Iron Lace Part 8

"Angelle is exhausted." Marcelite held her closer.

Raphael protested. He wasn't tired; he wanted to stay awake and watch the storm. Now that he was no longer in it, it seemed the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.

Lucien turned his back on them. "You will go to bed."

Marcelite put her hand on Raphael's shoulder. He knew what the hand was telling him, but he didn't want to give in so easily. "But I could help, Maman. I could watch to see if the water rises."

"You will watch from outside if you don't do as I say," Lucien said.

"You're not my father!"

Lucien whirled, and Raphael could see he was furious. "Of that, at least, I'm certain! It's not my blood that's made you what you are."

Marcelite clenched Raphael's shoulder and pulled him toward the back of the house. "Raphael, you'll go to bed. Someone must stay with Angelle, or she'll be frightened."

Raphael wanted to shout that he was glad now that M'sieu Lucien wasn't his father, but his courage deserted him. If he fought with Lucien, it would hurt his mother.

There was a bed finer than any he had ever seen in one of the two back rooms. Marcelite set Angelle on it and covered her with a quilt that had been folded neatly at the foot. Reluctantly Raphael climbed up and lay beside her, and Marcelite arranged the quilt to cover him, too.

"Rest now."

"When will the storm end?" he asked.

"Soon."

"Will our house still be there tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Pray that it will be."

"Why is M'sieu Lucien so angry with me today?"

Marcelite was silent.

"Maman?"

"M'sieu Lucien is worried about the storm. It only seems he is angry."

Raphael didn't believe her, but he couldn't tell her so.

"Take care of Angelle," she said. "Keep her warm." She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then she kissed Angelle, who was already sleeping. "In the morning the sun will be s.h.i.+ning."

Outside the wind screamed, and through the window Raphael watched the skeletal branches of a chinaball tree claw the sky. He tried to imagine suns.h.i.+ne, but when his mother finally left and took the lantern, it was the storm he saw. Even when his eyes were closed.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

At home in New Orleans, Sunday was Aurore's favorite day, the only one when she was certain to be allowed to travel through the city. Because she was usually s.h.i.+elded from the ever-present threat of disease, the trip was her only view of life outside her house. Invariably she and her parents attended ma.s.s at the palatial Saint Louis Cathedral; then the family called at Grand-pere Antoine's, where they were served an early dinner.

In contrast, summer Sundays at the Krantz Place were just one more day filled with wonder and possibility. Time drifted on the scented breeze of summer. Those who didn't attend ma.s.s on the cheniere cheniere might observe a quiet hour or two in the morning, but the rest of the day was filled, like any other, with languid summer pursuits. might observe a quiet hour or two in the morning, but the rest of the day was filled, like any other, with languid summer pursuits.

There were often dances on Sunday night in the salon de danse, salon de danse, half of the dining room, converted for that purpose in the afternoon. For a child alert enough to notice, there were smoldering looks exchanged on the dance floor between the young dandies of Bachelor's Row and the Creole beauties of Widow's Row, temptingly housed for the summer in cottages that faced each other. Sometimes there were recitals, sometimes games. half of the dining room, converted for that purpose in the afternoon. For a child alert enough to notice, there were smoldering looks exchanged on the dance floor between the young dandies of Bachelor's Row and the Creole beauties of Widow's Row, temptingly housed for the summer in cottages that faced each other. Sometimes there were recitals, sometimes games.

On this Sunday, however, there were no entertainments. Dressed in lace-trimmed white pique, Aurore knelt with her mother and prayed for most of the morning. In the afternoon, as wind blew and rain fell, she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling while her mother napped. Her grandfather had arrived unexpectedly the previous afternoon, but she had seen little of him. Her father had gone sailing again, but not before there had been another argument with her mother.

Aurore's father had not returned by the time an early supper was served. Worried about both Lucien and the extraordinary pallor of her mother's face, Aurore picked at her food. No one spoke, but the wind whistled loudly, and sometimes the cottage shook with its power.

She went to bed early, glad to escape the dread in her mother's eyes. She fell asleep to the moaning of the wind. Once she awoke and thought she heard voices raised in anger, but she fell back asleep before she could tell whose they were.

The wind was much louder when Aurore felt arms lift her. It seemed she had just fallen asleep, and she didn't want to awaken. In her dreams, the house was quiet and she was safe.

The arms lifted her higher, and a tuneless whine chased away her dreams. She opened her eyes and stared into her mother's.

"We're going to the house of Ti' Boo's uncle. But you must be quiet," her mother whispered. "Grand-pere Antoine believes we'll be safer here. He's asleep, and he mustn't know."

Aurore couldn't remember ever being held by her mother this way. Sleepily she touched her mother's cheek. It was wet with tears. "Ti' Boo will help you dress," her mother said. "But you must be quiet. Do you understand?"

"What's that noise?" Aurore whispered.

"The wind."

"Why are we going to Nonc Clebert's house?"

"He's taking Ti' Boo, and he says we must go, too."

Aurore wanted to prolong the moment. Her mother's arms were wrapped around her, as if she would take good care of this daughter she so seldom noticed. Aurore looked into eyes that were the pale blue of her own, eyes that for once were focused on her. She nodded.

Her mother set Aurore on the floor. Only then did the child see Ti' Boo across the room at the armoire, gathering clothes for her. "I'll be back," her mother whispered.

Aurore watched her go. Ti' Boo came to her side, but didn't speak. She helped Aurore dress. Aurore could feel Ti' Boo's impatience in the clumsiness of her movements. Then, when Aurore was ready, Ti' Boo took her hand and led her into the main room of the cottage. Nonc Clebert was beside the door. There was no lantern, but the room was illuminated by lightning that flashed so steadily Aurore could read his worried expression.

She no longer felt brave. The courage her mother's embrace had given her died. She began to sniff.

Ti' Boo pinched her. She put her mouth close to Aurore's ear. "If you cry, Ro-Ro," she said, "I'll pinch you harder!"

Aurore was so astonished by the pain, she forgot to sniff again. "Good," Ti' Boo whispered. "You must be a brave girl."

Aurore's mother came into the room, fastening a long cloak and bringing Aurore's. Without a word, she wrapped and tied it tightly at Aurore's neck. Then she took her hand.

"Where are you going?"

Aurore saw Grand-pere Antoine in the doorway of the room that was usually her mother's. Her mother's hand trembled.

"I asked where you were going, Claire."

Aurore looked up and saw her mother's lips moving, but no sound emerged.

"You will go to bed," her grandfather said.

"No." Her mother gripped Aurore's hand harder. "No, I will not. I'm taking Aurore to Monsieur Boudreaux's house, Papa."

"You will not take the child anywhere."

"Come with us."

"You aren't well, Claire. You cannot make this decision."

"I've made it."

"I forbid it."

"You cannot." Claire clasped her daughter's hand tighter.

"Have you even glanced outside? If you go out now, you could be killed by a falling tree. I forbid it!"

"We should have gone hours ago, it's true. But you wouldn't allow it. Now we must take our chances, even if you don't approve." Claire began to move across the room, pulling Aurore beside her. She pa.s.sed as far from her father as she could.

"My house, it's on a ridge farther from the sh.o.r.e," Nonc Clebert said. He was a small man, but wiry and strong. Aurore had visited his home twice with Ti' Boo, and she knew how quickly he could move. "It's protected by trees. We will pa.s.s the storm safely there." He stepped forward, as if to block Antoine from grabbing his daughter. "You would be welcome."

"I forbid you to take them with you!"

"I'm afraid I must."

Aurore watched her grandfather take several steps forward. Nonc Clebert turned to his side and raised a fist. Her grandfather seemed to grow smaller and older. He came no closer.

"My husband isn't with me," her mother said to her grandfather. "I don't even know if he's safe. Will you deprive me of my father, too?"

"This is folly. I'll not leave this cottage, Claire. Krantz has a.s.sured me we'll be safe here, and Krantz is a gentleman. If you must go, at least leave Aurore with me. She's too small to survive out there."

"She is my daughter. She comes with me."

"Every moment we wait will make it more dangerous," Nonc Clebert said.

"Aurore!" Grand-pere Antoine held out his arms.

Aurore felt the pull between the two adults as surely as if each were holding a hand. Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She looked toward the door, where Ti' Boo stood, and saw sympathy in her eyes. Then Ti' Boo held out her arms. Aurore wrenched herself away from her mother and flew to her friend.

"Papa, please come," her mother begged. "Please!"

"You are as crazy as your husband believes," he said sternly, "and as bad a mother. Now I understand why G.o.d does not send you more children!"

Aurore's mother made a sound like the moan of the wind. Then, wrapping her cloak tightly around her, she joined her daughter. Nonc Clebert turned and opened the door.

Then they were inside the storm.

Lucien had convinced himself that the storm, though fierce, would blow over quickly. Although the water was rising steadily, he still refused to consider that he might be in danger. But by the time Marcelite returned to the front of the house, the wind had strengthened, too. Carrying the lantern in one hand and lifting her wet skirts with the other, she joined him at the window overlooking the gallery. "It's growing worse."

"Nonsense. You're just frightened of storms. And who could blame you, living as you do?"

She set the lantern down. "But now, with your help, all that will change."

He didn't touch her. "When I go home after the storm, I won't be back again." He listened to her sharp indrawn breath. Even now, with an opportunity to tell the truth, Lucien couldn't bring himself to admit that his father-in-law had given him an ultimatum. "Does that surprise you? Haven't you always known that when I realized what race your son was, I would leave you?"

"My son is a small boy, a good boy. There's nothing else to know."

"Your son is a quadroon! His father was a slave. His mother is a wh.o.r.e!"

She faced him. "And what does that make you, Lucien? You've fathered two children by this wh.o.r.e, have you not?"

He struck her shoulder, and she staggered backward before he hauled her closer again and shook her. Despair welled inside him when he realized he didn't want to let her go, even though she had denied nothing. Even though his future depended on it.

"I can have nothing more to do with you! Don't you understand?" he shouted. The words were for both of them.

She struck at his arms until he shoved her away, and she fell against the windowsill. "Do you think I'll let you forget us so easily? I can't raise your children alone! We struggle for every mouthful of food. We s.h.i.+ver in the winter and suffer storms in the summer! To feed your daughter I sell your little trinkets! But in the spring I'll have another child to consider. I must have your help, and if you don't give it willingly, I'll be forced to take it from you!"

"And how will you go about that?"

"I'll go to New Orleans, and I'll tell everyone I see that Lucien Le Danois is the father of my children, a father who allows them to starve!"

He felt the color drain from his cheeks. "You wouldn't!"

"Non? Don't you think so? I have nothing but my children. I am dead to my family. I have no place here. I will go to New Orleans, and every day you will find me outside your fine mansion on Esplanade. Your wife and I will know each other well!" Don't you think so? I have nothing but my children. I am dead to my family. I have no place here. I will go to New Orleans, and every day you will find me outside your fine mansion on Esplanade. Your wife and I will know each other well!"

He couldn't remember ever telling her where he lived. Yet she knew. She knew because she must have considered this possibility even before his announcement. He tried to curb his panic. "I never thought to leave you without money. I'll give you money. Some now, some later. You can find a better house. You won't have to suffer from storms like this one."

"Some now, some later?" She waved her hands to erase his words. "Do you think to buy me off so cheaply? A little here, a little there? Like an old family servant?"

"It's more than you deserve!"

"Perhaps so, but it is not what your children deserve, and for them, I will go to New Orleans!"

He saw his future in the unveiled fury in her eyes. He saw a life without stature, without money or any of the comforts it bought. He saw all the doors of the city closed tightly in his face. And, standing in the only door still open to him, he saw a woman who had not loved him enough to let him go.

"What must I pay for your silence?"

She was breathing fast, as if their fight had diminished the air in the room. She seemed to be planning as she spoke. "I no longer want to live at the mercy of every puff of wind. I want to take the children to New Orleans. I want money to take care of them and, later, enough to teach them a trade." She paused. "We would be near. You would always be welcome."

None of it was possible, yet he saw nothing to gain by telling her so. He couldn't give up all he possessed, and he knew that was exactly what he would be doing if he gave her what she demanded. Antoine would discover the truth before she and the children made the journey to the city.

"The storm makes us say these things." He moved closer to the window. "We're both uneasy. This isn't the time to talk."