They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I had no idea you were actually—writing. Delia said—”

  “Delia has always considered my work a rather amusing hobby—as, indeed, does everyone else. Absentminded old Julian, trekking through the swamps, taking notes, picking plants, scribbling, scribbling. No one ever believed I’d actually do anything with all that material I’ve been compiling. When my book is printed, they’ll see.”

  “I think it’s wonderful, Julian.”

  “It’s going to be splendid. I’ve been in touch with an engraver who’s going to do the plates. He’ll reproduce all my paintings—in full color, too. Frightfully complicated process, frightfully expensive as well, but I want this book to be a landmark.”

  “Like Audubon’s bird book,” I said.

  Julian looked surprised. “You remembered. Yes, I want this to do for native flora and fauna what Audubon’s book did for ornithology. I want to make a contribution, Dana. I want to—”

  He cut himself short and gave me a little smile. “No wonder people think I’m barmy. Here I sit with my lovely young ward on the night of her very first ball and what do I do? I bore her to death with dreary talk about a dreary project that couldn’t possibly interest her in the least.”

  “I’m not bored at all!” I protested. “I think it’s fascinating.”

  “You’re very kind, but—you’re eighteen years old. You should be enjoying yourself.”

  “I heartily agree,” Raoul said.

  Immersed in talk, neither of us had noticed him approaching our table. He gave Julian a patronizing smile and turned to me with a gleam in those dark, attractive eyes. He looked for all the world like one of the heroes in those novels I’d been consuming so avidly: smooth, elegant, wickedly handsome.

  “I saw you dancing earlier,” he said. “You deserve a partner who can show you off properly.”

  “Not a doddering middle-aged man,” Julian added.

  Raoul smiled again, not denying the implication. “Come, Cousin,” he said to me, “honor me with this dance.”

  “I—”

  “Go ahead, Dana,” Julian told me. “I’ll just sit here nursing my arthritic old bones. Maybe someone will bring a rug to put over my knees.”

  I hesitated. I really did long to dance again, even if it was with Raoul, but I didn’t want Julian to think … He saw my hesitation, laughed and got to his feet.

  “Dance,” he said. “It’ll give me an opportunity to talk with a couple of my old cronies who are, I’m sure, dying to learn all about the cross-pollination of wild orchids.”

  He patted my arm and sauntered off, and Raoul swept me onto the floor, holding me firmly, whirling me into the dance. It was a lively, melodic waltz, and I really did seem to soar this time, so caught up by the music it seemed to be a part of me. Raoul was a superb dancer, strong, energetic and masterful yet moving with a lithe, athletic grace it was impossible not to respond to. I matched my movements to his, forgetting my dislike of him, forgetting everything but the sheer bliss of the dance.

  “You’ve caused quite a sensation,” Raoul informed me when the music finally stopped.

  “Oh?”

  “All my friends are fascinated. They’ve bombarded me with questions about you.”

  “Indeed?”

  “They think you’re positively enchanting, the most beautiful creature they have ever seen. They all want to meet you. Ah, here comes Zack—I figured he would be the first to break the ranks.”

  A robust, healthy-looking youth with floppy blond hair and twinkling brown eyes approached us across the crowded dance floor. He was quite attractive with that wide grin playing on his lips, and he looked resplendent in his formal attire. Raoul greeted him with a grin of his own and introduced us. People were watching, one young lady in particular. Her eyes blazed with fury as the youth executed a cocky bow and gazed at me with unabashed admiration.

  “And what do you want, Rambeaux?” Raoul inquired.

  “I wanna dance with this little lady. You don’t mind, do you? I mean, I wouldn’t wanna encroach on someone else’s territory.”

  “The territory’s wide open, but you’ll have to ask my cousin. I’m not her keeper, alas.”

  I ignored the double entendres, all innocence. The clothes were much finer, the manners smoother, the accents much more refined, but I had been dealing with bucks like these since I was thirteen. Zackery Rambeaux asked if he could have the next dance and I smiled demurely and said I would be delighted and the music started again and we danced and he wooed me with his eyes and with pretty words and asked me if I would like to go riding with him and I politely refused and he looked quite surprised, obviously accustomed to having any girl he wanted at the snap of his fingers.

  I smiled to myself as Zack retreated, quickly replaced by the dashing red-haired youth I had seen dancing earlier with Bertha. He introduced himself and said he’d been admiring me all evening and told me he would blow his brains out if I refused him the next dance. I said I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for such a violent demise, and he chuckled and gave me a sleepy, seductive look and pulled me into his arms and, as we danced, wooed me even more ardently than Zack had. He had his own boat, a dandy little craft, and he would love to show it to me, maybe we could sail up the river and dock in a delightful little spot he knew, real private, and I sweetly informed him that I always grew dreadfully sick on boats. He looked nonplussed, and, across the room, plump Bertha looked positively livid, fanning herself viciously and speaking emphatically to the befrilled belle standing beside her. I was clearly not making a great many friends tonight.

  I was enjoying myself immensely. It seemed I was very much in demand, and during the next hour and a half I must have danced with over a dozen of Raoul’s friends, including Pierre Dorsay who, I knew, was currently seeing Magdelon and, according to Regina, got it up at the drop of a hat and a great lay was not. I could attest to the first part, for he was holding me much too close, and I had no doubt about the rest. Pierre told me he was an amateur wrestler and said he would like to show me a few holds. In a voice like honey, I suggested he get a certain hold on himself. The youth actually blushed, literally fleeing as the music stopped. That was very naughty of you, Dana, I told myself, but I hadn’t been able to resist it. I was still smiling at his dismay as Raoul came up to me again.

  “You’re the belle of the ball,” he said. “No question about it. You’ve got them all clamoring for you.”

  “And all their girlfriends ready to hack me to pieces. Your sister looks as though she’d love to drive a knife through my heart.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  I thought for a moment. “Not really,” I replied.

  “I imagine you could hold your own,” he said.

  “I rather imagine I could.”

  I felt a curious sense of power. It was extremely flattering to be showered with such attention by all these attractive young bucks, even though I was fully aware of what they thought of me and what they wanted, and it was satisfying, too, to feel I had somehow bested the snobbish Regina and her like. I had no illusions about the reasons for my success, but the success was genuine nevertheless. I had done my reputation no good—my detractors must hate me even more now—but I was indeed the belle of the ball.

  “May I have this next dance?” Raoul inquired.

  “I’m really rather tired,” I said, “and I should get back to Julian. He must think I’ve abandoned him.”

  “Cousin Julian hasn’t missed you at all,” he informed me.

  He nodded toward the other side of the room, and I saw Julian sitting at a table with two older gentlemen, all three of them deeply immersed in an intense and rather heated conversation. Julian nodded his head emphatically and raised his hand to make a point, undoubtedly discussing his favorite subject and clearly having a wonderful time. He was certainly not pining for my company. Raoul smiled and lightly gripped my elbow.

  “You do look a bit tired, Cousin, and it’s rather warm in here. Why don�
��t we step out into the courtyard for a few minutes.”

  I looked into his eyes, quite sure of myself and not the least bit worried by this smooth, glossily handsome, arrogant young buck. I had cut my eyeteeth on men far more dangerous than Raoul Etienne could ever be, and I could certainly handle myself. The little wildcat was still very much alive beneath the demure, ladylike new facade.

  “Very well,” I said. “I could use some fresh air.”

  The courtyard was awash with silver moonlight and full of velvety shadows, and the night air was cool, scented with all those perfumes that made this part of New Orleans so enchanting. I sighed, reveling in the touch of the cool air on my cheeks and bare arms and shoulders. Leaves rustled all around us in the gentle breeze and water made soft splattering noises as it spilled from tier to tier in the fountains. I felt a glowing elation inside, scarcely aware of Raoul’s presence at my side. It was wonderful to be young and alive, to be wearing a lovely gown, to be pleasantly weary after dancing with a bevy of healthy, attentive youths.

  “Pleased with yourself?” Raoul inquired.

  “Very,” I said.

  “You’ve certainly proved something tonight.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You’ve proved that you could have any man you wanted.”

  His voice was husky and melodious, a beautiful voice, persuasive and quite seductive. Raoul knew that. He was all too aware of his remarkable good looks and his virile allure. That very awareness negated both in my eyes. I for one was not going to swoon and melt into his arms. The very thought of it brought a smile to my lips.

  “It’s true,” he murmured. “Any man you wanted—”

  “But I don’t want any of them,” I said.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I know this will undoubtedly come as a shock to you, Cousin, but I couldn’t care less what you believe.”

  Raoul chuckled quietly, enjoying the fencing match, convinced it would ultimately end in triumph. I imagined there weren’t many young women who failed to respond to that potent allure. We strolled beneath a tall magnolia tree and paused beside one of the ornate fountains. The music began again inside, drifting out into the courtyard in muted, melodic waves. It was supremely romantic, and I felt a yearning inside me, a taut, not unpleasant ache, but it wasn’t for this man who gazed at me with dark, glowing eyes, his handsome face sculpted in silver and shadow.

  “Yes,” he said, “Cousin Julian has done very well for himself. It surprised the hell out of me. A man his age winning a trophy like you—it defies all logic.”

  “You think so.”

  “You could do much, much better,” he crooned. “He’s twice your age. His hair is graying. He’s overweight. He’s a lethargic, ineffectual dreamer without a shred of backbone.”

  “If you lived to be a hundred,” I said coldly, “you’d never be half the man Julian is, and—I’m not anyone’s trophy. Despite what you and the rest of them might think, Julian is my guardian, nothing more.”

  He smiled, clearly not believing me. He moved closer, his eyelids drooping heavily, his chiseled lips half-parted. I stood quite still, knowing what was to come, braced for it. When his hands rested on my bare shoulders, I spoke in a voice like chipped ice.

  “Don’t, Raoul.”

  “You need a man,” he murmured, “a real man—someone worthy of that incredible body. The moment I laid eyes on you I knew I had to have you. I knew we were destined for each other.”

  “Don’t,” I repeated.

  “I’ll set you up in the finest apartment. You’ll have servants, clothes, a carriage all your own. You’ll have everything you could possibly want—and bliss, Dana, such bliss. I’m going to make you feel things you never imagined it possible to feel—”

  He pulled me to him and curled his arms tightly around me and held me very close and covered my mouth with his own, his lips firm and warm, pressing, probing, demanding. Sensations exploded inside me despite myself, for I was human, and I was hungry, too, so hungry. The sensations swelled, urging me to yield, to respond, and I stiffened myself, trying to pull away. Raoul moaned deep in his throat, pulling me even closer, crushing me against him. I caught his hair in my hands and tugged at his head, but my struggles seemed only to spur him on more. I didn’t want to do what I knew I had to do but after a few more moments I knew I had no choice. I let go of his hair. I placed my palms flat against his thighs and shoved, lifting my knee at the same time, lifting it swiftly and with considerable force.

  He released me abruptly. He stumbled back, doubling over, gasping. His face was ashen with pain, locks of hair spilling over his forehead. I smoothed my skirt down, cool, calm, thoroughly poised.

  “You—you—”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t scratch your eyes out as well.”

  “You—”

  He stumbled back another step and lost his balance, plopping down onto the outer rim of the fountain. He groaned, trying to sit up, unable to manage it. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, grimacing as the pain continued to agonize him. He didn’t look polished and glossy and arrogant now. He looked very young, like the petulant boy he was. As the music wafted out into the courtyard in melodic waves, as moonlight gilded shrubbery with soft silver, I felt utter disdain for this spoiled, pampered, dissolute youth who thought he and his kind owned the earth.

  “You’ll live,” I told him.

  “You little whore—” he whispered.

  I brushed my skirt and adjusted one of my sleeves. The music stopped, replaced by polite applause and subdued chatter. Raoul looked up at me, his face sculpted in silver, etched in pain. Locks still splayed over his forehead, and his dark eyes were aglow with venom.

  “You little whore,” he repeated, and his voice was a hoarse croak. “You’re going to regret this. I swear it. If it’s the last thing I do, I intend to see that you—”

  He groaned again, unable to continue. He brushed the locks from his forehead and closed his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together. He was in great pain, but I’d done no permanent damage. The wanton belles and women of Rampart Street need fear no loss of attention. He’d be right as rain ere long, if considerably uncomfortable. He opened his eyes, looking at me again. I had never seen such concentrated venom, such hatred.

  “No woman has ever—”

  “This one just did,” I told him.

  “You’re going to pay—I swear it.”

  “Thank you for the dance, Cousin Raoul,” I said sweetly.

  I went back inside. It would be some time before Raoul would be in shape to face his friends. His threat bothered me not in the least. What was he going to do, ruin my reputation? I didn’t intend to say anything to anyone about the incident, and I seriously doubted that Raoul would either. He would hardly want his cronies to know he’d been so thoroughly rejected by his cousin’s swamp girl mistress. And I realized that was exactly what they all thought I was. I moved across the dance floor past couples patiently waiting for the music to begin anew, and they shunned me, turning away, pretending not to see me. It hurt deeply. I wanted to cry. I wouldn’t. I was too proud. To hell with them. I held my head high, forcing a pleasant smile onto my lips.

  I reached the tables across the room. I didn’t see Julian anywhere. The music began again. Couples began to sway and swirl, a shifting kaleidoscope of color under the golden glow of candlelight, and I waited beside the table Julian and I had occupied earlier, smiling still, and everything seemed to blur. I was much more upset than I cared to admit. The smile, the cool poise, were pure pretense. An eternity seemed to pass, and I stood there in my elegant gown and fancy coiffure and tried to look like I belonged, though I realized now I never would, never could.

  “Here you are, dear,” Delia exclaimed.

  She took my hand, smiling, so warm, so genuine. Thank God for Delia.

  “I—I didn’t see you,” I said.

  “I’ve been looking all over the place for you, dear,” she told
me. “Julian has bored everyone he could buttonhole with dreary talk about pollen and petals and such and no one else will listen to him. He’s growing restive.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is late, dear, and—I may as well confess it, I’m beginning to feel my age. I hate to drag you away when you’ve having such a grand time, but—”

  “I’m a bit weary myself,” I said.

  “Then you don’t mind leaving?”

  “Not at all.”

  We joined Julian in the foyer, where he was chatting with the Lecombs. We made our farewells, and I thanked them both for a lovely evening. The old woman in her outdated gown and preposterous hairstyle gazed at me with perplexed eyes, frowning, as though trying to place me, then shook my hand and told me to be sure and give Mathilde her best. Who was Mathilde? Madame Lecomb lived in a foggy haze of past and present and obviously believed I was someone else. Ostrich plumes waving, she nodded and turned to speak to Delia. Julian took my arm and led me outside. He had already called for our carriage, and it was waiting for us in front of the portico.

  “It was ever so nice to catch up on all the news,” Delia said as we drove away. “Julian, dear, did you know that Natalie Aumont’s little daughter Alicia married one of the Martineau boys from St. Louis? You remember Alicia, surely? She and her cousin Celeste used to—”

  “Delia, my love, it would be virtually impossible for me to care less than I do now about little Alicia Aumont, or her cousin Celeste, either. Wretchedly insipid creatures, I seem to recall.”

  “Lottie Devereaux told me that Cerise is having trouble with her gall bladder. Cerise is her daughter, you know, fifty-five if she’s a day, a spinster, alas—that dreadful Randall boy left her waiting at the altar lo those many years ago—and Lottie’s got to be over eighty. Still as bossy as ever. Still as large, too. I don’t know how she gets around—”