“I’d like to see this girl,” he said.
His voice was deep and melodious, like a husky caress. His mother shot him a warning look, and he grinned, leaning back against the liquor cabinet, clearly amused by all the uproar. Lavinia Etienne drew herself up haughtily, glaring at her nephew-by-marriage, every inch the formidable grande dame.
“What precisely do you intend to do with her?” she inquired.
“I intend to see Emil Moreau in his offices first thing tomorrow. I intend to make her my ward, become her legal guardian. The child has no one.”
Lavinia gasped and slammed a palm to her heart. Both men ignored her dramatic gesture.
“I intend to hire tutors,” Julian continued, “and see that she is given a chance in life. She’s an intelligent child. I have no doubt she’ll come around splendidly.”
“An illiterate swamp girl! A bastard to boot! You’ve lost your mind, Julian! You’ve quite plainly lost your mind. Charles will—if Charles were here, he would never allow this to happen!”
“This does not concern Charles,” Julian said calmly, “and I might remind you that I am the elder brother, Lavinia. I have taken this child in and that is that. I need not justify my actions to you, dear aunt, or to anyone else. People can think what they will. I couldn’t care less.”
“She must be something,” Raoul observed.
“You’re both welcome to stay to dinner. I’m sure you’ll find her as charming and guileless as I do.”
“She’s obviously a clever and conniving little trollop who has you completely hoodwinked! You’ve always been a fool, Julian, but I never believed you could be so—so—” Lavinia’s icy voice seemed to crack. “Come, Raoul,” she commanded. “I don’t intend to stay in this house one minute longer!”
Raoul arched an eyebrow, took a final sip of his drink and, giving Julian an amused look, reluctantly followed his mother as she marched haughtily out of the room. Julian watched them leave, lifted one hand to run his fingers though his hair and then moved over to the liquor cabinet to pour another drink. I slipped back through the shadows to the staircase and hurried back up to my room, arriving just as Kayla tapped on the door. I quickly lighted candles and then opened the door.
Kayla insisted on helping me dress, then insisted I sit at the dressing table and let her do my hair. She brushed it skillfully until it shined with rich golden-brown highlights, then fluffed the waves and let them tumble in a gleaming cascade about my shoulders. She chattered blithely all the while, mostly about men and the delights of loving. Finally satisfied, she stepped back to examine her work.
“Oh, you’s a real beauty, Miz Dana,” she declared. “Th’ men are gonna go wild for you. New Aw-leans is fulla dashin’ bucks, an’ all of ’em are gonna be bustin’ their breeches to win you.”
“Nonsense.”
“You got lovin’ in your blood,” she continued. “I can tell. You’s still a virgin, still unawakened, but when you becomes a woman—oh, lawdy, Miz Dana, they ain’t gonna be no stoppin’ place. You’s gonna have all-a th’ men at your feet.”
“I ain—I’m not interested in men,” I said primly.
“You just thinks you ain’t,” she informed me.
I stood up, adjusting the folds of my skirt. Kayla led me out of the room and down the hall to the backstairs, which, she explained, were much handier and quicker. I was bewildered and disoriented, quite certain I would never find my way around in this large, rambling house. Downstairs we moved through a series of short, narrow hallways, finally turning under the grand staircase and arriving in the main foyer, where Delia was waiting. Kayla gave me a grin and made a pert curtsey, then scurried away.
“I do declare, that girl beats all,” Delia sighed. “She’s a hard worker, and she has very winning ways, but she simply refuses to learn proper decorum. Always larking about.”
“She’s charming,” I said.
“Come, dear, Julian will join us in the dining room. Jezebel’s cooked a very special meal tonight—I believe we start with buttered escargots.”
“Escargots?”
“Snails, dear.”
“I—I’m sorry, but I ain—I’m not eatin’ no snails, ma’am.”
“You’ll adore them dear. Jezebel uses just a touch of garlic in the butter.”
“Even so …”
Delia smiled and led me down a wide hall leading off the foyer and then into the dining room. The long mahogany table was draped with fine old linen and set with wonderful gold-rimmed white china and crystal glasses. Candles burned in ornate wall sconces, and massive silver pieces set on a huge mahogany sideboard, most of them in sad need of polishing, I observed. Rich dark wood covered the lower half of the walls, rather depressing faded maroon wallpaper with pink, white and brown flowers above. The chandelier hanging over the table had round and pear-shaped crystal pendants, all of them shimmering and throwing off rainbow spokes of reflected light. Like the other rooms I had seen, this one was elegant indeed but slightly worn at the edges.
Julian joined us a few moments later, sporting a new neckcloth and looking distracted, his mind clearly on other things besides food. How handsome he was in his frock coat, his thick chestnut hair a bit rumpled, as though he had been running his fingers through it again. He remained distracted during the meal, speaking little, although he did chuckle when Delia insisted I eat a snail and showed me how to employ the tiny silver fork. Tasted surprisingly delicious, it did, particularly when you dipped it into the little dish of melted butter. The snails were followed by asparagus with hollandaise sauce and filet of sole cooked in wine, tiny green peas and baby carrots on the side.
The meal was served by a grinning Elijah, under the stern supervision of Pompey, and after dessert of cream custard with melted brown sugar sauce, an exceedingly plump Jezebel waddled in to ask if the meal had been satisfactory, although her real purpose was plainly to get a good look at me. Dressed in a voluminous purple dress, a white apron around her waist, a white bandanna atop her head, she had a round black face, a wide grin and friendly brown eyes. I liked her immediately.
“You’s too skinny, chile,” she told me. “We’s gonna hafta fatten you up some. Leave it to Jezebel. She’ll see you gets some flesh on dem bones.”
Julian informed us that he had some things to attend to in his study, and he left, patting me absentmindedly on the shoulder as he passed. I was disappointed and a little hurt. It seemed that now that he had me here in the house, he had lost interest in me, although I realized I was probably being too sensitive. He had certainly stood up for me to that dreadful Lavinia and her sleek, too good-looking son.
“I suppose he’s eager to sort out his specimen and get to his notes,” Delia said. “He’s always preoccupied when he returns from one of his trips, but I should think this time he would …” She shook her head, letting the rest of the sentence drift away. “We’ll go to my sitting room and visit for a while, dear.”
I obediently followed her down the hall again, Delia chattering about our forthcoming visit to the dressmaker Corinne, who, she assured me, would create a marvelous wardrobe for me. Her sitting room was near the back of the house, a small, comfortable room done in shades of ivory, peach and pearl-gray, the furniture French, elegantly gilded. There were several pieces of gorgeous porcelain—Sevres, she informed me, dusty, I observed—and candles burned in magnificent silver candlesticks lightly spotted with tarnish. The nap of the embroidered peach silk covering the sofa was worn, and the low table in front of it was pleasantly littered with magazines and books. I noticed these things as she led me into the room, but my attention was caught and held by the portrait hanging over the light gray mantel.
I had a curious feeling of déjà vu, although I knew for certain I had never seen the man before. He had rich chestnut hair and dark blue eyes and a full mouth held in a firm, resolute line. His face was lean with high, broad cheekbones and a perfect Roman nose. He was extremely handsome, extremely virile as well, like … like a younger, lea
ner version of Julian, I thought, although Julian could never look so stern and formidable. The artist had done a superb job in capturing those strong, chiseled features and the character behind them. One could sense strength and impatience and steely determination. The dark blue eyes seemed to stare at me with accusatory wrath, while the mouth tightened in disdain. It was a disturbing portrait yet strangely compelling, too. I couldn’t seem to look away.
“My nephew Charles,” Delia said lightly. “He hates that portrait, wanted to destroy it. I rescued it and brought it in here.”
“It’s—quite unusual,” I remarked.
“Charles to the life. He’s a dear, dear boy, but he can be a mite intimidating—usually unintentionally. He demands so much of himself, you see, and he expects other people to have the same drive, the same integrity.”
“I—I can see the family resemblence, but—somehow he isn’t like Julian.”
“You’d scarcely believe they were brothers,” Delia admitted. “Charles is twelve years younger, but you would think he was twelve years older. He is the guiding force, the strength. Julian is casual, compassionate, unhurried, something of a dreamer. Charles is a doer, often brusque and sometimes overbearing, though he doesn’t mean to be. Do sit down, dear.”
I sat down in the pearl silk chair, trying to keep my eyes averted from the portrait, but even when I wasn’t looking at it I seemed to feel those eyes taking stock of me, dismissing me with cool superiority. Delia arranged herself on the sofa, looking as fragile and insubstantial as some dream creature in her lilac gown, her corona of silvery hair floating softly about her head.
“They’re very close,” she said.
“Julian and his brother?”
She nodded. “You wouldn’t think so—they being so different. Julian respects Charles’s business acumen and judgment, his ability to make decisions and his strength under pressure. Charles respects Julian’s remarkable intelligence, his kind heart, gladly tolerates his charming eccentricities. Julian wasn’t always so absentminded, you understand, but after the tragedy …” Delia again let the rest of the sentence drift away.
“Tragedy?” I prompted.
“Maryanne, his wife. She died of the fever—it must be over fifteen years ago. She was a lively, vivacious creature, full of love, full of laughter. Julian was utterly crushed. After Maryanne passed away he Seemed to lose interest in everything but his plants and that book he’s been compiling.”
“I—I didn’t know he’d ever been married,” I said.
“He never talks about it. Over the years there’ve been other women—he’s male, after all, and still in his prime—but they were merely pretty creatures to amuse himself with. He’s never allowed himself to care deeply about another woman after he lost Maryanne.”
That explained a great deal, I thought.
“Is his brother married?” I asked.
“Charles is devoted to the business, to restoring the family fortune. He’s much too sober and serious for anything as frivolous as courtship. He’s extremely eligible—Julian is, too, for that matter—and half the belles in the Quarter have tried to snare him. To no avail. When Charles needs a woman, he—I needn’t go into details, dear. Certain types of women are very available in New Orleans.”
In the swamp, too, I thought, recalling Jessie. Delia seemed to accept her nephews’ sexual activities quite casually. Men will be men, her attitude seemed to be, so why make a fuss about it?
“Julian said his brother is in Europe,” I remarked.
“There are to be several important estate sales. Charles hopes to pick up some bargains for Etienne’s, and he’s also exploring new markets for our cotton. I believe he’ll be spending a couple of months up North when he returns from Europe. He hated to be away so long, but he felt the trip was necessary if we are to remain solvent.”
Delia picked up a palmetto fan and began to fan herself, changing the subject back to Corinne and my new wardrobe, interrupting herself now and then to insert family anecdotes, her mind drifting from fabric and cut and color to memories of days gone by when Julian and Charles were boys. It really wasn’t that difficult to follow her once you got used to the sudden shifts. Candles flickered, bathing the room in soft light, and all the while I was aware of that portrait, those eyes, as though there were another living presence in the room with us. It was most unsettling, and I was relieved when Delia finally suggested we retire early.
“Do you want me to show you back up to your room?” she asked.
“I think I can find my way.”
“Here, take one of these candles. I’ll see you in the morning, dear. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then go straight to Corinne’s. She’ll be thrilled to create a wardrobe for someone as lovely as you.”
“I—I can’t tell you what your kindness means,” I said, and my voice trembled.
“Oh dear—you’re not going to cry, are you?”
“I—I don’t think so. It’s just—no one’s ever been so kind to me before and—”
I cut myself short, gnawing my lower lip.
Delia smiled, squeezed my hand tightly and led me back to the main foyer. I told her good night and started up to my room, wondering what Julian was doing, still feeling a bit neglected. Most of the candles had been extinguished, and my own flame danced, casting wavering golden patterns on the dark walls. The house was full of soft, whispering noises—the gentle flutter of drapes, the rustling of leaves from the enclosed courtyard—and there were creaks and groans as well, as though, like an aged being, it was settling down for the night.
I found my room after only one wrong turn. The yellow satin counterpane and thin yellow linen sheets had been neatly turned back. A single candle burned beside the bed. There was a carafe of water, a glass of milk, a plate of tiny iced cakes. I smiled, thinking of Jezebel and her promise to fatten me up. Removing my clothes, I placed them carefully in the wardrobe and, completely nude, slipped on the wrapper someone—Kayla?—had draped across the bed. Sipping the milk, nibbling one of the cakes, I felt I was in the middle of a dream. Four days ago I had been living in the swamp, my emotions numbed by Ma’s death, Clem a constant threat, life a bleak expanse of endless days, and now here I was in New Orleans, in this marvelous old house, with people who genuinely seemed to care about me. I was still overwhelmed, still disoriented, not at all certain I wouldn’t wake up to discover it was all a product of my imagination.
Removing the wrapper, slipping under the covers, I blew out the candle. The room was immediately filled with violet-black shadows that gradually lightened as moonlight sifted in hazy rays through the opened French windows. I listened to the splash-splatter-splash of water in the fountain and the raspy crickle-crackle of leaves in the breeze, and I smelled the heady perfumes of the garden. Was I awake, or was I dreaming? I closed my eyes and velvety darkness slowly engulfed me and time passed, time had no meaning, and I saw the mist and the man, and the great river was there nearby, I could hear its murmur. He came to me and looked searchingly into my eyes, and then he took my hands and squeezed them and pulled me to him, as always. That wonderful feeling began, warm and kind of itchy, and sweet, flowing through my veins, delicious, tormenting. The dream was the same, but this time I could see his face.
It was the face in the portrait in Delia’s sitting room.
Chapter Seven
EVERY SINGLE CRYSTAL PENDANT of the huge chandelier glittered, sparkling with a shimmering diamond brightness, shooting off rays of rainbow color as the morning sunlight touched them. It hung at waist level, and I moved around it with a critical eye, looking for the least little smudge or speck of dust. Finding none, I nodded, and Elijah scampered away to pull the concealed rope that would lift the chandelier back up to the ceiling. I stepped back, watching it slowly rise. The pendants swayed, tinkling loudly, and I gave a little gasp as Elijah heaved too violently and the whole chandelier swung wildly, threatening to come crashing down.
“Gently!” I called. “Carefully!”
“Yes’um!” he shouted back.
“Fasten the rope securely!”
“Yes’um!”
Finally in place, the chandelier swayed gently for a few moments before it finally steadied and grew still. Elijah scurried back into the foyer, grinning merrily, quite pleased with himself.
“I told-ja I could do it, Miz Dana. I told-ja we didn’t need Pompey helpin’ us.”
“You did an excellent job, Elijah. For a moment there I—I thought you were going to let it fall, but—”
“I jerked th’ rope too hard,” the boy confessed, “but I never let loose uh it. Tied it real right, too, with that special knot Pompey learned me.”
“Taught,” I corrected, “not ‘learned.’”
“Taught me,” he said, testing the words.” Lawdy, Miz Dana, since you’ve been havin’ all dem lessons, we’s all gettin’ smarter. Whatta ya want me to do next?”
“You can help with the rugs. They’ve all been carried out behind the carriage house, and I want them properly aired and dusted.”
“I gets to beat ’em with dat big swatter?”
“You can take turns with Job and Elroy.”
“Dem boys, dey ain’t worth much, Miz Dana. Dey’s older’n me, sure, but dey ain’t got der heart in it. Shore am glad dey’s just helpin’ out and ain’t part-a th’ family.”
They Call Her Dana Page 14
