He glimpsed a number of passersby outside, horse carts taking their wares to wherever it was their business lay. Guillaume caught the clerk watching him once or twice. Indeed, Guillaume wondered himself just what he was doing there. A cup of tea would have been very welcome, something to settle the nerves. But then, out the window Guillaume saw him, Hathaway, drawing nearer up the walk in the company of another man. Guillaume stood as the two came through the door, engaged in an animated conversation. Surprise flashed across Hathaway’s face and Guillaume thought he saw a flush rise at his white throat. He strode toward Guillaume and clasped his hand in greeting.
“You’ve made it,” he said, smiling.
Guillaume glanced at the other man. Hathaway read his look and quickly introduced his companion. His name was Hurst, another textile merchant, and they’d just finished a meeting.
Hathaway addressed Hurst. “Will you be dining with us here?”
“No,” the other man sighed, consulting a pocket watch, “Mrs. Hurst is expecting me. We’ll draw up the papers at my office tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Hathaway said. When the other man departed he said to Guillaume, “Let’s get you settled in here, you must be tired.” He turned to the clerk. “Monsieur Rougeaux will share my lodgings tonight. He is my associate and we have much business to discuss.” Indeed, it was not unusual for two men to share a room, provided there were two beds, which there were.
The clerk eyed Guillaume.
“I’m sorry sir,” he said, “it’s not permitted.”
“What’s not permitted?” he asked.
“The Inn does not serve Ethiopians.”
Hathaway shot a glance at Guillaume. Unruffled, he spoke again.
“Monsieur Rougeaux is not from Ethiopia,” Hathaway began slowly, as if addressing someone stupid. “He is a master saddler from Montreal. We have a joint venture in upholstery, and if you will not serve him then we shall take our business elsewhere. Please cancel my fortnight’s reservation, and tell the management I am most disappointed.”
The clerk looked shaken. It was the offseason and a sudden two-week vacancy would not please his superior. “Perhaps we might make an exception for one night,” he said. “I shall go ask upstairs.”
“Good idea,” Hathaway said. He was not a man of great wealth, but his comportment spoke of his belief in his right to be in the place he chose, and with whomever he chose.
When the clerk returned they knew they had won.
“One night only,” he said.
Hathaway wasn’t finished. He addressed Guillaume. “How long were you planning to stay?”
“Two nights,” Guillaume said.
They didn’t wait for the clerk’s answer. Hathaway snatched up Guillaume’s valise from the floor at his feet and headed for the stairs.
The room was on the top floor and when they had entered Hathaway bolted the door behind them. They each let out a long breath.
“Upholstery,” said Guillaume. They burst into muffled laughter, and fell into each other’s arms.
* * *
A tallow candle burned on the bedside table. Hathaway held Guillaume’s hand, gazing at the contrasting hues of their intertwined fingers.
“In school, back in Sussex, they told us Africans were primitives,” he said, “and that slavery was invented for their own good.”
“To civilize us,” Guillaume said.
“Right.”
“Did you believe it?”
“When I was little. I believed everything.”
“As we do.”
Hathaway shifted his body and tucked a hand under his cheek. “So Africans were primitive, the red Indian a savage, Jews were dirty and the Chinese were thieves and liars.”
“The natural order.”
“But they hated me too, you know, the other boys in school. They called me dainty, a girl, Little Lord Hathaway. And then they’d try to bash my head in.”
Guillaume watched Hathaway’s face as he spoke, imagining this beautiful man as a once vulnerable child. “Was there no help for you?”
“My brother Edward, yes. If he was near he’d fight them off. I was a weakling and couldn’t defend myself. But Edward stood by me. He knew what people said about me and he told me to forget them. He always said, You’re fine as you are, Frankie. You’re fine as you are. I had to make a choice on who to believe.”
“Your brother reminds me of my sister Josephine.”
“Does he?”
“Very much so.”
“Then we are both blessed.”
Francis told Guillaume about a certain incident, a day back in Sussex when he was twelve and Edward was away. There was a cousin, James, of the same age, with whom he’d always been close, and a wrestling match in the cellar turned suddenly into something more exciting. That is, until Francis’ father appeared and nearly killed them both. James he banished from the house and Francis he whipped within an inch of his life. Indeed he might have murdered his son, had his wife not intervened.
“Later when Edward came home and saw what our father had done he was furious. That was the night he started talking about going to America. He said one day we’d go, the two of us.” Hathaway stretched and turned over. “There was a globe in the school library. I used to look at the mass of America, at Africa and the size of it, and China too. And the tiny dot that was England. Was most of the world thieves and savages, then? I dared to think it was all a lie. I made up my mind to find out the truth for myself.”
There were scars, Guillaume could see them now, several white lines across Francis’ lower back where his father’s belt buckle had scored the skin. Guillaume moved closer and pressed his lips there, again and again, as if he could draw out the pain and replace it with tenderness.
* * *
All that winter they exchanged letters. Guillaume wrote how he and Ross were studying the making of some other leather goods now, after Ross had become curious about how his grandfather had made the valise. Jonty was still intent on following Albert into the railroad industry. Melody and Eleanor, both especially musical, played a piano duet at the church’s Christmas service. Josephine was teaching Dax his numbers and letters. Guillaume wrote, Please tell me something about England, by which he meant, Tell me more about you, in your younger years. I want to know everything.
Hathaway did write of England, things he hadn’t yet told, of his voyage to Canada with his brother as young men, and how Edward still dragged him out rowing when the weather was good enough. He wrote of the day-to-day in Toronto, of the price of silks from India, of friends, and of the theater and opera, which he considered his own private church. Hathaway wrote, Please tell me something of Montréal, in the old days, before the expansion, by which he meant, Tell me about you in your younger years. I want to know everything.
They met again in Ottawa in the spring. Guillaume told his family, one night at supper, that he would be away for five or six days this time. Melody asked, “What will you do there, Papa?” Guillaume answered truthfully that he would be visiting a workshop where craftsmen made leather satchels, to observe some of their techniques and purchase some new tools.
“And,” he said, “I will visit a friend.”
A look of apprehension passed through the faces of the children, the girls especially. They cherished their mother’s memory and feared their father might someday marry again.
“My friend Mr. Hathaway,” he said, remaining, with great effort, casually composed. The children relaxed and smiled.
“You met him last fall, didn’t you, Papa?” said Eleanor. Guillaume said he did, and that this time Ross would be in charge of the saddlery in his stead. Ross shone with pride and straightened in his chair.
“And I hope to find another book for Auntie.”
“Books for Auntie!” little Dax cried out, clapping his hands.
Since childhood, Josephine had had a great interest in all things botanical, and over time had acquired a small number of books on plants and their propertie
s. She kept dozens of things growing in pots indoors, and outdoors in the warmer seasons. Dax was fascinated by the illustrations in her botanical books, particularly the ones that showed both the interiors and exteriors of seeds and blossoms. Adding another volume to Josie’s treasured collection was the least Guillaume could do. He was so grateful to her, for everything.
* * *
The days in Ottawa with Hathaway were glorious. They took every measure of discretion and thus created every possible shelter for their intimacy. On the last night, as they lay among the bedclothes, Guillaume asked Hathaway the question that had been nagging at his heart. He did not assume any claim on this man, but he wanted to know. He shifted and took a breath.
“Francis.”
“What is it,” Hathaway murmured, rolling over to face him.
“Are there others?”
Hathaway remained quiet a moment or two.
“There have been,” he said.
“Many?”
“Not too very many.”
“What about now?”
“Would it matter very much to you?”
Guillaume considered this. Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Perhaps both at once. Before he could answer Hathaway spoke again.
“Anyway, I seem only to be capable of loving one man at a time.”
Guillaume reached for him, still amazed at how dear Francis had become to him.
“I too,” he said.
* * *
The seasons passed and there were more visits, more letters. In the next year Hathaway occasionally had business in Montreal and Josephine suggested to Guillaume that he be invited to suppers, though they dared no other meetings. Hathaway brought gifts for the children, and for Josephine. His quiet charm won them all over. Two years later she insisted he be invited to Ross’ wedding.
“Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight,” she said, and Guillaume could not argue.
Another year later he traveled to Toronto.
Francis had his housekeeper fix up the spare room for his guest and prepare a special meal, and then he sent her home to her family. He met Guillaume at the station, and asked him if he wouldn’t mind dining the next night with Edward and his wife.
The guest room went unused and Guillaume discovered his friend anew in his private quarters. There were things he had chosen with care, there were photographs, the small garden with the famous peach trees. There was a cat.
“Do you like it?” Francis asked.
“Very much.”
“I wanted you to see it,” he said, “for I may be leaving.”
Guillaume, who was looking out at the garden, turned to face him.
“I was thinking,” Francis went on, “that with my new contacts, my business could do just as well in Montreal.”
Just when Guillaume thought nothing more could surprise him, the floor dropped away.
Francis took both his hands and looked into his eyes.
“You would do this?” asked Guillaume.
“Yes.” Francis’ voice was gentle.
“Are you sure?”
“We are not young,” Francis said. “Whatever days I have left I wish to spend as many of them as possible with you.”
What was possible, indeed in all the world there was no place for them, and yet, there they were. Perhaps there was a new country, one not found on a globe that had been traced all over with such darkness–a new country where there were fruit trees and quiet Saturdays together, where Francis would come often to dinner, but never agree to a game of billiards. After dinners with the Rougeauxes, Francis might even develop the habit of leaving without his gloves, and Guillaume might sigh, and say to Josephine and the children that he had better just take the gloves over to Mr. Hathaway, and that he would be back directly. But if he got back home late once in a while it would be alright, because they would understand that Papa and Mr. Hathaway always got to talking, and always forgot about the time.
7
Eleanor
Montreal & New York, Late 1800s
Eleanor’s earliest memory was of sitting beside her grandmother Hetty, called Mémé, on a piano bench. On the other side of big, sweet-smelling Mémé was her oldest brother Albert, with both hands on the white keys, following Mémé’s gentle instructions and plunking out a nursery song. Eleanor was only two or three, and she would have to wait another year or more for her chance at lessons with Mémé. An eternity. Mémé allowed her to sit beside them as long as she remained quiet, which she did, absorbing with her ears and eyes, and whole heart, everything that was happening before her.
When Eleanor’s turn to learn finally came, Mémé was taken aback. “My, oh my,” she remarked to Papa after the first lesson. “I don’t believe that piano will stand a chance against her.” Eleanor’s younger sister Melody eventually enjoyed the lessons too, and though she played like an angel, as folks later said, it was with a distracted air that sometimes led to careless mistakes. Only Eleanor seemed to mind Melody’s carelessness, since she took her own playing so seriously, attacking the instrument with quiet ferocity. When they practiced a duet as older girls, Melody giggled lightheartedly when her fingers fumbled, which frustrated Eleanor so much that she sometimes left the room in tears. Melody always followed her, hugging her around the waist and murmuring apologies and promises to do better, but in the end her nature won out and Eleanor would be upset anew. Finally, Auntie Josephine stepped in and declared no more duets, allowing harmony to return between the sisters. But this was later, when Eleanor was sixteen.
Mémé passed on when Eleanor was only twelve years old. The children clung to Mama and sobbed, never dreaming they would also lose her too only a few months later. When their mother died, Eleanor’s world all but ended. Auntie Josephine came and held things together at home, and Papa bore up the family like a ship in a storm. A year passed, and another, and though the storm abated, none were left unscathed. Mama’s death affected each of her children differently. Melody, for one, became more protective of little Dax, so much so that sometimes the adults had to step in so that he might play without her constant admonitions. Ross and Jonty pulled together tighter. For Eleanor it was as if there were a hole in her heart, once Mama was gone, leaving her unnaturally exposed. It was strange to Eleanor how other children she knew who had lost parents seemed to carry on much the same as before. Grief looked so very different from the inside.
There was only one thing that still touched her as it had before Mama died, and that was music. As for the piano, Mrs. Allison, the choir director from church, brought Eleanor and Melody under her tutelage, determined to pick up musically where their grandmother had left off. Mrs. Allison was skilled with choir arrangements and directing soloists, but nothing was dearer to her heart than a duet on piano, especially as the centerpiece of a holiday service. When Auntie came to speak with her about Eleanor and Melody, Mrs. Allison agreed to arrange for the girls to play separate pieces. With the change in the program, Mrs. Allison had a chance to see Eleanor play disentangled from Melody, and was taken aback. Eleanor Rougeaux had real potential.
Mrs. Allison, a white woman, was aware that scant opportunities existed for a colored girl to pursue her music, and wondered if there were any schools in the region that might accept Eleanor. She wrote letters to Toronto, Quebec City, Boston, and New Haven. At last she learned of a school in New York City, The National Conservatory of Music of America. It was open to musicians of all colors, women, and even some students who were blind or crippled by polio. Auditions were held every spring. That very evening she paid a visit to the Rougeauxes.
It was February and still bitterly cold. Auntie answered the door, and it was several minutes of unwrapping mufflers and woolens before she could identify the visitor. By then Eleanor and Melody had come into the foyer, along with Papa and Dax, the youngest. Mrs. Allison was ushered into the parlor to sit and soon held a steaming cup of tea in her hands.
“Mr. Rougeaux,” began Mrs. Allison, “as you know, I believe Eleanor has a
n exceptional talent.” Eleanor’s face grew hot, and she stared hard at the floorboards. Mrs. Allison told them of the Conservatory and the auditions, that the school was supported by numerous sponsors and that from the auditions two hundred students would be selected for their summer program. Of these two hundred, up to half would be invited to continue at the Conservatory for four years. There were scholarships sufficient to provide tuition and basic living expenses for those in need. At this Eleanor could no longer decipher the words exchanged. Her ears filled with a roaring noise, and she thought her heart would fly from her chest.
Papa was dubious. He thanked Mrs. Allison most sincerely for her interest and time, and for her faith in Eleanor. The family was indebted to her. But he was not eager to send his child away to a foreign place. She was only eighteen and anything could happen to a colored girl all alone in a big city.
Mrs. Allison understood this and was prepared. She handed Papa the letter she had received from the school. There were a number of reputable boarding houses for young ladies where the out-of-town female students stayed, and the conduct of all the students was strictly chaperoned. The good standing of the Conservatory depended not only upon the musicianship it produced, but also on the behavior of the students, both in and outside of the classroom. The letter made very clear that for the students fortunate enough to be selected, their personal responsibility was as great as the opportunity. Anything less was grounds for dismissal.
“All that is needed,” Mrs. Allison concluded, “is train fare to New York and back.”
Papa folded the letter carefully and handed it back to Mrs. Allison. He thanked her again, promising to give the matter his thorough consideration.
House of Rougeaux Page 18
