They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  I got down onto my knees to examine the cabinet more closely, running the palm of my hand over the satin-smooth curves of wood, banishing the thick layers of dust, and so rich was the patina beneath that it seemed to catch all of the candlelight and reflect it from within. The cabinet was banded and ornamented with thin, delicate strips of metal engraved with tiny flowers, and the metal was gold, I realized. Neglected though it had been, the gold dim with dust, the rich woods thirsty for proper oils, the cabinet was still even more beautiful than any of those I had seen pictured in the book I had studied. It might have belonged to a king, I thought. Imagine growing up with things like this in the house.

  Standing up, massaging the small of my back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the blurred, murky glass of the tall, oval-shaped standing mirror I had uncovered as well. The mirror stood in a carved rosewood frame embellished with garlands of brass flowers. The glass was indeed murky, speckled with spots as well, but in the glow of the candlelight I could see the reflection of a slender young woman with dust-smudged cheek and thick, honey-blond hair that tumbled to her shoulders in unruly waves. I ran my fingers through the waves and brushed the dust smudge from my cheek. My pink and tan striped frock was dusty, too, and there were perspiration stains as well. I pulled at the off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and adjusted the rather low-cut bodice that emphasized my too full bosom. Corinne claimed it was a great asset that should be shown off to advantage, but I still longed for less in that particular area.

  Sighing, I shoved an errant wave from my temple and examined the sadly faded gold and ivory damask that covered the walls. It was tattered in places, and cobwebs festooned the corners. How lovely the room must have been at one time. There, over the soot-stained white marble fireplace, hung what must be the Watteau, shrouded with a dust-layered sheet. Flashes of lightning illuminated the room as I pulled the sheet off, and there was a great rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the house. Sheets of rain still slashed against the windows and gave no signs of lessening. I prayed it would be over by the time Delia was ready to return, and then I gave my attention to the painting in its ornate and flaking gold gilt frame, setting the candelabra up on the mantel to provide more light.

  It was gorgeous, the rich colors still aglow after all these years. Sitting on what appeared to be a stump, against a background of green-gold forest and vivid blue sky, a young woman in eighteenth-century attire gazed pensively into space, eyelids lowered, a faint smile on her lips. Slender and graceful, she had rich chestnut hair worn in the elaborate coiffure of the time, and her half-veiled eyes were a deep violet-blue. Her gown was of gleaming ivory brocade lavishly adorned with beige lace ruffles and small gold velvet bows. The tip of one beige satin slipper was visible beneath the voluminous skirts, part of her beige lace underskirt showing, and in her lap she held a delicate ivory silk fan with gold patterns. The painter had captured not only a person but a mood as well, and I knew that the pensive young woman must be thinking about a young man who was, perhaps, betrothed to another.

  I knew very little about painting, only what I had picked up from reading those heavy art volumes in the library and studying the plates, but I did know this painting was superb, if not a masterpiece at least a perfect example of a master’s work. The blue sky shimmered with sunlight, the green-gold treetops feathery and full, seeming to to stir, while hazy violet-brown shadows spread beneath them, making patterns on the grass. The young woman was alive, so real I could read her mind, feel what she was feeling. I gazed at her in the flickering glow of the candlelight, wondering if she had lost her young man, if she had finally found happiness. Several long moments passed, and I began to have the curious feeling that someone was studying me as intently as I was studying the portrait. The feeling persisted, quite unsettling. I could almost feel a pair of eyes boring into my back.

  I whirled around. I gave a little gasp. He was standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, the other resting on his thigh, and the doorway was hazy with shadow and he was little more than a tall, lean silhouette dimly seen against the gray. My heart began to pound. There were no ghosts in the east wing, and I didn’t believe in ghosts anyway. The man continued to stand there, filling the doorway, and then he straightened up and walked on into the room, stepping into the circle of light spread by the candles. My heart continued to pound. He continued to study me, taking in every detail, making no effort to conceal his disapproval and disdain, and after a moment he looked up at the portrait.

  “She was my grandmother,” he said.

  “You—you’re Charles,” I whispered.

  “And you are the young woman I’ve been hearing so much about from my Aunt Lavinia—and others.”

  His voice was a lazy drawl. His manner was calm, deliberate. His very dark blue eyes were cool, his wide, beautifully shaped mouth was held in a stern line. He was like a younger, leaner version of Julian in many ways, the Etienne features clearly pronounced, but he wasn’t at all like his older brother. No warmth, no humor softened those perfectly chiseled features. He was a hard man, and I sensed he could be utterly ruthless if the need arose. Not as glossily handsome as his cousin Raoul, he was even more attractive, mature and virile. The skin was stretched tautly across his high, broad cheekbones, and his lower lip was full and sensual. His rich chestnut hair was slightly damp, and I realized he must have dashed across the courtyard to get here.

  “You weren’t supposed to be here until day after tomorrow,” I said, and I was horrified to discover that my voice trembled.

  “My ship docked this morning, two days early.”

  “I see.”

  “I stopped by the shop, then came home to discover that both Delia and my brother were out. Pompey informed me that you were prowling about here in the east wing, so I came on over.”

  “How long were—were you standing there?”

  “Long enough,” he said.

  He was wearing brown boots, snug tan breeches and a thin white lawn shirt damp from rain. As tall as Julian, with slender waist and broad shoulders, he had a lean, powerful build with superb musculature. That body might have been sculpted by Michelangelo, I thought, remembering the plates I had seen in one of the art books. Charles Etienne was a gorgeous male with a commanding presence and, as well, potent sexual magnetism that was like a palpable force. I was acutely aware of that force, and my knees seemed to grow weak. Few women would even try to resist a man like this one, I thought, and I was scandalized by the sensations stirring inside me at the mere sight of him.

  “What are you doing in the east wing?” he asked.

  “I—I wanted to see the Boulle cabinets and the Watteau. Julian told me there are two Fragonards as well.”

  “You’re interested in valuable things, then?”

  I caught the implication immediately. “No,” I said coldly. “I’m interested in beautiful things. There’s a difference.”

  He nodded, as though acknowledging my score, and then he looked around at the things I had uncovered. “Christ, I haven’t seen this stuff in years. I’d forgotten all about that cabinet.”

  “It’s far too lovely, far too precious, to be gathering dust in this abandoned room. It needs to be hand-rubbed with polish, and the gold bands should be cleaned.”

  “You’re right. It would fetch a princely sum at Etienne’s.”

  “You—surely you wouldn’t sell it?”

  “I’d sell it in a minute—all the rest of this stuff as well—if I didn’t think Delia would have a heart attack.”

  “Even the Watteau?”

  “Even the Watteau. Sentiment is all well and good, but money in the bank is far more reliable. Our family account was pitifully low when I left …” He gave me a long, meaningful look. “I imagine it’s considerably lower now.”

  I knew what he was implying, and I could feel my spine stiffen. He moved over to the mantel to examine the portrait more closely, his back to me. The damp cloth of his shirt clung loosely to his back and shoulders, and his chest
nut hair gleamed darkly in the candlelight, several wet tendrils curling up at the back of his neck. The room seemed suddenly much smaller, the rain seemed louder, and I felt as though my knees might give way at any moment. Never had I felt this kind of physical longing for any man, an urgent ache inside, and I found it intensely unsettling, frightening as well. He turned around, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Lavinia wrote to me about you,” he said.

  “I know she did.”

  “She wrote me several letters, in fact—keeping me abreast of the situation.”

  “Giving you her version of it.”

  “My first impulse was to grab the first ship home, but common sense told me Julian was far too sensible to do anything really disastrous. I was wrong, as it turned out. Lavinia’s next letter informed me that he had made you his legal ward.”

  He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice that had a husky rasp and that drawling accent of the South, though his was not as pronounced as many. He looked at me with cool assessment.

  “I must say,” he added, “you’re not at all what I expected.”

  “No?”

  “From Lavinia’s letters, I expected a vulgar corn husk slattern who still smelled of alligator oil.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I didn’t expect to find someone who admired fine furniture, who appreciated Watteau and Fragonard and could pronounce their names properly.”

  “I don’t image you did.”

  He raised one hand to stroke the cleft in his chin. He was my enemy, I knew that, yet the physical desire I felt for him continued to ache inside, a totally unreasonable thing under the circumstances. I was perfectly poised, facing him with icy composure, and he, of course, hadn’t the least inkling of his effect on me, but had he taken me into his arms, I would have succumbed to him immediately, without the least hesitation.

  “Apparently you’re very clever,” he told me. “You’d have to be to take my brother in so completely. Julian is something of a dreamer, I’ll concede that, but, contrary to what many believe, he’s no fool.”

  “You’re quite right.”

  Charles frowned. My composure bothered him. It was the only weapon I had, and it was growing more and more difficult to maintain it. He looked at me with half-shrouded eyes, chin tilted, examining me again with that intense scrutiny so rude and disdainful. After a moment, he nodded.

  “I can see how it happened,” he admitted. “Julian’s always had exquisite taste in women. He doesn’t stray from his study often, but when he does, it’s usually with a woman who makes him the envy of his peers.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment, Monsieur Etienne?”

  “You’re a very beautiful woman. You know that. You’ve used your beauty to climb up in the world, and you’ll undoubtedly continue to do so in the future.”

  “I’m not a whore,” I said.

  “A rather unpleasant word, but I’m sure it applies well enough.”

  “Your brother—”

  “My brother has taken temporary leave of his senses,” he said sharply, “but I’m here now to extricate him from this mess. I know exactly what you are, Mademoiselle O’Malley, and I have no intention of letting you wreck Julian’s life. God knows you’ve done enough harm already.”

  “I—”

  “I told you I stopped by the shop before I came home. My cousin Raoul was there. He told me about your disgraceful conduct at the Lecombs’ ball—apparently the whole Quarter’s talking about it. Not content with ensnaring my brother and taking him for all you could, you had to make him appear even more ludicrous by flirting outrageously with every young man at the ball and attempting to seduce his own cousin right on the premises. Oh yes, he told me about the episode in the courtyard.”

  “I’ll bet he did,” I said dryly.

  “I’ve no use for Raoul—he’s a leech and a knave and I’d boot his backside out of the shop if he weren’t family—but at least he had enough judgment to resist your blandishments. He wanted you, he admitted that, but for once he thought of the family name.”

  His dark blue eyes held mine, full of accusation, full of distaste, and I didn’t look away, nor did I say a word in my defense. Charles Etienne had already made up his mind about me, and anything I might say would be futile. I realized that. He was convinced I was a clever, conniving whore, and nothing was going to change his mind. Several brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated the room as we stood there, facing each other, and then, abruptly, the rain ceased, still dripping from eaves and plants.

  The accusation was there in his eyes, the distaste as well, but as long moments of silence passed, I realized there was something else, too. He despised me, of that there could be no doubt, but he also wanted me as I wanted him. His features were stern, his mouth tight, and he was in perfect control of his emotions, but the desire was there, a purely physical thing that had nothing to do with his opinion of me. My dress was dusty and there were perspiration stains, my hair fell to my shoulders in an unruly tumble and my face was dirty, but still he desired me. The muscles of his jaw tightened. A tiny vein throbbed at his temple. He despised me, but he wanted to throw me down onto the floor and take me here and now, roughly, savagely.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he asked finally.

  “Anything I said would be useless. You’ve already summed up the situation and reached your decisions about me.”

  “Are you telling me I’m wrong?”

  I didn’t reply. I had too much pride. My tightly held composure was beginning to slip. I prayed this would end soon. I could feel tears welling up inside, and I didn’t want him to see me cry. I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.

  “Are you telling me Lavinia was misinformed? Are you telling me Raoul was lying?”

  “I’m not telling you a goddamn thing,” I said.

  “Ah, the ladylike demeanor begins to crack.”

  Two bright pink spots burned on my cheeks, and I welcomed the anger. I longed to slap his face. Anger was better than tears. The son of a bitch had decided I was a whore out to wreck his brother’s life long before he returned to New Orleans, and nothing was going to change his mind. These past months had been like something out of a fairy tale, too good to be true, and I should have realized it would end like this.

  “You’re going to throw me out,” I said.

  “Indeed I am. You needn’t worry, Mademoiselle O’Malley. I’ll see that you are well provided for. I’ll give you enough money to pay your expenses until you can ensnare some other hapless male.”

  “Keep your bloody money,” I told him.

  I turned then and left the room with all the dignity I could muster, my back straight, my chin held high, and it was only after I had journeyed halfway down the dim, murky corridor that my step quickened. I hurried on down the corridor and through the dusty labyrinth of rooms until I finally reached that front room with the French doors. He had left them open. Rain had swept in through them, making large puddles on the fine hardwood floor. It should be mopped up at once. To hell with that. To hell with everything. I dashed through the doors and out into the courtyard. Rain dripped noisily from leaves, splattering onto the tiles, and the fountain was still gurgling merrily. There was a fine mist in the air. It stung my cheeks as I hurried across the courtyard and moved up the iron staircase that wound up to the second-floor gallery.

  Moments later I was in my bedroom, leaning against the French windows I had closed behind me. My heart was palpitating, and my breath was coming in short gasps. I closed my eyes, fighting the tears, stubbornly willing them not to fall. Crying was for weaklings, and I wasn’t weak. I was strong. I was a survivor. I was on my own once again, but at least I was in a better position than I’d been in when I hit Clem over the head with the skillet and fled through the swamps. I stayed there against the windows for several minutes, trying to gain control of the emotions raging inside, and finally, a curious calm came over me.

  First thi
ngs first, I thought. I summoned Kayla and asked her to prepare a bath for me and told her about the water that had blown into the room in the east wing and asked her to see that it was mopped up, and fifteen minutes later, in the small room down the corridor, I was soaking in a tub full of hot, scented water, rubbing my arms and shoulders with a rich lather from the French soap as smooth as satin. I spent a long time bathing. I washed my hair as well, toweling it dry afterward. Back in my bedroom I donned my petticoat and brushed my hair until it fell in thick, lustrous waves shining with rich highlights.

  I selected my gown carefully. Why? Why did I want to look especially fetching tonight? I wasn’t going to see Charles Etienne again. I wasn’t going to see anyone if I could help it. Nevertheless, I took down one of Corinne’s loveliest creations and put it on. Of thick, creamy beige silk, it had pencil-thin stripes of gold and brown and bronze. The heart-shaped neckline was low, the full puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, and there was a narrow waistband of bronze velvet. The skirt belled out over the underskirts in gleaming folds. Ridiculous, dressing like this, but … I would need to look nice when I checked into the hotel.

  Seeing the stack of books piled on my bedside table, I decided to return them to the library downstairs. It wasn’t necessary, of course, but I wanted to see the library one last time. I encountered no one on my way downstairs, but I could hear Delia talking to one of the servants in her sitting room. I was relieved to know she had gotten back safely. She must be in a flurry of excitement after she learned of Charles’s early return. Lamps were burning in the library, but there was no one there. How many hours had I spent prowling around the shelves, pulling down weighty volumes, perching on the window seat to study the plates? How many times had I whirled that huge bronze and green and gold globe, trying to locate some country or other to complete my geography lessons? How many exercises had I done at that old desk with its embossed leather top, dipping my pen into the ink pot, scribbling my answers carelessly, eager to be finished? How many delightful, enthralling novels had I taken down and carried upstairs to read until the wee hours of the night? It seemed a hundred memories swarmed in my mind as I put the books I had brought down back into their proper slots on the shelves.