Iron Lace (8 page)

“Storms seem bigger here, don’t they?” Lucien asked. “Like God’s judgment. I think I would be frightened of them if I lived this close to the water.”

“Then be happy you do not.” Raphael’s mother sliced hunks of bread for both children and set it in front of them.

“And helpless. I think I would feel helpless, too.”

“There is only so much a person can do anywhere.”

“Still, it’s tempting fate, isn’t it, to live where the wind can blow you away?”

Raphael stopped eating and watched his mother, but she didn’t answer. She brushed the bread crumbs into her hand to store them in a can. Her hand did not seem steady to Raphael, and her lips were drawn in a straight line.

“We should go to the church,” Raphael said.

Lucien turned away from the door. “What would you know about it?”

Raphael caught his mother’s eye. She shook her head. He clamped his lips shut.

“You are nothing but a child,” Lucien continued. “A child who’s been too seldom disciplined.”

“Raphael is a good boy,” his mother said.

“You’ve said little about his father.” Lucien started toward the table. “Was his father stubborn, too?”

Marcelite’s eyes flicked to her son. “His father was many things.”

“Would you say he was stubborn?”

“I would not have called him that.”

“And what would you have called him?”

“Proud,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Proud and brave, just as his son will be.”

“Does your son have reason to be proud?”

“We’ll speak of this no more.”

“There are many things of which we haven’t spoken.” Lucien looked down at Raphael. “The boy’s father is only one.”

Whimpering, Angelle got down from her chair, clearly upset by the tone of their voices. The whimpering stopped when her bare feet touched the floor. She looked up at Raphael, her expression one of surprise. Then she sat on the planks of driftwood covered by woven palmetto mats and began to slide her hands back and forth.

Raphael looked down and saw nothing. He jumped from his chair and stood beside her. “The floor is wet,” he said.

“It should be, with all the holes in this miserable place.” Lucien stooped and felt the floor.

Marcelite stooped, too. “It’s never been this wet. This is more than rain from the roof.”

“It’s blowing in the sides, too.”

“It’s coming in under the door.” Raphael pointed. “Look.”

“Raphael’s right,” his mother said. She straightened, then started for the door. “It’s washing in underneath. What can this mean, Lucien?”

He muttered a curse in English. Raphael stepped far to one side, so as not to get in Lucien’s way as he passed. At the door, Lucien stood behind Marcelite and peered outside. They were both silent for a moment. Unconcerned, Angelle began to dance her doll along the wet palmetto mat.

“The ground’s covered with water,” Marcelite said. “Covered, Lucien. I’ve never seen it like this.”

“The rain’s falling fast. The ground can’t take it all in. When the rain slackens, the water will run off.”

“It’s never collected this way before.”

“Every storm is different.”

“Mais oui,
and some are very big.” Marcelite moved away from him and felt along the floor. Then she lifted a wet
finger to her mouth and touched the tip with her tongue. “It tastes of salt!”

Lucien stared at her for a moment, then bent to perform the same act. When he straightened, his expression frightened Raphael. “Fetch my overcoat.”

Marcelite hurried to the wooden peg and took it down. He snatched it away. “Stand away from the door,” he said. “Raphael, help your mother close this when I’m gone.”

Water poured into the room when he opened the door. He disappeared into the rain, and Marcelite and Raphael struggled to shut it behind him. Marcelite fastened it with a rope and peg.

“Light the candles on the shrine,” Marcelite told Raphael. “Hurry. We must say a last prayer.”

“Maman, the church—”

“It’s already too late to travel that far. We’ll have to find another refuge. But we must say our prayers first. Then we’ll gather what we can.” She spoke quietly, and he knew she was trying not to frighten Angelle. “You must be brave.”

“Like my father?”

She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. “There are many things I’ve never told you.”

“Juan said my father was a good man.”

“He was.”

Raphael wanted to ask more, but his mother was already moving past him. “Light the candles,” she repeated. “There will be time to talk when we’re safe and the storm is over.”

They were finished with their prayers and their packing by the time Lucien returned. The children were dressed in their wet outerwear, and Marcelite had already tied Raphael’s small bundle to his back. When she heard Lucien’s summons at the door, she unfastened the peg. He brought the storm in with him.

“The tide’s turned. I’ve brought my skiff. We’re not safe here. There are waves crashing over a good part of the peninsula. I lost my footing on the beach and almost got dragged under. I saw a dog swept out. Some boat sheds are gone.”

“Where shall we go?”

“I passed a house set back from the shore. No one answered when I knocked.” He described the location of the house.

Marcelite nodded. “It belongs to Julien LeBlanc and his son. They’re probably at the oyster grounds.”

“I don’t want to try to go farther with the children. We’ll go there. I’m certain they’d give us shelter if they were home.”

“I’m not so certain.”

“Enough! That doesn’t matter now.”

“
Non.
You’re right.” Marcelite went to the bed and lifted her bundle to her back, slipping her arms through two knots tied for that purpose. She reached for her cloak and fastened it, then stooped and held her arms open for Angelle.

“You and Angelle can ride in the skiff. Raphael and I will tow, unless it grows too deep for him.”

“That deep?”

“It grows deeper as we talk!”

Marcelite clasped Angelle to her and motioned for Raphael to join them. He passed the shrine and paused to blow out the candles, but the wind blowing through the cracks had done it already. He made the sign of the cross before he went to his mother’s side.

The world outside was one he’d never seen. The sky was dark, but flashes of lightning appeared one after the other, like sparks trailing from a divine lantern. The wind threw him forward, and only his mother’s arm stopped him from landing in water up to his knees. Objects sailed by, dried branches of palmetto, a torn
patch of sail. Over the thunder and the moaning of the wind he heard the sickly lowing of the island’s cattle.

He took tiny steps toward the skiff that Lucien had guided almost to their door. His hand closed around the rope tied to the bow, and he no longer felt his mother’s grip on his shoulder. He turned and watched as Lucien helped her into the boat. She grasped Angelle and wrapped her cloak around them both. Immediately the wind ripped it open.

Raphael held tightly to the rope and waited for Lucien. He heard a roar from the direction of the beach, and he imagined waves as tall as trees. They would be fierce, those waves, fierce enough to slam against his house and turn it back into driftwood. What had the people of the
chénière
done to anger the waves?

He felt a tug on the rope and saw that M’sieu Lucien had joined him. He wished they were already at Julien LeBlanc’s.

They began to move. At first he stumbled frequently, but after a while he grew accustomed to the shoving wind and sucking water. He held tight to the rope until his hand cramped in place. As they made their way inland, the water was as deep as it had been at his house. He looked back once, but the rain was a solid curtain. He couldn’t even see his mother’s face.

There were others out in the storm. Men passed, towing boats larger than the skiff. At one house, two men were handing children into the arms of their mothers, who were already on board a large lugger. Raphael tried to imagine riding out the storm in the bowels of the fishing boat. He envied the children.

Someone shouted that Picciola’s store would be a good place to wait out the storm, but Lucien didn’t change course. They moved on, beyond the lugger, beyond houses, beyond trees bending low in the wind’s path. A new sound rang out
over the peninsula. The church bell was tolling erratically, as if it were being tossed slowly back and forth by the storm.
“La cloche! La cloche!”
he cried. But if M’sieu Lucien heard, he didn’t answer.

Shivering with every step, he began to wish he could ride in the skiff. He had lost his bearings, and when they finally stopped in front of another house, he was surprised to realize that this was their destination. Water lapped at the pillars, but the rest appeared untouched. This house would ride the winds and laugh at the rain. Raphael said a quick prayer of thanksgiving.

Lucien dragged the skiff to the steps. The water wasn’t as high here, and he waited until Marcelite and Angelle had climbed out before he pulled the boat to the railing and tied it there.

Marcelite helped both children up to the gallery, but the roof was little protection. The rain seemed to be falling from all sides. Angelle was crying. Raphael wanted to tell her that they were safe now, but he wasn’t sure she would hear him over the storm. When Lucien joined them, he pounded on the front door. No one answered.

“We’ll have to go in anyway!” he shouted.

Marcelite clasped Angelle tighter. “They aren’t here. Their
canot
’s not in its place.”

“Then we’ll keep the house safe for them and pray they’re out of the storm somewhere else.”

In seconds, they were inside. For Raphael, the house was as much a surprise as the sudden end to the battering of rain and wind. The walls were as white inside as out, with ceilings that stretched high above even Lucien’s head. There were mats on the floor made of cloth, and chairs covered with cloth, too. He wanted to run through the house and explore, but
his mother took his arm. “I’ll find something to dry us with. You take care of Angelle.”

He slipped off his coat and the bundle tied to his back. Angelle wrapped her arms around him, and he patted her wet curls and whispered that she was safe now.

M’sieu Lucien lit a lantern that hung by the door; then he disappeared into the next room as Raphael’s mother returned. She handed him a square of rough linen and used another to dry Angelle.

“We’ve chosen a good place,” Lucien called from the back of the house. “This is well constructed, and there aren’t many windows.”

Angelle clung to her mother and sobbed. Marcelite lifted her and swayed gently back and forth until Lucien returned. “There’s a bed in the back where the children can sleep,” he said. “I left the lantern burning there.”

“Angelle is exhausted.” Marcelite held her closer.

Raphael protested. He wasn’t tired; he wanted to stay awake and watch the storm. Now that he was no longer in it, it seemed the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.

Lucien turned his back on them. “You will go to bed.”

Marcelite put her hand on Raphael’s shoulder. He knew what the hand was telling him, but he didn’t want to give in so easily. “But I could help, Maman. I could watch to see if the water rises.”

“You will watch from outside if you don’t do as I say,” Lucien said.

“You’re not my father!”

Lucien whirled, and Raphael could see he was furious. “Of that, at least, I’m certain! It’s not my blood that’s made you what you are.”

Marcelite clenched Raphael’s shoulder and pulled him toward the back of the house. “Raphael, you’ll go to bed. Someone must stay with Angelle, or she’ll be frightened.”

Raphael wanted to shout that he was glad now that M’sieu Lucien wasn’t his father, but his courage deserted him. If he fought with Lucien, it would hurt his mother.

There was a bed finer than any he had ever seen in one of the two back rooms. Marcelite set Angelle on it and covered her with a quilt that had been folded neatly at the foot. Reluctantly Raphael climbed up and lay beside her, and Marcelite arranged the quilt to cover him, too.

“Rest now.”

“When will the storm end?” he asked.

“Soon.”

“Will our house still be there tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Pray that it will be.”

“Why is M’sieu Lucien so angry with me today?”

Marcelite was silent.

“Maman?”

“M’sieu Lucien is worried about the storm. It only seems he is angry.”

Raphael didn’t believe her, but he couldn’t tell her so.

“Take care of Angelle,” she said. “Keep her warm.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then she kissed Angelle, who was already sleeping. “In the morning the sun will be shining.”

Outside the wind screamed, and through the window Raphael watched the skeletal branches of a chinaball tree claw the sky. He tried to imagine sunshine, but when his mother finally left and took the lantern, it was the storm he saw. Even when his eyes were closed.

A
t home in New Orleans, Sunday was Aurore’s favorite day, the only one when she was certain to be allowed to travel through the city. Because she was usually shielded from the ever-present threat of disease, the trip was her only view of life outside her house. Invariably she and her parents attended mass at the palatial Saint Louis Cathedral; then the family called at Grand-père Antoine’s, where they were served an early dinner.

In contrast, summer Sundays at the Krantz Place were just one more day filled with wonder and possibility. Time drifted on the scented breeze of summer. Those who didn’t attend mass on the
chénière
might observe a quiet hour or two in the morning, but the rest of the day was filled, like any other, with languid summer pursuits.

There were often dances on Sunday night in the
salon de danse,
half of the dining room, converted for that purpose in the afternoon. For a child alert enough to notice, there were smoldering looks exchanged on the dance floor between the
young dandies of Bachelor’s Row and the Creole beauties of Widow’s Row, temptingly housed for the summer in cottages that faced each other. Sometimes there were recitals, sometimes games.

On this Sunday, however, there were no entertainments. Dressed in lace-trimmed white piqué, Aurore knelt with her mother and prayed for most of the morning. In the afternoon, as wind blew and rain fell, she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling while her mother napped. Her grandfather had arrived unexpectedly the previous afternoon, but she had seen little of him. Her father had gone sailing again, but not before there had been another argument with her mother.

Aurore’s father had not returned by the time an early supper was served. Worried about both Lucien and the extraordinary pallor of her mother’s face, Aurore picked at her food. No one spoke, but the wind whistled loudly, and sometimes the cottage shook with its power.

She went to bed early, glad to escape the dread in her mother’s eyes. She fell asleep to the moaning of the wind. Once she awoke and thought she heard voices raised in anger, but she fell back asleep before she could tell whose they were.

The wind was much louder when Aurore felt arms lift her. It seemed she had just fallen asleep, and she didn’t want to awaken. In her dreams, the house was quiet and she was safe.

The arms lifted her higher, and a tuneless whine chased away her dreams. She opened her eyes and stared into her mother’s.

“We’re going to the house of Ti’ Boo’s uncle. But you must be quiet,” her mother whispered. “Grand-père Antoine believes we’ll be safer here. He’s asleep, and he mustn’t know.”

Aurore couldn’t remember ever being held by her mother this way. Sleepily she touched her mother’s cheek. It was wet
with tears. “Ti’ Boo will help you dress,” her mother said. “But you must be quiet. Do you understand?”

“What’s that noise?” Aurore whispered.

“The wind.”

“Why are we going to Nonc Clebert’s house?”

“He’s taking Ti’ Boo, and he says we must go, too.”

Aurore wanted to prolong the moment. Her mother’s arms were wrapped around her, as if she would take good care of this daughter she so seldom noticed. Aurore looked into eyes that were the pale blue of her own, eyes that for once were focused on her. She nodded.

Her mother set Aurore on the floor. Only then did the child see Ti’ Boo across the room at the armoire, gathering clothes for her. “I’ll be back,” her mother whispered.

Aurore watched her go. Ti’ Boo came to her side, but didn’t speak. She helped Aurore dress. Aurore could feel Ti’ Boo’s impatience in the clumsiness of her movements. Then, when Aurore was ready, Ti’ Boo took her hand and led her into the main room of the cottage. Nonc Clebert was beside the door. There was no lantern, but the room was illuminated by lightning that flashed so steadily Aurore could read his worried expression.

She no longer felt brave. The courage her mother’s embrace had given her died. She began to sniff.

Ti’ Boo pinched her. She put her mouth close to Aurore’s ear. “If you cry, Ro-Ro,” she said, “I’ll pinch you harder!”

Aurore was so astonished by the pain, she forgot to sniff again. “Good,” Ti’ Boo whispered. “You must be a brave girl.”

Aurore’s mother came into the room, fastening a long cloak and bringing Aurore’s. Without a word, she wrapped and tied it tightly at Aurore’s neck. Then she took her hand.

“Where are you going?”

Aurore saw Grand-père Antoine in the doorway of the room that was usually her mother’s. Her mother’s hand trembled.

“I asked where you were going, Claire.”

Aurore looked up and saw her mother’s lips moving, but no sound emerged.

“You will go to bed,” her grandfather said.

“No.” Her mother gripped Aurore’s hand harder. “No, I will not. I’m taking Aurore to Monsieur Boudreaux’s house, Papa.”

“You will not take the child anywhere.”

“Come with us.”

“You aren’t well, Claire. You cannot make this decision.”

“I’ve made it.”

“I forbid it.”

“You cannot.” Claire clasped her daughter’s hand tighter.

“Have you even glanced outside? If you go out now, you could be killed by a falling tree. I forbid it!”

“We should have gone hours ago, it’s true. But you wouldn’t allow it. Now we must take our chances, even if you don’t approve.” Claire began to move across the room, pulling Aurore beside her. She passed as far from her father as she could.

“My house, it’s on a ridge farther from the shore,” Nonc Clebert said. He was a small man, but wiry and strong. Aurore had visited his home twice with Ti’ Boo, and she knew how quickly he could move. “It’s protected by trees. We will pass the storm safely there.” He stepped forward, as if to block Antoine from grabbing his daughter. “You would be welcome.”

“I forbid you to take them with you!”

“I’m afraid I must.”

Aurore watched her grandfather take several steps forward.
Nonc Clebert turned to his side and raised a fist. Her grandfather seemed to grow smaller and older. He came no closer.

“My husband isn’t with me,” her mother said to her grandfather. “I don’t even know if he’s safe. Will you deprive me of my father, too?”

“This is folly. I’ll not leave this cottage, Claire. Krantz has assured me we’ll be safe here, and Krantz is a gentleman. If you must go, at least leave Aurore with me. She’s too small to survive out there.”

“She is my daughter. She comes with me.”

“Every moment we wait will make it more dangerous,” Nonc Clebert said.

“Aurore!” Grand-père Antoine held out his arms.

Aurore felt the pull between the two adults as surely as if each were holding a hand. Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She looked toward the door, where Ti’ Boo stood, and saw sympathy in her eyes. Then Ti’ Boo held out her arms. Aurore wrenched herself away from her mother and flew to her friend.

“Papa, please come,” her mother begged. “Please!”

“You are as crazy as your husband believes,” he said sternly, “and as bad a mother. Now I understand why God does not send you more children!”

Aurore’s mother made a sound like the moan of the wind. Then, wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she joined her daughter. Nonc Clebert turned and opened the door.

Then they were inside the storm.

Lucien had convinced himself that the storm, though fierce, would blow over quickly. Although the water was rising steadily, he still refused to consider that he might be in
danger. But by the time Marcelite returned to the front of the house, the wind had strengthened, too. Carrying the lantern in one hand and lifting her wet skirts with the other, she joined him at the window overlooking the gallery. “It’s growing worse.”

“Nonsense. You’re just frightened of storms. And who could blame you, living as you do?”

She set the lantern down. “But now, with your help, all that will change.”

He didn’t touch her. “When I go home after the storm, I won’t be back again.” He listened to her sharp indrawn breath. Even now, with an opportunity to tell the truth, Lucien couldn’t bring himself to admit that his father-in-law had given him an ultimatum. “Does that surprise you? Haven’t you always known that when I realized what race your son was, I would leave you?”

“My son is a small boy, a good boy. There’s nothing else to know.”

“Your son is a quadroon! His father was a slave. His mother is a whore!”

She faced him. “And what does that make you, Lucien? You’ve fathered two children by this whore, have you not?”

He struck her shoulder, and she staggered backward before he hauled her closer again and shook her. Despair welled inside him when he realized he didn’t want to let her go, even though she had denied nothing. Even though his future depended on it.

“I can have nothing more to do with you! Don’t you understand?” he shouted. The words were for both of them.

She struck at his arms until he shoved her away, and she fell against the windowsill. “Do you think I’ll let you forget
us so easily? I can’t raise your children alone! We struggle for every mouthful of food. We shiver in the winter and suffer storms in the summer! To feed your daughter I sell your little trinkets! But in the spring I’ll have another child to consider. I must have your help, and if you don’t give it willingly, I’ll be forced to take it from you!”

“And how will you go about that?”

“I’ll go to New Orleans, and I’ll tell everyone I see that Lucien Le Danois is the father of my children, a father who allows them to starve!”

He felt the color drain from his cheeks. “You wouldn’t!”

“Non?
Don’t you think so? I have nothing but my children. I am dead to my family. I have no place here. I will go to New Orleans, and every day you will find me outside your fine mansion on Esplanade. Your wife and I will know each other well!”

He couldn’t remember ever telling her where he lived. Yet she knew. She knew because she must have considered this possibility even before his announcement. He tried to curb his panic. “I never thought to leave you without money. I’ll give you money. Some now, some later. You can find a better house. You won’t have to suffer from storms like this one.”

“Some now, some later?” She waved her hands to erase his words. “Do you think to buy me off so cheaply? A little here, a little there? Like an old family servant?”

“It’s more than you deserve!”

“Perhaps so, but it is not what your children deserve, and for them, I will go to New Orleans!”

He saw his future in the unveiled fury in her eyes. He saw a life without stature, without money or any of the comforts it bought. He saw all the doors of the city closed tightly in
his face. And, standing in the only door still open to him, he saw a woman who had not loved him enough to let him go.

“What must I pay for your silence?”

She was breathing fast, as if their fight had diminished the air in the room. She seemed to be planning as she spoke. “I no longer want to live at the mercy of every puff of wind. I want to take the children to New Orleans. I want money to take care of them and, later, enough to teach them a trade.” She paused. “We would be near. You would always be welcome.”

None of it was possible, yet he saw nothing to gain by telling her so. He couldn’t give up all he possessed, and he knew that was exactly what he would be doing if he gave her what she demanded. Antoine would discover the truth before she and the children made the journey to the city.

“The storm makes us say these things.” He moved closer to the window. “We’re both uneasy. This isn’t the time to talk.”

“There is nothing more to say.”

“Be reasonable,
mon coeur,
you’re a woman without friends or funds. You can do nothing without my help.”

“For years I’ve saved every bit of money I could. Someone will take me to New Orleans for what I can offer. If you think to leave after the storm and never see me again, you’re mistaken. When the storm ends, I’ll no longer have a home. I’ll find a new one. Perhaps on Esplanade Avenue?”

“How can you threaten me, after all I’ve been to you?”

“The gull protects her nestlings from the hawk.”

He saw her desperation. She would not be silenced by promises. In his world, she was a woman of no consequence, yet she was about to ruin his life.

A crash outside made her turn. She peered into the darkness. Lucien was grateful for the interruption. “What was that?”

“Someone’s coming up the steps.” She pointed.

“The LeBlancs?”

“I don’t know.”

He moved to one side to improve his view. More than half a dozen figures were struggling through the rain. In a flash of lightning he saw one stagger, blown to the opposite railing by the wind. An arm shot out to help; then the sky went dark.

Marcelite disappeared into the back of the house. She was returning with towels when the door flew open and a man appeared.

“Someone’s already here!” he shouted behind him.

In moments, the entry was filled with people. Marcelite stepped forward as if the house belonged to her and helped the arrivals strip off their wet outer clothing and dry themselves. Lucien counted three men, two women and four children.

One of the women was sobbing. “Our house is gone,” she said between sobs. “Everything is lost.”

Lucien looked at the faces of the men, expecting to find that this was an exaggeration. Instead, her words were confirmed. “Your house is gone?”

One of the men nodded. “Collapsed.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Marcelite asked.

A little girl extended an arm, as if to show an injury. One of the women snatched her from Marcelite’s grasp, but Marcelite stepped forward so that the woman was forced to meet her eyes. “We’re all neighbors, are we not? Especially now.”

“Let her look,” one of the men said.

The woman ignored him and held tightly to the child, but when Marcelite continued to wait, she finally dropped her hands. Marcelite murmured soothing words to the little girl as she wrapped a towel around her arm.

“How did you come here?” The first man to enter the room addressed himself to Lucien.