by Jane Peart
She had to move quickly to catch up to his long stride. He waited for her stiffly beside the rented carriage and handed her in without a word. Giving the driver the name of a hotel, he got in beside her. As the carriage lurched forward, he stared straight ahead.
Blythe’s voice was shaking with indignation as she demanded, “How could you, Malcolm? How could you be so rude to Amelia and her husband?”
Malcolm turned to her with flashing eyes. “You didn’t really expect me to take the hand of a Union Army soldier in friendship? Shake the hand that may have pulled the trigger that shot my brothers, friends, killed and wounded men in my Company?”
Struck by the violence in his words, Blythe drew back. Where was the quiet, soft-spoken, gentle man she had come to know and love? she asked herself as she looked into the face of a stranger.
chapter
7
AFTER MALCOLM’S outburst, Blythe retreated into silence, but she was very upset. It was so unlike Malcolm to have behaved in such a boorish manner toward the Thompsons, to have spoken to her so harshly. She tried to make excuses for him. Perhaps it was because he had been taken prisoner during the War and confined in a Yankee prison under brutal conditions that had wrecked his health and embittered him. Maybe the sight of Captain Thompson in the hated blue uniform had brought back all Malcolm’s terrible memories.
She had to forgive him, to understand. She hoped Amelia was not too hurt. They had exchanged addresses. As soon as she was settled at Montclair, she would write her friend and try to make amends.
From the dock, they drove through the crowded streets jammed with carriages, the sidewalks teeming with people, the air humming with noise and pungent with the exotic smells of coffee and spices and the heady sweetness of flowers.
At length, they drew up in front of a magnificent domed structure, iron-lace galleries and Ionic columns ornamenting its façade. A uniformed doorman, his tunic sporting gold epaulettes and two rows of shining buttons, opened the carriage door and assisted Blythe out. She gazed about her in round-eyed wonder as Malcolm, his hand supporting her, led her up the steps and into the lobby.
From the shimmering crystal of chandeliers to the marble floors and sweeping staircase, it was ultimate elegance. Speechless, Blythe waited while Malcolm signed the registry. At the desk clerk’s signal, a porter stepped forward to carry their luggage up the circular stairway and along a plush carpeted hallway to their suite.
Blythe could scarcely believe her eyes as she stepped across die direshold. Crimson velvet draperies fringed with gold hung over filmy lace curtains at the windows. The tiebacks were clumps of bronzed grape leaves with bunches of white glass grapes spilling down as if they grew there. The room into which they were ushered was furnished with gracefully arranged gilded chairs cushioned in crimson. A round table with curved legs held a crystal vase of red roses. Through an arched doorway, there was another room where an ornately carved bed rose in a splendor of gold satin canopy and coverings.
As soon as Malcolm had tipped the porter and closed the door behind him, Blythe spun around, clasping her hands together like a child. “Oh, Malcolm! It’s like a dream! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“That is fairly obvious,” Malcolm observed dryly.
Wounded, Blythe looked quickly into Malcolm’s face and saw something she’d never noticed before. Irritation, annoyance … contempt?
A new and uncomfortable thought occurred to Blythe. What did she—a girl from a frontier town, brought up without refinement or culture—know of Malcolm’s world? More disturbing, still, was Malcolm’s silent appraisal. He appeared to be making a fresh assessment of her—and not entirely liking what he saw, if that ridge between his dark brows was any evidence. At that moment, the gap between them seemed an unbridgeable chasm.
“Due to all the delays, we haven’t much time,” he said. “We were a week later than scheduled getting to New Orleans, and our train tickets to Richmond are for day after tomorrow. But we shall have to do something about your clothes.” He frowned.
Blythe gazed mutely at the gray worsted traveling suit, new when she had left Lucas Valley. Of course, the long and arduous journey had taken its toll, but Amelia had helped her freshen it and had contributed clean white linen collar and cuffs for their arrival in New Orleans. Seeing it now, however, through Malcolm’s critical eyes, Blythe was ashamed.
“Tomorrow you must buy yourself some suitable clothing. I can’t take you to meet my mother in that”
Though Malcolm’s disapproval wrenched Blythe’s heart, she brightened at his suggestion. Amelia had predicted Malcolm would take her on a shopping spree once they got to New Orleans, where the shops and fctores were reputed to be the finest anywhere outside Paris, France itself.
“Oh, Malcolm, what fun!”
“Well, perhaps, ladies consider shopping … fun,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Not I. I couldn’t possibly face an afternoon in some ladies’emporium, listening to prattle about fabrics and styles.”
“Surely you don’t mean for me to go alone?”
Again she saw that frown, that look of annoyance she had begun to dread.
“My dear Blythe,” he said with suppressed impatience, “you are a married lady now, and it is not unusual for married ladies to shop alone. For directions to an appropriate salon, you have only to consult the concierge downstairs. She is employed for the sole purpose of providing such information to hotel guests. It’s really quite simple.”
Blythe swallowed back another plea for him to accompany her. She did, however, venture one last question. “But what about tonight? I have nothing to wear to dinner.”
“Dinner? I’m afraid we’ve already missed the Ladies’Seating. I suggest you ring the maid to bring hot water for a bath, then I shall have a tray sent up to you later. I’m sure a warm bath and early retirement will be welcome after the … deprivations … of our long journey.”
“But, Malcolm—” Blythe protested.
“Yes?”
“What about you? Aren’t we to dine together?”
“I plan to take advantage of the bathing and barbering facilities off the lower lobby. After that, I’ll have dinner. The Gendemen’s Seating continues until eight, which is much too late for you.”
His tone was one of dismissal. Blythe could think of no reply, even though this was not her idea of their first evening together in New Orleans.
By the time she had finished her long bath—luxuriating in the warmth, the fragrant soap, the sponges, the soft towels—the maid opened the door for the waiter to bring in the dinner Malcolm had ordered.
It was a meal fit for a king … or a queen, Blythe thought, as she ate hungrily, even in lonely splendor. There was fresh crabmeat, tiny pink shrimp, mounds of rice with a delicious spicy sauce, succulent asparagus with a lemony glaze.
When she finished, she could barely keep her eyes open and, crawling beneath the quilted coverlet, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Blythe awakened the next morning to the sound of Malcolm’s voice in the next room. He was talking to a waiter she could see through the arched doorway.
A moment later, Malcolm appeared and smiled. “So you’re awake at last. Come, sleepy-head. I’ve ordered breakfast.”
At least his disposition had improved, Blythe thought, allowing herself a small surge of hope. Perhaps today they would see some of the interesting sights Amelia had told her could be found in New Orleans.
A table, covered with a white damask cloth, was set in the alcove near the windows. A napkin as large as an apron was folded beside the white porcelain plate, with a confusing array of silver on either side. A silver chafing dish held fluffy scrambled eggs, and there were covered platters of crisp bacon, tiny sausages, hot croissants and a mound of creamy butter, thick strawberry preserves, and the darkest, richest, most fragrant coffee Blythe had ever tasted.
After months of the limited menu aboard ship, Blythe ate with appreciation.
“Oh, Malcolm th
is is wonderful,” she sighed when she had satisfied her ravenous appetite. “What are we going to do today?”
“Well, I still have to see about our train reservations, check out our route, buy our tickets. And you, my dear, are going shopping, remember?”
“I still wish you’d come with me, Malcolm.”
“There is nothing to be timid about, Blythe. A saleslady in the shop will be more than eager to help you with your purchases. That’s her job. Not mine,” he added emphatically. “Once she sees how much you have to spend, I’m sure she’ll have no trouble at all finding just the right things for you.” Malcolm took out his wallet and began to count out several large bills, which he placed on die table beside Blythe’s plate.
“Goodness, Malcolm, this looks like a lot of money!” On the ranch, Pa had always handled their finances, seen to their needs.
“This isn’t Lucas Valley, Blythe,” Malcolm reminded her with a lifted eyebrow. “You’ll find the price of clothing in New Orleans very diffèrent from what you are accustomed to paying. I want you to have something especially fashionable and in good taste when I introduce you to my mother.”
He put on his jacket, picked up his hat, and started to the door, then paused there with his hand on the knob. “Don’t look so forlorn. For most ladies, shopping is a pleasant pastime.” He smiled reassuringly. “Til be back later this afternoon to see your new things. Now, have a good time.”
After he left, Blythe dressed and went down to the lobby to find the concierge. But one look at the impressive woman, elegantly attired in black taffeta, and wearing pince nez and a superior expression, sent Blythe scurrying back to her room.
While she was mustering up the courage to try again, a chambermaid came in, bringing fresh linen and towels, and Blythe seized this opportunity to inquire about the location of a dress shop.
“Some of the ladies Fs worked for patronize a place jes’down the block and over two streets. Miss Francine have some mighty pretty dresses and bonnets.”
Conquering her temerity and clutching the scrap of paper on which she had written the maid’s directions, Blythe soon found herself standing in front of a shop distinguised by a bay window and marked with a sign lettered in gold, Francine*s Fineries.
Wide-eyed, Blythe opened the door and walked into an ornately furnished interior.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” A handsome, elegandy gowned woman greeted her while inspecting her from head to toe.
“I—I came to buy a gown—” stumbled Blythe, more than a little intimidated. “But, perhaps I’m in the wrong—”
“Not at all, mademoiselle. You have come to one of the finest boutiques in New Orleans. We serve our clientele individually. Here,” she said, encompassing the room in a flourishing gesture, “we do not display our fine garments for all the world to see.” She bit off each word with an ill-concealed contempt for lesser emporiums.
Blythe felt an urge to giggle, thinking of Horen’s General Store in Lucas Valley, where all the merchandise was in plain sight—piled on counters, in shelves, on the floor.
“Now, what can we do for you?”
“A traveling outfit, please,” Blythe said shyly.
The winged brows flew up. ‘Traveling?” The eyes roamed slowly over Blythe’s slender figure.
“Yes, would you have something suitable—”
“Mais, oui, mademoiselle, of course we have many. You have but to choose.” At this, she clapped her hands sharply.
Instandy, a thin, sharp-featured young woman appeared. She was dressed all in black and wore a tape measure around her neck.
“Oui, madame?”
“Justine, our customer is looking for a traveling costume. Will you conduct her into one of the dressing rooms, fil vous plait?*
“Oui, madame. This way, mademoiselle.”
Blythe followed obediently.
“Disrobe, mademoiselle, so that I can take your measurements,” Justine instructed in a whispery voice once they were closeted behind heavy velvet draperies.
Blythe did as she was told, divesting herself of her jacket, waist, and skirt, down to her cotton camisole and petticoats, then stared in astonishment. The three-sided mirror gave her a view of herself she had never seen before—front, back, both sides, all at once. She felt abysmally out of place—like one of Pa’s barn swallows in a gilded cage.
“Have you any preference of color, style?” Madame Francine asked when she joined them, again surveying Blythe, inch by inch.
This was too much for her innate honesty. “Oh, madame, I know nothing of fashion!” she blurted. ‘This is my husband’s idea … to have the latest—”
Again the dark brows took flight. “Husband? But you did not say—”
“Oh, he is insistent that I have something new and elegant.”
The black eyes narrowed. “And what price range did you have in mind?”
Blythe slipped her small pouch purse off her wrist, pulled open the drawstrings, and brought out the handful of crumpled bills Malcolm had left with her.
“Here, madame.” She pressed the bills into the woman’s hand. “This is all the money I have. Is it enough for an outfit such as I described?”
Madame looked down at the clump of paper bills and made quick work of counting them. Her expression reminded Blythe fleetingly of an old cat who had just been surprised with a full bowl of fresh cream. The woman and her assistant exchanged a look.
Then Madame Francine pursed her lips and tilted her head to one side in a studied appraisal. “And you are in New Orleans … on holiday?”
Under the intense gaze, Blythe blushed. “On our honeymoon, you might say.”
“Ah-h-h-h—” This, from Justine.
Even Madame Francine’s countenance softened a little, though her black eyes glittered like jet beads.
“And monsieur will be taking you out to dine, of course, to show off his beautiful bride, n’est ce pas?”
Blythe smiled happily. “I hope so.”
Then the two got to work, Madame issuing orders like a drill sergeant and Justine fluttering around with pins in her mouth as she nipped in darts and adjusted pleats, her ringers flying, her needle moving like magic.
In Blythe’s mind, this episode bore little resemblance to the ordeal of fittings in Mrs. Coppley’s back room. Those were tedious, something to be endured. “My lands!” the frontier woman would exclaim, exhorting Blythe to stand straight. “Ain’t you never goin’to stop growin’, child?”
Instead, while Madame Francine and Justine fussed around her, there were clucks of approval and admiration.
“Magnifique!”
“Très belle!”
As she turned at their direction, Blythe felt a warm glow of happiness. She so hoped Malcolm would be pleased with the results of this shopping expedition. When they finally had fastened the last button, adjusted the fitted basque to each one’s satisfaction, Madame Justine sighed, “Voila! “
“What do you think, madame?” asked Justine, sitting back on her heels at Blythe’s feet.
Blythe could hardly believe her eyes when she saw her reflection. Staring back at her from the mirror was a tall, statuesque stranger. The violet silk grenadine jacket had wide satin reveres corded in deep purple satin; the skirt’s fluted ruffles were also trimmed with purple cording, caught in loops with braided bows.
“Oh, my!” she gasped. “I hardly recognized myself!”
“And now for the pièce de resistancer declared Madame Francine. “Come along, ma chérie”
Blythe followed her into an adjoining room where she found herself surrounded by the most extravagant assortment of bonnets she had ever imagined.
Seating Blythe at a dressing table before a gilt-edged mirror, Madame Fralicine tried on one after the other of the beautiful creations, with Justine looking on in awe.
“What glorious hair you have, madame,” Justine whispered.
“The color is naturelle, one presumes?” added Madame Francine.
“Yes,” rep
lied Blythe, who had entertained some suspicion about Madame’s own black tresses.
“But, of course,” Madame nodded as if there had never been a doubt.
“Now, this is perfection,” she said at last, settling a violet silk bonnet over Blythe’s red-gold curls. The confection was lined in shirred lilac chiffon, with a cluster of feathery purple plumes peeping fetchingly over the brim.
“Enchanté!” exclaimed Madame and Justine in unison.
Blythe floated back to the hotel on a cloud of happy anticipation. She could not imagine what Malcolm would say when he saw her new outfit, though she expected he would echo the salesladies’lavish compliments.
Blythe had never before been told she was beautiful, and until Madame had pointed out the fact of her unusual coloring—the auburn hair inherited from her father’s Kentucky kin and the dark Spanish eyes of her mother—she had not thought it at all extraordinaire. This one time, however, she felt extraordinary, and longed to hear the confirmation from the lips of the one whose opinion mattered most.
She hurried upstairs to their hotel room, and upon opening the door and seeing Malcolm seated there reading the newspaper, she pirouetted gaily in front of him, awaiting his enthusiastic reaction.
“Great Jehoshaphat! What kind of a getup is that!” he shouted and struck his forehead in dismay.
Blythe stood before him, dumbstruck by the violence of his reaction. “Isn’t it all right?”
“All right? It’s all wrong! Completely. Here, give me that bonnet!” he demanded and, when she handed it to him, he began ripping off the purple plumes.
Blythe watched in horror as he tore off all the trimming, then said curdy, “Now … the jacket.”
She took off the offending garment slowly, wondering what on earth he planned to do. She gasped when he withdrew a small knife from his pocket. Horrified, she watched as Malcolm methodically cut the threads holding the looped satin cording and lace edging from the lapels and cuffs.
“Oh, Malcolm!” Blythe waüed. “You’ve ruined it!”
