Hell Hath No Sorrow like a Woman Haunted

Left Hand Torment

Iwas on door duty that evening, though we didn’t need a protector. Most passersby tended not to notice our nondescript entryway in the worn-down building. Even those who did notice it were deterred by the dark cloak of misery in our eyes. Despite my queerness and my race, those doorways to my soul, that broadcast unspeakable rot, allowed me kinship with the men inside. Her eyes held the same blackness, despite their light gray color, announcing her as kindred, serving as her password into the club.

There was more to her life story than her eyes, apparently. The foulness of whatever tortured her spirit bubbled just underneath the surface. Her dusky skin shone with determination and…fury. She glided ahead of me up the stairway and into the parlor, removing long white gloves as we walked. Severe burns covered both hands, the puckered skin reflecting the lantern lights.

Even Whitson, the resident playboy, did not set his flirtations upon her. He simply asked her what she was drinking, the same as he did the rest of us. He often told us that he did not seek companionship with fellow sufferers. He said their beds were already too full with them and their demons.

Bourbon, please. The rich tones slid from her throat and escaped into the quiet murmur of the fifteen of us. She accepted her glass gracefully and settled into a chair close to the fireplace.

Not forgetting our Texas manners, we quieted down and allowed the lady the floor. I watched her sip from her glass.

Merci. She accented the appreciation with a brisk nod to the side. When she gazed back at us, the flames from the fire flickered around the shadows resting beneath the smoky orbs of her haunted eyes. She pulled her bonnet off and placed it on the table next to the chair. Kinky curly strands spilled down to her shoulders and the room gave a collective gasp as the flames caught the sandy tresses. This was the only acknowledgement we gave to her beauty that night.

Without preamble, she spoke in accented tones. "My name is Dominique Aimee Beaulieu and I was born and reared in New Orleans. I had an ordinary childhood, if that as the daughter of a placee` on Rampart street could be called such. Papa and Maman loved me very much and I was a rather spoiled child. They loved each other, as well. I know Papa loved her more than he loved his wife. But he could not stay with us all the time. I once asked Maman why he had to leave and stay away so often and she explained to me that we could not be selfish and keep him all to ourselves. He had another family with whom he had to stay most of the time, but he was always thinking of us.

"Maman had a picture of a beautiful woman with blond hair and she often gazed wistfully at it when she thought Papa and I weren’t looking. I would ask her about the woman, whose features I saw staring back at me in the mirror, albeit through darker skin. Maman would evade the answer until I turned sixteen. When I finally got my answer, I also got the explanation for our way of life.

"This is my sister, your aunt. Papa’s other wife. He met me as he courted her and wanted me for his left-hand wife. She knows about us but cannot acknowledge us publicly. But she must accept our existence. You are of courting age now. Papa will arrange for you to attend The Quadroon Ball next year, to find you a wealthy, white husband. Do not waste yourself frivolously on any colored man. Even if he has money, he can’t elevate your status or guarantee that your children will be free men.

"She grabbed my hand. Just take care to always respect your husband and do his bidding. Love and honor him despite the feelings of jealousy that will come when he takes another to wife. We are the wives they choose, when their other will be chosen for them through making familial alliances. These arrangements are our only way to freedom.

I didn’t understand why she beseeched me so dramatically on these points. Our system of placage was shocking enough to discover without her telling me I had to accept it, that I had few other choices. I knew nothing of love between a man and woman, but I could see the love between Maman and Papa. If it meant she had to share him with her sister, did that make it of any less value? Did that make me, the product of their left-hand union, any less valuable? Of course, I would love my husband, legally bound or not, because of all the things I did not understand, there was one thing I knew and never wanted to change: my freedom.

She paused her story here, seeming to look at us for the first time. She turned her fierce gaze on each of us, one at a time, her fellow beasts of demonic burdens. She settled her gaze finally on me, the lone other woman in the group. I did not know how I understood that she knew my secret. My fellow club members knew and did not care. You understand when I say fighting for one’s freedom is a frantic battle when losing means losing your personhood and often, your very life.

I nodded. I did know what a constant fight for freedom to simply exist required. Dying was preferable to giving in to bondage of any kind, hence my membership there. These, my brothers in terror, did not make anything big over my masculine clothes and obviously feminine body. My haunted heart bore witness to more important things to them. The rest of the world did have problems with me, as soon as my charade was discovered. I sought to fool no one. I simply loved other women and eschewed dresses and other frilly clothing. However, explaining that this was simply who I am would likely do nothing but result in a trail of bodies, raped to prove a point and beaten to force submission as was required of women—killed to salvage masculine and familial pride. Thus far, my own body did not increase those numbers of dead. As to the other tortures, I was a first-hand witness.

"I was excited about my first ball. Maman fussed over my dress and hair and Papa fussed about the shortage of eligible men he deemed worthy of his daughter. He finally settled on two men from prominent families who would arrive at the hall under the cover of night, just as the other attendees would.

"It is difficult to gain full understanding of a person through a portrait and word of mouth about his family, but I felt an attraction to the first man before I met him in person. I told Papa I wanted to meet and dance with him first, and as much as indulgence was against the proceedings, my Papa gave in.

"His name was Alesandre Pasquet. He nodded to Papa to request permission to dance with me. From the moment his hand touched mine, I felt panicked. Strange and uncomfortable feelings bubbled up inside me. They were frightening and unsettling in a way I was not prepared for. The closer Alesandre moved against my body, the more I wanted to pull away from him. The way my womb ached and my nether regions melted created an imbalance inside me. Maman had told me nothing of this when she explained these things to me. I could not catch Papa’s eye for guidance. I thought I would swoon.

"And then Rene was there. He looked like a fallen angel with his dark hair worn just a bit longer than was fashionable, one curly lock falling over his eye. I felt an immediate sense of calm, discomfort gone in an instant. I looked into his dark eyes and found nothing there that explained…anything. May I, Pasquet?

"I was grateful for the rescue but did not overlook the fact that the question was not a question at all. Alesandre put up no fight and simply left me standing in the middle of the floor with Rene, as he fled. Sweat broke out onto his forehead and he stumbled backwards, eyes opened wide. I felt no pity towards him, nor any curiosity over the dealings between love rivals.

"Please do not think me forward, my rescuer began, but you look quite terrified. Would you like to sit and have a drink?

"I fell into his eyes, those bottomless brown pools of serenity. He placed his hand on my bare arm and led me back to where Papa sat. My sire was apoplectic. Who are you and what are you doing with my daughter?

"I am Rene Fanchon Villemont Duplanchier. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Papa had no further fight, returning to his seat next to me. Trickles of sweat ran down his neck, and I had not seen them before I had left him moments before. He struggled with something, barely restrained. I had seen this expression before when workmen sought to cheat him when doing home repairs, or when passersby subjected Maman to insults as they walked on the streets. In those instances, he confronted the offenders. At that time, I was left to question what had engaged his ire.

"Rene returned with a glass of punch. Mr. Beaulieu, may I walk with your beautiful daughter on the balustrade? Papa barely nodded without speaking or moving otherwise. The sweat flowed faster. His eyes communicated something…sadness, maybe…and I thought him lost in reverie over my imminent engagement, as it was. It was clear at that point that I would become Rene’s left-hand wife.

"My savior took me for a round in the cool night air. No words passed between us, and that comforted me. There were no terrible feelings bubbling up inside me, threatening to break out of my skin. He did not try to touch me, which was good, because my skin still ached deliciously from where he had touched my arm earlier. At the end of the stroll, he returned me to Papa and stated that he would call for me and make the final arrangements for our alliance.

"I went to bed that night with dreams of my own household and a calm, beautiful husband. I was awakened by Maman and Papa’s argument.

"You cannot let her go to that…that…demon! Maman never raised her voice at Papa and she never went against his wishes.

"We cannot stop it. He has placed his mark upon her. He will let no one else have her. Papa sounded defeated, smaller than I had ever imagined. I tiptoed from my room to eavesdrop with a visual advantage.

"I will place this gris-gris upon her. It will work. I know a woman in the Quarter who can help. Maman spoke mostly to herself. Papa rocked ceaselessly in his chair, his despondent façade placing an ache in my heart that rivaled that of my arm.

"We won’t deal with that slave magic. She must go. To try to prevent him will be the sure destruction of…all of us.

"Maman exploded. So, it is your other children you are fearful for? You worry for your other wife, the one who does not love you as I do? The one who has your legal heirs? Her mane of curly, ebony hair flared around her head like a crown of fury, unleashed from her headscarf.

"She dropped down next to his chair, unwilling to be defeated. Please, Dominique is all I have. You cannot sacrifice her. You cannot.

"Papa remained silent, stroking her back as she sobbed loudly. I went back to my room, confused about their talk of sacrifices. I fell into a fitful slumber, dreaming with no remembrance.

"As promised, Rene called at the townhouse the next day. Mr. Beaulieu, Mrs. Beaulieu. I have come to make arrangements for Dominique’s hand. He stood on the townhome stoop, hat in hand.

"No. Maman whispered the word so that I had to come further down the hallway to hear her.

"Rene tilted his head, the expression on his face never changing.

"If we do not invite you in, you cannot cross over our threshold. Papa stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. He restrained her as she moved in the direction of the door.

"I will get the invitation I need. Dominique?

"I had thought myself nearly invisible around the door, standing deep in the bowels of our house. I moved to the door in slippered feet, forgetting the decorum of receiving male guests only at the permission of Papa and Maman.

"Dominique! No! Maman moved towards me and halted, mid-step. Papa, drenched in sweat, also froze. Tears welled in Maman’s eyes. Where is your gris-gris, beloved?

"I had removed the pouch from my neck at the end of the hallway. I arrived at the door and stretched my hand out to Rene. He smiled and walked into the living room.

"We will not be staying. Tell your parents goodbye. We will be married at once and will retire in our own home tonight.

"Goodbye, Maman and Papa. Rene did not release my hand, but I was not returning to my parents. I belonged to Rene. I spared one glance behind us as we departed, barely a fleeting thought given to the tears that flowed down my parents faces as they stood in the same places.

True to his word, Rene and I went directly to the church and were married. I hardly remember the ceremony, thinking only of being with Rene. I napped as the carriage rode across New Orleans to my new home.

Dominique paused again, here, to sip her bourbon. She must have intuited the rules of our club and that we would wait patiently until she resumed her story. She took long moments, lost in her reverie. When she spoke again, her voice lowered.

"Rene did not come to me in the bedroom I occupied alone until after I had been there for three weeks. Then, he sent a note to request permission to come one night. In the three weeks’ time, I had become acquainted with the servants, learning as much as I could from them about my new home. My husband had informed me that I could have the run of the house and that once I decided on décor items, he would send into town for them.

"The servants tried to prepare me for my imminent marital bed duties. I explained that my Maman had already done her job, but one woman, Nan, insisted.

"You do not understand, Mistress. You must be ready when he comes to you. I can help you. Her eyes begged me to give permission.

"Instead, I laughed. I will be fine, Nan. This is what wives have done since the beginning of time.

"She nodded, sadness overtaking her eyes. I felt bad about hurting her feelings, but I wanted everything to start on a positive note with my new husband. I already held some trepidation at the fact he had waited so long. I wanted everything to go naturally so we could start our intimate journey with no obstacles.

"I did allow her to help me bathe and rub scented oil over my body. I sat up in the bed to await his visit. My heart pounded when I bid him to enter the room. Under the candlelight, his beauty took my breath away. The same giddiness that had overtaken me at the ball almost a month earlier with Alesandre bubbled up in my womb.

"My husband floated with the shadows in the flames and slid under the coverlets I clutched in my hands.

"Are you afraid? He cupped my chin in his hands, and my body heated up. I had a hard time breathing.

"Becoming frantic, I nodded. I tried to scoot away, but he held my face in place.

"Do you wish me to make you comfortable?

"I nodded again.

"I have to hear the words, he prompted.

"Yes, please. I wish for comfort.

"Rene held my gaze and calm washed over me. My languid body slid down flat on the bed. He rose above me and without warning, pressed himself into my body. I felt the pain Maman and Nan had warned be about, but I could not react to it. My