A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood Page B

man. The Decoudreauxes are a good family. He would be a good husband to you.”
    My heart falls. “I — I know, Maman. But I’m in love with someone else.”
    “With who?” she demands. “Francois?”
    “Francois Meilleur?
Mon Dieu!
” I gape at her. Francois has a rabbity smile and tromps on my toes when we dance. “No!”
    “Then who?” She sits in the chair Etienne just vacated, leaning forward, waiting for my answer.
    I take a deep breath, summoning up my courage. “Antoine Guerin.”
    “Guerin?” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know the family.”
    I close my eyes. I can’t bear to see her face when I confess. “I didn’t stay with Eugenie while Madame Dalcour went to a ladies’ aid meeting last night, Maman. I went with them to a ball. At the Ursulines Ballroom.”
    “I see.” I can tell from the knife’s edge in her voice that she does. “This man — Monsieur Guerin — he is white?”
    I nod. “He’s from a very respectable family. Madame Dalcour says —”
    “Madame Dalcour!” My mother snorts in a very unladylike fashion. “Lisette Dalcour would not know respectable if it slapped her across the face. Which I’ve half a mind to do. Taking my daughter to make a spectacle of herself in —”
    “I didn’t make a spectacle of myself!” I protest, stung. “We only danced twice each time. And he made an offer for me! Madame said it’s —”
    She holds up a hand, forestalling me. “I do not want to hear one more word about what Madame Dalcour says!” She stands, her slippers whispering against the wooden floor as she paces. “Did she ever suggest that you consider what this man has to offer you, besides money? Perhaps for a few years he’ll devote himself to you, and then what? He’ll marry someone of his own class, his own race, to provide a proper heir, and you’ll be left raising his children. He’ll give you a nice settlement — or perhaps he’ll come visit you a few times a year, and you’ll have to live for that. Use your head, Maddie.”
    Tears spring into my eyes at her tone. “How can you judge? Grand-père was white. He and Grand-mère never married.”
    Maman draws herself up. She is a tall woman, voluptuously built, not bird boned like Madame Dalcour and Eugenie. I take after her in that and in my straight hair, though not her alabaster skin — the twins and I favor Papa, with his walnut complexion. Some say Maman married down, a liveryman with dark skin; but then some say Papa married down, an illegitimate quadroon girl, no matter how fair.
    How many times have my parents told me that our good name is all we have? That we may be free, but we are still judged by the color of our skin and the curl in our hair and the broadness of our features?
    Anger sweeps over me. Truth is, part of the reason Maman is so delighted by Etienne’s offer is because he has lighter skin than me and more delicate features, and our children would be beautiful. Every colored mother in the Quarter thinks about such things.
    An arrangement with Antoine would give Maman even lighter grandbabies. But they’d be illegitimate.
    “I am well aware that I am not legitimate myself,” she says, her voice low. “But things were different then. Grand-père never took a wife. He lived with us, not in some house out in the country. He and Maman may not have married, but they loved each other.”
    “Antoine said he loves me and wants the privilege of taking care of me,” I argue. “He said I am the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and —”
    “You are beautiful,” Maman agrees. “But a future husband should know more about you than that. This man is a stranger. Your father and I have never even met him! You must see how impossible this is.”
    “Won’t you even consider it?” I plead, slumping in my chair. Then I think of Maman’s oft-chided
Don’t slouch, Maddie,
and straighten. I want her to think of me as a grown woman who knows my own mind, not a child needing her