Redfern for her money? I toyed with the notion but gave it up."
January laughed. "Just curious. A friend of mine had a run-in with her." He wondered if there were any way of getting up to Spanish Bayou to have a look at the little house on Black Oak.
"Just as well." Hannibal sighed. "The Redfern plantation's on the block for about a quarter its worth, for debts -the man owed money to everyone in town except me and she's selling off the slaves for whatever they'll fetch. They don't think her creditors are going to realize thirty cents on the dollar."
"Twenty-five," said January, mindful of the conversation he'd overheard.
"Ah. Well. There you have it. So much for cutting a figure in society." He took a long pull from the bottle, a dark silhouette against the gold-sprinkled lapis of the lake.
Cyrus Viellard, walking behind with both horses on lead, added, "I hear she still got that little place next by Spanish Bayou, that they can't sell for debt cos of some way her daddy tied it up." He spoke diffidently, as was his place. "Michie Fazende and Michie Calder, that was owed money, they're fit to spit.` But it won't do her no good neither, cos it ain't a farm or anything like that."
Just a place where she could conceal poison from her husband, thought January, as they mounted the rear steps of the Washington Hotel and made their way through the kitchen quarters to where a waiter said they'd find "all them ladies havin' a to-do."
It was always difficult to get more than a general impression of a woman in the deep mourning of new widowhood. Entering the ballroom built behind the Washington Hotel, January had an impression of a stout little figure of about Cora Chouteau's height but approximately twice the girl's slight weight. Though the ballroom was illuminated as brilliantly as myriad oil lamps would permit, black crepe and veils hid everything of her except the fact that she was on the verge of poverty: despite considerable making over to lower the waist and the addition of far more petticoats than the skirt had originally been designed to accommodate, Mrs. Redfern's weeds were about fifteen years out of fashion. As January approached-with a proper air of deference-he had a vague view of a pale, square face and fair hair under the veils, but his clearest impression of her was her voice, sharp as the rap of a hammer. She was speaking English to a purpling and indignant Madame Viellard.
"I'm sorry if you feel that way, Mrs. Viellard, but as I've explained to you before, the musicians signed a contract." Mrs. Redfern jerked her head to indicate a slender, gray-clothed man, like an anthropomorphized rat, hovering at her side. "Mr. Fraikes drew it up and it does specify that it is legally binding no matter what the date-"
"What is she saying?" All her chins aquiver, Madame Viellard turned to her son. Henri was a fat, fair, bespectacled man in his early thirties whose sheeplike countenance amply attested the relationship. "Does that woman dare tell me that the men I hired for my own party are forbidden by law to play?"
"It's the contract, Mother," explained Henri Viellard in French. "It invalidates even a prior agreement. I'm sure the men didn't read it before signing. It isn't usual-"
"Isn't usual! Who ever heard of musicians signing a contract! They should never have done so! I paid them to play, and play they shall!"
Ranged among the buffet tables, a group of ladies in mourning or half-mournirig-the fever had as usual struck hardest in the American community-observed the scene with whispers and gestures concealed behind black lace fans. With the utmost air of artless coincidence, they jockeyed among themselves for a position next to the short, burly, rather bull-like man in their midst. His self-satisfied expression accorded ill with his ostentatiously plain black clothing: presumably the Reverend Micajah Dunk. On the other side of the buffet the musicians themselves were gathered, every violinist, cellist, coronetist, clarionetist, and flautist January had ever encountered in nearly a year of playing balls and recitals in the city since his return last November. They clutched their music satchels and looked profoundly uneasy, and who could blame them? They played for both Americans and Creoles, turn and turn about. If they fell seriously afoul of Madame Viellard they could lose half their income, and if of Mrs. Redfern, the other half.
Hannibal sidled over to an excessively turned-out American gentleman