PHANTOM IN TIME (25 page)

All
at once Bella flinched at the sound of a door banging open at the back of the
theater. Tensely she watched a tall, dark-haired man stride menacingly down the
aisle, his features gripped in a murderous rage. He headed straight for the
stairs to the stage.

“Jacques
LeFevre—there you are, you damned scoundrel!” he yelled, sprinting up the
steps. “You stay the hell away from La Roux!”

Bella
tried to yell a warning, too late. Even as Jacques turned to regard the
intruder in confusion, the man stormed onstage and slammed Jacques in the jaw.
Bella winced, watching Jacques totter for a moment, then collapse.

Pandemonium
erupted: Maria screamed; Etienne shouted and waved his arms at the man, who
turned and fled into the wings; Bella raced off for the stage, crying out in
horror, feeling so sick with fear for Jacques that she hardly took note of his
attacker racing past her back down the aisle.

Bella,
Etienne, and numerous other members of the company converged on Jacques at the
same time. By now he was sitting up, shaking his head, and rubbing his jaw.

Bella
fell to her knees beside him and touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He
groaned, his features clenched in agony. “Damnation! That bastard knocked me
halfway to hell with his brass knuckles.”

“Brass
knuckles!” Bella cried. “Oh, mercy. You could have a broken jaw.”

Jacques
grimaced and continued to massage his jaw. “That's rather how it feels at the
moment.”

“Jacques,
you must see a doctor at once,” put in Etienne, who stood above them. “This is
terrible—your injury could delay our premiere.”

Bella
shot Etienne a fuming glance. “Is that all you care about? Your precious
production?”

Color
flooded Etienne's face. “Of course not. I'm very concerned about Jacques.”

“I'm
sure I'll be all right, Etienne,” muttered Jacques.

“You'll
see a doctor to be sure,” ordered Etienne. He drew himself up with dignity,
straightening his lapels. “And I shall personally notify the authorities of
this shocking incident.”

“Jacques,
who was that man?” asked a clearly puzzled Maria.

Jacques
waved a hand in puzzlement. “I presume he was La Roux's boyfriend.”

“Who
is La Roux?” asked Teresa Obregón.

Jacques
smiled crookedly and did not respond.

Etienne
clapped his hands. “All right, everyone, the excitement is over. Let's clear
the stage and go back to our duties and let poor Jacques seek medical
attention.”

The
rest of the company trooped away, muttering to one another, and soon Bella and
Jacques were alone on the stage. He attempted a smile that ended in a scowl of
pain.

She
reached out and touched the curve of his jaw, where a nasty bruise was already
forming. He winced.       

“You
never learn, do you?” she asked ironically.

“Now
what have I done?” he cried. “Am I the one who marched in here brandishing
brass knuckles?”

“No,
but you caused the incident.”

“I
did not,” he protested, pulling a face. “All I did was dance with the woman.”

Bella
felt tears stinging. “You have to be the Lothario, don't you, Jacques? You have
to strut your stuff to every female on God's earth. Don't you realize you're
toying with your very life?”

Muttering
a curse, Jacques struggled to his feet, and pulled Bella up beside him. “Bella,
you're making too much of this.”

“And
your cavalier streak is going to get you killed!” she cried.

“Bella,
please—”

“Oh,
go see the doctor!”

He
tossed her a look of exasperation, then threw up his hands and headed for the
wings. Bella paced the stage, fighting tears of helpless frustration. Oh, why
wouldn't Jacques listen to reason? Even if she told him the full truth, he'd
likely only accuse her of being crazy.

***

When
rehearsal dispersed, Bella went to sit on the front steps of the opera house.
With the light of the waning day dancing over the marble steps, she threw
leftover crumbs from her lunch to a group of foraging pigeons and observed the
spectacle of Royal Street: the streetcars and carriages clattering past;
housewives and businessmen trooping along; a
marchand
pushing a cart
laden with caged, squawking parrots; a berry lady calling out as she glided by,
balancing a large bowl of fruit on her head. Bella actually smiled at the
spectacle of a parade organized by the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, which
marched along complete with banners, drums, a tuba, and a female crusader
shouting to all who would listen about the evils of absinthe and gin.

After
a few moments, Bella tensed, watching Jacques LeFevre stride into view. He
spotted her, grinned, and sprinted up the steps, then sat down beside her.

“Rehearsal
is over for the day, no?” he asked.

She
eyed the horrible purple bruise along his jaw. “Yes, you missed the rest of the
fun.”

He
gave her a crooked smile. “Are you still mad at me,
chérie?”

Grimacing,
she stared at his jaw. “What did the doctor say?”

Jacques
scowled. “He took one of those newfangled pictures made with a cathode ray
tube—”

“An
X-ray?” Bella provided.

“Oui.
My jaw is not broken.”

She
sighed. “Well, at least that's a blessing.”

“Oui,
Etienne will be relieved not to have to postpone the premiere.” Jacques stroked
his bruise and shuddered. “The rest can be concealed by makeup.”

“Good.”

“I
also stopped by the police precinct house,” he added.

“And
what did they say?”

“The
constable I spoke with said they started hunting for the culprit as soon as
Etienne notified them. But the man said he suspects La Roux's boyfriend may
have already skipped town. He says such conduct is common in these situations.”

“Likely
so,” Bella agreed dryly. “But in that case, at least we won't have to worry
about the scoundrel attacking you again.”

Jacques
clenched a fist, his eyes gleaming with outrage. “I wish I could find the
miserable coward and call him out. If not for those brass knuckles, I would
have made fish bait out of him right there on the stage.”

“No
doubt.” Bella rose, smoothing down her skirts. “I must head home now.”

He
stood beside her. “I shall escort you.”

“Suit
yourself.”

They
went down the steps to the banquette, joining the crowd clogging the walkway.
They made a wide berth for a vendor pushing a tomato cart, and wended their way
through a large group of Ursuline nuns.

As
they reached the corner and began to cross the street, Jacques gripped Bella's
elbow.
“Chérie,
come with me to dinner tonight.”

“No,
I can't,” she replied curtly, heading across the street.

“What
is wrong with you?” he cried, following her. “I'm the one who has been wounded,
yet all of a sudden you're acting aloof, and treating me like a criminal.”

Bella
stared straight ahead. “Let's just say the latest incident has made me realize
how truly different we are, Jacques.”

On
the opposite corner, Jacques pulled her around to confront his troubled
countenance. “We're not different at all, Bella. In many ways, we're precisely
alike—and you know it.”

Oh,
yes, she knew those ways! Even now his voice, his eyes, his touch, were
stirring her to treacherous passion, making her pulse race and her face flame.

Determined
to resist, she headed off again. “We're not alike in the ways that matter most,
Jacques—like living life with some modicum of caution—something you seem
incapable of.”

“Mon
Dieu!
None of this was my fault.”

She
shook her head in disbelief. “That's exactly what scares me to death about you.
You don't consider yourself the least bit responsible for anything that
happened today—not even after all your philandering over the years.”

“Bella,
I'm not philandering now.”

“Right,”
she muttered. “Well, perhaps I know better. Perhaps I know that this very
cavalier attitude of yours
—None of this is my fault—
is going to get you
killed.”

His
voice took on a note of pleading. “Bella, I've been through a trauma. I could
use some feminine solace.”

She
swung around to face him. “Then why don't you ask La Roux to comfort you?” she
inquired sweetly. “With her boyfriend likely on the lam, that should prove
convenient, shouldn't it?”

Bella
whirled about and trooped on. After muttering several blistering curses,
Jacques hurried after her.

Chapter Twenty-three

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Bella
avoided Jacques as much as possible during the next days. She knew he was
headed for disaster, yet she felt powerless to help him. The incident with the
intruder bashing him across the jaw had proved how vulnerable he really was,
and how inept she might be to protect him from a truly determined assassin.
Even though she rationally knew he likely would not be murdered before August,
anxiety over his safety dogged her. What if the next attacker bore a knife or
gun instead of brass knuckles? Jacques could be dead within the blinking of an
eye, perhaps even while she stood helplessly on the sidelines.

She
was also shaken by how much she felt drawn to him, despite his reckless
disregard of her warnings. She knew she must look out for her own emotional
welfare. He might well be doomed no matter what she did—and the more involved
with him she became, the greater her emotional devastation if she lost him, or
even if she made her way back to the present to be with dear Gran.

Thus
she resisted Jacques's overtures during these last days leading up to dress
rehearsal and the premiere, and made excuses not to date him at night. She
avoided his accusatory looks, but did continue observing the troupe,
desperately hoping she might still ferret out his would-be-murderer.

A
few days after the shooting incident, the constable returned to the theater to
speak with Jacques and Etienne. He informed them that La Roux's boyfriend had
indeed skipped town, and this bit of news spread quickly through the troupe.
Bella concluded that the boyfriend's attack on Jacques was probably a red
herring, and that Jacques's real murderer was likely a member of the company
itself, someone who, so far, had not emerged to make a move against him.
Although the immediate threat to Jacques no longer seemed as daunting, Bella
felt far from relieved and was not about to become complacent.

The
night of the dress rehearsal arrived, and thirty minutes prior to the
performance, Etienne gathered the entire company onstage for a final pep talk.
The two dozen members of the troupe were in various stages of preparation for
the performance, some already in full costume, wigs, and makeup, others still
in street clothing.

Dressed
in a black cutaway, a ruffled linen shirt and black trousers, Etienne strode to
the edge of the stage. He flashed a smile at the assemblage. “Ladies and
gentlemen, I must commend you all for your cooperation and hard work during our
brief but intense weeks of rehearsals. Tonight we shall see the realization of
our dream to stage one of the most ambitious productions la belle New Orleans
has ever seen.”

Etienne
paused as appreciative murmurs and comments flitted over the group. He held up
a hand. “I know I need not stress how critical this dress rehearsal is,
especially since so many local dignitaries and members of the press will be in
attendance tonight.”

“We'll
do you proud, Etienne, never fear,” yelled a confident Jacques, and everyone
laughed.

“I'm
sure you will,” agreed Etienne. “However, I must still ask that all of you focus
your undivided attention and energy on the production tonight—the performance
and nothing else.”

“Your
wish is our command,” called out a grinning Andre Delgado.

“Splendid.
Before you disperse to finish preparing, I have an announcement to make.” Etienne
grinned proudly. “Today I received a telegraph from Jasper Mayfield, manager of
Maurice and Andrea Bloom. Mr. Mayfield informs me that the world-famous tenor
and soprano will pass through New Orleans in a fortnight, and the couple has
agreed to make a special guest appearance at the St. Charles during one of our
performances. That should help boost ticket sales, eh, Claude?”

Standing
near Maria, Claude actually smiled and waved a hand, as applause and cheers
greeted Etienne's welcome news.

Etienne
clapped his hands. “Very well, everyone. To your places—and good luck!”

The
company dispersed. Leaving the stage, Bella gasped as Jacques stepped into her
path, materializing before her almost like a ghost and staring at her intently.
She tensed, fearing a confrontation only moments before they both had to
perform, especially since a sea of anguish and unassuaged longing seemed to
stretch between them. She was relieved to note that the bruise along his jaw
had faded.

“Jacques,”
she said breathlessly. “Look, I must hurry and get ready. I can't—I mean now is
not the time for us to—”

“I
know,
chérie.”
He caught her hand and smiled sadly. “I only wanted to
wish you luck. You are nervous?”

She shook
her head, grateful that he wasn't pressing any issues right now. “No, not
really. My most demanding role will be in the trio for 'Three Little Maids,'
and that's not much more difficult than singing in the chorus.”

He
chuckled, raising her hand and kissing it. “I watched you, Tess, and Helene
rehearsing earlier. You make a winsome maid, I must say.”

“Thanks.”
Flashing him a tremulous smile, she carefully disengaged her fingers from his
grip. “Well, good luck to you, too. I must run.”