Ruth’s Journey Read online

  As Solange departed, the proprietor pressed a vial of tuberose scent on her, asserting he was merely “gilding the lily.”

  Outdoors, when her mistress rejoined her, Ruth sniffed loudly and wrinkled her nose.

  One cannot avoid reversals of fortune, but one needn’t bow to them. Certainly, Solange did not. But she wept over her father’s letter. She wept so inconsolably, Augustin fled their apartment for too many glasses with sympathetic fellow refugees, which was the sort of mistake young husbands make. Ruth never left her sobbing mistress’s side. Her dark eyes brimmed as she accorded but never intruded on Solange’s grief.

  Charles Escarlette wrote that Solange’s dear Momma had worn out her knees praying and had a two-ecu Mass said for her beloved daughter. When she read of the rebel victory, Momma took to her bed in a swoon. Charles Escarlette was so grateful at his daughter’s escape he would reduce interest from 5 percent to 4 percent due for monies advanced for Augustin’s commission.

  He wrote his daughter that Saint-Malo had fallen on hard times. British privateers had ravaged coastal shipping, and ­Henri-Paul Fornier had lost three inoffensive trading vessels to their depredations. “Cannot these British pirates distinguish a merchant ship from a man-of-war?”

  As a consequence, Agence Maritime du Fornier was bankrupt, and Augustin’s brother, Leo, had been conscripted and was thought to be with the army in Spain.

  While not so dire as Fornier circumstances (her father’s satisfaction wafted from his letter as pungent as bruised mint), the Escarlettes were not as they had been. Their import-export business was reduced, and, as Saint-Malo’s economy had faltered, certain loans had gone unpaid, and several investments had soured.

  Doubtless his dutiful daughter would understand that monies previously advanced her were now needed at home. Although the British had destroyed peaceful commerce, they had created profit opportunities artificing for war. Charles Escarlette was negotiating the lease of a brick building, a onetime warehouse, convertible to a factory for sewing uniforms. Pursuant to this plan, he had visited the Banque de France, who informed the astonished father that under the Code Napoleon, his daughter’s letter of credit could only be reassigned by that daughter, and, in any event, Solange Escarlette Fornier had already remitted those funds to America!

  She and Augustin must return home immediately. Any neutral American vessel, bound for Holland or Belgium, could pass through the British. Once they had landed, mail coaches could reach Saint-Malo in four days. Others, unscrupulous men whose names he needn’t mention, were “sniffing like truffle hounds” around the warehouse, and, though Charles Escarlette flattered himself on his foresight, other merchants might reach similar conclusions about the demand for uniforms. Her father regretted that Dear Solange and Dear Augustin couldn’t purchase first-class passage, but second class docked no later than first, and every penny was needed at home.

  Charles Escarlette concluded his letter with expressions of parental satisfaction and affection. His postscript exuded confidence that, as a dutiful daughter, Solange would understand.

  Solange understood all too well and promptly repaired to Mr. Haversham, to inquire about the Banque de France’s verification.

  Mr. Haversham was devastated at his impotence, but he knew nothing. He’d heard nothing. That evening over dinner he confessed to Mrs. Haversham his relief that he wasn’t the person who’d occasioned Mrs. Fornier’s ire.

  Solange penned one letter after another but mailed none. What might her father do! What were Saint-Malo’s clever lawyers suggesting he do?

  She perused the shipping news the instant The Georgia Gazette was posted outside that newspaper’s office. Other early risers who might have usurped her place were made aware that the handsome Frenchwoman’s interest in arriving ships trumped any concern of theirs. Solange spent so much time on the docks she knew which pilot steered an arriving vessel by the course it chose. She waited with Mr. Haversham’s clerk and the mail pouches at Mr. ­Haversham’s when that gentleman came downstairs to start his day.

  “If it were up to me, madame . . .” he said as he searched his correspondence. “Were it not for the strictures Philadelphia has put on every branch of the bank, I promise you I would abjure this tedious formality.”

  Solange wore a locked, minimum smile.

  Not hers. Not hers. Not hers. The banker rejected the last envelope with a small frown but smiled at Ruth. “Your handmaid is such a lively child. Negroes are at their best as children, don’t you think?”

  Ruth found bargains at the market, and after Solange let Cook go, Ruth cooked a little.

  One evening, when Augustin had drunk more than usual, he invited his friend Count Montelone to share their brown beans, rice, and okra. If the dusty old man was affronted by the Fornier offering, he was polite enough to eat all of it and the seconds intended for the next day. At some length the Count described his prominent family. When Solange admitted her ignorance of the august folk, he said, “Ah, you’re from Saint-Malo, are you not?”

  Although the Count never said a word to Ruth, he eyed her so avidly, the child left the room.

  When Solange urged economy on her husband because almost all their money was gone, Augustin said he must be able to buy his friends’ drinks as they bought his. “I am a soldier,” he informed her. “Not a priest.”

  One morning, as a Dutch-flagged barkentine was dropping its gangplank, Ruth perched cross-legged atop a bollard, humming. When her humming suddenly stopped, Solange turned. What was Mrs. Robillard doing on the docks?

  “Ah, Mrs. Fornier. So this is where you have been keeping yourself. We have missed you on the promenade. My. All these Negroes. These Irish. These, uh . . . maritime persons.”

  “Dear Mrs. Robillard. I do hope you haven’t been seeking us particularly.”

  “No, no. I happened to be passing . . .”

  “Are you expecting a parcel? A shipment?”

  “Oh my no.” Louisa Robillard laughed. “Nehemiah does our expecting.”

  Solange smiled politely as the woman meandered to her conversational destination.

  “I’ve often noticed you at the 10:30. My dear friend Antonia Sevier says we must have been introduced ages ago, but I tell Antonia, alas, we haven’t.”

  Ruth dashed down the wharf where a favorite pilot had a sweet for her.

  “Don’t you think, after so long an ‘almost’ acquaintanceship, we can ignore formal introductions?”

  Solange would have preferred formality, but that Dutch barkentine wouldn’t have her verification, and last night she’d told Augustin money was so scarce, soldier or no soldier he must be ungenerous to his French friends. “Why of course, madame. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “How kind you are.” (Meaning: “Of course you are. Your husband is our employee.”)

  Solange countered, “Captain Fornier speaks so highly of Mr. Robillard. ‘A gentleman of the old school.’”

  When Ruth came back, her attention was devoted to a large chunk of molasses candy.

  “Pierre is quite taken with you.” Louisa’s smile was Not Taken. “It’s easy to see why.”

  “As you know so much better than I, Mr. Robillard is an amiable, honorable gentleman.”

  “No doubt.”

  Given this woman’s watery eyes and horse jaw, Solange thought Robillard’s wife had reason to be jealous.

  “My husband says Captain Fornier served with Napoleon?”

  “I do not believe, madame, that any but marshals serve with Napoleon. Captain Fornier served under the Emperor.”

  “In his European wars?”

  “Augustin Fornier was commissioned for the desperate circumstances in Saint-Domingue and earned his captaincy by exceptional valor. His promotion to Major was assured when, alas, Saint-Domingue was betrayed by the French government.”
r />   “Dear, dear. Dear Pierre would have been so proud to have a Major clerking for him.”

  Solange calculated how many days they could survive without Augustin’s salary. “Our plantation, Sucarie du Jardin, had the finest, deepest soil on the island. Captain Fornier served under General Leclerc.”

  “That poor gentleman. To die so far away from home.”

  “A very great officer . . .”

  Mrs. Robillard disengaged. “What a beautiful child.”

  Ruth curtsied.

  “You are how old?”

  Another curtsy. “Reckon six, missus. Might be seven.”

  “Well, well. Well, well.”

  Mrs. Robillard crooked her neck, seeking a familiar face on the promenade so far above these sordid docks. Though she spotted none of her friends, she waved as if she had.

  When she pivoted back to Solange, her jaw jutted like a prow. “You are nearly as attractive as my silly husband said you are.”

  In honor of Augustin’s pittance, Solange restrained herself. “You are too kind.”

  “Delightful creature. Simply delightful. You won’t steal from your masters, will you, Ruth?”

  “Mais non, madame.”

  “Speak English, child. It is a crude tongue but must be yours.”

  ———

  On a glorious May day, floppy white magnolia blossoms drifted onto the cobblestones and Solange’s ship came in. An unimpressive, not terribly seaworthy ketch, it had accepted mail in Bruges, been dismasted off Haulabout Point, nearly swamped and very nearly abandoned.

  Solange’s throat was so tight it hurt to swallow. What if it had gone down? What would have happened to them?

  But with sufficient verification to satisfy even the punctilious Bank of the United States, Mrs. Fornier’s account was opened, and her terse reply to Charles Escarlette went by return mail.

  The Forniers moved to an unfashionable house in an unfashionable neighborhood, which Solange bought outright with cash.

  Her father’s next letter was more politic. The Banque de France had informed Charles Escarlette his daughter’s dowry was now at the Bank of the United States. What a surprise! He hadn’t known the United States had a bank!

  Circumstances at Solange’s home were the same. He had leased the factory but needed cash to hire workers. Tailors and seamstresses were available, and the army would issue a large order. He would start with pantaloons. There was profit in pantaloons.

  A notarized transfer of credit from the United States Bank must be on the outgoing tide. In anticipation, he had provided the documents his daughter’s banker would require. There was a place for Augustin to sign too. Though the husband’s signature was, under Code Napoleon, unnecessary, who knew what primitive laws governed Americans?

  Should she wish, she could deliver the document in person. Her sisters and dear Momma have missed her so!

  As a sobbing Solange tore letter and document into strips, Ruth sang an eerie, high-pitched lament and the Forniers became Americans.

  News of the family’s improved circumstances somehow escaped Mr. Haversham’s discreet, tightly pressed lips, and the Forniers received invitations to unimportant christenings, garden parties, and the like.

  As new-minted Americans, Captain and Mrs. Fornier must attend Savannah’s obligatory Grand Fete, Washington’s Birthday Ball. (Tickets one dollar. No apprentices admitted.)

  At the cold collation, Mrs. Robillard wondered if Mrs. Fornier was acquainted with Antonia Sevier.

  “Isn’t she a great friend of yours?” Solange spoke familiarly to a woman with whom previously every word had had to be measured. She positioned a biscuit on her plate between the sweet pickles and the drumstick.

  “You have practically nothing in common.” Louisa’s laugh was not quite a bray. “But everyone knows Antonia, and you must too.”

  “I would be honored to make her acquaintance.” Solange selected three confections, ignoring a dented macaroon. She licked her forefinger. “Tell me, dear Mrs. Robillard. Are all American balls as stuffy as this one?”

  “Only the patriotic ones. You must call me Louisa. Alas, American patriotism is invariably hoarse and swathed in bunting moths have got at.” Louisa cocked her head. “I’m told your Saint-Domingue balls were . . . rather . . . risqué.”

  “Near the end, very.”

  “Ah.” Louisa ignored the wild boar for a tiny slice of duck. “Antonia is terribly upset about her cook. Cook’s shrimp and grits are all the talk. Quite well known among us. Why, Antonia has refused eight hundred for Cook. Eight hundred dollars for a cook.” Louisa grimaced. “These times. These times.”

  “Since I’ve never dined at the Seviers’, I cannot comment on her grits. Doubtless her grits merit the highest praise.”

  “Antonia intended to invite you and dear Captain Fornier to her garden party this year. Why is it, I’d like to know, forks and knives are invariably laid at the head of the collation rather than the foot, where one’s full plate needs them.” Louisa paused for emphasis. “Alas, dear Mrs. Fornier, neither you nor I will enjoy those grits this year, because Antonia has canceled her garden party! Cook will not go to the market! She absolutely refuses! Antonia has taken strong measures”—Mrs. Robillard popped her wrist as one pops a whip—“to no avail. These days her coachman does their marketing! Overripe fruit, underripe vegetables, and everything too dear. Might we share the love seat?”

  “Certainly.” Solange made room.

  “You know how superstitious they are.”

  “Ummm.”

  “Cook has the mad notion that that maid of yours (Ruth is she?) is casting the, I don’t know, the ‘evil eye’ on her. Cook says Ruth ‘sees things’—whatever that’s supposed to mean. She claims that child is a voudou priestess.” Louisa’s laughter clanged like a cracked bell. “All nonsense, to be sure. Nonetheless . . .”

  “Why of course it’s nonsense.” Solange spoke more hotly than she ought. If Solange had been an innocent, Mrs. Robillard’s triumphant smile would have been cued her dangerous nonsense was in the wings.

  A voudou priestess.

  The next morning after the 10:30, the charming Mrs. Fornier hand-delivered the latest newspapers from a just-docked Spaniard to L’Ancien Régime, where, in due course, she made a small request to a very grand gentleman.

  Resisting flattery is very much easier when one is accustomed to it, and Pierre Robillard didn’t get much flattery at home.

  “Anything I can do, my dear,” he promised, kissing Solange’s hand.

  “Anything,” as it turned out, was unusual but not forbidden. Although no papist himself (as he later assured his furious wife), Pierre was a tolerant fellow, and surely there were many paths to salvation.

  Hence, on a lovely April morning, eighteen months after she’d arrived in America, a solemn very black child, in a white dress adorned with Flemish lace, stood before St. John’s altar to be christened Ruth.

  The beaming Pierre Robillard would be the child’s godfather.

  The Orangerie

  RUTH SANG SOFTLY:

  “Orange tree,

  Grow and grow and grow.

  Orange tree, orange tree, grow and grow and grow,

  Orange tree.

  Stepmother is not real mother,

  Orange tree . . .”

  The Robillards’ orangerie was scented as if by cinnamon or nutmeg, and fruit hung like shy pendants behind sharpish leaves. Absently humming, the child traced a green-gold globe with her fingertip. Dance music was faintly audible in the narrow brick-and-glass conservatory on the south façade of the spanking new mansion. Since Louisa Robillard’s young British architect didn’t understand Savannah customs, this quiet meditative room faced the servant yard, where washing, butchering, and laundering got done from daylight until dusk
. At peace tonight, the orangerie’s windows were black glass except for a carriage house lantern illuminating guests’ varnished rigs and the tiny sparks of their coachmen’s cigars.

  Solange sat on a stone bench, fanning herself.

  Although the Forniers’ improved finances had got them a house and rehired Cook, Solange understood (and often reminded her husband) money did not grow on trees, not even American trees. Keeping a carriage and coachman were unnecessary expense, and the Forniers had come to the ball in a cab.

  Solange was scoring the evening thus far: had she said what she ought and, more important, not said what she oughtn’t? Solange Escarlette Fornier would rise in this baffling, too democratic New World.

  The orchestra attempted a vigorous allegro, and Solange smiled at Ruth. “Child, we are as near Paradise as we shall ever be.”

  The child scratched her neck. “Yes, mistress, I reckon.” She didn’t meet Solange’s eyes. “That Count Montelone, he bein’ here?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Him and Master Augustin, they friends?”

  “They are more French than Napoleon.” Solange’s chuckle tried to enlist the child, but Ruth studied an orange as if she’d never seen one before. “He want buy me?”

  “Dear child, whatever gave you that notion?”

  She shrugged. A moment later she said, “I ain’t goin’ noplace. I wants be with you.”

  “If you’re going to be gloomy, you can assist the other servants. Go help Nehemiah.”

  “Nehemiah don’t need me none.”

  “There must be somebody who does!” Solange went toward the music.

  Since Philippe Robillard was a bachelor with a bachelor’s ways, the Robillard cousins’ Christmas ball was at Pierre and Louisa’s home, and, pursuant to Louisa’s dire threats, Philippe didn’t invite his Indian friends. As recompense for his perennial breach of hospitality, Philippe stationed himself at the punch bowl until he was poured into his carriage. Having not yet attained that state, Philippe and his new friend Captain Fornier reviewed injustices to Muscogee Indians, Edisto Indians, and the virtuous French planters of Saint-Domingue. Injustices were considered in detail, deplored, and toasted into oblivion.