The Immortelles (5 page)

“I'm afraid so. The cotton crop was disastrous this year.”

“What happened?”

“It was the drought. Ordinarily, we have too much water in this area, but this growing season, the rains didn't come. The crops were very poor.” He shook his head and added, “I don't know how in the world I'm going to arrange to pay off the loans.”

Damita did not know much about business, but she had heard enough from her parents to understand that the plantation was heavily mortgaged. She squeezed his hand, saying, “Why, Papa, they'll be glad to renew your note.”

“I hope so, but I never get ahead, daughter. Most years we just make enough to pay the interest and a little on the principal. This year, it's going to be even harder. I'm afraid I'm going to have to sell off some of the slaves.”

Damita knew that many slaves worked out on their plantation. She did not know any of them personally. In fact, those who actually grew the cotton and lived in their own little houses by the fields were completely foreign to her.

“Damita, I may have to sell Charissa.”

“Sell Rissa? Oh, Papa, I hope you don't do that.”

“I don't see why. She hasn't been satisfactory, has she, since—”

He broke off, but Damita knew exactly what he meant. “I think I can do something with her. She's still resentful over the beating she got, but that will pass in time.” Damita did not believe this, but for some reason, she wanted to hang onto the slave girl. It had become a challenge to her. “I'll tell you what, Papa. I won't buy any new clothes, and Mama and I will get together and cut other expenses. Perhaps we could even go live on the plantation and rent this place out.”

“I'd hate to do that. Your mother loves the town house so much. And you'd be bored on the plantation.”

“We'll do whatever we have to do, but promise me you won't sell Charissa.”

“I can't promise that, Damita, but I will say this: It will be a last resort.”

Damita accepted his statement as a guarantee and began to talk about other things. She was always able to cheer her father up, and finally, when she saw he was in a more agreeable mood, she mentioned casually, “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Lewis Depard wants me to go to a ball with him tonight.”

“Another ball? Don't you ever get tired of them?”

“Oh, they are a bit boring, but Lewis is entertaining.” She was hoping that her father would not ask which ball, and he did not. He merely said, “All right, daughter. Do you care for Lewis at all?”

“Oh, as I said, he's entertaining.” Damita shrugged. “But he doesn't have much depth. I don't think he ever has a serious thought.”

“I hear he shows a passion for dueling. He's getting quite a reputation for that. He's already had several duels, hasn't he?”

“Yes, he has, but he hasn't killed anybody. He's such a good swordsman, he just pinks them in the shoulder and then it's over.”

“I don't like this dueling thing. I never have. The best man isn't always the one who can use a sword—or the pistol—the best.”

Damita agreed with him at once, then kissed him. “Don't worry, Papa. Everything will be all right.”

The Quadroon Ball was held next to the Theatre d'Orleans. Gambling took place on the first story, and the ballroom was above it. As Damita stepped inside for the first time, what she saw stunned her. The dancing area was without equal in New Orleans. The floor and walls were made of beautifully finished hardwood. Expensive chandeliers decorated the high ceiling. She
glanced at the balcony that overhung Orleans Street, and as Lewis took her to the back, she saw a curving stairway leading to a cool, expansive courtyard filled with flowers.

The dance had already started, and although Damita had seen quadroons and mulattoes before, the variety of their skin colors caught her eye. Some of the women had skin the color of a ripe peach, others of soft, brown velvet. Some were ivory, and others were creamy white. She studied them, noting that the eyes of most of the women were brown or ebony, but that some had blue or green eyes. Almost all of them had very wavy hair, most of it reddish or light brown. They also had finely rounded figures and had learned how to carry themselves well. They held their heads high, but their lashes veiled their eyes.

“I never saw so many beautiful young women.”

“It is a sight to behold,” Lewis said with a grin. “But you're the most beautiful of all.”

“You flatterer! You men can never tell the truth.”

“But I mean it,
chérie,
you know I do.” He took her arm and said, “Come, you're the best dancer I know. Let's give them something to watch.”

Damita was, in fact, an excellent dancer. She loved to dance and showed natural grace. Lewis swung her around the floor, and the elaborate dresses of the women—green, crimson, yellow—made a kaleidoscope of color. The music filled the hall, and the hubbub of voices made a pleasant sound.

After several dances, Lewis said, “It's time for refreshments.” He led her to where several long tables stood. Behind them, black men wearing white jackets and flashing smiles served liquors of all sorts—champagne, sherry, bourbon—as well as platters full of delicious bits of food. Damita refused the alcoholic drinks, taking instead a glass of punch. Lewis ordered a bourbon.

Lewis's many friends bombarded him, asking for dances with Damita. He reluctantly surrendered her, warning one young man, “Just one dance, Daniel. Then I must have her back.”

“We shall see about that,” the young man said, grinning. He swung Damita off to the dance floor, and Damita found that, like Lewis, he was charming and talkative, but he held her much too tightly.

Suddenly a voice said, “I believe that I must have this dance with the lady.”

Damita turned quickly and saw a man, at least six feet tall and dressed in the latest fashion, smiling at her. The bluest eyes she had ever seen sparkled from a handsome face framed by auburn hair. She had no time to protest, nor did Daniel, for the man simply took her in his arms and swept her into the dance. “My name is Yancy Devereaux. I would be pleased to know your name.”

“I do not give my name to strangers.”

“What an unfriendly thing to say!” Devereaux had a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep set. He was roughly handsome. His skin was tanned, and Damita was aware of the power in his hands, which were broad and thick.

“If you won't give me your name, I'll think New Orleans ladies are proud.”

Damita hardly knew how to respond. The man impressed her; he had a strength that seemed to flow out from him, and she felt like a child in his arms. “You are a Kaintock, aren't you?”

“Not me. I come from Virginia.”

“We call all Americans ‘Kaintocks.'”

“Well, that's hardly true, is it?”

Damita felt herself drawn to the man and rebuked herself for it.
He's nothing but a rude American! Probably comes down on the flatboats.
But the thought was wrong, and she knew it. She had seen the flatboat men—dirty and muscular, wearing rags, foulmouthed—and this man was none of that. He spoke easily of the ball, and finally the dance ended. “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I wish—”

A voice cut in, saying, “You are insolent, sir!”

Both Devereaux and Damita turned to see Lewis standing next to them. He had been drinking, and his face was flushed. His eyes shone with a belligerent light. “I must ask you not to dance with Señorita Madariaga again.”

“I assume you are her husband,” Devereaux said with a smile.

“That is none of your business.” Lewis's eyes were flashing, and he stepped closer. “You will now leave this hall. I will not permit you to stay.”

“Does the hall belong to you?”

“I will not argue. You have insulted Señorita Madariaga, and you will either leave or you must answer for it. But before you leave, you will apologize for intruding upon her.”

Devereaux seemed amused, Damita noticed. He was a much larger man than Lewis Depard. Quickly, she said, “Please, sir, do as he says. It may be dangerous if you stay.”

Devereaux turned to face her. “Dangerous? In what way?”

“Mr. Depard is an excellent swordsman. He has proven himself several times. He is also a skilled pistol shot.”

“Really! I'm fascinated to hear it, but I refuse to leave.” He turned to face Lewis. “Now what?”

“In that case, sir, I must ask you to come with me, and we'll settle this as gentlemen—although you are not a gentleman, I see.”

“I expect I'm not, according to your definition. So, you're challenging me.”

“Yes. Do you accept?”

“Certainly. And as the challenged party, I choose the weapon.”

“Exactly. You can have sword or pistol.”

Devereaux looked up for a moment at the ceiling, then looked back down and met Depard's eyes, saying, “Neither. I choose broadaxes.”

Everyone had stopped to watch the scene. New Orleans loved its drama, and a murmur went up at the American's words. “Broadaxes!” Depard exclaimed in a high voice. “What are you talking about?”

“I expect you're better with a sword or a pistol than I am, but I'm probably better with an ax than you are. So, we'll get two axes and flail away at each other until one of us is dead. Will that satisfy?”

Lewis Depard turned pale. “You mock me, sir.”

“I certainly do, and I mock this whole stupid idea of duels.” He turned to Damita and said, “Thank you, Miss Madariaga, for the dance.” Turning to Lewis, he said, “I'm staying at the Majestic Hotel. If you care to accept my terms, we will get axes and attack each other until the blood flows freely. Good evening, sir.”

Daniel said to Lewis, “Never mind it. He's nothing but a boor.”

“Certainly,” Damita agreed. “You can't expect honor from a Kaintock!”

Chapter four

“I wish the weather hadn't turned so cold,” Damita groaned. “I'm sure we'll freeze to death on that old boat. I know it doesn't have any heat.”

Juanita Mendez looked up from putting Damita's undergarments in a small gray valise. She shook her head with displeasure, saying, “You complain about everything, Damita. Why don't you concentrate on the bright side of things?”

Damita was standing at the window. She looked out at the gray skies, and then at the ground below. “We should have gone to Savannah before winter got here.”

Indeed, winter had proven to be harsh along the river. It was the middle of November, and people walked the streets bundled up beyond recognition. New Orleans seemed to be a different place when this happened: most of the frivolity, singing, and joy was frozen along with the ground and the trees. Damita turned and put her arm around her aunt. “I'm sorry,
ma tante
. I won't complain anymore. Here, I'll finish my packing, and you go see to yours.”

“I packed last night. I'm all ready.” Straightening up, Juanita gave Damita a questioning glance. “I wish that Rissa hadn't gotten ill. We could have used her on this trip.”

“Yes, it is inconvenient, but I'm sure she didn't do it on purpose. I'm just relieved it isn't something serious.” Rissa had been perfectly well until two days earlier, when she developed a sore throat and a high fever. As always in New Orleans, everyone was watching her carefully to be sure that she did not have cholera or yellow fever. The doctor had pronounced it some sort of throat infection.

“Actually, I don't think she's too sad at not going,
ma tante,
” Damita admitted. “I've tried my best to be nice to her, but she just won't receive any kindness. Still, I'm going up to tell her good-bye.”

“All right. Then send Batist up to get our suitcases. It's almost time to leave.”

Leaving her room, Damita climbed the stairs up to the third floor. Stopping before the door of Charissa's room, she knocked once and then pushed it open. She was sitting in a chair beside the single window. The light came in, breaking over the slave girl's face, revealing a wan countenance. She was wearing a robe that had once belonged to Damita, and she did not speak.

“Are you feeling any better, Rissa?”

“I'm all right.”

“I'm sorry you became ill.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

The wall that Rissa had built up between the two of them frustrated Damita. She still felt bad about the whipping that had scarred Rissa's back. Though she had been kinder, she had no success in befriending her servant. She concluded that she was wasting her time.

“You should have an easy time while you get well. We won't be back for a month. So, I will see you then. Good-bye.”

She waited for Rissa to speak, and finally, the girl nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “Good-bye, Miss Damita.” Then the words came grudgingly: “Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you. I will.” Turning, Damita walked outside and closed the door behind her. As soon as she stepped into the hall, she shook her head angrily.
I don't know what else to do. She'll never forgive me for what happened.
She descended the stairs and found her parents waiting in the foyer. “I've come to ask Batist to get our suitcases.”

“He's already gone upstairs,” Alfredo said.

“Are you all packed?” asked Elena.

“Oh, yes. We're all ready. It's a beastly morning to start a trip, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is,” Alfredo agreed. “I wish you'd gone earlier. The weather's not good at all. This is no time for a sea voyage.”

“Now, Papa, we'll be fine. Don't worry about us.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bags were on the carriage, and the four of them were inside. Batist climbed up to the driver's seat and spoke to the horses. They pulled the vehicle forward, and Damita looked out to see Monica, her mother's maid, shut the iron gates. The woman waved. Damita returned the wave and settled back in the carriage.