A Jealous Mistress
Like many wealthy Louisiana sugarcane planters, as a young man, Yves Leclair entered into a plaçage with a beautiful, dark-complected young woman from New Orleans. The terms of this romantic arrangement were negotiated with the woman's mother after the conclusion of the Octoroon Ball, an occasion when attractive, young women of mixed blood were dressed in their finest and introduced to affluent white men looking for mistresses.
According to this arrangement, Yves provided Aphrodite, his placée, with a house on Royal Street. He also paid for her and her mother's clothing, food and other living expenses. In exchange for his generosity, Yves could count on Aphrodite giving him exclusive rights to her body.
In the pre-Civil War South, such arrangements were not uncommon. It was a way of life Yves and Aphrodite had been born into. There was no shame attached to such a relationship, which was viewed by the aristocratic planter society as little more than a simple business deal. Yet sometimes the people involved in these understandings could not remain dispassionate in their dealings. Foolishly letting their hearts rule their heads, some fell in love, and love has no place in a business deal.
* * *
Yves watched Aphrodite's face as she unwrapped her present: a pair of pearl earrings to match the necklace he had bought her on the second anniversary of their relationship. Her large, brown, doe-like eyes widened with appreciation, and she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips.
"Oh, they're beautiful!" she cried, removing the gold hoops she was wearing and putting the pearls in her earlobes. "How do they look?"
"Enchanting," Yves replied.
"Tomorrow night when we go out to dinner I will wear this necklace and the matching earrings along with the red and white gown you like so much," she said coquettishly.
Yves frowned.
"We'll have to make that dinner another time. I'm afraid I have to go north tomorrow on business."
Aphrodite pouted. She hated it when he went away since it would be weeks before he returned.
"Smile," the fair-haired, handsome bachelor said. "I'll be back as soon as I can. And I'll be sure to bring you another present."
Yves had every intention of keeping his promise to hurry home, but he had not expected to find a wife while he was in New England.
* * *
Unlike his fellow Southern plantation owners he knew, Yves, an astute businessman, was not sanguine about investing his entire fortune in agricultural products such as sugarcane or cotton. There were too many things that could go wrong to destroy a crop. He chose instead to invest a large portion of his considerable inheritance in a string of textile mills in Massachusetts. The Yankees, he believed, might be soft-hearted abolitionists, but to give the devil his due, they were good at making money.
At the conclusion of a successful meeting, Yves was asked out to dinner by Josiah Putnam, one of his Yankee business partners. It was at this dinner he met Putnam's daughter, Lilia.
Since the death of his father sixteen months earlier, Yves had given serious thought to marriage. He would naturally need an heir to the family fortune and a wife to help shoulder his many social responsibilities. He had briefly considered the eligible belles in the local parishes, but he found none to his liking. They were all too young, too old, too fat, too skinny, too bookish, too giddy or, in many cases, too plain for his tastes.
Lilia, on the other hand, was everything he wanted in a woman. Her hair was fiery red in color, and her eyes, which flashed like green emeralds, were highlighted by a flawless complexion that reminded Yves of freshly turned butter. The only problem was that she was a Northerner, and strong anti-Yankee sentiment was flourishing in the South. Even if he chose to ignore the feelings of his neighbors and proposed to Lilia, would she accept? Would a young woman from New England want to endure the heat and humidity of Louisiana?
After much soul searching, Yves finally resolved to pose the question to Lilia and leave the decision up to her.
"I don't imagine becoming accustomed to your Louisiana summers will be much more difficult than getting used to one of our New England winters," the young woman reasoned.
"Does that mean you'll consider my proposal, Miss Putnam?"
"There's no need for me to consider it, Mr. Leclair. I've already made up my mind. Yes, I'll marry you."
* * *
Aphrodite nervously paced the floor of the living room of her Royal Street home. It had been more than four months since Yves left for Massachusetts—four months without a word from him. They had never been apart that long, and the young woman feared for her protector's safety.
"Stop walking back and forth in front of that window," her mother said. "You'll wear out the carpet if you don't."
"I just know something terrible has happened to Yves," Aphrodite sobbed, wringing her hands with worry. "He would have come to see me had he returned from the North."
"Don't fret so, chil'. He's probably on his way back home now."
Petunia had been born into slavery and was given her freedom by her master, Aphrodite's father, on his deathbed. She often wished she'd had the good fortune to find a man like Yves Leclair to take care of her. If she had, she would not be depending on her daughter for food and shelter.
Another three weeks passed, and there was still no sign of her young man. Aphrodite was at her wits' end. Then, early one afternoon, he appeared, unannounced, at her door.
"Oh, my darling!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms and covering his face with kisses. "I was so worried that something had happened to you."
"Nothing happened to me—nothing bad, anyway. I was detained in Boston, and then my bride and I went to New York for a short honeymoon."
"Bride?" his mistress laughed nervously. "Don't tease me like that," she chastised him.
"I'm not joking. I got married while I was in Boston."
Aphrodite was stunned, feeling as though the ground had disappeared beneath her. While she had never seriously entertained the idea that Yves would marry her, she never dreamed he would marry someone else.
What is his wife like? she wondered with growing jealousy. Is she pretty?
Aphrodite's heart ached at the thought of Yves holding a beautiful woman in his arms.
"How long have you known this woman?"
"I just met her when I went to Boston. Her father is a business associate of mine."
"You married a stranger?"
"I'm nearly twenty-three years old. It is high time I married and started a family, but you needn't concern yourself with my marital status. I made an agreement in good faith with your mother. I'll always take care of you," he promised.
Aphrodite fought back her tears. She did not want Yves to know how much his marriage hurt her, nor did she want him to regard her as a piece of property he acquired in a business deal. After all, it was not as though she were a slave.
* * *
Although Yves had assured his mistress that his marriage would in no way affect his arrangement with her, after he returned from the North, his visits became increasingly rare. Despite her unhappiness, Aphrodite did not complain. If she did, she might drive him away. While she kept her tongue when she was with Yves, she was not loath to share her fears with her mother.
"He never comes to see me anymore," the heartbroken girl whined.
"Never?" her mother echoed.
"Well, hardly ever. He has been here only four times these past six months."
"He has only just gotten married," Petunia reasoned. "When the fresh bloom of love has passed, he will visit you more often."
Aphrodite winced when her mother mentioned Yves' feelings for his wife. She preferred to believe it had been a marriage of convenience, one prompted by duty or monetary gain rather than by love.
"What if he doesn't grow tired of her?" Aphrodite pressed. "What will become of us?"
Petunia examined her daughter with a critical eye. Although Aphrodite was still a beauty, she was no longer the captivating virgin of the Octoroon Ball. Wealthy planters preferred their mistresses fresh off the vine. If her protector ended their arrangement, it was doubtful another rich white man would offer to take his place.
"Maybe there is a way I can get Yves to become more interested in me than in his wife," Aphrodite said conspiratorially.
"How?" Petunia asked with mounting unease and suspicion.
"I can make a potion ...."
"No!" her mother thundered. "You must not even think of it."
"Why not? Marie Laveau makes love potions and gris-gris all the time."
"Because if Yves ever found out you were using voodoo on him, he would no doubt be furious. It would be within his rights to see you imprisoned or, worse, sold into slavery."
"He would not do that to me. He cares for me too much."
Aphrodite spoke with confidence, but in her heart she had doubts. Could a mistress, or even a wife for that matter, ever be completely sure of the man she loved?
For the time being, Petunia managed to convince her daughter to bide her time and to put the idea of resorting to voodoo out of her head.
"There are other ways a woman can lure a man to her bed, chil'. The next time Yves visits you, be sure to wear your finest dress and jewelry. Have your hair done up in curls, off your neck. And be sure to use the French perfume he gave you for Christmas. You must use all your charms if you want him to keep coming back."
Aphrodite did as her mother instructed, but Yves seemed not to notice.
"What's wrong?" she asked him when he next came to visit. "You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm just tired. I've been working a lot of long hours lately. I want to finish up things here because my wife and I will be taking a trip to Boston soon. She hasn't seen her family in a while, and I have several things I'd like to discuss with her father."
"Will you be gone long?"
"Most of the summer, I imagine. My wife is not used to this heat, and in her condition I want her to be comfortable."
"Her condition? Is she ill?"
"No. She's with child."
A child! Aphrodite prayed that her heart would stop pounding in her chest. Better yet, let it stop beating altogether, for she would rather die than live without Yves.
"Will you come see me before you go?" she asked hopefully.
Yves sighed, clearly not enthused at the idea of another obligation, and replied without conviction, "I'll try to stop by the next time I'm in town, but I won't be able to stay for long. As a matter of fact," he said, looking at his watch, "I have to leave now. I don't want to be late getting home."
So saying, he rose from his seat, retrieved his jacket from the coat rack, kissed her on the cheek and left. It was a mere gesture of affection, displaying no more passion than if she were his sister.
The hell with her mother's advice! Aphrodite was going to concoct a love potion to use on Yves Leclair. If there be consequences to her actions, so be it. She was willing to take the chance.
* * *
When Yves returned to the house on Royal Street in two weeks' time, he did not even bother to remove his jacket.
"Sit down," Aphrodite told him. "Dinner is almost ready."
"I can't stay for dinner," he objected. "I have to be home early tonight."
"But it's your favorite: roast duckling."
Yves shook his head.
"My wife has a special dinner planned for us."
"A drink then?" Aphrodite asked, forcing herself to remain cheerful.
"All right, but it has to be a quick one."
Aphrodite walked to the sideboard and poured him a glass of brandy from a decanter that she had spiked with her love potion earlier that day. She handed him the glass, and in a rush to leave, he drank it down in one swallow.
"I really have to go now," he insisted as he handed her the empty glass. "I'll try to come and see you when I get back from Boston."
He determinedly left the house but got only as far as the end of the walkway before turning around and hurrying back inside.
"I thought you had to get home," Aphrodite teased.
Yves did not reply. He simply tore off his jacket and took her in his arms.
* * *
For the next two days, Yves stayed by Aphrodite's side, as attentive as a newlywed husband. He never once mentioned his wife, their baby or the upcoming trip to Boston. At last, thanks to her love potion, Aphrodite had Yves right where she wanted him.
Naturally, Lilia was upset when her husband did not come home. At first, she feared he had been injured in an accident or set upon by robbers. When Yves failed to come home the second night, Lilia sent one of the slaves to fetch the sheriff, who, having guessed where Yves was, made several weak attempts to cover for him. Lilia, however, saw through his lies.
"My husband has a kept woman, doesn't he?" she asked, her face reddened with anger rather than embarrassment.
"I ...."
"That's all right, sheriff. You needn't answer."
After the lawman left her home, Lilia called for her husband's driver.
"I want you to go into town and collect Mr. Leclair," she instructed. "I'm sure you know the address of the woman in question."
By sundown that night, Yves returned to his house. When Lilia heard her husband's slightly slurred speech and saw the glazed look in his eyes, she knew he had been drugged.
"I'll have to do something about this," she announced with fierce determination.
* * *
A week passed; then two. When Yves failed to return to the house on Royal Street, Aphrodite began to worry. Had the potion worn off so soon? Or worse, had she given him too much and caused him to become ill? She soon learned from Yves' driver, however, that her lover was well and busy making preparations for the trip north. Apparently, he had once again become the dutiful, loving husband.
"I must stop him from going to Boston," the angry mistress cried. "I can't bear to go all summer without seeing him, especially knowing he's with her."
The more Aphrodite thought about Yves and his damnable Yankee wife, the more her jealousy grew. But the risk of giving Yves another dose of love potion so soon was too great. An overdose could very well kill him.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that the problem was not Yves; it was Lilia. That woman had spoiled everything. If Aphrodite could get rid of Lilia, Yves would surely come back to her.
"I can't use poison on her," the mistress cautioned herself. "It might be detected. And I don't have a gris-gris strong enough to do the trick."
After several hours of contemplation, Aphrodite came to the conclusion that a voodoo doll might be the answer to her problem. She spent the afternoon melting down candles and molding a female form with the malleable hot wax.
"For the magic to work, I will need a lock of hair or a fingernail clipping."
There was only one way to obtain those items, however. Aphrodite must go to Yves' home and get them herself. It was far too dangerous to trust anyone else with what would surely be seen as a criminal act punishable by death.
* * *
Lilia was sleeping peacefully beside her husband when she was awakened by a strange noise and immediately sensed something was wrong. She got up slowly so as not to awaken Yves; then she tiptoed across the room. When she crossed the threshold and stepped out into the hallway, she shut the bedroom door behind her. Lilia cocked her head and listened carefully. There was someone downstairs.
Never one to succumb to fear, she bravely confronted the intruder in the parlor.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?" she demanded to know.
Startled, Aphrodite turned and stared at her rival. She was sickened by the other woman's undeniable beauty.
No wonder Yves has forsaken me for her, she thought, her heart sinking with despair.
"So, it's you?" Lilia asked, instinctively recognizing the other woman in Yves' life. "If you've come to drug my husband again, you're wasting your time. You'll find he's now immune to your silly potions and trinkets."
Aphrodite stared at Lilia defiantly, hatred and jealousy radiating from her large, brown, doe-like eyes.
"No," the Yankee wife realized. "It's not my husband you're here for. It's me, isn't it?"
Lilia leaned forward and snatched the small wax figure Aphrodite was trying to keep hidden behind her back.
"A voodoo doll?" Lilia laughed. "You hoped to destroy me with a simple wax poppet?"
Aphrodite was amazed by the other woman's phlegmatic reaction. Most white people, particularly women, harbored an unspoken fear of voodoo and of those who practiced it.
"Your absurd potions, charms and dolls are no match for my magic," the redheaded beauty calmly explained. "My family has been practicing witchcraft since the time of the Celts. We were able to safely escape the witch-hunts in both England and Salem. Do you honestly believe you could succeed where the church and its fanatical followers failed?"
Lilia punctuated her question by throwing the wax image into the fire, but only after putting a spell upon it first. When the wax hit the burning log, Aphrodite's bloodcurdling screams could be heard throughout the house.
* * *
The future of the fledgling American nation looked grim. With President Abraham Lincoln in the White House, the chasm between North and South widened.
Lilia put her son to bed and went down to the den to speak to her husband.
"You have to make up your mind soon," she told him.
Yves turned his head toward the window, not wanting to face his wife or the difficult decision that loomed ahead of him.
"It's only a matter of time before the fighting begins," Lilia continued softly, not wanting to cause her husband any pain. "And you know as well as I do that the South will never win."
Despite their gentle delivery, Yves felt the sting of his wife's words. He had been born and bred in Louisiana and was proud to be a gentleman of the Old South. Still, his patriotism did not blind him to the truth: the industrialized North was far better equipped than the primarily agrarian South to withstand a long war. Unless the Southern armies could gain a swift victory or a powerful European ally, they were doomed to eventual defeat.
"This is my home," he declared weakly.
While Lilia empathized with her husband's predicament, she had her child's future to think of.
"If it were just the two of us, I would be more than willing to stay here with you, my dearest, and face whatever may come, but I'm a mother, and my duty to my son is far greater than my allegiance to any government."
Yves looked at his wife with both love and respect, and his resistance melted in the face of her strength.
"Boston it is then," he sighed.
"Hopefully, we can return soon," Lilia said to soften the blow.
Yves then voiced the fears and concerns that they were both feeling.
"We can never come back here. The people will never forgive me if I wait out the war in New England. In fact, we'll be lucky if they don't burn the place to the ground after we leave."
"I could put a protection spell on the house," his wife offered.
A chill ran down Yves' spine. Every time he thought of Lilia's unusual gifts, he was reminded of Aphrodite and the terrible night when his mistress came to the plantation to murder his wife.
"No. The three of us will make a fresh start in Boston."
Lilia placed her hand on her abdomen.
"The four of us," she announced with a smile.
* * *
In a fetid cabin deep in the Bayou, where only the bravest or most desperate souls ventured, dwelt a voodoo queen who bartered gris-gris and potions for food, tobacco and strong drink. Inside the hovel, on a decrepit sofa that smelled of mildew, perspiration and whiskey, sat the hag herself, oblivious to the filth, the stench and the things that crawled and slithered across her floor.
Her once large, brown, doe-like eyes were a lifeless black. The loss of her eyesight was a blessing in disguise, however, for she was spared seeing the hideous burns that covered her body and the few sparse patches of white hair that grew on her scarred scalp.
Behind Aphrodite, her mother rocked in her chair, remembering the fine house on Royal Street that Yves had once provided for them. She and Aphrodite had been comfortable then, with a home and food and clothing aplenty.
"It's all your fault, girl," Petunia angrily scolded her daughter for the umpteenth time. "We would still be living the good life on Royal Street if you had only listened to me."
Aphrodite did not bother to remind her bitter mother that Yves Leclair, his wife and his growing family had long since deserted Louisiana to live in Boston. So even had the erstwhile mistress not tried to use her pitiful powers against her rival, she would still be without a protector. Of course, had she not gone up against a witch, she would at least have walked away from the relationship with her beauty intact. Either way, losing the man she loved scarred her soul far worse than the flames that consumed the voodoo doll had scarred her flesh.
Aphrodite reached for the jug of whiskey by her side and drank deeply, hoping to block out the memory of Yves' handsome face, as somewhere in the room the rocking chair squeaked and her mother grumbled, ceaselessly mourning the loss of the good life the arrangement with Yves Leclair had once afforded them.
No, this isn't a voodoo doll of Salem. It's only one of the candles we use when the power goes out in the saltbox.
