Iron Lace Part 11

"Are you angry at me because my life's been different?"

She sighed, and some of the starch seemed to go out of her spine. "I'm not angry. You want the truth, I'm glad it was different for you. I'm glad it can be different for somebody. I just don't want you laughing at me, Phillip. I don't want you laughing at what I'm trying to do here, 'cause what I'm doing's important. These kids have a right to know who they are. Until they've got a past, they've got no future."

He stood and crossed to Belinda. The fabric of her robe was as fine as silk, and he savored it as he ran his fingertips up her arms. "They ought to be teaching African history in schools. You shouldn't have to be doing it here, in your own home. But I'm glad you are."

She tossed her head. "You think there's any chance the school board would listen and let me teach it where it belongs? I got in trouble last week for playing jazz records while my babies were taking their rest time."

"You're trying to change the world. Do you really think anybody who's in charge now is going to like it?"

"Then you don't think this is silly?"

Belinda seemed oddly vulnerable at that moment. She was a woman of supreme confidence, but Phillip saw just how much his approval meant to her. "That's the last word I'd use." His hands slid to her shoulders, then to her neck. He cupped her face and kissed her.

She relaxed against him one inch at a time. Belinda was nearly thirty, and as independent as he was. Sometimes he thought it was a miracle that they had found each other. They were two souls who had never expected to find soul mates, yet here they were in each other's arms, with more between them than merely the promise of s.e.xual fulfillment.

He understood the true beauty of the African robe when it pooled at her feet after only a little coaxing. His clothing was more difficult to remove, but he and Belinda proved themselves up to the challenge. Belinda wasn't a woman to be scooped off her feet and carried to bed. She led him there, and the movements of her slender, graceful body were a promise of the pleasure that was to come.

Their lovemaking had often been hot and hurried. Today it was a languid exploration of the curve of a breast, the taut muscles of a thigh, the levels of elation that a man and a woman could reach before they exploded in a frenzy of satisfaction.

When he held her tightly against him afterward, he thought about the seed he had spilled inside her, seed that would not fall on fertile ground since, as always, she had taken precautions. For the first time in his life, he wondered what it would be like to father a child.

"You're awful quiet," she said.

The words were not an indictment. Belinda seemed to have no expectations of him. She was not a woman with hidden agendas. Phillip knew she was merely pointing out that if he wanted to talk, she was ready to listen.

He gathered her a little closer. The room was warm enough, but he didn't want to lose the intimacy of their lovemaking. "Do you want children of your own? You're so good with other people's."

"Not if it means raising them by myself."

"I guess you've seen a lot of that."

Her family had been poor, her education and independence hard-won. He knew Belinda spoke from experience and close observation.

"I used to think I wouldn't want them at all," she said. "Why should I bring a child into a world where he's a second-cla.s.s citizen?"

"No child of yours would be anything less than first-cla.s.s."

"What about you? Do you want children?"

"I don't live the kind of life where having them makes any sense."

She didn't question him further. She had never pushed him toward commitment. She lay relaxed and replete beside him, the give-and-take of her breath warm against his shoulder.

The talk of children made him think about something she had said earlier. Belinda believed that the girls she taught wouldn't have a real future unless they understood their past. His thoughts slid to Aurore Gerritsen, and he wondered if that was part of the reason she was telling him her story.

But by establishing the facts of her past, just whose future was Mrs. Gerritsen trying to a.s.sure? Her own? At her age, that seemed like an exercise in futility. Her son's? From what he knew about Ferris Gerritsen, it seemed unlikely.

"My session with Aurore Gerritsen didn't go the way I expected it to," he said after a while.

"No?"

He realized that he wanted to tell her what he'd heard. It was a weight in his chest that talking might ease. "Her story is nothing like I expected."

She pushed herself aloft so that she could see his face. "What kind of story is it?"

Phillip found himself repeating what he'd learned, drawing the picture of those few days in 1893, much the way Mrs. Gerritsen had. He had been surprised by the richness of detail. At first he had wondered if this was just a cla.s.sic case of an old woman with a remarkable long-term memory. He had seen that before. People who couldn't remember what they'd had for lunch could still tell you every detail of the dress or suit they'd worn to a dance sixty years ago.

But as Mrs. Gerritsen continued, he had realized that the detail was forever imprinted in her mind because the story, even the parts of it that had happened to others, was so tragic. He had interviewed World War II veterans who remembered every shot that had been fired at them more than twenty years before, every blade of gra.s.s on the battlefield, every tragic moment their comrades had endured, and this was much the same.

Belinda was silent for some time after he finished. "Why?" she said at last. "Why did she tell you?"

"I have no idea."

"None?"

"I can only guess that she's trying to right a wrong. How she's going to do it is still a mystery to me. She's going to use this ma.n.u.script somehow, when it's finished."

"But why you? Why did she ask you to be the one to write it?"

"Guilt, I think. Her father cut that woman and her children loose and sent them to die in the storm primarily because of Raphael's race. That's what it all boiled down to. Maybe Mrs. Gerritsen likes the irony of telling a black man. Maybe she thinks some sort of justice has been done now."

"And that was all she told you?"

"More tomorrow." He turned to his side and smoothed her hair. He loved the way it felt, like velvet against her beautifully shaped head. "You didn't mind me telling you?"

"Mind?" She seemed perplexed.

He realized how seldom he had shared his work or any other part of himself with a woman-so seldom that afterward he'd had to seek rea.s.surance. But inside, where it really mattered, he felt cleansed.

He wondered what it would feel like to lie here beside her when they were old, sharing the details of their days. "Thanks for listening," he said.

"I like listening to you."

And since she was a woman who never lied, he had to believe her.

Aurore had chosen the library for her second session with Phillip. The day was cloudy, and the view from the morning room was dismal. She'd had a small fire laid in the fireplace and the pale green drapes drawn to shut out the gloom. The Sheraton writing table in the corner had been readied for him.

They exchanged greetings when he arrived, and chatted comfortably as he set up his tape recorder.

"I think I'd rather sit over there," he said, pointing to the love seat beside the sofa where she'd made herself comfortable. I don't need a desk to take notes."

"That's fine." She was secretly pleased. She had enjoyed watching Phillip closely yesterday. He maintained a nearly impa.s.sive expression, but his eyes weren't as well schooled as he might like.

"I have some questions about what you told me yesterday," he said, after he had settled himself on the love seat.

"I a.s.sumed you would."

"I'll start with the obvious. How did you discover what your father had done?"

"It will be easier for me if I take it all in order."

"But you will get to that?"

"I'll get to everything. Eventually. If I ramble too much...be patient."

He laughed. She liked the sound of it so much that she wished he would do it again.

He flipped through his notes. "Then why don't you tell me what happened to you that night. Did you make it to Nonc Clebert's house?"

"Yes. We made it, but my mother miscarried during the height of the storm. The cabin at the Krantz Place where my grandfather had remained collapsed, and Grand-pere was killed. We would have died, as well, had we stayed."

"I'm sorry." He wrote for a moment; then he looked up. "Is everything you've told me so far to be included in this ma.n.u.script? Is this something you really want your son and grandchild to know, or has it been background material? Something designed to show me the climate you grew up in?"

"It's to be included. Every bit of it. You'll see just why."

"All right." He looked down at his notes, riffling through them again, then up at her again. "It doesn't matter what I ask you, does it? You're going to tell this in your own way and time."

"You already know me well."

"Then shall we get to the next installment?"

She wished that he was less astute and that there had been more questions to cushion the moment when she had to begin again. She hadn't slept well last night after relating the story of the hurricane to him. She was afraid she was never going to sleep well again.

"I suppose the next part of this begins about twelve years later. Ti' Boo and I remained friends, you see, and I journeyed down Bayou Lafourche to see her married." Aurore closed her eyes, and she could almost see the densely shadowed bayou, with its solemn stretches of waving gra.s.ses and majestic birds, its vast acreages of sugarcane. She could smell the sickly sweet scent of boiling sugar that still lingered in the air at the end of grinding season, hear the shouts from plantation and mill landings that had changed little since the Civil War.

She wished she were there again, and that she had her life to live over.

CHAPTER TEN.

Granted, it was odd for the heiress to one of New Orleans's finest steamship lines to travel to the bayou country on a caboteur, caboteur, a peddler's boat. Odder still was the way Aurore had paid her fare. a peddler's boat. Odder still was the way Aurore had paid her fare.

The brooch in the captain's vest pocket had once belonged to Aurore's Tante Lydia, a woman who so resembled Aurore's father that feminine adornment of any sort had only emphasized the square jut of her jaw and the faint mustache brushing her perpetually clamped lips. Lydia had met her death two years ago, while crossing a Vieux Carre street. Sometimes a stiff neck and unswerving gaze were detriments, particularly when one of the new electric trolleys was only yards away.

Aurore had been ridding herself of her aunt's jewelry since the day she inherited it. Lucien saw to Aurore's needs. She had more clothes than she could fit into multiple armoires, more hats than she could wear in a month. But she did not have money to spend. Money, according to Lucien, was unnecessary for a young woman of good family. A Creole lady had only to ask for what she wanted-prettily, of course-and she would be rewarded with everything that was truly good for her.

The possibility that not having money could make it a consuming pa.s.sion had never occurred to Lucien. Women in his social sphere had no consuming pa.s.sions. They existed to embellish the lives of men. Since Aurore had never had the courage to openly dispute his views, she simply sold whatever she knew he wouldn't miss, or, as in the case of the captain of the merchant boat, she bartered. A brooch, in exchange for pa.s.sage to and from Ti' Boo's home on Bayou Lafourche, hadn't seemed extravagant.

Now, as the levees glided slowly by, she leaned against the steamer's rail and envisioned the days to come.

At long last, Ti' Boo was getting married. At twenty-four, Ti' Boo had believed herself to be an old maid, une vielle fille. une vielle fille. At the more proper age of eighteen, there had been an offer for her hand, but the boy had been fat and lazy, and Ti' Boo, envisioning a life of servitude, had refused him. Since then, there had been no more offers or opportunities to w.a.n.gle them. Ti' Boo's mother had taken ill, and her care had fallen to Ti' Boo. At the more proper age of eighteen, there had been an offer for her hand, but the boy had been fat and lazy, and Ti' Boo, envisioning a life of servitude, had refused him. Since then, there had been no more offers or opportunities to w.a.n.gle them. Ti' Boo's mother had taken ill, and her care had fallen to Ti' Boo.

Now Ti' Boo's mother was stronger, and Ti' Boo's sisters were older. The widower Jules Guilbeau, a man with two small sons and enough land along the bayou to plant a little sugarcane and a little cotton, wanted Ti' Boo as his wife. And, despite the ten-year difference in their ages, Ti' Boo had agreed to marry him.

Aurore knew all this from Ti' Boo's letters. She had last seen Ti' Boo when she herself was only eleven and Ti' Boo a grown-up seventeen. Lucien had been on one of his many trips abroad, and Tante Lydia, who had moved into the house on Esplanade some years before to care for Aurore, had been away for the afternoon.

Perhaps if they had been at home, they would have discouraged Ti' Boo from visiting. The Acadian girl was, after all, nothing more than an unfortunate reminder of a summer Lucien wanted to forget. But Aurore had been the one to answer the door, and she had secretly treasured the afternoon.

Ti' Boo hadn't returned to New Orleans, but after that day, the two girls had corresponded. Their first letters had been carefully polite; then, later, as their confidence increased, the letters had turned emotional, filled with secret fears and longings. Over the years, Aurore and Ti' Boo had grown from child and nursemaid into true friends.

Lucien had been only peripherally aware of their correspondence. A woman's good breeding was most apparent in the precision of her penmanship and in her ability to gracefully turn a phrase. He encouraged Aurore to diligently practice the skills that would hasten her ascent into society. But when, after years of letters, Aurore asked permission to attend Ti' Boo's wedding, he had been astonished.

"A wedding in the bayous?" Lucien had risen from his favorite chair in the parlor, fingering the watch chain that stretched to his pocket. "You can't mean you want to do more than send a small gift to Terese?"

"I'd like to attend." Aurore had not fidgeted. At seventeen, she knew the value of standing perfectly still when encountering her father. In many ways, Lucien was a mystery to her, but there was nothing mysterious about his ability to size up weakness. She didn't want to fuel the fires of a tirade.

"But why?"

She gave the answer she had carefully rehea.r.s.ed. "I think a change would do me good. A little air, a little sunshine, and I'll be more eager for the next round of parties."

"There are other, better ways to take fresh air."

"But this would truly get me away from everything. Cleo could accompany me on the steamer, and once I'm there I'll be thoroughly chaperoned. Ti' Boo's family is very old-fashioned." She hazarded a smile. "The Acadians guard their daughters almost as closely as you guard yours."

"You find my devotion humorous?"

Aurore found nothing about her father humorous, but she would not demean him, as he had so often demeaned her. She was tied to Lucien by a myriad of emotions; that she didn't understand him detracted not at all from those feelings.

"I'm only trying to rea.s.sure you," she said. "I'll be well looked after, and when I return, I'll have stories to amuse you."

But the lure of stories had not been strong enough for Lucien to give his permission. The Acadians were peasants, the bayous mosquito-ridden and teeming with dangerous reptilian life. When she pointed out that years ago she had spent entire summers in south Louisiana, his lips had tightened to a parody of the departed Lydia's. The argument had been lost.

Now she was on her way to Ti' Boo's wedding, despite the fact that the trip had been forbidden. Lucien was on business in New York and Minnesota, and Cleo, the newest of a long line of housekeepers, had proved susceptible to bribery. If all went as planned, Aurore would arrive back in New Orleans before her father. If not, she would have to accept the consequences. There was little she truly wanted that Lucien could deny her as punishment. She only rarely had his attention, and never his love. How could he withdraw what he had never given her?

"Mademoiselle Le Danois?"

Aurore turned at the sound of the captain's voice. As New Orleans waltzed gracefully into the twentieth century, customs had changed. Now English was the language of commerce and French was the garnish. Aurore dreamed in a mixture of both, but she had grown accustomed to speaking English. The people of the bayous, like the captain, who was still a comparatively young man, had not yet made that adjustment.

She answered in French. "Are we almost there?"

He pulled at his mustache. "It shouldn't be much longer. The hyacinths make this trip slower each time I take it. Soon I'll be riding a mule through the middle of the bayou."

"How can anything so lovely be such a trial?"

His expression was frankly admiring. "To the contrary, anything lovely is always a trial, as I suspect your father has already learned."

She turned back to the water. Hyacinths, their lavender flowers stretching toward the sunlight, blanketed the water along the bayou's banks. They were invaders from the Orient, set free decades before by admirers who had never guessed the damage they might do. "Do you know my father, Captain Barker?"

"I know of him."