Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  My curiosity was whetted, for I shared with my father an interest in people that always made life entertaining. Already under this roof existed several little puzzles we would enjoy unraveling in a sympathetic manner.

  “We,” I had thought to myself, and winced, remembering. My father no longer took an interest in the world around him, as he had once done in so lively and analytical a fashion.

  At the thought of my father, I decided to bid him good night before I went to sleep. I found a band of ribbon in my portmanteau and bound my hair back at my neck. Then I stepped again onto the narrow gallery that ran above the court at this second level.

  When I rapped on the door of the next room, my mother opened it and she appeared to be vexed.

  “How like Robert to put us in a wing that is used for business agents and persons of that type, instead of where we belong in the house proper!”

  Her readiness to criticize her brother seemed to me unreasonable.

  “My room is most comfortable,” I told her. “Uncle Robert has been very kind.”

  “It is not a matter of comfort,” Mama said tartly, “but of social importance. However, there is nothing we can do if this is Robert’s decision. Is there anything you want, Skye?”

  “Only to tell Papa good night,” I said. “How is he now?”

  “He was in considerable pain,” she said. “Natalie sent Delphine with something to help him. He is already asleep. Perhaps tomorrow he will feel better.”

  I said good night to her then and she went along the gallery to her own room. When she had gone I stood for a moment with my hand on the gallery rail, looking down into the darkness of the courtyard. The gas lamp had been extinguished and I could not make out the nature of the foliage which made dark shapes below me, but I heard the play of a fountain, caught the soft rustle of leaves as a breeze came through the arched passageway from the street. A delicate perfume rose from a vine that climbed a courtyard wall nearby and I experienced suddenly a feeling of yearning delight. The mingling of warm, tropical June scents rose toward me in a heady wave, almost a tangible force, assaulting my senses.

  The strange longing was so strong within me that I reached my hand to the vine beside the gallery and plucked a tiny rosette of fragrant white. The blossom’s sweetness clung to my fingers, scented the very night about me. I touched it to my lips and suddenly understood the longing which possessed me. Such a night was made for lovers’ arms, for the clinging of lovers’ lips. It was my own hungry youth that called out in loneliness. But that was what I had hoped to escape in New Orleans.

  I flung the blossom from me and went quickly back to my room. There I turned down the oil lamp and undressed with faint moonlight now and again slanting through the two windows of my corner room. I climbed into the bed and saw that its one decorative touch was a great “S” carved high on the mahogany of the headboard. Kneeling I could trace the carving with my fingers.

  “S” for Seignouret, perhaps? My Aunt Natalie had spoken the name almost with reverence. Yet it was one I had never heard. As best I could I tucked the mosquito barre around the edge of the bed and found that in New Orleans even mosquito netting was hemmed with fine, handmade lace.

  There was so much to learn about this city in which I must now live. But I must be careful in the learning. I did not want to go too fast. Already I had been betrayed into a sweet, sad longing that frightened me a little. I must not altogether lose my identity. I must not be too easily seduced by soft southern air and the scent of flowers. Perhaps the Creole in me was something against which I must be on guard.

  THREE

  The next morning I was awakened early by a stir of sound from the courtyard. Birds were singing and there was a muted chatter of voices as servants moved about their tasks, already polishing, cleaning, trimming shrubbery. Somewhere above the baby Tina woke and wailed.

  While I stretched and yawned in my bed, wishing I might sleep the morning away, a young Negro maid brought me a tray on which a china chocolate pot gave off an odor, not of chocolate, but of coffee.

  “Le p’tit noir,” she said and then chattered something at me in the same tongue the yard boy had spoken—a strange mixture that sounded something like French, but was not. Fortunately she threw in enough English words so that I could make occasional sense of what she was saying. I gathered that the coffee was to wake me up, but that I was to have breakfast on the gallery with “M’sieu Robear” in not later than a half hour.

  My uncle’s name in itself was enough to rouse me. If he expected me at the table, I did not want to be late.

  The first sip of coffee nearly choked me. It was thick on my tongue as syrup, and fiercely strong and bitter. So thick was it that it left a dark stain inside the cup. I managed a few swallows before I gave up. If this was the famous coffee of New Orleans it was not for my pallid northern tongue. But even those sips wakened me.

  For all the cool, early morning breeze at my windows, the sky was already blue and bright overhead with the promise of heat to come. The clothes in my portmanteau needed the attention of a flatiron, but I had been too weary last night to trouble about them. There was nothing for it but to wear again my brown foulard and change to something fresh later on.

  As I sat before the marble-topped dressing table, binding back my hair, I wished vainly that I might conceal it under a tignon such as Delphine had worn. I had a feeling that no Creole would approve the color of my hair.

  And surely, without my hat, my hair was the first thing my uncle noticed as I approached the table on the gallery, where he already breakfasted with Aunt Natalie. I saw his eyes rest upon it briefly, then turn away. He rose as I came toward him and pulled out the chair at my place, seated me with the air of a man to whom small courtesies were second nature.

  “Good morning, Skye,” he said. “You slept well, I hope?”

  I told him that I had indeed and took my place at the table. Aunt Natalie looked plumper than ever in a black gown cut in the fashionable princess line and fastened clear to the throat with tiny pearl buttons. Her smile was friendly, but like a good Creole wife, she kept her eye on her husband for a lead in all that she said or did.

  The breakfast was a heavy one, with fried rounds of veal and gravy, corn grits dotted with butter, hot biscuits, thin buckwheat cakes and brown sugar. Of course there were quantities more of the bitter coffee, though now it was permissible to dilute it and drink it au lait.

  My uncle seemed preoccupied this morning with the affairs of the day ahead of him and there was little conversation. I had just buttered a second fleecy biscuit when Mama came out upon the gallery and hurried toward us. She looked nervous again and ill-at-ease, but when Uncle Robert rose, she held out a hand to him with a pretty air of apology.

  “Good morning, Robert,” she said. “It’s good to see you looking so well. We’re most grateful for your hospitality. I’m sorry I overslept.”

  He returned her greeting gravely and seated her next to him. It was probable, I thought, that he had been a little hurt by her lack of any wish to see him last night. He asked about my father and conveyed sympathy. His own physician would call upon him this afternoon. We need have no concern—everything possible would be done to assure Bruce Cameron’s recovery. He went on then to speak of another matter.

  “Courtney Law, the young man whom you met last night, and who works as an apprentice clerk in my office, must take you both for a drive about New Orleans on Sunday afternoon. If that is convenient for you. I’m sure, Louise, that you will want to reacquaint yourself with the city of your birth, and your daughter has already shown herself eager to know our section of town.”

  Perhaps in her preoccupation and anxiety last night, Mama had not paid much attention to Courtney’s name. Now, at mention of it, she glanced up quickly, though she did not speak. To cover a silence I felt was somewhat rude on her part, I expressed eagerness for the outing and hoped Uncle Robert would consider that it came from both Mama and me. But my uncle, I think, was not deceived a
nd he sipped his coffee in thoughtful silence.

  As I ate my second biscuit, I looked over the railing into the courtyard. At this early morning hour it was still shady and cool, and now all the lush growth was visible. There were banana trees with long shaggy green leaves, and a slender clump of bamboo in one corner. Wisteria grew up a trellised wall, its lavender petals gone now, the fronds thick and in full leaf. A vine bore the small rosettes of Grand Duke jasmine—the flower I had plucked last night. But the night spell had vanished and this was no more than a charming Creole courtyard.

  It was paved with faded orange brick and in its center a small fountain played merrily. I could see the glint of darting goldfish in the water, and all around the fountain’s edge were small red flowerpots, abloom with plants. The odors from the street did not penetrate here and all was clean and sweetly smelling. No wonder the houses of the Vieux Carré turned their backs upon the world and centered their living about these lovely courtyards.

  “Your daughter,” said Uncle Robert suddenly to my mother, “does not reveal her Creole blood to any outward extent.”

  “I resemble my father,” I said quickly, not wanting him to disapprove of me for what I could not help. “My Scottish grandmother had red hair.”

  He smiled and stroked his beard, amused by my quick defense. “It is nothing we can very well change. But your name—that is something else. I find it a harsh name, Louise. One can do nothing to soften it. Has she no second name we can use?”

  Mama shook her head, and though his tone was pleasant enough, she looked more chastened than I had ever seen her. This morning she wore a light-colored frock, creamy as her skin, with only a touch of rosy ribbon for accent. I thought she looked very pretty and young, but it was in vain that she fluttered appealing lashes at her brother. He, at least, was one man who was immune to her charm, and I could not help liking him for it.

  “Skye was her father’s choice as a name,” my mother said. “I wanted to please him. And he felt that no lesser name should come between Cameron and Skye.”

  My uncle’s shrug was French and expressive. “Ah, well. I would never choose to name a girl child for a chilly Scottish island, but the deed is done. And I am pleased with the girl, if not with the name.” He flashed me a smile as charming as my mother’s could be, when she felt like smiling. There was, after all, some resemblance between these two, I decided in surprise.

  Uncle Robert finished his breakfast before the rest of us and excused himself from the table.

  “I must get downstairs to the office,” he told his wife. “I have an important case coming up in court this morning and there is work to be done.” He glanced briefly at Mama. “Please tell your husband that I will visit him later today.”

  He was almost as tall as my father, when he rose, but his shoulders, though he held them well, were less broad. One felt there might be steel in his back, rather than muscle. Again I had an impression of strength and power. Strength was a quality I greatly admired and to find it in my uncle to such a degree gave me a reassuring sense of safety here in his house.

  Mama sighed as he disappeared down the curving stairway at the far end of the gallery. “My brother hasn’t changed in the least,” she murmured. “Or if he has, the iron has bitten even more deeply.”

  Aunt Natalie said nothing, but I felt impelled to take issue with such criticism. “A man without iron in him is hardly a man,” I said.

  “What a child she is!” Mama laughed lightly and smiled at Aunt Natalie. “At Skye’s age one is always an authority on men.”

  There was no answering her. I was beginning to suspect that my mother’s inclination to prejudice against Uncle Robert was based on the fact that he was one man she could not wind about her fingers.

  Aunt Natalie had relaxed visibly at her husband’s going. “Don’t mind, Loulou. He is a brilliant, busy man, with much to worry him. He has been through great trouble since the war, as, heaven knows, we all have.”

  “This Courtney Law who met us last night,” my mother said, “—do I know his family? I seem to remember the name.”

  “You need not hesitate,” my aunt said, laughing a little. “All that is long ago. The families are most excellent friends. But you are right—the name is the one you recall. They still live in the Garden District. It is to Robert’s credit that he has been exceedingly kind where little kindness was due.”

  The conversation had taken a mysterious turn and I was about to ask a question, when Aunt Natalie fixed me with her placid gaze.

  “Are there no men in the North?” she asked my mother. “That this daughter of yours goes unmarried? We must do something about this, now that you have returned to New Orleans.”

  “I hope you will,” Mama said guilelessly, not looking at me. “I’m afraid Skye has grown too particular about young men for her own good.”

  Aunt Natalie seemed aghast. “You don’t mean that you leave it to the child to arrange such matters herself? Where is your good sense, Loulou? The young lack the experience to act with wisdom in such matters. But now that she is here—”

  I couldn’t listen to such talk. I didn’t want to be rude, but Aunt Natalie, and my mother too, must understand that I would not have such Creole ways thrust upon me.

  “I believe Mama married my father for love,” I said. “And I hope to marry for love too.”

  Aunt Natalie was plainly shocked, but before she could continue, her attention was fortunately distracted. A little girl had slipped out of a room on the gallery wing opposite ours. She came toward us like a small bird darting, and there was about her something bright as quicksilver. It lay perhaps in the sunny color of her dress, in the brilliance of her smile and the straight whiteness of her teeth, for her hair and eyes were dark as her father’s. She was thin and quick and very lively. Even when she stood at the table beside me, it was as if everything about her continued to dance. Her gaze flitted quickly over my mother and then rested on me, and I knew it was my hair that held her attention.

  She was, however, a well-bred Creole child, for all that she was only eight. She waited for her mother’s introduction, curtsied politely and bade us bon matin. Only then did she give into what must have been an imperative impulse and darted a hand toward my hair. I felt her small fingers touch lightly as butterfly wings, even as her mother cried out in reproof.

  “But it is beautiful!” Caro said. “Like fire in the sunset. Yet smooth as silk and without burning.”

  “You will apologize to your cousin,” said Aunt Natalie in shocked tones. “One does not touch another’s person, or make comment on the appearance. Think what your papa would say!”

  Caro said softly. “Papa is not here. But I am sorry if I have offended you, Cousin Skye.” She smiled at me winsomely and added in mischief, “I would have touched it anyway. I could not help myself.”

  I loved her at once, this little girl, and I was glad that my hair had won me a friend.

  “I’m on my way to school, Maman,” she said. “Jasper is waiting for me now.” She told us good-by before darting off in the quick way that was characteristically hers.

  Aunt Natalie explained that Robert did not approve of the company of children at daytime meals, so Caro was served alone. At suppertime, unless there were guests, it was necessary that she learn to conduct herself well in adult company—which meant speaking not at all and behaving like a young lady of good family.

  Our meal had come to an end and I asked Mama if it would be possible to visit Papa for a little while.

  She shook her head. “Not yet, Skye. He was still asleep when I looked in. It’s best to let him be.”

  “Then,” I suggested as we rose from the table, “I’d like to go for a walk this morning and see something of the Vieux Carré. Later I must iron my clothes and—”

  Aunt Natalie broke in on my words. “Delphine will of course see that the chambermaid takes care of your frocks. As for walking—my husband does not wish the unmarried ladies of his household to be seen on the s
treet unattended. Fortunately, young Courtney will come Sunday afternoon—day after tomorrow—to take you and your mother for a drive. Then you will have your wish to see something of our city.”

  Already the growing heat of the day was making itself felt and Mama fanned herself languidly with her handkerchief. “I don’t really care to go driving. I’ve no desire at all to go out in the streets of New Orleans.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “But you’ve always spoken with such enthusiasm about the Vieux Carré.”

  “It is different now,” she said sadly. “There is nothing to look forward to. Nothing that matters.”

  This was again the listless woman she had turned into on the train, and she was someone I did not know. I glanced in distress at Aunt Natalie and she misunderstood my look.

  “Don’t concern yourself, my child. You shall have your drive about town. If necessary Delphine may go with you as chaperone.”

  That wasn’t what I had meant, but it startled me further. The edict that I must not go out alone in New Orleans seemed overly protective. At home I walked about as I pleased, and my parents thought nothing of it. Now, it seemed, I must not even go for a drive in public with a young man without taking Delphine along. None of this was to my taste and I saw no reason why I should be forced into so strict a Creole pattern when this had never been my way of life. However, there was nothing I could do about these matters now. Later, perhaps, I would speak to my uncle about them. He had shown sympathy and friendliness toward me and I felt he would not be difficult to talk to.

  Now, for want of anything better to do, I went to my room and laid upon my bed the few dresses I owned which would be suitable for the New Orleans summer. I looked at them with some distaste and wondered what I might wear for the drive with Courtney Law. Somehow my interest in the outing had increased since I knew my mother would not be with us. Perhaps deep in my consciousness there had been a knowledge of how it would be if she came on the ride too.

  I could understand that last night in her utterly weary and distressed state, she would give no thought to any man, however attractive. She had not troubled about her appearance, as she had at the start of the trip, nor had she taken time to be charming to Courtney Law as I was sure she would normally have done. This morning at breakfast, she had made a faint try with my uncle, but now she seemed to have given up again. And though I did not like to see her thus, I could not help but know that the drive would be more pleasant for me because of her absence. It would be something to fill the emptiness to have a man as attractive as Courtney Law bowing over my hand and behaving as though he thought me lovely and desirable. After all, I had come here to escape my former self. Who could know at this point whether Courtney might not figure in this change?