They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  Delia paused, looking torn.

  “Tell me, dear—and please do be honest—do you think the white silk with the mauve velvet bows is a bit too girlish for a lady of my years?”

  “I think it’s lovely, perfect for you. Delia, I wonder if—”

  “Then I’ll take it, and some light morning frocks, of course, and perhaps a sprigged muslin or two for strolling in the rose garden, and I mustn’t forget my wide-brimmed garden hat, white tulle with trailing ribbons. Oh dear, there’s so much to remember.…”

  “I’ll help you pack,” I said, beginning to feel quite frustrated. “Delia, I—I wonder if you’ve ever heard of a family named DuJardin? I don’t remember meeting anyone by that name at the Lecombs’ ball.”

  “You wouldn’t have met a DuJardin at the ball, dear—although I seem to remember that Mathilde DuJardin was one of Madame Lecomb’s regulars years ago, before the scandal. Why are you so interested in the DuJardins, dear?”

  “I—oh, I just heard the name mentioned,” I said quickly, covering, “and I wondered if you knew them.”

  “Such a scandal,” Delia declared, warming up. “Theophile DuJardin was one of the most respected men in the Quarter—very old family, very best lineage, a considerable fortune. The Dulardins and their two daughters lived in a perfectly beautiful house, one of the grandest in the Quarter, and their gardens were a marvel. Mathilde had an absolute passion for azaleas and camellias, and in season they were a perfect blaze of pink and white and red and mauve. Mathilde introduced the garden party to the Quarter—she gave the very first one, and they caught on immediately. Everyone started giving them—I gave several myself. I remember one in particular—oh, it must have been thirty years ago. I was much younger, of course, and I remember I wore white and yellow muslin.…”

  Delia remembered at great length and in considerable detail. I wore an interested expression and tried my best not to scream. She rambled on and on, her headache quite forgotten.

  “—and that was the party where Therese Delys first met Beau Gabin, such a handsome boy he was, though a complete rogue. They married a few months later, and poor Therese never could learn to accept his infidelities. She took to gin, eventually took to laudanum, finally swallowed a whole bottle of it. Beau broke up at the funeral, actually threw himself on the casket. He loved her, you see, even if he couldn’t resist a pretty face.”

  “And it was Mathilde DuJardin who started the vogue for garden parties?” I said, hoping to lead her back to the subject.

  “They were all the rage. Poor Mathilde, she doesn’t even have a garden at that tacky little house her brother bought for her—number four Conti Street, I believe, gray brick, green shutters, my dear, the front steps leading right down to the sidewalk. There could be a garden in back, but of course no one from the Quarter has ever been there. Mathilde might have weathered the storm—she wasn’t responsible, after all—but she chose to turn her back on the Quarter and live in seclusion.”

  Number four Conti Street. I committed the address to memory.

  “Actually, people felt very sorry for her. Theophile was vice president of one of our biggest banks, handled the finances of half the families in the Quarter, and he’d been using some of their money for personal investments and embezzling on the side. Everyone was horrified when he was finally exposed—quite a few families lost their savings. Jail was inevitable, but before that could happen Theophile strolled into Mathilde’s lovely garden and blew his brains out. I remember well the sensation it caused—”

  Before she could remember at length, I asked her what had become of the two daughters.

  “Solonge was still living at home—a tall, plain girl, unfortunately, old maid written all over her. She moved to Conti Street with her mother. The other girl, Clarisse, had already left home. The DuJardins claimed she had gone to a fancy finishing school up East and married a Yankee, but there were rumors she ran off with some good-looking scoundrel from out of town. I could give no credence to such rumors. She was a shy thing, as pretty as Solonge was plain, with such lovely manners. Mathilde had hoped to make a grand match for her. It wasn’t to be, alas. Clarisse never returned to New Orleans, not even to attend her father’s funeral.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was finding it difficult to contain my emotions. Delia mustn’t suspect my interest was anything but casual.

  “Mathilde’s brother came to her rescue,” Delia continued. “He wasn’t one of us, you understand, although he was a perfectly respectable man. He owned a number of warehouses down on the docks, and several of the men in the Quarter did business with him. Anyway, Guy Chevrier bought the house for Mathilde. He made some very bad investments several years ago, lost most of his money and lost the warehouses as well. I understand he moved into the house with Mathilde and Solonge and now makes a living supervising cargo on the docks.”

  Delia shook her head. “Pity,” she said, and then she glanced at the clock. “My, it’s almost eleven. Dana, dear, please tell Jezebel I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a bite to eat, after all. Charles said he’ll be home for lunch today, and that’ll make four of us if we can pry Julian out of his study. A nice nourishing lunch might help this wretched headache.”

  Lunch was an ordeal. I had an aunt, a great-uncle and a grandmother living right here in the city and not too far from here—I knew that Conti Street was near Exchange Alley, where the fencing academies were located, and close to both Royal and Bourbon. I could hardly contain my impatience. I longed to rush over to number four immediately, but I had to sit at the table with Charles and Julian and Delia and maintain a calm demeanor. Jezebel had outdone herself—cold, tender asparagus with white cheese sauce, sliced ham, lobster salad, popovers—but I had no appetite at all and barely touched my food.

  “Raoul reported to work this morning,” Charles remarked, buttering one of the golden-brown, light-as-air popovers. “He gave no explanations and made no apologies, merely said he’d had a dandy time.”

  “Is he still alive?” Julian asked.

  “He’s alive, but he got a severe dressing down. I told him in no uncertain terms that his ass was out if he pulled a stunt like that again.”

  “Language, dear,” Delia said.

  “He had the temerity to ask for a raise in salary. Can you believe it? He said it would make his mother very happy.”

  “You didn’t give it to him,” Julian said.

  “On the contrary, I told him I was docking him for the days he missed. He sulked a bit, but he didn’t dare complain—he saw the mood I was in. The young varlet was lucky I didn’t kick his—”

  “Language,” Delia warned.

  “Backside. I wanted to, believe me. Incidentally, you’ll never guess who came into the shop this morning, Julian.”

  “I never will. Who?”

  A half smile curled on Charles’s chiseled pink lips, and he gave his brother an amused look. “The lovely Amelia,” he said.

  Delia looked surprised. “Amelia Jameson?” she asked.

  “The same.”

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  I remembered the lady well. She was the gorgeous brunette with violet-blue eyes who had loaned me the gown and slippers and parasol when Julian and I finally reached the inn and I had nothing but the rags I was wearing. How I had envied her sumptuous clothes and worldly poise.

  “I wonder what she’s doing back in town,” Julian remarked, helping himself to more lobster salad. “Last time I saw her she’d taken up with some rich property owner who was keeping her in style.”

  “Really,” Delia protested, “I’m not sure this is a suitable subject for the lunch table.”

  Charles and Julian both gave her looks.

  “She was looking extremely well,” Charles continued, grinning. “Lovelier than ever, in fact. She was wearing crimson silk and long black lace gloves and a wide-brimmed black hat with crimson plumes and ribbons. A veritable vision, I must say.”

  “I never realized you were so observant, dear,�
� Delia said.

  “What did she buy?” Julian asked.

  “She wasn’t buying, she was selling. It seems she’s a little short of cash and wanted to know if I’d be interested in a silver filigree box she brought in. Late seventeenth century, fine craftsmanship, superb detail.”

  “You give her a good price for it?”

  “More than I should have, but we’ll still turn a nice profit. I felt sure you’d approve. The rich property owner is apparently out of the picture,” he continued, “and the lady is unattached.”

  “That won’t last long,” Julian said dryly.

  “She asked about you,” Charles told him.

  Julian looked highly disinterested. “Yeah?”

  “I told her you were working on your book. ‘It figures,’ she said. ‘He always was.’”

  “That’s quite enough, Charles,” Delia said. “Did I tell you boys I’m leaving for Grande Villa tomorrow morning? Alicia’s been begging me to come visit, and this dreadful heat is so oppressive. I’ve had a terrible migraine for days. I just suffer and suffer and—”

  Julian lifted his eyes heavenward. Charles buttered another popover and reached for the platter of ham. Delia continued her monologue until dessert was served—chilled chocolate pudding with whipped cream on top—and then Julian informed us that he, too, was going to be away.

  “I thought I’d made my last trip to the swamps, but in working on the footnotes I discovered that I need more information on certain soil conditions. I’m leaving day after tomorrow—shouldn’t be gone for more than a couple of weeks. The bronze orchids grow only in damp soil, you see, while the purple orchids are found only in a certain kind of flaky gray clay. I should’ve brought soil samples back with me last time, but I was so intrigued with those new ferns I found I forgot about everything else. The ferns grow only at the edge of the water in muddy soil, they’re a peculiar shade of yellow-green and have unusually soft and feathery—”

  “Really, dear, I don’t mean to be unkind,” Delia said, “but we’re not at all interested. You go on and on about the most boring things. Some of us prefer stimulating conversation at the table.”

  Charles and Julian exchanged looks.

  “Why hasn’t one of us murdered her before now?” Charles inquired.

  “Miraculous restraint,” Julian replied.

  “You boys,” Delia said fondly.

  Julian retired to his study after lunch, and Charles went back to spend the rest of the day at Etienne’s. Delia declared that a nice long nap might do wonders for her headache, she would pack after dinner. She went up to her bedroom, and I gave a sigh of relief. I found Kayla and asked her to prepare a bath for me, and forty-five minutes later I was in my bedroom wearing a petticoat and trying to select the right dress to wear. I rejected several, finally selecting a demure frock of thin, leaf-brown linen. It had elbow-length puffed sleeves and a square-cut neckline higher than most. I adjusted the snug waist and smoothed the folds of the very full skirt over my petticoat. Examining myself in the mirror, I wasn’t satisfied with my hair. I spent another fifteen minutes brushing it, pulling it back from my face and fastening it into a French roll on the back of my head.

  Kayla tapped on my door and stepped inside, looking surprised at the change in my appearance.

  “Why, Miz Dana!” she exclaimed. “You look—why, in that dress an’ with your hair done up like that, you look plum prim”

  “That’s how I want to look,” I told her.

  “I come up to see if you needed anything. You plannin’ on going’ to a prayer meetin’ or somethin’?”

  “Kayla,” I said, ignoring her impertinence, “has that new man Jasper come back yet from taking Mister Charles to the shop?”

  “He got back half an hour ago,” Kayla replied, “came into the east wing where I was workin’ and pinched me right on the rear, he did, then tried to take liberties. What sauce! I told him I wudn’t havin’ none of that, not from the likes-a him. He is good-lookin’, I have to admit that. Don’t you think so, Miz Dana?”

  “I—I really hadn’t noticed, Kayla.”

  “Very well built and such roguish eyes. Of course, he’s rather dark for a gal light as me, but those muscles—to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind all that much if he did take liberties.”

  “Kayla, I want you to do a favor for me. I want you to ask Jasper to meet me on the street in ten minutes—on the street, not in front of the door—and I want him to use the closed carriage.”

  “Don’t want no one seein’ you, is that it?”

  “That’s it,” I said impatiently.

  “You ain’t goin’ to meet a lover, that’s for sure. Not wearin’ that dress. Guess you’ve got a secret errand.”

  “Exactly. And I’d like to keep it a secret. Please don’t tell anyone else about it, and—and ask Jasper to keep quiet about it, too. Will you?”

  Kayla nodded, clearly intrigued. “Sure thing, Miz Dana. I’ll tell him if he blabs he ain’t gettin’ any of this. The closed carriage will be waiting for you on the street in ten minutes, I promise you.”

  She scurried out of the room, and I turned to the mirror again. I did look a bit too prim, I thought, and, to remedy it, decided I would carry my green velvet reticule and fasten a green velvet bow at the side of the French roll, above my temple. That helped considerably. I looked demure and well-bred, but not as if I were on my way to a prayer meeting.

  I slipped out of the house without being seen and hurried down the drive to the wrought-iron gates. I was pleased to see the closed carriage waiting a little way down the street, Jasper standing ready to help me inside. He was a handsome chap, I noted, with a trim, muscular physique, skin like polished ebony and strong, rather stern features. The eyes Kayla described as roguish were a very dark brown, discreetly impassive now. He nodded curtly when I greeted him, then handed me into the carriage.

  “Do you know where Conti Street is?” I asked.

  Jasper nodded again. I asked him to drive me to number four, a gray house with green shutters, and he closed the carriage door. I leaned back against the padded velvet cushions, spreading my skirts out as the carriage started to move. Everything had happened so quickly, I hadn’t had time to make any plans or think about what I was going to say, what I was going to do. I peered out at the gray brick walls spilling with bougainvillea, at the greenery beyond and the lacework of wrought iron that adorned the houses, and I tried to tell myself I wasn’t being impulsive, tried to tell myself I wasn’t nervous at all. Mathilde DuJardin was my grandmother, my own blood kin, Solonge my aunt, Guy Chevrier my great-uncle, and blood had to mean something. I found myself gripping my skirt tightly, bunching up the thin brown linen with my fingers, my knuckles white. I stopped immediately.

  You should have waited, I told myself. You should have sent them a letter first. You should have prepared them. What are they going to say when you appear on their doorstep, out of the blue, claiming to be their kin? What if they don’t believe you? These and other questions plagued me as the carriage gently swayed, as the horse hooves clop-clopped on the cobblestones. I should wait. I should tap on the roof of the carriage and ask Jasper to turn around and take me back home. I didn’t. I took several deep breaths. I forced myself to relax. It’s going to be all right, I assured myself. You’re no longer a ragged little waif from the swamps. You’re a respectable young lady.

  We passed the market, a riot of color and activity at this hour. Negro women with huge baskets examined piles of oranges, barrels of eels, mounds of plump pink shrimp, piles of crisp pale green lettuce. Children darted about merrily, and fashionably dressed ladies strolled together, twirling their parasols, chatting in front of stalls selling delicious pastries or the mouthwatering praline candy for which the city was famous. I could smell the wonderful exotic spices and freshly baked bread, the salty smell of raw fish and, too, the acrid odor of droppings from the chicken pens, all of it somehow blending together to create a tangy perfume. I had come here several ti
mes with Jezebel, amused by her sharp eye and her ability to drive a hard bargain. Woe unto anyone who tried to sell her a slightly bruised melon or a bucket of oysters less than fresh. I wished I were shopping with her now. I wished I were doing anything else but what I was doing now.

  I wondered if Ma had loved the market as much as I did. Ma … She had been a lovely young girl, growing up in this city, very much a part of the snobbish, exclusive society of the Quarter, the daughter of one of its most respected members. She had lived in a grand house with lovely gardens, gardens ablaze with azaleas and camellias, and there had been an older sister, a sister she had never mentioned to me, plain, perhaps jealous of her beauty. It had been a luxurious life, gracious and full of gentle splendors. There had been parties, and beaux, too, of course, probably a great many beaux, dashing, handsome young blue bloods who longed to capture Theophile DuJardin’s beautiful daughter. Ma would have none of them, though. She wanted someone else, and because of him she had given up that luxurious life and … and ended up in the swamps with Clem O’Malley.

  I repressed a sob and forced back the tears. The grief was still there inside, as strong as ever, and it threatened to break free and sweep over me anew. No. No, I wouldn’t let it demolish me. Deliberately, with great effort, I controlled it, forced it back into that dark place inside where it would always remain, a part of me for as long as I lived. Ma was gone. I had resigned myself to that a long time ago. Ma was gone, and I must go on. That was what life was all about, going on—no matter how hard it sometimes might be. I brushed the moisture from my lashes and sat up, composed now and much calmer than I had been since I left the house. I had lost Ma, but I had found her people, thanks to the ramblings of a pathetic yet touching old woman who could no longer differentiate between past and present.

  We turned into Exchange Alley, where at least fifty maîtres d’armes operated fencing academies for the young bucks of the city. Fencing was the fashion, and duels at dawn were much too frequently held in the grove of giant live oaks outside the city called, simply, the Oaks. I saw several young men on the street, some with fencing masks and swords in hand, most of them simply lounging together and exchanging tales of their prowess at today’s practice. I recognized Zackery Rambeaux and Pierre Dorsay and one or two others I had met at the ball. How pleased with themselves they all looked, idling about with nothing to fill their days but wenching and dueling and gambling and other mischief. They laughed at Julian and called him a dreamer, but at least Julian was striving to make a contribution, and they looked down on Charles because he worked and refused to conform to their ideas of “aristocratic” behavior. No wonder Raoul resented working at Etienne’s. These were his close companions, and they must ride him mercilessly about being “in trade.”