They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It seems a pity the workmen can no longer afford to eat here.”

  “Oh, they have other eating places. The ‘swells’ come and eat bouillabaisse and cornbread sticks and feel delightfully democratic because they’re not dining on pheasant.”

  The bouillabaisse was served in large brown bowls, the cornbread sticks in a wicker basket, and while both were delicious, neither could compare to what Jezebel prepared. All around us was the hum of polite conversation, the sounds of refined laughter. There was a special atmosphere, as though this were a private club for members only, and I felt out of place. I didn’t belong to this world. I never would. When bowls and basket had been removed, Julian informed me that Alain’s was famous for its coffee and fried pies and said we must have some. He gave the order and smiled at me.

  “You’re rather subdued today,” he remarked.

  “Subdued?”

  “Very much the proper young lady. Sometimes I miss the saucy waif with the wicked tongue.”

  “Blame Madame LeSalle. She’s the one who gave me lessons in deportment and taught me how to conduct myself at the dining table.”

  “The transformation is remarkable. One would never know you weren’t to the manor born.”

  I indicated our fellow diners. “They know,” I said.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked.

  “Not any longer,” I said truthfully.

  “You’re worth a dozen pampered belles.”

  “I fear you may be—just a little prejudiced,” I told him.

  Julian chuckled quietly. How many women would give anything to have a man like this look at them with such adoration? Why couldn’t I love Julian Etienne instead of his brother? Love him I did, of course, but in a filial way. How was I going to tell him I couldn’t possibly become his wife? The pies and coffee were served. The pies had been fried to a crisp golden brown, then generously sprinkled with powdered sugar. Mine was peach. The coffee was so strong, I had to use half the small pitcher of cream. As I was sipping it, I saw Julian’s expression change. He was looking across the room and seemed suddenly ill at ease. Turning slightly in my chair, I saw the reason why.

  Amelia Jameson had entered the restaurant on the arm of an attractive middle-aged man in cream-colored breeches and frock coat and a dark tan waistcoat. His longish blond hair was beginning to gray, and he looked rather apprehensive as they were shown to a table, Amelia clinging to his arm. She wore a spectacular violet silk gown, long black velvet gloves and a wide-brimmed black velvety hat festooned with violet ostrich plumes. She was as glamorous, as gorgeous, as I remembered, a wicked twinkle in her eyes as she observed her escort’s unease. Hardly had they been seated when she spotted Julian. She murmured something to the blond man, got back up and came toward us, wide skirts swaying.

  Julian slipped down a little in his chair and looked like he would like to slip through the floor as well, but, gentleman that he was, he stood when Amelia reached our table. He nodded nervously. She treated him to a wry smile.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” she said. “I thought you never left your study, darling.”

  “Only on occasion.”

  “You’re looking positively yummy.”

  “You’re looking well yourself, Amelia. You remember Miss O’Malley?”

  Amelia gave me the briefest of glances and nodded. I gave her a brief nod in return. I knew I should dislike her intensely, but I found her fascinating and curiously engaging.

  “Your taste in clothes has improved considerably,” she said.

  “Yours remains the same.”

  “Touché, darling.”

  “I hear you’ve fallen upon hard times,” Julian told her.

  “It’s only temporary, darling. I’ve sold a few of my things to your brother, true, but I’m getting by.”

  “Who’s the man you’re with?”

  “He’s only temporary, too. A planter from upriver, in the city for a few weeks to do business. He’s afraid someone here might recognize him and report back to his dragon of a wife. How’s the opus coming, darling? Are you still working night and day?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m almost finished.”

  “Really?” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Somehow I knew you’d finish it. I always believed in you—I suppose that’s why I spent so much time transcribing all those notes and copying pages for you. I probably know more about botany than any other woman in the South.”

  “You probably do,” he agreed.

  “Lovely seeing you again, darling,” she said sweetly. “Should you ever grow tired of children and decide to play with the grownups again, look me up. We’ll discuss old times and plan some new ones.”

  She gave him a radiant smile, nodded to me again and then sashayed back to her table. I had never seen a grown man blush, but Julian’s cheeks were decidedly pink as he paid the bill and led me out of the restaurant. Amelia Jameson must have meant more to him than he cared to admit, I thought. She was certainly still able to get a strong reaction from him. I wondered how long they had been together and why he had left her. At the inn, when I had first seen her, Amelia had responded to his remark about “dumping” her by reminding him she had moved on to “greener pastures.” Even at the time I had had the impression she was still extremely fond of him, and I suspected Julian still wasn’t completely immune to the lady’s considerable charms. As we rode home I longed to question him about her but, of course, I didn’t. Good breeding definitely had its drawbacks, I thought wryly.

  When we arrived home, Kayla met me in the front foyer, and I could tell she had something important to tell me. She contained her excitement, however, until Julian retired to his study, and then she took me by the hand and led me into the parlor. Checking first to make sure that no one was within earshot, she gave me a conspiratorial look and then pulled a small envelope out of her apron pocket.

  “This came while you was gone, Miz Dana. Thank heaven Pompey was in back, didn’t hear the door. I answered it myself an’ there was this boy an’ he said this note was for you an’ it was real important an’ I wudn’t to let no one have it but you.”

  “I—I wonder who it could be from.”

  “I don’t know, but that boy was real smart-alecky, wudn’t going to give it to me till I promised I wouldn’t let no one else see it.”

  “Thank you, Kayla,” I said.

  But Kayla wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. She lingered, watching as I opened the envelope and read the brief note. It was from Guy Chevrier, my mother’s uncle. He asked me to meet him at number eighteen, Rampart Street, at three o’clock Sunday afternoon and added that it was imperative that absolutely no one know about our meeting. Puzzled, I read the note again, then slipped it back into the envelope. Kayla waited expectantly, and I felt almost guilty as I told her I would not be needing her for anything else. I went up to my bedroom and, slipping the note into the small drawer in my bedside table, wondered why Guy Chevrier could possibly want to see me after all this time and why such secrecy was necessary.

  I was relieved when, after lunch Sunday, Delia declared that she was going to have a little nap in her room, and Julian decided to do some more work in his study. Charles was due back sometime this afternoon, but I would be safely out of the house long before he arrived, as he wasn’t expected until after four. I went upstairs and quickly changed into a ruffled beige petticoat and pale beige muslin frock sprigged with tiny gold and brown flowers. I brushed my hair, letting it tumble loosely around my shoulders. No severe hairstyle this time; no dull brown dress either. I could not care less what kind of impression I made on Guy Chevrier. I was only going to meet him out of curiosity, I told myself. I left my bedroom and started downstairs.

  Kayla was in the foyer, a light feather dust mop in her hand, and although she pretended to be dusting a vase, I had a distinct impression the little hussy was deliberately waiting for me. I did adore her, of course, but she was altogether too nosy.

  “Where-ya goin’, Miz Dana?”
Her voice was ever so casual.

  “That’s none of your business, Kayla,” I said coolly, “but if you must know, I—I’m going for a walk.”

  “At this time-a-day? In this heat?”

  “It isn’t that hot,” I retorted, “and I feel the need for a little exercise after that huge lunch.”

  “Miz Dana, you—you ain’t doin’ somethin’ you oughten, is you? Does this have somethin’ to do with that note you put in your bedside table?”

  “How did you know I left it there?” I asked sharply.

  “I—I was cleanin’, an’ I just happened to see it.”

  I was indignant, but I realized no real harm had been done. Kayla couldn’t read, of course, and she couldn’t possibly know where I was going. I gave her a stern look that informed her I would tolerate no more questions, and then I swept past her and went on outside, opening my parasol on the front steps before proceeding.

  It was a lovely day and not really that warm. With the parasol shading my face and shoulders, I strolled slowly. It wasn’t quite two o’clock, and I had plenty of time, even if I couldn’t get a cab farther on and had to walk all the way. The Quarter was drowsy and silent this Sunday afternoon, and as I passed stone walls awash with bougainvillea the only sounds I heard were the splashing of fountains and the lazy buzz of insects. The air was heavily laden with the perfume of flowers, and I could smell moist soil and sun-warmed stone and rusting iron, a peculiar smell unique to the Quarter with its profusion of fanciful wrought iron.

  I wondered anew why Guy Chevrier had requested this secretive meeting. He had certainly seemed more sympathetic toward me than either my aunt or my grandmother, but he was too ineffectual, too spineless, to defy them and accept me as kin. Perhaps … perhaps he intended to apologize for the reception I had received at Conti Street in order to salve his conscience. He wouldn’t want his sister or her daughter to know about our meeting, of course, and that would explain his request for secrecy. Perhaps he intended to answer the question that his sister had refused to answer. Perhaps he intended to tell me who my father was. That didn’t really matter to me anymore, I told myself, turning a corner, leaving the residential district behind. What good would it do for me to know? I knew who I was, and that was all that mattered.

  The streets here were almost deserted of pedestrians, but several vehicles passed up and down. I kept my eye out for one of the sturdy brown cabs, as the carriages for hire had recently been designated as they transported both customers and bags. Several rumbled past during the next ten minutes or so, but all were occupied. Finally, after I had walked several more blocks, I spotted one sitting idle near the corner and hurried to hire it. The horses were two heavy chestnuts, the driver a grizzled old character in a dirty black coat and a tall black top hat. He opened the door for me and looked askance when I told him to take me to number eighteen Rampart Street.

  As I settled in I noticed another cab coming down the street, and my heart gave a leap when I recognized Charles as its occupant. He was peering intently in my direction. I leaned back out of sight, praying he hadn’t recognized me. The boat that brought him back from the plantations upriver had evidently come in early. I wasn’t going to think about Charles now, I promised myself as the driver cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward. How much sleep had I lost, going over in my mind every detail of our last encounter? How many tears had I shed? No more, I vowed. I had my pride. He would never know how much I had suffered.

  Rampart Street, at least certain sections of it, had a shady reputation, I knew, and I expected to see gambling houses and taverns. Instead, I saw houses painted in pale pastel colors, many with spacious front porches. Flower boxes were in profusion, but there was very little wrought iron. Several dandily attired young men strolled the street, some in groups, others with attractive women on their arms. We passed a house with several young women idling lazily on the front porch, rocking on the porch swing, fanning themselves with fans, turning the pages of fashion journals. All wore light, frilly dresses. I wondered if it might be a finishing school for young ladies. Number eighteen was farther down the street, a tall house painted pale lime-green.

  I climbed out of the carriage and paid the driver. He gave me another peculiar look, shook his head and then climbed back onto his seat and drove away. Number eighteen had no front porch. Four dingy gray marble steps led directly to the front door. I lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped several times. After what seemed a long while the door was finally opened by a young Negro woman in a blue calico dress, a purple bandana tied around her head. Sullen and thin as a rail, she seemed slightly nervous as she led me into the large, dimly lighted corridor. The place smelled of tobacco and sweat. A narrow staircase to the right led up to the second floor. There was no furniture, only a shabby purple carpet on the floor and hideous gray wallpaper on the walls, with red and purple flowers that had faded deplorably. I realized that, like many old residences, number eighteen had been divided into apartments.

  “I’m Dana O’Malley,” I said. “I’ve come to see Monsieur Guy Chevrier.”

  The girl looked me over with dark, resentful eyes and then nodded sullenly and led me up the staircase and down the hall to a door with a brass 4 fastened above it. I supposed the apartment belonged to one of my great-uncle’s friends, who had loaned it to him for this meeting. If the other apartments were occupied, one would never know it, for the house was as quiet as a tomb. As musty, too, I thought. The girl looked even more nervous than she had below, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Has the gentleman arrived yet?” I inquired.

  The girl didn’t answer my question. She opened the door and showed me into a large sitting room, then left, pulling the door shut behind her. I heard a curious metallic clicking noise but paid little attention to it as I gazed in wonder at the room. Someone had an inordinate fondness for pink. Faded pink fabric covered the walls, and tattered pink rugs were scattered over the floor. A large divan and two side chairs were upholstered in fraying pink velvet. Dirty pink curtains hung at the windows through which brilliant silvery white sunlight spilled in profusion. There was much gold gilt, too, on picture frames, on the frame encircling the large oval mirror, on the wall sconces, and most of it was beginning to peel. I could smell stale face powder and old cigar smoke and whiskey. A closed door to my right, beyond the divan, led into what I assumed would be the bedroom.

  No one was waiting for me. I felt a twinge of alarm, and it began to grow rapidly as I looked more closely at the pictures on the walls and realized what they depicted. The men and women in them were definitely not strolling through flowery glades. Holding the furled parasol, the brown velvet reticule dangling from my wrist, I took a step backward, every instinct telling me to run. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. I realized that this was a house of assignation where men rented rooms to bring their fancy women, and Guy Chevrier would never have asked me to come to a place like this. Hearing the deep rumble of male laughter coming from the next room, I took another step backward, my heart pounding.

  The door opened. Raoul Etienne strolled casually into the room, a taunting smile on his lips.

  “So the ruse worked,” he said pleasantly. “The bastard daughter showed up after all.”

  “You—” I whispered.

  “Yes, Cousin dear, I sent the note. It took a trifling amount of investigation to discover why you went to Conti Street. Guy Chevrier has a very loose tongue when he’s in his cups—and he’s in his cups several nights a week.”

  He was wearing black leather knee boots and snug plum-colored breeches and a loosely fitting white silk shirt opened at the throat, the full sleeves gathered at the wrist. His glossy dark hair was tousled, his lean cheeks flushed. He had been drinking. He strolled toward me, smiling, stopping a few feet away from me and resting his hands on his thighs in the Etienne manner. I faced him with icy composure even though my pulses were leaping and my heart still pounding. I wasn’t about to let him know how terrified I
was. I backed toward the door, reaching for the knob behind me.

  “It’s locked,” he informed me. “Cleo is well paid to obey orders.”

  There was more rumbling laughter from the next room, and then two more men came stumbling into the room. I recognized both: Zackery Rambeaux, the hearty youth with floppy blond hair and twinkling brown eyes who had danced with me at the ball, and Pierre Dorsay, the amateur wrestler who was seeing Raoul’s sister. Zackery still wore his leaf-brown frock coat and a canary-yellow vest, his dark tan silk neckcloth rumpled. He carried a half-full bottle of champagne and had a lopsided grin. Pierre, dark brown curls spilling over his brow, had on tight gray breeches and a white lawn shirt open to his navel, the full sleeves rolled up to his biceps. Brawny and baby-faced, he tripped over one of the pink rugs and grabbed Zackery to keep from falling. Both men laughed uproariously. Raoul looked at me with malicious satisfaction.

  “We’re going to have a little party,” he told me, “and you’re going to be the guest of honor.”

  “You’ll never get away with this.”

  “When the party’s over,” Raoul continued, “you’re going to take a little trip. A boat’s leaving tonight for Cuba—you’ll be on it. You’ll love Havana, Cousin dear. A room has been reserved for you at one of the biggest houses. I understand they’re a bit strict with their women, but you’ll undoubtedly please the clients.”

  “I—I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. All the arrangements have been made. You’ll be delivered to the boat bound and gagged—and it’s good-bye forever. No one’ll ever know what happened. Good riddance to trash from the swamps. There’ll undoubtedly be rejoicing throughout the Quarter.”

  I saw that he was serious. He was really that evil. I stared at him in shocked amazement. He was so beautiful on the surface, so corrupt within, far more corrupt than I could possibly have imagined.

  “Let’s get this party rollin’!” Pierre cried.