They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  I was smarting as he led me through an archway hung with dark gold drapes and into the back. I didn’t know furniture at all, he had implied. I couldn’t even spot an obvious fake and was going to be useless. We walked past two offices and into the storeroom in back, a vast area cluttered with empty wooden boxes and furniture and stacks of dishes and table loads of porcelain figurines and bronzes. Some of the boxes were broken, slats littering the floor, and packing straw was everywhere. What an incredible mess it was, I thought, trying not to let myself be distracted by the sumptuous objects on every side. Charles placed his hands on his thighs and looked around in disgust.

  “We can’t possibly work in all this mess,” I said practically. “I suggest you do something with all those boxes—is there an alley out back? Perhaps you could carry them out there. I’ll sweep up all this hideous straw and gather up all that wrapping paper, then we can start taking inventory.”

  “I give the orders around here,” he informed me.

  “I wasn’t ordering you to do anything,” I replied. “I was simply making a suggestion.”

  He hesitated, scowling, then gave an exasperated shrug and began to carry the empty boxes out, gathering up the broken slats as well. I located a broom and started sweeping, and half an hour later the job was done. Charles disappeared into one of the offices and returned a moment later with a leather-bound ledger and a huge bundle of receipts. He explained to me that each piece must be checked against its sale receipt, then listed in the ledger with price paid and price to be charged and a brief description. We would start with the porcelain. I would bring each piece over and he would sit at the desk and do the listing after he located the appropriate receipt.

  “If you drop one, you’re dead,” he told me. “Some of those pieces are worth a great deal.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  We started to work, and after he had listed one or two pieces I found myself waiting while he completed the listing and located a receipt for the next piece. I simplified matters by locating the receipts myself and providing him with a brief description of each piece I brought over. Meissen box, blue and gold court figures on lid. Sevres vase, white porcelain with gold etching and pink and orange flowers. Dresden figurine, lady in sedan chair carried by two page boys in gold and green livery. Charles was both surprised and pleased by my efficiency and my ability to identify each piece correctly and find the receipt for it. Work progressed much more smoothly. As each piece was listed I placed it on one of the empty shelves provided for that purpose, and I was always ready with another before Charles had finished making his entry. An hour passed, two, three, and we had finished with the porcelain and listed half the china when we were interrupted by loud knocking on the back door that led into the alleyway.

  “Jesus!” Charles snapped. “Who could that be?”

  He stood up and threw his shoulders back and flexed his arms, stiff after sitting at the desk so long. His hair was decidedly unruly, and his fine lawn shirt was moist with perspiration, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows now. I had perspired myself, for it was very warm back here with no windows to let in a breeze, and I was weary, too, glad for a little respite. Charles moved angrily to the door and threw it open, and a beaming Elijah grinned up at him, his arms laden with two large baskets.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Charles demanded.

  “Jasper, that new driver, he brung me in the carriage. Jezebel said Miz Dana didn’t eat no breakfast an’ you all needed a hearty lunch if you was gonna be workin’ an’ told me to bring these here baskets. They’re fulla goodies. She said you was to eat every bite of ’em or she’d know the reason why.”

  “Give them to me.”

  Elijah handed over the baskets and stood there grinning, and Charles gave him a mock fierce look and Elijah grinned all the wider. Reaching into one of the baskets, Charles took out a small iced cake, gave it to the boy and closed the door. I ran my fingers through my hair, my back sore, my feet aching from being on them so long. Charles set the baskets on the desk, pulled over a superbly designed Henry X chair and told me to sit down. I hesitated, reluctant to sit on so fine a piece. He saw my hesitation, frowned and gave me a little shove, then started taking things out of the basket.

  “Let’s see—cold fried chicken, slices of ham, slices of turkey, a loaf of dark brown bread, cheese, apples, grapes, honey cakes, tiny chocolate cakes with white icing—Jesus! There’s enough here to feed an army. Knives, forks, and two crystal glasses, a container of lemonade—she hasn’t forgotten anything.”

  “The lemonade sounds wonderful.”

  Charles filled both glasses, ice tinkling as he did so, then gave me one. I drank it with relish and took the piece of chicken he handed me along with a white linen napkin.

  “We’ve made great progress,” he remarked. “We should finish the china and the bronzes this afternoon, and we can easily do all the rest tomorrow. I thought it would take half a week. You—uh—you’re quite efficient, and you do know your porcelain.”

  “That hurt, didn’t it?” I said.

  “What hurt?”

  “Admitting I wasn’t a dunce.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t a dunce. I just said you know your porcelain.”

  “Sod.”

  “Eat your chicken, Dana.”

  It was delicious, and so was the turkey and bread and cheese. Both of us were starved. I watched him tearing meat from a drumstick with his teeth, and I lowered my eyes, not wanting those wicked thoughts to start anew. He seemed quite relaxed and pleased now and not at all resentful of my company. I drank another glass of lemonade, sipping it slowly.

  “Want a cake?” he inquired.

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “Jezebel will be upset if they’re not eaten. She’ll have another one of her spells, and you’ll have to go humor her. Delia tells me you do it beautifully. She says Jezebel thinks you hung the moon.”

  “I get along well with all the servants.”

  “You have a way with them. Delia never did. She let them run all over her. You’ve made life much easier for her.”

  “I—”

  “We got off to a bad start, Dana. What do you say we call a truce?”

  “That—that’s fine with me,” I said.

  “I’m very protective of my family, you see. Someone has to look out after them. I’ve been doing it since I was in my teens.”

  I accepted a small chocolate cake. Charles ate two of them and wiped his mouth with his napkin and then looked at me with dark blue eyes that were full of lazy curiosity. I lowered my own eyes.

  “You really do like beautiful things, don’t you?” he said.

  I nodded. “I—I suppose it’s because I grew up with—without any beauty around me at all.”

  “Julian told me all about that.”

  I didn’t reply. I finished my cake, remembering, feeling sad.

  “He told me about your mother, too—told me the whole story. You wanted to come to New Orleans to find her people, he said.”

  “I—I don’t even know their name,” I said. “I still hope to find them, though. I haven’t pursued it because I’ve been so busy with lessons and everything. When—when I do find them, I want to be a lady—I want them to think I’m a lady.”

  Charles didn’t say anything for a while. He stood up and started putting things back into the baskets. He was so tall, so lean and muscular, exuding a marvelous confidence and that potent magnetism. I handed him my empty glass. Our fingers touched.

  “Give it up, Dana,” he said.

  “Give what up?”

  “This idea you have about finding your mother’s people. If, indeed, she did come from one of the Creole families here in the Quarter, they would never accept you. You’ll never be a lady, Dana. Not to people here. No matter what you do, what you achieve, you’ll always be that creature from the swamps Julian Etienne brought back and made his ward.”

  “You—don’t believe in mincing word
s, do you?” I said quietly.

  “I know these people. I should. My name is Etienne and I’m one of them, even if they consider me a rebel. They’re close-knit, inbred, arrogant and incredibly exclusive. Their doors are closed to any and all outsiders. If your mother’s people disowned her because she ran off with an outsider, they’re not likely to take in her bastard daughter.”

  I could feel my cheeks coloring. I could feel the pain inside. I wasn’t going to cry. Charles looked at me and frowned, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle.

  “I say this only for your own good,” he told me, “If you pursue it you’ll only be setting yourself up for a great deal of disappointment and a lot of hurt.”

  “But—”

  “Where you come from—who your family is—doesn’t matter. All that matters is what you are. You no longer need your mother’s people. You’re no longer an orphan. You have a place now. You have a home. You’re Julian Etienne’s ward.”

  “And you’re not happy about that, are you?”

  “I love and respect my brother. I may not be happy about what he did, but I stand behind him. Always. You’re one of the family now, whether I like it or not, and that means I stand behind you, too. I won’t allow anyone to defame you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  I didn’t reply. Charles finished packing the baskets and set them on the floor beside the desk. I stood up and moved the Henry X chair back into place, and we resumed our work. I thought about all that he had said. He didn’t understand. How could he? How could he understand how it felt not to know your mother’s name, not to know who your father was? It was something I wasn’t prepared to explain to him. I found the receipt for a gold-rimmed tea set with a deep pink border with tiny gold stars. Charles casually told me it had once belonged to Maria Theresa of Austria, the mother of Marie Antoinette. I handled the dishes carefully, with something like awe.

  “Where did you get all these things?” I asked.

  “The Gerard family in France has fallen on very bad times. I was able to acquire some of their possessions before they went to public auction. I paid a fair price, far more than they would have fetched under the gavel.”

  “Why didn’t you wait until the auction?”

  “I wanted to be sure I got the items, and I wanted to be sure the Gerards got a fair price. I could’ve obtained them cheaper if I’d waited for the auction, perhaps, but the Gerards would have been the poorer for it.”

  “You—you have your own honor, don’t you?”

  “I’m not a scavanger, fattening off the misfortunes of others. I’m a legitimate dealer with, I hope, a modicum of integrity, which is more than can be said of some of our competitors. I may have paid too much, but I can face myself in the mirror each morning and, believe me, Etienne’s will make a generous profit from each item.”

  “You overcharge your customers?”

  “Outrageously.”

  “And you find nothing wrong with that?”

  “Customers of Etienne’s can afford to be overcharged. The more they pay, the happier they are. Enough chitchat, Dana. We’ve got work to do. Be careful with that sugar bowl.”

  We finished with the china an hour later and began on the bronzes. I wasn’t nearly as well versed in bronzes. It took me much longer to find the receipts, and I made couple of errors that caused Charles to scowl. It was very warm back here. His hair was damp now, and the lawn shirt clung moistly to his back and shoulders, his skin visible beneath the thin cloth. I was growing extremely weary and longed for a break, but hell would freeze over before I would ask for one. I picked up another heavy bronze, stumbled on my way to the desk, and almost dropped the piece. He gave me a murderous look as I set it down and began to search for the receipt.

  “Uh—French bronze, man and woman embracing, by P. Bertrand,” I said uneasily.

  “Italian bronze,” he corrected, “The Rape of the Sabines, after Giovanni Bologna. You’ve made another error. Find the right receipt.”

  “I never said I knew everything there is to know about bronzes,” I retorted. “I’m doing the best I can!”

  “Snap it up,” he ordered.

  At that point there was noisy banging on the front door, and Charles threw his hands up in disgust and said it was a would-be customer and told me just to ignore the noise, they’d go away. I found the right receipt and gave it to him, and he began to scribble furiously. Not only did the banging not stop, it grew even noisier. Charles’s pen skipped and splattered ink all over the page, and he looked as though he would love to commit murder. He grabbed a blotter and began to blot and ordered me to go see who it was and get rid of them at once. I brushed damp waves from my temples and hurried to the front of the shop.

  Through the windows I could see a stout, middle-aged man in a plum-colored frock coat and a gray silk neckcloth with a diamond stickpin. He stood smoking a fat cigar while the woman with him continued to bang lustily on the door, clearly determined to be allowed inside. Fearing the door might actually break down, I hastily unlocked it and opened it, and the woman came tripping eagerly into the shop, grabbing her husband’s arm and dragging him in after her. She was a good half head taller than he, a robustly built matron with merry brown eyes, a plump red mouth and hair an improbable shade of gold. She was wearing a garish dress of red, green, black and white plaid taffeta, eye-catching to say the least, and vividly red false cherries dangled from one side of her wide-brimmed black straw hat. An enormous diamond sparkled on her wedding finger, quite the largest gem I had ever seen, and a diamond sunburst was pinned to her lapel.

  “I just knew someone was here!” she exclaimed in an accent so thick I was barely able to make out the words. “I told Herbie, Herbie, I said, I just know someone’s here an’ I’m gonna keep right on knockin’ till I get results. Didn’t I, Herbie? Didn’t I say just that?”

  “You said just that,” Herbie said patiently.

  “Louella, honey, you just can’t go to New Orleans without stopping by Etienne’s, my friend Junie Summerfield told me. Last year Junie bought a pair of candlesticks here, real steep, they was, cost her a mint, an’ she hasn’t talked about anything else—you’ve gotta look at them candlesticks every time you go see her. Well, I said to Herbie, Herbie, I said, I’m not gonna let Junie Summerfield get the jump on me. I’m gonna buy me somethin’ that’s gonna make her bloomin’ candlesticks look plum puny.”

  “I—I’m very sorry,” I said when I could finally get a word in edgewise, “but we’re closed today. We’re taking inventory, you see, and—”

  “Oh, now, honey, you’re not gonna break my heart? We’re leavin’ tomorrow, goin’ back home to St. Louis, and I’d pine plum away if I didn’t have somethin’ from Etienne’s to carry back with me. Somethin’ special. Look at them chairs, Herbie! Ain’t they grand?”

  “Kinda big, Louella,” Herbie observed.

  “We’re the Kramers from St. Louis, honey. I’m Louella and this here’s Herbie. Kramer’s Emporium—perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s the biggest store in the city, but we don’t sell stuff like this! I just gotta buy somethin’ to take back with me, and I just won’t take no for an answer. You can sell it to us yourself an’ we’ll pay cash. Herbie’s got a bundle in his pocket. Oh, what a gorgeous screen! Look at them cupids cavortin’. That’s real tapestry, ain’t it? Whatta you think, Herbie?”

  “I’m not particularly fond of cupids, Louella.”

  “Talk about hard to please!”

  Louella began to examine various pieces, darting here and there, her plaid taffeta skirt crackling noisily. Herbie took a puff on his cigar and gave me a long-suffering look as though to tell me there was no controlling her once she’d made up her mind to have something. He had a plump, pleasant face with sleepy-looking gray eyes and heavy lids. The top of his head was bald and shiny, with a sleek black fringe around it. The diamond in his stickpin, I noticed, was almost as large as the one on his wife’s finger.

  “Might as well sell her som
ething,” he said. “You’re not gonna get rid of her ’less you do.”

  The idea came to me all at once, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to resist it. I brushed my hair back again and, leaving Herbie to his cigar, joined Louella, who was critically examining a Louis XV side chair.

  “We have a great many beautiful pieces,” I told her, “but, of course, if you want something really special, there’s the Josephine commode.”

  “Commode? Where is it, honey? Let me have a look.”

  I led her over to the commode Charles had denigrated earlier. I could see that Louella was not at all impressed.

  “It needs dusting,” I said. “It needs a good polish, too, but it’s quite the finest thing we have in the store.”

  “Hmmmm,” Louella murmured, eyes wandering.

  “Of course, it’s a copy,” I confessed.

  “A copy! Honey, I ain’t payin’ Herbie’s good money for any copy, no matter how old it looks.”

  “Josephine didn’t know it was a copy. They say it was her favorite piece of furniture when she was living on the isle of Martinique.”

  “Josephine?”

  “Josephine Bonaparte,” I said reverently, “Napoleon’s first wife and the empress of France. This commode belonged to her when she was a girl growing up on Martinique. They say she was especially fond of the Bouchet ovals and polished all of the brass with her own hands, dreaming of some grand future as she did so.”

  “You don’t say! Herbie! Herbie, come on over here and look at this!”

  Herbie sauntered over and gazed at the commode with about as much interest as he would have shown an ant crawling across the carpet. Heavy lids drooping, he puffed on his cigar and listened patiently as Louella enthused over the commode.

  “It belonged to Josephine—you know, the empress of France, the one who slept around so much Napoleon divorced her. Junie Summerfield will bust a gut! I gotta have it, Herbie. I don’t care how much it costs!”

  Herbie gave me a weary look. “How much does it cost?” he asked in a martyred voice.