Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

Mama clapped her hands. “A party in the summertime?—lovely! But will anyone come, m’sieu? This is not the season for soirées in New Orleans.”

  “They’ll come all right,” said Justin with confidence. “I’ll persuade my mother to send out the invitations to give the affair the proper tone, and their curiosity will bring them.”

  Courtney spoke between tight lips. “There will be no party here. This is not your house to do with as you please.”

  “Do you mean to say that my mother will begrudge a party to welcome home her long-lost son?”

  “My mother can scarcely afford the expense of such an affair,” Courtney said coldly.

  Justin stared at him. “Scarcely afford? When you have lived in such style all these years? When you have kept up this house as my father left it and—”

  “It is time you knew the truth,” Courtney cut in and I saw a flush creep over his face. “M’sieu Tourneau has kept up the house. While you were making great wealth for yourself in Colorado, we had nothing. Yet now you come here and expect—”

  Justin crossed the room in two long strides and took his brother by the arm. Anger blazed in his eyes. “What are you saying? Surely my father left our mother well cared for! Why should Robert Tourneau—”

  Courtney twisted his arm out of his brother’s grasp. “Perhaps you will recall there was a war which destroyed most fortunes in the South. Had you shown interest in our affairs, you would have understood before this how we live. All our gratitude is given to M’sieu Robert. Not, sir, to you!”

  There was such tension in the room that I felt a real quarrel was about to burst into flame. But Mama stepped provocatively between the two, shook a reproachful finger at Courtney, and tapped Justin with the little fan she carried.

  “What a pity!” she cried. “A summertime party to break the monotony would have been an elegant idea. And you are right, M’sieu Justin—if the invitations were sent by your mother, they would come. To see you!”

  Justin recovered himself smoothly, though I think he was still angry. “Then we’ll have the party. I shall take over the expense myself, naturally, and it will be a party New Orleans will remember.”

  “And I am to be invited?” Mama asked him sweetly.

  “It would scarcely be complete without you,” Justin told her. “And of course we will invite the little wren—your daughter.”

  He threw me a look in which mockery flashed again, but I did not speak to him at all as I picked up the hateful brown hat and went past Courtney out the door. My mother might plan as she pleased, but there would be no party for us, I knew very well. Uncle Robert would undoubtedly be furious at the very idea. Certainly he would never permit the ladies of his household to attend. And that, I told myself as we went out to the carriage, suited me very well indeed.

  NINE

  I had already discovered that rain was a common portion of the weather in New Orleans. One moment there would be a bright blue sky overhead, and in the next, wind would send thunderheads piling toward us, blocking out the sun. Sudden showers were taken for granted and I could see why banquettes were built beneath sheltering galleries, or under the overslope of cottage roofs.

  This morning, however, a week after our visit to the Garden District, no mere shower sprinkled the streets, to leave the day bright and steamy-hot afterwards. The rain came down resoundingly, setting up a great murmur against shutters and galleries. It clattered on shaggy banana leaves, pounded upon rosy courtyard bricks.

  Aunt Natalie had set me to work at a special task in the dining room, and even young Caro, who had stayed home this morning because of the storm, was helping in an inattentive, hummingbird fashion.

  The myriad crystal teardrops of the elaborate chandeliers were, I discovered, to be washed only by the hands of Aunt Natalie herself. Each crystal piece unhooked from the whole and she cleansed it carefully in sudsy water, rinsed and laid it aside to be dried. A sheet had been spread over the dining-room table, and we were working there. Caro and I dried each piece and polished it until it sparkled. Mama had escaped on the pretext that she must read aloud to Papa.

  My mind was scarcely on the task before me. Once more, hatefully, I was going over what had happened in the library of Aurore’s house. My cheeks still grew warm when I remembered Justin’s mockery and my own helpless inability to answer him. These days I found myself too often inclined toward fantasies in which I appeared wearing the little hat he had sent me, and all between us was vastly different. Such futile imaginings could never erase the shameful reality, and all that was practical in me condemned them.

  Caro, too, scarcely had her mind on what she was doing. In spite of reproof from her mother for a lack of attention, her concern lay in the courtyard, and every few minutes she must run to the gallery to look down at the fountain, whose basin brimmed to overflowing in the downpour. Her worry was for the goldfish.

  “There are only five left,” she told me sadly. “Rex and Comus and Momus all got washed out of the fountain during a storm last September. That’s when it really rains. Now just the flower fish are left—Magnolia, Jasmine, Crepe Myrtle, Wisteria, and Camellia.”

  “Such foolish names for fish!” Aunt Natalie said. “Why not let goldfish be goldfish and stop counting them? If we lose them we’ll get more.”

  Caro looked outraged at such callousness and her mother reached over to take a bit of crystal from her perilously waving fingers.

  “If you are to grow up to be a good Creole wife,” Aunt Natalie said, “you must learn to take care of fine crystal and china with your own hands. If you do not learn this well as a child, you will never receive the demande en mariage when you grow up.”

  Caro danced a polka step to the gallery and back before she answered. “But, Maman, when I grow up I shall live in a house that has no chandeliers at all. Not one! I shall take them all out and give them to the Bottle Man. Then I’ll never have to scrub and polish as you do.”

  She skipped lightly about the table singing, “Any bottles, any bones, any rags today?” until her mother clapped her hands sharply and told the child to sit down and be still. It was obvious that she would grow up in ignorance of what it took to manage a house, and no gentleman would ever consider her as a wife.

  I could sympathize with Caro. The task of polishing these crystal dangles seemed to go monotonously on forever. As Aunt Natalie calmly continued to wash and rinse, her plump fingers twinkling in and out of sudsy rainbow bubbles, she spoke of coming plans.

  “We are having a small supper a week from Saturday night,” she told us. “Though this is not the saison des visites it is M’sieu Robert’s wish to invite a few relatives to the house.”

  I listened to her and polished my bits of crystal till they shone, but my thoughts were building fantasies again. I could see myself dressed in a gown more beautiful than any my mother had ever worn. A gown of a pale fern-colored green silk that would set off my hair. And upon my head, of course, was the fern-green hat. I was not sure about my hair, except that its style was different and it had been dressed in a fashion that did not hide its thickness or its color.

  Dressed thus, of course, I had Justin Law at my feet. Ah, what a humble tune he played then, seeking my favor, pleading for a kind glance, a word from me that would ease his sickness of heart. But I was a lady without forgiveness for his former rude ways. I listened remotely to his suit and smiled upon him coolly. No, indeed, I had no intention of—

  “Skye!” Aunt Natalie’s exclamation made me relinquish my childish game. “I have spoken to you twice, Skye. Your thoughts are as wondering as Caro’s.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Just like me,” Caro whispered impishly.

  Aunt Natalie smiled equably upon me. “It is natural for the young to dream. As Robert says, we must soon set about finding you a suitable husband.” She dried her hands on a towel and drew a slip of paper from the pocket of her apron. “I’ve made up my list of guests for the supper. Perha
ps you will do me the favor to take it downstairs to your uncle. Ask him if he approves my choice.”

  “I’ll take it, Maman,” Caro offered quickly, holding out her hand.

  But Aunt Natalie withdrew the paper from her reach. “Pas du tout. You would stop to visit your goldfish and forget what you were about. And you pester Courtney, take his mind from his work. So Skye shall take it, if she will. But don’t interrupt, my dear, if my husband is busy with a client.”

  She handed me the paper, while Caro pretended to pout. I was glad enough to be released, both from the crystal polishing and my make-believe conquests that could never be real. Quickly I went down the curving stairway, to stand for a moment sheltered in the arched passageway where I could watch the curtain of rain shrouding the courtyard beyond. Caro darted after me and stood at the very edge of the rain, staring mournfully at the brimming fountain.

  “It’s growing lighter,” I told her hopefully. “The rain isn’t as heavy as it was. Perhaps it will stop before any harm is done to your goldfish.”

  I left her there and crossed the passageway to mount the few steps to my uncle’s office. The door stood open and I went in. It was my first opportunity to visit these downstairs rooms and I found in this anteroom none of the upstairs luxury. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture plain. A straight brass rod hung from the ceiling, the brass hoop around it supporting bulging globes which shed pale gaslight on the room.

  Near a window open on the rain-beaten street, Courtney sat on a stool at a high desk, a clerk’s green eyeshade fastened over his forehead. The door of the room on the courtyard side was closed and I could hear voices beyond the panel.

  Courtney came down from his stool with alacrity, plainly glad to see me.

  “Why must a man leave so complicated a will?” He sighed. “You’ve come on a lengthy mission, I hope?”

  He was an engaging young man and I liked him increasingly.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s a very brief mission. Only to show Uncle Robert a list of guests Aunt Natalie would like to have approved for her supper a week from Saturday night. You and your mother are to be invited.”

  Courtney’s face brightened at the prospect of a social affair. “Bien. I shall look forward to the occasion. My mother wanted me to apologize for the unfortunate meeting with Justin at our house. Had we known—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “There was no harm done. How is the situation at home?”

  “Worse,” he said, shaking his head. “Now that Justin knows we are indebted to M’sieu Robert for so much, he inquires into every expenditure. He has even had the audacity to speak of taking me into business with him. Like our father, he is interested in shipping. But of course I will have nothing to do with any of his plans.”

  “Do you like the law so much?” I asked.

  It seemed to me that he winced faintly, but his voluble assurance followed. “This is gentleman’s work, at least, Skye. And M’sieu Robert has made many plans for me. It would be ungrateful to disappoint him.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Is there someone with Uncle Robert now?”

  “A valued client,” said Courtney, with a flaring of aristocratic nostrils which told me his opinion of the client was far from high. “But the conference should be over shortly. The lady who consults him is Madame Lobelia Pollock, the proprietress of L’Oiseau d’Or. They should be through shortly.”

  I had heard the name of this “palace of chance” before and remembered it as the place where Justin Law had made considerable winnings.

  “I’ll return in a little while,” I said, and went out of the office.

  In the passageway I stood for a moment feeling cozy and dry in the tunnel it made, with rain still drizzling beyond. The downpour had lessened, however, and as I went toward the courtyard I saw that Caro had run into the wet to stand beside the fountain.

  I called to her softly, hoping her mother wouldn’t hear. She came back to me with raindrops ashine in her dark hair and streaming down her face.

  “I counted every one of the flower fish!” she cried happily. “For once, they seem to have gone sensibly to the bottom.”

  “Then run upstairs quickly,” I told her, “and dry off before someone scolds you.”

  She flew up the stairs and I stood for a moment longer watching the drenched courtyard, with every leaf dripping, every blossom brimming with raindrops. Behind me I heard the opening of a downstairs door and Uncle Robert’s voice bidding someone good day. His client was about to leave, so I could now return to his office with Aunt Natalie’s list.

  As I watched, a woman billowed through the door to an accompanying undulation of purple silks and feathery plumes. She came down the steps and saw me standing near the courtyard. I thought she stared at me rather boldly before she turned toward the street. The woman Courtney had referred to as Madame Pollock came from another world than mine and my interest was caught. Even the name of her gambling house—L’Oiseau d’Or—had an exotic ring. The Creoles, Mama had said, were great gamblers, so hers must be a profitable establishment.

  But I could not stand there being idly curious. I returned to my uncle’s office and was at once invited through the inner door. I found him fanning the air vigorously with a palm-leaf fan to dispel the overwhelming scent of the lady’s perfume.

  He greeted me pleasantly and asked me to take the chair beside his desk. He did not look at Aunt Natalie’s list at once, but went to close the door to the outer office. His thoughts, clearly, were not upon the coming supper.

  “Tell me, Skye, what you think of Courtney Law,” he said, returning to his chair.

  “He seems very pleasant,” I admitted readily. “And he certainly has great admiration and respect for you.”

  Uncle Robert nodded in satisfaction. “He has been like a son to me. I lost my own boy some years ago.”

  “I know,” I said in sympathy.

  “I myself,” he went on, “find Courtney a most admirable and worthy young man. He has excellent Creole blood from his mother’s side, and apparently his father’s blood does not predominate in his character. He is intelligent and while he will not make a brilliant lawyer, I believe he will do well.”

  I waited, saying nothing.

  “It is possible that Courtney Law might make a sound choice for you as a husband, my dear,” he said.

  My mother had warned me in the beginning that Uncle Robert was thinking of Courtney as a husband for me. Perhaps I had misjudged her in dismissing her words. However, coming directly from my uncle, I could regard the suggestion with more tolerance than when it came from my mother. From his viewpoint this must seem something which should make me happy and get me safely married. I had still not made clear to him my feelings about marriage—so different from those of the Creole.

  He smiled at my thoughtful silence, perhaps thinking it the natural hesitation of a girl. “I had hoped my suggestion would meet with greater pleasure,” he admitted. “However, it is natural for a young girl to regard marriage with some trepidation and uncertainty, even though it is of course her chief aim in life.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Robert,” I told him, “but truly it is not my chief aim in life. Not just now at any rate. I like Courtney very much. And I believe he likes me. But I am not yet ready to think of marriage.”

  “Then we have said enough for the present,” he said kindly. “I find in you a certain spirit and strength that would be excellent for Courtney. You would complement each other. And of course, my dear, he will be delighted when he knows that this is my wish for his future. The boy is deeply loyal in his feeling of indebtedness to me. It would be a fine thing to ally our two families more closely.”

  I nodded. “I can understand all that. But, Uncle Robert, I must love a man before I marry.”

  I had put a hand on his desk and he reached out and covered it gently with his own. “The young seldom realize that the truest love comes after marriage. But I shall be patient, my dear, and hope that you wil
l come to see this in a different light. That is why I suggested to my wife that we plan a small supper. It will be an opportunity for you and Courtney to be thrown together. That will not displease you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said and smiled at him warmly. It was good to feel that he had my well-being at heart, and I knew he would never push me into something against my own desire.

  He tapped the list he held in his hand. “This is not what I had in mind. Will you please return it to my wife with my respects and suggest that we merely invite Courtney and Madame Law for this occasion.”

  I took the list and rose, but before I could walk out of the room he stopped me.

  “One moment, Skye.” He reached among the papers on his desk and drew out a square envelope. “This very strange invitation came to me this morning. Perhaps you would like to see it and take it upstairs to my wife.”

  I took the folded sheet of paper from the envelope and looked at it. Justin had lost no time. It was an invitation from Aurore to an informal soirée to be held at her home in the Garden District the end of this week. Uncle Robert and his family were invited. I looked at him questioningly.

  “The audacity!” he murmured. “The enormous audacity of the fellow! This is not, of course, poor Aurore’s doing. Courtney says she was bullied into it.”

  “You will refuse?” I said.

  There was a hint of fire in my uncle’s eyes as he looked at me. “Kindly take this to your aunt and ask that she accept for the family. I wish you all to attend this affair.”

  I regarded him in astonishment. “But I thought—”

  “We cannot embarrass poor Aurore,” he said. “You will be in Courtney’s care and you need speak to the man as little as possible. But I wish you to attend. I shall be there myself, naturally.”

  In my own confusion, I did not know whether or not I wanted to attend. I was not entirely convinced by Uncle Robert’s solicitous thought of Aurore. There was something here I did not understand. Some purpose of his own. But my uncle’s tone rang with finality and I could not question him.