“I see I haven’t said the right thing.” Joseph made his face serious. “We must work very hard at being friends, you and I. Your father will have my head if I don’t honor my promise to cheer you up while you are in New Orleans. You don’t want me to lose my head?”
Emily tried to smile.
“Can you guess where I’m from?”
Emily looked at her father’s friend shyly. “France, but you don’t sound like any of the Frenchmen I’ve heard.”
“What a good ear you have. I am here only two years from France, but I am told that since I grew up so close to the border with Spain, my French is not so pure. But then, neither is the Creole French most speak here.”
“I like the way you sound.”
Narcisse watched the two of them, relieved to see a little of Emily’s spirit returning, grateful she was warming up to Joseph.
“Already I can see that we must call you by a very special nickname, and it has just come to me what the name should be.”
“A name for me?” Emily was clearly drawn in, had seemed to forget for a moment how miserable she was.
“You are so dainty, I must call you Mademoiselle Petite.”
This time Emily managed a full smile. Joseph had won her over.
* * *
Over the next two weeks Narcisse and Joseph discovered how alike they were in their love of fun, drink, and parties. An ambitious man, Joseph seemed full to overflowing with ideas and short-term schemes. Narcisse envied Joseph his independence and wandering, his nose for risk and opportunity, and the intensity and stamina of youth, and Joseph was clearly intrigued by Narcisse’s descriptions of life in the countryside of central Louisiana.
They both visited Emily for the permitted hour each remaining day Narcisse stayed in New Orleans. Narcisse couldn’t help but swell at the beauty Emily radiated. While he was a substantial man, so fond of food and drink that he found it increasingly difficult to button his vests, everything about Emily was small and delicate, from her tiny feet to her slim waist, but she was neither frail nor fragile.
At the end of the two weeks Narcisse had to admit that the results of his trip to New Orleans were mixed. Although he had safely established Emily at the convent, his business dealings had been far less satisfactory. The most he’d been able to arrange was just over eight cents a pound for his meager cotton crop. When he boarded the steamship Danube for the trip back to Cane River, he left New Orleans leaden with the absence of his daughter, already missing his new friend, and pessimistic about the dismal financial prospects of yet another planting season.
* * *
Narcisse and Joseph began to exchange visits back and forth throughout the year Emily stayed in New Orleans. In April Joseph came for the first time to Cane River to visit, and Narcisse introduced him into both his white and his colored life. They went together to soirées, they joined several hunting parties, and they fished. Narcisse was full of pride at being able to show off the splendor of the Cane River countryside. At Philomene’s, Joseph dined on crawfish stew, pig’s knuckles, and black-bottom pie, and he met Eugene and Nick, Emily’s younger brothers. Joseph became a favored guest in Narcisse’s circle, carrying his mandolin with him everywhere and winning over audiences with his music.
But on each of Narcisse’s return visits down the Mississippi River to New Orleans, he confronted the march of time. Emily was fast slipping past girlhood, more noticeable because he saw her with a fresh eye every few months. It started out as a small idea, on the porch of Philomene’s cabin one evening as they talked of how much they missed Emily, but by the next day Narcisse had become determined to capture his daughter’s image before she crossed over into womanhood. At his request, Joseph located a painter in New Orleans who did inexpensive oil portraits, and he secured permission from the sisters for Emily to leave the convent for the three required sittings at the artist’s studio.
Emily wore her intended communion dress. Joseph’s sister had sent a sketch of the current style to Cane River, along with yards of fluffy white organdy material, and Philomene spent two weeks sewing to match the picture. The dress was simple, emphasizing the quality of the material. Intricate lace decorated the scooped neck, matched by the same lace around the tips of the sleeves, and the bodice was unadorned. It was designed to fall from the cinched waist to the middle of Emily’s calf.
The artist managed to capture Emily’s bearing on his canvas. She appeared both serene and lively, from her long exposed neck to her tiny boot-clad feet. Her left hand skimmed the bowed crown of a small straight-backed chair, and her right was held palm inward, primly, in front at her waist. Sandy light hair fell behind her ears and down her back in ringlets, and as Narcisse had requested, she wore her new cone-shaped hat plumed with an ostrich feather.
Narcisse was pleased with the portrait, as was Emily. He personally oversaw the packing for shipment and took the painting back with him to Cane River. Keeping the portrait near softened the ache of not having his daughter by his side.
* * *
After Emily’s year of study at the convent ended and she took her first communion, Narcisse went down to New Orleans to collect her and bring her home. Another bad crop year had forced him to concede that his holdings were not going well. Something had to be done soon, something bold. Both the War Between the States and Reconstruction had taken their toll, and there appeared to be no way to restore his personal fortunes of earlier, better times. He had already sold some of his land to keep things going, but the buyers had the advantage, and he didn’t have much more land to sell. The condition of his homeplace and even his farm animals was deteriorating alarmingly.
Emily Fredieu.
An opportunity finally presented itself that could turn his fortune in a positive direction, although Narcisse had to admit he had neither the financial wherewithal nor the appetite for personal labor required to make his scheme work. He needed a partner.
There was land to be gotten cheaply on the other side of Red River in Grant Parish, not far from his homeplace as the crow flew. It was thick with virgin pine trees that could be used for timber and turpentine and, after it was cleared, for farming. But the real advantage was its location. The land bordered huge expanses of protected government property, and for a man willing to take the risk, substantial money could be made. While the owner of the property cleared and cultivated the rightfully purchased land, he could poach the inexhaustible trees on the adjacent government land at the same time, sending them upriver to hidden sawmills. Narcisse knew he could easily find the labor. Plenty of freed men scratching out a living would be happy for the work and could be trusted not to share the details of their illegal doings. Philomene’s brother, Gerant, had worked for him before on a smaller scale, for six cents an hour, and there were others who would do the same. The profit potential was enormous.
Receipt for “Jerome Rachal” (Gerant) from Narcisse Fredieu, 6¢ per hour.
Joseph Billes would fit the bill perfectly. Joseph was anxious to put down roots in a French-speaking community, ambitious enough to bend as necessary, smart enough to keep the undertaking going, and willing to work hard to make the project successful, and he came with money in his pocket to fund the venture up front. And he knew how to have a good time in the bargain.
Narcisse sent a letter off to New Orleans, expecting an answer by return post.
Cane River, December 22nd, 1874
Dear Monsieur Joseph,
I hope this letter finds you well and preparing for the joy of the holidays. We expect to spend a traditional Christmas and New Year’s here, and would welcome a visit from you if you are not otherwise engaged. Your mandolin would certainly be appreciated for the festivities, as would, of course, your splendid company.
There is another motive for this letter and invitation. We have talked in the past about your growing fondness for this beautiful country, away from the turmoil of New Orleans. I have an excellent proposal to discuss with you that could be of benefit to both of us. I dar
e not entrust it to a letter. This demands a frank discussion between two friends, and I am sure a man of your talents and ambitions will grasp the unlimited opportunity this partnership could bring. We need to act quickly, before others understand the possibilities. This could be the beginning of a solid partnership in addition to our friendship.
Say hello to your sister and your cousins for me.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon. Your committed friend.
Narcisse Fredieu
Christmas and New Year’s came and went with no word, as Narcisse’s creditors became increasingly impatient.
Finally, near the end of January, a posting came, not from New Orleans, but from Pointe Coupée. Narcisse recognized Joseph’s neat hand on the envelope.
Joseph’s letter to Narcisse, 1875.
Point Coupée, January 27th, 1875
Dear Monsieur Narcisse,
I make haste to answer your letter, dated December 22nd, from last month. You will excuse me for not having written back sooner. I was gone into the countryside here with friends who had come to town. And they insisted very strongly that I come with them. I have therefore been working until now. And every Saturday, we played music at local dances. I am quite happy with the friends here. My uncle had your letter sent to me, by an opportunity, the other day. But since you are telling me you have an excellent place for me, and that I should come, I gladly accept in order to be closer to you. As I have noted in letters I have written to you, I appreciate your company. Dear Friend Narcisse, you will see the proof of it. I will take the steamboat Bart Able on its way north from New Orleans to come next Saturday to give you a friendly handshake, to you, and also to Madame Philomene and to Mademoiselle Petite, and to the little boys, and to all the friends. Nothing more for the present.
While waiting to see you soon, I am, as I take leave of you, your fully devoted friend for life.
Joseph Billes
In less than two months Joseph moved part-time to Red River and began to demonstrate that he had a gift of sweeping land and money to him like a broom.
29
“I wonder what Monsieur Joseph will do with the land he bought over in Grant Parish?” Emily began at dinner one rainy afternoon in June. There was hardly space enough at the table in the common room to move without having to slide a chair forward or bump elbows with someone, but they gathered here every Sunday for family dinner. There seemed to be more family to squeeze into the cramped cabin every month.
“Unless he was the one to put the food on this table, we are not talking about Joseph Billes again today,” Philomene said.
“A man, after just the one thing,” Suzette mumbled, and quickly lowered her eyes.
Emily felt herself blush furiously, but it was to Nicolas that her grandmother Suzette sent an apologetic look when she lifted her head again. Since she had married and moved in with Nicolas Mulon, Suzette had become looser in her speech when the pair came to Sunday dinner. Nicolas gave Suzette an indulgent return look. An easygoing husband, he fit in well, and it had sealed the collective family opinion unanimously in his favor when he’d crafted each of them a pair of custom shoes from his cobbler’s bench.
“The Frenchman is older than I am,” Philomene said. “I have no intention of allowing any more child mothers in this family.”
“Let the girl be,” Elisabeth brokered, but then turned to Emily. “You might want to talk about something else until you have some fresh news. It has been almost two months since any of us even saw the man.”
* * *
Emily had been overjoyed to come back home to Cane River. She hadn’t really seen too much of the city of New Orleans, tucked away as she had been most of the time behind convent walls, and what she had seen had made her miss her home even more. Too many harsh sounds, vendors yelling along the street, people close together and in a hurry, not enough soil where things could grow. The other girls were nice enough, but it was temporary, and she had missed her own people more than she’d thought possible, even her younger brothers. But being delivered back safely into the arms of family meant she saw less of Joseph, and she could hardly bear it.
Emily had been intrigued with Joseph Billes from the moment he’d appeared alongside her father in the New Orleans convent parlor. He carried more of France than Louisiana in speech, outlook, and bearing, clearly a newcomer to a foreign land. His visits to the convent helped ease that lonely year in New Orleans, even though she knew his attentions were at her father’s request, merely looking after a friend’s daughter. He had a side-by-side shyness and self-confidence in his manner, and even though he was a white man, he conducted himself toward her with unaffected acceptance. Emily found it dizzying.
At the New Orleans convent Joseph had been polite yet playful, treating her in the affectionate but offhand way an adult treats a child. The first time he called her Mademoiselle Petite, his eyes danced. From his eyes to her heart. By the time she left the convent a year later, each breath she drew, every thought she held, took Joseph Billes into consideration. She was almost fourteen, a woman now. Joseph Billes just didn’t realize it yet.
* * *
Emily’s high spirits and optimism could turn in a moment to an irritable restlessness, and she seemed powerless to stop it. She lashed out at her younger brothers then, the way she would not dare with the old women. Emily could see how baffled her brothers were, no longer as eager to be around the moody, sullen girl. She was sulky when Joseph was gone away from Cane River and snappish when he returned but didn’t come to visit. Sometimes she spilled over, stalking off, furious at how tightly everyone hung on to her. She got into the habit of taking long walks by herself, staying away for an hour or more with no explanation, and because she came back in a quieter mood, the household tolerated her disappearances. Emily was the first generation they could afford to pamper.
Most times Joseph came around to pay his respects to Philomene’s family, he did so with Narcisse. Whenever he came alone, Emily was assigned chaperones. As if she could get Joseph to think of her in that way, Emily thought. She glowed in his presence and wasn’t coy about showing her delight with his company. She wore only her best dresses, pinched her cheeks to redden them, and spent hours practicing in the mirror, piling sandy brown hair on top of her head in styles that made her look older. But someone—siblings, uncles, aunts, mother, grandmother, or great-grandmother—always had a vigilant eye out. If Emily retrieved her long-billed bonnet so she and Joseph could take a walk, Philomene or Elisabeth would call, “Eugene, Nick, go with them.” Henry, the latest baby brother, was too small, or he would have been assigned to watch, too. It seemed that everyone except Joseph thought she was in danger of his advances.
* * *
On Emily’s sixteenth birthday the old women invited Joseph and Narcisse to a celebration in her honor. Joseph had just returned from New Orleans, and in a particularly good mood. He brought all of them gifts, not just Emily. He gave Elisabeth a black-and-red fan that opened and closed with an impressive snap. For Suzette he brought a tatted lace handkerchief, so snowy white and fine that she kept it folded in her drawer, taking it out only to run her fingers gently over the fabric or stare at it in wonder. He presented four tins of high-quality snuff to Philomene. The boys got spurs, a slingshot, and a harmonica, according to age.
Joseph saved Emily’s present for last, pulling a flat wrapped package out of his storage sack. He handed it to her without any of his usual joking. He simply said, “For you, mademoiselle.” Emily felt him watching her, as did everyone else in the room. She happily unfolded the brown paper and lifted the top from the slim box. Inside was a pair of fine black lace gloves, not the usual peppermint candy he always brought. She knew it was a signal that she had grown up in his eyes at last.
From that day forward Joseph’s visits to Philomene’s house took on a different tone, and he came more often alone. Joseph seemed hard-pressed to pull his eyes away from Emily’s dimples or the fluttering of her hands. In those early days of t
heir start-and-stop courtship, Joseph spent half his time in New Orleans and half at the store he had opened in Grant Parish. Whenever he returned he came calling to Philomene’s cabin, bringing fresh stories of a world beyond Cane River.
* * *
As far as her mother knew, Emily and Joseph were never alone. Philomene doubled her chaperone efforts when Joseph officially came calling, but Emily became especially clever at taking her alone walks, out of the sight of nosy younger brothers and prying women. A tangle of sparse woods dotted the path to a small abandoned cotton house a brisk twenty-minute walk from the cabin, and whenever they could arrange it, Emily slipped away to meet Joseph alone there. By then his pet name for her was Mademoiselle ’Tite. Their talking quickly gave way to touching.
Everything about Joseph, his wiry build and careless walk, the sharpness of his nose, the thick flow of his hair, thrilled Emily, but his ears were her weakness. Joseph told her once that he had gotten into fistfights as a boy in France, defending the size and shape of his ears, unwilling to take the teasing. They stood out from his face at an assertive angle, brash and uncompromising in the same way Joseph was. Emily liked to trace the bold sweep of those ears with the tip of her finger, making him laugh, and then he would follow the small arc of hers with his blunt hand, his hazel eyes and spare lips working together to produce a devilish smile.
Bringing that smile into being was Emily’s yardstick of her own happiness. His thick mustache was like a waterfall, covering his top lip completely, and the stiff hairs prickled when they kissed. Joseph showed her the special comb he had purchased for his whiskers, an indulgence for such a frugal man. He spent more time combing, cutting, and shaping that mustache than he did the sandy hair he kept trimmed short on the top of his head. The rest of his face he kept clean-shaven. His cheeks were full for such a thin man, and because the underlying bone structure was high, a deep shadow played constantly between his ear and his mouth. An inner amusement crackled in his deep-set eyes, almost overshadowed by thick, wayward eyebrows that would have startled and overwhelmed his face had they not been muted by their sandy brown paleness.