"Barbara Hambly - Libre" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hambly Barbara)

was against the law for a man or woman of color to ride in a cab.

Except, of course, as the driver or as a servant perched on the box.

Catherine Clisson finished softly, “She never made it home.”

“Lucie and Marie-Therese waited for almost an hour,” added Agnes, her
round, rouged face puckered with distress at the memory of her daughter’s illness
and the fear that stalked every libre—the fear of kidnap by slave traders. Of being
taken out of New Orleans and sold. “Finally Lucie asked one of the market women’s
children to run see what was keeping Tommy.”

“That was the first I heard.”

“Is Marie-Therese all right?”

Agnes nodded, and her plump shoulders relaxed. “Just a little indisposition of
the stomach, you know. I tell the girls, never buy snacks and treats from those
market women unless you know them—who knows what goes into those ices? But
of course girls never listen. She’ll be well for the ball at the Salle tonight.” There was
an edge to Agnes’s voice. Marie-Therese had not yet found a protector after one
season of attending the quadroon balls at the Salle d’Orleans, and her mother wasn’t
going to let another season go by, however poorly the girl might feel.

January’s glance returned to Casmalia. “Has your daughter a lover?”

“My daughter has accepted a most flattering offer from Jules Dutuille.” The
woman brought forth the name of the sugar broker with a slow flourish, like a card
player spreading four of a kind beneath the noses of her enemies. But January saw
the look that flashed between Catherine Clisson and his sister, and remembered
hearing something—he couldn’t place what—disparaging about the man.

He knew the odds were only fifty-fifty that he’d get a truthful answer to his
next question. “Was there anyone else?”

“No!” Casmalia dabbed—very carefully—at her painted eyes with a tiny
square of lawn and lace, and Clisson and Dominique again traded a glance.
“Benjamin, it is vital—vital—not only that my daughter be found swiftly, but that no
word of this—this terrible tragedy—be allowed to reach M’sieu Dutuille’s ears ... or
those of M’sieu Rochier. Poor M’sieu Dutuille would be devastated—”

“I understand.” And he did understand, seeing how his mother, Bernadette
Métoyer, and Agnes Pellicot all leaned forward to catch and sift every word. Gossip
was the lifeblood of the free colored demimonde. The fact that Casmalia Rochier,
devastatingly elegant in her expensive simplicity, was inclined to boast virtually
guaranteed that her misfortune would be trumpeted abroad.

Her own business, of course, but dispensing with an audience would greatly
increase his chances of getting anything like truthful answers. “Maman, with Madame
Rochier’s permission I’m going to walk her home. Please, all of you ladies, finish