighborhood.
Here the buildings were more run-down, not by time, but by abuse and apathy. The rougher sections drove the crime statistics, but nestled in the middle of all the decay were the St. Louis Cemeteries I and II. These cities of the dead stood silent witness to all that had happened to make New Orleans the place it had become. Along the rows of raised tombs, politicians rested next to criminals and some of the city’s founders. Firemen, policemen, and other heroes lay close to prostitutes and witches. Here it didn’t matter who you were or what you did. You all ended up in the same place—dead and, for the most part, forgotten.
The Christians were fond of saying, “From dust you came and dust you shall become.” True. The cycle of life had been the same for as long as anything had drawn breath on the earth. People lived, how well was up to them, and then they died. They had no escape. The monuments she passed testified to that.
It was a shame, really, that the living almost forgot the beauty people wasted on the dead. The two cemeteries were now full, and in such a bad neighborhood, people who tried to tend the graves gambled with their safety or lives. Kendal walked until she reached the center of St. Louis I. The brick tomb looked old. In fact, it was one of the first built, but unlike some of the others it had fresh flowers and a headstone mor
tared in place with a legible inscription.
Angelina du’Pon. My beloved.
Simple words for a beautiful woman, but they were still true. “You’re never far from my thoughts,” Kendal said softly as she ran her fingers along the marble etching of the name. She bowed and put a bunch of camellias in the empty vase to the right. The vessel held flowers only when she visited the grave. The one to the left was always full of fresh flowers, which the caretaker provided.
“Angelina, love, it’s been a while but I’m back. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am for all that happened to you. Everyone must face death, but for you it came much too early.” She brushed away a few leaves that rested at the base of the tomb and gave her memories free rein once again.
Chapter Five
New Orleans, October 1725
“Look, Master, we’re in New Orleans.” Lionel pointed at the little boys running along the riverbank as the big boat was guided to the docks. A majority of the other vessels in the port were being loaded for whatever journeys awaited them.
“Yes, we are, and it looks like the Fall Festival will have nothing but miserable weather this year. I’m glad to have some excuse to bypass it and head straight home.” Jacques was also glad for his cloak and hat because the cold rain had been falling steadily since they left their rooms.
Lionel took his eyes off the docks and studied him. “If you went to some of these events, maybe you’d find a nice young lady who’d bear you sons to teach things to.”
“I have you to teach things to, Lionel, so I don’t need anyone else. Maybe in another lifetime I’ll have time for women, but in this one I’m having too much fun building. It’s been ages since I’ve concentrated on just that.”
“Master, I mean no insult, but you’re a strange puzzle at times,” Lionel said, appearing confused. “Look, there’s Joseph with the coach.”
Their boots sounded heavy on the dock’s wooden planks, but that was about to change as they headed toward the muddy street. From the look of the ruts it had been raining for days, and no end was in sight as a gentle mist still fell, making things messier.
“Did you have a good trip, sir?” Joseph removed his hat as he greeted Jacques, then embraced Lionel. The two had formed a close friendship after coming to live at Oakgrove, and Joseph acted as if he’d missed Lionel terribly.
“It was fine. Your mother didn’t give you too hard a time before you left, did she?” Everyone on Oakgrove was familiar with Joseph’s mother, Lola. The big woman ran his kitchens and, from time to time, told him exactly what he didn’t want to hear, consequences be damned. Her only son Joseph was a bit sheltered, but no one was more loyal to Jacques.
“She made me promise not to leave the road for nothing, sir, and to tell you to get a move on when you stepped off that boat so she wouldn’t worry. She said not to make her come down here and get us.” They shared a laugh since each of them had been on the receiving end of Lola’s wrath more than once.
“Then let’s not keep the good woman waiting.” Jacques was about to step up to his coach when he heard a very upset woman shriek, then a man laugh.
When he turned, he almost laughed too. In the middle of the street stood what he presumed to be a young lady and her maid covered in mud and glaring up at a driver, whose team had obviously done the damage. But the man wasn’t getting down to help them, and their packages now lay scattered around their feet.
“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” The young woman stopped glaring and fully faced him, and just as quickly she zeroed in on his eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing. I really thought he’d stop,” the young woman said, wiping her face with a lacy handkerchief that only smeared the mud along her cheek.
“You should pay attention and watch where you’re going. You’re lucky all that hit you was mud,” the driver said loudly.
“Excuse me.” Jacques moved the woman behind him and pulled the idiot off his seat. After one punch the two teeth the driver had left were lying in the mud along with the parasol the woman had dropped. “I suggest you watch where you’re going and how you talk to a lady, sir.” When he was sure the man wouldn’t fight back, he turned to the woman. “May I drop you someplace so you can clean up?”
“I live on Rue Bastille, if it’s no bother.” Her voice was soft and low, making Jacques bend to hear it. Despite the mud he could still smell her perfume, which made him wonder what was hidden under the filth.
“It would be my pleasure.”
Without being asked, Lionel and Joseph retrieved the packages and moved to the back of the coach alongside the supplies Joseph had picked up while he was in town. They both put a hand up, trying to hide their smiles when Jacques helped the two women on board, holding the young woman’s hand a little longer than was proper.
“I thought you were having fun building things,” Lionel said, and Jacques ignored him as he latched the back gate of the wagon.
Once he was seated and ready to go, he said, “Please forgive my bad manners, mademoiselle, my name is Jacques St. Louis.”
Acting with as much dignity as possible, the young woman wiped her mouth, smearing mud along her teeth before she answered. “Thank you for coming to our rescue, Monsieur St. Louis, I’m Angelina du’Pon, and this is my maid Dee.”
“No need to thank me, Mademoiselle du’Pon. After a long sail I find nothing more refreshing than escorting two lovely ladies home,” he said, and they both giggled.
They wound through the streets in silence, and at the end of the block Angelina named stood a good-sized home with a wide porch and matching veranda along the second floor. Jacques again helped the two women down and escorted Angelina to her door.
“I hope you fare better the rest of the afternoon, dear lady. I’ll leave you to the comfort of your bath.”
With a surprisingly strong grip, Angelina grabbed his wet sleeve to keep him from leaving. “Please, Monsieur St. Louis, my uncle would be furious if I sent you away without offering you at least a drink.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t a hardship to bring you home, so you don’t need to repay me.”
“But I want you to stay.” As she spoke, Jacques noticed how green Angelina’s eyes were and how fixated she was on his face, as if she’d spotted something different about him.
For a moment Angelina seem to strip away the façade of Jacques St. Louis and Asra felt naked, but she said, “Then I’ll stay.”
“Dee, get someone to see to Monsieur St. Louis and his men while we clean up. Sir, I’m sure you’ll find my uncle’s study a comfortable place to wait. Or would you like a room so you can change into something dry?”
“The study will be fine. We have to be getting along soon, but I promise to wait until you’re done.”
He pointed Lionel and Joseph to a small table with four wooden chairs in the room where the servant escorted them. It wouldn’t be wise to sit on the upholstered couches with soaked clothes, so each of them sat on a straight-back chair with a cup of coffee before him and his hat in his lap. Angelina’s uncle loved to read, if his bookshelves were any indication. Row after row of leather-bound editions lined the room, and the worn bindings showed that the books weren’t just for decoration.
During the next couple of hours Joseph caught them up on the plantation’s progress and the welfare of everyone who lived on the grounds. They had stripped down to their shirts and vests when the wool of their jackets had begun to itch in the warm room.
Angelina clearing her throat made them almost comically jump to their feet.
After Jacques’s first look at a freshly bathed Angelina, he did a fair impression of a catfish out of water and tried to block out Lionel and Joseph’s laughter.
“My apologies for taking so long, Monsieur St. Louis. I had mud in places that surprised even my maid.” Angelina’s blond hair was pulled back in a style that let the curls the maid had set cascade past her shoulders. That was eye-catching enough, but her smile made her face co
me alive in a way Jacques found stunning.
Only a few times in his life had he looked upon a face so beautiful. “A gentleman never minds waiting on a lady, Mademoiselle du’Pon.”
“A rescuer of maidens and a charmer. It seems my mud bath has brought me nothing but good fortune, Monsieur St. Louis.”
“Actually, my dear, it’s Marquis St. Louis of Oakgrove, and by all accounts he’s the epitome of a gentleman, if not a bit of a recluse. Leave it to you to pull the bear from his cave.” The elderly gentleman at the front door leaned heavily on a cane as the doorman helped him take off his overcoat. “What mischief were you out creating today that you’ve come home with such a distinguished guest?”
“Uncle Tomas, I’ll have you know this wasn’t my fault. Marquis St. Louis, forgive me for not using your title.”
With his hand out, Jacques walked toward the teasing old man with eyes the color of his niece’s. “Monsieur and Mademoiselle du’Pon, forgive me for not calling on the two of you earlier. I’ve been enjoying the gazette you’re putting out, Monsieur du’Pon. Reading about the goings-on around town makes me feel less hermit-like. I should have recognized the name when we met, Mademoiselle.”
“What can I say? I’m an old hen who loves to gossip and found a way to make a living at it. Please sit and let’s share something stronger than coffee. This weather makes my bad hip ache. I crave a good glass of whiskey.” Tomas insisted on using the softer couches and, since Jacques was dry, he acquiesced. Tomas accepted a glass from his niece, who then handed one to Jacques.
