Prisoner of Desire (41 page)

That sound. She had heard it before on the night of the fire. The men in the Arab costumes were not sadistic wraiths bent on harrying a lone female. They were the thugs who had tried to kill her and Ravel at Beau Refuge, the men who had destroyed her property and terrorized her people in the quarters. That they dared set out in pursuit of her like coursing hounds after a rabbit brought the reviving power of rage boiling up inside her. She would not be caught. She would not be manhandled again or treated like some levee doxy.

She heard the rattle of the cabriolet before she saw it. The vehicle turned a corner and came toward her. It was not as ancient as most, and the mare that pulled it had a look of rawboned strength. It was moving at a smart clip, but not excessively so. Flinging her himation over her shoulder, Anya made a wild dash into the street toward it. Behind her there came a yell and the thud of running feet.

The cabriolet’s horse, startled by her sudden appearance and flying draperies, reared and whinnied. The driver sawed on the reins, rising in his seat while his hat tumbled from his head. Anya ducked under the mare’s flailing hooves and reached for the edge of the kick board as she set her foot on the step and pulled herself upward.

“What the bloody hell—,” the driver began.

Anya did not trouble to answer. As she landed beside him, she reached across for the whip in its socket. It was long and snaking with a tasseled end. She drew it back and sent it cracking toward the thugs, once, twice, three times. They yelled and scattered. The mare jerked forward in her harness at a run. Bouncing and sluing, the cabriolet raced down the street with the men in burnouses pounding after it. They shouted and cursed at each other as they fell slowly behind. Anya cracked the whip above the back of the mare a final time.

“Here now, here now, you dumb bitch,” the driver hollered as he brought his mare under control.

It was impossible to tell whether he was talking to Anya or the horse, but she didn’t care. She had escaped. Whatever the plans the thugs had had for her, she had foiled them. Reaction and exultation shuddered over her. She controlled them with a strong effort. She wasn’t safe, not yet. The men knew what she looked like and the direction she was going.

How had they recognized her in her costume and mask? Had they too noticed the color of her hair? How could that be when, as far as she knew, they had never seen it at close quarters except at night or when it was covered by a bonnet? It was true there might have been other times, but the thought of them watching her, spying upon her, was not one she liked to consider. But perhaps they had heard when Simone Michel had called her name?

The actress had not only spoken her name aloud, but had separated her from her escort. Had it been a coincidence, or had Simone’s show of concern been as false as the jewels that she wore on stage? It was all too possible. The things the actress had said were nothing Anya had not already known or guessed. All her reluctance to say more might have been feigned merely to make what she had said more intriguing.

And yet if that were true, what was the purpose? Ravel had spent time with Anya, yes, but against his will. The intimacy there had been between the two of them was no threat to Simone. He had not, apparently, severed his relationship with the actress. Why then? In addition, even if the actress had pointed her out, what could the connection be between Simone and the thugs who had been at Beau Refuge? How had she known them in order to make use of them?

It was just barely possible that the incident tonight and the burning of the gin had a common thread, but the only one that she could see led to Ravel. Someone called “the boss” had ordered their deaths that night at the plantation. What would have happened to her tonight? Would she have been attacked in an alley, or would she have disappeared into the bordellos of New Orleans like hundreds of other women? Or would she, perhaps, have been found in a day or two floating in the river? And all because she had involved herself with Ravel Duralde?

There was no time to think of it. They were on Chartres Street, for the cabriolet had clattered past the cathedral and the Cabildo. Chartres ran parallel to Royal, the street down which the parade would come as it made its way from St. Charles and Canal Streets. At the intersections could be seen the press of people on that other thoroughfare. Somewhere in the milling mob was Celestine and Murray and Emile. Celestine would be frantic, worrying about where she could be, why she had not caught up with them. Should she try to find them, Anya wondered, or should she return to the townhouse?

The driver of the cabriolet settled the question for her. Whether out of curiosity to view the parade that would be coming at any moment, or because he thought he might find a passenger in the crowd, he swung his vehicle into the next cross street, making toward Royal.

The cabriolet slowed. There were people crowding the banquettes, spilling into the street here. Along Royal itself there was a solid line jostling each other, elbowing for position as they waited to see what the Krewe of Comus had for them this year. The galleries overhead were full to overflowing. The buzzing of voices was like a giant disturbed beehive, nearly drowning out the distant sound of banjos and concertinas. People craned their necks, looking up the street, inching further and further out into it from either side until only the open gutter down the center divided them.

The cabriolet driver pulled his mare to a halt and turned to Anya. “All right, me lady, what is it this is all about?”

He was not young and his voice held a lilt of Ireland. In his lined face there was sympathy as well as interest. Anya said, “You saw those men. They — well, I’m more grateful than I can say for your aid.”

“I’d say you had a mortal close call. You might think on that before you go a-wandering off by yourself again.”

“Yes, I will,” Anya said as she gathered her draperies around her, preparing to alight. “I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience, and I wish that I could pay you now, but I came out without my purse. If you will present yourself at Madame Hamilton’s townhouse in the morning—”

“Hush, now. I don’t want pay, but I would trouble you for the return of my whip.”

She still had it in her hand. Flushing, laughing a little, she handed it over then clambered down. Standing in the street, she thanked him once more then turned away.

“Take care,” he called, saluting her with the whip.

She waved, and where there had been cold fear inside her before there was a small core of warmth. Despite the danger and treachery of the world, there were still kindly people in it.

They were few on this night, or so it seemed. She had not gone fifty feet before she saw a man in a burnous. He stood leaning against a wall, watching her. He made no move toward her, still her breath caught in her throat and she turned from him, threading in haste through the crowd, her head up as she searched for Celestine and the two men.

They were not to be seen. It crossed her mind that they might have been surrounded, spirited away somewhere as she undoubtedly would have been. No, she must not be foolish. There would have been too great a commotion caused by any attempt to take men like Emile and Murray. But where could they be? Where?

She stopped. There was no point in running hither and yon looking for them and wringing her hands. Surely there was little that could happen to her here in such a large gathering of people, the thickest part of the spectators. There was even a Charley standing on the nearest corner, swinging his spontoon by its thong behind his back. His very purpose was to keep order and prevent undue disturbance.

“It’s coming! Comus is coming! Here it comes!”

The cry ran through the crowd. Hard upon it came the thin sound of music. It grew, becoming the ring and thump of a brass band, while as a counterpoint could be heard the melodious whistling of a calliope. There came the first glimpse of the bright glow of torchlight. In its beams, far up the street, there was a shifting motion that could be seen above the throng.

People moved toward the light like the drawing of a tidal surge by the power of the moon. Children squealed with excitement and women exclaimed. Young boys crawled through the legs of their elders to reach the front of the line, though some few were hauled back by their suspenders in the fists of indulgent fathers who then hoisted them to their shoulders.

Closer and closer came the parade. The music grew louder, blaring out above the ring of iron wheels and the clatter of horse and mule hooves on pavement. The crowd shouted and applauded.

There was wonder and amazement in the faces around Anya. Sighs of awe and pleasure sounded on all sides. The restless masqueraders had expected something grand after the parade the year before that had featured “The Demon Actors in Milton’s
Paradise Lost.”
On that night over a hundred terrible and grotesque characters, led by the winsome young god of revel and mirth, Comus, and by the prince of darkness, Lucifer himself, and including dreadful Pluto and pathetic Proserpine, the three Furies, the three Harpies, and scores more infernals on down to Charon and Chimera, had seemed to rise up in floods of light from the ground itself. The spectacle before them was less alarming, but much more satisfying.

This year instead of only Comus and Satan riding on a single cart, seated among outlandish scenery built on a platform while the other demons pranced on foot behind, there were dozens of carts decorated to look like chariots forming a long series of
tableaux roulants.
Never in the history of Mardi Gras marching had such a thing been seen before.

In the lead came a large transparency, or panel of tightly stretched and brightly colored translucent silk that was lighted from behind by a lantern with an enormous reflector. Illuminated were the words in beautiful flowing script:

…
Marry, but you travelers

May journey far and not look on this like again.

Here you do behold the gods and goddesses;

Presently you shall see them

Unfold themselves.

Directly behind this came another transparency that heralded the theme of the parade,
The Classic Pantheon.

First in line, as was only fitting, rode handsome Comus crowned with flowers, magnificent king of the day in white and gold. Behind him came mighty Momus, son of the night in sable and silver, followed by two-faced Janus in his temple that was inset with the Four Seasons. Another great illuminating lantern, as well as long and stretched-out double lines of torchbearers dressed in white suits, showed Neptune in a chariot shaped like a seashell and drawn by dolphins, then Flora in a bank of flowers pulled by butterflies; Ceres drawn by her oxen; Bacchus pulled by leopards, and Silenus precariously jogging on an ass. Next came Diana the Huntress in a chariot drawn by stags, and with the nine Muses behind her, then Vesta with her altar of fire; Destiny on his winged dragon, and Cybele, mother goddess of Asia, drawn by lions. Still they came on. There was Jupiter pulled by eagles and behind him Juno led by peacocks, with Iris the rainbow on one side and Argus the hundred-eyed on the other; Venus, goddess of love, was drawn by swans; Aurora stood with her winged horse; Apollo of the Sun, engulfed in swaths of gold, was drawn by the golden Sun, followed by Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. Hercules was next, then Mars in his war chariot, and Minerva drawn by owls.

Cart after cart, they rolled into view, shining with gold and silver and paste jewels, awing the crowd with the marvelous effect created from papier-mâché, jigsawed wood, cascades of feathers and drapings of satin and silk, with sheets of gold leaf and barrels of paint. The hours of work expended were beyond counting, and it was easy to believe that a sum in excess of the rumored twenty thousand dollars had been spent by the Krewe of Comus.

Capering around the burdened carts were figures in the costumes of satyrs and nymphs, fauns and cupids. They were clustered particularly close around the next chariot in line, that of Great Pan, god of Arcadia, deity of amorous love, patron of pastoral poets.

Pan wore on his lower body a partial costume that had haunches covered with long white hair and the cloven feet of an Asian goat. From his shoulders swung a cloak of forest green wool held by a gold cord looped around great jeweled brooches, though his chest, broad and burned by the sun, was bare. Small gold horns sprang from the dark, tumbled curls that fell over his forehead, and twined in his hair were gold and green leaves of the vine. His face was covered by a gold demi-mask through which his. eyes gleamed with lascivious joy. Unlike some of the other gods, who showed a tendency toward corpulence, Pan was lean and fit, his chest padded with muscle. Most of the others were also content to allow the mule hidden under the trappings of their mythological animals to be led, but Pan, his strong arms outstretched and corded with strength, was driving his own chariot pulled by real milk-white goats. That he was a general favorite was plain from the cheers that rose along the route as he passed.

Anya applauded with the rest, her gaze upon Pan. She looked away to see what would come next, then looked back again, her attention irresistibly drawn. Pan was watching her, his gaze on her streaming hair, his smile devilish. She drew in her breath. It was Ravel. The god Pan was Ravel. She laughed aloud in sheer surprise.

It was at that moment of complete distraction that she felt the stir near her, heard a woman give a cry of stifled outrage. A man shouldered his way through the crowd and lunged at Anya. His hand closed on her arm, dragging her toward him. Caught off guard, she stumbled and his other arm clamped around her, holding her to the scratchy wool of his Arab burnous.