Iron Lace Part 39

He stepped away and dropped his hands, as if he were satisfied. She knew better.

"And where did you stay?"

"Someone on the fund-raising committee had a cottage."

"You stayed there alone?"

She rubbed her throat. The skin felt raw. "Of course."

"Tell me about the ceremony."

"I was moved. My mother would be happy there's a church on the island now."

"Your mother was a s...o...b..ring lunatic committed for most of her miserable life to an asylum."

"I'm sorry. I should have told you, but it was something I needed to do, and I was afraid you'd make it difficult."

"What else would you like to tell me?"

She went very still. "What else would you like to know?"

He struck her so swiftly, and with such force, that only when she was lying on the floor did she realize what he'd done. She had just enough time to cover her head before he fell on top of her and rained more blows over her shoulders and arms. When she tried to get away, he hit her harder.

The attack ended as swiftly as it had begun. He got back to his feet. "Get up."

When she didn't move quickly enough to suit him, he kicked her ribs. But the kick was just a warning. She rose with her hands out in front of her to ward off more blows. He lifted a brow, as if to ask why she thought she needed to defend herself.

"What else would you like to tell me, Rory?"

"Have you gone crazy?"

"Tell me about Rafe Cantrelle."

"He was there. I admit it. But I didn't know he was going to attend. How could I have known?"

This time, when he hit her, she was ready. She braced herself so that she only stumbled backward. "Tell me what happened," he demanded. "All of it. Because I'll know if you leave anything out."

"Nothing happened, except that we talked for a few minutes!" She was dizzy and nauseated, but fear eclipsed both. She could feel something, probably blood, trickling down her chin. "He told me he was leaving New Orleans and taking Nicolette. I told him I was glad, because I've spent too much of my life hating him. Now I never have to think about either of them again." She held out her hands, pleading. "It's over, Henry. Completely over!"

He smiled and moved toward her again.

Nothing was over until the door finally closed behind him. Aurore lay in front of the fireplace, by the ashes of her lover's letter, too bruised and aching to rise.

At the end, she had done nothing to defend herself. She had allowed Henry to beat her, because he had earned that right. Not because he was her husband, but because she had deserved his abuse. She was everything he suspected and more.

From the attic room of the house in the Vieux Carre, Nicolette stared out at roofs that looked like waves in a storm-tossed sea. Rain had fallen recently, and the old slate and tile glistened. Behind her, Rafe paced back and forth. The room seemed too small for him, the ceiling too low. He was a giant in a child's dollhouse adorned with lace and faded flowers.

The door had been left ajar, but neither Nicolette nor her father realized that Aurore was standing on the other side of it, or that she could hear them. Nicolette tugged at the hem of her dress. Aurore wondered if Rafe had bought it for her just for today. The dress was blue, with red-and-white trim. She wore matching red bows in her hair, and soft white stockings. She was the most beautiful little girl Aurore had ever seen.

"Where's the lady who lives here?" Nicolette asked.

"I told you. She's gone away for a while."

"I'm tired of waiting."

"It shouldn't be much longer."

Nicolette closed her eyes as Rafe stepped forward and smoothed her hair back from her face. She leaned against him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he wrapped his arms around her. "You look very pretty today," he said.

"Will the lady who's coming think so?"

"If she has eyes."

"Tell me about her."

"I told you, Nicolette. She was a friend of your mother. She wants to see you before we leave."

"But why do we have to meet here? Why can't she come to our house?"

"She's white. And we're not."

"My skin's white. Almost."

"But you're a Negro. Like me."

"Your skin is white, too."

"Do you want to be white?"

She appeared to think it over. "I could sit at the front of the streetcar," she said.

"Yes, you could."

"If I was white, I could go to any school I wanted."

"Except the ones that only have colored children."

"I'd miss Anne Marie and Mignon."

"A good reason not to be white."

She moved away to search his face. "Why was my mother friends with a white woman?"

"You can ask her."

"Violet married a white man."

"Violet will have to spend the rest of her life pretending she is what she isn't," Rafe said.

"I don't understand why."

"You never will."

Aurore couldn't bear to stand in the hallway any longer. She couldn't bear any more barriers between them. She knocked on the door and stepped inside. She stopped, afraid to move forward. Nicolette gave a little curtsy, as if she had been tutored in advance. "h.e.l.lo."

Aurore still didn't move. She turned her eyes to Rafe, because looking at her daughter, so close and yet a million miles away, was painfully bittersweet. "Rafe?"

"Come in, Mrs. Friloux, and meet Nicolette."

Aurore forced herself to move forward. Slowly, so that the room suddenly seemed much longer than it was. She stopped just in front of Nicolette. "Do you remember me?" she asked.

Nicolette appeared to search her memory. "I don't think so."

"I met you a long time ago. When you were only six. You got into my carriage, and I gave you a locket."

"Oh." She looked up at her father, as if she dimly remembered that he had taken it from her. "I don't have it anymore."

"I know."

Aurore addressed Rafe. "May we sit?"

"I'm going to leave you alone," he said.

"Alone?"

"Yes. I think it's best." He put his arm around Nicolette's shoulder. "I'll be back in a little while."

Aurore wished with all her heart that Rafe would stay. For a moment she thought he might, because he didn't move. They stared at each other, the way people did when they wanted to speak but didn't know what to say. Then he left the room.

Nicolette stood quietly, waiting for her to speak. Aurore found her voice. "Shall we sit?"

"I guess."

There was a bench across the room, padded with faded velvet-and-satin cus.h.i.+ons. They sat together, and Nicolette stroked her hand against the velvet.

Where should she start? Aurore knew she had only a brief time to ask the questions of a lifetime, minutes to absorb the sweetness of this child, her child, who she would never see again. "Nicolette, what did your father tell you about me?"

"He said you knew my mother. He said you wanted to see me before we go away."

"Yes."

Nicolette looked up, interested. "Well, did you know her?"

Aurore looked away. "Yes. I knew her well."

"Did she want a little girl, do you think?"

"Absolutely. She very much wanted a daughter. She would have been proud of you. She would have loved you, Nicolette."

"Do you think so?"

"I'm absolutely sure."

Nicolette scuffed her toe against the carpet. "Did she work for you?"

"No. We were...friends."

"Is that why you wanted to see me? To see if I look like her?"

"I've thought about you since she died. I just wanted to be sure you were happy." Aurore tried to smile. "And well."

"Oh, I never get sick." Nicolette obviously couldn't sit still a moment longer. She began to cross her ankles, first one way, then another. It became a dance.

"Are you happy you're moving?"

"Oh, yeah. Yes, I mean. I can ride the streetcar in Chicago. And I can sit anywhere I want."

"Chicago?"

"That's where we're going." Nicolette frowned. "I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you that. Papa said I shouldn't tell anyone where we're going, but I don't know if he meant you."

"What will you do there?"

"I have to go to school, but I can have music lessons again. Do you like music?"

"Oh, yes."

"My friend Clarence lives there now, and he'll give me lessons. Clarence plays the piano. He's better than anybody, even Jelly Roll or Tony Jackson. Least, that's what everybody says. I never got to hear them." She frowned. "Maybe I will someday. Think so?"

"I hope so. Your father says you like to sing."

"I sing all the time. Sometimes he has to tell me not to." She leaned closer, frowning as she gazed at Aurore's face. Aurore knew too well what the child saw. "Did you fall and hurt yourself?"

"I can be very clumsy."

"Me, too. Papa says I'll have to learn to be still someday."

"I can't imagine why."

"Because I'm annoying. I have the worst manners at my school, and my French is worse than anybody's."

"You're beautiful and intelligent and altogether wonderful."

"Would my mother have liked me, do you think?"