East of Orleans

by Renee' Irvin

  “I was just thinking about Jesse.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, can you imagine how he feels? His grandma and grandpa were slaves. Can you imagine buying and selling people?” Tom shook his head.

  “No, I can’t imagine anything as horrible as that.” Isabella looked at the rhododendrons that lined the banks of the Chattahoochee River.

  “Tom, have I ever told you that my great-grandmother’s name was Elora Grace? She died during the war. Granny said that her mama and her uncle John were headed to Atlanta to take supplies to the soldiers. When they got there, it was too late to turn back. She and her brother witnessed the burning of Atlanta and all the hell that came with it.”

  “Did the Yankees kill her?”

  “Yes and no, well, they might as well have. The Yankees shot and killed her brother right in front of her. She went on to work in the hospital; she nursed the sick and the wounded. And she would write letters for dying soldiers. She read letters to them, too. I have a cross necklace that she left me. Her mother, whose family came here from Wales, gave her the necklace and she had it on when she died. She barely had any breath left, but she asked Granny to remove the necklace and see that it went to me. I guess that’s why I have her name. It’s my special necklace. I feel that it will protect me.” Isabella gazed out into the woods and all emotion left her face. She touched her chest with her hand and whispered, “I should have had it on. If I had only had it on that day.”

  Tom pushed away and looked into her eyes.

  “What day?”

  Her thoughts were lost. Her eyes glazed with tears.

  “Nothing,” she whispered. She smiled. “Elora Grace. Elora means the light in Hebrew.”

  Tom could not take his eyes off her. Isabella’s expression changed and a curious smile spread on her face.

  “Tom, have you ever known of any riverboat gamblers on the Chattahoochee?”

  “I don’t know if you could call them that. I mean I’ve known some card players. You’ve heard my pa mention that rough bunch that rides up and down the Chattahoochee. There used to be a few steamships with banjo players that traveled up and down this river, but I think most of them ships have gone out of business.”

  “Is that all they did was play banjos and ride up and down the river all day?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Did they have women on them, too?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Women like that Patterson woman?”

  “For Christ sake, Isabella, there ain’t no need in your thinking about things like that,” Tom said as he felt a drizzle of rain on his face. “It’s starting to rain.” Isabella stood up and watched as Tom gathered an armful of magnolia leaves and made them a bed. He walked into the woods, and broke some limbs off an oak tree and gathered old sticks on the ground.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “I’m making us a tent.”

  She propped up against an oak trunk and watched Tom build the tent. Then she closed her eyes.

  “Isabella, why are you standing there with your eyes closed?” Tom called out.

  “Pretending.”

  “Pretending what?”

  “I’m pretending that I am on one of those riverboats.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you doing?”

  “Well, I am a stowaway. I’m hiding from Mae Patterson.”

  Tom stopped and shook his head.

  “For Christ sake, I have never. You had better hope your granny don’t hear about this.”

  “You want to hear my story or not?”

  “Okay, go on. You were one of Mae Patterson’s whores stowed away.”

  “Did I say I was a whore? No, I said I was a stowaway. Just because I had come from Mae’s did not make me a whore.”

  “Uh huh…”

  “I was from New Orleans and I was trying to get back there.”

  “You were going to get there on the Chattahoochee River?”

  “While I was on the riverboat I met a man from a rich family, but his family had disowned him because he had taken to fancy women and cards. He got sick, real sick, and I took care of him. Before he died he gave me all the money he won from the gamblers and rowdy men. He had been in bars and gunfights all over the world.”

  “What did you do with the money?”

  “I paid off our farm.”

  “I thought you were from New Orleans?”

  “I can pretend anything I want and be anyone I want to be, Tom. This is my imagination.”

  Isabella’s eyes were still closed. The wind was blowing her hair as she stood on the edge of the riverbank and listened to the rush of the water. She did not hear Tom walk up behind her.

  He touched the softness of the skin on her neck and pulled her into him. He stood behind her and she fell against him. He clasped his arms around her waist. The two of them stood together as the wind blew her hair in his face. He loved the smell of her hair--it reminded him of roses. He pressed his lips against her neck and watched as the skirt of her dress billowed in the wind. He turned her around to face him and they stared into each other’s eyes.

  “Take me away from here,” she whispered.

  “Take you where?” And then he kissed her. It seemed like another place, another time.

  “To calmer waters.”

  She looked up at him and even though their eyes both agreed, they said not a word. He wrapped his arm around her waist and they walked back to the tent. The rain had stopped, but he lay her on the bed of magnolia leaves and crawled on top of her.

  “I’ve been wanting you for so long,” he whispered in her ear. “It‘s hard to let you go.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He ran his hand across her eyelids and over her face. She crawled out from the tent and stood up. She unbuttoned and removed her dress. Isabella stood there naked, on the banks of the river. It was almost dusk.

  Tom came out from the tent and looked at her. She felt embarrassed. She reached for her dress and covered her body with his. He walked to her as her dress fell to the ground. He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed of magnolias. His eyes never left her as he took off his shirt, then his pants. She clasped her delicate thin arms tight around his back and they were as they had never before been.

  Whatever Jacqueline’s secrets were, Jules McGinnis did not care. He had never been happier. Life could not be better. Jules had his cotton business and his woman in the same town.

  It was no wonder that his cotton brokerage was the most successful in Savannah. Jules did not want to worry about whether or not his cotton would fetch top dollar when he shipped it to England and now he would not have to. Jules was never satisfied with how much he had. He was always hungry for more.

  Weeks passed before Jules found a house that he felt Jacqueline would be happy in. It was the most beautiful house on Oglethorpe. When they first arrived in Savannah, Jules took Jacqueline to Forsyth Park. She made Jules promise to buy her a house overlooking the park. She loved being among the artists and the poets that frequented the park. She loved the fountain; it reminded her of one that she had visited in Paris with her mother as a child. A robed female held a rod and water came out through the rod in the top basin. The basin was large enough for a person to sit in. The lower basin was decorated with Egyptian columns. At the base of the fountain stood four tritons-- half-man half sea serpent--holding a shell horn from which water spouted into a large pool.

  Tall grasses, trees dripping with moss, cattails and bathing birds with widespread wings all surrounded the fountain. The park emulated the high style of the French Empire.

  The splendid mansion was Italianate in style and dressed up with baroque twists of wrought iron. A parade of pansies lined both sides of a brick walkway that led to the front steps of the house. A weeping willow draped with Spanish moss sat to the side of the yard. Rows of sculpted hedges and trees encased the house. A French garden climbed and peeped from a double iron gate covered in red roses that
led to the back courtyard. It was graced with an intricate iron fence. The doors and windows were shuttered and painted an unusual blue.

  When Jacqueline first saw the house, she fell silent. Jules swung the iron gate open and ushered her inside. Wearing a crimson and ecru silk morning dress with matching gloves, she looked more elegant than Jules had ever seen her.

  “Whatcha’ think, honey? Thank God that sonofabitch Sherman had enough goddamn sense not to burn Savannah and all her glory. Of course, he left us with carpetbaggers all over the goddamn place. I should have killed that sonofabitch when I had the chance in that damn poker game.” Jules removed his hat and walked up the wide steps and into the house.

  Jacqueline’s eyes traveled around the cast iron trellis, the front porch and the iron balconies. Red geraniums crowded clay pots on either side of the massive mahogany front door that boasted the most beautiful stained glass in the center. Jacqueline went inside. She stretched her head back and looked up at the gold trimmed, elaborate crown molding. If she had a vision, Jules had outdone it. This house was more elaborate than the most extravagant Creole townhouse, and it had obviously been built for show.

  “Did you buy it?” Jacqueline asked, clearly impressed.

  “You damn right! Hell, honey, didn’t I promise to buy you the biggest house in Savannah?”

  A pair of gloved, slender hands untied a scarlet bonnet. A rush of black hair fell past her shoulders to her waist.

  Jules grabbed her by the shoulders. “Shh, stay still.” He drew his pistol and walked around the corner.

  “What’s the matter?” Jacqueline whispered.

  “I thought I heard somebody in here. With all the damn carpetbaggers and niggers running loose, you can’t be too careful.”

  “You always carry a gun?”

  “Hell, honey, I’m a cotton broker.”

  “And a gambler…” Jacqueline smiled.

  She looked at Jules standing there, and noticed that when he walked he swayed and then he stood with his legs far apart. He was standing that way now. She began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You! You walk like a cowboy.”

  “Oh, yeah? How many cowboys have you ever known?”

  “Just one.”

  “Did you steal his horse?” he said with a slow smile.

  She squinted at him and smiled. “No, I stole his heart.”

  “And now mine,” Jules said, his voice serious and soft.

  “But you don’t know anything about me.”

  “I have the rest of my life to learn,” Jules said, folding his arms and leaning up against the doorjamb.

  “Damn!” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go upstairs. I have something to show you.” He walked over, swept her up in his arms, and carried her up the stairs and to the bedroom.

  “Close your eyes,” he said. “Keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

  Jacqueline played along like a child about to get a new doll. She placed a hand over her eyes. She had an urge to peep, but she didn‘t.

  “Okay, honey, you can look now.” He whirled around and let her down. Her feet hit the floor and she came to a dead stop.

  “There, honey, you like it?”

  She turned her face to him. Then she turned back around and looked at the magnificent rosewood Mallard tester bed. A fine white cotton gauze mosquito net hung from the bed. A rose silk cornice extended over the head of the bed and was draped with heavily fringed tassels. Silk drapery fell loose from high ceilings beneath a silk cornice and puddled at the floor. Across from the bed were French doors that opened to a wrought iron balcony. She walked out onto the balcony and from there, she had the perfect view of Forsyth Park.

  Jacqueline came back inside and noticed that another pair of high French doors opened to a bedroom opposite the master. There in a rocker sat two French dolls that she remembered having as a child. Casmir Bru and the House of Jumeau made the dolls. Jacqueline bent down and turned her face to them. Their eyes were large, like humans, and seemed to follow her as she walked around the room.

  Jacqueline walked out into the hall. The carpet was floral. Greenish gold flocked wallpaper covered the walls. Gold sconces with sparkling prisms led the way.

  The staircase was mahogany and the hardwood floors were pine. She wanted to run to see the rest of the house with childlike excitement, but instead she slowly walked down the stairs.

  Jacqueline entered the kitchen. The pantry was stocked with casks of French wine, coffee from Martinique. She opened the back door and walked out into the French garden. There was a garconniere around back. She thought of the gardens in New Orleans and the sunny streets of Vieux Carre.

  Hesitantly, she turned and walked back inside. She crossed the kitchen and walked into the dining room. A mural of dancing cherubs was painted on the walls, a crystal chandelier hung over a huge mahogany dining table. From there she moved into the library. The walls were papered a rich red. The built-in bookcases were lined with books. The library opened to a parlor. Columns with brightly gilded square Corinthian capitals separated twin rooms.

  Residing regally in the foyer, in front of a Louis XV gilded mirror, was the Three Graces of Greek mythology. Heavy damask curtains hung in every room, centered with fine white lace panels.

  Light filtered through the shutters. The house was a backdrop for lavish entertaining and artistic enjoyment.

  Jacqueline studied Jules’s face. “What is it you want from me?” She saw the hungry way he was looking at her. “Do you want to marry me?”

  “Marry you? Honey, that thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  From the look on her face, he realized that he had shocked her.

  “I thought that’s what this was all about.”

  Jules slumped up against the doorjamb. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She looked at him and realized that all he wanted was to share her bed. That was what this was all about.

  “I just want to go on making you happy, Jacqueline, give you everything you could want or desire.” There were other ways to make her happy than to marry her. Besides, he was not the marrying kind.

  She thought to herself that he would change his mind; she would change his mind. Jacqueline looked away and walked into the foyer.

  Jules walked up behind her and started to unbutton the back of her dress. He clasped his arms around her narrow waist. She felt a warm sensation. She placed her hand on his and moved it to her breast.

  “Let’s go up to our bedroom,” he whispered.

  The lifestyle, the hustle-bustle, the mystery of all that was going on in the house on Oglethorpe did not go unnoticed.

  Wagons came and went. Containers of antique furniture arrived from Europe. Crystal and fine imported porcelain were packed in and around the furniture. A New York antique dealer had located several pieces of Rococo furniture carved by John Henry Belter. The house was filled with elaborate pieces made from rosewood with pink marble tops.

  Jacqueline Rousseau’s new show of wealth would have made Philippe II d’Orleans envious. In the early morning and late afternoon, Jacqueline strolled down the boulevard of Forsyth Park. She always wore the latest Parisian couture fashion with matching gloves, a magnificent bonnet, and an umbrella to shield her from the Savannah sun.

  It was on one of these days that she met an artist and commissioned him to faux paint her dining room; the baseboards he marbleized. Cherubs that danced around the chandelier were not enough. Jacqueline requested the cherubs dance to all four corners of the dining room; holding swags of garland and roses. She demanded that the artist make the cherubs a little fatter.

  Whoever heard of a thin cherub!” she had screamed.

  Carriages crowded the narrow cobblestone street in front of the Oglethorpe mansion. Forsyth Park seemed to draw more visitors by the day. Gossip filled the streets.

  “The house is vile and vulgar!” A New York decorator overheard an old money Savannah voice whisper, as the decorator approached
the house to confer with Jacqueline. The house on Oglethorpe was becoming a matter of opinion. And she had never been happier. She enjoyed the jealousy that had entwined the house. Her green eyes twinkled merrily. There was now a hungry desire to know who resided in the house on Oglethorpe. All of Savannah was dying of curiosity.

  The most curious were Mrs. Hancock and Mrs. Baker.

  Annalee Hancock lived two doors down from Jacqueline. She had lived in Savannah all her life. Her family had been Charleston bluebloods.

  Mrs. Hancock could often be seen chatting with one of Savannah’s newcomers. She could not wait to tell the story of how she had fell victim to seeing Sherman and his ruthless band of heathens invade her city. Her best friend was Mrs.Baker.

  Lucy Baker was of the Virginia Bakers; she claimed to be blood kin to President James Madison. Mrs. Baker and her husband Milford, purchased the house next door to Mrs. Hancock. The matched pair was soon to have a “matter of opinion” on all that took place in Savannah society.

  “I’ve sent her an invitation by letter and requested that she come for tea. I tell you she is ungracious and negligent in the most common of ways,” said Annalee Hancock to Lucy Baker. The two were in the Hancock garden where they were snipping some of her prize roses and putting them in a large gardening basket.

  “Annalee dear, you speak the truth. Just yesterday, I approached her house and tapped on the front door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity before a young Negro woman came and slammed the door.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Lucy, what did you do?”

  “Well, I stood there for a moment and I knocked again.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I looked inside the door.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw her.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “You’ve seen her; haven’t you seen her in Forsyth Park? She prances herself around there in the mornings and often in the late afternoon.”

  “Yes, well, of course, I believe everyone in Savannah has seen her. But what I want to know is what did she look like close up. Is she as beautiful as I have heard?”

  “She’s beautiful. There is no doubt about that, but Annalee, I hear that she uses her beauty for personal gain.”