June 1862: New Orleans
On a balmy summer evening, distinguished guests gathered at Oak Alley. Claude Cartwright’s sardonic gleam greeted each guest, seating each in his elegant well-lit double lounge.
A little after 6:00 pm, Emile and Louis de Villiere’s coach sauntered in, and Claude proffered his hand to assist the ladies alight. Louise took an instant dislike to Claude’s pseudo-sophistication.
Pooh! A blockader who sided with the union.
She chose to ignore him, until his words rang ominously.
“ Gentlemen, we exchange pleasantries today! No debates over the death toll, nor over the ongoing investigation of Gallatin Street murders. This supper is in the honour of….”
A murmur filled the mahogany furnished southern mansion. “Ladies and gentlemen hear, hear! We celebrate the surprise wedding of 1862. Emile de Villiere is now my wife!”
Claude towered over her, shaking her out of her reverie. His tanned cheeks dimpled and tawny eyes crinkled into a merry smile, as he raised a toast, and kissed her full on her lips. “Cheers to Madame Emile Cartwright!”
Clapping Claude’s shoulder Musson exclaimed “A toast to your future! Too sudden and swift, eh Cartwright!
Holding a shaken Emile tightly, Claude steered her through the crowd, at once whispering and smiling, “It's over dear, do not worry your head over it!”
Was this gesture lost to the fifty odd absolutely unperturbed folks present.
A twenty-two year old Emile was delirious: the deafening roar of applause, a celebration after New Orleans was seceded by the Union and, her mother’s madder than a wet hen expression!
Louise's catechizing eyes glowered deep into Emile’s. Blood drained from her cheeks- now a shade of warmer magnolia.
Her heart cringed, she was lost to a battle between the mind and heart.
Yet, Emile gathered her wits, to thank all invitees who'd grace their table: “What a dark horse Emile is mum!” Mr. Lafayette guffawed, raising a toast to Louise.
A disoriented Louise coughed out madeira, half arising from her chair. All eyes locked on Louise: the rustling sound her crisp taffeta jade gown made as she half arose to protest Claude's declaration. And then her goblet slipped; tinkling and shattering. How she would have loved to bark down Lafayette’s throat, Making a silk purse outta sow’s ear, eh! but Louise resisted.
Emile’s pleading eyes pushed her back into the seat allotted.
A frozen Louise accepted the greetings! Claude chuckled, murmuring: “Methinks something sinister is going on in senior de Villiere's mind.”
Philipe, Claude's attendant broke the atmosphere fraught with tension by announcing supper. As the liveried servants brought the first course: Almond Veal broth with Veal Olives, and Endive Cheese dressed Salad.
Then, the next course: Neck of Venison, Chicken Bolognese, Fish, Sweet Breads and Jellies.
Emile nibbled at her food, her ears were keen on catching the titbits exchanged between Claude and Philipe.
As the servants cleared platters, Philipe announced L’Entreé: the main course: Stuffed Lamb Hearts Braised in White Wine and Fresh Herbs. “We present our chef’s special tonight.“
Emile’s plate remained untouched, albeit Claude nudged her. "Take a bite."
As he looked up he was taken aback to see his mother-in-law’s blazing eyes fixed on them.
******
If only a full blooded man was by her side she'd have wreaked vengeance.
By Jove! Jerry could have saved them from disrepute, Emile was betrothed to him. Where was Jerry?
Where was Pierce? Undoubtedly he was drunk like a fish, sipping liquor with the gentry of yesterday!
Ah she'd get even with Claude all right! Oh yes! She vowed she'd send him back to where he belonged, and make it one of his most memorable journeys.
But, the time to plot revenge was later, let people think she had given her daughter away gracefully and was downing the celebratory cup! After the meal she embraced them coldly, pecking their cheeks perfunctorily.
She shrunk at each gesture, putting up a sane front, she smiled politely.
When Louise de Villiere made up her mind, none dared confront her: Claude was no better than Jean Laffite: a privateer, blockading goods, seizing cargo.
What does one expect from the son of a tobacco bride. Storyville and Gallatin Street in New Orleans were filled with his ilk, borne by the casquette girls, or daughters of sin. She rued that he descended from orphaned girls who traded themselves for a pack of tobacco leaves: Francis Broadbottom, Jane Dier, or Audry Hoare!
And that such a woman's lowly seed had the gall to carry off an Ernest deVilleré’s heiress as a trophy! An upstart marrying into one of finest bloodlines, without the consent of parents, high cotton indeed!
A bitter taste had filled her mouth, and her forehead beaded with perspiration. With a crisp lace hanky, she gently mopped her forehead, schooling her expression to show no more than a tight smile of approval.
******
That night an incensed Louise tossed, mulling over the event :
“ Betrayal, both father and daughter had it in their blood! Pooh!
Every other night, a young Louise had tucked a befuddled Pierce into bed as he beckoned Belle passionately. Pierce could never meet her eyes the next morning, there was a tinge of remorse, but in Emile’s eyes there had been none!
A shrewd Louise, had asked the gentle Ursuline Mother Superior to bless an eighteen-year-old Emile, a few years ago.
“Ah child! Follow his ways of piety, be not like those wretched daughters of sin who are led astray by the need for fame, flesh and fortune.”
Her castigating sermon on righteousness had done what Louise had failed to do all these years. The guilt and dread of fire and brimstone shook Pierce. He stopped frequenting the infamous quarters.
Yesterday’s announcement had come like a thunderclap, leaving Louise no ruse, only deep regret, mortification, and ignominy.
What answer would she give her family and friends- Aunt Marie, Angelique, and Genevieve?
That Emile had dreaded this ball she had known, but she had overlooked this planned deceit! Then, she had smiled at Emile's lady-like demeanour, feigning surprise to see her daughter's beet-red cheeks, in the bridal russet taffeta.
Fancy this happening, the de Villeré name in muck!
*******
A couple of weeks went by at the de Villiere plantation. Each day Louise's mind was a maze of thoughts. Guilt’s sharp edge pierced deeper, creating a wound that turned into an abscess.
She shut herself into loneliness questioning each of her actions. In the silence of her quarters, nothing gave her solace, except turning the rosary beads. A wall she built around herself, praying fervently that she find answers to the million questions that whizzed through her troubled mind.
Hadn't she raised Emile like a decent girl? Hadn't she designed each dress with the best homespun linen and cotton, trimmings of Chantilly and bobbin laces? Hadn't she constantly schooled a bold Emile into a becoming lady-like? Hadn't she sought out the most prized young man, Jerry Beaumont, for her daughter? Hadn't she instilled loyalty into Emile?
When Peter had announced: “Maam, Sir: Missie Emile de Villieré” Louise had thought, It’s time Emile be married to Jerry, and become a part of the old Beaumont family. Marriages were just a means to inherit fortune. Fortune must pass into the hand of the affluent, not the have-nots.
********
A couple of months later Nanny gave a bundle of strange letters. Louise was shocked. All this while she had reflected over her disowned daughter’s betrayal! Tush! Young women have no mind of their own!
Jerry had disappeared alright! With all eligible bachelors enlisting, she thought no news was good news.
Strangely, this series of letters addressed to Emile's friend, Dominique, detailed a row between Jerry and Emile three fortnights before Claude announced their wedding.
In these letters Emile confessed her predicament, the last letter was the most disturbing:
“My dear Dominique,
I hope you will trust my decision. In Claude I find a friend who understands why I snub Jerry's overtures. I stand disgusted by Jerry’s insobriety and lasciviousness.
Whenever I see Jerry, a revulsion shakes me: he has tried every method to get me into bed. Whether by embracing his black slave girls, Nell, Liza, and Eloise in front of me or dangling that scarlet woman, the brazen redhead Bricktop Jackson as bait.
Finally, I give up on my womanly duty when I see I can never satisfy a man who frequents Gallatin Street or any New Orleans corner with a woman every night.
On the fifth of May when he was stabbed by Bricktop, I'd threatened to spill the beans.
Not a word of apology from his lips. Instead, in spite he bragged: “I'll get even, after marriage, let me bed you! And then you go to Gallatin Street to be smoothened by Delia Swift. In the first week of June we enter wedlock! Then, woman, you are to be given in exchange for Bricktop. Rising Sun has demanded a fatal combination in exchange for Bricktop- an heiress with beauty and brains, and you, Emile I have vouched!"
Dominique, then my wretched heart broke into a million shards. And I decided to confide in Claude. And he vowed: I'd never see Jerry again. Like a shadow, he and his men trailed him throughout May. In June, Philipe brought the news that an inflamed Jerry was clubbed to death by Bricktop in a street brawl. Finally, as a free woman I decide to accept Claude.
Yours,
Emile