Cane River, Page 3

  “Slow yourself down, girl,” Elisabeth said. “You have the whole day for telling while we get the place ready for the food and dancing tonight.”

  “It’s called a soirée dansante, Mère. Remember, I told you before?”

  Even her mother’s deliberate refusal to call things by their proper names could not interfere with Suzette’s outlook on the world today.

  “Separate whites and yolks of about six of those eggs,” Elisabeth said, using her apron to wipe the beads of perspiration from her forehead. “Who was there?”

  “M’sieu and Madame. M’sieu held Madame’s arm as they went into the church, but it was more like she was holding him up. They told me that I had grown into a respectful young woman.”

  Suzette was so preoccupied with her cooking and the telling that she didn’t see her mother push her lips together tight.

  “And the Fredieus were there for Narcisse. And the Mulons came for Nicolas.”

  “I see how you look at the Mulon boy. Don’t get to thinking they’ll mix with us.”

  Suzette felt her cheeks go warm, thinking of the scrap of cowhide pushed deep into her apron pocket. “Nicolas has always been nice to me,” she said primly.

  “There’s nice that’s how neighbors do and nice that you can hang some part of a life on. Even if Nicolas had a pull in your direction, his family wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Suzette could not pinpoint exactly when it was that her mother had turned so full of doom, but some days it was almost impossible to listen to her and not talk back. As if Suzette didn’t know the gens de couleur libre chose free women to marry so that the children would be born free. Nicolas was different, more like her godmother, Doralise. They were both free people of color, but they never looked past her as if she were not really there.

  Whenever she saw Nicolas it was as if everything around her drifted out of focus except for him, and she had a difficult time doing the simplest things. Nicolas was following in his father’s trade of shoemaker, and she saw him when he made the deliveries to Rosedew or when they met at St. Augustine to study for first communion. She had known Nicolas since they were both children, but in the last few months something had changed. When she asked him how he made shoes, he had brought her a small scrap of cowhide to show the untanned leather he and his father worked from. Since it was a discard, he’d let her keep it. Now she found herself at odd moments wondering what it would be like to run her fingers over the freckles that crisscrossed his cheeks or to dance the waltz with him, which would mean she would be so close that she would have to tilt her head just so and look up at him. Nicolas always spoke kindly to her at St. Augustine or when she saw him on his horse on the road. She had to put forth a great deal of effort to speak to him, and afterward she always felt as if she had embarrassed herself somehow, or at least had not shown herself off very well. Nicolas’s very presence made her voice small and her knees unpredictable. Suzette knew her mother couldn’t possibly understand. She didn’t understand it herself.

  “Marraine Doralise wasn’t born free,” Suzette said, “but she’s free now and was married in a church.”

  “M’sieu had his own reasons to make her free and set her up to marry.”

  “You asked her to stand up and be my godmother when I was born, and she did,” Suzette persisted. “The gens de couleur libre are not all the same.”

  “Pay attention to your work. We don’t have time to let those rolls rise again if you mess them up now.” Elisabeth pursed her lips and shook her head. “Who else was there this morning?”

  “Marraine Doralise and Monsieur Philippe were there for Elisida, and Marraine came over to congratulate me when Madame stepped away. I told you she is not like the rest.”

  Elisabeth let it pass. “How did Philippe look?”

  “He did all right in the chapel, but after the ceremony he followed Doralise out to the road and screamed in her face, in front of everyone. His brother had to pull him away. Nicolas says Monsieur Philippe acts the fool even in front of white folks now. Elisida looked like she was going to cry. I felt sorry for her, even if she does think she is better than everybody else.”

  “Don’t be so eager to judge, Suzette. You can’t tell how heavy somebody else’s load is just from looking. The Lord doesn’t give us more than we can carry, but he’s putting it to the test with Madame Doralise. A shame, with M’sieu Philippe coming from such a good family.”

  “Even Narcisse was nice to Elisida after that,” Suzette said.

  “That boy always has been a puzzle,” Elisabeth said, “both sides of a coin at the same time. Sweet and helpful, or spoiled and full of himself. No telling which way he’ll turn out.”

  “Mam’zelle Oreline said in the wagon on the way back that we should think about becoming nuns,” Suzette said.

  Elisabeth cocked her head to one side. “Mam’zelle doesn’t know what she wants.”

  “I know what I want.” Suzette thought of Nicolas. “I want to stand up in St. Augustine in a white dress and get married the way Marraine Doralise did.” Daydreaming about the white dress always brought Nicolas to mind, standing next to her. “But it doesn’t matter,” Suzette said petulantly. “What could I do anyway if Mam’zelle wanted something else?”

  Elisabeth wiped her hands on her apron and looked hard into Suzette’s eyes.

  “You do whatever you can think of to protect you and yours. You’re better than most at getting along with the folks up to the house. Too good, maybe.”

  The two worked in silence for a while.

  “Those dresses came out fine,” Elisabeth began again in a conciliatory tone. “You should let Gerasíme see how you look.”

  “You just want me to go down to the quarter.”

  “The big house isn’t all there is. Your people are in the quarter.”

  “It is too dirty down there. Papa can see the dress tonight at the party. Mam’zelle is going to wear hers, too.”

  “Suzette, you’ll be serving, not dancing. Your gingham will do.”

  “Madame Françoise already said I could wear it.”

  Elisabeth stopped whipping the eggs in the bowl and leaned across to Suzette, speaking slowly and deliberately, each word snapping like bedsheets drying on the line in a biting wind.

  “I’m glad you’re getting on so well with the Derbannes, but you have a mother and a father both, and they don’t live up to the house. You come on out of your head and see how things really are. Any of us could be sold tomorrow. Praise the Lord it hasn’t happened yet to our family here on Rosedew, but that doesn’t mean it can’t.”

  Suzette kept her head down and her tongue quiet, but she seethed inside at how her mother was purposely trying to ruin her big day. She didn’t understand why her mother couldn’t see that she wanted something better. That she had the chance to be more than her father, sisters, and brother, who were already getting ground down going into the field every day. More than her mother, who didn’t practice the way that Suzette did to sound like the Ones with Last Names, who still clung to her old-timey religion when no one was around. Just today Suzette was the only slave from Rosedew to take first communion in a real church, one of only a handful from Cane River who wasn’t either white or free, and she had marched into St. Augustine with the rest. Couldn’t her mother see she had a bigger future in store?

  Elisabeth had not finished. “You only have one family, and not everybody gets that. Think about where you want to put trust. Reaching too deep into something not meant for you is full of pain. Figure out what you can have and work on that. You only get one family.” Her mother looked fierce. “Now do your work, Suzette.”

  * * *

  Sunday night was perfect for the Derbanne party. It was dry and crisp, lit up bright by a full moon, lanterns, and high spirits. The first flurry of guests arrived, their cheeks flushed from the cold and anticipation, shedding their overcoats and wraps, eager to show off their party finery. Elisabeth and Suzette had fixed a double pot of steaming gumbo, and a
whole pig in a pit had been slow roasting since the night before.

  The dancing began in earnest soon after the food was served. Wide cypress planks had been laid down in the barn as a dance floor, and the boards strained under the weight of Creoles young and old dancing to Gerasíme’s tunes. Suzette watched from the sidelines as the carefree couples spun, her feet aching to join them as she circled the room to serve food or drink or clean up spills.

  It was too cold to stay outdoors, and the house was not large enough for all of the friends the Derbannes had invited, so the party was held in stages, from the big house to the barn and several points in between. The guests danced set after set of the quadrille waltz, until only the most hardy were able to negotiate the dance floor.

  The week had been filled with hundreds of big and small orders coming Suzette’s way, from Françoise, Elisabeth, and Oreline as well as the priest. It had been exhausting and thrilling, practicing for first communion, the ceremony in the church, all of the planning for the big party tonight, the cooking, scrubbing, helping Oreline practice the steps to the quadrille waltz, getting her confident enough to make a public dancing appearance. Oreline had kissed Suzette on the cheek earlier that afternoon and declared herself ready.

  Just a few feet away, Suzette watched Narcisse and Oreline taking their place among the young adults of French Cane River society. Narcisse was on his most exemplary behavior tonight, pulled between two of the things he loved best, food and dance. He had grown taller and thinner in the last few months and was playing the perfect gentleman with his cousin Oreline, initiating small talk, making sure she danced, bringing her food and punch.

  As the party wore on and the night turned cooler, Narcisse gestured Suzette over to where he stood surrounded by his cousins in the barn.

  Her heart skipped, and she rushed over to them.

  “Girl, go get Cousin Azelie her wrap. Don’t dawdle.”

  Suzette stood a moment too long, unmoving.

  “Go on,” Narcisse said, his voice impatient.

  Girl. As if they had never played together and shared secrets. As if they had not all taken their first communion together that morning.

  Suzette glanced over to where Oreline sat, but Oreline had fixed her gaze to a spot on the opposite wall, as if she couldn’t hear.

  Gerasíme played another quadrille. Sounds of excited talk and laughter mixed with the steady patter of metered feet on the cypress planks.

  Suzette turned toward the house. There was nothing to do but fetch the wrap.

  * * *

  They had cleared out the minor furniture and pulled up the rugs to make room for dancing inside, pushing small tables toward the wall for checkers, backgammon, dominoes, ramps, and maroc, especially for the older men whose dancing days had wound down. The guests were mostly the usual from Cane River, extended family and neighbors, but there were a few fresh faces.

  The star of the evening was Eugene Daurat, newly arrived from France. He was short and neatly dressed, had startling black eyes and the smallest feet Suzette had ever seen on a man. His dark brown hair was slicked down to one side and tucked behind his tiny ears, and he smiled at everyone he was introduced to, as if it gave him the greatest pleasure to be alive in a world that had dancing in it. He was a curious fellow, his pale skin the dull white of goat’s milk. He seemed to Suzette to be a little doll man. He was some sort of relation to Françoise from the Rachal side. To Suzette, Eugene was brand new. She found herself pulled to wherever he was, to try to get another look at those eyes without seeming to look at him directly.

  Louis was an impressive host, welcoming everyone, full of good cheer. Suzette circled around one more time in the front room with her tray of special hors d’oeuvres, and Louis called her over.

  “You better try one of these crab cakes,” he announced to the collection of men gathered around him. “Our girl Suzette makes the finest dipping sauce this side of the Mississippi River.”

  He turned and spoke another language to a tall, thin man with light hair and a wispy beard, a distant cousin of the Derbannes’ from Virginia, and the two men had a private laugh. The bearded man could only smile and gesture to the others, and he stayed close to Louis, the only one among them who could talk with him in English. The cousin reminded Suzette of her older sister Palmire, deaf and dumb since birth, neither of them able to make themselves understood in a group except through signals or translators. Still, the man seemed to be enjoying himself, drinking and dancing with the rest.

  “What other delights have you and Elisabeth cooked up?” Louis asked Suzette.

  Suzette could tell by his tone, but even more by the flush in his cheeks and the color of his nose, that Louis was in the mischievous stage of his evening drinking.

  The doll man looked directly at her and grinned, a white, dazzling smile that showed his square, even teeth, and he held her gaze. Suzette took her tray of crab cakes and backed out of the room to cover her confusion.

  * * *

  When some of the older men retired to their brandy and cigars around the backroom fireplace, Suzette followed to serve. It was less painful than going back outside where Oreline and Narcisse were. These men had done their obligatory turn on the dance floor and now were settled in for camaraderie and companionship with other French Creole planters, leaving the more active entertainment to their children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. Both the doll man and the English-speaking cousin had been invited to sit with them.

  Louis Derbanne settled into his leather chair and called for cigars, which Suzette retrieved. Suzette lit Louis’s cigar first, watching his spotted hands, always in slight motion the way the highest branches looked in the pecan tree when the trunk was being shaken to get the nuts to fall.

  “You’ll see the sense of our ways, the advantages of how we do things, after you’ve been here awhile, Eugene,” Louis said, continuing some earlier conversation. “The plantation is the fulfillment of God’s design.”

  Suzette knew what came next, having heard so many of Louis Derbanne’s monologues that her mind could fly ahead to the pauses. By the tone, she knew this was his “our burden is heavy” speech, but she listened carefully anyway in case there were clues about the doll man.

  “You’re a merchant at heart, Eugene, too new to this country to understand our way of life yet. We have a responsibility here that we take seriously. The Lord almighty blesses our system, and we do what is best for everyone. Our black family could not survive on their own. We have to protect them, as much from themselves as from others. We feed and clothe them, and take care of all their needs when they are too young, too old, or too sick to work.

  “Slavery is the only workable system for cotton production, as good for our Negroes as it is for the whites. We took them out of Africa and lifted them up. The planters set the tone for the rest. Our burden is heavy.”

  Louis shook his head sadly.

  “There are some who do not exercise good sense, treating their Negroes worse than their oxen, but that’s just a handful, ignorant enough to damage their own property. Not one of mine ever gets more than twenty lashes without my permission. Not like on McAlpin’s place, where one of his boys almost bled out from the beating he gave him last month. The church teaches us they have souls, and they have to be faithfully led.”

  They talked as if Suzette were not in the room, refilling glasses, stoking the fire, emptying spittoons. She felt Eugene Daurat’s bold eyes on her, so she made herself small, careful not to make any response or acknowledgment of his stare.

  A little before midnight Eugene called for the wine he had brought for his host. Suzette carried the gift bottle and eight fresh glasses on a silver tray to the circle of planters, placing them in front of the doll man. Earlier in the evening he had uncorked the bottle with great fanfare, and now he waved her away, choosing to do the pouring himself.

  It was an 1825 Bordeaux, Château Lafite Rothschild, a vintage wine of early harvest that he had brought from France. Eugene poured
, and Suzette took the silver tray around to the men in the room until each held a wineglass.

  “To new beginnings in a land of opportunity,” Eugene toasted, and they all raised the wine to their lips.

  Suzette turned to tend the fire as they once again fell to casual conversation.

  “So, Eugene, as a well-traveled man, what do you think of this wine?” Louis Derbanne asked contentedly, balancing the half-empty wineglass in one hand. “I confess to being more of a bourbon man myself.”

  Eugene directed his attention to his host, raising his eyes from twelve-year-old Suzette’s back as she poked at the red embers of the fire and added another log to the failing flames.

  “This Bordeaux caused a great deal of excitement in France,” the doll man said. “Look at the lovely color.” He held the wineglass closer to the lamp, allowing the flame to bring out the intensity of the crimson liquid.

  “It has a ravishing bouquet, and a flavor to match. I confess an 1825 Lafite may still be a bit young, but sometimes it can be difficult to wait,” he said.

  3

  C hristmas Day was dry and chilly. The crop had been a good one this year, in a succession of very good years, and the talk of the quarter for the prior two weeks had turned to what the gifts would likely be. It was certain that there would be the big contest for the best cuts of beef, and one bottle of liquor for each man, and new blankets, but they couldn’t guess the surprise. They speculated that whatever it was would be store-bought since no one from the house or the field had had a hand in its preparation. Maybe broadcloth for new trousers or seed for their gardens.