haughtily, switching to the Spanish in which she had addressed him. “I had no idea.”
Señora Lorcha’s face turned bright red, as well it might, thought January. He’d watched the mother of the lovely Natividad scrupulously minding her manners at table last night and guessed by the obvious care she was taking, and by the way she watched her daughter’s every move, that her claims to gentility—and to more than one or two rather distant Spanish ancestors—were as false as the paste diamonds in her hair. “You are insolent, Señor!”
“I am also busy.” Guillenormand set his spoon down in the cocoa-pot. “But I am at your service, Madame, for however long you wish to prolong this conversation instead of permitting me to finish your precious daughter’s refreshment.”
Señora Lorcha hissed, “Poisoner!” and turned on her heel—January’s eyes cut sideways, fast, to the cook’s face, in time to see it blanch and freeze. The next second Guillenormand forced a manufactured chuckle and a rather stiff gesture of scorn, and January asked,
“Ponzoñero?”
He deliberately mispronounced the Spanish word, as if it were unfamiliar to him.
“Oh.” Guillenormand cleared his throat and chuckled again. “Merely a spiteful word the lower classes have for Frenchmen, M’sieu.”
“What was that all about?”
“The lovely Natividad’s breakfast cocoa.” He resumed stirring, and January wondered whether the man’s self-consequence would run to leaving a piece of skin on the top of the cocoa when it was finally sent in, or whether his pride in perfection would not permit such a lapse even to vex his enemy. “A hag,” the cook added, shaking his head. “A veritable
entremetteuse—
you saw the girl at dinner last night! It would have served the old cow right if her daughter had married Franz—pardon,
Don Fernando. . . .
” He put an ironic twist on the Spanish name. “He would have sent her packing in quick order, back to the slums from which they both come.”
“But would he actually have married the . . . the young lady?” January asked. “Somehow she does not seem to me . . . but then, I know nothing of the family, nothing of the custom of the country. . . .”
“M’sieu,” said Guillenormand solemnly, raising his ladle, “I swear by the Blessed Name of Liberty—the only true Deity of the Universe—that I have never seen such a household as this one. But as for young Franz, once his elder brother was dead and he understood that the inheritance of lands wider than many German principalities lay within his grasp, he would have wed anyone his father ordered him to wed in spite of all the glares and puffing and comments of that pretty valet of his. Santa Anna’s generals are all borrowing money—some of them at forty-eight percent!—to outfit their men for the march to Texas. Don Fernando would not have been the first man in history,” he added, “to marry a midden that he might have the muck.”
“You must have been very shocked at his death.”
“M’sieu, after eighteen years in this household, nothing can shock me. Name of God,” he exclaimed as yet another form darkened the kitchen door, “what must a man do to . . . ? Ah.” His voice softened as he saw, along with the somberly-liveried servant who clearly appeared to be somebody’s valet, a boy of about eight, dressed in a neat black jacket and breeches with a spreading collar of white lace. “Maître Casimiro. Maître Casimiro Fuentes, may I present to you M’sieu Benjamin Janvier, a physician of the city of New Orleans.”
January rose and shook the boy’s hand. The child seemed a little nonplussed, but greeted him in good French and used the polite “vous” rather than the “tu” by which even children in New Orleans addressed slaves. As the son of Señora Josefa, the only blacks the child would have encountered in Vera Cruz would have been servants, or the former slaves on the sugar plantations of the lowlands.
The
Señora Lorcha’s face turned bright red, as well it might, thought January. He’d watched the mother of the lovely Natividad scrupulously minding her manners at table last night and guessed by the obvious care she was taking, and by the way she watched her daughter’s every move, that her claims to gentility—and to more than one or two rather distant Spanish ancestors—were as false as the paste diamonds in her hair. “You are insolent, Señor!”
“I am also busy.” Guillenormand set his spoon down in the cocoa-pot. “But I am at your service, Madame, for however long you wish to prolong this conversation instead of permitting me to finish your precious daughter’s refreshment.”
Señora Lorcha hissed, “Poisoner!” and turned on her heel—January’s eyes cut sideways, fast, to the cook’s face, in time to see it blanch and freeze. The next second Guillenormand forced a manufactured chuckle and a rather stiff gesture of scorn, and January asked,
“Ponzoñero?”
He deliberately mispronounced the Spanish word, as if it were unfamiliar to him.
“Oh.” Guillenormand cleared his throat and chuckled again. “Merely a spiteful word the lower classes have for Frenchmen, M’sieu.”
“What was that all about?”
“The lovely Natividad’s breakfast cocoa.” He resumed stirring, and January wondered whether the man’s self-consequence would run to leaving a piece of skin on the top of the cocoa when it was finally sent in, or whether his pride in perfection would not permit such a lapse even to vex his enemy. “A hag,” the cook added, shaking his head. “A veritable
entremetteuse—
you saw the girl at dinner last night! It would have served the old cow right if her daughter had married Franz—pardon,
Don Fernando. . . .
” He put an ironic twist on the Spanish name. “He would have sent her packing in quick order, back to the slums from which they both come.”
“But would he actually have married the . . . the young lady?” January asked. “Somehow she does not seem to me . . . but then, I know nothing of the family, nothing of the custom of the country. . . .”
“M’sieu,” said Guillenormand solemnly, raising his ladle, “I swear by the Blessed Name of Liberty—the only true Deity of the Universe—that I have never seen such a household as this one. But as for young Franz, once his elder brother was dead and he understood that the inheritance of lands wider than many German principalities lay within his grasp, he would have wed anyone his father ordered him to wed in spite of all the glares and puffing and comments of that pretty valet of his. Santa Anna’s generals are all borrowing money—some of them at forty-eight percent!—to outfit their men for the march to Texas. Don Fernando would not have been the first man in history,” he added, “to marry a midden that he might have the muck.”
“You must have been very shocked at his death.”
“M’sieu, after eighteen years in this household, nothing can shock me. Name of God,” he exclaimed as yet another form darkened the kitchen door, “what must a man do to . . . ? Ah.” His voice softened as he saw, along with the somberly-liveried servant who clearly appeared to be somebody’s valet, a boy of about eight, dressed in a neat black jacket and breeches with a spreading collar of white lace. “Maître Casimiro. Maître Casimiro Fuentes, may I present to you M’sieu Benjamin Janvier, a physician of the city of New Orleans.”
January rose and shook the boy’s hand. The child seemed a little nonplussed, but greeted him in good French and used the polite “vous” rather than the “tu” by which even children in New Orleans addressed slaves. As the son of Señora Josefa, the only blacks the child would have encountered in Vera Cruz would have been servants, or the former slaves on the sugar plantations of the lowlands.
The
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