Iron Lace by Emilie Richards

Marcelite.
    He knew the penalties for such an error of judgment. Society sternly forbade any racial mixing. The color linescould not be breached, yet Marcelite had breached them in the most heinous of ways. And Lucien had lain with her repeatedly, indulged himself in her soft flesh whenever he could, without suspecting that another man to do so had been born a slave.
    Now outrage filled him. “Am I to be ordered about by a child?”
    Marcelite turned to her son and spoke so rapidly that Lucien missed much of what she said. But the essence of her message was clear when Raphael nodded reluctantly. The boy did not take his eyes off Lucien, however. Not for one second.
    Marcelite turned back to Lucien. “He only tries to be of help.”
    “Make us coffee and something to eat. I’ll see what needs to be done outside.”
    “Raphael can assist.”
    Lucien considered. The image of the boy wet and cold in the rain pleased him. “Yes, that would be good.”
    She spoke to Raphael again, but he refused to move.
    “Raphael, if you want to help keep your mother and sister safe, then you’ll come with me,” Lucien said. He walked toward the doorway, then glanced behind him. “If you don’t care…”
    The child slumped at Lucien’s words. Then Raphael followed Lucien out the door.
     
    Raphael watched his mother pour Lucien another cup of coffee. He was chilled and hungry, but he knew that as long as M’sieu Lucien remained with them, his mother would tend to his needs first. Only yesterday he had wished that Lucien was his father, too. Now he was no longer certain. Was his own father watching from heaven, saddened?
    Raphael pondered this as his mother bent and whisperedsomething in Lucien’s ear. Outside, the wind whistled louder, as if to keep Raphael from hearing what his mother said.
    Angelle put her doll on his lap. It gazed blindly up at him, like old Leopold Perrin, who as a child had lost his sight during a fever. The doll’s blue dress was tattered, but the silk was still finer than anything Raphael had seen. Once his mother had told him that in New Orleans some ladies wore nothing but silk, and some men, like M’sieu Lucien, rode everywhere in carriages pulled by shining, prancing horses.
    Raphael didn’t think that Lucien really wanted to be here. Usually he teased Raphael’s mother and laughed with her. Today he sat quietly, as if he could think of nothing to laugh about. He had not lifted Angelle to his lap. He had not ruffled Raphael’s curls or asked if he had dug for any pirate treasure.
    Raphael didn’t think he would have told him about Juan’s mysterious instructions, even if he had been asked. Although Raphael didn’t understand exactly why Juan had taken him into the swamp, he did know their trip was to remain a secret.
    His mother ladled out two more bowls of crab gumbo and called the children to the table. Lucien stood and crossed the room as they sat down. He didn’t open the door, but he peered through a crack next to the frame.
    “The rain’s coming down harder.”
    “Then come away from there,” Marcelite said.
    Raphael took his first spoonful of the gumbo. Usually it was thick with crab and okra and spicy enough to warm the coldest belly. Today his mother’s thoughts had been elsewhere.
    “Storms seem bigger here, don’t they?” Lucien asked. “Like God’s judgment. I think I would be frightened of them if I lived this close to the water.”
    “Then be happy you do not.” Raphael’s mother sliced hunks of bread for both children and set it in front of them.
    “And helpless. I think I would feel helpless, too.”
    “There is only so much a person can do anywhere.”
    “Still, it’s tempting fate, isn’t it, to live where the wind can blow you away?”
    Raphael stopped eating and watched his mother, but she didn’t answer. She brushed the bread crumbs into her hand to store them in a can. Her hand did not seem steady to Raphael, and her lips were drawn in a straight