“Here you are dear,” Delia said, stepping into the room. “I thought I heard someone moving around. My, you look ravishing tonight, child. I suppose you heard that Charles is back?”
“I heard,” I said.
“I almost fainted when I got back and Pompey told me he was here. Jezebel will throw a fit, I thought—she likes to be prepared, likes to know exactly how many will be to dinner—but, on the contrary, when I went into the kitchen she was happily cooking all his favorite things, including her chocolate nut cake with marshmallow icing. He always loved it as a boy. She hasn’t baked it since he left.”
Delia was beaming, so elated she could hardly contain herself. She had changed into a lovely pale pink silk gown adorned with beige lace ruffles and deeper rose-pink velvet bows. Her eyes sparkled. A radiant smile played on her lips. Her hair billowed about her head like a silvery cloud. I realized that I loved her dearly. No one had ever been so kind to me. I was going to miss her dreadfully.
“For some reason or other, Charles was in a wretched mood. He gave me a quick hug and demanded to know where Julian was—I had no idea, it seems he went out today, too. Anyway, Julian got back about ten minutes after I did, and Charles gave him a surly hello and drug him off to the study. They’re in there still. I stuck my head in to tell them dinner would be served at eight o’clock on the dot, and Charles almost bit my head off. Poor dear, he’s probably exhausted from the trip.”
“He probably is.”
“It’s wonderful having him back,” she confessed. “He can be a terrible bore at times—so stern, so sober, such a grouch-but deep down he’s really a darling. I always feel so much more secure when he’s at the helm.”
I put the last book in place and turned, wanting to tell her good-bye and knowing I hadn’t the courage. Instead, I took her hand and squeezed it.
“I—I won’t be coming down to dinner tonight, Delia,” I said.
“But—oh dear …” She looked alarmed. “Is something wrong?”
I managed a smile and shook my head, giving her hand another squeeze.
“I just—just have a headache,” I lied. “I spent quite a long time in the east wing, and there—there was so much dust. I bathed and changed, hoping I’d feel better, but—I think I’m just going up to my room and go to bed early.”
Her clear light green eyes were full of concern. “You must take one of my headache powders, dear. I’ll run fetch it immediately.”
“I—I’ve already taken one. It’s made me a little drowsy.”
“I wish they’d make me drowsy. Nothing seems to help when I have one of my migraines. I just suffer, suffer, suffer, hours on end—but, my dear, you must have something to eat. I’ll have a tray sent up to your room. Nothing heavy, of course. A bowl of soup, perhaps, and some—”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Delia, I—I love you very much.”
Delia was immensely touched by my admission. She smiled a lovely smile and tightened her fingers around mine.
“Why—what a lovely thing to say. I love you, too, my dear. You’ve become the daughter I never had.”
I fought the tears. I couldn’t cry now. I couldn’t. I let go of her hand and pushed a wave back from my temple.
“I just wanted you to know,” I said.
“You run on up to your room and rest, dear. Charles will be disappointed when you don’t come down for dinner, but the two of you can meet at breakfast.”
“Yes,” I said.
I gave her a hug and clung to her for just a moment, and then I released her and quickly left the library. Julian I would not see at all. I couldn’t face that. Later, perhaps, I would send him a letter. I moved up the gracefully curving staircase to the second floor. Julian and Charles were cloistered in the study, and I had a good idea what they were talking about. Charles was telling Julian what a fool he’d been, what a clever, manipulating little harlot I was. I wasn’t going to give Charles Etienne the satisfaction of throwing me out. I was going to leave of my own volition, tonight, as soon as I could pack.
Several old traveling bags were, I knew, kept in a storage closet at the end of the hall—I’d seen them during my house-cleaning project. I walked to the closet and took out two of them, large, rather unwieldy bags of worn, supple brown leather with tarnished brass buckles on the straps. Charles would be able to call me thief now, as well as whore, for the bags weren’t mine and I intended to take them with me. Carrying them to my bedroom, I put them on the bed and opened the wardrobe door and then the tears came, abruptly, spilling over my lashes in salty rivulets.
I didn’t want to cry. I hadn’t meant to. I was tough. I was a fighter. I could take care of myself. The tears came nevertheless, and I felt a wrenching sadness inside that was every bit as bad as that I had felt when Ma died, perhaps worse. I sat down and let the tears spill and let the sadness possess me, and a long, long time passed, soft candlelight bathing the bedroom, only darkness inside. An hour must have passed before I finally stood up and moved numbly over to the stand behind the screen and washed my face. I felt no better, but the tears were behind me now.
Stepping over to the wardrobe, I began to take down clothes and, folding them carefully, put them into the bags. I couldn’t take them all, and I selected only the most serviceable. The sumptuous topaz ball gown remained on its hanger, as did the pink velvet and the bronze and silver striped taffeta. I had fled -through the swamps without a single possession, with only the ragged dress I wore, but I would be leaving here with a substantial wardrobe and a little money as well. Delia had insisted I be given a small weekly allowance for spending money. It was only a few dollars, and I had spent most of it on little gifts for Delia and Kayla and Elijah, but I had saved over thirty dollars nevertheless, intending to buy Delia’s birthday gift with it. It was enough to pay for a hotel room for a few days until I could find a job of some kind. I was far better qualified to seek employment now than I had been when I tore out of the shanty and raced into the swamps.
Shoes, stockings, underclothes, brush and comb, the small cosmetics case I was so proud of. Almost finished. I would go out the back way and I would walk until I found a hotel. I remembered seeing one on the way to Corinne’s. The Quarter at night held no terrors for me. It would be tiring, lugging the bags, but I wasn’t worried about that. There. Finished. I closed the bags and buckled the straps. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was after nine-thirty. Kayla would be with her new boyfriend. Elijah would be helping Pompey clear the dining room table, and Jezebel would be in the kitchen. No one was likely to see me as I crept down the back stairs and out of the house.
He must have moved very quietly. I didn’t hear him coming up the staircase outside, nor did I hear him walking down the gallery toward my room. My heart gave a leap when I heard rapping on the windows, I froze. Charles stepped into my bedroom, bold as brass. I gasped and turned pale, and Charles looked at me and looked at the bags and slowly arched one fine dark brow. He had changed for dinner and looked resplendent in shining black knee boots and breeches and frock coat of dark blue broadcloth. His waistcoat was white satin with narrow black stripes, and a sky-blue silk neckcloth was folded neatly at his throat. His thick chestnut hair was smoothly brushed, shining with dark luster. That shock of purely physical desire swept through me once more despite my dislike and resentment.
“All packed, I see,” he said.
“Perhaps you’d like to open the bags to see that I’m not stealing any of the family silver.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Where had you planned on going?”
“I intend to find a hotel.”
“At this time of night? On foot?”
“I’m leaving, Monsieur Etienne. That’s all that need concern you.”
“And after you find a hotel?”
“I’ll get some kind of job.”
His full lips curled into a faint half smile, and his dark blue eyes held a hint of amusement. Mocking amusement, I thought, longing to slap his fac
e. I had every reason to hate this man, and I did hate him, intensely, yet still my knees seemed to turn to water as I looked at those broad shoulders and the stern planes and angles of that handsome face. His incredible magnetism was like an irresistible force, drawing me to him and making me experience a wild variety of unreasonable sensations. Never, never had I been drawn to any man like this. I wanted things I had never wanted before and felt utterly wicked for wanting them.
“Respectable jobs are scarce for young women in your circumstances,” he told me.
“I’ll find something. I’ll wash dishes, scrub floors. I’ll do anything I have to do, and—and if that doesn’t work I can always find some other hapless male,” I added defiantly.
“Julian is right,” he said. “You are a spunky little thing.”
I made no reply. He moved closer, resting his hands on his thighs, that half smile still curling his lips. His hands, I noticed, were very large, strong, palms wide, fingers long and sinewy. Hands that could caress gently or squeeze with brutal force. I looked away from him, trying not to blush at the wicked thoughts that sprang to mind. I had been lightly attracted to Julian, yes, wouldn’t have minded if he had taken me into his arms after we returned from the ball, but I had felt nothing like this, like I was completely helpless, pulled to this man by some invisible force I couldn’t resist no matter how I might try.
“I had a long talk with Julian,” he informed me.
“I know you did.”
“He told me all about you. He assured me that there had been nothing improper between you, that he thought of you as a daughter and intended only to do a Christian deed in bringing you here, giving you a home. I believe him. I believe his intentions were strictly the most honorable.”
“But you don’t believe mine were,” I said.
“Julian informed me that, for all your background, you are as pure as the driven snow, a thoroughly charming and engaging young woman with a remarkable intelligence and a driving determination to make something of yourself. You have made incredible progress, he says.”
I was silent, simmering. How could you long to kick someone in the shin and long to melt into his arms at the same time? I was pleased I had chosen this particular, fetching gown, that my hair had been brushed to a high honey-blond gloss, that my skin smelled of delicately scented French soap. Charles Etienne studied me with lazy insolence, and I knew instinctively that he wasn’t immune, knew that he would like to do all those things that I so unreasonably longed for him to do.
“You are his legal ward, he says, and he couldn’t care less what anybody says or thinks. Lavinia is a vicious, snobbish busybody, he claims, and her son is a goddamn liar. He wants to horsewhip Raoul.”
“Indeed?”
“He says your conduct was impeccable at the Lecombs’ ball. He says both he and Delia were inordinately proud of you. What did happen between you and Raoul out in the courtyard?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“I can guess,” he said. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
“I don’t want an apology from you, Monsieur Etienne. I—I want to leave.”
“At dinner, Delia could do nothing but sing your praises,” he continued, ignoring my words. “You are, it appears, a positive treasure. You’ve taken the servants in hand and they’ve never been so efficient. You’ve worked your fingers to the bone, cleaning, organizing the household, trying to make yourself useful. You’ve brought incalculable joy to Delia, who can’t imagine how she ever got along without you.”
“She exaggerates,” I said.
“Perhaps she does, but the fact remains that the house has never been so clean, nor can I ever remember Delia being so focused and looking so content. She feels she has found a beloved daughter.”
“Nevertheless—”
“I may be a hard man,” he told me. “Many say I am, and it may well be true—I don’t know. I do know that I am a just man. It would appear I have done you an injustice, and I’ve come to make amends.”
“It would ‘appear,’” I said. “You’re not certain.”
This time he failed to reply. He still thought I was a clever, conniving trollop who had pulled the wool over the eyes of his gullible brother and endearingly foggy-minded aunt. I could see that. You might fool them, those dark blue eyes seemed to say, but you haven’t fooled me for a minute. I took a deep breath and picked up one of the bags. It was quite heavy.
“I still think I’d better go,” I said coldly.
“It would break Delia’s heart, I fear.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“And it would put my brother to ever so much trouble. You are his ward, and he has legal control over your actions until you turn twenty-one. If you leave, he will only come after you and bring you back, and that will be quite exasperating for him.”
“Julian—”
“Julian took on the responsibility of you because he has a tender heart, because he is as good as any man I’ve ever known, and my brother is not a man who shirks his responsibility. Put down that bag. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“I beg to differ with you. I’m leaving. I—you don’t want me here. I can tell that. You think—”
“What I may or may not think has no bearing on the case. You are legally in my brother’s charge, and by God, you’ll stay right where you are. I’m not going to have him upset by some—”
He cut himself short, scowling.
“Put the bag down,” he repeated. His voice was quite stern.
“Go to hell,” I said.
He stepped over to me in three long strides and seized my wrist and gave it a brutal twist and took the bag from me and then emptied its contents onto the floor, and then he took the other bag off the bed and emptied it, too. I rubbed my wrist, my cheeks burning as skirts fluttered and rustled, spreading over the carpet like so many giant, multicolored petals. Charles threw the bag down and glared at me, his jaw tight, his mouth a resolute pink line. He silently dared me to defy him. I stepped over to him and slapped his face as hard as I could, so hard I thought my wrist might snap.
Charles Etienne was thoroughly stunned. He didn’t say a word. He stood there looking at me, a bright pink mark burning on his cheek, the rest of his face ashen. My palm stung viciously and my wrist hurt even more than it had after he twisted it. Several long moments passed. I could hear a bird singing in the courtyard. Candles spluttered beneath their glass globes. After a while he reached up and rubbed his cheek, and then he sighed.
“I suppose I had that coming,” he said. “Do you feel better now?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“Pick up these things,” he ordered. “Put them back into the wardrobe.”
“I—”
“Do as I say!” he said sharply.
I longed to defy him again, but I didn’t dare. I reached down and picked up a yellow linen frock and held it crumpled against me. Charles Etienne nodded and then sighed again, looking weary now, looking exasperated.
“Am I going to have to lock you in your room?” he asked.
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Good. If you’re not at the breakfast table in the morning, if you have run off as you planned, I’ll come after you myself, and when I find you, I’ll beat the hell out of you. Do you believe me?”
I nodded. Charles looked at me for a moment longer and turned and left the way he had entered, closing the doors behind him. I held the yellow dress tightly, unconsciously twisting it in my hands, a whole bewildering array of emotions sweeping over me, anger and hurt and humiliation and piercing disappointment and sadness and shattering need. When, finally, I began gathering up the clothes and putting them back into the wardrobe, I faced a truth impossible to deny.
Things would never be the same again.
Chapter Ten
CHARLES WAS ABSOLUTELY LIVID, and not even Jezebel’s wonderful crème brûlée could restore his good humor. We were at the dining table, six da
ys after his return to New Orleans, and the candles in their ornate silver holders shed a soft golden glow over the fine damask cloth, the priceless, paper-thin white bone china, the sparkling crystal glasses. It had been a superb meal, one of Jezebel’s usual triumphs, but Charles had sulked through the turtle soup and frowned at the salad of lettuce and white truffles and artichoke hearts with its special mayonnaise dressing, and he had finally exploded during the lobster ther-midor. Raoul was lazy, undependable, irresponsible and impossibly cavalier about his job, and this was the last straw, this was inexcusable, the young scoundrel was going to have his ass kicked from one end of the city to the other as soon as he saw fit to return. All the goods Charles had purchased overseas had come in and he had had to unpack every last item himself because Raoul had jaunted off for a holiday at a friend’s plantation house upriver.
“Do simmer down, dear,” Delia said kindly. “I’m sure Raoul didn’t think, or he wouldn’t have gone off like that. He would have realized you needed his help.”
“We pay the little varlet a perfectly good salary, and he goes off without even telling anyone. I’d never have known if Magdelon hadn’t come by the store and casually mentioned his departure.”
“Jezebel’s going to be very upset if you don’t eat your crème brûlée. You know how touchy she is, dear. You did get all the things unpacked, after all. No real harm’s been done.”
“And now I have an inventory!” he thundered. “It’s absolutely impossible for me to do it without assistance. I have to itemize every single piece in the shipment, with detailed description of each, the price I paid for it and a suggested resale price.”
They Call Her Dana Page 22
