Skye Cameron

by Phyllis A. Whitney

I gazed anxiously up and down the long stretch of docks.

  This was wholly a man’s world, but though curious glances were flung our way, no one spoke to us, and Justin was nowhere in sight. Not knowing which way to turn, I stood for a moment watching the river.

  At our feet the current ran quick and strong, marked here and there by small whirlpools and eddies, the far shore line low and green, dotted with the houses of Algiers. Behind us, through an open shed we could glimpse the buildings of the French Quarter curiously below the river. Since the Mississippi was higher than the town, it was only the levee that kept it from flooding New Orleans out of existence.

  I raised my hot face to the touch of a fresh, clean wind and breathed deeply, trying to still the turmoil of anxiety within me. For a little while I could stand here, waiting. But what if he did not come? What if he had been joking this morning when he had said that he would be on the docks, thinking perhaps that I would never come here?

  “In a little while I believe it will rain,” said Lanny’s voice, small and apologetic beside me.

  I squeezed his hand contritely. I should not have brought him with me, when I had no heart for his problems just now. I noted the boiling of dark clouds that rolled up one edge of the sky, but I did not care whether it rained or not. With the wind and brilliant light flooding over me, I breathed the river smell, not wholly pleasant, but sharp and invigorating, and I stood there waiting.

  In the end it was Lanny who saw him first. The boy’s cry of recognition made me turn. Justin Law had stepped out of a shed below us, in conversation with a river captain in a blue uniform and visored cap. His appearance startled me a little. Always before I had seen Justin more carelessly dressed than any Creole gentleman. His vests were often bright and there was a western curl to the wide brim of his gray hat. Today he wore the light-colored clothes commonly adopted by New Orleans men in the summer months, and a neatly ribboned straw hat which did not suit him as well as the gray. But he was still a giant, even among these rivermen.

  Lanny, less inhibited than I, called out to him and Justin glanced in our direction, bowed slightly, and returned to his conversation. His seeming indifference brought a wave of scarlet to my cheeks. How little he must want to hear anything I had to say. Yet I must wait for the moment when he would come toward us of his own accord.

  Before I could stop him, Lanny dashed off down the dock to join Justin and the river captain. Justin seemed to welcome him and I saw him introduce the boy to his companion. I looked away, studying the roiling brown of the river, my mind busy with the words which must be spoken when the opportunity came.

  It had been wrong to ask Justin for help without telling him the truth. There must be honesty between us if he was going to assist Courtney and me to get out of town. He must understand the truth of what I meant to do, the reason for my doing it.

  Lanny called to me, waving excitedly, and pointing to a nearby river boat. The captain shook hands with Justin and then led Lanny up a gangplank and aboard the boat—clearly for a tour of inspection. Justin came toward me alone. So the problem of Lanny had been solved as simply as that.

  I watched the man who approached me—this stranger of whom I had known nothing only a few months before—and who would never be a stranger to me again. In all that world of river and sun and wind there seemed only we two.

  As he reached my side, Justin took off the incongruous straw hat with a sudden careless gesture and sent it skimming through the air to land at a distance upon the drifting surface of the water.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that!” he cried. “And I’m glad to be rid of the thing.”

  The wind ruffled his bright hair and beneath it his face had a look of laughter in it—laughter without mockery—that I had never seen before. Somehow the tension in me lessened and I heard myself laughing too, a sound that rang strange and deceptively carefree in my ears. The straw bobbed away on the river’s surface, sailing toward the Gulf.

  At the sound of my laugh, Justin turned toward me. “You’ve worn the green hat and you can laugh out loud. New Orleans is having an effect on you, Skye. How foolish you were to think you needed to rival your mother. You need only be yourself.”

  “I know that now,” I said.

  “Why did you want to see me again?”

  “I had to talk to you. If you are to help your brother, then you must know the truth about us. I am not marrying him for love.” Now that I’d spoken them so abruptly, the words sounded callous in my ears, though that was far from what I intended.

  Justin’s expression was cool again, watchful. He waited for me to continue.

  “You’ve met my father,” I said. “You know how fine and brave he is. He is recovering from an illness of the spirit and that is more important to me than anything else in the world.”

  “I like him,” Justin said simply.

  “Yet if I don’t agree to marry Courtney, Uncle Robert will no longer keep my father in his house. And there is nowhere else for him to go. Nowhere at all.”

  Justin said nothing, but his gaze did not leave my face.

  “There has never been any pretense of love between Courtney and me,” I went on quickly. “This is a marriage arranged in the Creole fashion. But I will do my best to make it a good marriage, for my part of the bargain. This is what I wanted you to know.”

  I turned from him, lest he see the tears that sprang into my eyes, betraying too much. The dark cloud climbing the sky had blotted out the sun and a sudden splatter of rain stung my cheek. Across the river rain pelted, sudden and heavy. I could see the pin-point beating of the drops speeding toward us across the water. Yet I stood helpless and silent, staring at the swift-flowing river.

  “Come along,” said Justin gently. He took my arm and we moved quickly to the shelter of a shed. Both sides stood open, but the ends were closed and we could step behind a row of wooden barrels out of the wet, shielded by hogsheads and bales.

  The sky had darkened and it was shadowy here in the end of the deserted shed. Once more I had the feeling that we two were alone in all this river world that was now being beaten into fury by the rain. And being alone, we drew inevitably together. Justin’s hands were not to be denied. Unquestioning, unresisting, I went into his arms. He bent his head and put his mouth against my own until my lips ached with longing. This was my love. The only love I would ever know, or want to know. His arms, his mouth, told me wordlessly that I was his. He held me so tightly that I came near to crying out, though not with pain.

  “My dear,” he said and kissed me again with only tenderness in his touch.

  This was as I had dreamed it could be, with love and gentleness between us, yet with a fire ready to blaze such as I’d never known back in those cold New England days.

  He kissed my eyelids lightly and once more my mouth, then held me away and looked at me. “I’m glad you told me, Skye. I’ve tried to make you hate me, yet I could not truly want you to, even though I never meant you to be caught in this trap.”

  I looked at him with love in my eyes and hardly puzzled over the meaning of his words. How could it be a trap, when a man and a woman loved and longed for each other, as we two did?

  But his words ran on, sudden and bewildering. “It’s been hard to keep away from you. We mustn’t see each other again, Skye. What’s between us is too hard to deny.”

  I heard him in bewilderment. He put me aside and went to stand where he could look out at the storm upon the river. I saw the rain visible beyond him like a streaming gray curtain that he might fade into at any moment, and fear went whipping through me. The words he spoke had no meaning. We loved each other. That was all that mattered.

  I was wrong, of course.

  He spoke to me over his shoulder without looking at me. “Marry Courtney soon, Skye. Get him away from New Orleans as quickly as you can.”

  “Marry Courtney!” I hated the way my voice trembled and broke. “But how can I marry Courtney when—when I—”

  He turned quickl
y. “Forget about me, Skye. For the record has been written. For you life lies ahead. Look—the rain is lessening. Let’s get the boy and I’ll take you home.”

  The change came too sharply after the feeling I’d had in his arms. This was some sort of dreadful dream from which I must surely waken. How could he hold me as he had and then put me so quickly out of his life? He beckoned and I went to him dazedly, too choked and confused to question. He took my hand gently in his and we stepped together into the wet, steaming world of river and docks. The shower was over and the sun glared behind thin clouds.

  “Wait,” I said, holding back. “It can’t be like this. You must tell me why—”

  But there was no time to tell me, even if he would. Lanny stood on the drenched deck of the river boat, looking for us. When he saw us, he bade his friend the captain good-by, then ran down the gangplank, skipping puddles on the dock as he came. So full of his adventure was he, so thrilled by new discoveries, that he did not notice the strangeness that lay upon Justin, or my own subdued manner. With the boy between us, we walked down the steps and across the tracks toward Jackson Square.

  It seemed to me that I moved blindly, not knowing where I went, more confused than alarmed by what had happened. I could not yet believe his final words. I was glad that he kept the boy talking, while I groped for understanding.

  “Have you always lived in New Orleans?” he asked the child.

  Lanny formed the answer softly, as if this were a subject to be spoken of with tenderness. “Most of my life I have lived with my Grand’mère in the bayou country of Louisiana.”

  “She was a Cajun then?” Justin inquired, though I knew he spoke absently, and that his thoughts too were elsewhere.

  “Grand-père was a Cajun,” Lanny said. “When Grand’mère was a young girl she ran away from her Creole family in New Orleans to marry him. Grand-père was drowned in a storm long ago—I do not remember him.”

  Through my daze I listened to Lanny and thought vaguely that this was how the child came by his lovely manners, his somewhat adult courtesy—through a Creole grandmother.

  “And what of your grandmother now?” Justin asked gently.

  “She is dead,” said Lanny and glanced up at us with tears in his eyes.

  It was clear that he did not want to speak of what had happened since his grandmother’s death, and Justin questioned him no further.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When we reached the Pontalba building where Lanny lived with Lobelia Pollock we went through the door to the lower hallway and stood for a moment below the curving sweep of stairway. It was not in me at that moment to take any decisive action of my own. I waited only for Lanny to leave us, so that I might be alone with Justin. Perhaps then I might question him, entreat him to explain what I did not understand.

  Lanny touched me lightly on the arm, sensing that my attention was far away. “If you please, mam’zelle—if you could come with me upstairs, perhaps explain—”

  “We’ll both go up with you,” Justin said. “Between the two of us, perhaps we can save you a scolding.”

  Mrs. Pollock lived on the second floor and as we stopped before the door Lanny indicated, I heard the sound of voices arguing within. Those were Mrs. Pollock’s tones, a bit harsh and rough, then a fainter voice with a slight whine to it.

  “They are angry because I have run away again,” Lanny whispered.

  Justin lifted the knocker and the sound of it went echoing through the hall. At once there was silence within, followed by the sound of heels clicking across a bare floor, and the door was opened so that Mrs. Pollock could peer out at us. If I had thought her eye-stopping before in her purple and plumes, I was now stunned by her appearance in an evening gown of glittering cerise, with a low decolletage and a train that swished spangles across the bare, grimy floor. The woman, undoubtedly, was dressed for her work at L’Oiseau d’Or.

  She gasped at the sight of us and moved as if to reach for Lanny and shut the door in our faces. Justin, however, had rudely put his foot against it.

  “We’ve brought Lanny home,” I said quickly. “We hope you won’t punish him because he came with us for a little walk.”

  Mrs. Pollock paid no attention to my words. She stared at Justin with the same look of alarm and dismay that I had seen in her face that other time in the Square, and which seemed out of any proportion to the cause.

  Something about her look, her extreme anxiety, made Justin suspicious. He pushed open the door and went past her into the apartment. From where I stood the room lay framed before me. After bright sunlight outside, the shuttered dusk made it hard to discern details for a moment. I was aware of lofty proportions and a grandeur that no spare and sleazy furniture could lessen. Across the carpetless floor stood a couch upon which reclined the shadowy figure of a woman. Over the mantelpiece behind her rose a great mirror, the glass marred by a cobweb of cracks. The chandelier which must have lighted this room in more auspicious days was gone, and the plaster rosette on the ceiling was grime-encrusted.

  Lobelia Pollock, breathing a cloud of heavy perfume as she moved, stepped backward before Justin, every sequin aquiver as she fluttered her hands at him angrily.

  “How dare you force your way into my rooms, sir! How dare you—”

  “I will leave, madame,” Justin said, “when you tell me why you run like a scared chicken every time you see me. Why do you snatch the boy away, as if I might harm him? If you will explain—”

  Across the room the figure on the couch sat up with a cry of alarm and Justin broke off. There was a moment of pulsing silence while they stared at each other. It was Justin who spoke first.

  “Isabelle!” he said in a cold, sharp tone.

  Lobelia Pollock pounced upon Lanny and pulled him away from me. “Now the fat’s in the fire for certain!” she wailed. “Go to your room, boy. At once. Close the door and stay there until I come for you. You’ve been naughty enough for one day.”

  Lanny threw me an anguished look and fled before her anger. The woman on the couch had risen and was staring at Justin as if she saw an apparition. For the first time I could see her clearly.

  I know now that she was a younger woman than my mother, but at that moment she looked far older. Her hair was a metallic yellow, with darker patches betraying its true color at the roots. She was pretty in a faded way and rouge touched her lips and cheeks. Her mauve-colored dress was shabby, but still theatrical in its color and style. She looked exactly what she was—a third-rate actress out of work.

  As I watched her, not understanding any of this, she raised one trembling hand to smooth the brassy yellow hair back from her forehead. Then, with a little moan, she crumpled to the floor in a faint.

  “Now you’ve done it!” said Mrs. Pollock sharply to Justin. “Well, don’t stand there. Pick your wife up and put her on the sofa.”

  I heard the words clearly, but I could not at first understand them. Shock and disbelief held me like a woman frozen.

  Justin went to where the woman lay and lifted her in his arms. Then he laid her upon the sofa and put a cushion beneath her head. In a moment Lobelia was there with wet cloths and smelling-salts, and Justin stepped aside, plainly shaken.

  “The boy is my son?” he asked Lobelia.

  She paused in her ministrations and stared up at him indignantly. “The boy belongs to his mother. You’ve no right to him at all.”

  “He is my son,” Justin repeated softly, as if he did not hear her.

  On the sofa the blond woman stirred, recovering consciousness. She struggled to sit up, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Don’t let him touch me!” she cried shrilly.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, dearie.” Mrs. Pollock thrust her back upon the sofa. “Lie still or you’ll be popping off again.”

  Justin did not swerve from the single course of his thoughts. “The boy is mine and I’m going to take him out of your hands.”

  Mrs. Pollock handed the bottle of smelling salts impatiently to th
e woman and faced him. “You lay a finger on the boy, and I’ll call the police. They don’t run things in New Orleans the way you’re used to in Leadville.”

  Justin made an explosive sound of anger, but she had the advantage and for the moment he gave up. He turned to walk out of the room and saw me then, remembered my presence.

  “Come, Skye,” he said. “I’ll take you home. This matter can’t be worked out now.”

  I did not look again at Isabelle Law. Her weak, pretty face was stamped forever on my memory. I went out of the room and down the stairs at Justin’s side. I still walked in the nightmare that had begun on the docks, but now I knew the full extent of the barrier that lay between us. Justin’s face had a stony look about it, but I knew that he raged inwardly. He offered me no explanations and I asked for none.

  Once on the way he spoke of his son. “Lanny—I never knew, I never dreamed. Fontaine must be the stage name she took when she left Colorado. The boy was named Napier after my Creole grandfather—Napier Lance Law.”

  He said nothing more and I felt too numb with shock for talking. At the gate of the Tourneau house, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Skye,” and went quickly away before I could find words to answer him.

  As I went upstairs to my own room, all my capacity for feeling began to revive. Always before I had believed that it was Justin’s own nature which held him back from marriage. It was some prejudice he had against marriage which must surely be overcome with time. Or perhaps his reluctance was due to the prison smirch upon his name, to the feeling that this would be too much for a wife to accept. Now I knew the truth, and the truth was an insurmountable wall between us.

  I thought in those moments that I must have tasted the depths of self-torture. The face of Isabelle Law kept returning to me, and I wondered when and how Justin had cared for her. There was the thought of Lanny to hurt me too. I loved him more than ever now, as his father’s son, and suffered because he must remain in such hands. Perhaps Justin would be strong enough to take the boy into his own keeping. The thought of that would bring me some comfort at least.