CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
S he was not to tell Nicolette who she really was.
Aurore folded the letter from Rafe and gazed around the room, searching for a hiding place. After the letter arrived that morning, she had slipped it under her mattress. Her bedroom was decorated sparingly with cypress furniture made by Louisiana artisans of the early nineteenth century. But none of the sleek inlaid armoires or cabinets was a safe place for secrets.
A small fire burned on the hearth to steal the chill from the November air. As the United States celebrated the end of the war, the deadly Spanish influenza had arrived. Aurore kept the house warm, just as she diligently kept Hugh out of crowds and away from Henry, who went to the riverfront every day. Epidemics of old had often arrived on foreign ships; Aurore was frightened that the flu might, too.
Silently she repeated the contents of the letter. On Friday, Rafe and Nicolette would wait for her in an apartment above a shop he owned in the Vieux Carré. The old woman to whom he rented it would be away, and she had agreed to let Rafe use it. Aurore was not to tell Nicolette who she was.
How could Rafe believe that she would ever have the courage?
She went to the fireplace, where she had known since receiving the letter that she would have to consign it. She didn’t want to burn it. Even now she could see Rafe’s handwriting, a bold scrawl that was so like the man. They had created a child together, yet she had nothing of him.
Nothing was left but ashes on the hearth when she heard the door open behind her. Without turning, she recognized the footsteps crossing the room. She rubbed her hands together as if she had been warming them. “We left supper for you, Henry. Sally roasted a hen, and there are potato croquettes and turnip tops, I think.”
She turned before he could reach her. She could protect herself best if she knew what to expect. “I’m sorry I ate without you. Would you like me to come sit with you?”
“Such an accommodating woman.”
“I try to be.” She smiled the cool, inscrutable smile she saved just for him. She saw that he had been drinking, though it might not have been apparent to anyone else. He had a large capacity for whiskey, which usually seemed to intensify his mood. But she had never blamed any of Henry’s failings on alcohol.
“Who else do you accommodate, Rory?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who else?”
She searched for an answer. “I try to please Hugh, but not spoil him. I try to be as pleasant as possible in business dealings….”
“And Rafe Cantrelle? Do you accommodate him, too?”
She was careful not to show her alarm. She lowered her voice. “Please. That was a long time ago…before we were married. Are you going to punish me forever for something that happened before we met?”
He moved so swiftly she didn’t have time to retreat. He wrapped his fingers around her neck, the heel of his hand pressed tightly against her throat. “Then let’s talk about Grand Isle.”
She tried to get away but couldn’t. He held her while she struggled. “Let go of me!” she gasped.
He pressed his hand against her throat until she could barely breathe. She struggled more, but the harder she tried to get away from him, the harder he pressed. Finally she made herself go limp, and he relaxed his hand until air rushed back into her lungs.
“Tell me about Grand Isle.”
She took a deep breath, then another. The room spun. “There’s nothing to tell. I went there for the dedication of the church. I…I gave a donation in my mother’s name after she died. As a memorial. That’s all.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to be angry. It was my money, but I thought you might disapprove.”
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 slobbering 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 Carré, 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. “Hello.”
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 cushions. 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?”
“She…would have adored you.”
“What did she look like?”
Aurore hesitated. “How do you imagine her?”
“Tall. Bea-ut-iful. With one of those smiles like the ladies in the moving pictures. You know, like this?” She stretched her mouth wide. “Like the Gish sisters.”
Aurore smiled, too. “That’s a very good description.”
“I don’t know if I want to be in the movies or just sing.”
“Will you sing for me now?”
Rafe had told Aurore that Nicolette never hesitated to sing when asked. Music was her greatest joy, as comforting as his arms. But now she seemed suddenly shy.
“Please?” Aurore asked.
Nicolette stood reluctantly. “I sing the blues sometimes. Do you like the blues?”
“They make me cry.”
“Well, if you cry, that means I sang them right.”
“Then go ahead.”
“I know some funny songs that make people laugh. Maybe I should sing one of those.”
Aurore realized that the child had sensed her sadness. “Sing what you want to. Anything that seems right to you,” she said softly, touching Nicolette’s hand.
“I wish Clarence was here. When he plays for me, I don’t even have to think about the words.” Nicolette closed her eyes and started into one of Aurore’s own favorites, “Saint Louis Blues.” As she gathered confidence, she sang a little louder.
By the time Nicolette opened her eyes, Aurore was crying and Rafe had returned.
“Oh, Nicolette.” Aurore wiped her eyes.
“I guess I sang it right.”
Aurore held out her arms, and Nicolette went into them shyly. Aurore inhaled the scent of talcum powder. She wanted to hold Nicolette this way forever, to cushion and protect her. She would have fought a hundred battles to keep Nicolette against her. Nicolette put her arms around her neck and hugged her back.
Rafe spoke. “Mrs. Friloux has to go now, Nicolette.”
Aurore made a sound of protest, but she felt Nicolette stir against her. In a moment she would be gone.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” Nicolette said. “I’m glad you liked my song.”
Aurore put her hands on Nicolette’s shoulders and held her away so that she could see her. “I brought you a gift, but your father has to agree to let you have it.”
“Of course,” Rafe said.
Sadness was like a fog in the room. It seemed to surround and yet separate them all. Rafe’s face was lined with tension, and Nicolette looked as if she wanted to go home.
Aurore pulled a small box from a soft leather bag that was the same pale gray as the dress she was wearing. “Will you open it now?”
Nicolette nodded, glad, perhaps, to have something to do. Inside the box was a gold locket. She held it up and swung it slowly back and forth. “You took it away from me,” she said, turning again to her father. “I remember.”
“I was wrong to take it.”
“May I have it now, then?”
“Yes.”
“Open it,” the lady said.
Nicolette didn’t struggle. She pressed the clasp and stared with interest as the two halves parted. Inside, cut to fit, was a small photograph of Aurore.
“To remember me,” Aurore said.
“Thank you.” Nicolette appeared to be thinking about what to say next. “I’ll keep it always,” she added with a grin, as if she were delighted that, for once, her manners hadn’t failed her. She slipped the locket over her head. It fell to the middle of her chest.
“I’ll walk you downstairs,” Rafe told Aurore. “Nicolette, stay here.”
“Do I have to?” Nicolette glanced up at him again and changed her mind when she saw his expression. “Okay.”
Aurore kissed her on the cheek. Nicolette hesitated; then she returned the kiss. Aurore stood and touched Nicolette one last time. Just a light pat on the shoulder. Then she crossed the room, and without another look she went out the door with Rafe just behind her.
Aurore stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “When will you leave?”
Rafe watched her. She hadn’t looked at him as she spoke, and she hadn’t said anything about her visit with their daughter. Rafe wanted more, and knew he should have had less. “In the next day or two.”
“It was easier not knowing how perfect she really is.” Her voice caught. “It was easier hating you.”
“Neither of us was born for easier.”
“You could write me through my attorney, Spencer St. Amant.”
“I won’t.”
Her sigh became a moan, a downward spiral of misery. “Rafe.”
He had promised himself that he wouldn’t touch her again. Their lives were already so hideously intertwined. He pulled her into his arms, despite everything he had vowed. They would pay for this as they would pay for everything else.
She locked her arms behind his head and returned his kiss with the same desperation that rushed through him. There were noises from the street and from the shop she had entered to reach the apartment. He pressed her harder against him, as if he could absorb her into his soul and take her with him.
He was the one who finally broke free. He stared at her in the dim light and saw what he had missed before. “Gerritsen beat you.”
She was crying. “No. I fell.”
“What does he know?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Please, don’t worry.”
He tilted her chin and stared at her. She looked away. “It’s come to this, hasn’t it? I can’t protect you. My very existence is a threat to you.”
“He only knows we met on the isle, Rafe, but I told him you were leaving town. I told him we would never see each other again. I think he believed me.”
“Does he know—?”
“No. I’m sure he doesn’t suspect we were lovers.”
“He suspects.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re leaving. We’ll both be safe.”
He was filled with rage. He had never felt less like a man. Now he knew exactly how he had been branded by his father’s blood. Men like his father had died for so much less than loving and protecting their women.
“I’ll be with you wherever you go,” she said. She touched his cheeks. She was still crying. “I love you. I’ll never love anyone else.”
He couldn’t speak. He turned away; then he turned back. He pulled an envelope from the pocket of his coat. She took it without a word. Inside was his favorite photograph of Nicolette. It captured everything their daughter was.
She held the photograph to her chest. He stared at her and saw the whole woman, her intolerance, her cowardice, as well as all the things he had loved too well. He knew he would remember her this way. He would never forget.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t look back. He went into the apartment to take his daughter home.