Lucien turned paler still.
Shaking his head, Antoine set his drink down and moved toward the fire and Lucien. “I have watched my daughter fail to give you a healthy child. I am an old man. I may not live to see a grandchild who will grow to adulthood, but I have a brother, and he has children. I will not allow you to give everything I am, everything I have, to your bastards.”
“They could not inherit, they—”
“They could inherit if you chose to make it so! And if Claire died, and you married this Marcelite, then they could inherit it all.”
“That would never happen!”
“That will not happen.” Antoine faced him. Their eyes were level. “I don’t know how, Lucien, but you will end your relationship with this woman, and you will end it now. If you do not, I will destroy you. I will ruin your life in ways you have never dreamed of, but I will start by blackening your name in society and destroying you financially. When I am finished, you’ll have nothing left to pass on to your bastard children.”
“And Aurore? You would ruin her name along with mine?”
“I don’t think Aurore will live long enough to be a consideration.”
“Dear God…”
“A curious plea, under the circumstances.” Antoine pulled
his watch from his pocket and tipped it toward the flames. “Dinner is at seven. You should change.”
“I need time to consider how best—”
“You have tomorrow. There will be no more time after that. We leave Monday morning for New Orleans, and when we do, you will leave behind all memories, all thoughts, of the
chénière
and your pleasures there. And if you don’t?” He slid the watch back in his pocket. “Then you will know what it means to be sorry, and I will know what it means to be heartless. Perhaps you can spare us both those fates?”
T
he church of Notre-Dame de Lourdes was Chénière Caminada’s proudest possession, and the church’s crowning glory was the massive silver bell that tolled the Angelus three times each day and called them to mass. On Sunday, Raphael counted its melodious notes. To his ears, there was no sweeter music.
His mother had told him the story of the bell. Years before, the people of the
chénière
had stopped their fishing, stopped their hunting and net-making, to build a church for God. And such a church it was.
Le bon Dieu
had looked down with favor, but he had been saddened that no bell rang out to the heavens, praising his name. So the priest had given a silver plate with his family coat of arms on it to be melted down, and the good people of the village had responded by donating all their gold and silver. In the dark of night, neighbor had watched neighbor steal outside on mysterious errands, and in the morning, shining doubloons and pirate treasure had been added to the collection.
When enough had been gathered, all the precious metal
had been taken far away to be cast, and at last the bell had been lifted to the belfry to send its song over the peninsula.
Now the bell told Raphael that mass would begin soon. As always, his family would slip inside after the processional and leave before the benediction. Raphael did not understand why they didn’t stay longer; he only knew that, although his mother did not make or mend nets on Sunday, it was a day much like others for her. They had no family to visit; they did not seek out friends. Sometimes they took walks along the beach, but they were invariably alone, unless M’sieu Lucien was visiting.
As always, the mass had begun when they took seats on the last bench. Raphael only half listened to the familiar words. Father Grimaud was a kind man who had once given him a piece of sugarcane. His voice was deep and resonant, and Raphael was sure that God himself spoke with less power. He watched as the few others who had ventured out moved forward to take communion, but neither he nor his mother followed their path.
When they left, the wind was blowing harder, and rain splashed at their feet. Raphael had not spoken to his mother of Juan’s warning. Now he was torn between what Juan and M’sieu Lucien had told him. Despite his mother’s cloak and the thin overcoat she had made him wear, they were quickly soaked. The wind plucked his mother’s hair from the pins that bound it, sending it streaming wildly behind her.
At home, she sliced corn bread to dunk in thick cane syrup. They sat at the table and ate in silence, listening to the wind. Finally Raphael could be silent no more.
“Juan says a big win’ comes, bigger than this. He says we can’t stay here when it does.”
His mother poured herself some of the strong black coffee she had brewed as the children ate. “Does he say when?”
“
Non.
But he says we must go to Picciola’s store. Then M’sieu Lucien said I wasn’t to worry you with Juan’s stories.”
“And did M’sieu Lucien think the wind would not worry me?” Marcelite wrapped her fingers around her cup for warmth.
Angelle stretched out her arms to Raphael, and he pulled her on his lap. She took the opportunity to finish off the rest of his syrup with the last crumbs of her corn bread. Her solid weight on his lap made him feel grown-up. He liked the scent of her curls, the touch of her chubby fingers against his cheek. Someday Angelle would be old enough to run as far as he did, and no one would tell her that she couldn’t play with him. Already, when he told her about pirates and treasure chests, she listened attentively.
“Many would go to Picciola’s,” Marcelite said. “There would not be room for everyone.”
“Angelle and I are small.”
Marcelite didn’t reply.
Raphael set Angelle on the floor when she began to squirm. She went to the driest corner of the hut to play with a toy that M’sieu Lucien had given her. He drank the small cup of milk his mother had poured him and waited.
“Father Grimaud would not turn us away,” Marcelite said at last.
Raphael thought doubtfully of the long walk to the church. But the church was high off the ground, and much care had gone into building it. Surely, with God’s help, it would stand.
Marcelite looked up at him and gave him one of her rare smiles. “You are a child, Raphael. You should not worry about these things.” She held out her arms.
Shyly he circled the table and let her pull him to her. She smelled like jasmine and autumn rain. He laid his head against her breasts and vowed that even if he was a child, if the big wind came, he would get his mother and Angelle to safety.
The same dog who had sniffed Lucien’s shoes yesterday crossed the path in front of him today. Tail tucked between its legs, it slunk toward a house with shuttered windows and began to howl.
Sailing to the
chénière
had been so difficult that now it was nearly three o’clock. As Lucien dragged his skiff to shore, he had noticed little that was unusual. The ebb tide had left small sea creatures and shells stranded in isolated pools, and a group of older children scavenged among them.
But as he neared the village, the sights no longer seemed as innocent. At every house he passed, there were women gathering everything they could carry and taking it inside. Even small children struggled under the burden of rubble that had once littered their yards. The men were outside, too, working to secure boats or make hasty repairs to houses, despite the fact that game birds often gathered on the ridges during storms and hunting on a day like this one would be a pleasure.
He hailed a young man with a cow tied to the end of a tattered rope. “What is everyone so worried about?” Thunder smothered his words, and he tried again, speaking slowly, since his own French differed so much from the patois spoken on the
chénière.
The young man frowned, as if he resented having to point out the obvious. “There’s a storm coming.”
“But it’s already October, and there’s a low tide. The storm won’t be a large one.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Then you believe differently?”
“God himself knows what kind of storm it will be. Me, I think I’ll give him some help saving my cows.”
Lucien thought of his return trip to Grand Isle. What if the man was right and the storm was a particularly bad one? What would Antoine do if he wasn’t able to return in time for supper? The thought chilled him more than the rain seeping through his overcoat.
He moved faster along the path to Marcelite’s and wondered how she would fare if the winds were high. Her house might be damaged, perhaps beyond repair. He thought of Angelle and realized she would suffer if the house leaked badly. But she was a strong child, and one drenching wouldn’t harm her.
What would it do to her mother?
As he sailed from Grand Isle, he had considered and reconsidered how he would tell Marcelite that he was never coming back. She was not a submissive woman, nor a stupid one. Most of the people on the
chénière
had little or no education, but Marcelite spoke both French and English and read from her own prayer book. She was entirely capable of finding her way to New Orleans and confronting him with his bastard children.
He had promised her a house in the spring, and if she had a son, there was to be a lugger for him, as well. She would still demand these things, or more. And if Antoine discovered that Marcelite was still in Lucien’s life, he would destroy him. Lucien had brought little more than a good name to his marriage. His finances were so intertwined with his father-in-law’s that Antoine had ultimate control over them.
Despite the hours of pleasure she had given him, Lucien rued the day he had met Marcelite. The desire, the affection,
he felt for her was nothing compared to the threat of losing everything that made him the man he was. Perhaps sometimes in New Orleans he had yearned for the simplicity, the warmth, of his life on the
chénière,
but never had he considered abandoning all that he possessed to live with Marcelite.
Now an answer to his troubles was thundering on the horizon. It was possible that the storm, if fierce enough, could work to his advantage. If she was frightened, Marcelite might realize how completely she was at the mercy of the elements. Anything he offered her afterward might seem a lavish gift.
For the first time since his talk with Antoine, he felt a ray of hope. The worsening storm could be an ally. He resolved not to tell her the purpose of his visit until the storm’s end. Choosing the right moment could make the difference between success and failure, and failure was out of the question.
As he approached the hut, he noted a crazy quilt of driftwood patching the exterior. He imagined Marcelite, with Raphael’s help, standing on a chair in the rain, trying to make the house watertight. It seemed she had already gotten a taste of what might await her when the storm expanded.
He paused at the door and tried to shake some of the rain from his overcoat and shoes, but it was useless.
“Marcelite!” He pushed the door open and peered inside. A lantern flickered, and he saw Marcelite and the two children across the room. He entered, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Lucien!” She leaped from her chair and crossed the room in three steps. He opened his arms and enfolded her. The children stared at him.
She spoke in French, not even attempting the English that she knew he preferred. “I thought you were back in New Orleans.”
“I leave tomorrow. I hadn’t intended to come here today, but when I saw the storm approaching…” He let his voice trail away.
She circled his waist and held him tighter. He felt her gratitude, and was distantly ashamed because of it. “You’ll stay with us, then?” she asked.
“Until the storm is over.”
“A storm killed my father. He and my uncles were out on the water. A storm blew up. Weeks later the boat drifted in to shore, full of rotten fish, fish you could smell across the whole
chénière,
but there were no men.” She shuddered.
She had never told him anything about her past. Lucien held her and realized how frightened she must be.
Raphael got up from the bed where he and Angelle had been sitting. “M’sieu Lucien, if the storm gets much worse, we will go to the church.”
“Don’t be foolish! Soon the lightning and thunder will be closer. We’ll be safer if we don’t go anywhere. We’ll do what we can to make the house tight, and ride out the storm here.”
“But the wind!”
Lucien stared at Raphael. He saw that the boy’s black curls weren’t the innocent, silky curls of childhood; his skin wasn’t brown from hours in the coastal sun. And his nose—how could Lucien not have seen how much stronger and broader it was than Marcelite’s?
By all that was holy, the child had been like a son to him. How could he not have seen that Raphael was a quadroon? The signs of his mixed blood had been there all along, but Lucien had been too blinded by his infatuation with Marcelite.
He knew the penalties for such an error of judgment. Society sternly forbade any racial mixing. The color lines
could not be breached, yet Marcelite had breached them in the most heinous of ways. And Lucien had lain with her repeatedly, indulged himself in her soft flesh whenever he could, without suspecting that another man to do so had been born a slave.
Now outrage filled him. “Am I to be ordered about by a child?”
Marcelite turned to her son and spoke so rapidly that Lucien missed much of what she said. But the essence of her message was clear when Raphael nodded reluctantly. The boy did not take his eyes off Lucien, however. Not for one second.
Marcelite turned back to Lucien. “He only tries to be of help.”
“Make us coffee and something to eat. I’ll see what needs to be done outside.”
“Raphael can assist.”
Lucien considered. The image of the boy wet and cold in the rain pleased him. “Yes, that would be good.”
She spoke to Raphael again, but he refused to move.
“Raphael, if you want to help keep your mother and sister safe, then you’ll come with me,” Lucien said. He walked toward the doorway, then glanced behind him. “If you don’t care…”
The child slumped at Lucien’s words. Then Raphael followed Lucien out the door.
Raphael watched his mother pour Lucien another cup of coffee. He was chilled and hungry, but he knew that as long as M’sieu Lucien remained with them, his mother would tend to his needs first. Only yesterday he had wished that Lucien was his father, too. Now he was no longer certain. Was his own father watching from heaven, saddened?
Raphael pondered this as his mother bent and whispered
something in Lucien’s ear. Outside, the wind whistled louder, as if to keep Raphael from hearing what his mother said.
Angelle put her doll on his lap. It gazed blindly up at him, like old Leopold Perrin, who as a child had lost his sight during a fever. The doll’s blue dress was tattered, but the silk was still finer than anything Raphael had seen. Once his mother had told him that in New Orleans some ladies wore nothing but silk, and some men, like M’sieu Lucien, rode everywhere in carriages pulled by shining, prancing horses.
Raphael didn’t think that Lucien really wanted to be here. Usually he teased Raphael’s mother and laughed with her. Today he sat quietly, as if he could think of nothing to laugh about. He had not lifted Angelle to his lap. He had not ruffled Raphael’s curls or asked if he had dug for any pirate treasure.
Raphael didn’t think he would have told him about Juan’s mysterious instructions, even if he had been asked. Although Raphael didn’t understand exactly why Juan had taken him into the swamp, he did know their trip was to remain a secret.
His mother ladled out two more bowls of crab gumbo and called the children to the table. Lucien stood and crossed the room as they sat down. He didn’t open the door, but he peered through a crack next to the frame.
“The rain’s coming down harder.”
“Then come away from there,” Marcelite said.
Raphael took his first spoonful of the gumbo. Usually it was thick with crab and okra and spicy enough to warm the coldest belly. Today his mother’s thoughts had been elsewhere.