Chapter 6

When Susan Clutcher had unbuttoned Claire’s dress to the waist, she slipped the garment off her shoulders and it settled in a pool of cloth on her hips, then she paused.

“Why what’s this?” She said. “You’re wearing one of those French brassieres.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not sure such a garment is decent,” Mrs. Clutcher said. “Where ever did you get such a thing? Surely not in Shreveport.”

“Yes, ma’am. My mother suggested it because I have a large bosom and I needed support. A simple shift did not hold me tight enough and it was not very modest under my clothes.”

In fact, Andre had presented her with the brassiere before they left Baton Rouge. When she asked him how he happened to have it on hand in his apartment, he replied with a wry smile and a wink, “I keep a few assorted pieces of ladies’ clothing on hand for emergencies.”

“And his little costume parties,” Bart had added with a snort and a laugh.

“Surely a corset would have served,” Mrs. Cluther observed.

“Yes, ma’am, but they are awfully hot and uncomfortable.” She leaned back resting on the woman’s hands. “It’s quite easy to unfasten,” she said. “Can you manage it?”

Mrs. Cluther had indeed already managed the unfastening and the brassiere too settled into the puddle of cloth on Claire’s hips. The woman’s hands then began a slow and gentle exploration of the Claire’s newly exposed flesh.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “You have had rather a beating. What a brute your father is. Even for a man, he is especially a beast. But you seem to be healing nicely.” Her hands explored under Claire’s arms then around her body. She reached a bit further until he held the young woman in a loose embrace. She continued her exploration, this time moving her hands up to cup Claire’s breasts, at first loosely, then more firmness.

“Mm,” Claire sighed. “Your touch is so gentle.”

Mrs. Clutcher stroked Claire’s nipples with her thumbs, very softly at first, then less so as she applied just a bit of pressure with her forefingers and thumbs.

Claire let the woman touch her in silence for a few minutes, then she said, “Miss Susan?”

“Mm?” The older woman’s tone was impatient as if she were annoyed at being disturbed in her thoughts.

“I wonder if I might change my position. Although your hands are very pleasant and soothing, I feel a little awkward sitting on the floor.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose if you are uncomfortable. Come with me.”

She took got up from the chaise and pulled Claire to her feet. “Come with me,” she said.

Claire stepped out of the dress and petticoat and left them lying on the floor with the discarded brassiere. She took the older woman’s hand and wearing only her brief silk bloomers, another gift from Andre, she allowed herself to be led into the bedroom.

Mrs. Clutcher pulled the counterpane away from the sheets. “Why don’t you lie on the bed?” she asked.

Claire lay down on the bed on her stomach and Mrs. Clutcher immediately continued her explorations, beginning as before with a faint clucking of her tongue about the evidence of the beating, but proceeding without a much delay to applying attention to Claire’s breasts, as if they needed consolation as well, although they themselves had not been abused by the Reverend Mr. Crump’s beating.

“Are you comfortable now, Claire?”

“Why yes, ma’am, much more comfortable, but perhaps if I may, I’d like to lie on my back now.”

“Yes, dear. By all means you may. Please do turn over.”

Claire turned over and as she did so, she moved her own hands over her body from her shoulders over her breasts, flattening them somewhat, then reversing her movement, she brought her hands up to lift her breasts and looked with a hint of challenge into Mrs. Cluther’s eyes.

The muscles of Susan Clutcher’s jaw began knotting again. She took Claire’s hands firmly in her own and held them at the young woman’s side. Staring not into Claire’s eyes but at her breasts, she lowered her head and touched a nipple with her tongue, then sucked it into her mouth. Holding the nipped between her lips, she flicked it with her tongue and sucked harder.

Claire moved under her and resisted the woman’s hands which were holding her, but not with enough force to break away from the restraint. She took a quick breath and pushed her chest upward into Mrs. Clutcher’s face.

Mrs. Clutcher released one of Claire’s hands and began manipulating the other nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Claire put her free hand firmly on top of Susan Clutcher’s iron grey hair and held the woman’s head to her breast. “Oh, that is so soothing,” she said. “So very very soothing.”

Mrs. Clutcher was breathing heavily now. Her licking and sucking and manipulation of Claires breasts, while still gentle, compared to the violence of her love-making with Bart and Andre, grew more insistent and demanding. She moved her free hand under the waistband of Claire’s silk bloomers and pushed down to run her fingers into the soft patch of hair between her legs.

“Umm,” Claire sighed. “Oh, Miss Susan, whatever are you doing?” She made no effort to stop Mrs. Clutcher in her attentions either to her breasts or he spot where her fingers were gently exploring between her legs.

Mrs. Clutcher made no comment, but her breathing grew ragged as well as heavy. She continued sucking Claire’s nipple, although she had shifted her attention to the nipple on the other breast. She put her newly freed hand up inside her own skirt and after some initial difficulty among the petticoats and her own bloomers, she found the place she was seeking. Her other hand, which had remained between Claire’s legs found the spot she had been seeking, the same spot that Andre had recently attended with his tongue. Immediately Mrs. Clutcher’s finger produced sensations similar to, if of a somewhat different exotic nature.

Claire found herself surprised that she could be sexually aroused by another woman, but she had also been surprised by her response when she had made love with two men at the same time, especially when one of them had allowed the other to fuck him in the ass while he had been fucking her with his tongue. She remembered, even as Mrs. Cluther’s finger was raising her to a high level of excitement, how Andre had told her back in Baton Rouge, “You won’t know if you like it unless you try it.”

No more than a few minutes passed in Mrs. Clutcher’s bed before Claire felt herself approaching a climatic moment.

“Oh, Miss Susan,” she whispered hoarsely, as she began to feel the now-familiar approach of a climax. Her body began to tremble (not entirely involuntarily) and her breath came in gasps. “Oh, Miss Susan. I feel so strange. Oh, dear, I feel as if I am going do die.”

Mrs. Clutcher continued her attentions to Claire unabated and to herself in silence until Claire began to shake in earnest. Her legs jerked in quick spasms and she spread them apart pushing her pelvis against Mrs. Clutcher’s hand. Mrs. Clutcher too showed signs of reaching a climax and after a few more seconds of violent breathing, she withdrew her hand and wiped it on a handkerchief she pulled from a pocket.

“Put your clothes on, Claire,” she said. “And do something about your hair. It’s quite disarranged.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Claire said, then “I wonder if I may ask you a question.”

“Yes, what do you want?”

“I wonder if perhaps you are prepared to offer me employment.”

“Employment?”

“Yes, ma’am. I believe that is what Miss Ophelia had in mind when she invited me for luncheon.”

“Did she? Well, yes, I think she said you had some French or was it arithmetic.”

“Both, ma’am.”

“She’s in charge of the teaching staff. I only manage the business affairs.”

“Perhaps then, I could help you manage your affairs.”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“No, ma’am, it’s only that I do need employment or else I don’t know how I shall get on. I shall be quite desperate, actually. I don’t know to what extremes I might have to go to in order to survive.”

Mrs. Clutcher eyed her closely with the devious visage which had been captured quite accurately in the sepia-toned photograph in the hall.

“I’ll speak to Miss Ophelia on your behalf,” she said, “But I’m sure Miss Ophelia will want to have her own interview.”

“That’s quite all right,” Claire said. “Do you think Miss Althea will want one as well.”

Mrs. Clutcher looked at her with a hostility that overrode the devious visage for a moment.

“Don’t be impertinent.”

*****

An interview with Miss Ophelia was not convenient that afternoon, but she would see her in the morning. She arranged for Claire to spend the rest of the day at the school and to share a bedroom with Miss Greenbirch overnight.

When Claire had deposited her belongings with Miss Greenbirch, who revealed a first name of Rachael when she took Claire to her quarters, she borrowed writing materials from the woman and sat down in the front parlor to compose a letter to Andre. She enclosed that letter (inside its own envelope) with another brief note to Andre’s aunt and wrote on the outside of the second envelope the address on Rue Burgundy he had given her when she left him at the barge that morning.

She gave a maid, whom she found sweeping the steps of the house next door, a dime to deliver the letter, then sat down again in the parlor to read from a copy of Blaise Pascal’s Pensées she found in the bookcase. She had struggled with the text as far as the beginning of Article II, Misére de l’homme san Dieu when a letter was delivered to the school by a garçon from the household of Mme. Denise Dettonville, Andre’s aunt. The boy was instructed to wait for a reply.

The letter was written in French, but Claire read it easily – especially since she had only recently been immersed in reading Blaise Pascal.

My dear Miss Crane, the letter began:

I am delighted to know that you have found temporary refuge at the ÉcoleJuttison and that you are optimistic about permanent employment. I shall write immediately to our mutual friend Mrs. Merryweather and let her know you are safe for the present, and with good prospects for the future.

If you are free this evening, I would very much enjoy entertaining you for a modest dinner at my home. You are also welcome to spend the night as well if you wish. Doing so would allow you to have a leisurely dinner without the necessity of hurrying back to the école early in the evening – as I suspect there may be a curfew. Please let the garcon who bears this letter know if you can come and I will send a carriage at the hour you name.

I hope very much you will be able to come.

Denise Dettonville

Claire sent the boy back to tell Mme. Dettonville that she would be delighted to come to dinner and that she would be ready to leave in an hour if the carriage could be sent. She then went looking for Miss Ophelia, but found that she was conducting a class and could not be disturbed. She received a similar message from Miss Althea as well, and was informed that Miss Susan was napping with instructions not to be disturbed. Finding that Rachael Greenbirch was also not available, Claire wrote a note addressed to the Misses Juttison telling them that she had been invited for dinner and to spend the night with Mme. Dettonville, who she explained was the friend of Mrs. Merryweather with whom she had spent the previous night and that she had decided to go, so as not to inconvenience the Juttisons and Miss Greenbirch with dinner and the night’s lodging.

She quickly sponged away the interlude with Mrs. Clutcher and, although she wore the same silk underclothes, she changed her dress, choosing the close-fitting white eyelet she had ashore in Baton Rouge the evening she met Andre. She added a white silk scarf over her shoulders and arms. It was the middle of August in the hottest time of the year in New Orleans, but the scarf was necessary for fashion and modesty, not for warmth. When she was ready to leave, she waited on the leather sofa in the dark entrance hall so that she could get away as soon as the carriage arrived.

*****

The carriage delivered Claire to an ancient two-story mansion on Rue Burgundy on the downriver side of Esplanade Boulevard just outside the French Quarter in Faubourg Marigny, an old New Orleans suburb that was settled early in the 19th century by free people of color and immigrants from Italy and Germany. The house was built of brick that had faded to a pale shade of the original red. The old brick glowed in the orange light from the gas lanterns on either side of the door. She could see the a lamp burning beyond the cut-glass entry, but no light was visible behind the closed shutters.

Claire pulled the chain beside the wrought-iron grill protecting a cut-glass door. A chime responded softly from deep inside the house. The driver kept the carriage at the curb while Claire waited and Claire was glad he stayed. She would have been frightened standing alone on the dark sidewalk and hoped someone would answer the door right away. Except for the gas lights at the mansion and a bare electric bulb across the street, the only other illumination on the street was a gas light at the corner. Most of the street was very dark, especially the black holes that hid the doors into the other buildings on the street.

To Claire’s relief, the door was opened almost immediately by a black girl wearing a maid’s uniform. The girl was in her early teens, and she had a plain square-jawed face with a wide nose that dominated the region above a mouth that smiled at Claire.

“Are you Miss Crane?”

“Yes, I am. I’m here. . .”

“Oh, yes Miss Crane. We were expecting you. Please come in.” She stepped back and opened the door for Claire to go in. She spoke with a French accent, but her English was refined, not like the way Negroes spoke in Shreveport.

Behind her Claire heard the carriage clatter off down the street as she looked about her in the entrance hall. She made a soft gasp caused by her first impression of the elegance she had entered, but she had no time to look about her at length. A vision of dark-haired beauty was sweeping toward her.

“Bon Soir, Miss Crane. Bienvenue. Welcome. I am Denise Dettonville. I am so glad you came.”

"Merci, Madam. Enchanté,”

“Oh, parles-tu francais?”

“Oui, madam.”

“Delightful, my dear. How very delightful,” Mme Dettonville said speaking French. She clapped her her hands without making a sound doing so. “Dubby, let’s have some light in the upstairs back parlor, but not the oil lamps, let’s have candles. Candle light is so much better, don’t you think, Claire? May I call you Claire?”

“Oh, please do madam. Shall I call you Denise?”

“Oh, yes, do. I think Americans can sometimes be very entertaining – the women that is – not so much the men, except the younger ones. Young American men have such vigor and they're so virile.”

She used the French word garçons, when referring to young men. The French word implied a male in his late teens or early twenties, certainly not as old as thirty. Although it was difficult to tell, Denise appeared to be in her mid thirties.

“. . .but I find Americans who don’t speak French very tedious. One can say so many things better in French than in English don’t you think?” Denise continued.

“I haven’t thought much about it.” Claire answered. “I haven’t had much practice speaking French except in school. I read and write French much better than it speak it.”

“Then you must read and write French very well because you speak it quite well. Your accent perhaps needs some polish, but we can practice that, if you like.”

“Oh yes, I would like that very much.”

“Ah, good, very good.”

She spoke to the maid again as she followed them up the stairs, “Dubby when you have seen to the candles bring the wine – the Chardonnay – it should be chilled by now. And chill a second bottle also.

“You will have a glass of Chardonnay won’t you, Claire or would you prefer Sherry? Sometimes Americans do, but sherry is too heavy for the season I think, and white wine is so refreshing on a summer evening. We will sit outside on the veranda.”

Dubby brought the wine to them on the veranda. A breeze found its way over the rooftops bringing with it the particular summer smell of the Mississippi moving its great black mass past the city behind the levee.

“Now, tell me, how did you find the École Juttison?”

“I don’t really know yet, but I suppose I’ll have a job – teaching French and mathematics I think – but the Juttison sisters may prove to be difficult employers.”

“Oh, really?” How do you mean?”

“They are very unfriendly and they're very sour when they speak to you. I’m afraid they are also very parsimonious. Luncheon was a pretty meager affair and the girls ate in silence listening to a reading about women’s suffrage.”

“And don’t you think women ought to have the vote?”

“Why certainly, but it’s not pleasant to hear about it while one is eating lunch.”

“Indeed not. A meager affair, did you say?”

“Very. A thin soup–cabbage I think–but my portion did not have enough cabbage to be absolutely sure.”

“How dreadful! Besides not speaking French, the next most tedious thing about Americans is their lack of imagination with regard to food. It’s a shame they aren’t more inventive in feeding themselves and somewhat less imaginative in their dress. My dear! So many bows and puckers and ribbons and so little shoulder and bosom. And such heavy jewelry. They quite miss the point of being women.”

Claire laughed. “I hope you will help me with both food and dress.”

She looked at the Frenchwoman’s evening dress. Was it watered silk? And the color was wonderful, a deep blue. One would think it was black except where the candle light shown on it. She wore sapphire drops on her ears and a matching sapphire necklace. Her hair was very dark and beautiful, and it too shown in the candle light.

“You are very beautiful Denise,” she said. “I hope I’m not being forward in saying so. We have only just met.”

“How sweet you are, Claire. A woman always likes to be told she’s beautiful, especially by another women – if she’s sincere of course and not being sarcastic or obsequious. There are any number of women in the world quite capable of bitchiness, and you can never quite trust some of them to be truthful when they give you compliments.

“But, let me tell you that you are very pretty yourself. You look wonderful in white. So few can wear it well. One must be very young, and have flawless skin I think. Your skin is so smooth with such a rosy glow. There are too many like me in New Orleans – dark Creole women. We are quite common, but you will stand out from the crowd. Your beauty is so fresh, so fair. I would look like a full-rigged sailing ship if I wore white.”

The two women laughed together and drank their Chardonnay, talking of various things, wine, and clothes and hair styles and shoes. Claire was anxious to learn from the elegant woman.

After several minutes the wine began to produce a pleasant effect on Claire. She felt quite content and happy.

“The wine is wonderful, Denise,” she said. “To tell the truth, I’ve only had wine once before, and that was red. I drank some in a restaurant the night I met Andre in Baton Rouge, but I’m beginning to remember now that I liked it very much then too.

Andre had been on her mind since she arrived and she wanted to ask Denise about him. He was the reason she had been invited to visit Denise after all. She was wondering if he would also be there for dinner. She hoped he would.

“Will Andre be here for dinner?”

“No, not for dinner. He has an appointment with an associate. Political business I think, but he promised to look in later when he is free.”

"Politics? Is he involved in politics?"

"Why yes. He's in the state legislature. Didn't you know?"

"I'm afraid we did not talk very much the evening we met, and not much about his affairs at all on the trip down from Baton Rouge. I did wonder what he did--for a living I mean, but we never got around to talking about it."

"Well, then, you have a lot to learn about my brother."

“Your brother? I thought he was your nephew."

“Whatever do you mean?

Claire thought she had made a mistake speaking French. “I understand he is your nephew. Is that the right word in French? Neveu?” she said speaking English.

“Yes, the word for nephew is le neveu certainly. Did he tell you I am his aunt? I shall cut off his ears! He told you I am his Tante?”

“Yes, and I wondered that he could have an aunt as young as you, but then I supposed. . . “

“What a scoundrel that man is. He told you I am his aunt! What a knave he is. Such a scandal! He told me that you and he had quite a festive party the evening you met, but he only teased me with the knowledge, he refused to give me details, the scoundrel. He said you’d tell me all you wanted me to know.”

“Did he now?” Claire said and smiled. She was not yet prepared to comment further about the first night with Andre until she knew how much Denise knew about the man’s sexual tastes. If the man was in politics, the party she had had with him and Bart would not be safe to chat about.

“I shall cut off his ears and his fingers one by one, perhaps his testes as well. The very idea. I am not his aunt. Not at all! I am his half sister.”

“Oh, are you really? Why in the world would he say you were his aunt.”

“It’s his wicked wit, I should think. He’s referring to my – patron – who is his mother’s brother, but we have different mothers so to call me his aunt is a very bad joke on his part. I’ll cut off his ears and testes I swear. Perhaps I ought to make him a Jew.”

“What do you mean? How can you make him a Jew?”

“I will cut off his foreskin. I shall get him drunk and when he passes out, I shall circumcise him. And I shall use a very dull knife and pour raw whisky on his wound.”

Claire was only vaguely aware of what circumcision was, but it sounded drastic, especially the whiskey. She laughed. “ Oh, I do hope you don’t do him any damage there, if I know what you mean. It would be quite a pity. He is so well set-up as a man.”

Denise waved her hand to dismiss the subject. “Being his sister, I only know that sort of thing by hearsay. I do know he’s a great talker and I never rely only on his account of things. He’s also a great joker, but it’s hard not to love him. He’s so handsome and cuts such a very fine figure, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think he’s very good looking, and I suspect he has any number of ladies setting traps for him.”

“Indeed, but he is a such a wily fox, he’ll not get caught – not until he finds a trap that appeals to him more than his freedom.”

Claire was pleased to find that Andre was not likely to get caught soon. He’d be free for her to enjoy for a while, he just hoped he wouldn’t lose interest in her too soon. She would much rather lose interest in him first. Remembering how he looked naked and how much pleasure he had given her, and she him, she began to feel warm inside. She was looking forward to seeing him later and she knew she was nowhere near losing interest in him.

“May I ask you a question?” she said.

“Certainly.”

“You said before that you preferred to speak French because – if I remember correctly – because one can say many things better in French than in English.”

“Yes it is true.”

“For instance?”

“Well in speaking of love, I think. French is such a lovely language for speaking of love – and for making love too I think.”

“You mean French has special words? What words does French have that English doesn’t”

“It’s not a matter of the words, exactly, it’s more the way the words sound when spoken in French. Some words sound so crude in English, but in French they sound, well, more sensual. Less rough. Less vulgar.”

“For example?”

“Well, it may be just a matter of taste, of course. Sometimes rough and vulgar words are exciting, but I much prefer a more gentile beginning. Do you know the meaning of the word pussy when one is speaking of sex? Well, when one says it in English, it sounds rather crude, I suppose because cats are not always friendly creatures, but when one says the word in French, it summons up a certain tenderness, a cosiness, a gentleness that is missing when one says it in English.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean. I really don’t have much experience with the language of love making.”

Denise smiled. “Perhaps not a great deal, but I think you have some experience? With Andre perhaps?”

“Well, yes, that was indeed quite an experience, but I there really wasn’t much talk – even at the beginning. I think it was the wine. It all happened so very fast, and. . . well there was not a lot of talking.”

“Oh, my dear, that doesn’t sound like Andre at all. I sometimes think he prefers to make love with his mouth best of all.”

Claire burst out laughing. The wine was made her daring.

“Denise, what you say is quite literally true, he made love with his mouth, but he did almost no talking.”

“Oh, my dear!” Denise laughed. She clapped her hands. How clever you are and what fun! Now you must tell me all. There was no seduction over the wine?”

“I suppose the wine itself was the seduction. We had already drunk several glasses with Bart at the restaurant.”

“Bart? Bart Dillon, the barge man? With you and Andre? After dinner? Not really!”

“Yes, the three of us went to Andre’s apartment after dinner. Bart introduced me to Andre. I came down from Shreveport on the river with him.”

“Did you? What an adventure you must have had. Now you really must tell me all about your voyage – and about the night in Baton Rouge. Was it Bart then who did the talking.”

“No one talked much, including me, except right at first, before anything happened, except maybe between the two of them while I was having my bath.”

“Between the two of them? Oh, do tell me all about it. I must confess, I find the idea very exciting.”

“It started with the two of them teasing me about eating Crawfish at Pierre’s restaurant.”

Denise called Dubby and asked for another bottle of Chardonnay and told the girl to tell the cook to take her time with dinner.