Iron Lace Part 3

"Not much yet, since I haven't had time to do research. Gulf Coast s.h.i.+pping is one of the city's oldest and most well-established companies. I believe it was your ancestors who started it, not your husband's, and that you were largely responsible for making it a million-dollar enterprise."

"That, like everything else, is only part of the truth. Henry kept our heads above water for the first years of our marriage." She laughed. "A good thing for a s.h.i.+pping company."

"Henry was your husband?"

"Yes."

"You had two children. Your youngest son is the state senator Ferris Gerritsen, and your oldest, Hugh, was a Catholic priest who was killed last year in Bonne Chance."

She wasn't smiling now. "Yes." She waited for him to say more about that, but he didn't.

"Do you have grandchildren?"

"A granddaughter. Her name is Dawn."

"Does she live nearby?"

"She's in England now, on an a.s.signment. She's a journalist, too, a photojournalist."

"Oh? What's she covering?"

"British musical groups, I believe. She's in Liverpool."

He was jotting down notes. He hadn't turned on the tape recorder, as if he knew they were only marking time.

"Other living relatives?" he asked.

"Only some very distant ones that I haven't seen in decades."

"And that's about all I know." He looked up, squarely meeting her eyes. "Except that your son has consistently taken stands against integration, and he's popular with his const.i.tuents because of it. There's talk he may run for governor in the next race, and if he does, he'll probably win."

"That could happen. Or something might happen to prevent it."

"Would you prefer one over the other?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"The one that's best for Louisiana."

"And the hedging begins."

She nodded. "Perhaps that's because I don't want to talk about Ferris. I suppose it might seem as if he's the key to my asking you here. You might even believe that I'm trying to prove to the world that I'm not like my son. But that's not what this is about at all."

He tapped his pen against the stenographer's pad in front of him. "Okay," he said at last. "What is it about?"

"You haven't asked me anything about my parents."

"Is that where you'd like to start?"

She wanted to tell him that she didn't want to start at all, but that would require as much explanation as her life story. "No, I suppose it begins with my grandfather. His name was Antoine Friloux, and he was a Creole gentleman in the cla.s.sic mold. With one exception. He was a talented businessman in a cla.s.s that viewed work as something that others should do. Grand-pere Antoine began Gulf Coast s.h.i.+pping, although it was called Gulf Coast Steams.h.i.+p in those days. He was a rich man who became richer with every investment he made."

He waited for her to go on, and when she didn't, he turned on the tape recorder. "He was your mother's father?"

"Yes. Perhaps if he'd had a son, none of what I'm about to tell you would ever have happened."

Phillip settled back in his chair, propping his pad on the table's edge. "And why is that?"

But she didn't answer directly. As she had hoped, the story seemed to grow inside her, and she knew, for the first time, that she would be able to tell it all.

"There's something you need to know," she said.

"What's that?"

"In order to understand my story, you have to understand the story of a man named Raphael." She looked up at him and waited for his answer.

"And who was he?"

Again she didn't answer directly. "Our stories are entwined, mine and Raphael's. I can't tell one without the other."

"All right."

"Have you seen much of Louisiana, Phillip?"

He shook his head.

"At the very south of the state, there's a barrier island called Grand Isle. At the end of the last century, people of wealth used to go there to spend their summers. We went there when I was a child. A young child. My mother was...ill, and there was hope that the climate there would make her better."

"That seems like a good place to begin."

She met his eyes, but she didn't smile. "It is. Because everything else I'll tell you is connected to that summer in 1893."

CHAPTER FOUR.

Louisiana Gulf Coast 1893 A man took a wife for children. A man took a mistress for pleasure. In the latter, Lucien Le Danois had been most fortunate. He had taken a mistress who could bestow such pleasure that the most demanding of Creole men, had they known, would have knelt at her feet. But as fate would have it, Marcelite Cantrelle was also more capable of bearing children than Lucien's wife, Claire. man took a wife for children. A man took a mistress for pleasure. In the latter, Lucien Le Danois had been most fortunate. He had taken a mistress who could bestow such pleasure that the most demanding of Creole men, had they known, would have knelt at her feet. But as fate would have it, Marcelite Cantrelle was also more capable of bearing children than Lucien's wife, Claire.

A man merely looked at Marcelite and she grew heavy with new life, like the seed of the love vine, swollen with spring rain. Her body, wide-hipped and st.u.r.dy, was made for child-bearing. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were a lush invitation to suckle and grow strong. Lucien knew well the mystical wonders of her flesh against his lips, the enticement of her earthy fragrance.

Marcelite had already borne him one child, a daughter brought into the world in a matter of hours, nourished on mother's milk and the freshest, sweetest fruits of the Gulf of Mexico. Angelle was a black-haired, laughing nymph, brown from the sun, like her black-haired mother. When Marcelite went down to the beach to mend nets, two-year-old Angelle knew how to dance away from the white-tipped waves. At home, as their house filled with the spicy scent of the day's catch cooking in the fireplace, she could climb the lone water oak outside their front door and, hidden among its moss-draped branches, call greetings to the fishermen who pa.s.sed by.

Lucien attempted to think only of Angelle and Marcelite as he sailed across the Jump, the shallow pa.s.s that separated Grand Isle from Cheniere Caminada. But, despite his best efforts, it was other faces that he saw.

The Jump separated more than two bodies of land. Earlier in the afternoon, he had said a stern farewell to his wild-eyed wife, and to Aurore, his only legitimate child. He could still feel Claire's fingers clawing at his arm as he pushed her away, still see the accusations in Aurore's pale eyes.

Why should he feel guilty? Hadn't he made the steamboat trip to Grand Isle well after the summer season had ended so that he could escort Claire and Aurore back to New Orleans? Hadn't he given Claire permission to stay these extra weeks, weeks she claimed to need in order to face the final months of her pregnancy?

As a husband, he could not be faulted. Perhaps their house in New Orleans was not as grand as the home she had once shared with her parents, but many men envied the large property he owned on Esplanade. Claire lacked for nothing.

And he had been patient. By all the saints, he had been patient as she lost baby after baby. A man could be outraged at a woman for less. He had watched and waited in silence as she failed to bring a son into the world to carry his name. Even now, she was pregnant again. Even now, he waited for the day when she would take to her bed and disappoint him once more.

For all Lucien's patience, Claire had given him nothing but one frail daughter whose skin was so translucent he could almost see her heartbeat. No one believed that five-year-old Aurore, their only child to be born alive, would live to adulthood.

So was he to blame if he took an afternoon for himself? He had promised Marcelite a visit before he returned to New Orleans. Months would pa.s.s before he saw her again, months when he would dream of her body under his.

The wind suddenly filled his sail, the harsh sigh of a G.o.d impatient with his excuses. The small skiff bobbed closer to the sh.o.r.eline, carried by the waves breaking against the sand. The tide was low. Lucien rolled up his trousers and took off his shoes, then swung himself overboard to drag the skiff to the beach.

In the distance, despite the afternoon's bursts of rain, he could see men in wide-brimmed hats offsh.o.r.e, casting circular throw nets. A cold front had come through, and the damp air was tinged with the pleasures of autumn. Two women, their homespun skirts dragging on the wet sand, piled storm-tossed driftwood to season for cooking and heating. Marcelite's pile was farther up the beach, stacked tall by her own hands and Raphael's.

Seven-year-old Raphael, Marcelite's son by a former liaison, was a good child, a help to his mother, a guardian and companion to his sister. He was as captivated by Angelle as Lucien was, and because of his enslavement to Lucien's daughter, Raphael had taken a special place in Lucien's heart.

Lucien scanned the beach, half expecting to find the boy hiding behind one of the woodpiles, in a game they often played. But Raphael was nowhere to be seen.

Lucien murmured polite greetings to the women before he made his way toward the village. The contrast between Cheniere Caminada and Grand Isle was as wide as the pa.s.s that separated them. The large village on the cheniere cheniere boasted over six hundred houses and bustled with the daily routines of its inhabitants. The fishermen and trappers of the boasted over six hundred houses and bustled with the daily routines of its inhabitants. The fishermen and trappers of the cheniere cheniere had large, close-knit families, and little contact with the outside world. Grand Isle was smaller, without a church or a resident justice of the peace. But in the summer months, Grand Isle swelled with the wealthy who escaped the punis.h.i.+ng summers of the city and the fever that often came with the heat. had large, close-knit families, and little contact with the outside world. Grand Isle was smaller, without a church or a resident justice of the peace. But in the summer months, Grand Isle swelled with the wealthy who escaped the punis.h.i.+ng summers of the city and the fever that often came with the heat.

Lucien pa.s.sed a small orange grove, its green-tinged fruit bending the branches into graceful arcs. Ahead, a group of frame houses set high on brick pillars lined the gra.s.sy path. As he pa.s.sed, a group of women, chatting together and sh.e.l.ling crabs on the wide gallery of one house, called to him to get inside before it rained again. A small dog stepped into his path and sniffed his shoes, as if hoping to discover a story to share with a larger comrade asleep under the shelter of an overturned pirogue.

His destination was a leisurely fifteen-minute stroll away, past houses with vineyards and kitchen gardens. On Grand Isle, ridges of ancient, twisted oaks hindered every view, but here Lucien could see much of the village in one glance. The cheniere cheniere natives had cut down their trees, to better feel the Gulf breezes on hot summer days. natives had cut down their trees, to better feel the Gulf breezes on hot summer days.

He had come this way for the first time three years ago. He and a friend had sailed to the cheniere cheniere from Grand Isle to buy a new fis.h.i.+ng net as a gift for his friend's wife. The net was to be a decoration for an autumn soiree with a seaside theme. from Grand Isle to buy a new fis.h.i.+ng net as a gift for his friend's wife. The net was to be a decoration for an autumn soiree with a seaside theme.

On arrival, they had been directed to Marcelite Cantrelle's hut. Lucien had expected a toothless hag who would bargain ruthlessly. Instead, he had been enchanted to discover a dark-haired temptress who negotiated with such charm that by the time his friend had his net, he didn't even realize that he had spent twice the amount he had planned.

Lucien had gone back to see Marcelite often that first summer. He had found excuses at first-another net, advice on where he might have the most success fis.h.i.+ng, a small gift for Raphael. But by the time August arrived, he and Marcelite had come to an unspoken understanding. He visited when he could, and brought her gifts and money. In exchange, she yielded her body exclusively to him. The arrangement suited them both.

Lucien had come this way many times, but he never failed to become aroused when he knew he would soon hold Marcelite in his arms. Now he rounded a bend, and her house came into view. Constructed of driftwood and thatched with palmetto, the house was as much a creation of local custom and culture as the woman who lived in it. In the distance, Lucien could see her, waiting in the shelter of the water oak. Her s.h.i.+rtwaist gleamed white against the weathered brown of the palmetto. He could see her hands sweep back and forth over a fis.h.i.+ng net, tugging, straightening, tying, but her gaze was fixed on him.

When he drew nearer, she thrust the net aside and stood, but she didn't come to him. She wasn't a tall woman, but with her regal carriage and the proud tilt of her head, she gave the impression of height. She didn't straighten her skirts or allow her hands to fidget. She waited.

When they were face-to-face, he gave a little bow. "Mademoiselle."

"M'sieu," she replied, in the husky, staccato accent of the bayous.

"Where are the children?"

She switched to English, since she knew he preferred it. "Angelle naps inside. Raphael explores."

"I didn't see him on the beach."

"He goes farther each day, looking for treasure."

"It's the influence of that old pirate Juan Rodriguez."

"Raphael seeks more than gold coins. He seeks a man to talk with."

Lucien heard no reproach in Marcelite's voice, but he felt it nonetheless. "He could do better than old Rodriguez."

"Juan is good to Raphael. The boy could listen to his stories forever."

Lucien propped one hand against the tree. The pose moved him closer to her. "And what could you do forever, mon coeur? mon coeur?"

She lifted her shoulders, and he watched the soft muslin collar glide along her neck. "Eat, mais oui? mais oui? Sit in the shade and watch the herons catch their supper?" Sit in the shade and watch the herons catch their supper?"

"And what else?"

"I can think of nothing else I might want to do forever." She lowered her eyes until her lashes shadowed her sun-kissed cheeks. "But perhaps I can think of something I would like to do often."

His heart beat faster. He absorbed each detail of her, the way the light filtered through the branches and spangled her black hair, the tiny gold hoops at her earlobes, the strong curve of her nose, the sensuous curve of her lips.

Never more than at moments like this did he wish that time would cease its steadfast march and leave him alone with Marcelite, secure and content in the life they had fas.h.i.+oned here together. She was a mixture of the diverse nationalities that had long claimed this marshy peninsula as their own, a spicy combination of this and that, much like the gumbo she often served him. It was her differences, as much as the things that made her like every woman, that compelled him to seek her out.

"I brought you a gift."

She lifted her eyes. "Did you? You've hidden it well."

"It's a small thing." He slid his hand inside his coat and drew out a rectangular package. "See what you think."

She took her time, letting her callused, capable fingers pluck at the strings with the patience and delicacy of a well-bred Creole maiden. When the gift was revealed, she stared at it without removing it from its wrappings.

"It's a folding fan," Lucien said. He took it and flicked it open, revealing embroidered red and gold roses on b.u.t.ter-soft leather. "The frame is violet wood. From France." He swept it under her nose so that she could enjoy the scent. "For when the breeze forgets to blow."

"And where, M'sieu, do I find the hand I need to use such a thing?"

He laughed. "Open the fan in the evenings, when your ch.o.r.es are finished. Sit on your little stool, right here, as darkness comes, and think of me."

"Mais non-it's the mosquitoes I'll think of."

He folded the fan and touched her cheek with the tip. "And you won't think of me? Not even a little?"

She examined him as a wife at the French Market might examine the day's catch. "Why should I?"

"Marcelite..." He moved closer. "Haven't you missed me?"

Her expression didn't change.

"Don't you like your gift?"

"My roof needs patching. My bed is damp. My house needs windows, a new door. I have no time to fan myself. I have no time to miss you. And now that I am with child again..."

He grabbed her arms. "What?"

"...I have less time than before."