The Duchess?
She was my friend and confidant for nearly ten years. Her comfort was always languid and soft, without hurry. That is not to say, Miss Whitcomb, that Laurette lacked passion. Quite the contrary. She was unlike the other offerings at Mrs Boudreau's House. She was a lady in the parlor, and equally a lady in the bedroom, but always with that sulty willingness that kept me reeling.
Her voice was not so much husky as sublty rich and her manner inviting rather than lewd. I never asked her where she came from, but I always suspected she had once been the daughter of a rich planter. So many people were displaced after the war. Many women had to do what was, shall we say, necessary in order to eat.
One never felt desperation in the woman, though. I say, it truly is difficult to explain Laurette. She has become a legendary figure in New Orleans since her days here. I am glad to see you are buying this old house. I wish you could have seen it when...pardon me, ma'am. Forgive me, of course you wouldn't have...you know...you being a lady and all, and this being a whorehouse.
Well, to answer you, I....What? Did she ever go away for a time and then return? Let me think. It was a long time ago, now. But yes, I do believe one night I asked for her and Mrs Boudreau said she had left on a journey North to see relatives. Odd, to travel North just as the troubles were ending.
I recall Mrs Boudreau despaired that she'd not return. She was the most asked for in the house and was paid highly by many polititions and clergy...Oh, pardon, Miss Whitcomb....I seem to have misspoken...certainly not the churchmen....the deacons maybe...I mean....
Eh? Yes, she returned a year later almost to the day, now that you mention it. Kind of pale, she was. And rather less attentive to her callers too if I recall. One of the girls told me she sent the butler out each week to post a large envelope always to the same address in New York City. The girls were quite intrigued to discover the name on the envelope . They devised many a scheme to find out what and to whom The Duchess, as she was called by the gentry, was sending.
It was to no avail, you know. No one, even Mrs. Boudreau knew. You see, Charles, the butler was negro and couldn't read. It wasn't until Laurette died that the truth was known. How little we really knew the most beautiful and facinating woman on New Orleans! I say, its simply an astounding...
Excuse me? What? Oh yes, do forgive an old man from prattling on. 'Tis seldom I get a chance to converse with a lovely lady.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Laurette's death. Gruesome it was, and that's a fact. A hansom cab arrived at the house that balmy night. She and I had been sitting on the veranda, watching the people come and go. I had brought her roses cut from the gardens at The Lilacs, my estate which I am glad to say did not succumb to the destruction of the war. What a striking figure she was. Her hair piled high, wearing a new dress that showed her coloring to its very best...and not one diamond, pearl or ruby, not one jewel did she wear. Some women just don't need to do they?....hmmm hmmm hmm.
Anyway, as Charles handed me my bourbon, the cab door opened and a tall dashing gentleman alighted. I was struck by his obvious wealth, but sensed malice in him, like an odor of death from the quarters on a summer breeze.
Mrs. Boudreau came to greet him. He paid her. It was quite a sum from what I could see. She turned to Laurette who stood, with a fearless look at the man.. I remember I realized her might have reason to fear, but wasn't easy in myself as to why. Abrubtly she sauntered to me, handed me back the roses, and said, "Mr Kingston, please bring these back to me tomorrow? I surely will be wanting them then. You take good care, Thomas. Goodnight." Then she bent to kiss me, and ma'am, I have not forgotten the taste of her lips in all these years. She held the one rose she took with her to her nose, walked by the gentleman without looking at him climbing up into the carriage. I never saw that flashing smile again.
A nigra found her next day on his way to work at one of the big hotels. There she sat straight upright in that same carriage, eyes open, legs crossed, impeccably dressed, my rose across her lap. The cook spoke to her, "Mawnin' Ma'am" and when he got closer he saw the blood dripping from the carriage and ran for the constable.
I can hardly tell the rest. The coroner said her killer had cut open her belly and put a tiny dead infant into the gaping cavity. Well, it was the scandal of the decade. She was buried with all the pomp of a real duchess, she was. The city was stunned and fearful, but the streets were full to see her cortege pass. I waited till the mummers had gone and the last mourner was on his way home. I laid the rest of the roses she had asked me to keep for her on her grave and wept like a young 'un.
It was then I saw him. The same dark gentleman, climbing into a carriage. I told the detectives all I knew but they never caught him.
When Mrs. Boudreau went through her things to try to find the address of a relative, 'twas then it was discovered what and to whom she'd been sendingin those envelopes. On her writing table was an envelope with ten one hundred dollar bills. The address was for a place in New York City, can't recall the street. The name was Mrs Catherine Riley. No letter, just a note...'For Justine's care, Laurette'.
Not knowing just who this Justine was, Mrs. Boudreau sent it with a letter explaining Laurette's demise. Oh not the details, but that she had passed.
I loved Laurette and begged her to marry me many times, but her denial was sweetly offered with a hint of 'someone special' in the north that she was 'saving' herself' for. It got to be a joke between us, but I never stopped wanting her.
Convinced the strange gentleman knew something of the crime I spent a considerable sum to find him, but to no avail. And that missy is really all I can tell you. I am glad you are going to buy the house. It is a beautiful old antebellum treasure, isn't it? I have kept it up as best my age will allow me.
I say, I never asked you why you inquired of The Duchess. Interest in the local legends, I assume.
What's that you say? Justine? Oh my. Truly? Forgive me, I must sit.
You are a beauty as she was, I should have noticed before. Yes, yes...you have her eyes.
What are you saying? That I should see something else in you? But surely....I mean...
Papa?.....Pardon me, my voice cracked a bit....nerves and age, I suppose...You are mine and Laurette's?....oh child. All these years I assumed the man was the child's father.
Now it is clear. Obsessed with her he was then. Jealous, you say. He must have been mad. Oh, my darling child, come sit by me.
Miss her? Oh yes daughter....I miss her. There's never been another like The Duchess. That butcher stole a bit of irreplacable beauty. Tragic, yes. Truly, I have missed the only woman I wanted to love me. You are proof that she might have loved me after all. Welcome home, Justine.
copyright 2002
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