“My, that does sound like quite a task,” Delia agreed, delicately dipping her spoon into her gold-rimmed bowl of crème brûlée. “Perhaps it can wait until Raoul returns.”
Charles shot her a murderous look. He was wearing a dark gray frock coat, a white satin waistcoat with navy blue stripes, a spotless white silk neckcloth expertly arranged at his throat. He looked wonderfully virile, gloriously handsome, charged with an energy that seemed to crackle in the air around him. He had brushed his hair, but one heavy chestnut wave had dipped over his forehead, giving him a strangely boyish appeal.
“I think we should fire him,” Julian said idly. “I’ve longed to for over a year now. Just because he happens to be—”
“Oh, dear,” Delia exclaimed, “you couldn’t do that. Lavinia would never give us a moment’s peace.”
“She never gives us a moment’s peace as it is,” Julian drawled. “Firing Raoul might well make her so angry she’d refuse to speak to us at all. Imagine the bliss.”
He pushed his empty bowl aside, contemplating that nirvana. Like Charles, he wore a frock coat, dark brown, rather rumpled, and his yellow silk neckcloth was rumpled as well, carelessly tucked into the top of the splendid white satin waistcoat embroidered with tobacco-brown patterns. Julian found it tedious to dress for dinner each night when he was so immersed in his book, but there were certain standards one must uphold, and Delia, lovely tonight in pale peach silk, would have been outraged had he failed to uphold them.
“Poor Lavinia,” Delia said. “She never knows when to desist. She was in a frightful snit when she left day before yesterday. What did you say to her, Charles?”
“I refused to give her son a raise in salary and a more important involvement in family affairs. The same old argument.”
I kept my eyes lowered, ever so demure in my pale salmon-pink linen frock. I had seen Lavinia departing, black skirts crackling, garnet earrings swinging, her thin face as pursed and sour as a lemon. She and Charles had gone into the parlor and remained there behind closed doors for almost two hours. One couldn’t help hearing their voices rising now and then even if the exact words weren’t quite audible. I knew full well that Lavinia had demanded I be thrown out at once, and Charles had been put in the uncomfortable position of having to defend someone he really had no inclination to defend.
We had been very polite to each other these past six days, meeting only at mealtimes, both of us wary behind the polite facades. Charles spent almost all of his time at Etienne’s, and I had initiated the east wing cleaning, supervising a small fleet of servants hired especially for the job, trying to keep them on the job and trying to keep the uproar down so as not to disturb Julian, busily working on his book and testily sensitive to outside noise. Charles and I both pretended that the scene in my bedroom hadn’t taken place, and I pretended that the overwhelming, unreasonable attraction I felt toward him had been merely a temporary aberration, even though it stirred anew every time I saw him. I knew that he desired me, too—a woman always knows—and I wondered if he denied it as I denied my own desire.
“I’m going to have to have some help with the inventory, Julian,” he said grimly.
“Hire someone,” Julian told him.
“I need someone who knows something about furniture and paintings and porcelain, someone familiar with antiques. God knows Raoul doesn’t know much, but at least he’s picked up a smattering. I could throttle him for going off like that.”
“You’d hear no objections from me.”
“You’re going to have to help out,” Charles told him.
Julian looked appalled. “Me? Totally impossible, brother dear. I couldn’t possibly take time away from the book. I’m at a very tricky point, trying to compile all the footnotes, juggling hundreds of cards, tracking down obscure references. There’s no way I could leave it, even for a day.”
“I know you’re very immersed in your blasted book,” Charles said wearily, “but this is important.”
“And my ‘blasted book’ isn’t! You’re an insufferable hypocrite, Charles! You pretend to be interested, pretend to be supportive, but you’re every bit as bad as the rest of them! You think I’m a dreamer and a fool! You think I’m wasting my time! I’ll have you know—”
“There’s no need to raise your voice!” Charles interrupted, raising his. “I had no intention whatsoever of slighting your all-important endeavor to satisfy the world’s great curiosity about unknown weeds growing in the Louisiana swamps. I merely meant that our family livelihood depends on—”
“Go ahead, be sarcastic! One of these days—”
“Goddammit, Julian, you’re as unreasonable as—”
“Boys,” Delia said, tapping on her glass with a spoon.
They both looked at her. They both fell silent, sulking like intractable children. Delia sighed and shook her head.
“You haven’t changed a bit, either one of you. You’re still as unruly as you were as boys, always scrapping at the dinner table. I used to be able to send you to your rooms without dessert, but now—well, my dears, you may both be all grown-up, but I simply will not tolerate these shouting matches. I can feel one of my migraines coming on already.”
“Sorry, Delia,” Charles told her.
“Sorry,” Julian said grumpily, “but he can be such a—”
“Julian,” she warned.
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled.
“They really love one another dearly,” Delia informed me, “but brothers will be brothers. It’s always been like this, I fear. They might scrap like cats and dogs at home, but just let some outsider try to come between them and they’re like the Two Musketeers.”
“The Three Musketeers,” Charles corrected.
“Whatever. Julian’s work is important to him, Charles, and I can see why he doesn’t want any distraction just now. By the same token, I know how important it is for you to get your inventory done properly, and I have a perfectly brilliant suggestion.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Let Dana help you.”
“Out of the question!” he snapped.
“That is brilliant,” Julian said.
“I couldn’t possibly,” I told her.
“Dana knows much more about fine furniture and such than Raoul ever will, Charles. She’s examined every piece in the house, asked questions, fascinated by the history. She’s pored over all those dreary old books in the library, learning all sorts of facts. Why, only last week she was telling me all about Madame de Pompadour and the Sevres factory Louis XV set up for her and informed me that that vase we have sitting on the hall table—the pink and gold one with those chubby little cupids and blue flowers—was especially designed for Pompadour. She showed me the markings on the bottom of the vase and the date, told me—”
“I’m sure she’s very clever,” Charles said.
He gave me a look. He probably thought I planned to steal the vase. I wanted to give him the finger.
“And that little table I have in my sitting room, the one I pile my magazines on, she recognized it at once as—”
“You’ve made your point, Delia.”
“I’m sure she would be an invaluable assistant, dear. You couldn’t find anyone better for the job.”
“I agree,” Julian said eagerly.
I gave him a look.
“I would love to help out,” I said sweetly, “but I’m in the middle of cleaning the east wing. All the floors still have to be waxed, I have to supervise the washing of all the dustcloths, three of the chandeliers have not been cleaned yet and there are several pieces of furniture I wouldn’t let any of the servants touch—I’ll have to polish them myself. It’s going to take me at least another week to—”
“All that can wait,” Julian airily informed me. “Getting the inventory done is far more important than—”
“You don’t care who helps do it as long as it isn’t you,” I said testily. “It should be perfectly clear to you that your brother doesn’t wa
nt me to help, doesn’t think I’m capable of it, and I’m damn sure not going to make both of us uncomfortable so that you can—”
“Now, now, don’t you two start!” Delia exclaimed. “Really,” she added with a weary sigh, “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Dana has wanted to see the shop for ages, Charles—Julian’s never taken her—and she can certainly do a better job than Raoul—than Julian, either, for that matter—and, Dana dear, the east wing can wait. It’s the perfect solution.”
“Perfect,” Julian seconded.
“Then it’s settled,” Delia said happily.
I started to protest. “But—”
“It’s settled,” Julian said firmly. “Isn’t it, Charles?”
“I suppose it is.” He wasn’t at all pleased. “Meet me in the front foyer at eight o’clock,” he told me, “and wear something sensible, not one of those—those fancy rags that silly dressmaker ran up for you that leave most of your bosom bare.”
“Charles knows nothing about fashion, dear,” Delia pointed out.
And so it was that I stood waiting in the foyer early the following morning, nervous as hell but determined not to show it. My hair was brushed to a high sheen, I had taken a bath, and I was wearing a frock of pale apricot-colored cotton. It had narrow elbow-length sleeves and a square-cut neckline not quite as low as most of my other garments. The bodice was form-fitting, snug at the waist, and the very full skirt belled out over half a dozen ruffled underskirts.
The clocks were just striking eight when I heard footsteps and turned to see him moving briskly toward me, looking very brusque and businesslike. He wore highly polished black knee boots, snug dove-gray breeches, and a loosely fitting shirt of thin white lawn, open at the throat, the tail tucked casually into the waistband of his breeches, the bell sleeves gathered at the wrist and billowing as he moved. Although he had brushed his hair, it was already beginning to flop a little, that heavy wave spilling over his brow. He gave me a curt nod, frowned slightly and led me to the door.
“I hope this dress is suitable enough,” I said as we stepped outside.
His blue eyes swept over me. “It’ll do. You might go upstairs and wipe that paint off your face, though.”
“I’m not wearing paint. This is my natural coloring.”
He seemed just slightly taken aback but said nothing, leading me instead down the steps to the small open carriage waiting for us on the drive, a pair of gleaming bays stamping impatiently. The Negro driver, whom I hadn’t seen before, sat perched up front in a neat black uniform, and the passengers’ seat was upholstered in plush gray velvet. My skirts rustled as Charles handed me up into the seat and I settled back. He swung up lithely and sat down beside me and gave the driver a nod. In moments were were moving down the street at a nice clip. It was a lovely morning, sun-spangled, the sky a bright, silvery blue, the air fresh and invigorating. Charles was every bit as uncomfortable as I was, staring straight ahead, his profile stern and oh so handsome. The silence between us became more and more strained, broken only by the spinning of wheels and the merry clop of horse hooves on the cobbles.
“Did you have breakfast?” he asked after a while.
“Just coffee,” I said. “I rarely eat anything in the morning.”
“I noticed that.”
“Oh?”
“The other morning you had only half a sweet roll.”
“But I was at the breakfast table,” I pointed out. “As directed.”
We turned down another street. The Quarter was very quiet at this hour, no one to be seen but a few Negro women with baskets of laundry. The gardens behind their stone walls and wrought iron gates were cool and shady, gorgeous red and purple bougainvillea spilling over the walls. How mellow and sleepy the old houses looked with their elaborate lacework of wrought iron. The silence was becoming strained again. I tried not to look at those strong, muscular thighs so tightly encased in gray kidskin, at the large, powerful hands resting on his knees. We were sitting quite close out of necessity, and when the carriage rocked our bodies touched and I could feel the weight of him and the warmth of his skin. He was very tense.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t like this any better than you do. It wasn’t my idea.”
“I know it wasn’t.” His voice was curt.
“Why don’t you just stop the carriage. I—I’ll walk back to the house. I’ll tell Delia I’ve developed a splitting headache. That’s something she’ll understand. Julian will never know I’ve come back.”
“I still need help with the inventory,” he told me.
“And I suppose mine is better than nothing.”
“Right.”
“You know, you really are a miserable sod.”
He seemed delighted that I had lost my composure. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, and he seemed to relax for the first time. How I detested him. How I wished those thighs were clamped around mine, those arms holding me imprisoned, that full pink mouth plundering my own. I quickly banished such wicked thoughts, a blush tinting my cheeks.
“‘Miserable sod,’” he repeated. “A description you picked up from your years in the swamps?”
“It fits, believe me.”
“I’ve never heard it expressed quite that way, but I can assure you that there are any number of people who would agree with you. I’m not supposed to get out and fight the world and keep the family afloat. I’m supposed to club around with like kind and drink mint juleps and discuss the glory of the family name and squander what little money is left on cards and women. It’s the done thing in our crowd.”
“People resent you because you work?”
“It’s demeaning to be in trade—particularly if your name happens to be Etienne. It’s far more honorable to sit back gracefully and helplessly watch the decline like half the families in the Quarter. Many still have money, of course, but the majority have seen better days and will eventually see worse, clinging to their honor and describing past glories even as they starve.”
“Then they’re bloody fools,” I said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“You’re still a miserable sod, though.”
“I won’t argue the point,” he said.
We had left the residential district now and were passing rows of small, exclusive shops: a bakery where you could buy fancy French pastries at exorbitant prices, a salon that sold Parisian perfumes in beautiful crystal bottles with gold-encrusted stoppers, a plush bookstore with all the latest magazines and books from the City of Light, a florist’s with banks of heavenly pink and orange blossoms in the windows. Corinne’s wasn’t far from here, and Etienne’s was just around the corner, on the main thoroughfare. The streets all sparkled in the early morning sunlight, nests of hazy blue shadows lingering under striped awnings. At this hour the shops were still closed and there were only a few carriages abroad. Ours pulled up in front of Etienne’s, and Charles helped me alight.
“We’ll be here all day,” he told the driver. “You can come back for us around five.”
The driver nodded, snapped his whip and drove away, and Charles took the door key out of his pocket and stepped over to unlock the front door. Built of light gray brick, with large plate glass windows on either side of the ornately carved white door, Etienne’s was impressive indeed, an awning of white and gold striped canvas stretching across the front, shading the windows full of magnificent, casually arranged furniture and objets d’art. I could easily have spent half an hour admiring them, but Charles held open the door and impatiently waited for me to follow him in. He shut the door behind us, locked it and checked to see that the CLOSED sign was still in place.
“We won’t be open to the public until the inventory is finished,” he informed me. “the storeroom is—”
“It—why, it’s like Aladdin’s treasure cave,” I exclaimed, interrupting him.
To my eyes, it was indeed. A gorgeous old gray and gold Aubusson carpet covered most of the floor space, and the walls were hung w
ith dull gold moiré. Exquisite tapestry screens stood against the walls, and ornately framed paintings were expertly hung—Fragonards, Bouchers, Watteaus, a collection of magnificently detailed watercolors by Lancret. Shelves and tables held beautiful sets of china and porcelain figurines, and the remaining space was taken up by the furniture, each piece more sumptuous than the next, and all, I noticed, in need of a good dusting. My eye was caught by a delicate commode, surely Louis XV, and I moved over to examine it while Charles assumed a look of weary forbearance.
“I’ve never seen anything lovelier,” I said in a hushed voice. “Look at the detail.”
Delicately carved legs that curved in, then curved out, held the superbly designed octagon-shaped top with intricately inlaid patterns of ebony and cherry wood, and the lid was a master-peice of similar marquetry. There were four beautifully painted porcelain ovals, framed in brass garlands, that might have been done by Bouchet, and the whole piece was lavishly adorned with brass lace and narrow brass strips etched with tiny flowers. The brass was beginning to tarnish, the porcelain ovals were dusty, and the wood was deplorably dry, crying out for polish.
“It’s criminal to let a piece like this get into such condition,” I said testily. “It looks as though it hasn’t been polished for years, and the brass is almost green.”
“Waste of time to clean it,” Charles informed me. “I’ve been thinking of throwing the damned thing out.”
“Throwing it out!” I was appalled. “Why, it—yes, it’s Louis XV, and Bouchet might have done those ovals. It’s priceless.”
“It’s a very clever fake—one of my few mistakes. I bought it in a lot over three years ago. People who patronize Etienne’s really know their furniture and can quickly spot a copy.”
“Even so, it’s still incredibly lovely. It may be a copy, but it’s wonderfully made. I don’t see why—”
“It’s unsalable, a useless piece of junk that merely takes up space. Remind me to toss it out when we’re finished today. Come along,” he said curtly, “we’ve got work to do—though I doubt if you’re going to be much help to me.”
They Call Her Dana Page 23
