The Foxes of Harrow by Frank Yerby

Author:Frank Yerby [Yerby, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: (v1.0), Historical Novel
Publisher: Heinemann Group
Published: 1972-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

Early the next day, the ox carts bearing the cypress boards turned into Rampart Street. Stephen sat in a little closed carriage across the street and watched the Negroes erecting the framework of the house. Monsieur Pouilly stood on the banquette, directing them. The little architect was Gallic to his finger tips. He found this commission vastly stimulating. A man of discretion, Monsieur Fox, he thought.

Satisfied, Stephen ordered his coachman to drive on. As they turned into Canal Street, Stephen was amazed at the change in it. Businesses were springing up all along its length, and now a horse car, with its pyramid of steps leading up to its upper deck, clattered along a set of freshly laid rails. A year ago, the absentee landlords who held the property on Chartres had raised their already outrageous rents, and a general exodus had resulted. Now, day by day, Canal was gaining the ascendancy. Lying as it did between the first and second municipalities, it was of easy access to both American and Creole. Stephen looked again at the horse car. He had drawn aside the curtains of the carriage to let the sunlight in. Now he straightened. A woman had waved to him from the upper deck. As he drew abreast of the car, he saw that it was Aurore. She signaled for the car to stop and climbed precariously down the one side of the pyramid of steps.

Stephen got down at once from the small carriage, and assisted her to the ground, then up again into his little cabriolet.

“So, Stephen,” she laughed. “You’ve grown too old for horseback? ‘Tis odd to see you in a carriage.”

“Yes,” Stephen smiled. “My old bones give me many a twinge these days. Where were ye going, little sister?”

“Oh, I’d finished my shopping. Take me out to Harrow with you—if that’s where you’re going. I haven’t seen Odalie in ages.”

“With pleasure, Aurore. Ye seem in high spirits today. There’s a glow to your cheeks. It makes ye lovelier, if such a thing is possible.”

Aurore tapped him playfully with her parasol.

“You’re wicked, Stephen,” she said. “But in a nice way. ‘Tis thoughtful of you to pay compliments to an old maid.”

“Ye’ll marry yet,” Stephen said. “That I’ll wager ye.”

“But no one will have me, Stephen. I’m twenty-nine years old. Who wants such an old wife?”

“Tempt me further and I’ll play Turk,” Stephen growled. “Ye’d make a lovely addition to my harem.”

“Then you have a harem? I’d long suspected it. But don’t rush me into this; I think I should like to be number ten. Yes—the tenth—and the last.”

Stephen looked at her. Aurore seemed scarcely more than a girl. Her brown hair curled softly over her ears, and her hazel eyes, looking at him, seemed oddly tender. Gazing at her, Stephen suddenly remembered Andre’s words on that April day, long ago: “For my part, you’ve chosen the poorer one. Aurore is much more beautiful . . .”

“Ye are,” he said aloud. “By all the saints ye are!”

“I am what?” Aurore demanded.

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