“I have a different plan for what comes next.” Suzette sat back in her chair, enjoying the look of bewilderment that crossed Philomene’s face.
“What plan is that, Maman?”
Suzette sported a slow grin, the gap between her front teeth prominent. “I have a gentleman who wants to marry me. In the church. A real marriage they put down in a book, not one of those slavey things.”
Philomene’s face seemed to go slack for a moment, and Suzette’s smile withered as she realized what she had said. “I’m so sorry, Philomene. You had as real a marriage as there could be. This old woman has gotten foolish and hurtful. That’s what happens when God hands you a gift long after you stop hoping.”
Philomene gave Suzette a careful, appraising look. The same long look Suzette had given her own mother after Yellow John had arrived in Cane River and she’d realized Elisabeth had a life she knew nothing about. “Maman, what gift?”
The timid smile crept back into Suzette’s voice. “Before you were born, a boy lived next door to us on Rosedew.” She turned to Elisabeth. “You remember him, Mère. Nicolas Mulon. Now he’s a colored shoemaker set up in Cloutierville. We were confirmed at the same time and took first communion together.”
Elisabeth nodded.
Suzette turned back to Philomene. “When I was a girl, I wished so hard that Nicolas and I would grow up and get married that sometimes I actually thought it was true. It was not possible then. He was gens de couleur libre. Later, Nicolas married a free woman of color, just the way Mère always said he would.”
“Go on, Maman,” Philomene said.
“The war brought some down, and raised others up. Most of the gens de couleur libre still play at being grand after losing everything, because they were free before the rest of us. Marraine Doralise was never like that. Or Nicolas. I saw him again for the first time in over twenty years when I visited Doralise. His wife died this year, leaving him with three children to take care of, one still in breechcloth. Nicolas . . . remembered me.”
Suzette turned shy, all at once hot, using her embroidery hoop as a fan. “And I remembered him. He has a little piece of land near Cloutierville, and we’ve been talking about me living with him on it, becoming stepmother to those children.”
“I never thought of you living with a man, Maman,” Philomene said. She paused, carefully unwrapping the unexpected turn of events, examining each fold. “Do you love him?”
“I never had a man for more than an hour at a time all my days on this earth,” Suzette said. “I wouldn’t mind somebody to make a life with, without what you call love. But yes, I love Nicolas. I want to be with him, and do for him, and I want him to do for me. I knew the first evening over at Madame Doralise’s, and so did he, like time skipped back and we got a second try.”
Philomene didn’t hide her puzzlement, her thick eyebrows knotted in concentration, her lips pressed almost to a grimace. “Did you love my papa at all?”
Suzette shifted uncomfortably. The mood had turned strained, with too much talk. Three generations of women out on the front porch, four counting little Emily, trying to put words around a past and a future that could never be explained. But the rawness in Philomene’s face persuaded Suzette to make the attempt.
“No. There were no parts of love there, except you and Gerant that came out of it. That was a different time. Philomene, I saw how you were with Clement. That was young love. Mère, you and Gerasíme, that was love, too. Gerant and Melantine, still more love. I’ve been surrounded by it, but never thought I’d get a taste myself. Eugene Daurat and me, there was no choice. Love is pull. That was all push.”
The light outside was beginning to fail. They would need to call the children in soon.
“So you’re going to marry Nicolas Mulon?” Elisabeth asked.
“As soon as we get enough money saved,” Suzette answered. “Others have the same idea. Folks already living as man and wife can make it proper now. Doralise and Yellow John will marry when we do, and we thought we would share a party together after. Gerant and Melantine may want to consider coming forward, too.”
Suzette sat back in her chair, enjoying the surprise around her. There was nothing more satisfying than having plans.
27
E ven with both the front and back doors open to encourage a breeze, the air barely stirred at all in the sweltering heat of Philomene’s four-room cabin. She turned the heavy pressing iron on end to cool, brushing the sweat from her eyes with the back of her sleeve. It wouldn’t do to scorch the starched, delicate lacework she needed to deliver to Widow Greneaux by afternoon. Fancy ironing generated more money than flatwork and required full attention. With two children and a grandmother depending on her, and two years of freedom gone, Philomene had learned to navigate the world of money paid for service. She glanced outside to check on the children.
“Emily Fredieu, how many times do I have to tell you not to let the sun get to your skin?” she called through the window. “March yourself and your brother inside. That sun will make you common.”
“Aunt Melantine lets Cousin Alice and Cousin Adolph play in the sun,” Emily said.
“I know I don’t hear sass in your voice,” Philomene said. At six Emily was old enough to know the consequences of talking back.
“No, Maman.” The girl brushed dust from her shiny black shoes with one hand and took Eugene by the other to lead him into the house.
“You’re meant for better, Emily Fredieu. Just stay where I can see you.”
“Yes, Maman.”
“Your papa comes this afternoon to carry you visiting. Take Eugene Fredieu to Mémère to clean him up.”
“Bring the baby to me, Emily.” Elisabeth took off the girl’s bonnet and hung it on the peg by the front door and had Eugene lift up his arms to slip off his soiled undershirt. “You’re as color-struck as Suzette,” she said to Philomene.
“Fair skin will give them advantage,” Philomene said. She looked at her children. Their sandy brown hair was straight, and all their features were French, not African. “Either could pass.”
Elisabeth grunted. “That kind of thinking breaks up families.”
Philomene knew she would be an immediate giveaway if she ever tried to lead her children into that kind of life. The olive in her skin darkened with the slightest exposure to the sun.
“Emily and Eugene do fine right here,” Elisabeth went on. “Even M’sieu Narcisse doesn’t fuss when you call them Fredieu to his face.”
“Emily Fredieu and Eugene Fredieu will have choices,” Philomene said to her grandmother, carefully folding the frilled collar piece, still warm, and adding it to the pile.
* * *
The evening cooled down almost enough to be pleasant, with an occasional short-lived breeze. Philomene and Narcisse stayed out on the porch of the cabin after everyone else had gone to bed. Smoke curled around the tip of Narcisse’s fat cigar, and Philomene embroidered by the unsteady light of the oil lamp.
“Is that from the general store?” Narcisse used the cigar’s smoldering tip to point to the cloth in Philomene’s lap.
Philomene held up the small blue garment for Narcisse to admire. “A new visiting dress for Emily Fredieu,” she said.
“On last month’s bill, you spent almost as much on material and sundries as flour, sugar, salt, and seed combined.”
“They need proper clothes.”
“I have never scrimped with either Emily or Eugene,” Narcisse said, taking offense. “The girl does not need another new dress. They remarked on it today at Augustine’s. Emily has more dresses than his girls, twice her age. You spoil her overmuch.”
“You spoil her as well, Monsieur Narcisse.”
“I mean it, Philomene. No more. Don’t make me close off the account to you.”
They sat on the porch, sewing and smoking in silence.
“I have seen your future,” Philomene said after a time.
Narcisse got up and moved his chair to face Philomene, slowly, as
if he were an ox being led to field, pacing himself for the full day’s work ahead. “A glimpsing?”
Philomene heard the same strange blend of dread and excitement that always preceded these particular conversations, a drooping and quickening, one on top of the other. In their eight years together she had created five false glimpsings for Narcisse, including this last. She allowed a moment to pass, and then another.
“You can go out and find wives to marry, but I’m the only one who can give you babies.”
Narcisse blinked away a bewildered look, then grabbed Philomene roughly by the arm. “Why do you say that?” A small damp piece of brown tobacco clung to the corner of his mouth.
Philomene shifted the weight out of her shoulders and farther down into her back, steadying her hand to continue her embroidery. She forced herself to calm, taking her time, speech measured and deliberate.
“I see you, an old man, visiting graves of two women you married. When you are through, you come back to me. There are many children surrounding you, from big to little, a mix of boys and girls. Our children. They have been brought up quality, never hungry, and they wear new clothes and soft leather shoes fit to their feet. We live in a house big enough to hold all the children, not this cabin. They call you Papa.”
Philomene paused, trying to read his mood.
“What else?” Narcisse stared sharply at Philomene, as if by so doing he could decipher some word or gesture she had purposely left unspoken. His intensity threatened to unnerve her.
“I can only tell you what the glimpsing shows,” Philomene said.
Narcisse leaned back again in his chair, as if dismissing her. “I come and go as I please,” he said.
“You try to skip from this too lightly, Monsieur Narcisse.” It was Philomene now who brought her face closer to his, but she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. She wanted him to have to strain to hear. “First one wife could not give you a child, and then another with the same result. Even your rutting with trash from the hills came to nothing. Forget about a white child. I am the only one who can ever give you offspring, but you must take care. Treat them well.”
Philomene put aside her sewing, stood, and took up the lamp to go into the cabin.
“Mark my words, Narcisse Fredieu. For you, there is only one way to have children, and that is through me.”
* * *
In 1872, just months after baby Nick was born, Emily stood before Philomene and Narcisse in the common room of Philomene’s cabin. The old green sofa Narcisse had brought from one of his other houses sagged in the middle under his weight, the cushions almost flattened by his bulk, but he sat with great authority, a pose he didn’t take often with his daughter. Philomene rocked the baby in the moonlight chair.
Emily waited dutifully for Narcisse to let her know why he had called her. At eleven she was soft-spoken but not quiet. Philomene could imagine that her daughter thought she had been summoned to entertain, for which she needed little encouragement. Narcisse loved to watch Emily dance or listen to her sing. Her girlish voice was high and sweet, with a slight unexpected trill she added to the words, and she sang constantly to her brother Eugene, who followed her everywhere. She sang to the chickens as she scattered their feed, she sang to the baby, and she sang for her father whenever he visited. Amusing people was natural to her.
A responsible girl, especially with Eugene and baby Nick, Emily went a step beyond, making everything she touched special. She was partial to colors, brought fresh, vibrant wildflowers into the house in spring and summer, and placed green potted plants in the corners in winter. She convinced her uncle Gerant to make her a small table and shelf but insisted that the carved shapes on them be a design of her own making. Emily could always talk Philomene into another new scarf or lace collar or special embroidery to freshen up an old garment.
But for all the style and charm that drew people to her daughter, Philomene was most proud that Emily could read. For a time she had studied under a tutor, the old schoolteacher Valery Houbre, widowed since the death of his wife, Oreline. Philomene thought it fitting that their old master be the one to give Emily advantage. Monsieur Houbre was now frail and in ill health, but he had always been a friend to the family. He had taken Emily as far as she needed to go in French, but Philomene and Narcisse had been discussing for some time how English had begun to intrude on their world.
“Emily,” Narcisse announced, “we’re sending you to New Orleans. You’ll learn to read and write in English and make your first communion there.”
Narcisse seemed pleased with the proclamation, but Emily grew flush. She always blushed easily. “Papa, I don’t want to leave Cane River.”
“This is for your future, Emily Fredieu,” Philomene said. “An opportunity not many receive.”
Philomene had never been apart from any of her children. Already she missed Emily, but the promise of her daughter continuing her studies was worth almost anything. Philomene planned for Emily to be in a position to teach her brothers when the time came. No one would ever be able to set aside the learning once taught.
The color rose higher on Emily’s cheeks, the youthful bloom highlighted in her distress. “Please don’t send me away,” she said in a small voice.
“You must do as I say, Emily,” Narcisse said.
“I’m scared, Papa,” Emily said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ll be so lonely.”
“There will be other girls, quality girls,” Narcisse said. “You deserve better than you can get here. One year, and then you’ll be back.”
Philomene could see the struggle in Narcisse, even though he sounded decisive and unwavering. He had never been a match for Emily’s tears.
“I’ll take you down on the steamboat myself to New Orleans, and visit often. I’ve written a friend who will look after you there. The year will be up before you know it.” A fine sheen of sweat had broken out across Narcisse’s forehead. “Now go help your mother get you ready. We leave at the end of the week.”
28
N arcisse paid extra for the hired carriage and coachman to wait for him outside the convent gate. It took better than an hour and a quarter to arrange the unloading of Emily’s trunk and to enroll her with the nuns. Only then could he take the next step of his journey. The steamboat trip had been fatiguing, from Cane River to the New Orleans dock, but father and daughter were more emotionally spent than physically tired. Narcisse made the trip once or twice a year, but he had never had to release his only daughter into the hands of strangers.
“I’ll be back to visit tomorrow,” he told Emily. There had already been tears the week before leaving, and more tears on the boat. Narcisse felt that if he didn’t leave immediately, he was likely to shed a few himself.
Narcisse usually stayed at the St. Charles Hotel, but Joseph Billes, a distant connection from his mother’s side of the family, had insisted in their correspondence that Narcisse accept his hospitality. He set out for the French Quarter without quite knowing where he was going. The coachman had little trouble finding the house on a narrow side street, away from the water. It was a modest-looking building set far back behind a stunted four-foot-high iron fence, but there was handsome grillwork around each of the second-story balconies. A pleasant woman introducing herself as Joseph Billes’s sister answered the front door and took him out to a lovely interior courtyard while the coachman unloaded his valises and brought them in. There he met Joseph Billes face-to-face for the first time. Joseph had a wiry, French look to him, but cheerful, and was at least fifteen years his junior.
“Welcome to my home.” Joseph embraced Narcisse as if they had known each other a lifetime. “I take it you have already settled your daughter into the convent? Once we establish you upstairs, you can decide how best to shake off the dust. Certainly the completion of such a difficult task begins with brandy.”
Narcisse had looked forward to an early night and a firm bed, but he got his second wind. On that first evening they talked and played cards after supper
, Joseph, several cousins, and other guests who stopped by. Joseph entertained them all with stories, then brought out a handsome mandolin, a magnificent instrument with an all French polished orange front, ebony fingerboard, and rosewood-and-mahogany ribs. He accompanied himself as he sang and had a surprisingly rich, deep voice for such a thin man. Narcisse liked Joseph immediately. He laughed at Joseph’s unflattering stories of his dealings with Americans and his more forgiving tales of dealing with the French-at-heart, and Narcisse recited his own reports of the planter’s life along the Cane and Red Rivers. Both men embellished for effect.
Fatigue finally forced Narcisse to excuse himself. He retired to the guest room, but before drifting off to sleep, he itemized those things he needed to accomplish in New Orleans on this trip. He had his cotton to sell, his promise to Emily that he would visit her every day until he went back home, and two weeks to amuse himself while waiting for the return boat back to Cane River.
The next day proved to be overcast and drizzly, and after attending early-morning mass, Narcisse took Joseph with him when he visited Emily at the convent. Narcisse was taken aback when he saw her in her new austere setting. She seemed lost inside a coarse gray dress that swallowed her. Not even the drabness of her new uniform in the convent, however, so unlike the way Philomene would have dressed the girl, could rob Emily of her prettiness. Again Emily looked close to tears.
The three met in the convent parlor, then went outside in the courtyard to find a seat on a wood bench in the shade of a large magnolia tree, under the watchful eyes of the patrolling nuns.
“So you are Mademoiselle Emily,” Joseph said before he sat. “Such a small thing.” He leaned down to kiss Emily lightly on both cheeks. “I am Joseph Billes, and once your father returns home, child, it will be up to me to bring you some fun from outside these convent walls to keep you from melancholy.” He had a mischievous glint in his eye, as if he and Emily were planning an exotic journey together, but Emily looked more dejected than ever.