"They will allow it over my dead body!"
The ferocity of Beau LaConte's angry declaration, accompanied by flailing of arms that set the carriage to wobbling, made me take fright. The LaContes had been our Mississippi delta neighbors for more than a century, but I should have known better than accept his offer for transport to the Hallow's Eve masked ball at the Cabildo. It wasn't just that I couldn't fully trust myself around Beau. It also was because the LaContes were sadly inbred and had not taken to the recent shame at all well. In fact, all legitimate LaContes but Beau had promptly died from embarrassment upon hearing of General Lee's surrender. And Beau showed no signs of adjusting to the new realities either.
"Careful, neighbor," I said, laying a soothing hand on his arm. "You'll split that rich brocade of your French Court costume and be the talk of the town." Indeed, that might very well be true. In his vanity, Beau, must have literally been sewn into that costume of his. I could discern every curve and crevice of his finely sculpted body. I would be suspicious that he had invited me to share his carriage simply to make me pine for him—if I had any notion that he was aware of anyone but himself to the extent of realizing that I did, indeed, pine for him and had done so since we were lads.
"Anyway, it's inevitable, Beau. We lost, and they are in control now. They have the government in their hands; there is no denying them entry to our masked balls. By the Christmas Ball they will be in control of the governing committee for that as well."
"Over my dead body," Beau cried out again, setting the coach to rocking again. In response to this, he took his silver-headed cane and pounded on the roof of the carriage. "More care up there, I say. A smoother ride or you won't be driving me ever again."
I had a twinge of regret for poor little Dexter at the reins atop the carriage. He'd been out there in the elements for the two-hour cold and clammy ride along the banks of the lower Mississippi to New Orleans. And I had seen how poorly clad he was from the beginning. He'd catch his death of cold, surely. But Beau wouldn't care. He didn't recognize the word "emancipation," let alone accept that it had actually been put into force. And his people had no place else to go other than the plantation. It wasn't as if they could suddenly learn new trades and how to meet life as free men. But here we were on Chartres St. and entering the Faubourg Marigny district. Within minutes we'd be pulling past St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square and arriving at the ball, one of the last vestiges of gaiety left in this city mourning the stripping away of its once-grand way of life.
I made one last stab. "We will not be alone at the ball, Beau. You must try not to make a scene. We must adjust. It's only right."
"Only right?" Beau blustered as the carriage drew up to the torchlit entry of the government building-turned ballroom for the evening. "I'll never adjust to this. I'll have nothing to do with them. Ever. My family has existed completely apart from them for a hundred and fifty years and will continue to do so."
Apart from them, I thought bitterly. Everything your family has was built on their backs. And then, as the carriage door opened, Dexter was there, folding the steps down and standing close by, hands at ready to help Beau out of the carriage. But he was brushed aside without a look from Beau, and I saw a grimace flash across Dexter's face. Beau had stepped on his foot—without realizing or caring that he had done so.
I couldn't help myself. I laughed. A laugh deep in my throat, more in bitterness than in mirth. But it wasn't because Beau had stepped on Dexter's foot. It was something entirely different.
"What's so funny?" Beau grumbled, pressing out the few creases in his tight, silken breeches that had the audacity to mar the perfection of his persona.
"Oh, nothing. It's nothing, Beau," I said, as I took his arm and mounted the stairs toward the flaming chandeliers and orchestra music beyond the thick stuccoed walls of the Cabildo. But it wasn't "nothing." It was sheer irony. Anyone seeing Beau and Dexter standing side by side at the carriage door could see it in an instant. But Beau would never see it, because he would never look straight at Dexter. Different colors and the heavily muscled Beau hulked over the slight, willowy Dexter. But anyone with eyes to see could see the close family resemblance—they were cousins if not brothers.
In the light of the main ballroom, Beau stood out in his magnificence. I stayed beside him as best I could. Trying not to be obvious, but aching for him. Now more than ever before; I could not tear my eyes away from the splendor of his body in that tight silken costume. But he was blind to my worship—which was just as well. I knew I never would have him.
As I gazed intently at him, I saw his eyes flash and his nostrils flare up. Following his line of sight, I saw her—and I drew in my breath. She had appeared at the top of the staircase and stood there, knowing that all eyes were slowly being drawn to her and the cacophony of boisterous conversation throughout the room was bubbling down to gossipy whispers behind gloved hands and fans. The whiteness of her flowing, low-cut gown contrasted sharply with the milk-chocolate of her lustrous skin. She was so slight and willowy that she must not have been much over eighteen, but she held herself like a queen, and she obviously knew exactly what effect she was having on the room—both effects. The tone of her skin revealed that she was a mulatto, first generation of a mixed white and black coupling, and never before had a mulatto appeared at the Hallow's Eve Ball. Octorons, those with scant one-eighth black blood, yes, of course; the premier courtesans of the city were Octorons. But never a mulatto. But what also was having this breathtaking effect on all in attendance was her beauty and her carriage. She wasn't just attending the ball; she was reigning over the ball. She was making a statement—no doubt on purpose—that a new era had arrived.
Surely I knew who she was; even now the quickly evolving social center of the city wasn't that large that she should be a total cipher to me. But this was a masked ball, and she was wearing an elaborate white feathered mask that hid all features of her face except for those ruby-red lips and those incongruous hazel eyes.
I turned to see that another set of hazel eyes were flashing; Beau was about to explode. My concern for him, which was lodged in my aching love for him, screamed from within me, and I did all I could to pull his attention away from the apparition on the stairs, as she slowly descended, all eyes still enthralled by the beauty of her movement, and moved toward the French doors out into the rear garden. As she passed, a path opened for her through the still-awed and twittering social elite of the city, nonplused still by both her majesty and her bold audacity.
I couldn't hold Beau back, though. As she disappeared into the murky light of the rear garden and the path she had traversed closed again with a great sigh from the crowd that, clutching at the last vestiges of tradition, renewed the gaiety and high decibel rate it had produced before the chocolate beauty had made her entrance, Beau slipped out of my concerned embrace and threaded his way toward those French doors.
