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“It shouldn’t take more than three days,” I told Jeb, resolute in my determination to find my father’s alleged mistress.
“You stayin’ at the Marigny?”
“Yes, but I’m sure word will get back to father,” I said. “Miss Hayes’ mouth is wider than the Mississippi.”
The Marigny House was a grand Greek revival guesthouse located in the bustling central part of New Orleans and was run by Elsie Hayes, the owner and town gossip.
“Just pay her somethin’ extra,” Jeb remarked. “Enough to keep her gamblin’ for a few days.”
“Yeah, but only for a few.”
Jeb laughed. “What should I tell yo’ Pa when he get back from his trip?”
“That I went to visit a sick friend.” Jeb gave me a knowing look.
Jeb grinned. “He gon’ want me to tell ‘im something more ‘n that.”
“If he wants to know more, he can wait until I get back.”
“You sure you want to do this, mon homme? You might not like what you find.”
“Like it or not it’s the only way to find out the truth,” I told him as I mounted the horse. “Please tell Jeyne not to worry. I’ll be back soon.”
Jeb nodded his head and stood back as I took off down the long trail leading to New Orleans. What I would achieve by doing this I did not know. What I was certain of was that my father was a proud and ruthless man who would have denied the accusation had I confronted him directly. No, the only way to obtain the truth from him was to present evidence he could neither deny nor justify. And that was what I intended to do.
In addition to the sprawling plantation, my father owned property in New Orleans, including a spacious apartment on Canal Street to which we often went during the ball season or whenever we needed a respite from plantation life. It was here that mother and father entertained their fellow elite from the city, including military officers and foreigners who were eager to indulge in dance and fine wine. The functions generally began at eight o’clock in the evening and didn’t end until well into the early morning hours.
After the end of the ball season, I often accompanied my father to the city on his business trips, which lasted only a few days. We would stop and visit his friends along the way, which always put him in a good mood as there was little in the way of male companionship on the plantation, not counting the slaves.
One of these visits was to a young woman who lived not far from our residence in the city. I remember being about twelve years old when we first happened upon her house, and I couldn’t help but notice her eyes. They were the color of emeralds and they sparkled when she laughed. Our visit was brief, but it was enough to make an impression. More than anything, I wondered how she knew my father.
Looking back on that moment, there was nothing in their interactions that hinted at anything more than friendship. She was poised, beautiful and polite like many of the other ladies who came from wealth. However, it was safe to say this woman was more than just a passing acquaintance, and knowing what I knew now, she was definitely a woman of interest. Of course, I had no name, no address and no way of knowing if she still lived in New Orleans. But, as was true in all decadent cities, if I wanted information all I had to do was ask, and the first person I planned to see was the one person who knew my father better than anyone.
Joseph Rozier’s residence was located on Chartres Street and was the simplest of Creole homes, flush on the street, and only two steps from the raised sidewalk, orbanquette, which led into a modest parlor with a formal garden in the back. Theparterre, as such gardens were called, was filled with a collection of cultivated plants and exquisite flowers. My father’s close friend and business attorney was his usual jovial self when he welcomed me inside.
“Taking the city in on your own, I see,” he said, giving me a hearty slap on the back. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Come and have a seat.”
“I don’t plan to stay long, Mr. Rozier.”
“Nonsense! You may be young but you’ve had a long ride. Besides, a man like me needs good company. I can only take so much of the wife.”
I sat down on the edge of a chair opposite him. “No, truly,” I said. “I came to seek answers...answers that only you have.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I began. “But considering the circumstances I really don’t have a choice.”
“What is it, my boy?”
I paused to find the right words. “I want to know who she is?”
He produced a wide smile and leaned into me. “Clothilde? Isn’t she the finest darkie you’ve ever seen? She only cleans houses but I’m sure if you asked she would do more—”
“No,” I said impatiently. “I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about my father’s mistress.”
Joseph looked at me a long time, his face expressionless. He stood up from his comfortable armchair and went to pour himself a drink.
“I’d offer you one but your father would have my hide,” he said casually. “There’s some fresh lemonade in the kitchen. Shall I have Clothilde pour you some?”
