When I’d done what I could about my clothes I went to my father’s room. My mother was just coming out and she whispered to me that I must try to cheer him. I tapped on the door and went in.
A bed stood beside the window that opened on the gallery and my father lay upon it, his lean length covered by a sheet. Against the pillow I saw the gray that had crept into his brown hair, the marks which pain had creased beside his mouth. But his color was better than I had seen it since the accident. A long sleep had apparently been good for him.
I tried to put a cheery note into my voice as I greeted him and asked if he had enjoyed a Creole breakfast. At least he did not turn his head away in broken despair, but looked at me with eyes that were steady enough.
“I can still taste the coffee,” he said dryly.
This was almost a joke; it was certainly an effort and I laughed with a catch in my voice. “You’re looking much better this morning, Papa. I was afraid the long trip might leave you weary for days.”
The lines about his mouth seemed to deepen. “I had hoped the trip would be harder on me than it was,” he said grimly.
I seated myself on a wooden stool near his bed and leaned forward to take his hand in mine. This was the nearest he had come to speaking the thing I feared, the thing I had sensed in his mind ever since he learned he could not hope for recovery. My father, who possessed so much strength and wisdom for others, had none left for himself.
For a while he was still, as if his thoughts had turned far from me. Yet when he spoke, I saw that he had been thinking of me all the time.
“Skye, lassie,” he said, “I’ve not brought this up since—since that day. But tell me now, girl, what of Tom Gilman? What of your feeling for him?”
His words caused me no more than a twinge of hurt and I knew by now that it was due more to hurt pride than to my love for Tom. But I could not altogether meet Papa’s gaze. I hid my face against his arm and spoke softly.
“I’m glad I found out in time. What you did was best for me, and for him too. It is Mama I find hard to forgive. She drew him to her, though he never mattered to her at all. You are her only love, Papa.”
“She should be released from any love for me.” He spoke the words so softly that I hardly caught them.
I raised my head. “What do you mean?”
“No matter for now,” he told me. “It’s glad I am, lassie, that you were mistaken about Tom Gilman. There’ll come a better man for you.”
I made myself smile. “Of course! I shall become a ravishing southern belle—wait and see!”
“That’s my girl,” he said.
He was still weary and his eyelids closed. I longed for the old companionship when I had been able to tell him what I thought and felt, I would have liked now to talk about the restrictions which Creole custom placed upon my actions, and ask him how I might escape them. But plainly he wanted me to go away. Remembering the room with book-filled shelves I’d glimpsed across from the parlor, I asked if he would like something to read. It would be fine if he took an interest in books again. But he still had no wish for them, and I went away and left him alone.
With time on my hands and nothing to do, I decided to look into the library myself. The door to the room stood open and the bookshelves were more clearly visible than they had been by moonlight the night before. I walked in without hesitation and looked about me.
To my surprise this room was even more sumptuously furnished than the first parlor across the hall. Here the wine-red draperies had not been taken down for summer, and the flowered Aubusson carpet was soft beneath my feet. The Napoleonic influence was especially marked, for there was an Egyptian touch to the cornices. The elaborate plaster rosette on the ceiling above the gilded bronze chandelier was formed of Sphinxes’ heads, delicately touched with color. Double doors separated the study from the dining room, but they stood apart now to allow for ventilation, with curtains hung in the opening for privacy.
I forgot the bookshelves for the moment because the room was something of a museum. Collectors’ items graced every small table, hung upon the walls, stood on whatnots in the corners. Satsuma from old Japan, a Chinese Buddha carved in jade, a wall tapestry from medieval France.
Crossed on the wall beside the tapestry were two swords of unusual design. The blade of each had three grooved sides and tapered nastily from hilt to point. Dueling swords? I wondered, recalling New Orleans’ romantic history in the field of dueling.
As I stood absorbed, I heard footsteps in the hall outside and Uncle Robert came suddenly into the room, closing the door behind him. He did not see me at once, but walked directly to a massive mahogany desk, set near the shutters to the street gallery. He unlocked the drop leaf and began searching through papers on the desk. I coughed discreetly to reveal my presence and he started and looked around at me.
“Your library coaxed me in,” I explained. “I thought I might find something to read. But the room is filled with so many fascinating things that I forgot about books.”
He turned from his desk and faced me. Near him was a small rosewood table with an enormous silver warming cover set upon it. Uncle Robert’s fingers sought the silver knob and toyed with it absently. For just an instant I had the feeling that he was not pleased to find me in this room. Then he flashed his winning smile and I realized that I had only startled him. He came forward graciously and took my arm, and I was aware again of the low, musical quality of his voice.
“I’m pleased that you like my study, Skye. You are, I see, admiring my swords.”
“I wondered if they were dueling swords,” I said.
He reached for one of the weapons and took it almost lovingly into his hands. Then in a flash he stepped lithely to the center of the room and set the blade whipping in strokes too lightning-swift for the eye to follow. His skill in fencing was clearly superb.
“That,” he said, as he replaced the weapon upon its rack, “is a colichemarde—the finest of all dueling swords.”
Next he turned to a black leather case upon a table beneath the crossed swords. Opening a silver clasp he turned back the cover of the case lined in green velvet, and I saw that within lay a brace of handsome, silver-mounted pistols.
My mother had told me of how skilled the men of New Orleans had been before the war in the art of dueling. In the cemeteries many tombs bore the legend Mort sur le champ d’honneur. Men had fought with pistols beneath the Dueling Oaks in City Park, she said, in Audubon Park as well, and earlier with swords here in the Vieux Carré in St. Anthony’s Close. Her stories had left me breathless, as a fairy tale might. Now with my own eyes I saw cold steel upon the wall, and the murderous look of pistols, meant not for military battle, or for the defense of a house against marauders, but weapons intended solely for dueling. The reality seemed suddenly less romantic. I looked into my uncle’s face and saw a dark light in his eyes.
“Have you ever fought a duel, Uncle Robert?” I asked.
“Dueling is against the law. I myself was a member of the committee organized to call a halt to the settling of quarrels by means of the duel. Though I must admit that not all of those who joined the committee have abstained from resorting to the pistol. They are, of course, to be condemned.”
“Then you disapprove of dueling, Uncle Robert?”
He looked beyond me, as if into the past. “There was a time in the past when the Code Duello had real meaning in this city. There was a day when the Maîtres d’Armes, the best of fencing masters, taught every gentleman to defend his honor. But when the Americans came they were a clumsy lot who could duel only with pistols. The rapier went out of fashion. Butchers without skill or honor sought to settle their differences with strange weapons. It was better to let an honored custom die, than to see it debased by those of low blood.”
I wished I might have seen Robert Tourneau as a young man. What a dashing, romantic young blade he must have been. There seemed few such men in our time, few whose strength a woman could admire.
; The subject of the duels’ decline had apparently depressed him. He turned from me and went to his desk, searching for the papers he had come to fetch. I sensed that I did not belong in this room and moved quietly toward the door. He came at once to open it for me and just before it blocked my view, I caught sight of a small portrait which hung in a dim corner behind the door. No more than a glimpse did I have of the delicate, warmly colored face of a lovely young girl. It was a haunting, wistful face and I’d have liked a closer look at the portrait, but my uncle had opened the door and there was nothing to do but go.
He bowed me out with his usual courtesy. “Let me know whenever you want reading matter and I’ll be glad to make my library available to you.”
I thanked him and found myself standing in the hallway—with no book in my hands.
FOUR
That first day in New Orleans seemed a long one. I went downstairs to admire the courtyard and in daytime I was able to appreciate for the first time the utter grace of the curved stairway that ran from the third floor down to its enclosed opening on the passageway below. Off the arched allée of the porte-cochere several doors opened, leading into my uncle’s office. In New Orleans most men of the professions had their offices below their living quarters. The dampness, in any event, would be too great downstairs for living comfort.
Probably Courtney Law was in one of those rooms now and I was tempted to look in upon him. But I had already trespassed once this morning, so I turned instead to the courtyard. But while such a court is lovely to look upon and pleasant to sit in during the cool of morning and evening, it can be explored rather quickly and once more I had time on my hands. I walked to the gate that now stood open, and looked out.
What a lively scene the street offered! Drays and carriages, handcarts and brightly dressed colored women with baskets on their heads, all mingled in the gaudy, noisy excitement of Chartres Street. With the morning sun still low in the sky, the narrow streets of the Quarter were still shady and reasonably cool. I was strongly tempted to walk through the Tourneau gate and go my own way, exploring as I pleased. But this was my first day in New Orleans and I decided reluctantly that I had better be on my best behavior.
Only our meals broke the monotony of the long hot day. The dinner meal at noonday was pleasant and leisurely. Uncle Robert had gone to the courthouse and was dining out, so my mother came to the table. At supper that night, however, she pleaded a headache and did not appear.
In the evening Uncle Robert was no longer preoccupied, but pleased with the way his affairs had gone that day. A case had been concluded and won, and as a consequence he was relaxed, his conversation rapier-quick and stimulating. Even small Caro, who sat erect at the table on a backless stool, to teach her spine good habits, listened with respectful attention.
The dining room had great charm and grace in my eyes that night. It was high-ceilinged and spacious, with the usual elaborate plaster rosette, from the center of which hung a glittering chandelier, dripping with crystal and ashine with lighted candles. We dined entirely by candlelight—branched candelabrum on the high sideboard, and more silver candlesticks on the table. The silver tureen which held the gumbo of shrimp and okra and tomato, reflected myriad lights in its gleaming surface.
My uncle considered gas an unpleasant light and would not have it used except in his office and in the courtyard. So oil lamps and candles were still in use throughout the house.
Closed shutters had sheltered the rooms all day and now cool air from the courtyard stirred pleasantly through the rooms. I could feel its breath on my cheeks and around my ankles. Again there were no draperies, no rugs, but only matting on the floor. Aunt Natalie explained that it was the custom to strip the rooms for summertime living, and thus keep them refreshingly cool. During the winter rugs would be put down right over the matting. Only in his study did my uncle refuse to give up the luxury of rugs and draperies. But Uncle Robert never minded the heat. He preferred it any time, he said, to the damp cold of winter.
The meal had come nearly to an end when there was an unexpected interruption. Delphine slipped quietly into the room and stood at Uncle Robert’s elbow. He looked up at her, nodding permission for her to speak.
“It is M’sieu Courtney. He has returned from his mother’s house and is most distrait. He wishes to see you at once, m’sieu.”
Uncle Robert did not look altogether pleased. “We do not interrupt a meal with unpleasantness. Surely his affairs will keep. Show the boy upstairs and have a place set for him. He can join us for dessert, and we will talk later.”
Delphine hesitated as if she wanted to say more. Then she bowed her head and went away. Courtney came running upstairs before a place had been set, and while he restrained himself with an effort and managed to walk into the room at a decorous pace, it was plain that he was upset.
He murmured his apologies to Aunt Natalie, Caro and me, and went straight to the head of the table to speak to my uncle. He did not seem to see the long-fingered hand Uncle Robert raised to stop him, but burst at once into words.
“Forgive me, m’sieu. It is most urgent. My mother has sent me here. It concerns my brother Justin. He has returned to New Orleans. Indeed, m’sieu, he has moved into our house today, though my mother has no wish to have him there.”
I looked at Uncle Robert and saw that this news, whatever it signified, was of concern to him too. His lips tightened into a thin line and, pushing his serviette aside, he rose from the table.
“You will excuse me, madame?” he said to his wife, bowed courteously to me and to his small daughter, then led Courtney from the room. They went into the study at the front of the house, and beyond the curtains which divided study and dining room, I heard the double doors being closed.
Aunt Natalie sighed and spooned her blancmange. “What a shame that Courtney could not allow my husband to finish his dinner in peace. I’m sure I don’t know what this can be about. The brother has been away from New Orleans for many years.”
Caro, released from the restraint of her father’s presence, bounced on her stool. “He has been in prison, Maman! He is the one who is a murderer, is he not?”
Aunt Natalie shook her head in reproof. “You must not say such violent things, Caroline. These are not matters for the attention of a jeune fille.”
“But once I heard Papa tell you that this man has a—a criminal record,” said Caro, with a bird-quick glance at me to make sure I was impressed with her knowledge. “So what can he be but a thief or a murderer?”
“Voilà tout!” cried Aunt Natalie. “Not another word!” She clasped her hands in a despairing gesture and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Until you have the years to be sensible, you must not listen to adult conversation.”
Caro subsided and gave her attention to her dessert. But her bright dark eyes continued to watch me across the table, to see how I responded to her startling information.
Aunt Natalie went on calmly. “Poor Aurore, Courtney’s mother, will be most disturbed. What happened long ago was very sad for her, and this will bring it all back. At the beginning of the war Harry Law, her husband, fled from the South. Aurore is a second cousin of my husband and if it had not been for Robert’s quick action, Harry might have been put in prison here, perhaps shot as a spy. For Aurore’s sake, Robert helped him to escape—though of course this was not known except by members of the family. It entailed much risk for Robert.”
“So Aurore was left with two children to raise by herself?” I asked.
“No—one child only. Justin is seven years older than Courtney—he was about ten or eleven at the time—and he chose to go with his father. Harry Law died some years later, far away in Colorado. The older son has never returned to New Orleans until now. After this long abandonment and with the poor reputation he has gained for himself, his presence will hardly be welcome to Aurore and Courtney.”
Uncle Robert and Courtney returned to the table just then, and the young man was prevailed upon to sit down and join us in desse
rt. My uncle took only coffee. He was plainly shaken. His lips were pressed tight at the corners and once his cup clattered in the saucer as he set it down. What had happened that could so disturb a man like Robert Tourneau? I wondered.
Courtney at length roused himself and turned to me with the same attentive manner I had noted before. He was, he said, looking forward to escorting me about the Vieux Carré Sunday afternoon. I told him how happy I’d be to go, and our words broke the strained silence that had settled upon the table. While we finished our meal, Aunt Natalie, Courtney and I talked idly of unimportant matters. My uncle, darkly preoccupied with his own thoughts, made no effort to join in.
Viewed across the table, Courtney Law seemed even better-looking than I had thought him before. On the walls of this very room were several family portraits and I had observed that the women were extraordinarily beautiful, the men handsome in a way not at all like the more rugged good looks of northern men. Courtney bore a strong resemblance to these gently distinguished Creole portraits. His manners were charming and courteous. He could pay every lady, including young Caro, quick compliments that carried the ring of sincerity. His respect and admiration for my uncle was evident in every look he turned Uncle Robert’s way, and I liked that in him. He was an altogether admirable and attractive young man and I could look forward to going out with him.
Skye Cameron Page 4
