They call her Dana (31 page)

meanor. Jezebel had outdone herself—cold, tender asparagus with white cheese sauce, sliced ham, lobster salad, popovers— but I had no appetite at all and barely touched my food.

"Raoul reported to work this morning," Charles remarked, buttering one of the golden-brown, light-as-air popovers. "He gave no explanations and made no apologies, merely said he'd had a dandy time."

"Is he still alive?" Julian asked.

"He's alive, but he got a severe dressing down. I told him in no uncertain terms that his ass was out if he pulled a stunt like that again."

"Language, dear," Delia said.

"He had the temerity to ask for a raise in salary. Can you, believe it? He said it would make his mother very happy."

"You didn't give it to him," Julian said.

"On the contrary, I told him I was docking him for the days he missed. He sulked a bit, but he didn't dare complain—he saw the mood I was in. The young varlet was lucky I didn't kick his-"

"Language," Delia warned.

"Backside. I wanted to, believe me. Incidentally, you'll never guess who came into the shop this morning, Julian."

"I never will. Who?"

A half smile curled on Charles's chiseled pink lips, and he gave his brother an amused look. "The lovely Amelia,'' he said.

Delia looked surprised. "Amelia Jameson?" she asked.

"The same."

"Oh dear," she said.

I remembered the lady well. She was the gorgeous brunette with violet-blue eyes who had loaned me the gown and slippers and parasol when Julian and I finally reached the inn and I had nothing but the rags I was wearing. How I had envied her sumptuous clothes and worldly poise.

"I wonder what she's doing back in town," Julian remarked, helping himself to more lobster salad. "Last time I saw her she'd taken up with some rich property owner who was keeping her in style."

"Really," Delia protested, "I'm not sure this is a suitable subject for the lunch table."

Charles and Julian both gave her looks.

"She was looking extremely well," Charles continued, grin-

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Unnifermide 221

ning. "Lovelierthan ever, in fact. She was wearing crimson silk and long black lace gloves and a wide-brimmed black hat with crimson plumes and ribbons. A veritable vision, I must say."

"I never realized you were so observant, dear," Delia said.

"What did she buy?" Julian asked.

"She wasn't buying, she was selling. It seems she's a little short of cash and wanted to know if I'd be interested in a silver filigree box she brought in. Late seventeenth century, fine craftsmanship, superb detail."

"You give her a good price for it?"

"More than I should have, but we'll still turn a nice profit. I felt sure you'd approve. The rich property owner is apparently out of the picture," he continued, "and the lady is unattached."

"That won't last long," Julian said dryly.

"She asked about you," Charles told him.

Julian looked highly disinterested. "Yeah?"

"I told her you were working on your book. 'It figures,' she said. 'He always was.' "

"That's quite enough, Charles," Delia said. "Did I tell you boys I'm leaving for Grande Villa tomorrow morning? Alicia's been begging me to come visit, and this dreadful heat is so oppressive. I've had a terrible migraine for days. I just suffer and suffer and—"

Julian lifted his eyes heavenward. Charies buttered another popoverand reached for the platter of ham. Delia continued her monologue until dessert was served—chilled chocolate pudding with whipped cream on top—and then Julian informed us that he, too, was going to be away.

' 'I thought I'd made my last trip to the swamps, but in working on the footnotes I discovered that I need more information on certain soil conditions. I'm leaving day after tomorrow— shouldn't be gone for more than a couple of weeks. The bronze orchids grow only in damp soil, you see, while the purple orchids are found only in a certain kind of flaky gray clay. I should've brought soil samples back with me last time, but I was so intrigued with those new ferns I found I forgot about everything else. The ferns grow only at the edge of the water in muddy soil, they're a peculiar shade of yellow-green and have unusually soft and feathery—"

"Really, dear, I don't mean to be unkind," Delia said, '*but we're not at all interested. You go on and on about the most

boring things. Some of us prefer ^rzmulating conversation at the table."

Charies and Julian exchanged looks.

"Why hasn't one of us murdered her before now?" Charles inquired.

"Miraculous restraint," Julian replied.

"You boys," Delia said fondly.

Julian retired to his study after lunch, and Charles went back to spend the rest of the day at Etienne's. E>elia declared that a nice long nap might do wonders for her headache, she would pack after dinner. She went up to her bedroom, and I gave a sigh of relief. I found Kayla and asked her to prepare a bath for me, and forty-five minutes later I was in my bedroom wearing a petticoat and trying to select the right dress to wear. I rejected several, finally selecting a demure frock of thin, leaf-brown linen. It had elbow-length puffed sleeves and a square-cut neckline higher than most. I adjusted the snug waist and smoothed the folds of the very full skirt over my petticoat. Examining myself in the mirror, I wasn't satisfied with my hair. I spent another fifteen minutes brushing it, pulling it back from my face and fastening it into a French roll on the back of my head.

Kayla tapped on my door and stepped inside, looking surprised at the change in my appearance.

"Why, Miz Dana!" she exclaimed. "You look—why, in that dress an' with your hair done up like that, you look plum prim"

"That's how I want to look," I told her.

"I come up to see if you needed anything. You plannin' on going' to a prayer meetin' or somethin'?"

"Kayla," I said, ignoring her impertinence, "has that new man Jasper come back yet from taking Mister Charles to the shop?"

"He got back half an hour ago," Kayla replied, "came into the east wing where I was workin' and pinched me right on the rear, he did, then tried to take liberties. What sauce! I told him I wudn't havin' none of that, not from the likes-a him. He is good-lookin', I have to admit that. Don't you think so, Miz Dana?"

"I—I really hadn't noticed, Kayla."

"Very well built and such roguish eyes. Of course, he's rather dark for a gal light as me, but those muscles—to tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind all that much if he did take liberties."

"Kayla, I want you to do a favor for me. I want you to ask Jasper to meet me on the street in ten minutes—on the street, not in front of the door—and I want him to use the closed carriage.'*

*'Don't want no one seein' you, is that it?"

"That's it," I said impatiently.

"You ain't goin' to meet a lover, that's for sure. Not wearin' that dress. Guess you've got a secret errand."

"Exactly. And I'd like to keep it a secret. Please don't tell anyone else about it, and—and ask Jasper to keep quiet about it, too. Will you?"

Kayla nodded, cleariy intrigued. "Sure thing, Miz Dana. I'll tell him if he blabs he ain't gettin' any of this. The closed carriage will be waiting for you on the street in ten minutes, I promise you."

She scurried out of the room, and I turned to the mirror again. I did look a bit too prim, I thought, and, to remedy it, decided I would carry my green velvet reticule and fasten a green velvet bow at the side of the French roll, above my temple. That helped considerably. I looked demure and well-bred, but not as if I were on my way to a prayer meeting.

I slipped out of the house without being seen and hurried down the drive to the wrought-iron gates. I was pleased to see the closed carriage waiting a litde way down the street, Jasper standing ready to help me inside. He was a handsome chap, I noted, with a trim, muscular physique, skin like polished ebony and strong, rather stem features. The eyes Kayla described as roguish were a very dark brown, discreetly impassive now. He nodded curtly when I greeted him, then handed me into the carriage.

"Do you know where Conti Street is?" I asked.

Jasper nodded again. I asked him to drive me to number four, a gray house with green shutters, and he closed the carriage door. I leaned back against the padded velvet cushions, spreading my skirts out as the carriage started to move. Everything had happened so quickly, I hadn't had time to make any plans or think about what I was going to say, what I was going to do. I peered out at the gray brick walls spilling with bougainviilea, at the greenery beyond and the lacework of wrought iron that adorned the houses, and I tried to tell myself I wasn't being impulsive, tried to tell myself I wasn't nervous at all. Mathilda

DuJardin was my grandmother, my own blood kin, Solonge my aunt, Guy Chevrier my great-uncle, and blood had to mean something. I found myself gripping my skirt tightly, bunching up the thin brown linen with my fingers, my knuckles white. I stopped immediately.

You should have waited, I told myself. You should have sent them a letter first. You should have prepared them. What are they going to say when you appear on their doorstep, out of the blue, claiming to be their kin? What if they don't believe you? These and other questions plagued me as the carriage gently swayed, as the horse hooves clop-clopped on the cobblestones. I should wait. I should tap on the roof of the carriage and ask Jasper to turn around and take me back home. I didn't. I took several deep breaths. I forced myself to relax. It's going to be all right, I assured myself. You're no longer a ragged little waif from the swamps. You're a respectable young lady.

We passed the market, a riot of color and activity at this hour. Negro women with huge baskets examined piles of oranges, barrels of eels, mounds of plump pink shrimp, piles of crisp pale green lettuce. Children darted about merrily, and fashionably dressed ladies strolled together, twirling their parasols, chatting in front of stalls selling delicious pastries or the mouthwatering praline candy for which the city was famous. I could smell the wonderful exotic spices and freshly baked bread, the salty smell of raw fish and, too, the acrid odor of droppings from the chicken pens, all of it somehow blending together to create a tangy perfume. I had come here several times with Jezebel, amused by her sharp eye and her ability to drive a hard bargain. Woe unto anyone who tried to sell her a slightly bruised melon or a bucket of oysters less than fresh. I wished I were shopping with her now. I wished I were doing anything else but what I was doing now.

I wondered if Ma had loved the market as much as I did. Ma . . . She had been a lovely young girl, growing up in this city, very much a part of the snobbish, exclusive society of the Quarter, the daughter of one of its most respected members. She had lived in a grand house with lovely gardens, gardens ablaze with azaleas and camellias, and there had been an older sister, a sister she had never mentioned to me, plain, perhaps jealous of her beauty. It had been a luxurious life, gracious and full of gentle splendors. There had been parties, and beaux, too, of course.

probably a great many beaux, dashing, handsome young blue bloods who longed to capture Theophile DuJardin's beautiful daughter. Ma would have none of them, though. She wanted someone else, and because of him she had given up that luxurious life and . . . and ended up in the swamps with Clem O'Malley.

I repressed a sob and forced back the tears. The grief was still there inside, as strong as ever, and it threatened to break free and sweep over me anew. No. No, I wouldn't let it demolish me. Deliberately, with great effort, I controlled it, forced it back into that daric place inside where it would always remain, a part of me for as long as I lived. Ma was gone. I had resigned myself to that a long time ago. Ma was gone, and I must go on. That was what life was all about, going on—no matter how hard it sometimes might be. I brushed the moismre from my lashes and sat up, composed now and much calmer than I had been since I left the house. I had lost Ma, but I had found her people, thanks to the ramblings of a pathetic yet touching old woman who could no longer differentiate between past and present.

We mmed into Exchange Alley, where at least fifty maitres d'armes operated fencing academies for the young bucks of the city. Fencing was the fashion, and duels at dawn were much too frequently held in the grove of giant live oaks outside the city called, simply, the Oaks. I saw several young men on the street, some with fencing masks and swords in hand, most of them simply lounging together and exchanging tales of their prowess at today's practice. I recognized Zackery Rambeaux and Pierre Dorsay and one or two others I had met at the ball. How pleased with themselves they all looked, idling about with nothing to fill their days but wenching and dueling and gambling and other mischief. They laughed at Julian and called him a dreamer, but at least Julian was striving to make a contribution, and they looked down on Charles because he worked and refused to conform to their ideas of' 'aristocratic" behavior. No wonder Raoul resented working at Etienne's. These were his close companions, and they must ride him mercilessly about being "in trade."

Exchange Alley turned in to Conti, and a few moments later the carriage came to a stop. Jasper climbed down and opened the door for me, and my skirts made a soft rustling noise as I stepped down. We were in front of a tall, three-story house that was one of an attached row, all of them flush with the sidewalk.

Number four was of old gray brick, as were most of the others, and it had the worn, mellow patina of age. No wrought iron here, only a short flight of dirty white marble steps, a white door with fanlight above it and green shutters at the windows. The green paint was peeling, I noticed, and the heavy glass panes of the windows needed a good washing. A tarnished brass Four was affixed to the center of the door, and there was a heavy brass knocker over the doorknob.

"I don't know how long I may be, Jasper," I told him. "You may go on back to the house. You'll be needing to go pick up Mister Charles in a little while, anyway."