Posts Tagged Writing
“Au revoir, darling,” Marguerite said, waving from the carriage carrying her and her retinue of servants to the riverboat, Creole Belle. With afternoon settling toward evening, the last trip upriver departed within the hour.
“Dream of me every night,” she said, as the driver cracked the reigns, lurching the carriage into a rumbling motion forward. “Au revoir, my dear,” Tomas said, touching her fingers with his as they moved past. “I’ll see you in a week’s time at the Willows. Travel safe, mon amour!”
“I’ll dream of you, my love!” Marguerite continued, waving a pink silk scarf out the window. “Until we meet again!”
714 Rue St. Peters would be quiet, now that Marguerite and her servants were gone. Almost ghost like, he thought as he walked through the gate, and into the inner courtyard of Laiche House. Built by his father as a retreat from the plantation, Tomas called it home from the moment he took command of the Two Seas, some ten years back.
“Woo-ee!” Tomas’s servant said as he opened the red patio door, welcoming Tomas home. Named only Joe, the negro was one of two free blacks from the Willows who chose to work for Tomas at his New Orleans residence. The formal green garb of a Laiche footman made the elderly man look younger, while his jovial smile and pleasant disposition inspired true southern hospitality.
“Dat woman’s a whirlwind, Marse Tomas,” Joe said, holding the door as Tomas walked through. “She ain’t never settle down the entire time she here.”
Tomas nodded but said nothing – his mind focused on a mysterious artist that swirled around inside his head.
“I think Monsieur Gullette will be dropping by for dinner,” he said after a moment. “Best have some shrimp po boys prepared, maybe etouffee as well. Nothing too grand.”
“I’ll get on it right away, den.” He reached for Tomas’s coat, but Tomas shook his head.
“I’m going out for a bit of a walk,” Tomas said. “Too much excitement for one day. Fresh air will do me good.”
“Yassir,” Joe said. “Miss Marg’rite has a way of making a man crazy, dat for sure. What time you comin’ back?”
“By seven,” Tomas said, plopping his felt hat atop his head and lifting his cane – a silver-capped stick with an ebony wood shaft. “If Gullette arrives before me, please make him feel at home.”
“I’ll whoop him at backgammon by the time you get back,” Joe said, smiling and leading Tomas through the foyer, toward the front door opening onto Rue St. Peter. “He thinks he can beat ole Joe, but he ain’t never come close.”
“Maybe today?” Tomas said, nodding at Joe as he walked through the door.
“Ain’t likely,” Joe called out. “But ya never know!”
The walk from his residence to Jackson Square took close to twenty minutes, as various people he knew from the neighborhood stopped him to inquire into his health. It was a small community, with many of the houses along this street being second residences of the planters. While it was air he claimed he was interested in, what he really wanted was seeing the artist in the square. Her work was impressive, but he wasn’t seeking art. What intrigued him more were those eyes.
Looking into those dark eyes snapped something into place, as if finding a missing piece of a puzzle. He had to discover what the piece was, what it meant and why he was drawn to its fire.
As he walked past the mansard-roofed Presbetyre and looked down St. Ann toward the Market, he could just make out the corner where the artist was still painting. Gulls winged over her head, circling and dancing in and out of a gathered group of children.
Flutters tickled his chest, pulling him up short. What was that? Nerves? He shook his head. How could he be nervous going to see an artist he didn’t know?
There they were again, this time stronger. He WAS nervous. His breath came up short, while his heart raced like a runaway cart. This was crazy! He took a deep breath, then looked around. It felt like he had walked for miles. No, RAN and now just found his breath.
No one noticed, or even saw he was there. At this time of the afternoon, most people would be either heading home for dinner, or coming to the cathedral. Those coming for evening Mass were more interested in their souls than the cowardly owner of a shipping company, too scared to talk to a street artist.
Spinning his cane, he nodded then plodded forward as if walking along the soft, clinging muddy banks of the Mississippi. Why were his legs shaking? There was nothing to fear! She was an artist for Christ’s sake.
He forced them to work, and in year-long seconds, found himself standing with a group of children watching the raven-haired artist finish her painting.
Beautiful. Soft, gull-like forms spun in colorful circles over what appeared to be the Square, represented by fading grays and blues. It was like seeing life through fog-covered glasses, while feeling its energy at the same time. People moved, trees shaded – all represented by softened shapes that ‘almost’ resembled reality.
Sounds faded, and he fell into the picture. As if walking among the gulls, the scene washed through him, over him – filling him with a color-soaked, ‘love of life’ sort of energy which roared through his soul. It was –
“Monsieur?” a soft voice said. “Are you alright?” He blinked, shook his head and looked around. He was dizzy, as if he’d been shaken awake from a vivid dream.
“Excuse moi?” he said, breaking his gaze from the painting – joining the artist’s deep eyes.
“I asked if you were interested in purchasing the painting?” she said, smiling up from her stool. “You seemed lost.”
He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, feeling the energy return to his head – buzzing and crackling throughout. “Lost. I did feel like I was…” He shook his head again.
“Never mind,” Tomas said. “Oui, Madame, I’m interested in purchasing the painting.”
Three of the children clapped, while another cheered out loud. “Yay for Simone!” the creole girl exclaimed. “Simone sold a painting!” She danced in place, bouncing with her hands held high.
Simone. So that was her name. It sounded… perfect.
“Excellent, Monsieur,” she said, her smile becoming brighter if that were possible. “Merci for your patronage. Shall I wrap it for your fiancé?”
He cocked his head, the dreaminess of the painting rushed from his thoughts with a crash. How did she know he was engaged? Very interesting. “My fiancé?” he said. Simone’s eyes went wide as she caught her words.
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” she said. “I made an assumption and meant no offense. I simply recall the lovely Mademoiselle you were with, and how delighted she might be with this painting for a gift.”
He laughed, throwing his head back as he did. “You clearly remember the scene wrong, Madame,” he said. “If I recall correctly, she compared your work to rats.”
Simone shrugged. “I must not have heard,” she said. “Perhaps it would best if I simply wrapped it, and left the rest for you.” Tomas nodded.
“And its Mademoiselle,” she added, moving splayed strands of black silken hair from her face, draping them over one ear. “Though I prefer Simone.”
Tomas dipped his head in a bow. “Simone,” he said, letting the name linger on his tongue as if tasting its flavor. “Lovely,” he muttered quietly. The way she cocked her head let him know she heard.
“Tomas Laiche,” he said. “Tomas will do.”
“I would not dare be so familiar, Monsieur Laiche,” Simone said. “Especially to a patron with whom I know nothing.”
“You know I appreciate your art, Ma… Simone,” he said. “Isn’t that familiar enough?” She shook her head.
“No, Monsieur,” she said. “It’s not, though I appreciate the fact you enjoy my work.” She took the painting from the easel, then lifted a large piece of brown paper that had been folded away in a satchel.
“The price is twenty dollars, Monsieur,” she said, watching his eyes. Tomas didn’t blink as he met hers. His knees still shook, and he prayed she didn’t notice.
“Bien sûr,” he said, lifting his wallet from within his jacket. “A fair price for such a marvelous piece.” She nodded as he handed over the note.
I wonder how many she sells, he thought, watching her carefully fold the note away into her own wallet. The way she treated it, made him think this was a rare occurrence.
“Shall I have it delivered to your home,” Simone said. “Or would you like to carry it yourself?”
“Delivered, s’il vous plaît,” he said. “Is that extra?” She shook her head.
“Included in the price, Monsieur,” she said, leaning toward one of the children and whispering in her ear. The girl giggled, then skipped off toward a shop in the bottom of the Pontalba building across St. Ann.
Tomas watched, trying to figure out a way to keep the conversation going. He’d been too fast in buying the painting, and now found himself quickly running out of excuses to talk to this amazing woman beyond the moment.
“You don’t deliver it yourself?” he said, saying the first thing that came to mind. ‘That was stupid’ was his next thought.
“Monsieur,” she said. “My delivery person is quite capable of the extreme care needed for a painting such as this.” She tied a brown strong around the wrapped painting. “It’s in good hands, I can assure you.”
Tomas noticed the remaining three children watched carefully, smiling as their wide-eyed glances bounced between the two adults as if watching street performers.
“What if it were to be damaged?” Tomas said, trying to calm his racing heart. It took his entire being to keep the pounding from wavering the tone of his voice.
“If it is,” she said. “Return to me, and I’ll make the necessary repairs.”
“But I don’t want a damaged painting,” he blurted. He smiled, taking a deep breath when he saw her frown.
“Simone,” he said, clearing his voice. “I would be ever so grateful if you were to deliver it in person. Perhaps, even assist in the hanging?”
Simone’s mouth snapped shut, creating a tight line; nothing resembling her smile. Was she shocked? He’d been too forward. Too much, too soon. Damn! The hanging part was even more stupid than the initial request.
“Monsieur Laiche,” Simone said, her voice calm and slow. “I am an artist, not a delivery boy. Certainly one of your slaves can hang the painting just as well as I, if not better.”
“Servants,” Tomas said, shaking his head. “They’re servants in my house.” Simone shrugged, yet her face remained stoic. “They’re not slaves.”
Simone stared at him, her eyes moving between each of his. What’s she thinking, he wondered, hearing his heart pound in his ears. Maybe it’s time to let the delivery boy take the painting.
“Perhaps-“ he said.
“Very well, Monsieur,” Simone stated. “I’ll deliver your painting myself.” She sighed and smirked. “It’s too late in the day to begin anew, anyway.”
Her words rocked him, and if he hadn’t been careful, he would have collapsed from shock.
“You, you will?” he said, then recovered. “Excellent.” He smiled, taking a breath. “It does my mind well knowing it’s being handled with the care it deserves.”
“Oui monsieur,” she said, searching his face. “I’m certain it does.” She bent over to begin packing her supplies, giving him time to breath, as well as a moment to see the rest of her.
As if feeling his eyes, she turned and smiled. “Is there anything else you require, Monsieur?” she said, batting her eyes in a belle-like manner. “Or do you wish to help with my packing?”
“Ah,” Tomas said, trying to come up with a gentlemanly answer to why he was staring her backside. Finding none, he nodded. “Sure, I’ll help. If you don’t mind the assistance?”
She nodded, standing and pointing at the wooden box containing her paints.
“You may take that, monsieur,” she said. “If it’s not too heavy. You don’t look the type for manual labor, so if it’s too much, I can manage myself.”
He frowned, smirked then nodded. “I can carry a box, thank you very much,” he said.
Bending over, he grabbed the handle and lifted, grunting from the weight. What does she have in there? An entire paint factory?
“Très bon,” she said. “I see I was mistaken.” She gathered the rest of her supplies, then placed them inside a worn, leather satchel. The easel folded up into a nice square, and with the straps on the back, turned into backpack – complete with storage for canvas, as well as a peg to hang her stool.
“That’s quite remarkable,” Tomas said, nodding with approval.
“It is,” she said. Turning to the three remaining children, she reached into her pocket and handed them each a piece of brown sugar nugget.
“Merci, Simone,” they said, stuffing the candy into their mouths. “We will see you tomorrow!” She grinned, ruffling one of the girl’s hair.
“I can hardly wait,” Simone said. “You’re my inspirations!”
“Yay!” they said, cheering, twirling and bouncing down the street toward their not so distant homes. Simone watched, laughing at their gaiety.
Tomas observed it all with intense fascination. She was more than beautiful, he noticed, now that he had a chance to see. Long, black hair that fell close to her waist – filled with lighter highlights that glistened in the evening sun. Lithe and delicate, she resembled a dancer more than an artist.
Her smile truly captivated him. Especially the way it lit when filled with joy – such as watching the children. It radiated, instilling him with the pleasure and happiness the children gave her. Just staring raced his heart, and he found himself catching his breath once more.
She sighed, then turned toward him, the smile fading into a more serious look, one sharing neither pleasure nor happiness.
“Shall we go, Monsieur Laiche?” she said. “The sooner I deliver your painting; the sooner I can be away for dinner.”
Tomas nodded toward the Cathedral. “This way,” he said. “714 Rue St. Peters. It’s not too far.”
Cries of gulls rang out over the café where Tomas and Marguerite settled in for their noon-time meal. Angry at being shooed away by the wait-staff, the whitish-grey birds wheeled and howled in dismay.
Scents of roasting meats, baked bread and flavorful spices floated on the breeze, while quiet conversation fluttered between tables where red-stripped umbrella’s provided shade for the lunching patrons.
“Darling,” Marguerite said. “Why did you pretend to duel to Monsieur Gullette?”
“Excuse moi?” Tomas said, pulling himself from thoughts of seagulls, children and the lift of an eyebrow.
“People were watching, Tomas. It was embarrassing and distasteful.”
“Distasteful? Anton and I are old friends. We’ve done that almost every Saturday since I’ve been in New Orleans.”
He casually ignored the part of being with other women, thinking it would be best not to rile her jealousy.
“He sells flowers, darling,” she said. “He’s not our type of people. We should be socializing with the other Planters. Not street vendors and the common bourgeois.”
Tomas almost laughed at the use of the word, which in fact was her family name.
“I have an idea!” she said, clapping her hands. “Why not go to the Planter’s Club? All of daddy’s friends do.” Tomas groaned.
“If I recall,” she continued. “Your father did as well. We could make new friends, meet new people; our sort of people, Tomas. Not vendors.”
The way she said the word, vendor, made it sound like a disease to be eradicated. Like the current round of yellow fever raging through the city, though he doubted burning tar pots would run off Anton and his shop.
Tomas sighed and looked away. In the corner across the courtyard, a couple shared a glass of wine together, leaning close across the table and giggling. He could almost see the energy between the two, as if strands of love flowed from one set of eyes to the other.
“They aren’t my type,” Tomas said, then smiled as the couple kissed across the wine. “All they ever discuss is sugar, cotton, business and…”
He paused, wondering if he should add mistresses to the sentence. That was the typical topic of the club: what woman a man had bedded that night, and how good the conquest.
“I don’t relate well to them.” Marguerite cocked her head in compassionate concern.
“Dear,” she said. “They’d love for you to be there. You have the confidence to hold your own with them. You run a successful company. And now, with the Willows in your name, you have more power than most.”
She nodded, her eyes glittering in the mid-day sun. “You deserve to be in that hall, building your greatness.”
Tomas smiled, nodding at his future wife. “Of course, you are correct, my love,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ll go there tonight once you depart for Emerald Oaks.” He was going to say more, but the waiter arrived to take their food request.
“Monsieur,” he said, offering the menu to Tomas. “Mademoiselle. Welcome to Bon Ami. Might I offer you some wine to begin your lunch?”
“That would be lovely,” Tomas said, handing the menu to Marguerite. “Bourdeaux, si veaux plais.”
“Right away, Monsieur,” the waiter said, dipping his head in a bow and scurrying away toward the back of the restaurant. Set within the courtyard, the café claimed the exterior brick walls of adjoining buildings as its own. Fountains bubbled water in the corners, while trees and ferns provided cooling shade for the umbrellas.
“Darling,” Marguerite said, handing the menu back. “Decide for me. I trust you.”
He never understood why men ordered for women, as if they weren’t intelligent enough to figure out what they wanted to eat. The few women he actually enjoyed being around knew exactly what they wanted, even though society felt they should not.
Except Marguerite. She believed herself incapable of choosing her meal. Or perhaps, that was simply the way she was. Did she enjoy being seen subservient? Perhaps she believed it.
As Tomas lifted the menu to read aloud the choices, a couple entered the café and were escorted toward a table in the corner, opposite from the young lovers Tomas was watching.
“Josephine!” Marguerite said, practically leaping from her chair. She waved her hand as she called out. “Josephine!”
Heads turned in the café at her outburst, as did the woman named Josephine. She clapped her hands, said something to her companion and scurried toward Marguerite.
“Marguerite!” she exclaimed as the two came together in a hug, kissing one another on each cheek as they did so. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been forever since we last met.”
She turned and smiled at Tomas, who stood to welcome the young woman. Her companion joined them once the table had been reached.
“Madame,” Tomas said, bowing in welcome. “It appears that you know one another?”
“We do indeed, darling,” Marguerite said. “We were both in school together. Josephine? Might I present my fiancé, Tomas Laiche.”
Josephine extended her hand for Tomas and curtsied.
“I’m delighted to meet you, Madame,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “Any friend of Marguerite is a friend of mine.”
“And might I present my husband,” Josephine said, turning and smiling a sincere grin at the tall gentleman. “Frederic LaCour.”
Frederic bowed as he was introduced, which Tomas matched. They shook hands. “Tomas Laiche,” Tomas said, then pivoted toward Marguerite.
“And might I introduce my fiancé, Marguerite Bourgeois.” She performed the greeting with as much grace, if not more, than her friend Josephine – batting her eyes and playing shy as Frederic kissed the back of her hand.
“Would you care to join us?” Tomas said, motioning to their table. “We would be honored if you did so.”
Josephine and Frederic exchanged glances, while Marguerite did everything she could to hold back her excitement.
“The honor would be ours, Monsieur,” Frederic said. Capturing the waiter’s attention with a snap of his fingers, he motioned to let the man know they would be sharing a table.
Once the women were seated, the men took theirs – sitting side by side, so the women could discuss the latest gossip.
“Laiche?” Frederic said once the waiter had brought the wine. “Are you the same Laiche that owns the Two Oceans Trading Company?”
Tomas nodded “The very one,” he said. “I hope my reputation is a good one?”
Frederic nodded, sipping his wine as he leaned back in his chair. He wore a similar coat to Tomas, though not near as bright. One might say reserved, as the colors were muted.
Where Tomas wore a light green coat, Frederic’s was dark brown, bordering on black. They both wore tall, knee-high black leather boots, but Tomas’s pants were light tan to match the willow pattern of his shirt. Frederic’s shirt was white, as were his trousers.
“Indeed is it,” Frederic said. “One might call it sterling, if I might be so bold. I’ve always wondered what the mysterious captain of the largest trading company in the south might look like.”
Tomas took a sip of wine and chuckled. “And now you know,” he said. “Do I pass muster?”
Both men looked at the two women, who were giggling like they were back in school. The conversation was centered around Marguerite, and the sort of day she was having.
“You do, indeed,” Frederic said. “My friends and I occasionally discuss you at the Planter’s Hall.”
“You’re a planter?” Tomas asked, sipping his wine. He heard the words, ‘disgusting artist’ and smiled. Frederic nodded.
“My father is the planter. I’m an attorney here in New Orleans.”
Tomas nodded. “LaCour and Boudreaux?” Tomas said, cocking his head. If so, they were a formidable firm in New Orleans – handling every sort of defensible case they could get their hands on. The rumor was, that they had never lost.
Frederic tipped his glass. “I see that MY reputation proceeds me,” he said. “I hope it, too, is a good one?”
“From what I hear,” Tomas said, taking another sip of wine. His glass was near empty. “In fact, we once considered putting your firm on retainer. We ran into issues with the Port Authority on a trade deal we’d arranged with France.”
LaCour nodded. “I remember that,” he said. “Not needed in the end, if I recall. It worked out favorable for you, then?”
Tomas nodded. “Worked well for both parties. We got our deal, and the Port made enough coin to build a new wharf for the extra cargo.”
LaCour nodded and glanced toward the waiter. Lifting his empty glass, the man came hurrying over with the wine bottle – refilling both LaCour’s and Tomas’s.
“So tell me,” LaCour said after taking a sip of his wine. “How did Mademoiselle Bourgeois capture New Orleans’s most eligible beaux? Surely there is a story behind the pursuit?”
Tomas rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as all three sets of eyes turned toward his. “Oh do tell us, darling,” Marguerite said. “It’s such a delightful story.”
He sighed, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “If you insist.” At least he would never have to be called most eligible beaux anymore.
“It all started beside a lily pad pond, just beneath the Willows.”
Simone watched the exchange between the planter and the flower vendor with rapt fascination. Situating herself behind the group and somewhat out of sight, she listened while paying close attention to how his hateful fiancé acted during the performance.
Simone, of course, wasn’t fooled one bit about the seriousness of the duel. She’d met Monsieur Gullette before, and knew what a romantic he was. What shocked her, however, was that the man who had seen her art, was none other than the famously single beaux, Tomas Laiche.
Her time in New Orleans provided enough opportunities to have heard the name before. He owned a shipping company that moved vast amounts of the goods between Europe, the Caribbean and New Orleans – especially sugar from the various plantations.
She also figured he was a planter, though more by his style of dress than reputation. The fact that he saw her art had surprised her, while the look they shared filled her thoughts with spinning interest.
When the flower vender drew his imaginary sword, she smiled. When Tomas acquiesced, she was caught. The man had charm, charisma and honor – even in pretend.
It has to be fake, doesn’t it?
“I thought they would fight for certain,” a woman standing beside Simone said, her yellow gown accentuating strawberry blonde hair. Another woman chuckled, tossing her own set of blonde curls in mirth. Her dress was bright orange.
“Monsieur Laiche and Monsieur Gullette fight?” the orange-dressed woman said, shaking her head. “Maybe over who pays for drinks. They’re best friends.”
Best friends? Simone thought, listening to the two women discuss the pair’s friendship. An elite planter friends with a florist. Huh. Who would have thought it?
“You should have seen them last week,” the woman continued, reaching up to absently twirl the white ribbons holding her hair in a twisted bun. “They actually fought with their pretend swords.”
“Indeed?” the yellow-gowned woman replied. Her hair fell straight to her waist, laced with intertwined pink ribbons. “Who won?”
“Monsieur Laiche,” the other woman said. “Though Monsieur Gullette made him work for it. He even tossed a bucket of flowers!” The woman with the yellow dress gasped, covering her mouth.
“No!” she said. “Really?”
Simone couldn’t hold back any longer, as curiosity overwhelmed her silence. “They do this every weekend?” she said. “Pretend to duel?”
The bun-haired woman nodded, turning toward Simone. “Every Saturday, without fail.”
“Well,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “Not EVERY Saturday. Only when Monsieur Laiche has a woman with him.”
“When has he NOT had a woman with him, Anna?” yellow dress said with a wistful sigh. “He’s the most sought after beaux in New Orleans. Women practically throw themselves upon him.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard, Alice,” Anna said, lifting a lock of blonde hair from her eyes. She turned to Simone.
“I’ve heard that he doesn’t like women at all. He’s only seen with them to make his mother happy.” She waved a dismissive hand.
“Marguerite Bourgeois is arranged,” Anna said sadly to Simone.
“Arranged?” Simone said, finding a place to re-renter the conversation. How could that be?
In the flower stall, Gullette was having the flowers wrapped for delivery, while across the way, a vendor hawked potatoes in a loud, screeching voice, as if selling livestock at an auction house.
“Do people do that here?”
Both women inspected Simone, head to toe, suddenly realizing she might not be one of them. “Of course,” Alice said, turning back toward the flower stall. “Especially between the plantations. Something about keeping them in the family and all of that.”
Now that the action had wound down, the crowd broke up – leaving Simone suddenly exposed to the planter’s view. In fact, just as she thought of it, he turned in her direction. She stepped behind a white, plastered brick column.
“He owns a plantation, too?’ Simone whispered to the pair of ladies as if Tomas might hear. “I thought it was a shipping company.”
Anna shook her head. “No,” she said, giving Simone a curious look. “Since his father passed away, the Willows now belongs to him. Like I said, the most eligible beaux in New Orleans.”
“Why are you hiding behind that post?” Alice said. Anna looked around as if trying to discern from whom she was hiding. “Is someone looking for you?”
Simone glanced toward Tomas and noticed the pair were moving away – leaving their backs to Simone and the gossips. “No,” Simone said, smiling and stepping back into the hallway. “Just-“
“Aren’t you that artist from the square?” Anna said, noticing the paint smudges on Simone’s hand. She looked at Alice, who then nodded in agreement.
“She is indeed,” Alice said. She frowned. “Your art is so, so radical. Why do you paint like that?”
Simone smiled. “Why wouldn’t I?” she said. “If everyone painted the same, how would anyone have anything different?” The two gossips considered her words, frowning as they did.
“I suppose,” Anna said, drawing out the words. She smiled. “I do like the seagulls and the children. They always seem so happy in your paintings.”
“You’ve seen my work?” Simone said. Anna nodded, while Alice stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. “I paint the energy I see as I watch them play. Children and seagulls seem to be kindred spirits.” Simone shrugged.
“Maybe the gulls are the souls of children?”
The two women gasped, with Anna covering her mouth while Alice snapped her fan open.
“My word!” Alice said, fanning herself. “If the Archbishop heard you say that, he would douse you with holy water and have you say the Rosary one thousand times!”
Simone laughed, smiling to match her mirth. In the distance, Tomas and his fiancé rounded the corner and disappeared. Did he glance back? It certainly looked that way.
“I don’t attend Mass,” Simone said. “Nor do I attend any Church that believes in sin, or in a God who sends his creation into the fiery abyss of hell for eternity.” Simone waved a dismissive hand.
“It’s all rather ridiculous, if you ask me.”
Anna’s eyes rolled back in her head and she wobbled in place, forcing Alice to wrap her arm around her friend.
“Blasphemy!” Alice said. “Look what you’ve done to poor Anna. She’ll need a week to recover from your wicked words.”
Anna moaned while Alice supported her. A pair of gentlemen, lawyers by their attire, stopped and inquired into Anna’s well-being.
Simone decided it was time to leave, and with a smile, she left the pair of devout believers to their saviors. It was time to return to her painting, and with what she had learned about Tomas Laiche, her desire to know more raged inside her.
The lily pad pond was quiet and still, as a warm, breezeless mid-May afternoon settled atop the Plantation. Not even the willow leaves rustled, so calm was the wind. Tomas draped his arm over the smooth, polished surface of the bench back. Built from a solitary cypress limb, it curved just in the middle, creating a comfortable, natural swale. He’d often wondered if it was a happy accident, or simply cut so the curve was properly centered.
The seat was a solid cross-cut plank of cypress, with its flame-shaped age rings clearly visible beneath the dark polish. His father made it himself when the house was first built, using the remains of various trees to assemble it. The intention had been for the front porch, but his mother refused – seeing its natural beauty better suited for the gardens.
Tomas trailed his fingers down the fan of wooden spokes supporting the back, feeling the smoothed over knots on the wood – places once covered with bark. His mother was correct: it belonged here by the pond, nestled perfectly beneath the willow tree’s leafy curtain of dangling fronds.
Four days had passed since his meeting with Phillipe, and he was no closer to a decision. His mother knew nothing of the situation, thinking instead that the wedding was still on and that the Willows would soon be hosting a ball for the engagement.
He’d hoped that sitting by the pond would bring clarity, that the dark water would give him what he sought. In storybooks, frogs croaked the answers, as if they were the magical voices of reason – filled with infinite knowledge. The greenish-black frog seated atop a lily pad had so far shown no such ability. Perhaps he was as confused as Tomas; or preferred flies instead of wisdom. Regardless, it held no answers.
“Tomas?” a soft voice said, accompanied by the swooshing rustle of willow leaves. He spun, sitting up with wide eyes toward a purple-gowned Marguerite.
“What are you doing here?” he said, hopping to his feet. He glanced past, seeing that Mammy Rose stood outside the grove with her back to the couple.
“Hello to you, too,” Marguerite said, crossing her arms. Sprigs of lavender wound through her chapeaux, rippling with lace down one side of her head – weaving into her shining, auburn hair.
“Forgive me,” he said, rushing forth to grasp her hand and lead her toward the bench. “I was startled.”
She extended her hand, knuckles up so he could kiss. Her eyes fluttered as he did. Scents of lavender, thick, soft and sensually delightful, swirled around her.
“You are forgiven, monsieur,” she said, then giggled. “Mammy May said I might find you here.”
“She would know,” Tomas said, helping her to the bench. He then sat next to her. “That woman’s always been able to find me, no matter where I hide.”
“She said exactly the same thing,” Marguerite said. She twisted on the bench, yet somehow kept her body straight.
“How are you?” she asked, cocking her head and smiling. Tomas matched her, gazing into her soft, bright brown eyes. “Father says you’re conflicted.”
Tomas snorted. “He said that?” She nodded, brushing a wrinkle away from her gown, glancing down to see it done properly.
“I’m not very well,” he said, shaking his head and gazing over the pond. The frog had moved, Tomas noticed. It now perched on a broken limb sticking from the water near the opposite shore. Any answers yet, monsieur frog?
“Your father made a tough choice near impossible.”
She smiled and placed her hand on his thigh, gathering his attention.
“Father can be blunt when making decisions,” she said. “It’s allowed Emerald Oaks to flourish in tough times.” She squeezed twice, and Tomas placed his hand atop hers, her cool skin mixing with his warmth.
“Blunt is a nice way of putting it, Marguerite,” Tomas said. “He informed me I could not, nor should not keep the Willows.” She nodded, twisting one finger to caress one of his.
“He told me the same thing,” she said, then sighed.
“Oh?” he said, narrowing his eyebrows at Marguerite. “I was under the impression this discussion was between him and I.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “Daddy always confides in me, especially when needing an additional opinion.” Tomas watched Marguerite carefully. He sounded damn sure of himself when talking to me. He looked toward the pond again, seeking the frog’s silent advice. It didn’t budge.
“So what did you offer?”
She caressed his thigh, rubbing back and forth beneath his hand. If his future hadn’t been on the line, he might have enjoyed it.
“Well,” she said. “I told him there should only be one requirement from you.”
“And that is?”
“Being named benefactor of your estate,” she stated, meeting his eyes straight on. Tomas pulled his hand away and sat up straight, considering her eyes and words.
Phillipe stated he’d have to sell him the Willows if he was to marry Marguerite. Now, this was all he wanted? Her to be named benefactor? Tomas stood and walked to the edge of the pond, his hands clasped behind his back.
Monsieur frog, he said to himself, seeing that the fat creature had moved to the shoreline. What do you think about that? The frog hopped once, in the direction of a stand of cattails. A heron slammed its beak into the frog, gobbling it up before it ever saw the dark gray, long legged bird.
“So he doesn’t want me to sell the Willows?” Tomas said. The heron took one step into the water and froze in place, continuing its hunt.
“He did,” she said. “But I convinced him otherwise.”
“Really?” he said, turning to face Marguerite. She twirled her bangs with one of her dainty fingers and nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Surprised?” He frowned.
“No, actually, I’m not.” He bent over to pick a pecan from the soft, mossy soil. “You seem more capable than you put on.” She nodded.
“Indeed I am,” she said. He nodded and turned, tossing the nut at the heron. Sensing the projectile well before it arrived, the hunter launched into the air, crying out as it flew off toward the river. The pecan plopped harmlessly into the dark waters, sending small ripples cascading toward the shore.
He smiled, but having turned away from Marguerite, she didn’t see it. She was feisty, no doubt about it. And the fact she convinced her father otherwise, said something about her ability to manage. Maybe, just maybe this would work out.
Yes, he thought. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, nodding as he did so. It might as well be now.
Turning, he marched up to the seated belle and dropped to his knee – reaching for her hand and grasping it inside both of his.
“Marguerite Bourgeois,” he said, gazing into her shock-widened eyes. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“Why Tomas,” she said with gasping breath. Nodding quickly, her smile grew into an excited grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Is that a yes?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. She nodded quickly.
“Yes, Tomas,” she said. “Yes! I’ll marry you!”
She leapt into his arms, almost tumbling him backwards from his knees. Standing, he lifted her from the ground and spun – sending her legs flying around as she squealed with delight.
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said, bursting through the dangling willow leaves. “Marse Tomas! Whatchoo do ta Mistis Marg’rite?”
Tomas stopped the spin, setting her down with a deep, happy sigh of pleasure and smiled at the negro maid. Leaning up, Marguerite pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him hard against his lips; right in front of Mammy Rose.
“Mistis!” she exclaimed. “You stop dat rite now, y’here?”
“Oh, Mammy!” Marguerite said once she finished her kiss. “Tomas just asked me to marry him!”
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said again. “You gone be married?”
Marguerite nodded. “I am,” she said, rushing to wrap her arms around the older woman. “And we’re going to live right here at the Willows!”
“Lawdy be!” Mammy Rose said, holding the girl and rocking her in her arms, closing her eyes as she did.
“My lil girl gone git married!”
Tomas trotted toward the Willows, deep in thought and disturbed by the brutal events he witnessed. Everything Phillipe said made sense, for the most part. The plantation was in debt trouble, and another bad season could not be supported by the profits of the trading company.
Building the Two Seas had taken the majority of his income, so if one more season went bad, both enterprises would fail. It was a difficult decision, but if he followed logic, he’d sell to Phillipe and be done with it. However, after witnessing the scene a few hours earlier, what would happen to those working at the Willows once they were under Phillipe’s control?
Would Zeek be treated like the housemaid? May? Crystal? Images of them cowering in fear, being backhanded and beaten by Phillipe sent shivers through his body. He’d heard of the brutality many slaves faced, seen the whip cracked down at the docks, and vowed never to buy slaves to work for the Two Oceans.
Yet, with his father gone and the plantation under his control, he now faced the horrific truth of plantation life. He owned slaves, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Afternoon faded toward evening and Tomas had three miles to ride. Lengthening shadows created bandsa mix of light and dark across the rutted road, still puddled from the previous week’s rains, while distant echos of a riverboat’s whistle mingled with sounds of mourning doves roosting in the live oaks.
Eight small sugarcane plantations lay between Emerald Oaks and the next major residence. Small slices of land along the river, each one ten arpents wide along the river, then back almost four miles to uncleared cypress swamps. Tomas knew most of the owners, having dealt with them in New Orleans. However, unlike Emerald Oaks or the Willows, these were only fields where the cut cane went across the river to the St. James refinery.
Dozens of field hands, all standing in rows, plowed and hoed in sugarcane stubble in the field owned by Strahan & Company, while further back from the group stands of cane stood near four foot tall – ts leaves waving against a cool, northwest wind.
“Bonjour!” an overseer called out, waving his low crowned straw hat at Tomas. Sitting astride a near-white palomino, the bearded man towered over his charges. Three or four of the men craned their heads his way, but most remained focused on their – the oiled leather whip dangling the overseer’s saddle making certain of that.
Tomas tipped his hat in return. Saying nothing, he pulled his coat tight against the cold, crisp whispers of a white frost morning. If he retained the Willows and remained a planter, he’d need to know all of his neighbors – especially the overseers working adjacent plantations.
Moving on, he rode past another plantation, but the closest field to the road was fallow, typical for crop rotations. Most planted in threes: one ready for harvest, one for planting and one fallow. Once a field was harvested four times, it went fallow for a season to replenish the soil.
He could sell easy enough. Sure, it was his childhood home, but he was an adult now. His place was in New Orleans, where life was fast and furious, not stagnant like the Willows.
Yet, he thought as he led his mount around a deep puddle of muddy water. His mother would never leave. Losing the Willows would kill her, send her to an early grave along with his father. He couldn’t live with himself if that happened.
His horse neighed, tossing its head and snorting – jingling the tack. What had he planned? Keeping both? In that, Phillipe was correct: there was no way he could manage the Willows and the Two Oceans. Focusing on both would ruin both, while focusing on one would put an end to the other.
What about Marguerite? He thought, passing the gate of the Willow’s closest neighbor. Owned by a family originally from Mississippi, Welham Plantation was near the same size as the Willows – the difference being the Willows was wider, while Welham was deeper at almost five miles.
Tomas knew the family well, or had when he was younger. Clarence Whitehead was the planter, and his two sons, Jacob and Jared were near in age to Tomas. They’d been playmates of his when they were kids.
Unfortunately, Jared died of yellow fever, leaving Jacob the only heir to the plantation. He remembered Jake (as Tomas called him) talking constantly of traveling to Europe and seeing the great cathedrals of Paris. With his father aging and his brother dead, he had never gone, and now worked exclusively on the plantation. A recluse, if rumors were true; Tomas couldn’t recall a time he’d ever seen Jake since those early days.
Tomas shook the memory off, sliding his gaze from the large, ancient oak trees dotting the front lawn of Welham and back to the road; back to the task at hand.
Marguerite said they could manage both, and thought it wise they did so. She would run the Willows, while he managed the Two Oceans. It seemed plausible at the time, yet where would they live? She loved the Willows, and wouldn’t want to leave the plantation.
Would she live in New Orleans? He shook his head, causing his horse to toss its own. No, he thought. She wouldn’t. So he’d have to live in two places, splitting time between New Orleans and the Willows. That wouldn’t be so bad, he’d certainly have his freedom. As possessive as she was, however, he doubted that would last very long.
He sighed, noticing the approaching pecan trees marking the property line of the Willows. Behind them would be a rutted, dirt road, following the trees like an arrow from the Mississippi river on his left, to the sugar mill three miles back on his right, where wisps of smoke from the refinery curled over the treetops.
It was a tough decision he would need to make, and prayed it took less than a week.
He could only hope.
“Tomas!” Phillipe said, offering his hand after Tomas climbed the curving steps to the veranda where the master of Emerald Oaks waited.
“It’s so good to see you, my friend.” Tomas shook hands. He offered his coat and hat to a servant waiting behind Phillipe. Before Tomas could thank the man, he’d turned – his eyes glued to the floor as he departed.
“And you as well, Phillipe,” Tomas said, allowing the man to lead him through a towering pair of white, double doors. Green and gold light sprayed across the foyer’s floor, pouring in from stained glass transom windows over the entry. He glanced up, noticing the same light playing in the dangling crystals of a massive, three-layer chandelier.
Everywhere Tomas looked, opulence, wealth and power stared back, challenging him to do better if he dared. In fact, it seemed as if two Willows might easily fit inside this one house.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” Tomas said, glancing upwards. Clusters of emerald green and brown acorns were cast into the plaster crown molding. They ran the length and breadth of the entry foyer, laid as if real leafy branches had been used.
“We’ve made a few changes,” Phillipe said, following Tomas’s eyes. “Like the crown molding. Celeste demanded we honor the name of our lovely place.” Tomas nodded.
“We hired an Italian sculptor to create the casts,” Phillipe continued, pointing a thick finger toward a cast shield bearing a script letter, ‘B’. “Then had one of our best niggers install them.”
“I’ve never seen its equal,” Tomas said, shaking his head. “The work is exquisite.”
“Yes,” Phillipe said. “We think so as well.” He motioned toward the open room to their left. “Come into the library. I’ll have drinks and food brought.”
He snapped his finger and two slaves scurried forward, eyes cast downward as their bare feet flapped over the wooden floors. Young, Tomas thought. Sixteen, maybe?
Checkered red wraps wound around their heads, like the Creoles wore in the city, though not nearly as fine. The pattern matched the faded gray print of their simple, cotton dresses. Tomas figured they must be sisters.
“Yassah, Marse Bourgeois,” one of the girls said, the tallest of the pair.
“Brandy and shrimp in the library,” Phillipe said, his tone quiet and hard. He looked at Tomas. “Fruit?”
Tomas looked at the two girls, then nodded. “Pineapple would be nice,” he said. “Perhaps some melon, if you have it.”
“You heard Monsieur Laiche,” Phillipe said. “Bring it with the brandy and shrimp.” They bobbed their heads. “Yassah, Marse Bourgeois,” the smaller one said, her voice quiet, with a hint of mouse-like squeak. “We get it now.”
“This way,” Phillipe said, leading Tomas through a carved pair of white double doors, and into a luxurious library. Opposite the doors and in the corner sat a black, baby grand piano. It accentuated floor to ceiling bookshelves towering twenty feet to a coffered ceiling.
A fireplace graced the long wall to Tomas’s right, brick with a marble mantle surround. It was so deep, he could crouch inside without bumping his head. Tufted and over stuffed wing backed chairs surrounded a round table, while a dark mahogany wood desk sat in front of a pair wall-sized windows. These were framed by emerald green drapes.
Before they could sit, the two serving girls returned. One carried a polished, silver salver covered in shrimp and melon, while the smaller girl carried a silver tray with brandy and two crystal glasses.
“Where’s the pineapple?” Phillipe said as they placed the platters on the table.
“Theys ain’t none left, Marse Bourgeois,” the younger girl said, wringing her hands while keeping her eyes down. Tomas saw the other sister step backwards. Phillipe’s sudden slap to the young girl’s face explained why.
Staggered, the girl grasped her face, crying out in pain. “I said, where’s the pineapple?!” Phillipe exclaimed, his face reddening as his raised hand prepared another blow.
“They’s ain’t none-“
His backhand cracked against her face, spinning and slamming her to the floor with a meaty thud of flesh against wood. Whimpering, she curled into a ball near the fireplace.
“Phillipe!” Tomas said, stepping forward. “That’s not needed.”
He rounded on Tomas, eyes bulging white in stark contrast to the puffed redness of his face.
“I’ll treat my niggers how I want, Laiche,” he bellowed, pointing a fat, thick finger at Tomas.
“This is my house, not yours.” Tomas nodded once, but didn’t back away, instead grimacing toward the quivering girl.
“Get her off that floor,” Phillipe said to the other girl, who quickly followed his order. She knelt beside her sister and lifted her by the arm. “Now, I want you to find Monsieur Laiche some pineapple, do you hear me?”
The older girl bobbed her head while clasping her sister underneath the shoulder. Blood smeared the young girls face, trickling down from a wicked gash on her cheek – opened by a green-stoned ring on Phillipe’s right hand.
“Yassah, Marse Bourgeois,” she said, backing out of the room while supporting her sister. “I gets it for ya.”
“Phillipe,” Tomas said. “I-“
He was halted by Phillipe’s raised hand.
“We will HAVE pineapple, Tomas,” Phillipe said. “We have it. I know we have it. They’re always hiding things from me, but they won’t this time.”
The large man took a deep breath. He rolled his shoulders as if tossing off a blanket, and turned toward Tomas – his face now calm and serene.
“They simply must learn who’s master,” Phillipe said. Lifting the ring to his mouth, he sucked it dry of the girl’s lingering blood.
“If I want something, I’ll have it.”
“Of course,” Tomas said, slowly releasing his breath. He’d heard Phillipe was brutal, but never witnessed it. If this was any hint, then life at Emerald Oaks must be a horrid experience.
“So,” Phillipe said, motioning to the chairs where the food and drink was placed. He filled the two cut crystal glasses with brandy from the decanter. “What brings you all the way out here?” He handed the glass to Tomas.
“Surely not the brandy?”
When I want something, I’ll have it. The words ran through Tomas’s head as he lifted the glass to toast his host. It’s as if nothing happened.
“No,” Tomas said, sipping the deep, dark drink. He caught his breath, gaining control of his breathing after the horrific excitement. “A more important issue, in fact.”
“Really?” Phillipe said. “Have a seat and tell me all about it.”
Tomas sat, his mind still focused on the scene he’d just witnessed, as well as the ominous words. Had they meant more? Or were they just the ravings of a brutal man?
“Well, Monsieur,” he said, placing his glass on the table. “I’m here to ask for Marguerite’s hand in marriage.”
Phillipe leaned back in his chair, grinning over the top of his brandy glass. He swirled the liquid while he watched, remaining quiet for a long moment.
“Go on,” Phillipe whispered, finally taking a sip. Not the gulps he’d had at the Willows, Tomas noticed. This brandy he savored.
“I think we’ll make a good match,” Tomas said. “I’m of the means to take care of her, offer her the life she deserves.”
“And where will this life be?”
Tomas nodded, expecting this part of the conversation. He knew exactly what Phillipe wanted. What he didn’t know, was whether Marguerite had talked to him yet.
“We discussed this during your visit,” Tomas said. “We’ll live at the Willows, and I’ll turn over operations of the Two Oceans to my manager, Riley Mac.”
“Indeed?” Phillipe said, leaning forward. “And what makes you think you can run a sugar plantation?” He twirled his hand in the air.
“It’ll just come to you?” He chuckled. “A huge mistake, and you know it.”
Tomas shrugged. “Marguerite suggested it,” Tomas said, inspecting his brandy. “She assured me she’d discuss it with you.”
“She did nothing of the sort,” Phillipe said. “The last thing I heard, you were selling the Willows to me, so your mother could remain in her home while you ran your company in New Orleans.”
Tomas nodded, leaning back in his chair. It creaked as if complaining. “True,” he said, speaking slowly. “I did mention those things when we last talked.” He took a drink.
“However,” Tomas said, continuing. “Marguerite and I think we can run the Willows ourselves.” He lifted a finger. “She has experience in the places I don’t.”
Phillipe rubbed his nose with a fat forefinger, then leaned back, matching Tomas’s posture. His chair moaned in agony from the man’s weight.
“Last season was the worst year on record for the Willows,” Phillipe said. “And now, you’ve had severe flooding and might just lose an entire crop.”
He has a point, Tomas thought to himself as he reached forward to pour himself another brandy. Instead, Phillipe snatched the decanter and smiled, offering to pour. Tomas nodded and allowed his glass to be filled.
Three bad crops in a row would put them under the bank, and the Company was already leveraged as far as possible. If this season failed, he might lose both ventures to bankruptcy.
Thanks, father, he said to himself as he leaned back in the chair and eyed Phillipe.
“Might,” Tomas replied. “It’s not certain.” Phillipe shrugged.
“Is it worth betting everything on?”
Is it? Tomas thought. What would happen if we failed?
“I’ll tell you what,” Phillipe said. “Here’s what I can offer.” He took a sip of his brandy, then settled back in his chair.
“You agree to sell me the Willows, and I’ll assume all of the debts.” He smiled. “AND, your mother can stay on at the house.”
A smile grew as he continued. “In fact, Madame Laiche will never need to know.” He opened his arms. “We’ll do the deal once you marry Marguerite, and you can live in New Orleans.”
“How do you mean?” Tomas asked, cocking his head.
“It’s simple, really,” Phillipe said. “I put a manager in place, someone like Brody for instance, and call him a wedding gift.” He twirled his wrist, keeping his drink steady in the other while he did so.
“We’ll say I’m doing it so you both can live in New Orleans, and run the company.” He drank.
“Your mother won’t have to know,” he said, continuing after the sip. He licked his lips dry of the brandy. “Neither will Marguerite. It’ll just be between you and I.”
“Are you serious?” Tomas said, staring at Phillipe as if he were deranged. “Of course they’d find out!” He shook his head. “Besides, you’d have complete control over the Willows, leaving my family with none.”
Phillipe shrugged and sipped his brandy while Tomas continued. “Sure, maybe now you say mother can stay, but what about after Marguerite and I are married?”
“I can’t do this,” Tomas said.
“You’ll lose everything if you don’t,” Phillipe said. “There’s nothing you can do to save the Willows if the crops fail again.” He sipped his drink, nodding.
“And since you don’t know a thing about growing cane, nor manufacturing sugar, you’re all out of options.”
“Only I can save your family’s legacy,” Phillipe said. “And the way it happens is by marrying Marguerite, and accepting my terms.”
Tomas felt drowned, as if the room was filled with water through which he couldn’t see, nor breath. He’d come here to ask for Marguerite’s hand, finally accepting that it was a good thing to do. Now, he was being FORCED to sell the Willows.
Rubbing his forehead, he stood, turning to look out the window. He needed time to consider the possibilities. How could things have gone into the swamps so quickly? He shook his head.
“If my father could do it, so can I,” Tomas said, watching a pair of squirrels run across the lawn, then scamper up one of the large oak trees.
“Your father did it at a time when sugar was just beginning,” Phillipe said. “Now?” He shrugged. “Competition is too fierce, and the banks too stingy. You saw what happened to the Boudreaux’s.”
The Boudreaux family once owned one of the older plantations along the river. When they experienced a bad season, the bank foreclosed, kicked them from the property and promptly sold it to Phillipe Bourgeois.
Antille Bourgeois, Phillipe’s youngest son ran it now, while the Boudreaux family moved into the swamps with the Acadians. Is that where we’re headed, Tomas thought. The swamps?
Tomas took a drink, watching the squirrels spiral around a thick, draping limb of the live oak. Must be nice being a squirrel, he thought. Total freedom to do as they wanted.
“Tell you what, Tomas,” Phillipe said. “What if I draw up a contract stating your mother has complete control of the house?”
Tomas smirked, glancing to the side as he heard Phillipe walk his way. That might work, he thought. If it’s in writing, he can’t break it.
“Once she passes,” Phillipe continued. “God willing it’s a long time coming, then the entire property moves into my control.”
“We both get what we want from this deal, Tomas,” Phillipe said when Tomas remained quiet. “You get to stay in New Orleans, your mother gets to stay at the Willows and the plantation remains productively debt free.”
And you finally get your hands on the Willows.
“I need time,” Tomas said, turning to glare at Phillipe, who now joined him at the window. “This is too much to consider in one sitting.”
“Of course, Tomas. Of course,” Phillipe said. “Take all the time you need.” He patted Tomas on the back and led him toward the foyer. “So long as you only need a week.” He shrugged and smirked.
“Marguerite’s impatient. She might find another suiter by then.”
Highly doubtful, Tomas said to himself, wondering if she had any clue what was happening.
Tomas nodded. “A week.”
“Fair well, lad,” Phillipe called out as Tomas walked through the front doors onto the veranda. His horse was tied to a post at the base of the stairs, as if in anticipation of his departure.
“The Belle won’t be back around for a few hours,” Phillipe said. “Might I suggest you ride back to the Willows? Clear your mind while enjoying the lovely countryside.”
Tomas nodded, said nothing and descended the stairs – saving one last, painful look for the footman holding his horse. “Thank you,” he whispered. The man nodded, but said nothing.
Instead, the look was lifeless, matching the feeling inside Tomas’s chest. Tight. Cold. Dead.
Tomas draped over the bow railing of the Creole Belle. He stared down into the plowing wake, as wind from the river washed his hair with breeze. Now that he’d accepted his fate to marry Marguerite, he was somewhat excited.
Making the initial decision seemed horrid, yet when he saw her walk up the steps of the Willows, desire drove his decision. No longer the bratty girl from several years past, she’d now grown into a beautiful woman – one he could see himself with forever.
Breathing deep, he allowed her image to fill his mind, feeling the river’s cool, moist air seep into his nose.
What a powerful word. According to the Church, marriage was supposed to be that long, or at least until death did you part. It had been for his parents, so it must be truth. Sure, they’d had their difficulties. Yet somehow, they’d always managed to get beyond them – keeping the common goal of the Willows first and foremost in their minds.
Damn, he thought, looking into the brown, churned waters of the Mississippi. A lifetime of marriage. That’s frightening.
He’d never committed to anything other than his business, with competition being the motivation for his success. That, and building something like his parents had done with the Willows. The rest of his life was about freedom, and living how he chose.
“I suppose marriage is similar,” he said to the river. “Building something together, lasting.” Not the freedom part, though. Marriage tasted like slavery.
He imagined being married to his manager Riley Mac. Chuckling a giggle, he wondered how long that would last. The giant Caribbean WAS almost his spouse, considering how much time they spent together. The manager of the Two Oceans Trading Company was indispensable to Tomas, using his skills as the former captain of a privateer to insure that the Company ran as well as his ship.
Tomas smiled, watching a log float past with a seagull perched atop a broken stump of a branch. He remembered the first time he’d met Riley Mac. Striding down the gangplank of the Lady Thera with a red and yellow macaw atop his shoulder, he’d been grinning from ear to ear – his bald head glistening in the sun. Eight years ago, and their friendship had grown ever since.
Shirtless and covered in gold chains, the man certainly captured attention. The fact he offered his vessel to the Company astounded many along the docks, and the discovery of his managerial capabilities was an added bonus. Within two years of his arrival, Riley was second in command of the Company.
What if marriage was like that? He thought, imagining his commitment to Marguerite turning into a friendship similar to Riley Mac’s. He nodded to the passing seagull, noting its keen ability to weather the wake of the passing riverboat. It’d be perfect, wouldn’t it?
“Listen to me go on,” he said, shaking his head. Just up river, about fifteen minutes out, he could see the dock to Emerald Oaks on his right. “You’d think Riley was going to be my wife.”
He looked around, hoping none heard his comment. Horns blared, echoing off the trees across the river and bouncing through the skies above.
“Em-Ralllllllld Oo-ooooooaks!” the pilot sang from the bridge deck above, his deep baritone voice singing the words like only a Negro could.
Near the dock, a flight of ducks exploded from the marshy grasses of the riverbank, quacking their way into the cloudless, blue sky. Deckhands scrambled to the bow to work the gangplank’s wench, so when the riverboat was sufficiently close, it could be lowered to the dock and the boat secured.
Today, only one other person disembarked along with Tomas, and their horses were brought to the bow – eyes covered with burlap sacks.
“Em-Ralllllllld! Oo-ooooaks!” the pilot sang as the boat churned closer to the dock, its paddlewheel reversing to slow the turn.
The gangplank had a grappling hook that clamped against the dock, so when it dropped, the boat could be locked in place against the strong current of the river. The hands were already lowering the wide ramp, so when the time came, it could drop.
“Em-Ralllllld! Oo-ooooooooaks!” the pilot sang, this time louder and longer and deeper – holding the last word until…
The plank fell, the latch secured against the dock and the riverboat stopped. The massive red wheel at the rear slowed to a churn, holding the boat in place just enough to maintain position.
Remarkable, Tomas said to himself as his horse was brought forward. Deckhands trotted to the dock and tied lines to large, wooden pilings. They pulled them taut, thus anchoring the vessel in place. No matter how often he traveled by riverboat, he loved docking.
“Where are you off to, Monsieur Laiche?” the other man disembarking with Tomas said, gathering his reigns. They led their horses down the gangplank and onto the cypress wood dock.
“Emerald Oaks,” Tomas said. “Yourself?”
“The same,” the man said, known among planters as ‘le vieux Champomier.’ “I need an accounting of Monsieur Bourgeois’s sugar production.”
He lifted a small, leather-bound book from the courier pouch slung over his shoulder.
“Since I have you here, Monsieur Laiche,” he said. “How is production at the Willows?” Tomas cocked his head.
“The floods hit you hard this spring. Will you be able to match last year’s yield?”
“Monsieur,” Tomas said, leading his horse from the ramp to the wooden pier. The Bourgeois family had built it parallel to the levee, thus making docking easier.
“I appreciate your zeal, but surely you know my father passed earlier this year.”
Champomier nodded but said nothing. Instead, he flipped pages in the little book. Licking the tip of his pencil, he made a notation.
“Of course,” he said. “My condolences. He was a good man, always accurate with his tallies.”
He looked up at Tomas, halting on the gravel path leading toward the plantation’s Big House. The river road crossed just in front, a muddy, rugged track that few other than couriers used. Across the rutted road, marched an allee of thick trunked, ancient Live Oaks which gave the plantation its name.
“Will you be staying on at the Willows,” Champomier asked, holding a small stub of a pencil ready. “Or will Madame Laiche step in for the late Francois?”
“That’s yet to be decided,” Tomas said patiently. “I’m on my way now to discuss options with Phillipe.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Tomas knew they were a mistake. Champomier could destroy the Willows with a flick of his pencil, so hinting at possibilities regarding sugar production was not a good idea.
The man’s yearbook on plantation sugar yields, as well as projections based upon previous years was second to none. Everyone, from planters, to bankers and the exchanges used his information as the key reference in setting prices and approving loans.
It also gave other planters the opportunity to see how well, or how poorly their neighbors were doing – especially since every planter was in the book. The man was relentless in his pursuit of information – dedicated to extreme accuracy and never failing in his recommendations. His written word was taken as Gospel, to which the Bishop of the local diocese would agree.
“Is everything well at the Willows, Monsieur Laiche?”
Tomas sighed, giving himself a moment to gain his bearings. Perhaps the truth? He’d find it out anyway, especially if they were both going to visit Phillipe.
“Well, Monsieur,” Tomas said. “I didn’t want to say anything just yet, but I’m planning to ask for Mademoiselle Marguerite’s hand in marriage.”
“Indeed?” Champomier said, smiling suddenly. “Congratulations are in order, then.” Tomas nodded, as did the older man.
“And will the Willows be a part of the exchange?”
Tomas chuckled. “I hope not,” he said. “But I’m certain, if Phillipe accepts me as his son in law, that I can use his expertise to help make a smooth transition into the planting community.”
“Ah,” the old man said, making a notation in his book. Tomas fought the urge to crane his neck to look, pursing his lips and smiling as hard as he could instead.
“Phillipe Bourgeois is one of the more successful producers along the river.”
Tomas nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“His advice could prove advantageous to your success, Monsieur Laiche,” Champomier said. “Should he choose to share it, that is.”
“He’s already said as much,” Tomas said, recalling the conversation in the library. Maybe not completely accurate, but it was good enough from the old man in the moment.
“Well, then,” Champomier said, making another notation. “That will bode well for the Willows.” He smiled wanly.
“As we all know Monsieur, your time in New Orleans hasn’t exactly prepared you for taking over sugar production from your father.”
“Oh,” Tomas said. “I’m acutely aware, monsieur. You may trust me on that point.”
Champomier mounted his grey mare, and instead of trotting across the river road toward Emerald Oaks, he turned south – downriver.
“Since you’re offering proposal Monsieur,” he said. “I shall delay my discussion with monsieur Bourgeois until later this evening.”
“Very kind of you, Monsieur,” Tomas said, tipping his hat before mounting his own horse: a dark brown stallion named Bean. “I’m as nervous as a rabbit next to an alligator.”
“Wise,” Champomier said. “Phillipe Bourgeois isn’t an easy man to get along with.” He tipped his straw hat, clicked his mouth and eased his horse down the road.
“I shall visit the Willows in a few days, Monsieur,” he said. “Perhaps you will know more about your yields then.”
“We’ll have tea and pastry for you, Monsieur,” Tomas said. “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir,” Champomier said, then trotted down the road.
Tomas watched the man ride away until the bend in road and river took him out of sight. Heaving a large, heavy sigh, Tomas heeled the horse and trotted up the long allee of trees toward the mansion named Emerald Oaks.
With the Bourgeois family on the Riverboat to Emerald Oaks, the Willows returned to normal. Finery was replaced by every day clothes, and Tomas prepared to leave for New Orleans. While the plantation needed his hand, the Trading Company still had to operate as if nothing had changed.
Riley Mac might be a good manager, as Marguerite hinted, but the Two Oceans needed Tomas’s guidance. Without the firm hand of a Laiche at the helm, the Company would sink fast – especially with their busiest time of the year upon them.
Fate, Tomas said to himself as he descended the stairway to have breakfast with his mother. Marguerite said it was fate that brought them together, made them one – a couple. What a funny creature, fate. In a world where freedom was his normal choice, he now accepted fate in marrying Marguerite.
For some reason, though, it made him smile. One less issue to deal with. His mother would be happy, Marguerite would be happy and, perhaps, even Phillipe.
“Tomas!” his mother said from the end of the dining room table – shortened now that it was only two of them. The way she pounced when he walked through door made her seem like a waiting spider. “Good morning.”
Tomas kissed his mother’s slightly wrinkled cheek, though the French creams she used hid them well. No matter her age, he still saw her as if he were twelve.
“Bonjour,” he said, choosing a chair next to her instead of the opposite end. A servant poured chicory darkened coffee into a white china cup. Tomas nodded in thanks, then lifted it to his lips.
“I hope the morning finds you well?”
Mammie narrowed her eyes in curiosity as she studied Tomas. “It does indeed,” she said. “Though I think it finds you better.”
She lifted her tea cup and sipped, holding the white saucer underneath the cup. Tomas chuckled. “What makes you say that?” he said, reaching for a piece of fresh pineapple from the white china fruit platter between them.
“I understand you and Marguerite had quite a lengthy conversation in the garden,” Mammie said. “Anything of interest?”
“Mother,” Tomas said. “You could have at least waited until I had my breakfast.” She shrugged.
“At my age,” she said, “time is in short supply.” He chewed his fruit and waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh come off it,” he said. “You sound as if death has you in its grasp.”
“It might,” she said, setting her tea cup on the table. Sounds of clinking plates came from an adjacent room, as the servants prepared the main course. “You haven’t been around here long enough to know.”
Tomas heaved a deep, chest-filling sigh.
“Alright,” he said. “We did have a pleasant conversation.” How to say it? All night he’d practiced how he would tell his mother, and now, when the time came, it was more difficult than he imagined.
“I’m going to ask for Marguerite’s hand in marriage,” he stated, feeling the weight of the words in his chest: tight, thick and breathless.
Mammie gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Tomas!” she exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
He nodded, as if it had been an everyday topic. “Yes, mother. Very.”
Tears poured from her eyes, blinking as if trying to stop the flood and failing. She threw her arms open. “Hug me!”
Tomas did, pulling her close as they both stood by the table. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered into his chest. Her sobs of joy bouncing in rhythm to his heart.
She pulled away to look into his eyes. “Did you propose last night?” He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I still need to talk to Phillipe before I do, but he’ll agree.” To what, was the real question. The man wanted the Willows, and Tomas suspected that his marriage to Marguerite wouldn’t make things easier.
“Well, then,” Mammie said. “We need to prepare an engagement announcement as soon as you ask Phillipe.” She leaned past Tomas as Mammy May walked into the room carrying a silver salver of spiced, link sausage and roasted, red potatoes.
“May?” Mammie said. “Did you hear the good news?”
“What news is that, Miss Mammie?” May said, placing the salver on the dark mahogany sideboard. His mother waited, looking to him to explain the news.
“I’m asking for Marguerite’s hand in marriage,” Tomas said, this time with more confidence.
“Well I’ll be!” May said. “That the best news I hear all day, Marse Tomas. When you gone do it?”
Tomas opened his mouth, but his mother beat him to the words. “He has to ask Phillipe first,” Mammie said. “And then, once he says yes, we’ll host an engagement party right here at the Willows!”
“Mmhmm,” May said, pursing her lips and grinning. “We gotsta have a party, Miss Mammie. I better get to tellin the staffs so they ready.”
“And I’ll make a list of invitations,” Mammie said, nodding and placing a finger to her lip. “We’ll need Jim to deliver them personally, of course,”
“You got that right, Miss Mammie,” May said. “Won’t be proper otherwise.”
Tomas watched the pair go back and forth on plans for HIS engagement party, listening to them talk as if he weren’t involved. Every time he raised a finger to say a word, one of the two cut him off.
“Mother,” he said, shaking his head when she didn’t respond. They were discussing food at the moment. “I’ll be in the library.”
“Tomas,” his mother said just before he left the dining room. “Be sure and catch the Creole as it passes. You don’t want to be late to Emerald Oaks.”
“Excuse me?” he said. “I have to be in New Orleans.”
“Right, dear,” Mammie said. “Stop in at the Bourgeois on your way in.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “And take Jim with you, as well. He’ll need to return with the date for the engagement.”
“Hurry along, Tomas,” Mammie said. “We have a party to plan, and you have a question to ask of Monsieur Bourgeois.”
She turned to May just as the kitchen staff entered the room.
“Whats all tha ruckus?” one of the maids said, looking at May and then to Mammie. “I heard yellin.”
“Marse Tomas gettin’ married!”
The Willows exploded in squeals.
The sun had set on New Orleans by the time Simone arrived at Sister Maria’s ‘chapel’ as she called it. A shop off Rue Toulouse, it was an aged, brick building with flaking, green shuddered windows. To most, it looked more like a rubbish barn than a church.
Once inside, scented candles greeted Simone, filling her nose with the smells of exotic spice. Colorful parakeets twittered in cages lining the walls.
Passing from the foyer into the main room, four wooden chairs with animal hide seats surrounded a hand-tooled, rectangular table. Centered in the space, nine thick candles melted into its surface – lighting the room with flickering, yellow light and staining the top with thick, oily wax.
A heaviness hung in the space, heightened by blacked out windows and flickering shadows. Hollow masks, grinning animal skulls and stone carved idols peered from barely seen thick, wooden shelves.
“Simon-eh!” Maria called out as she entered the church. “I got da tea brewin in da back. Seet tight, I be dere in de mo-ment.”
“Okay,” Simone said, pulling a chair from the thick table and claiming a seat. She’d been here often enough to know where to take tea. Maria’s special readings required patrons arrange themselves in particular ways. Therefore, Simone knew exactly where to sit and why.
“Do ya be wantin’ a readin?” Maria asked, emerging from the back. She carried two cups on saucers, and a brown pottery teapot on a wooden tray.
“May-be we find dat man for ya.”
Simone took the tea cup and smiled, sniffing the aromatic flavor before drinking. Jasmine with a hint of spice; perhaps cinnamon. The scent tickled like a feathery touch across her tongue. Always something different, Sister Maria’s tea never failed to delight.
“Of course,” Simone said, taking a sip. “You know I never turn down the opportunity to learn whose heart I’ll wreck.”
“Doan chu be talkin’ dat way,” the priestess said, her chair creaking from the weight. “Ju bring da hoodoo upon ya wits talk like dat.” She sipped her tea.
“Ya best tink bout whatcha be wantin and who it be wits at all time.” Simone nodded.
Maria pulled a deck of cards from seemingly nowhere, stacking them next to a thick, mostly melted red candle whose wax had spread around its base like moss from an ancient tree.
She drew three cards and arranged them on the table directly across from Simone. Then, whispering soft unknown words, sprinkled dust across the tops – candlelight casting glittering glows on the cards themselves.
She flipped one, then another and then a third – each one coming with an “ahhh” from the large priestess.
“Dis be good, Simon-eh,” Maria said. “Very good indeed!” Simone peered over the cards, inspecting each of the figures and shapes. After a year of watching, she’d never quite figured out what all of the little creatures on the cards meant to the Caribbean priestess.
Simone looked up. “How do you mean?”
“Da fates be smilin’ on yas,” Maria said. “Da man a ya dreams be coomin to ya life very soon. Very soon. By da next moon.” She smiled up at Simone.
“Whatcha tink bout dat?”
“Sounds good to me,” Simone said. “But who says I want the man of my dreams coming into my life? Maybe I’m happy with the way I am?”
“Dat be up to ju, Simon-eh,” Maria said. “I just be readin what da cards be sayin’.”
“Well,” Simone said, sipping her tea. “If I see him, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, why not see what the cards have to say about opening my art school.”
“Doan cha want ta meet ya soulmate?” Maria said. “We all ‘ave one out dere, Simon-eh. Dey only coom by once. When ya miss it, dey gone for-evah.”
“Why would I want that?” Simone said. “Men just tell women how to live their lives. If I want a man, I know where to find one. They only want sex, anyway.”
Maria laughed, her cackle slow and drawn out. “So ya be tinkin,” she said. “Maybe dis one want soom-tin more for yas?”
“I doubt it,” Simone said. “I feel what every one of them thinks when they walk by my easel.” She shrugged, smirking to match.
“There’s no doubt, Maria. It’s all about them and what they can take.” She took a sip of tea, staring at the table top as if seeing through it.
“I’m happy with where I am.”
Maria stared at Simone, watching her carefully. Finally, a smile crept over her face and she laughed. “I doan believe a word dat ju be sayin,” Maria said.
Simone waved her hand in the air and sighed, rolling her eyes. “What makes you the expert on what I’m thinking?”
Maria leaned close. “Cause I see, Simon-eh,” she said slowly. “I can feels da loove ya be wantin deep wits-in ya ‘eart.”
“Ya see it, yet deny da troots.”
Maria pointed to the spot on the table where Simone had been staring. “What dat ya be seein in dere?” Maria asked. “Ya look an see. What it be?”
Simone followed Maria’s finger and looked at the spot again. What had she seen? She inspected the table as if it were a mirror.
Memories, really. Past times in Paris where she’d given her heart and had it smashed. Men she’d loved, truly felt close to – ones she wanted to share her life with; an eternity with. Joy flooded her, fueling an energetic burn in her abdomen for finding that which was missing.
Dancing on the bridges over the Seine, hand in hand with one she loved – each sharing the other’s flow of life. Harmonious movement of being, neither dominating – both leading, sharing. That was love, the dance was passion and the creativity of it was life itself.
Moments in fields, in galleries, in forests; all filling her heart with warmth. Uplifting, the feelings carried her over heights and into misty spaces where only her and her lover lived. Pure connection, complete love – passion through partnership.
Maria’s softly spoken, “yes,” brought her back, Paris became the table and she sucked in her breath, breathing deeply as if she’d held it the entire time.
“It’s not real,” Simone whispered, pushing away the feelings as she returned to the moment. “It’s just a fairytale. Imaginary, like tales told to children.”
She lifted her tea and drank, staring straight into the opposite wall – listening to her inner voice saying the dream was a sham; all fake.
“No, Simon-eh,” Maria said. “Dat no what ya tink.” She nodded, her smile becoming more entrancing. Simone turned and met her eyes.
“What be makin ya paint?”
“Why?” she said, cocking her head to the side.
“Because I love doing it, and I’m good at it and people like what I paint.” Maria shook her head slowly, tinkling the beads attached to her tignon.
“You share da ‘eart of yaself, Simon-eh,” Maria said. “Ya spills it across da canvas wits ya paint, mixin ya emotions and feelins into da pick-cha for all ta see.”
Maria pointed at the table, the exact spot that took Simone to Paris. “What ya saw dere, is where ya art lives.” Maria lifted her hand to her chest. “Where da ‘eart is.” She nodded, and Simone matched.
Simone clasped the deep purple pendant she wore around her neck, allowing Maria’s words to sink in as she considered what they meant. Was she hiding her heart inside of her art? Funny how Maria made them sound the same. Perhaps they WERE the same?
When she painted, she stepped into the space, allowing whatever feelings she felt at the time to guide her brush. Was she connecting into her heart? She’d never considered that. She thought it divine intervention, some sort of muse moving her hand. What if it was her soul instead?
She blinked, seeing Maria studying her. Simone giggled, like Lucette posing to be a seagull. Flying.
“Now ya see, Simon-eh,” Maria said, nodding. “Now ya open to da possibility.”
Simone shook herself. The way her chest tingled, it certainly felt possible. “I don’t know,” she said. “If my art is my heart, then why do men only see my body; take what they want without returning the gift?”
“Dey ain’t da ones ya be lookin for,” Maria said. “Da day one-a dem look atcha art, den ya know he be seein ya ‘eart as well.”
Simone shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “But they turned out to be the same. They pretended to like it, yet in the end only wanted what they could own.” She sighed.
“My art was only a means to an end.”
“Den ask em what dey see when dey look,” Maria said. “Do dey see the rivah, or do dey see Loo-set-eh?”
Simone lifted her eyebrows and nodded. That made sense. If they only saw the color and brush strokes, they weren’t looking deep – only the surface. Maybe that was the key. If her heart was in the artwork, then a TRUE lover would see and reflect it back.
“Interesting,” Simone said, leaning back in her chair. She threw one arm over the back and twisted into a sideways, cross-legged casual manner.
“Speaking of Lucette,” Simone said. “I finished her painting. Would you like to see it?” Maria sighed, then shook her head, eyes lowered and sad.
“No, Simon-eh,” she said. “I be seen it already.”
“But I didn’t finish it before you left,” Simone said.
She looked toward the door, where she’d left her easel, paints and canvas. Lucette the Gull was wrapped in brown paper, protecting its surface from the elements. She used a certain type of pigment allowing for quick drying oils, making it easier to sell completed works on the street.
Maria’s expression didn’t change, the sadness remained and she stared straight at Simone.
“What is it?” Simone said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I see dem all da time,” she stated quietly. “Maybe it time yas be goin. Make sure ya be givin dat paintin to da lit-lun.”
Simone nodded, slowly standing. “I will,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Maria nodded but said nothing more.
“Very well, Maria,” she said. “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir, Simon-eh,” Maria whispered. “Sleeps wits ya angels.”
Luncheon finished, Tomas and Marguerite found themselves alone on the veranda, watched over by Marguerite’s nanny, who sat some distance away knitting.
“Thank you for inviting us for luncheon, Tomas,” Marguerite said as the pair looked out toward the river. Her warmth matched that of the day, radiating heat like the afternoon sun had set beside him. “It was delightful.”
Tomas bowed his head. “As were you,” he said, suddenly feeling the humidity. The temperature must have risen, he thought, tugging at his collar. It was near-stifling. “The, uh, conversation that is.”
She giggled, dipping her head and smiling. “I knew what you meant.”
“It’s been a long time since were last together,” Tomas said. He twisted toward her. “Maybe eleven years?” She bobbed her head, cheeks flushed pink.
“I was just a child, then.”
“We both were,” Tomas said, filling his nose with her rose-laced scent. It matches her hair. “It was Easter. We chased ducks.”
“You pushed me in the pond, you rascal,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “I hated you so much for that, Tomas Laiche! That was my favorite dress, and you ruined it.”
His eyes widened. “I, uh,” he stammered. “I don’t remember that part.” She nodded, smirking.
“Uh huh,” she said. “Sure you don’t.” She sniffed, but from pretend tears. Her smile said otherwise.
“You said you were going to marry me,” Tomas said. “In front of the Gaudets.” He shrugged. “I had to defend myself.”
She tossed her hair. The thick, shining auburn curls sent rose-laced scent rising into the air and into Tomas’s breath. “Would that have been so bad, Monsieur Laiche?”
“It would have been then!” he exclaimed, head swirling with her intoxicating essence. “You were eight years old, for Christ’s sake.” He released a wistful, pleasurable sigh. His eyes took her fully in, feeling the sudden urge to moisten his lips.
“Perhaps not so bad now, however.”
“Perhaps?” she said sharply. Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps I don’t want that ‘so much now,’ Tomas.” She waved her hand to emphasize the point.
“Perhaps, I’ve found someone else, and simply came for the etouffee.”
Tomas laughed, shaking his head. He adjusted his hat, stuffing his bangs underneath, thus insuring a snugger fit. “I’m certain that’s it. May’s etouffee is renowned for its allure.”
“It pulls people from all over the parish.”
“Humph,” she snorted and crossed her arms. “I’m going for a walk.” Tossing her hair once more, she made sure it slid its silky threads across his face. Spinning away from his touch, Marguerite marched toward the steps.
Rose, Marguerite’s nanny, shook her head at Tomas then followed, keeping her distance as Tomas watched them go.
He sighed, smiled to himself and looked toward the river. He did catch her glance back as she descended, a twinkling cue to follow after she had reached a ‘fair’ distance away.
She was feisty, he gave her that. And passionate, too. He felt that with every look she gave. Was it from love, or from desire to be his wife? He wasn’t certain there. However, the entire time they’d known one another, she’d always stated she was going to marry him.
Perhaps she knew more than he did. There was a lot of that going around these days: a sense of perhapsness. His mouth curled into a wry smile. Is that even a word? He thought. Where does certainty play into all of this?
Not knowing the answers, he followed Marguerite from the veranda, but only after she was halfway to the Willow grove.
“You steppin’ into a wasps nest with that one, marse Tomas,” Jim said, meeting Tomas’s eyes once he reached the bottom of the steps.
“What do you mean?” Tomas said, cocking his head and stopping.
“Just sayin’. You watch yaself, hear?” Tomas nodded, not quite understanding what the coachman meant. He patted the man on the shoulder.
“I’ll be careful,” Tomas said. “I know what I’m doing.”
Jim looked up the stairs, then back to Tomas. “Uh,” he said. “That’s what got me worried. Thatun ain’t right for you, and you knows it.”
Tomas shrugged, glancing across the lawn toward the grove, where Marguerite was just slipping through the dangling, green willow fronds. His chest felt heavy, as if pulled toward the pond’s dark depths.
“I’m alright,” Tomas said, grinning his finest smile. “It’s all part of the game.” He took a deep breath. “I’d best see to her, lest she think I’m rude.” Jim shook his head.
“Do whatcha gots ta do, marse Tomas,” Joe said. “Just ‘member what I done tolt ya.”
Tomas patted the man on the shoulder. For as long as he could remember, Jim had been part of the household staff and a friend. For some reason, he’d felt like an uncle and Tomas never questioned the elderly man’s openness when it came to opinions.
“I won’t,” Tomas said. He walked across the grassy lawn toward the pond, where clusters of purple blossoms just peeked amidst the deep, green leaves of nearby crepe myrtles.
“Why Tomas,” Marguerite said, fanning herself with a white and pink silk fan as he pushed through the stands of willow branches. Her wide-brimmed bonnet matched her fan’s color, trailing a pink, beaded ribbon down the back and across her shoulder.
“Whatever brings you here?”
Rose stood just outside of the willow grove, and while able to hear everything the pair said, she was just enough out of sight to remain proper. How she managed to knit while standing was beyond Tomas, but there she was, clicking away with those wooden needles – trying her best to NOT pay attention.
“Brings me here?” he said with a smirk. “Last time I looked, this was MY home.” She fanned herself faster and scooted to the side of the bench. There was enough room for him to sit, if he chose.
“And my bench.”
Smiling, he walked to the edge of the pond and knelt, settling on his haunches. Lifting a half-buried pecan from the spongey soil, he heard a heavy, single-breath sigh come from Marguerite. That brought a sly smile to his face. He could play this game, too.
“Besides,” he said. “I like to come here and think.”
“Oh really?” Marguerite said, her voice sing song light. “Whatever do you think about?” He stood, looking for an open lily blossom to aim his pecan. What do I think about? That’s a good question.
“Lots of things,” he said, launching the dark brown nut toward a distant flower. He missed, plopping the pecan into the waiting water – sending round droplets of water sliding across a grass-green lily pad.
“Life, the Willows, New Orleans…”
He turned toward Marguerite.
“That’s all?” She said, cocking her head. Her eyes bored into his like arrows. His heart leaped, racing into body-felt beats.
“You,” he said softly, reflecting the arrow back toward her as his breath thickened. The flushed red of her face said he hit his mark. Did he mean that? Hadn’t he called her a witch a few hours earlier? What changed?
Until today, he’d always seen her as a spoiled, eight-year-old, pig-tailed girl who incessantly annoyed him during plantation galas. Eleven years apart seemed like an ocean – vast, distant and no ship in sight. Back then, it was inconceivable for them to be together.
Now, the sea became a peach orchard, no distance at all and she was the perfect fruit – full, ripe and begging to be picked. All he need do was reach out, pluck and she would be his. Imagery faded as her alluring scent of roses overwhelmed his senses.
She fanned herself, hiding her smile behind its fluttering motion. “Why Tomas,” she said, glancing down, but not quite. “You’re making me blush.”
He breathed deep, allowing the life around the pond to fill his senses. The willow branches weaved in the breeze, swaying to and fro in rhythm. Pink and red Azaleas covering the shoreline. Soft, moist earth between her and himself – a promise of what would come should he choose her for his wife.
The cypress bench seemed made for her, its curving legs sprouting like roots rising from the ground. It was sensuous and seductive, just like her.
Jim’s words crept into his head as he glanced toward Mammy Rose. Her clicking needles sounded louder, and she carefully avoided his gaze through the draping limbs.
“You said it yourself on the veranda,” Tomas said, taking one step closer to Marguerite, his boots barely leaving a mark in the moist soil. “Would it be so bad?”
“My, aren’t you the forward one, Monsieur Laiche,” she said. “Here we are, not having seen one another in eleven years, and you’re already talking about marriage.”
“Whatever happened to courtship?” She snapped her fan closed. “And I thought you were gentleman.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. Of course he was. What was he thinking? Must be the cicadas. They were louder, it seemed, buzzing in cadence to his heartbeat.
“My apologies,” he said. “Of course you are correct.” He turned toward the pond again, noting the number of lily pads were less this year. Maybe more in the summer.
“It’s just with my father gone, I’m beginning to feel the pressure of responsibility.” He bit his tongue and took a deep breath. “I’m not thinking straight.”
“It’s I who should apologize,” Marguerite said. “I should have realized the tragic death of your father would weigh heavy upon you.” She patted the bench, causing him to turn.
“Please,” she said. “Sit with me.” He nodded. “We might not have seen one another in eleven years, but I still feel the same.” He stared at her a moment, narrowing his eyes.
“You were eight, Marguerite,” Tomas said, sitting where she patted. “How could you still have the same feelings?”
“A girl knows,” she said. “Trust me. We know when we meet the man we’ll marry.”
Tomas chuckled. “Who’s being forward, now?” he said.
“It’s a woman’s right to be forward,” she said, twisting on the bench to see him better, though her hooped dress covered her entire half like a pink, chiffon blanket. “Especially when dealing with men.”
“Indeed?” Tomas said, as if insulted, though his breathing and heart rate said otherwise. She nodded.
“Tell me about your father,” she whispered, cutting him off before he could continue. “I only remember him from when I was younger.”
Tomas took a deep breath, as the depth of memory filled his soul. He searched Marguerite’s eyes for hints of purpose, then looked away.
“Heart failure, supposedly,” he said, watching a turtle pop its head above water. It amazed him how still those things could be. How do they stay in the same spot for so long? Why can’t I?
“He was found floating in St. Johns Bayou on the backside of New Orleans,” Tomas said. He shook his head, closing his eyes as the images came back.
“Alligators had gotten to the body, but there was enough left to identify him.”
Marguerite covered her mouth with her hand, and tears moistened the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Tomas,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, hearing her, but not really. He clasped his hands on his lap as he leaned toward the pond. Why did I stay away for so long?
“He was a good man,” he said. A blue heron landed on the edge of the pond, sending the turtle into its dark depths. “He treated me well, mother loved him. He even treated the darkies fair.” He chuckled.
“The entire household staff is free, as are mine in New Orleans.” He shook his head. “You won’t find much of that these days.”
“No,” Marguerite said. “No you won’t.”
“How else was he good?”
“He worked hard, built the Willows into what it is; he and my mother, that is.” He rubbed his hands together, noting how rough they were. “Hand in hand…” His eyes teared, and he sniffed, rubbing the outer corner of his eye. He turned to Marguerite.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, holding back the building sobs of anguish. “When he was alive, he ran the Willows and left the trading company to me. Now that he’s gone…” he shook his head.
“I just don’t know.”
Before he knew it, her hand was in his – emphasizing his rough against her softness; cold pressed into heat.
“What DO you know, Tomas,” she whispered. Her lips lifted into a concerned, soft smile. Those eyes… her touch. If Rose wasn’t close, he would kiss her in that very moment – pulling her mouth to drink within those delicate lips. Instead, he licked his own, pretending as if they were hers.
The way she asked questions that made him think…
Could she be the one? Is it possible? Light, but she was beautiful. He breathed her in, closing his eyes as he did – imagining life with Marguerite as he clasped her hand tight, yet gentle. Her intertwined fingers caressed his, dancing together as they wove between the other.
Life at the Willows, children running around the grounds, chasing frogs and throwing pecans. Laughter on the veranda, smiles at the table. Passionate love under the nighttime canopy of stars and sleeping in a down-filled bed. Auburn hair tossed in such a way to make his heart sing.
It could work. It could.
You ‘membah what I be tellin ya, Jim’s voice said in the back of his head, breaking the trance as the coachman’s face replaced that of Marguerite. He pushed it away.
What does Jim know? He’s just a coachman. A former slave who knows nothing about tough decisions, nor whom he should marry.
He opened his eyes and met hers.
“I know I can’t make this decision alone,” he breathed, placing his other hand atop of hers, He felt her heart and his beat as one rhythm. Her chest rose and fell in time to his, building the desire to know more with every breath.
“And what decision is that?” she said softly, her eyes never leaving his. He swallowed. Dare I say it?
“Whether to sell the Willows,” he said, taking a deep breath. There. It was out to someone other than her father. “Or to stay here and sell the Company.”
She stiffened, yanking her hand from his. It was like a wall was thrown between them, so strong the withdrawal.
“Business?” she stated. “This entire conversation was about BUSINESS?” He shook his head violently.
“No!” he said. “No, it’s about, it’s about…”
“Christ, I don’t know. You asked me about my father, and then my mind went to what to do.” He stood, marching toward the pond’s edge, shaking his head and pursing his lips.
“Marguerite,” he said to the water, his back to the auburn haired belle on the bench. The heron remained on the opposite bank, silently staring into the dark water as it stood beside a stand of cattails. All the while, the rising and falling buzz of the cicada filled the trees with music.
“You have no idea how difficult things are,” he continued. “Up until now, I’ve been free. Free to run the Company as I chose, free to go where I wanted, when I wanted – even with whom.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.
“Now?” he said, shrugging. “I feel trapped. Locked into a decision I never wanted to make, and forced into servitude at the whims of others.”
“What others,” Marguerite said from beside him. Surprised, he looked down to see her concerned face shining up at his. They reached hands and clasped, her cool fingers mixing into the heat of his own. He yearned for their caress.
“Mother,” he said, smiling and turning back to see the heron. It’s free, at least.
“Father and his legacy. Riley Mac, my manager at the Two Oceans. The Willows.” Jim, he wanted to say, but didn’t. Mammy May. Hell, all of them. Everyone.
Marguerite followed his eyes and smiled, seeing the heron as if for the first time. “What do you want?” she said, lifting her eyes back toward his.
“What I can’t have,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know anything about running a plantation, Marguerite,” he said, looking down at her. He fully turned to face her, yet still clasped her hand, feeling its soft, soothing warmth.
“How can I give this up?” He motioned with his other hand, as if waving at the heron. It didn’t budge, just took one step forward.
“I grew up here, Mother and Father built this place from a swamp. I love it here…” he shook his head, and looked into the sky. “Christ but I do.”
“Then stay,” Marguerite said. “Run the Willows and sell your Company.” She reached for his other hand, clasping them both and bringing them together. “I know how to manage plantations. I can help. Together, we can keep the Willows great.”
Her words and manner of speak filled his heart with hope. Together, she said. He wanted to say yes, his heart ached to say yes – he burned to say yes.
“Or,” she continued. “At the least let your manager run the Company while you get things in order here.” She tugged on their hands in excitement.
“Controlling both ends of the sugar trade isn’t such a bad idea, you know.”
He cocked his head. Not a bad idea at all, he thought. Riley Mac was an honest and respected man around New Orleans. An impressive feat, considering he was a free black in a white dominated world.
“Since when did you care about business?” he said, narrowing his eyes at Marguerite. She grinned, her sparkling eyes made his pulse race.
“Since when did you claim to know the thoughts of women?” she said. “In fact, your previous comments were around what you didn’t know.” She giggled, allowing him to lift her hands to his lips.
“Fortunately for you,” she said, smiling warmly as he kissed the back of her hand. “I’m here to bring clarity to those thoughts.”
“Yes,” he said, laughing and suddenly feeling free. “I can see I underestimated you.”
“You have no idea,” she said, pulling her hands away and smoothing her dress. She adjusted her bonnet, insuring the ribbon fell just so – drawing her fingers down its length.
“You know your father wants to buy the Willows, don’t you?” Tomas said, feeling that the time was proper to say such a thing. She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand.
“Let me deal with Daddy,” she said. “I have him wrapped around my little finger.” She lifted her hand so the back was up. “You just make sure the Two Oceans remains in your hands.”
He nodded, losing himself in her words and eyes.
“Now, Monsieur Laiche,” she said. “If you would be so kind as to escort me back to the house?” She placed the back of her hand against her forehead, closing her eyes as she did.
“The humidity is making me faint, and if I were to remain much longer, I shall expire from exhaustion.”
He cocked his head, impressed with her change in demeanor and tone. Where once an astute business woman stood, now re-appeared a typical, charming Louisiana Belle.
“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” Tomas said, offering his arm to rest her hand upon. “The heat can be ever so horrid this time of year.” She smiled and he met hers with a wink.
“And when next I see you, Tomas,” she said, her voice quiet so Rose couldn’t hear. “I expect a proposal. A romantic one, with roses, music and jewels.”
He nearly burst out laughing, grinning brightly at her jest. Her tight-lipped frown pulled him up short.
“You’re serious,” he said, just before they exited the canopy of Willow fronds. She nodded once.
“I am,” she whispered. “And so are you. We were made for one another.” She patted his arm, and stared deep into his eyes.
“We’ve always known this. You feel it, and I feel it.” He nodded quietly.
“I’ve loved you since the day I laid eyes upon you, Tomas. Even as a child, I knew deep within my heart, we were meant for one another.”
She did. He felt it in her soft, sensual gaze. The warmth of her hand on his, as if it were part of him; merged together – natural.
He nodded slowly, his eyes melting into hers, matching her breath as if it were his own. Yes. He loved her too, it seemed – even when calling her a hag or pushing her in the pond. This was right.
“I’ll talk to your father,” he said. “Though he already suspects we’ll be together. He said as much in the library early today.”
“Of course he does,” she said, leading him from the secluded grove of the lily pad pond to where Mammy Rose waited, knitting.