Laurie McBain

by Tears of Gold

  The coachman’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Yes, monsieur, that’s what some folk call it,” he explained. There was a new note of respect in his voice, for the man must be a Creole—he had to be, the way he’d pronounced his French. And they were the true gentry of New Orleans, not like these rough Americans who ordered a fellow around without any idea of proper manners and didn’t tip much either.

  “The St. Louis then, and tell the man over here to send our luggage there,” Nicholas instructed as he climbed up into the barouche beside Mara, his hard thigh touching hers on the leather seat. “Would you care for the rug across your lap?” he inquired politely, but Mara shook her head and placed it across Paddy’s and Jamie’s knees. Paddy had sneezed twice. He couldn’t find his own handkerchief and Mara handed him hers. As he loudly blew his nose she watched him with a worried look, afraid that he was coming down with another of those foul colds that would no doubt last for weeks.

  As they drove along the crowded thoroughfare, Nicholas looked around him curiously. “It would seem as though a few things have changed since I’ve been away,” he commented. On one side of the avenue he recognized the narrow streets and pale yellow, green, and peach stuccoed houses of the Vieux Carré. On the far side of Canal Street toward the Faubourg Sainte Marie, however, were large ornate mansions set within lush grounds, their gardens full of tropical plants and colorfully blossoming shrubs.

  “This place has certainly grown since I last saw it,” Nicholas remarked, loudly enough for the coachman to overhear. Not wishing to appear lax in his job, nor being above enjoying a bit of conversation, the driver replied, “Yes, sir, there’s a lot of money in the Garden District. Real big homes in there. Want to drive through?” he questioned, carefully hiding his eagerness to increase his fare.

  “Why not?” Nicholas acquiesced. He glanced at Mara who nodded in agreement as she looked around.

  They drove along the wide, tree-lined streets where grand mansions with imitation towers, rococo gingerbread trim, and stained-glass windows were partially concealed behind grounds as large as a city block, full of live-oak, magnolia, and palm trees. The carefully laid out gardens were full of roses, camellias, and jasmine.

  Where once there had only been swampy ground, now stood a small town of theaters, hotels, churches, and private residences.

  “This is Lafayette Square,” the coachman told them, “and that’s the city hall facing the square.”

  “You don’t even recognize it, do you?” Mara spoke suddenly as she watched the surprise and disappointment reflected on Nicholas’s face. They continued into the Vieux Carré in silence. Mara caught the sounds of the names, Bourbon, Chartres, Dumaine, and Royal, as they traveled up and down the streets bordered by quaint houses with ornate iron grillwork decorating their balconies.

  Mara heard Nicholas’s gasp as they emerged on a beautiful square where an old cathedral with three spires rose with stately dignity into the blue sky. In the middle of the flower gardens and walks stood an equestrian statue. The square was flanked by twin brick buildings with lacy ironwork.

  “What a lovely square,” Mara remarked with pleasure as they traveled past. She was reminded of some of the small parks dotting London.

  “The Place d’Armes. I don’t know why I should be surprised that it too has changed a great deal since I last strolled through,” Nicholas said, a sadly reminiscent look on his hard face.

  “’Fraid not, sir,” the coachman corrected Nicholas respectfully. “It’s called Jackson Square, now. Statue of the old general himself right there.”

  “Seems I was indeed wise in hiring a guide,” Nicholas added wryly. “I never thought to be a stranger in the city of my birth. There used to be a double avenue of sycamores along there. At least they didn’t tear down the St. Louis Cathedral, or the Calbildo and Presbytère,” Nicholas commented as he gestured to the buildings adjacent the cathedral.

  “It was the Baroness who did all of this. Just finished it too,” the coachman informed them. “The Baroness de Pontalba, that was her name. And my, my, but she was something to watch, yes, sir,” the coachman chuckled. “Riding her horse through town every day to oversee the rebuilding of the square, that red hair of hers catching fire in the sunlight.”

  “And why did she rebuild the square?” Nicholas inquired curiously.

  “Well,” the coachman paused a moment as he carefully considered the gentleman’s question, “reckon ’cause the place was near to ruins. Most folks had moved and all the businesses had gone on up to Canal St. where they could do some real selling for a change. Yes, sir, the place was deserted, excepting maybe for a few rats. Then the Baroness comes along and changes all that, and now, as you can see, the square is a real fine place once again.”

  “And where is the Baroness?” Mara asked as she looked around, hoping she might see this extraordinary woman.

  “Gone back to France, ma’am. The St. Louis Hotel, sir?” the coachman asked after they had left the square.

  Nicholas nodded, his eyes partially concealed by his thick lashes, his thoughts unreadable as he stared at this city in which he was now a stranger.

  The St. Louis Hotel was, as the coachman had said, one of the finest in the city. Nicholas stayed with them only long enough to sign the register, not noticing the discreet lifting of the clerk’s eyebrows as he read the guest’s name, his smile obsequious as he assured Monsieur de Montaigne-Chantale that the rooms he had reserved were the very best in the hotel. The lady would be most comfortable.

  Nicholas grasped Mara’s elbow as she would have followed the bellboy to their rooms. “I have to see some people, I’ll be back later, Mara.”

  “You needn’t hurry on my account,” Mara told him carelessly.

  “Later,” Nicholas repeated as he turned and walked through the lobby of the hotel, disappearing into the street. Mara watched forlornly, wondering if he would indeed return.

  Nicholas stood on the street a moment, then hired a carriage and returned to the heart of the Vieux Carré, not noticing his surroundings this time. His thoughts centered on his next meeting.

  The driver stopped before the house Nicholas had indicated, accepting his fare with a curious look. “Want me to wait, sir? Don’t look as though there be a soul around. No, sir, there sure don’t.”

  Nicholas looked up at the quiet front of the house, the drapes drawn across the windows. Shaking his head, he signaled to the driver to go on. Nicholas stared at the pale peach stucco of the house and the ornate, wrought-iron grillwork that ran along the gallery and balcony above the street. He walked up wide steps to the entrance and, knocking on the white paneled door, received no answer. He had suspected he would not. He walked along the gallery to the side of the house and, without hesitating, opened the wrought-iron gate that led through an arched stone passage beneath the lower part of the house.

  Nicholas stood in the center of the courtyard as he glanced around at the silent fountain and patio paved in brick, weeds now growing up between the moldings. Had it been summer, the double doors would have been standing open to catch the cooling breeze along the two levels of gallery that ran around three sides of the courtyard. The low building in back that housed the slaves was quiet. Several oleanders were still in bright bloom while a large tree with waxy green leaves would flower with creamy magnolia blossoms in the spring. Nicholas looked around sadly at the faded splendor of the once beautiful courtyard. Walking across to the double doors of the dining room, he tried the latch, knowing it would give if turned a certain way. The large mahogany dining table where his family had once dined en masse was now covered with a dust sheet, while the sideboards were thickly coated in a layer of dust.

  Nicholas stepped from the dining room into the long entrance hall where faint light filtered in from the fan-shaped window above the door. On his right were three great square rooms. He entered the double parlor and gazed at the rosewood sofa with its pale green brocade cushions, the fireplace and marble mantel, the occasional tables a
nd delicate chairs. The crystal chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors reflected the neglected atmosphere. Across the hall was the long ballroom where the late-night soirees and masquerade balls had been held. Very formal affairs they had been, with an orchestra hired for the occasion.

  But it was painfully obvious to Nicholas that there had been no balls in this house in a long time. No laughing, flirting couples had danced past here, he thought as he swiped at a cobweb dangling from a mirror frame.

  He made his way back into the hallway and stared up at the curved staircase with its handrailing of smooth, dark mahogany, hearing the voices of his past.

  “Betcha can’t ride all the way down to the floor without falling off,” François challenged him, his ten-year-old’s voice full of contemptible goading.

  “My pony and new fishing pole says I can,” Nicholas heard his own eight-year-old’s voice challenging his brother, and he smiled slightly as he remembered that hair-raising ride down the slick banister that he’d negotiated successfully. He remembered looking up daringly at François, waiting for him to descend in a like manner. But François had landed off balance at the foot of the stairs, breaking his arm.

  And then there had been the Sunday mornings when they were invariably late dressing for church and had been hurried down the stairs by a scolding maid.

  “If yer mama could hear you now, Master Nicholas, why, whut would she say? And whut you got stuffed in that pocket, Master François? Mercy!” Nicholas could still hear her shriek of horror. “And whut were you goin’ to do with that frog? Lordie, but all hell would’ve broke loose in the congregation o’er that.”

  Following mass, they would have had a big breakfast, shared with many friends invited to spend the day with the family. Then they would have attended a matinee, usually a light opera, and afterward have returned to the house for dinner. Later the carpets in the parlor would have been rolled back, the furniture pushed against the walls, while an aunt played the piano and the young couples danced. Punch and light refreshments would have been served to the thirsty, and finally, the day would have come to a close around midnight.

  With a last look up the empty staircase Nicholas left the deserted townhouse and walked back through the streets of the Vieux Carré. At least they had not changed drastically over the last fifteen years. Maybe it was all a little shabbier, but it still retained that special charm he remembered. As he strode along the narrow streets, he became lost in thought. He tried to find the answer to the puzzling question of why the de Montaigne-Chantale house had been closed up, and apparently had been for a long time.

  ***

  Mara looked around the hotel suite Nicholas had taken for her and wondered if it was her room, or their room? Perhaps this was his way of bidding her farewell? For unless she was mistaken, he was at this very moment being welcomed home with open arms by his family, and that meant the end of their liaison. She hadn’t wanted to question him about his sudden decision to return to New Orleans, for he seemed very reluctant to discuss the details. He had just told her that he’d had a letter from his father asking him to return. She had left it at that, but her curiosity had been aroused. She hadn’t cared to admit that she’d heard the gossip about his past and the questionable circumstances involving his departure from New Orleans which went far deeper than the duel he had once mentioned to her.

  No, Mara suddenly decided, she doubted very seriously whether Nicholas entertained the idea of returning to the St. Louis Hotel and sharing a room with her. It was about time she made some plans of her own, for she was free to do as she wished. That had been the arrangement between them. A pity Nicholas hadn’t thought to leave her enough money to pay for their fares to Europe before he’d disappeared.

  Mara glanced around the hotel room, hoping he’d at least paid for it, and a pretty penny he’d pay, too, Mara thought as she admired the European style of decor with its mahogany and gilt Neo-Rococo furniture, the chairs elaborately carved and upholstered with scarlet silk cushions. Gilt-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors and heavy crystal chandeliers added light and sparkle to the room and reflected the bright colors of the Turkish carpet.

  “Where’s Uncle Nicholas?” Paddy demanded as he returned from his inspection of the street below. “He promised me we’d go fishin’.”

  “Paddy, me little love,” Mara said with a softening smile, “you really shouldn’t call Nicholas ‘Uncle,’ and he didn’t promise you he’d take you fishing, now did he?” Mara asked skeptically, trying to prepare him for disappointment. “Besides, I think we’ll be leaving New Orleans before you’ll get a chance to do any fishing.”

  Paddy stamped his foot angrily. “He promised! He told me we’d go fishin’, and he told me I could call him uncle if I wanted to,” Paddy told Mara defiantly, his hands on his hips as he jutted his chin out stubbornly, his dark brown eyes flashing with spirit. Suddenly he reminded Mara so much of Brendan that it was painful to look at him.

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed, Paddy,” Mara said shortly. “Nicholas has his own family and friends here, and he’ll be spending most of his time with them. We’re not his family, Paddy, nor very important to him, love.”

  Paddy’s lower lip trembled slightly as he blinked back his tears. “Why can’t we be his family? He likes you, and he likes me, and I know he wouldn’t go off and leave me without saying good-bye,” Paddy reasoned simply as his small shoulders sagged. “Nobody ever stays with us, Mara. Don’t we have anybody?” he asked pathetically. “Papa’s gone, and the Swede, and Gordie and Paul. Nobody really cares about us, do they?”

  At this startling question Mara looked away from his forlorn figure. She then glanced back and saw him standing there in his blue sailor suit looking like a little man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Mara hurried over to him and hugged him to her as Paddy wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, holding onto her as if his life depended upon the warm contact between them.

  “You’ve always got me, Paddy,” Mara told him huskily, “and I’ll never leave you. You believe that, don’t ye?”

  “I love you, Mara,” he whispered, pressing his face against her.

  Mara bent down and kissed the top of his head, wondering if she could live up to his faith in her. She felt a momentary fright as she realized the responsibility of accepting someone’s love. It was such a fragile feeling and could be damaged so easily by a careless word or action.

  Mara glanced up to see Jamie standing in the doorway watching them with suspiciously bright eyes, her sharp features softened as she saw the love between Mara and Paddy. As she became aware of Mara’s eyes on her, Jamie sniffed loudly and began to bustle about the room, breaking the melancholy atmosphere.

  Paddy was napping on the sofa an hour later when Mara could stand the confinement of the hotel room no longer and said, “I can’t stand being cooped up in here. I’m going out for a breath of fresh air.”

  “’Bout time. Your pacin’ is gettin’ on my nerves,” Jamie told her, “Ye go on now. I’ll watch Master Paddy.”

  Mara looked over at Paddy’s sleeping form. “I think he’s coming down with another cold. He sneezed several times during tea,” Mara told Jamie as she put on her bonnet and picked up a parasol of amber and green mosaic-patterned silk with a deep fringe along the edge. “I won’t be longer than an hour.”

  Mara walked along the corridor from her room. Hearing voices across the rotunda, she paused at the railing of the gallery that overlooked the lofty space of the gallery on the far side, which was crowded with people. A marble counter stretched around one-half of the circular area that was paved with a marble floor, while countless barkeepers were kept busy behind the bar with its colorful array of decanters full of alcoholic refreshments. The other side of the barroom was given over to solid fare; a lunch table was crowded with tureens of soup, plates loaded down with sandwiches, hors d’oeuvres and other enticements. But it was another table that caught and held Mara’s eyes as she stared
in perplexed curiosity at the half-dozen or more young black women neatly clad in plain dresses who were sitting on the table surrounded by laughing and conversing groups of men.

  The black girls seemed interested in the proceedings as they the groups of men with wary glances. Then a man stood up on a chair and, gaining the attention of the lunchers, began to auction off the young girls. It was a slave sale, Mara thought in horrified amazement as she watched the proceedings. Then, with a sickening feeling, she moved on. She had begun to draw speculative glances from several men standing nearby.

  Out on the street Mara opened her parasol to shield her face and made her way along the banquette, past interesting shops along Royal Street and then down street after nameless street. She enjoyed the exercise after being confined on the ship.

  Mara continued her tour until she ended up in a large square where long colonnades of tawny stucco lined the market-place and stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish, shrimp and crabs, freshly caught from the Gulf and bayous, were being sold. Mara turned up a narrow street, leaving behind the market square and the crowd of women with baskets over their arms as they argued down the price of a pound of string beans or with doubtful eye scrutinized the color of a tenderloin of beef.

  Mara’s steps carried her away from the busy marketplace, her eyes wandering across the colorful facades of the houses with their profusion of greenery and flowers peeking over the edge of grilled balconies. Gradually though, she became aware of a change in the neighborhood as she skirted the garbage-clogged gutters and avoided eye contact with the disreputable men she began to pass on the banquette.

  As she passed a run-down-looking building, a sailor came flying out to tumble headlong into the street, his hat following close behind. Something unintelligible in French followed as well, but Mara didn’t need to understand the strange patois to know what it meant.

  She hurried on uneasily. Suddenly a hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.