Iron Lace #1

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A urore lived on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny. The one-and-a-half-story Creole cottage was the property of a former associate of Lucien’s. Her rent was minimal; the house, although in serious disrepair, was worth more. But when she tried to make a more equitable payment, the money was always returned with a note explaining that, once again, she had miscalculated.

She had allowed herself only one week to recover from the loss of her child, to bind her breasts and dry her tears. Then she had left the convent behind and returned to New Orleans to claim what was left of her inheritance.

Few helping hands had been extended to her when she arrived back in the city. What had seemed great tragedies at first had become mysteries with her absence. The near destruction of Gulf Coast Steamship had left many of Lucien’s creditors deeply in debt. There was a rumor that he had committed suicide because he had allowed Gulf Coast’s insurance to lapse, and another that he had tried to save money on premiums after profligate spending to ready the Dowager.

The stories hadn’t stopped with Lucien. Claire was remembered, Claire who had been locked away for years in an institution for the insane. What madness had come to roost in the Le Danois family, and what of the daughter, who had disappeared after her father’s death? What could one say about a young woman who wouldn’t stay to see the family estate sold, piece by elegant piece, and the family business dismantled? Aurore had left New Orleans as the only survivor of a proud Creole name. She had returned to find that name tarnished beyond recognition.

A few friends had remained true. Tim Gilhooley had stayed on to salvage what was left of Gulf Coast. Not a brilliant manager, but a fair and honest one, Tim had retained what little he could—a rat-infested office far downriver from the fine new office building that had gone up in smoke, barges and tugs that were worth only a little more than what they would have brought in scrap, a few contracts, fewer promises.

Sylvain Winslow, Aurore’s landlord, had continued to invite her to social functions organized by his wife. Several friends who had come out with her stalwartly continued to involve her in the periphery of their lives and intrigues.

Most important of all, Ti’ Boo had moved to New Orleans. Another flood had devastated the family’s life on the bayou. When Jules was offered an opportunity to work in a weighing and gauging business in the Vieux Carré, they had left Lafourche and moved to the city; though each year during the sugarcane harvest they traveled back to visit with friends and family.

Ti’ Boo seemed to thrive on her new life. Pelichere had been joined by a little brother, Lionel—called Ti’ Lee from the moment of his birth. She was busy raising four children and making a home for them in a small shotgun house off Bayou Saint John, with neat little rooms lined up one behind the other. She grew vegetables and herbs in tidy beds and took the children crabbing along the bayou. When Aurore visited, the house always smelled of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces.

Aurore had needed support in the years after Nicolette’s birth. Every morning she awoke to a life she didn’t recognize. Gone were sumptuous meals and creature comforts. Roaches nested in cracks in the old cottage walls, and heat and cold punished her. A fetid ditch separated her house from the street, and she tried not to see what floated past during heavy rainstorms.

She had retained Fantome and Cleo, neither of whom would have been employable if she had let them go. Fantome was too old, and Cleo too inclined to do exactly as she pleased. Both had been loyal beyond duty after Lucien’s death. They had stayed on to take care of the Esplanade house until it was sold; then they had moved to Frenchmen and attempted to make a home for Aurore with what was left of the Le Danois and Friloux heirlooms. Fantome lived in rooms above the carriage house, and Cleo had made a place for herself in the half-story attic.

Despite their efforts, many of the daily chores fell to Aurore. She did what marketing she could afford, and a portion of the cleaning. Fantome tended the yard, the carriage and the horse, but secretly she clipped and weeded to lighten his burdens.

Once, her standards had been those of her ancestors. A life well lived had been everything to the Creoles. Now she contended with poverty and ostracism from all that her family had held dear. No one had prepared her for her new status.

Nor had anyone prepared her to work in the family company. Every morning at eight she went to work with Tim at the new office on Tchoupitoulas. Gulf Coast Steamship was no more. The limited-liability corporation founded by her grandfather and expertly tended by Lucien had been dissolved, and Gulf Coast Shipping had risen from the ashes. Tim had advised her to sell what was left and invest the money so that she would have a small income for life. She had refused.

The new century had not been kind to river shipping. The proliferation of railroads had been the worst blow, but the condition of the river itself added to the problem. Over the years, channels had not been improved or even maintained. Now the Mississippi, once a colorful Mardi Gras parade of steamboats, tugs and barges, looked like the lifeless streets of New Orleans on Ash Wednesday.

There had been no room for mistakes when Aurore assumed control of Gulf Coast. Decisive leadership had been needed, a restoration of confidence in the Le Danois name, a demonstration that, although she was a woman, she had either Antoine Friloux’s sound judgment or the young Lucien Le Danois’s brilliance.

She had evidenced neither. Confused and unsure of herself she had taken Tim’s advice in all but selling the company. Tim, whose days in the boxing ring had taught him the wisdom of caution, was reluctant to gamble. He missed important opportunities and stuck with more than one sure thing that failed to turn a profit. As the years passed and Tim aged, his decisions grew steadily more guarded.

Aurore lived in a house that was collapsing and spent each day trying to salvage a business that was collapsing, as well. On the rare occasions when she was part of a social gathering, she was a pariah. As a spinster of twenty-five, only the husbands of the women who had once been her friends looked at her with interest.

Pregnancy had ripened her figure and left its mark in other ways. Her hair had a new luster, her skin more color, as if her body had feasted on the nutrients it had stored to nourish her child. She was attractive to men—those looking for a mistress made that abundantly clear. But men searching for wives no longer looked in her direction.

One month after the all-too-brief reunion with her daughter in the yard of the Magnolia Palace, Aurore stood in her room and regarded the clothes hanging in her armoire. Sylvain and his wife, Vera, had invited her to a picnic supper at their cottage in Milneburg. The tiny lakeside community was a popular place to spend Sunday afternoons, with picnic pavilions, dances and restaurants. The Winslows’ cottage, shrimp-pink and dripping with gingerbread trim, stood high on pilings in the water and commanded an extraordinary view.

She wanted to decline. The past month had been a cruel one. She had felt little except the imprint of her daughter’s small body against her own, seen little except the tiny hand waving goodbye.

étienne Terrebonne called himself Rafe Cantrelle now, although the reason was a mystery to her. Perhaps he had needed a new name to go with his identity as the owner of a brothel. But now that so much time had passed, Aurore thought of him as Rafe, too. étienne Terrebonne, the man she had loved, had never really existed.

He had threatened to return to New Orleans with their daughter, but even then Aurore hadn’t imagined he would torture her by bringing the child he called Nicolette to the district, to raise her in the company of prostitutes, pimps and drunks.

Aurore had watched Nicolette from a distance for months before her birthday, with never the courage or opportunity to get close. But that day—Lord God, that day of all days—when she had heard children’s voices from the stable yard, she had ordered Fantome to drive up beside the house. She had known Rafe was gone, she had seen him leave, and at that moment she hadn’t cared who else discovered her. Nicolette had been so close. So very close.

She had feasted hungrily on her daughter’s face. From a distance, she had seen that Nicolette was beautiful. Up close, that judgment had been confirmed. Her hair—didn’t anyone ever brush it, tie it back with ribbons, smooth it with loving hands?—was dark and curling. Her skin was darker than Aurore’s, nearly as dark as Rafe’s, with a tawny, golden tinge that made her hazel eyes seem even brighter and more exotic. Could Nicolette have passed for white? Could this child have been smuggled into white society after all? Were her features narrow enough not to reveal her African heritage? Could Aurore have kept her daughter, nurtured her, somehow forgiven her for having Rafe’s blood? She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

She still didn’t.

She had thought of nothing else since that day. She had gone through the motions of living, and despite her lethargy, today she would go through them again. Sylvain Winslow was Gulf Coast’s only sure path back into the New Orleans business community. As a coffee broker and director of the board of trade, Sylvain had access to everyone in the city who could either foster or snuff out the life of Gulf Coast. He had given Aurore what business he could and recommended Gulf Coast to others, but his greatest assistance had been in introductions. At parties or balls, picnics or evenings at the Opera House, he and Vera never failed to seat her near someone who might patronize Gulf Coast.

By displaying confidence, Sylvain and Vera had kept Aurore from social isolation and Gulf Coast from bankruptcy. She could not afford to ignore their invitation, even if the trip out to the lake drained what little was left of her spirit.

Since she seldom socialized, she had little need for an extensive wardrobe. But Cleo, an accomplished seamstress, had freshened and updated an old summer dress of pale blue linen. It was not quite the style of the moment, but neither was it as severe as the clothes she wore to the office. With chamois gloves and a wide-brimmed hat the same creamy white as the lace bodice and collar, she thought it might pass. She wound her hair behind her head to accommodate the hat, and packed a small valise.

Smoky Mary, the Pontchartrain Railroad’s line to the lake—which began at Elysian Fields, not far from her house—was late, and the terminal was crowded. Even her hat, tied around her chin with yards of pink chiffon, was no protection from the sun. She stood on the platform waiting for the train and listened to the good-natured musical war between two bands of Negroes with shiny brass instruments.

She remembered her conversation with Nicolette, and the child’s obvious love of music. She wished her daughter was with her. At the lake, she could teach Nicolette to swim, as Ti’ Boo had taught her. She thought of the locket, which had been hers as a child. She had worn it next to her heart for weeks to infuse it with her love. A small, meaningless trinket for her only child.

“Miss Le Danois?”

She heard the deep voice over the honky-tonk bleating of trumpets. She turned and saw Henry Gerritsen, a friend of Sylvain’s. “Mr. Gerritsen.” She held out her gloved hand. He took it in his and held it for just a moment longer than etiquette dictated.

“Are you by chance heading out to the Winslows’ camp?” he asked.

She regained possession of her hand. “You, too?”

He inclined his head. “I always look forward to their parties. Their cook’s one of the finest in the city.”

She noted the way he was watching her. She had never thought Henry Gerritsen a handsome man, although there were women who clearly did. This was the first time she had seen him alone. Usually there was a smitten debutante hanging on his arm, a young woman firmly on the path toward marriage—to somebody else.

Henry was not well-connected or well-bred enough for serious consideration by the best New Orleans families, but even if the daughters of Comus, Momus and Proteus ultimately rejected him, his prospects were still excellent. The social world of New Orleans was like the dobos tortes the Hungarians had brought to the city. There were layers of lavish dessert under the brittle golden glaze. Aurore knew, from her own experience, just how superficial—and fleeting—were the pleasures at the top.

Smoky Mary blew her whistle, two sharp blasts that signaled boarding. The bands crowded into a car at the back, but not the last one. That one, Aurore knew, would be left empty, a rolling jail for anyone who disturbed the peace on the lakefront.

“Why don’t we sit together,” Henry suggested, “and get to know each other better?”

She had no ready excuse for wanting to sit alone. And if she was honest, she had to admit that a distraction from thoughts of Nicolette would be appreciated. The trip was short, but long enough for her to dwell on her own unhappiness.

She stepped on board and felt him close behind her. He wasn’t a tall man, although he was half a head taller than the crown of her hat, but he was broad-shouldered and muscular. In the August heat she felt smothered by his bulk, overtaken, somehow, as if she had run a race, only to give ground just before the finish line.

He seated himself beside her, and the feeling deepened. Even if he wasn’t handsome, he had a presence, an unmistakable magnetism, that some women found engaging. His hair was a coppery brown, and his wild, thick brows were a darker shade of the same. The Louisiana sun had freckled and warmed his pale skin.

His eyes were candid and unshadowed, but nothing Aurore knew about Henry Gerritsen convinced her the man was the same. He owned a business that was in direct competition with Gulf Coast. Gerritsen Barge Lines had the most up-to-date tugboat fleet in the port, and Henry himself was said to be the reason for the business’s success. He seemed to have a sixth sense about trends, investing capital when other lines were holding firm, cutting losses before they were felt elsewhere. More than once, Gerritsen Barge Lines had taken contracts from Gulf Coast because of Henry’s ingenious maneuvers. Aurore had no reason to like the man, but she had often envied his business savvy.

“Do you get out to the lake often?” he asked, after the train had moved out of the station.

She removed her hat and set it across her knees. “Not often enough.”

“Then you enjoy the beach?”

“It’s a nice change from the river levees.”

“I won’t go in the water myself. I never learned to swim.”

“No? What if you fall off one of your own barges?”

“I sign enough pay vouchers that one of my employees would be sure to rescue me.”

“Not if you’re as hard to work for as they say.”

He laughed a very male, very appreciative, laugh. She was struck by it, suddenly aware of how little laughter she had shared in during the years since her father’s death.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you my secrets,” he said. “One of your faithful followers might get ideas the next time I steal one of your contracts.”

“Faithful followers?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

“I don’t, Mr. Gerritsen.”

“Please. Henry. You have a reputation for engendering amazing loyalty in the men who work for you. I’ve offered some of them more pay if they’ll come and work for me. Nearly every time they’ve refused.”

“Nearly?”

“I’m still working on one of your men, but I won’t say who.”

“As long as it’s not Tim.”

“You should pay me to take Tim off your hands.”

She was silent. Loyalty demanded that she protest; common sense demanded that she listen.

“Gilhooley’s not doing you any favors with his hemming and hawing,” Henry said. “But I think you already know that.”

She considered his words. “Tell me about yourself,” she said, when the city was behind them and the summer heat was rising in waves from the palmetto scrub marsh outside the train window.

“I’ve probably already told you everything you’ll ever need to know.”

“Shall I tell you what I’ve learned?”

He sat back and folded his arms, turning so that they were even closer. “I’d enjoy that.”

She didn’t move away, although she imagined he had expected it. “You’re brash, and prone to shortcuts. You can be ruthless and charming at the same time, which probably explains why you’ve come so far in New Orleans, despite being from nowhere. For some reason I can’t fathom, you’ve decided I’m worth cultivating. But I’ll tell you right now that Gulf Coast Shipping isn’t for sale.”

His smile was wide and appreciative. There was something possessive about his gaze, something that sharpened all her senses. “And neither am I,” she added.

“Shall I tell you what I’ve learned about you?”

“I live in a man’s world these days. I suppose I have to take the consequences.”

“Your eyes turn a darker blue when you’re angry, and anything that threatens Gulf Coast angers you. You’re every bit as loyal to the men you employ as they are to you, even to the detriment of the company you love. You have nothing else in your life, but you’ve discovered you can’t feed on the past without endangering the future. And you want and need a future.”

She stared at him. “You don’t look like a voodoo priest.”

“You’re a very complex woman, but underneath, don’t all women want the same thing?”

“And men?”

“Men want power. Women want love.”

“Then perhaps women and men should stay with their own kind.”

“On the contrary. There’s room for power and love in a marriage.”

“And if that’s true, why haven’t you married?” she asked boldly. The entire conversation was so far outside polite boundaries that nothing seemed too shocking to ask.

“Until now, I hadn’t found the woman who could give me the power I crave.”

“May I ask who this paragon could be?”

“You, my dear.”

It was much too late to rebuke him. Instead, she gave a throaty chuckle. “You make me laugh, Mr. Gerritsen. I wasn’t certain I still could.”

“We both know I’m perfectly serious.”

“But this is the first conversation we’ve ever had.”

“I know everything about you.”

For a moment, she was pricked by fear. Then reason asserted itself. He couldn’t know everything. She and Tim had gone to the greatest lengths to be sure that her past stayed hidden. “Noticing that my eyes turn a darker blue and my loyalties can be foolish is hardly everything.”

“You want what I want, Rory.”

She frowned at both the nickname and the sentiment.

“No, I don’t see the Creole belle when I look at you,” he said. “Oh, Aurore Le Danois has her attractions. A name, a home in New Orleans society, a history to guarantee my daughters a place in the best carnival courts and my sons access to the best families, despite the temporary blemishes. But it’s Rory who attracts me. A woman thought to be unfeminine by the men in her social circle because she works like a man every day. A woman thought to be headstrong and difficult, perhaps just a touch wild. A woman with a past that doesn’t bear close scrutiny—”

“I think you’ve said enough.”

“You disappeared for seven months, Rory, after your father’s death. Do you know what they say about you?”

She turned back to the window. Now the landscape was cypress trees and ribbons of swamp. The fact that a train track had ever been laid through this watery wilderness seemed a miracle. “What do they say?”

“That you went a little mad. Like your mother.”

She closed her eyes in gratitude. “Would any sane man want to marry a madwoman?”

“Would a woman of your breeding want to marry a man whose great-grandfather came downriver from Kentucky on a flatboat and met his wife in a floating whorehouse?”

She didn’t answer.

“Haven’t you learned that in business it’s best to have leverage?” he asked. “Most workable contracts are negotiated by two parties with completely different strengths…and weaknesses.”

“And to you, marriage is a contract to negotiate?”

“Has it ever been otherwise?”

She watched the flight of a heron, its wings spread wide as it sailed to the shade of a large tree. Then she turned back to him. “You’ve told me what you might gain. You neglected to say what I might.”

“A merger with Gerritsen Barge Lines.” He held up a hand to stop the words rising to her lips. “To be called Gulf Coast Shipping. I can see the advantage of an old, trusted name. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so determined to pay off your father’s debts, that might not be true. But you gained respect for Gulf Coast by playing fair.”

“Only that? A larger company? More problems?”

He smiled. She noted that his eyes remained the same clear green, whatever his expression. “Fewer problems, because I would manage the company and leave you to manage our home.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Gulf Coast is mine.”

“Gulf Coast would be ours. That wouldn’t be negotiable. Your place in it might be.”

“My place in it would not be negotiable. I’d share in all decisions. All of them. That would be enforced by a legal document signed before marriage.”

“Very good. You’ve learned a few things about business, haven’t you?”

“What else would you offer?”

“My knowledge and experience, and enough funds to set Gulf Coast firmly back on its feet. A house of your own design in the Garden District—I already own a choice lot on Prytania. Respectability, because even if I’m not of your class, marriage to me will stop the rumors about you.” His eyes focused on her lips, then trailed to the lace at her neck and below. “Children. You want children, don’t you, Rory? And a man to warm your bed?”

The steam whistle shrieked a final blast that made it impossible for her to answer. They were reaching the end of the line. She knew Sylvain would be waiting for them in his newest toy, a pearl gray Stanley Steamer. She wondered if Henry had discussed her with Sylvain before issuing his unorthodox proposal.

She could feel heat rising to her cheeks as Henry continued his frank perusal. “What does Sylvain say about this?” she asked.

“That you’ll continue to lose ground without me. That I can’t hope to do better than you.”

“We’re so much merchandise to be sorted and priced according to quality.”

“I think I’ll enjoy marriage with you. I think I can make it tolerable for you.”

She could feel his gaze roaming her body, a physical, visceral sensation. The heat rising to her cheeks was more than embarrassment. She could imagine his hands caressing the same places, Henry’s hands, a man’s hands, marking her forever, the way Rafe’s hands had marked her.

Through the years she hadn’t allowed herself to think of the moments of euphoria that she had experienced in Rafe’s arms. With those memories came the bitterness of betrayal. She had hoped never to think of them again. Now, she could think of nothing else.

“You’re a woman who needs a man in her bed,” Henry said. “And I’ll fulfill that part of our contract with the greatest pleasure.”

She turned away, but she could still feel his gaze. Outside her window she could glimpse the blue of the lake. She felt his hand on hers, felt his fingers glide along the skin above her glove.

She did not pull away.