Iron Lace (26 page)

A
urore lived on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny. The one-and-a-half-story Creole cottage was the property of a former associate of Lucien’s. Her rent was minimal; the house, although in serious disrepair, was worth more. But when she tried to make a more equitable payment, the money was always returned with a note explaining that, once again, she had miscalculated.

She had allowed herself only one week to recover from the loss of her child, to bind her breasts and dry her tears. Then she had left the convent behind and returned to New Orleans to claim what was left of her inheritance.

Few helping hands had been extended to her when she arrived back in the city. What had seemed great tragedies at first had become mysteries with her absence. The near destruction of Gulf Coast Steamship had left many of Lucien’s creditors deeply in debt. There was a rumor that he had committed suicide because he had allowed Gulf Coast’s insurance to lapse, and another that he had tried to
save money on premiums after profligate spending to ready the
Dowager.

The stories hadn’t stopped with Lucien. Claire was remembered, Claire who had been locked away for years in an institution for the insane. What madness had come to roost in the Le Danois family, and what of the daughter, who had disappeared after her father’s death? What could one say about a young woman who wouldn’t stay to see the family estate sold, piece by elegant piece, and the family business dismantled? Aurore had left New Orleans as the only survivor of a proud Creole name. She had returned to find that name tarnished beyond recognition.

A few friends had remained true. Tim Gilhooley had stayed on to salvage what was left of Gulf Coast. Not a brilliant manager, but a fair and honest one, Tim had retained what little he could—a rat-infested office far downriver from the fine new office building that had gone up in smoke, barges and tugs that were worth only a little more than what they would have brought in scrap, a few contracts, fewer promises.

Sylvain Winslow, Aurore’s landlord, had continued to invite her to social functions organized by his wife. Several friends who had come out with her stalwartly continued to involve her in the periphery of their lives and intrigues.

Most important of all, Ti’ Boo had moved to New Orleans. Another flood had devastated the family’s life on the bayou. When Jules was offered an opportunity to work in a weighing and gauging business in the Vieux Carré, they had left Lafourche and moved to the city; though each year during the sugarcane harvest they traveled back to visit with friends and family.

Ti’ Boo seemed to thrive on her new life. Pelichere had
been joined by a little brother, Lionel—called Ti’ Lee from the moment of his birth. She was busy raising four children and making a home for them in a small shotgun house off Bayou Saint John, with neat little rooms lined up one behind the other. She grew vegetables and herbs in tidy beds and took the children crabbing along the bayou. When Aurore visited, the house always smelled of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces.

Aurore had needed support in the years after Nicolette’s birth. Every morning she awoke to a life she didn’t recognize. Gone were sumptuous meals and creature comforts. Roaches nested in cracks in the old cottage walls, and heat and cold punished her. A fetid ditch separated her house from the street, and she tried not to see what floated past during heavy rainstorms.

She had retained Fantome and Cleo, neither of whom would have been employable if she had let them go. Fantome was too old, and Cleo too inclined to do exactly as she pleased. Both had been loyal beyond duty after Lucien’s death. They had stayed on to take care of the Esplanade house until it was sold; then they had moved to Frenchmen and attempted to make a home for Aurore with what was left of the Le Danois and Friloux heirlooms. Fantome lived in rooms above the carriage house, and Cleo had made a place for herself in the half-story attic.

Despite their efforts, many of the daily chores fell to Aurore. She did what marketing she could afford, and a portion of the cleaning. Fantome tended the yard, the carriage and the horse, but secretly she clipped and weeded to lighten his burdens.

Once, her standards had been those of her ancestors. A life
well lived had been everything to the Creoles. Now she contended with poverty and ostracism from all that her family had held dear. No one had prepared her for her new status.

Nor had anyone prepared her to work in the family company. Every morning at eight she went to work with Tim at the new office on Tchoupitoulas. Gulf Coast Steamship was no more. The limited-liability corporation founded by her grandfather and expertly tended by Lucien had been dissolved, and Gulf Coast Shipping had risen from the ashes. Tim had advised her to sell what was left and invest the money so that she would have a small income for life. She had refused.

The new century had not been kind to river shipping. The proliferation of railroads had been the worst blow, but the condition of the river itself added to the problem. Over the years, channels had not been improved or even maintained. Now the Mississippi, once a colorful Mardi Gras parade of steamboats, tugs and barges, looked like the lifeless streets of New Orleans on Ash Wednesday.

There had been no room for mistakes when Aurore assumed control of Gulf Coast. Decisive leadership had been needed, a restoration of confidence in the Le Danois name, a demonstration that, although she was a woman, she had either Antoine Friloux’s sound judgment or the young Lucien Le Danois’s brilliance.

She had evidenced neither. Confused and unsure of herself she had taken Tim’s advice in all but selling the company. Tim, whose days in the boxing ring had taught him the wisdom of caution, was reluctant to gamble. He missed important opportunities and stuck with more than one sure thing that failed to turn a profit. As the years passed and Tim aged, his decisions grew steadily more guarded.

Aurore lived in a house that was collapsing and spent each day trying to salvage a business that was collapsing, as well. On the rare occasions when she was part of a social gathering, she was a pariah. As a spinster of twenty-five, only the husbands of the women who had once been her friends looked at her with interest.

Pregnancy had ripened her figure and left its mark in other ways. Her hair had a new luster, her skin more color, as if her body had feasted on the nutrients it had stored to nourish her child. She was attractive to men—those looking for a mistress made that abundantly clear. But men searching for wives no longer looked in her direction.

One month after the all-too-brief reunion with her daughter in the yard of the Magnolia Palace, Aurore stood in her room and regarded the clothes hanging in her armoire. Sylvain and his wife, Vera, had invited her to a picnic supper at their cottage in Milneburg. The tiny lakeside community was a popular place to spend Sunday afternoons, with picnic pavilions, dances and restaurants. The Winslows’ cottage, shrimp-pink and dripping with gingerbread trim, stood high on pilings in the water and commanded an extraordinary view.

She wanted to decline. The past month had been a cruel one. She had felt little except the imprint of her daughter’s small body against her own, seen little except the tiny hand waving goodbye.

Étienne Terrebonne called himself Rafe Cantrelle now, although the reason was a mystery to her. Perhaps he had needed a new name to go with his identity as the owner of a brothel. But now that so much time had passed, Aurore thought of him as Rafe, too. Étienne Terrebonne, the man she had loved, had never really existed.

He had threatened to return to New Orleans with their daughter, but even then Aurore hadn’t imagined he would torture her by bringing the child he called Nicolette to the district, to raise her in the company of prostitutes, pimps and drunks.

Aurore had watched Nicolette from a distance for months before her birthday, with never the courage or opportunity to get close. But that day—Lord God, that day of all days—when she had heard children’s voices from the stable yard, she had ordered Fantome to drive up beside the house. She had known Rafe was gone, she had seen him leave, and at that moment she hadn’t cared who else discovered her. Nicolette had been so close. So very close.

She had feasted hungrily on her daughter’s face. From a distance, she had seen that Nicolette was beautiful. Up close, that judgment had been confirmed. Her hair—didn’t anyone ever brush it, tie it back with ribbons, smooth it with loving hands?—was dark and curling. Her skin was darker than Aurore’s, nearly as dark as Rafe’s, with a tawny, golden tinge that made her hazel eyes seem even brighter and more exotic. Could Nicolette have passed for white? Could this child have been smuggled into white society after all? Were her features narrow enough not to reveal her African heritage? Could Aurore have kept her daughter, nurtured her, somehow forgiven her for having Rafe’s blood? She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

She still didn’t.

She had thought of nothing else since that day. She had gone through the motions of living, and despite her lethargy, today she would go through them again. Sylvain Winslow was Gulf Coast’s only sure path back into the New Orleans
business community. As a coffee broker and director of the board of trade, Sylvain had access to everyone in the city who could either foster or snuff out the life of Gulf Coast. He had given Aurore what business he could and recommended Gulf Coast to others, but his greatest assistance had been in introductions. At parties or balls, picnics or evenings at the Opera House, he and Vera never failed to seat her near someone who might patronize Gulf Coast.

By displaying confidence, Sylvain and Vera had kept Aurore from social isolation and Gulf Coast from bankruptcy. She could not afford to ignore their invitation, even if the trip out to the lake drained what little was left of her spirit.

Since she seldom socialized, she had little need for an extensive wardrobe. But Cleo, an accomplished seamstress, had freshened and updated an old summer dress of pale blue linen. It was not quite the style of the moment, but neither was it as severe as the clothes she wore to the office. With chamois gloves and a wide-brimmed hat the same creamy white as the lace bodice and collar, she thought it might pass. She wound her hair behind her head to accommodate the hat, and packed a small valise.

Smoky Mary, the Pontchartrain Railroad’s line to the lake—which began at Elysian Fields, not far from her house—was late, and the terminal was crowded. Even her hat, tied around her chin with yards of pink chiffon, was no protection from the sun. She stood on the platform waiting for the train and listened to the good-natured musical war between two bands of Negroes with shiny brass instruments.

She remembered her conversation with Nicolette, and the child’s obvious love of music. She wished her daughter was
with her. At the lake, she could teach Nicolette to swim, as Ti’ Boo had taught her. She thought of the locket, which had been hers as a child. She had worn it next to her heart for weeks to infuse it with her love. A small, meaningless trinket for her only child.

“Miss Le Danois?”

She heard the deep voice over the honky-tonk bleating of trumpets. She turned and saw Henry Gerritsen, a friend of Sylvain’s. “Mr. Gerritsen.” She held out her gloved hand. He took it in his and held it for just a moment longer than etiquette dictated.

“Are you by chance heading out to the Winslows’ camp?” he asked.

She regained possession of her hand. “You, too?”

He inclined his head. “I always look forward to their parties. Their cook’s one of the finest in the city.”

She noted the way he was watching her. She had never thought Henry Gerritsen a handsome man, although there were women who clearly did. This was the first time she had seen him alone. Usually there was a smitten debutante hanging on his arm, a young woman firmly on the path toward marriage—to somebody else.

Henry was not well-connected or well-bred enough for serious consideration by the best New Orleans families, but even if the daughters of Comus, Momus and Proteus ultimately rejected him, his prospects were still excellent. The social world of New Orleans was like the
dobos tortes
the Hungarians had brought to the city. There were layers of lavish dessert under the brittle golden glaze. Aurore knew, from her own experience, just how superficial—and fleeting—were the pleasures at the top.

Smoky Mary blew her whistle, two sharp blasts that signaled boarding. The bands crowded into a car at the back, but not the last one. That one, Aurore knew, would be left empty, a rolling jail for anyone who disturbed the peace on the lakefront.

“Why don’t we sit together,” Henry suggested, “and get to know each other better?”

She had no ready excuse for wanting to sit alone. And if she was honest, she had to admit that a distraction from thoughts of Nicolette would be appreciated. The trip was short, but long enough for her to dwell on her own unhappiness.

She stepped on board and felt him close behind her. He wasn’t a tall man, although he was half a head taller than the crown of her hat, but he was broad-shouldered and muscular. In the August heat she felt smothered by his bulk, overtaken, somehow, as if she had run a race, only to give ground just before the finish line.

He seated himself beside her, and the feeling deepened. Even if he wasn’t handsome, he had a presence, an unmistakable magnetism, that some women found engaging. His hair was a coppery brown, and his wild, thick brows were a darker shade of the same. The Louisiana sun had freckled and warmed his pale skin.

His eyes were candid and unshadowed, but nothing Aurore knew about Henry Gerritsen convinced her the man was the same. He owned a business that was in direct competition with Gulf Coast. Gerritsen Barge Lines had the most up-to-date tugboat fleet in the port, and Henry himself was said to be the reason for the business’s success. He seemed to have a sixth sense about trends, investing capital when other lines were holding firm, cutting losses before they were felt elsewhere.
More than once, Gerritsen Barge Lines had taken contracts from Gulf Coast because of Henry’s ingenious maneuvers. Aurore had no reason to like the man, but she had often envied his business savvy.