Four weeks in a row, I’ve gone to Eugenie’s house on the pretext of keeping her company while her mother was at a ladies’ aid meeting. Four weeks in a row, I’ve gone with Eugenie and Madame Dalcour to a quadroon ball instead.
That first time, it was just a lark. I knew Maman would never approve; she thinks the dances are little better than slave auctions, a disgrace to the gens de couleur libres, and she doesn’t consider Madame Dalcour a proper chaperone because Madame is not truly married to Eugenie’s father. It’s a mariage de la main gauche; Madame is mulatto and Monsieur Reynaud is white, and under the laws of Louisiana, they cannot marry. My parents raised me for better — to marry a good colored man from one of the good colored families in the Quarter. I thought I’d have some fun, then go home and never think anything else of it. I certainly didn’t set out to find a protector.
But Antoine asked me to dance — and then asked for a second dance. And when he inquired if he’d see me the following week — me, not Eugenie! — I said yes. One falsehood turned into two, turned into three, turned into four, and now . . .
Now it’s been four weeks. Eight dances, two each night. More would be improper without an understanding between us.
Eugenie elbows me. “At least Monsieur Guerin isn’t an American.” She waltzed with an American last night, and Madame Dalcour nearly had an attack of apoplexy over it. Madame is fiercely proud of her French ancestry. She expects Eugenie to find a protector, but he’d better be a Creole like Eugenie’s father — a white man of good French stock.
“There is that,” I agree, though I’m not sure it will make much difference to my mother that Antoine comes from a good Creole family with a sugar plantation up in St. James Parish, a family that’s been in Louisiana since it was a French colony. She won’t care how dashing and romantic he is, or what pretty compliments he pays me, or that my pulse flutters when I spot him across the crowded ballroom.
Maman will only care that Antoine is white, and that it’s not marriage he’s offering.
But I need her to listen. I need her to intercede with Papa for me and persuade him to accept Antoine.
We stop in front of Papa’s livery. Papa’s family has been in Louisiana as long as Antoine’s, but they were slaves back then. His great-grandfather was freed after he fought the Indians for the French.
Eugenie wrinkles her nose at the pile of dung in the street and the flies buzzing around. I grew up next to the stables, so the stench doesn’t even register until I see her look of distaste. Then I swallow a surge of shame. Madame Dalcour’s cottage on the Rue des Remparts always smells of fresh flowers and the Valencia orange trees out front. Eugenie has one older brother, and he lives in France now; she doesn’t have to endure the twins tussling and baby Marie Therese shrieking and the horses clomping in and out below. At Eugenie’s home, everything is quiet and orderly and beautiful.
I dream of having my own elegant cottage and idle, leisurely afternoons.
Maman tolerates Eugenie, but she’s never approved of our friendship. She says Eugenie fills my head with romantic nonsense and uses me to increase her standing in the Quarter. But I don’t care what anyone says. Eugenie isn’t like that; she’s good to me. She’s let me rattle on for weeks about how torn I feel between what I want and what my parents want for me.
I bite my lip. Truth is, in the quiet of Eugenie’s parlor, an arrangement with Antoine felt possible. Almost respectable, even.
Running into Madame Augustin in the street — well, it’s reminded me that people see Eugenie and me differently. Expectations are different.
They expect Eugenie, with her wild curls and smart mouth, to follow in her mother’s footsteps. To know about things like kissing. They expect me to be an innocent — a demure, respectable girl who’ll grow up to be a staid, respectable wife.
Only I can’t stop thinking what it would be like to kiss Antoine, to have him pull me close — closer than a waltz, even, and —
“I’m going to talk to Maman this afternoon,” I announce.
Eugenie raises her eyebrows. “That’s what you said last week, Maddie. You’d better do it soon or Monsieur Guerin will find another girl.”
I clutch the fringed shawl draped over her elbow. “Do you think he would?” It wouldn’t be difficult. I saw the way the other girls looked at me when we danced — even Eugenie. She’s the one looking for a protector, but I caught the eye of the most eligible man in the room.
“I wouldn’t keep a man like that waiting, is all. Why would he keep courting you when he’s got dozens of girls ready to fall at his feet? Girls whose parents aren’t so — particular?” My stomach twists, but Eugenie’s right.
“Maman will listen to me. I know she will,” I say, a trifle desperately.
“You’re such a child.” Eugenie adjusts her shawl over the sloping shoulders of her red plaid dress and gives me a little wave. “Bonne chance, Maddie. You’re going to need it.”
“Madeleine! You’re late,” Maman says the moment I hurry through the door. Marie Therese is squalling in her arms. The twins are playing in the courtyard under our maid Nanette’s watchful eye, fencing with sticks. We’ll be lucky if they don’t poke each other’s eyes out.
“Maman, I — I need to speak with you,” I say in a breathless rush. “It’s important?”
I hate the way my voice trembles and makes it into a question.
“Later, chère.” Maman pulls the blue tignon off my head. I protest as she pats my hair back into place. “You have a caller.” She motions toward the parlor, where the door stands ajar. “Etienne Decoudreaux is here to see you.”
“To see me?” Our families are the best of friends; our papas served together in one of the colored regiments during the Battle of New Orleans. As children, Etienne and I chased each other through the courtyards and played hide-and-seek and begged his mother for her famous lemon pie. Since I turned sixteen and started going to balls — the ones my family approves of, with the best of the gens de couleur libres — Etienne and I have danced together, even eaten supper together at dances a few times. But he’s never called on me. “What does he want?”
Maman gives me a little push. “Go in and talk to the boy and let him tell you himself.”
Etienne is silhouetted against the window, watching the horses in the paddock below. He turns when I come in, giving me a restrained smile that doesn’t show his teeth. It’s nothing like Antoine’s mischievous grin, which lights up his whole face and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Etienne is nicely turned out, in a dark, high-collared waistcoat, his cravat a snowy white against the smooth brown skin of his throat. Last night Antoine’s cravat was fine blue silk fastened with a gold pin. It’s the difference between a cabinetmaker and a planter.
I perch on the blue chintz settee. Etienne sits in a high-backed chair, trailing his fingers along the arm, inspecting the craftsmanship.
We exchange the usual pleasantries about the fine spring weather and business at the Decoudreauxes’ shop. I give him short replies, preoccupied with trying to find the right words, the perfect combination that will persuade Maman to at least hear me out about Antoine. I’m being rude, hardly paying attention to Etienne, until I catch something about our families’ long friendship and the high regard he holds me in. Then my eyes snap to his. He looks so — earnest.
My fingers turn to ice in my lap.
“I have the utmost admiration for you — the utmost respect,” he says. “I’d be a good husband to you. A good provider. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Maddie?”
I suppose if I’d been paying attention, I would have known this was coming.
“I — I’m very honored,” I start. My gaze drops to the wooden floor. I don’t want to hurt him. I like Etienne. When I’m not being such a scatterbrain, we talk easily enough; he makes me laugh. But my heart doesn’t pound, my stomach doesn’t tumble, my skin doesn’t thrill at his touch. Now that I know how love feels, how can I give it up for something so — comfortabl
e?
“This is all very sudden,” I lie.
Etienne nods, tapping long, elegant fingers against his fawn-colored trousers. “Of course. You need time to think.”
I can’t bear the polite fiction of it, the notion that I’m a silly, fragile mademoiselle too shocked by this turn of events to know her own mind. “I’m in love with someone else,” I blurt.
He winces. “Who?” And for a moment, it’s like we’re children again. Honest. Then: “Forgive me. That’s none of my concern. I thought — your father led me to believe you were unattached.”
I bite my lip, clenching a fistful of my yellow cotton skirt. There’s a little tear in the hem; I’ll have to sew it later.
“Papa doesn’t know.”
Etienne’s eyes widen. “You’ve betrothed yourself without your father’s permission?”
“No. Not — not officially,” I stammer. How did I get myself into this muddle? I can’t tell Etienne that it isn’t marriage I’m considering.
What would he think of me?
Etienne is a kind man, a good man, and he would think less of me for it.
It slices into me, the sudden surety that my parents will too. Why else have I been hiding it from them? You don’t need to hide something unless it’s shameful. Maman will look at me the same way she looks at Madame Dalcour, at Eugenie. As a girl who would sell her own virtue.
But it isn’t about the money to me, or the position. It’s about the way I feel when I’m with Antoine.
What I have done is disgraceful. I have been deceitful and disobedient.
But I’d do it again for the chance to have him hold me in his arms like I’m something precious, like the porcelain dolls Eugenie’s father brought her back from France. Antoine makes me feel beautiful. Desired. He could have his pick of any of the girls in that ballroom, and he chose me.
Is it love I feel, or pride? That he chose me — tall, dark, voluptuous — rather than pretty little light-skinned Eugenie?
I fidget, tugging at one of my puffed sleeves. Now that I’ve told Etienne, it feels even more real — not just something I’ve dreamed up. “Please don’t say anything to my father. I need to talk to Maman first.”
“Of course. It’s none of my —” Etienne interrupts himself with a shake of his curly head. He stands, lean and graceful. “That isn’t true. What happens to you does concern me. We’ve been friends since we were children. I want you to be happy, Maddie.”
I remember my mother’s smile, the way she shoved me toward the parlor. Etienne is what my parents want for me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I manage, finally, stupidly.
“Then don’t say no. Think about it,” he urges.
I nod — because I’m a coward, because it’s easier — and then he’s gone. The door creaks shut behind him. Maman comes in a moment later.
“Etienne left with such a scowl. What happened?” she asks.
I avoid her gaze. “I told him I couldn’t marry him.”
“What? Why not?” She plants her hands on her wide hips. “Etienne is a good man. The Decoudreauxes are a good family. He would be a good husband to you.”
My heart falls. “I — I know, Maman. But I’m in love with someone else.”
“With who?” she demands. “Francois?”
“Francois Meilleur? Mon Dieu!” I gape at her. Francois has a rabbity smile and tromps on my toes when we dance. “No!”
“Then who?” She sits in the chair Etienne just vacated, leaning forward, waiting for my answer.
I take a deep breath, summoning up my courage. “Antoine Guerin.”
“Guerin?” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know the family.”
I close my eyes. I can’t bear to see her face when I confess. “I didn’t stay with Eugenie while Madame Dalcour went to a ladies’ aid meeting last night, Maman. I went with them to a ball. At the Ursulines Ballroom.”
“I see.” I can tell from the knife’s edge in her voice that she does. “This man — Monsieur Guerin — he is white?”
I nod. “He’s from a very respectable family. Madame Dalcour says —”
“Madame Dalcour!” My mother snorts in a very unladylike fashion. “Lisette Dalcour would not know respectable if it slapped her across the face. Which I’ve half a mind to do. Taking my daughter to make a spectacle of herself in —”
“I didn’t make a spectacle of myself!” I protest, stung. “We only danced twice each time. And he made an offer for me! Madame said it’s —”
She holds up a hand, forestalling me. “I do not want to hear one more word about what Madame Dalcour says!” She stands, her slippers whispering against the wooden floor as she paces. “Did she ever suggest that you consider what this man has to offer you, besides money? Perhaps for a few years he’ll devote himself to you, and then what? He’ll marry someone of his own class, his own race, to provide a proper heir, and you’ll be left raising his children. He’ll give you a nice settlement — or perhaps he’ll come visit you a few times a year, and you’ll have to live for that. Use your head, Maddie.”
Tears spring into my eyes at her tone. “How can you judge? Grand-père was white. He and Grand-mère never married.”
Maman draws herself up. She is a tall woman, voluptuously built, not bird boned like Madame Dalcour and Eugenie. I take after her in that and in my straight hair, though not her alabaster skin — the twins and I favor Papa, with his walnut complexion. Some say Maman married down, a liveryman with dark skin; but then some say Papa married down, an illegitimate quadroon girl, no matter how fair.
How many times have my parents told me that our good name is all we have? That we may be free, but we are still judged by the color of our skin and the curl in our hair and the broadness of our features?
Anger sweeps over me. Truth is, part of the reason Maman is so delighted by Etienne’s offer is because he has lighter skin than me and more delicate features, and our children would be beautiful. Every colored mother in the Quarter thinks about such things.
An arrangement with Antoine would give Maman even lighter grandbabies. But they’d be illegitimate.
“I am well aware that I am not legitimate myself,” she says, her voice low. “But things were different then. Grand-père never took a wife. He lived with us, not in some house out in the country. He and Maman may not have married, but they loved each other.”
“Antoine said he loves me and wants the privilege of taking care of me,” I argue. “He said I am the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and —”
“You are beautiful,” Maman agrees. “But a future husband should know more about you than that. This man is a stranger. Your father and I have never even met him! You must see how impossible this is.”
“Won’t you even consider it?” I plead, slumping in my chair. Then I think of Maman’s oft-chided Don’t slouch, Maddie, and straighten. I want her to think of me as a grown woman who knows my own mind, not a child needing her permission.
“Your father and I will not entertain less than a proper offer of marriage. You will not go back to that ballroom. You will not see this man again. Do you understand?” She kneels next to me, grasping my chin with pinching fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Madeleine. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I mumble.
“Your father and I will not force you to marry Etienne, but I hope you will think about his proposal.” Maman stares me right in the eyes. “Lisette Dalcour’s life may look pretty from the outside. And perhaps she is happy. Who am I to say? But it seems to me a lonely life. She came from Saint-Domingue with only her mother, and she and Eugenie have no other family now that Charles has gone to France. I want more for you than that. Etienne would be your partner in all things. Like your father and I.”
I stare back at my mother, at the shadows beneath her eyes and the gray twining through her silky hair. She’s given birth to eight children and buried four before their first birthdays. Even with Nanette’s help, she is forever harried,
exhausted from sewing, washing, cooking, and chasing after the little ones. By contrast, Madame Dalcour’s days seem full of leisure. She calls upon her friends or her dressmaker, she does fine embroidery, and she waits for Eugenie’s father to visit.
“I won’t even mention this to your father,” Maman says.
I scowl at her. “If you are partners in all things, how can you keep secrets?”
Sadness, not anger, flickers across her face. “Because he would be disappointed in you,” she says simply, rising to her feet.
“I have no choice?” I ask. “I can never see Antoine — Monsieur Guerin — again, no matter what I feel for him?”
Maman puts her hand on my shoulder. “Think of what you feel for your family instead, Madeleine. You cannot have us both.”
It should be easy, shouldn’t it? To choose my family and everything I’ve ever known?
But I keep hearing Eugenie’s voice in my head: You’re such a child. A child still scared of her parents’ disapproval. When Madame Dalcour forbids Eugenie something, Eugenie laughs and does it anyway. She’s bold. It’s always been what I liked best about her.
“I don’t want you seeing Eugenie again,” Maman tells me before bed. “I knew no good would come from you spending time with that girl. Your father said I was being too harsh, but look what’s come of it.”
I nod, eyes downcast, guilt pricking my heart because I’ve no intention of giving up my best friend too. I can’t disappear without giving Antoine an answer. Eugenie has to help me get word to him. Perhaps he’ll wait for me. Perhaps, in time, I can convince my mother.
The following afternoon, I seize my chance. Maman packs a basket of food and goes to call on a friend whose baby has been stillborn. She gives me extra chores and tells Nanette to make certain I don’t leave the house, though I insist that I hardly need a nursemaid. I hate that I am breaking Maman’s trust again, but I watch out the window until I see her red tignon disappear around the corner, and then set out.
“I’ll be back before Maman. Don’t you dare breathe a word to her,” I order Nanette. I pay for her silence with the money I get selling eggs at the market. Nanette is married to one of Papa’s stableboys, and I know they hope to purchase their freedom someday.
A Tyranny of Petticoats Page 5
