Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (4 page)

Miss Deborah Ann was the first to recover from the stillness
following the disgraceful exit. “Mademoiselle,” she murmured, and Nicolette
resumed playing. She chose a sweet, simple minuet to soothe the party, and the
guests began to move about and talk softly. As far as Nicolette could discern,
no one discussed the outrageous scene that had just occurred. Of course, once
they left the Presswood mansion, these same people would talk of nothing else
for days.

A handsomely clad Negro appeared at the door and announced
that supper was served. The gentlemen escorted the ladies into the dining room,
and the butler closed the high double doors behind them.

“Will you take your supper on the terrace, Mam’selle?” the
butler asked with hand outstretched to guide her to her own table.

Moonlight filtered through the scudding clouds, shifting the
shadows among the roses and hedges. Nicolette enjoyed the light breeze, the
excellent food, and the very good wine the butler poured for her.

“Good evening, Nicolette.” Alistair Whiteaker, elegant in
white tie and tails, stepped onto the terrace. A little light from the house
lay gently on Alistair’s pale wavy hair, casting one side of his handsome face
in darker shadow.

“Mr. Whiteaker. Have you abandoned the gentlemen with their
cigars?”

“I have. Can’t abide the reeking things.” He smiled at her
appreciatively. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that gown before. You look lovely.”

Nicolette hoped he would not sit down. It would do
neither his reputation nor hers any good to be seen alone together. On
Lake Maurepas, at a resort New Orleans society ladies did not attend, it was
acceptable for a gentleman to be seen with a mixed race woman. More than a year
ago now, Nicolette had in fact been dining with Alistair when Adam Johnston saw
them together. Only an hour after that, Adam had pushed his way into her house and
lost himself in a jealous rage.

While she recuperated, Alistair had called on her
faithfully, reading to her, taking her for drives through the tall pines. His
courtship had been sweet and undemanding, like Alistair himself. He would never
marry her, of course, no matter how dilute her African heritage. The seven
eighths of white blood in her veins were tainted by the one eighth of black,
and Alistair was not a man to defy convention. He would never offend his
mother, risk his little’s sister’s happiness, or compromise his position in
society. Even his proposal to keep her as his plaçée had been a struggle for
him, a contest of his desire winning out over his straitlaced expectations for
himself. Of course Marcel kept a plaçée, even had two little boys with Lucinda,
but Marcel was a Creole. Alistair was only a second generation Louisianan and
retained his New England forbears’ stiff righteousness.

Fond of Alistair as Nicolette was, she had not consented to
being his mistress. Many quadroon women saw being a rich white man’s mistress
as their fate. Indeed, many of them aspired to it. But Nicolette’s mother had
supported herself and her children with talent and hard work. With that
example, Nicolette could not see herself as a mere appendage, her days only a
slice of her protector’s life stolen from his wife and legitimate children.
Even dear Lucinda, to whom Marcel was genuinely attached, was about to be
supplanted by Miss Deborah Ann Presswood.

Still, Alistair was presuming on their friendship now. “Mr.
Whiteaker -- ”

“Don’t trouble, Nicolette. The men are reviling the Yankees,
and no doubt the ladies are doing the same. They’ll be an age yet.”

Alistair moved around the table, into the candle glow.
“General Mouton is pleading for reinforcements to hold the west. Your brother
has collected a unit of soldiers. Did you know?”

Nicolette shoved her wine away. Marcel was going to fight
then.

“He’s asked me to join him,” Alistair said.

“You, Alistair? I didn’t think you would put on a uniform.”

His smile was part grimace. She’d hurt him, she realized. “I
never doubted your courage, Alistair. I only was uncertain of your commitment.
You’ve said nothing about the war, all these months.”

“No. I’ve just wished it would all go away. And yet it
hasn’t.”

“And so you’re going to fight?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Alistair walked a few steps into the shadowy darkness, his
hands behind his back. “I don’t think my courage is so much less than other
men’s, but I don’t want to fight.” He leaned his head back to look at the moon.
“I have nightmares, Nicolette. Visions. Shoving a bayonet into a man’s gut,
opening up his chest. Seeing the light in his eyes . . . die.”

He turned around, his face strained. “How can I do that,
Nicolette? How can I take a man’s life? And for what? To make rich men richer?”

She’d wondered if Alistair felt anything deeply, had wished
at times for more than the restrained, bloodless kisses he’d given her. But
here was real feeling. Perhaps he was poised to make the leap to the other
side. Yes, Alistair owned slaves, many of them, and like every plantation
owner, he worked them through the hot days in the cane and cotton fields. She
knew this. For a moment, though, touched that Alistair revealed his feelings to
her here in the night, she believed that Alistair needed only a little
encouragement and he would do the right thing. He was a good man. He would
reject Marcel’s call to arms and join the Federals instead. She leaned across
the table as if she might reach him.

“If the North wins the war, Alistair, the government will
bring justice to Louisiana. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

He made a dismissive sound and gestured with his hand,
discounting her.

Stung, Nicolette drew back. So he was more like Marcel than
she’d given him credit for. She’d been a fool to think he, a slave-holding
planter, cared about justice. Why had she accepted this man’s friendship? He
was worse than Marcel. At least her brother acted on deep conviction.

“This war’s not being fought over slavery, Nicolette, you
should know that.” His tone was flat, resigned. “We have powerful men in the
Southern states, and the North profits from what we do down here. There’ll be
no end to slavery in our lifetimes.”

Anger rolled from her belly and prickled at her scalp. She
stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “Do you even have the capacity for
fervor, Mr. Whiteaker? Does nothing rouse you?” She meant for the disgust in
her voice to wash over him, to shame him and hurt him. “The complacency of men
like you is the very reason slavery endures to this day!”

Nicolette marched away, leaving him to stew in his own
lassitude.

Society habitually fled the city before the heat of
summertime, before the Yellow Jack moved into town. May was the very last month
it paid the proprietors of the Silver Spoon, one of New Orleans’ finest clubs,
to stay open.

Finn and his friend Hurshel Farrow
read the marquee beside the Silver Spoon’s door. New Orleans’ finest talents!
Avery LaSalle! Cleo Tassine! Pierre Lafitte!
Nicolette Chamard!

That afternoon Finn had handed off the foundry to the new
engineer from Pennsylvania who, most thankfully, had arrived a month earlier
than expected. Tomorrow Finn would return to the Signal Corps, where he
belonged, and Hursh would again be his immediate superior. Tonight, though,
they were merely old friends, and the night was theirs.

“What do you think, Hursh? Got money in your pocket, itching
to get out?”

“We’d be welcome as a banshee at a wake.”

“Not so, my friend. Word is, half the general’s staff will
be here tonight. The owners want their profits rolling in even if it’s Yanks
filling the seats.”

“I’d have to shave.” Hursh rubbed the red stubble on his
chin.

“End of the season,” Finn tempted. “There won’t be a damned
thing to do but soldier the rest of the summer.”

Hursh took a breath as if he were about to plunge into deep
waters. “All right, I’m for it if you are.”

They marched themselves back to camp and partook of the hard
tack and boiled fish their mess cooked up. Bathed and shaved, with coats brushed
and linen changed, they pronounced themselves handsome and sweet-smelling.

At the Silver Spoon, the maître d’ escorted them into the
gas-lit dining room where silver gleamed and gardenias scented every table. A
white-jacketed waiter offered them menus. Finn waved him off. Dining here would
cost them each a week’s wages. He held up two fingers. “Whiskey.”

Finn looked around the room at the other patrons who’d come
to take a night’s pleasure in the midst of war. The gleam of brass buttons
revealed that about half the diners were men in the uniform of the U. S. Army,
Federal officers like himself. The other half were wealthy planters who had
decided it was in their best interest to coexist with the occupying Yanks.
Practical men, Finn had to admit.

Amid the fanfare of a drum roll from the stage, the master
of ceremonies strode on stage and announced with great fervor, “Mademoiselle
Nicolette Chamard!” Immediately the white-tie elements of the audience burst
into enthusiastic applause.

A young woman entered from stage right, slowly, demurely,
with her eyes cast down. Her gown was ice blue, and she wore the get-up on her
head that so many women in New Orleans favored, some sort of turban.

The girl began singing
a
capella
, her voice sweet and pitch-perfect, but
thin as if she’d used all her breath just getting on stage. Finn figured she’d
been applauded for her looks, not her talent. And looks she had, if you liked a
perfect, heart-shaped face. Her skin was creamy, not that fish-belly white the
young ladies of Boston bragged about. And that lower lip! He leaned forward,
his elbows on the table.

The mademoiselle was the picture of innocence, her eyes on
the far distance, her hands holding a huge magnolia blossom. Winsomely sweet,
she sang her story.

A pretty little maid so neat and gay

To the mill she went one day

Finn took advantage of sitting in the dark to stare at her
bosom mounding nicely above her neckline. He paid little attention to the
lyrics, no doubt another insipid ballad about love and loss.

Now I think I will make my best way home.

If my mother ask why I’ve been so long,

The vision in blue suddenly gave her audience a broad wink
and a saucy smile. Her voice took on power and depth and an insinuating tone as
she finished her number.

I’ll say I’ve been ground by a score or more

But I’ve never been ground so well before.

Finn, caught unawares, guffawed. Hursh slapped the table.
The room erupted in laughter.

Then she assumed a mask of hauteur as she seated herself at the
piano. She played a tinkling trill in the high register and then pounded out a
few chords in the lower keys with dramatic, body-swaying expression. Suddenly,
as if she’d had a thought, she paused with her chin high in the air, her hands
poised over the keys.

“I play piano just like Frederic Chopin, you know,” she said
in a confiding tone.

The men in the audience, and they were nearly all men,
chuckled, waiting for it.

“With two hands.”

Without waiting for the laughter to die down, Mademoiselle
Nicolette launched into a Wagnerian aria in a soaring soprano. Finn’s eyes
never left her. He gazed, not at her bosom, at least not entirely, but at her
face, for she’d dropped the mask altogether now. Her eyes sparkled, her face
glowed. The regal elegance she projected, and then the sly humor – she was a
chimera, shifting easily from mock-serious to mock-bawdy, from demure to
knowing. Her voice flew like a hummingbird soaring and diving.

She was incandescent.

He was smitten.

Applause rolled through the room as Mademoiselle Chamard
took her bows.

In Finn’s experience, it was true, what they said about show
people: women of the stage were likely to be free with their favors.

“I’ll square with you later,” he said, then bolted, leaving
Hursh to pay for the drinks. He wanted to get backstage before the other swains
got there.

He found the side door into the performers’ area and closed
it firmly in the face of a young gentleman following him. He grabbed a nearby
chair and wedged it under the knob. He didn’t need competition from some rich
bloke in top hat and cane.

Here the banjo and flute from the next act barely
penetrated. A gas light overhead hissed and dimly caught the gleam of blue silk
as Mademoiselle Nicolette strode down the hallway toward the brighter dressing
area.

“Mademoiselle,” he called.

She turned. He couldn’t see her face with the light behind
her. He came closer and stood in the doorway with her. He stood too close, he
knew he did, but he wanted to inhale her intoxicating perfume. He wanted to
inhale her.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her gray eyes seemed
to see through to the back of his head. The heavy scent of the magnolia blossom
in her hand drew him in.

She backed away from him, bumping into the door jamb.

No welcoming smile? Finn hesitated, puzzled. Back in Boston,
he’d often gone backstage to congratulate Coleen after a performance, and if he
were the first admirer to reach her dressing room, he left the theater a happy
man.

Well, what had he expected? That she would invite a stranger
into her dressing room, let him tear her clothes off and make passionate love
to her all night? Well, yes. He’d been carried away with the image of himself
and this astonishing, spirited woman in a sweaty tangle of sheets. Unfair, of
course. She was not a fantasy. Still, was there not even a hint of flirtation
about her?

He leaned forward, trying to read those astonishing gray
eyes. Her pupils widened, and she raised a hand as if to protect herself. He
straightened. He’d blundered, obviously. Yet he was here now. He had to say
something.