Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  The busy life of a New Orleans morning engulfed me and I walked briskly now, with a sense of release and freedom. The narrow streets teemed with vehicles, from pushcarts to elegant carriages, and vendors were abroad as usual. The odd figure of a chimney sweep ducked past me at a crossing. He wore a frock coat too big for him and two top hats, one above the other, both the worse for wear. His long-drawn-out cry of “Ramonez la cheminée …” rang out above other calls.

  I walked past the ancient building of the Ursuline Convent that Courtney had identified for me, and looked through the gate at a peaceful garden. But my goal lay farther on and I quickened my steps. Jackson Square had invited me before. I would find a place on one of its benches and be utterly alone.

  My plans, however, were unexpectedly interrupted. A square away from my destination, I saw Caro and big Jasper approaching me. The little girl was coming home from her music lesson and when she saw me she ran toward me eagerly.

  “Cousin Skye! You are out alone! Did they permit you? Does my papa—”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” I told her hastily as Jasper hurried to catch up with his charge.

  “Where are you going?” Caro demanded. And then, without waiting to be told, let her words run on. “Take me with you, Cousin Skye! If I go home now I must study lessons and practice and embroider. And oh, the morning is so beautiful! Please let me come with you.”

  She was such an eager, dancing little thing that I could not resist her. Perhaps if we stayed together there would be less trouble at home because of my escape. We could chaperone each other.

  “Very well,” I told her and tried to make my nod to Jasper casual. “I will take charge of Miss Caro. We will go for a little walk through the Square and come home shortly.”

  Jasper looked doubtful, but Caro entreated him. “Do go home and let us be,” she pleaded. “I’ll be perfectly safe with Cousin Skye, and you needn’t tell them right away at home. Need you, Jasper?”

  Quite clearly, Caro was a favorite with Jasper, and he gave her a sympathetic smile. “You’ll catch it for sure, li’l missy,” he said. His glance in my direction told me that I would probably catch it too. But Jasper’s heart was kind and he went off, leaving us to continue toward the Square.

  Caro giggled as she watched him go. “He’ll be slow,” she told me. “He’ll give us lots of time on purpose. And we can take our punishment bravely later. We Creoles are most courageous people. Did you know that, cousin? Come now, let’s hurry.”

  When we reached the high iron fence that enclosed the Square we found a colored woman in starched white apron and bright tignon selling pralines nearby. Feeling like a child on holiday, I bought one for Caro and one for me. The woman thanked me in the strange patois I had heard on all sides in Creole New Orleans.

  “That’s Gombo,” Caro explained. “It’s a mixture the Negroes began to use when they came here in the early days.”

  We moved on, nibbling at our delicacies, but in spite of Caro’s urging, I did not seek the nearest gate of the Square at once. For a few minutes I stood admiring the grace of the structures across the street. Here towered the triple steeples of the St. Louis Cathedral, flanked on either side by arcaded Spanish buildings.

  “How beautiful they are,” I murmured, and Caro tugged at my hand.

  “You can see them better from the Square. Do come along, before someone is sent after us!”

  We moved on, but just as we reached the gate, with its iron lampposts towering on either side, my eyes were caught by the appearance of a woman in the doorway of the Cathedral. She wore a brilliant gown of purple satin, swathed very tight in front and swirling about her feet in tiny multiple pleats. On her head was a large hat, its ostrich plumes waving in agitation.

  I recognized her as the proprietress of the gambling place, L’Oiseau d’Or. “Madame Pollock,” Courtney had called her, though there was nothing in the least French about her.

  At the moment the woman was plainly disturbed. She looked frantically in either direction up and down the street. Anxiously she questioned two or three people who went by. All shook their heads and she twisted her hands together in anxiety. Then she saw us, frankly watching by the gate. Picking up her purple skirts to keep them free of dirt, she sprang across the gutter and fairly ran toward us, her plumes heaving as she came. By the time she reached us her large bosom was panting heavily beneath its purple encasing.

  “Have you seen a little boy of about ten?” she gasped. “The child has run away and I don’t know which way to look.”

  We could only shake our heads, having noticed no small boy.

  “I thought he might have gone into the church, but I can’t find him there. I must catch him before he gets too far away!”

  “If he wanted to run away,” Caro said, “he’d surely stay out in the sun.”

  The woman looked at her quickly, as if noting the child for the first time. Now that she was close I could see the face beneath the tossing plumes. Her papery-white skin was plainly touched with rouge and so were the lips of her full and generous mouth, twisted now in anxiety. Between mascaraed eyelashes, her eyes were a lively blue. Her hair, piled high in coils of metallic gold beneath the overwhelming hat, had an oddly greenish tinge. She bent toward Caro eagerly.

  “Well, then, where do you think he has gone?” she demanded.

  “I know where I’d go,” Caro said. “I’d run straight into the Square. And if I went into the Square, I’d most certainly go to look at the statue of General Jackson.”

  “Come help me find him, there’s a good girl,” the woman beseeched. “He’s a slippery one and I can’t move as fast as he can.”

  Caro went with her readily as she hurried through the gate. I had no choice but to follow. Along the outer rim of the Square trees and bushes grew in profusion—palms of various kinds, banana trees, oleanders and many others. But around the central enclosure were open walks and lawns. The statue, high on its pedestal in the center, was visible at once.

  The bronze figure of the man who had once saved New Orleans from the British sat astride a great horse prancing on its hind legs. The General held his hat aloft and wind from the river seemed to lift the hair on his head. Time had turned the statue to the greenish hue of weathered bronze and there were lacings of soot in every sculptured fold.

  Our strange companion, however, had no time for the admiring of statues. She followed one of the broad paths the circled the enclosure like the strands of a spider web, and turned onto one that rayed toward the center. Caro, not troubling with paths, darted ahead across the grass. Thus it was she who reached the far side of the statue first and turned back to us in triumph.

  “I was right! Your little boy is here looking at General Jackson.”

  Lobelia Pollock billowed plumply along ahead of me, puffing with mingled relief and annoyance. Even before she rounded the statue and could see the child, she began to scold.

  “You’re a naughty boy, Lanny! To worry your Aunty Lobelia like this. You know you are never to leave the apartment alone. Never to—” At that moment the other side of the statue must have come into view, for she broke off and halted in astonishment.

  A second later I saw what had startled her and I too stopped in surprise. Her Lanny was not alone. He was a thin boy, rather tall for his age, and he stood planted on the walk with legs astride, his hands behind his back as he stared up, not at the statue, but into the face of the man beside him. The stranger with whom he discussed the statue was Justin Law.

  Justin stood as the boy who imitated him, with legs apart and hands behind his back, head tilted as he studied the equestrian figure above him. I had schooled myself to patience and a mild, friendly manner when I saw him again. But I couldn’t help the hurried thumping of my heart. Since I stood almost behind him, some distance back on the path, he did not discover me at once.

  Not one of the three paid any attention to “Aunty Lobelia,” who now bore down upon them in a purple cloud of alarm. She would have snatched
at the boy’s thin shoulder to whirl him about, had Justin not turned and fixed her with an abrupt, cold look.

  “Ah?” he said. “Madame Pollock. We have met in your establishment, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Mrs. Pollock gaped at him for a moment as though she could not recover her wits. Then she snatched at the boy again. But Lanny wriggled out of her grasp and retreated behind Justin. I saw that the boy was straightly built, a handsome child, for all his fragile bones. His hair and eyes were dark, and his skin rather too white for health. He had a bit of the Creole look about him and I wondered about his connection with the far from Creole Mrs. Pollock.

  Now, from his sheltered post behind Justin, he spoke to her courteously. “This gentleman has been telling me about the statue. Do you see how the horse balances without other support on the hind legs? This is an amazing feat of the sculptor. Do you see—”

  “Never mind that!” Mrs. Pollock snapped. “Come here to me this minute. We must go home at once.”

  The boy did not move, and Justin was plainly laughing at the irate and frantic lady. There seemed to be an impasse. Until now Justin had not seen me, but Caro turned to draw me into the circle.

  “Do come over here, Cousin Skye,” she entreated. “Then you can see better. All the times I’ve looked at General Jackson before, I’ve never noticed how he was balanced.”

  Justin turned also and for a moment his eyes rested on me, cool and remote. There was in them no recognition of a woman he had held in his arms. He swept his broad-brimmed hat from his head and made me an elaborate bow.

  “Good morning, Miss Cameron,” he said formally.

  Mrs. Pollock gave me a quick, sharp look in which there was tardy recognition of me as someone she had seen at the Tourneau house. And with recognition her anxiety seemed to increase. She did not wait for my “Good morning,” but stamped her foot and shouted at the boy.

  “If you don’t come here at once, you’ll get a good beating when I have you home, sir!”

  “A poor way to encourage cooperation,” Justin said. “Why not let the boy stay for a while and play in the Square?”

  Caro jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, yes! Please let him stay and play with me!”

  This was too much for Mrs. Pollock. She made a sudden swoop around Justin and caught the boy by the arm—firmly this time, so that he could not wriggle free.

  “We’ll go now and that’s all there is to it. I’ll swear, no lock and key ever seems to hold you. You’re a real bad boy, Lanny.”

  He gave up struggling and went with her dejectedly. But before she took off, Mrs. Pollock stopped beside me and spoke in a low, anxious voice.

  “Would you mind, dearie—I mean, I’ll be in your debt if you’ll just say nothing to your uncle about seeing me today.”

  “Why should I say anything to him?” I asked in surprise.

  Her gaze shifted from mine. She gave Lanny a little shake and pulled him away without answering. As he went with her he called back to Caro pleadingly.

  “Please come visit me! I live right over there in the upper Pontalba building.” He waved one hand toward the rows of buildings that lay uptown from the Square.

  Mrs. Pollock hurried him off toward a gate and out of our sight. I glanced at Justin and he raised an eyebrow mockingly.

  “Another lady who thinks me the devil, apparently. I suppose she can’t forgive me for clipping the wings of her Golden Bird the other night.”

  Caro’s attention swung back to the big blond man before us. “What does that mean—clipping its wings? That is a place where gentlemen play games of chance. I have heard my father speak of it.”

  “And I was there, taking my chances,” Justin told her smiling. “My name is Law, mademoiselle, if I may present myself. At your service, Miss Tourneau.”

  Caro’s mouth shaped itself into an “O” of astonishment. I grasped her hand nervously, but she was not to be stopped.

  “Then you must be the wicked brother of whom they speak! But you were very kind to that boy Lanny, monsieur, and I do not think you can be as wicked as they say.”

  I flushed, but Justin’s laughter rang out in enjoyment.

  “I wish all young ladies had your perception, mademoiselle,” he told Caro.

  She twirled about in self-conscious delight, and then stopped with a squeal of dismay. “Oh, dear! There’s Delphine looking for us.”

  I followed the direction of Caro’s pointing finger and saw Delphine as she moved beyond the iron fence, approaching the gate on Chartres Street. I might have known they would send her after us. She reached the gate and entered the Square, approaching regally down one of the rayed walks, her head high and her hands crossed before her. There was nothing hurried about her advance, but she came toward us as implacably as fate.

  I glanced again toward the monument of horse and rider, expecting to see Justin watching my predicament in amusement. But he had disappeared, and I felt both relieved and disappointed. He must have taken himself off when Caro called out that Delphine was coming. At least it would not be reported to Uncle Robert that I had again been in the company of this man he did not like. But how tantalizing it had been to see him like this, in public, and never exchange a direct word with him.

  “Come along, Caro,” I said and we walked slowly to meet our guardian.

  On the way Caro whispered that Delphine wasn’t a bit like Jasper. She would run to Papa with everything. Now we would be scolded for lingering in the Square.

  Delphine, however, made only one remark. A young lady who was bien élevée, she said, did not leave her home unescorted. It was not clear which young lady she addressed, but I’m afraid we both looked guilty and chastened. At least she had not seen us in the company of either Justin Law or Mrs. Pollock. I was sure no young lady who was “bien élevée” would associate with Lanny’s odd protector.

  As we went home with Delphine I wondered about Lobelia Pollock. She had seemed almost frantic there in the Square. And why had she asked me to say nothing to Uncle Robert about seeing her? There was something here that I did not in the least understand.

  FOURTEEN

  When we reached home Aunt Natalie greeted me with sad reproach.

  “I realize, my child, that you are unaccustomed to our ways, and not to be held entirely accountable until you learn. But among les bonnes familles Creole ways are to be respected. Your uncle feels that it is necessary to live our lives according to a gentil pattern of which he approves. You understand, chérie—it is the only way.”

  I felt that it could never be the only way for me, but I did not want to distress her further. My Aunt Natalie’s one function as a good Creole wife was to please her husband and keep him contented. My father, however, had taught me to think for myself and it was not in me to conform so meekly to the unreasonable.

  Aunt Natalie saw my rebellious expression and tried to cheer me. “We will forget this now. Tonight we have a little party among ourselves, you remember. That handsome young man, Courtney Law, is coming to supper. And you will be gay, you will enjoy yourself.”

  I had forgotten about the invitation to Courtney and his mother, and I could not look forward to it with anything but concern. By now Uncle Robert had undoubtedly made his wishes known to Courtney. And Courtney had already told me that for him my uncle’s wishes were law. This might be an evening of grave embarrassment for me.

  When I saw Courtney I would know his reaction at once, I thought, and braced myself against the first sign of too affectionate attention.

  But Courtney surprised me that night. He took my hand with his usual gallant air when we met, but his eyes were grave and seemed to probe my own. Beneath the gallantry was someone I did not know. He conversed readily with my uncle, but he did not banter with the ladies as he usually did, or flatter us outrageously. There was a subdued quality about him tonight that I could not decipher. One thing in particular I noted. He paid little attention to my mother, seeming not to see her small efforts to gain his i
nterest. No longer was he an entranced young man who could not take his eyes from the charming Louise Cameron.

  This in itself told me that my uncle had spoken to him, yet I could not read Courtney’s reaction. His attention to me was so grave and quiet that perhaps it signified resistance. I began to wonder if I might, after all, find an ally in Courtney. Together we could surely convince Uncle Robert that marriage should not be thrust upon us by the wishes of others.

  The meal was especially delicious that night and I was able to enjoy my pompano as I had not expected to in Courtney’s company. I wondered if there would be any opportunity to talk to him frankly, so that we might both lay our cards on the table and perhaps decide how best to meet Uncle Robert’s desire for us.

  But it was never the Creole custom to leave two of the opposite sex together when both were young and unmarried. When we rose from the table, Aunt Natalie came with us into the parlor and sat there cheerfully with her embroidery work. Mama would have joined us gaily, trying to coax Courtney into laughter and fun, but Uncle Robert asked her into his study for a talk and she went with him regretfully.

  I wondered if Uncle Robert meant to chide her for her irresponsible flirtation with Courtney, and perhaps tell her of his hopes for me. I sat on the small sofa beside Justin’s brother and could find nothing at all to say that I would want Aunt Natalie to hear.

  Courtney did his best. He spoke of the weather, of the fine meal we had eaten, of an odd case that had come up in court, but his usual animation was lacking. Uncle Robert’s wishes lay between us like a barrier across which we looked at each other with reserve and self-consciousness.

  Nearby was a china vase filled with sand, in which several palm-leaf fans had been stuck. I reached for one and began to fan myself nervously. At once Courtney took the fan from my hand and moved it gently back and forth, stirring the air against my hot face.

  Aunt Natalie looked at us fondly. “Perhaps you will find it cooler on the street gallery,” she suggested, and I could have blessed her. She thought, of course, in her innocent way, that she was aiding young love. On the street gallery we would still be well chaperoned, yet perhaps we could talk.