Consider Me Gone, page 15
part #1 of Time Shadows Series
“Perhaps it would help if they were to fraternize with more of the locals,” she told him. “On market days, I’ve seen how they arrive only long enough to choose provisions and then quickly leave.”
Señor Juan turned to his brother as if to see if he would allow such impertinence but the governor only acknowledged her words with a slight nod and that ghosting smile. “I will take that under advisement, Señorita. That said, you are dismissed. Please proceed to the kitchens where Señora Viscaya will inform you of whatever else you need to know.”
Dismissed already? She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t think of what to say. How would she ever win his confidence? Did he not appear to find her alluring, let alone attractive. How would she succeed now?
“Señorita? Do you wish to say something?” the governor prompted.
She curtseyed again. “No, monsieur. I will leave you to your business.”
18
Romy came alert inside Claire and tried again to stage her return. She envisioned Louisa’s house, her garden. She imagined Adrian and Jo. She tried hauling herself up from this profound non-waking state the way a sleeping person tries to rouse from a dream.
But Claire’s memory gripped her tight. She felt herself falling backwards, sending her back in a dizzying tilt deep into Claire’s mind.
“Señorita,” Señora Viscayca called out, her black lace shawl drooping about her shoulders like a shredded bat, “come here at once! Not a week on the job and already you dawdle.”
Claire, already halfway across the courtyard, turned and nodded a greeting but continued on her way, pretending not to understand the woman’s Spanish. No matter what her assignment, she would not let that creature speak to her that way. She suffered enough of her abuse.
“Come back, I say! I have not given you permission to visit the kitchens. You are to remain in the house until I say otherwise!” The cane could be heard thumping on the tiles as if intent on smashing them with her temper.
But Claire only picked up her skirts and scurried across the courtyard, scattering the chickens as she ran towards the large square building from which wafted the scent of baking bread.
Bursting through the doorway, she paused, her eyes adjusting to the light. Suffocating heat filled the room. Ahead, two slave girls busied themselves, one chopping vegetables on the long wooden table that dominated the space while the other stirred something in a cauldron on the fire. Both girls glistened in perspiration, the air heavy with cooking aromas and sweat.
Except for a brief flicker in their eyes, neither slowed their work or gave any indication of her presence. A man, a Spaniard, by the looks of things, stood by, assessing their efforts and it was he who addressed her first.
“Good afternoon, Señorita! You must be the new housekeeper, yes? We wondered when you would visit. Has Señora finally opened your cage? Welcome to the kitchens of Governor Ulloa. I am Ricardo El Cardez, chief cook, a man whose dishes the governor favors so much, he brings me with him to add flavor to the new world, si?” Ricardo bowed deeply, his face a-brim with a merry smile.
Claire smiled back, relieved to find a friendly face in this dour household. Behind her, she could hear the tap-tapping of the cane making its slow way across the courtyard.
Stepping forward, she spoke in French. “I am sorry that I cannot speak your tongue well. I know but a few words. I am Claire Comeau, Mademoiselle Comeau. I have been instructed by the Governor to help bring the flavor of New France to his dishes and intend to start today. Together, we could try some new combinations, something that will tempt the governor’s palate, yes?”
Not commanding enough, she remanded herself and what did it matter if the man could but understand a few words? As housekeeper, she must govern these people, once the old crow got out of the way, that is. If it was true that the household would be moving elsewhere, she must organize that, too. “Pray, let me see what it is you cook.”
Ricardo turned to the slave girl stirring the pot, a small, very dark-skinned girl not much younger than Claire. “Odette, what does she say?”
Odette, turned to Claire and then back to Ricardo, her large brown eyes quick and knowing beneath the kerchief that restrained her unruly hair. “She says she will make you cook proper French food, Ricardo. No more shells in rice. No more burning spices. No more raw shrimp. We take the tails off first.”
Haitian by the accent, Claire thought. She narrowed her eyes at the girl. Oh, she’d have to watch this one.
“What? But the master loves my paella. He does not want all that French cream in his food, he says. Tell her that I will not allow her to touch my dishes until the master says so.” Ricardo’s otherwise cheerful countenance had flushed in dismay.
Odette turned to Claire, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “The cook, he says you go to hell.”
Claire stifled a smile. Oh, yes, Odette, you will need watching.
“Señorita Comeau!” came a shrill voice from the doorway as the housekeeper huffed over the threshold and tap-tapped her way into the kitchen. “How dare you walk away from me when I bid you otherwise! I have not been supplanted by you yet, you useless French piece of work. Do not dare speak to my staff when I am not present.”
Odette stepped towards the old housekeeper. “She speak no Spanish, Señora Viscaya. I tell her what you say?”
“Yes.”
And Odette obliged with a reasonable translation, adding only a few threats to further spice up the senior’s words. “What you say back?” Odette demanded of Claire.
Claire knew her words would be twisted but she replied, none the less: “Tell Señora Viscaya that I apologize but do not understand her language. I mean to do my duty as diligently as possible but only as it matches the role the governor has entrusted to me. I am to supervise the cooking and so I shall.”
Surprisingly, Odette recounted that verbatim, even managing some of the more difficult words. Ah, thought Claire, as wily as a fox, this one. Could it be that, in Señora Viscaya, she and Odette shared a common foe?
“You must first come to my room and empty my chamber pots and comb out my hair and massage my legs, French slut,” the old woman demanded, her eyes narrowed to hard slits. “This is all you deserve, for you French are no better than slaves, the lot of you. These tasks you do before I permit you to go near these kitchens, si? You will not talk to the governor or the servants unless I am in attendance, do you understand this?”
Odette translated, adding for señoras benefit, “But she can talk through me, Señora. I speak for her to the others.”
“You will not speak for her unless I ask, you tar-faced idiot. You are a slave and entirely too big for your shoes.”
And down cracked the cane, aiming for Odette’s hand resting on the table edge but the girl snatched it away. Brandishing her cane, Señora Viscaya moved in to finish the job. “Hold out your hand, darkie, I have had enough of your impertinence!”
But Claire slipped between Odette and the housekeeper and yanked the cane from the woman’s hand. “Odette, translate this for me. Tell Señora Viscaya there will be no more hitting of slaves or servants under this roof. If she tries again, I will inform the master. I suspect the governor does not want the reputation of a man who allows foul-tempered servants to beat his slaves.”
Odette recounted the information to Señora Viscaya, adding: “And she says she will not clean your stinking chamber pots or rub your filthy old feet!”
“Or do anything but what I have been instructed by the governor,” Claire added before she could catch herself. She stared, aghast. Now Odette might suspect the truth, know she understood Spanish. Good Lord, what had she done?
As Odette recounted her last words, Claire hastily added: “The governor has requested that I assist with the cooking and that is where I shall start today without further interference.”
After Odette had finished repeating Claire’s words, Señora Viscaya appeared too stunned to speak. It was as if no one in this household had ever dared defy her. It was if she now assessed the full measure of her enemy, this French chit who dared to contest her authority, and realized the size of the battle ahead. Her worn face, hardened by who knew what hardships, appeared to constrict into a mask of venom.
Yet, Claire stood her ground. She had taken a risk in threatening the housekeeper—for what did she know of the governor’s ways regarding servants and slaves?—but she sensed he struggled to forge the right impression among his citizens. Also, she realized with a shock, cruelty did not seem to suit him.
So, why had he sent her father and the other Acadians away? She vowed to find out but, no matter what she discovered, would never forgive. Could not forgive.
But her gall in challenging the old housekeeper was rewarded. Señora Viscaya hauled the lace wrap tighter around her shoulders despite the punishing heat, snatched the cane from Claire’s hands, and left the kitchen, sweeping the pile of sliced vegetables onto the floor along the way.
“Cow,” Ricardo muttered after she’d gone. “Look how she makes us work and tortures little Odette. All my days under her, it is always the same.”
“Here, I will help,” Claire said in French, gathering up the tomatoes and peppers strewn across the straw.
Romy took advantage of the moment when Claire relaxed into the mindless task of gathering the strewn vegetables to regain her place in time.
It was if she attempted to swim to the surface of a deep, sludgy swamp, pushing bits of foreign memory from her brain while fighting for air. Though the surface of consciousness grew closer, appearing like a skim of light on the edge of her senses, she could not break through.
For one blinking instant, however, she thought Claire sensed her presence. Claire had been picking up slices of pepper and carrot when she paused, as if listening to something inside her head—a scrap of memory, an invocation of something not quite hers, perhaps. She soon dismissed the sensation as her imagination and carried on with her task but a thrill shivered through Romy at that brief connection. Maybe, just maybe, she could communicate with Claire, after all.
But she had no time to think. Not only did she remain trapped inside Claire’s memories but those memories had begun to chunk into separate episodes as if Claire recalled only the highlights of her days at the governor’s house.
Romy clung to vestiges of her own self while scene after scene of Claire’s life flashed by.
The friction between the brothers increased over dessert until Claire shooed the servants from the dining area. She would attend the Ulloa’s needs herself, confident they believed her unable to understand Spanish and would speak freely.
“I understand,” she overheard Señor Juan say, “that Señora Viscaya has today taken to her bed, very distraught over the arrival of this convent girl here.”
“How unfortunate,” the governor remarked mildly as he sipped his wine. “It is no doubt time she took a rest from terrorizing the servants.”
“She is old and frightened, Antonio. She fears losing her place in our regard.”
“She lost her place in my regard when, many years ago when I watched her convince Papa to whip every one of our slaves over some trumped-up slight. I would not treat a dog the way she treats those of different skins. For years I have abided with her temper but I will not tolerate this behavior here. She refuses to change.”
“Does she not run a good house? After Father’s death, for all those years when you were at sea, I remind you that I managed the estate, Antonio, and her service to me was exemplary. What if she loses her temper at a slave or two or admonishes a servant with the back of her cane? Do they not work efficiently under her rule? Are we ever bothered by poor behavior or undisciplined service?”
“Fewer servants would also ensure good behavior as there would be less to manage. The fact is, both she and this entire retinue should have remained in Balize. I have no need for such here. I have been assigned a job to govern, not to keep grand houses and socialize.”
“You are such a soldier, Tonio. Do you not see how the size of a governor’s household impresses the locals? They see what fine servants you keep and will show your importance. A governor should not live like a pauper. You have been too long at sea and forget the ways of civilized existence. Why not leave this aspect to me?”
“Enough!” The governor got to his feet and tossed his linen napkin to the table. “I agreed to leave the management of this retinue to you and my wife, thus dragging you both over to these shores against my better judgement but I will not tolerate Señora Viscaya’s tyranny further.”
“You can’t just cast her out.”
“You know I would never do such a thing but perhaps I will send her to Belize to be with my wife. Those two get on rather well, I note. To honor the years spent in the family’s employ, I have reluctantly given Viscaya’s son a position of command at your insistence but she will be removed as head housekeeper as of today. That ends the discussion.”
“Francisca deserves a say in matters of household management, surely? She should be here with you instead of at Balize.”
“What my wife deserves is my concern alone.”
The Governor shot a quick glance toward Claire who busied herself just inside the adjoining room tidying the serving tables. “Keep your voice down. We do not need the servants whispering among themselves.”
“As if they do not already.”
“I am certain they do, especially at Balize where my wife has spent an inordinate amount of time your company, my brother. A less trusting man might speculate that I am not the father of my child.”
“Antonio, you can’t think for a moment I would ever seduce your wife.”
“It is not what I think that matters. Here I am among enemies where any impropriety might flame the masses. Watch your step, Juan, that is all I ask. Do not push providence. I am tempted to send both you and Francisca back to Spain.”
“What?” stormed Juan, “You would remove the only allies you have in this God forsaken land?”
“On most days, you hardly appear to be my allies.” And, with that, the governor left the table, his sweet rice dish left untouched.
Claire kept her head down and went about her work while her thoughts churned. He had a wife, a child. His brother and he did not agree. So much turmoil.
19
Claire stood in the storeroom checking provisions when the maid approached.
“Señorita,” the girl whispered to Claire, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. “I have message, ah—how do I say the French?—from Señora Viscaya.”
“How is the Señora?” Claire asked. “I have heard she remains unwell. She has eaten the meals I sent up? Can I fetch her something or do anything to make her more comfortable?”
Something flickered in the girl’s dark eyes but she only shook her head as if not understanding. This girl, Claire knew, was one of the few who spoke a little French yet somehow managed to misunderstand everything Claire said.
“She want you to…” and the girl struggled to find the word, “to go to kitchen building. Yes, yes,” she nodded. “She want you go check kitchen door.”
“Check kitchen door?” Claire stared at the maid, puzzled. Since when did checking the outbuildings before going to bed her task? “But surely that would be the soldier’s job or maybe the yard man?”
The maid only gazed back in incomprehension. “Check kitchen,” she repeated. “Go to kitchen now.”
Maybe Señora Viscaya had heard that Ricardo had not secured the door or adequately prepared the food for tomorrow’s breakfast? The man had proved delightful but unreliable in the two days she had been here.
“Oh, very well.” Claire untied her over apron and left it folded on top of the day’s laundry.
She had barely the time or space to sort through the things she had heard over last night’s dinner or even decide whether tension between the Ulloa brothers would be of any interest to the conspirators. Most of what she had learned hardly concerned matters of state.
What kind of information would concern matters of state, she wondered, as she readied to go to the courtyard. Something about ships, guns and policies? She needed information to bring to her meeting with Mother Superior and the conspirators Sunday next but her plans to search the governor’s quarters had been complicated by the fact the man seemed to never sleep. He stayed up all hours writing at his desk or reading books.
Besides, this business of housekeeping proved to be far more demanding than Claire anticipated. She hardly had time to spy. Not only was she to supervise the meals but also oversee the Spanish maids who seemed determined to misunderstand even the simplest of directions.
And, now there was talk that the governor would return to this Balize, a swampy area in the mouth of the Mississippi Delta, where presumably he kept his main household, including this wife.
Whatever had to be done needed to be done soon. But how would she ever find the time, energy or opportunity to both woo Antonio Ulloa and spy on him as well?
Unhooking one of the lanterns from the wall, Claire turned to the maid. “If this will make her happy, I shall do so.”
The courtyard lay deserted this time of night, though Claire could hear slaves singing from behind the outbuildings—low, strange songs that caused the heart to ache.
She caught the mumbled voices of the Spanish soldiers and retainers out of sight around the premises. All would be taking advantage of the last few hours of evening to share stories and sing songs beside their own cook fires while the crickets and bullfrogs chirped along. The scent of burning wood from the firesides filled the air.
How she hated being outside after dark in this land—too many strange noises, too many odd cries—and, though she knew soldiers patrolled the enclosure, the nearness of their swords and bayonets did nothing to dispel her uneasiness.
