Zackery took a swig of champagne and nodded in eager agreement. My blood seemed to run cold. Raoul wasn’t nearly as drunk as the other two. He watched me closely, an anticipatory smile on his lips as he waited to see me cringe and beg. He was going to be disappointed, I vowed, tightening my grip on the parasol handle.
“Which one of you boys wants to be first?” Raoul inquired.
“Me!” Zackery exclaimed, waving the champagne bottle.
“You’re always first!” Pierre thundered, shoving him roughly aside. “I’m gonna be the first to plow this field.”
“Watch her, “Raoul warned. “She’s not the fragile flower you’re used to. This one’s got moves.”
“I got moves, too! Can’t wait to show ’em to her.”
He lurched toward me, grinning a baby-faced grin, and as his muscular arms lunged out to grab me, I slammed the parasol across his head with all my might. He yelled in agony, doubling up, and even as he did so I delivered a sharp kick to his shin. He roared again, buckling, then crashed to the floor with a tremendous thud. The demure young woman had vanished. The little wildcat of the swamps was fighting for her life. Raoul came toward me. I swung the parasol again, hitting him on the side of the arm. He managed to seize the handle and pull it out of my grasp, hurling it aside.
I turned and pulled frantically at the doorknob. It was securely locked. I whirled back around. Raoul was smiling. Pierre was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. Zackery was finishing the bottle of champagne, enjoying himself immensely as he watched the show. My breath was coming in short, painful gasps.
Pierre clambered to his feet, weaving a little as he stood. He started toward me again, moving slowly, blue eyes enraged.
“Go get her, Dorsay!” Zackery shouted.
“Watch her,” Raoul warned again. His voice was flat.
Flattened against the locked door, watching him approach, I had a sense of total unreality. None of this was happening. This dreadful room with its garish pinks and peeling gold gilt was something out of a nightmare and the brawny youth with the baby face and angry blue eyes was part of the nightmare. I felt I was far, far away, watching it all happen, even though my heart still pounded and I was gasping. Pierre Dorsay reached for me and I seized his hand and bit it as hard as I could, tasting blood, and he roared in agony and managed to get his hand free and seized my shoulders and swung me, hurling me across the room. Raoul caught me before I could fall, slinging his arm around my throat, holding me so tightly I thought I would pass out.
“I told you to watch her,” he said, his lips not inches from my ear. “It looks like you’re going to have to wait your turn, Dorsay.”
“Yeah!” Zackery taunted. “The big guy can’t handle her!”
Raoul’s arm tightened even more and I could feel my consciousness slipping away, dark clouds beginning to shadow my brain, but my instincts were still unimpaired. I raised my right foot knee-high and slammed it down on his instep, the heel of my slipper digging in like a spike. I swung my elbow back into his stomach at the same time, knocking the breath out of him. His grip went slack, and I pulled free, whirling around to face him. His face was white with pain, his dark eyes afire with fury. He swung his arm back and slapped me across the face. I felt an explosion of pain, even as I fell to the floor.
“Jesus!” Zackery exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s a regular hellion!”
Huddled on the floor, barely conscious, my cheek on fire, I tried to catch my breath. I turned, panting, and, looking up, I saw the three of them standing over me, looking incredibly tall from this angle, a forest of booted calves surrounding me. I saw thighs and bulging breeches and chests and three peering faces, Pierre’s bruised, Zackery’s grinning, Raoul’s cold and expressionless, a beautiful mask. The black clouds were shadowing my brain again, and I felt curiously airy, as though I had no weight, no substance. I looked up at the men, and they seemed to have no substance, either, seemed foggy, unclear. I moaned. The clouds thickened and blackness swallowed me for a moment. When I opened my eyes, the men were standing as before, talking, and their voices seemed to come from a great distance.
“You really shipping her to Cuba?” Pierre asked.
“I told you. Everything has been arranged. All we’ve got to do is get her to the boat before midnight.”
“I—uh—we’ve been in a lot of scrapes, Raoul, but we’ve never done anything like this. I mean—shipping a girl off to a whorehouse! What if someone found out?”
“No one’s going to find out. The guy I contacted on the waterfront is going to pay in cash. We’ll split it three ways.”
“You don’t do things in half measures, do you?” Zackery said, full of admiration.
“The little bitch has it coming, and I’m doing my family a favor.”
“Pity we have to ship her off tonight,” Zackery said. “Couldn’t we keep her here a few days?”
“Don’t worry, Rambeaux. There’s plenty of time for you to get your fill. Let’s get on with it.”
I tried to sit up. I hadn’t enough strength. Arms reached down for me. Hands grasped me, jerking me to my feet. My knees were so weak I could barely stand, but still I fought, or tried to. Pierre seized my hair, jerking my head back, at the same time pinning both my arms behind me. Raoul stood by, watching calmly, and Zackery, champagne bottle abandoned, clapped his hands in glee, eager to begin.
I tried to struggle, tried to resist, but it was futile. Pierre forced me to move forward, jerking my hair and gripping my arms savagely, marching me into the adjoining bedroom, and I saw that it was pink and gold, too, even more hideous. Pierre let go of me and shoved me brutally onto the bed with its sleazy pink satin counterpane, and when I tried to get up he shoved me again. I hit my head against the bedpost. Zackery and Raoul came into the room, Raoul calm and without expression, Zackery grinning and rubbing his hands together like a little boy.
“Looks like I’d better take first crack at it,” he said. “It’ll give you two time to nurse your wounds.”
“Be our guest,” Pierre growled.
I wasn’t going to let it happen. I wasn’t. I would fight to the death if necessary. A voice inside me assured me of this, but that voice was weak, fading. I wasn’t going to pass out again. I mustn’t. I lay very still, the back of my head throbbing where I had hit it, and the black clouds hovered for a moment and then dissolved. Everything was still slightly hazy and the pink walls seemed to weave in and out, but I saw Zackery removing his frock coat as Pierre and Raoul moved back, prepared to watch. I turned my head and closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I saw the bedside table and the bottle of whiskey sitting atop it. I prayed for strength.
Zackery tossed his frock coat aside, tore off his neckcloth and, too impatient to take off anything else, lunged toward me. I rolled to one side, grabbing the neck of the whiskey bottle as I did so, swinging it like a club, slamming it forcefully against the side of Zackery’s head. The impact of the blow was so powerful, my wrist almost snapped, but the bottle didn’t break. His eyes widened and his mouth flew open, but he didn’t yell. He simply stared blindly for half a second and then crumpled to the floor at the side of the bed. There was a splintering crash as the door in the next room was knocked off its hinges, and, sitting up now, still holding the bottle, I saw Raoul and Pierre jump, saw Charles come charging into the room.
Raoul was too startled to react, but Pierre, the fighter, flew into action immediately, leaping toward Charles with fists flying. Everything seemed to be happening all at once. The two men moved to and fro, exchanging vicious blows, and then Raoul leaped into the fray and both men were pounding at Charles as he defended himself superbly. I managed to get to my feet and stood there shakily with fingers still tightly wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Charles delivered a blow that caught Raoul on the jaw and sent him reeling backward, even as Pierre slammed Charles against the wall and grabbed his throat, his enormous hands tightening around Charles’s windpipe. Hardly aware
of what I was doing, I rushed over and swung the bottle a second time, crashing it against the back of Pierre’s head. The bottle broke this time and glass and liquor flew everywhere and I was left holding the neck. I dropped it and moved aside as Pierre staggered backward and toppled to the floor, almost directly beside Zackery.
Raoul, genuinely terrified now, rubbed his jaw, looking at his cousin with beseeching eyes. Chest heaving, Charles shoved a heavy wave from his brow, and then, his face as hard as granite, he smoothed down the lapels of his dark blue frock coat and straightened his silk neckcloth, his eyes never leaving Raoul’s. The bodice of my muslin frock was torn, one breast almost exposed. I pulled up the cloth, adjusting it.
“She—it was her idea,” Raoul stammered. “She—she asked me to set everything up. She’s a whore! We were going to pay her.”
“I ought to kill you,” Charles said, and his voice was frighteningly cool and level. “If you say one more word, I just might do it. You’re finished at Etienne’s, Raoul. From this moment on, not one penny of money will you receive from the family.”
“You can’t—”
“You will also leave New Orleans. Tonight. I don’t care where you go or what you do, but if you’re in the city tomorrow, I’ll hunt you down and call you out and blow your head off at the Oaks.”
He turned calmly and asked me if I was all right. I nodded and he took my hand and led me out of the room. Raoul watched us, his face completely drained of color. The door to the sitting room had indeed been knocked off its hinges, had broken into several pieces. We stepped over them and out into the hall. I was perfectly clearheaded now and remarkably calm. Perhaps I was merely numb. Charles had let go of my hand and was gripping my elbow so tightly I winced. I realized that I had dropped my reticule sometime earlier. It didn’t matter. I let him lead me down the stairs, and I was surprised to see Jasper in the foyer, his arm wrapped tightly around the throat of the Negro girl, Cleo. Her lip was bloody. They had clearly had to persuade her to tell them where I was. As we moved toward the door, Jasper released the girl and shoved her aside brutally.
I didn’t say a word until we were in the carriage and on our way home. I took a deep breath then, numbness dissolving, a delayed reaction setting in.
“How—”
“I saw you climbing into a cab as I was on my way home. As soon as I got there I asked Kayla where you had gone. She said she didn’t know and then told me about the note you received. I went to your bedroom, got the note and read it. Julian and Delia weren’t even aware that I’d come in.”
“If—”
“We will drive around back,” he told me. “You will go through the servants’ quarters and up the back stairs to your bedroom without anyone being the wiser. I will then ride back around front and ‘arrive.’ My aunt and my brother will undoubtedly learn about this eventually—I’ve no doubt Raoul will make up some story for his mother—but I don’t want either of them to be unduly upset.”
“But—”
“You will clean up and compose yourself,” he continued, “and at the appropriate hour, you will come downstairs for the evening meal as though nothing had happened. Later on this evening I shall call on young Dorsay and Rambeaux and give them an alternative: complete silence and long holidays beginning immediately, or separate appointments at the Oaks. I’m a dead shot. Everyone in the city knows it.”
He didn’t look at me. His voice was flat, without emotion. I could tell that he blamed me for what happened. Even though he knew Raoul had been lying, he blamed me. I didn’t try to say anything else. I sat there in silence until the carriage finally stopped, and then I got out and went through the servants’ quarters and up the back stairs to my bedroom, filled with steely resolve. If that was the way he wanted to play it, that was the way we would play it. Maybe in time I could actually grow to hate him as he hated me.
Kayla was waiting in my room, literally wringing her hands.
“Oh, Miz Dana! You—I didn’t mean to tell Mister Charles bout the note, but I was so worried an’ he—Lawd! Your dress is torn and your cheek is—oh, Miz Dana, your cheek is swollen! What happened to you? I—”
“I’m perfectly all right, Kayla,” I said calmly. “Please prepare a bath for me.”
“I should never-a let you leave th’ house. I had a feelin’ somethin’ was wrong. When you came down them stairs, I just knowed—”
“A bath, Kayla. Immediately.”
Three and a half hours later, I moved slowly down the grand staircase with superb composure. I had applied an ice pack to my cheek, and the minor swelling was gone. There were no visible signs of my experiences this afternoon. I was wearing a lovely satin gown with narrow silver gray and emerald-green stripes, the full skirt belling out over half a dozen rustling underskirts. My hair was arranged on top of my head in sculpted honey-blond waves, with three long ringlets dangling down in back, and I was wearing long gray velvet gloves. I could hear voices in the sitting room as I reached the foyer. I hesitated a moment, steeling myself, and then I joined the others.
Charles and Julian, both splendidly attired, already had their mint juleps in hand, and Delia was wearing a lovely new gown of pale lime-green silk. As I entered the room, all three of them looked up. Julian smiled warmly. Charles gazed at me without expression. Delia beamed with delight.
“My dear! Why—you look every day of twenty-three and absolutely scrumptious in that gown. Corinne is a genius. No question about it. Did Kayla do your hair?”
I nodded. “She’s quite gifted.”
“Look who’s back, dear.”
I glanced at Charles. “Did you have a good trip?” I asked.
“Satisfactory,” he replied.
“Thank goodness you’re here, my dear. They’ve been boring me to tears for the past fifteen minutes—nothing but cotton, cotton, cotton, this crop, that crop, potential yield per acre. Quite maddening.”
“Both Ravenaugh and Belle Mead are going to yield admirably, all top-quality cotton,” Charles informed her. “You should be glad to know we’re going to turn a huge profit. We might actually get out of debt.”
“I’m positively ecstatic, dear. I just don’t want to hear all the dreary details. You could at least have brought back a tiny bit of gossip. Didn’t it occur to you I might want to know all about Janette Duprey? She and I grew up together, though I never really liked her. I haven’t seen her since she became the mistress of Ravenaugh.”
“She was quite gracious,” Charles told her.
“Pooh,” Delia said.
“She’s gained an awful lot of weight,” he added. “She must be well over two hundred and fifty pounds now.”
“Really?” Delia was delighted. “Why didn’t you tell me? It doesn’t surprise me at all. She always was a prissy, affected little thing, forever putting on airs, and when she snared Claude Duprey of Ravenaugh you’d have thought she’d nabbed the king of England. Her engagement ring was an absolutely vulgar diamond, big as a walnut, and she flashed it around like—” Delia hesitated, a frown creasing her brow. “Is that someone at the door?”
“Sounds like it,” Julian said.
“I wonder who it could possibly be. If it’s Lavinia, I positively refuse to see her. She calls at the most inopportune times. She knows full well we dine promptly at eight, and—”
Pompey opened the front door and we heard a loud, urgent voice, though actual words couldn’t be discerned, and then we heard the front door closing. A moment later Pompey stepped into the doorway of the sitting room. He looked extremely upset.
“What is it, Pompey?” Charles demanded.
“Mister—Mister Charles. That was Mister Danton, th’ gen’leman what owns th’ shop down th’ street from Etienne’s. It—he’s done on his way back there, said there wudn’t time to speak to you hisself.”
“What is it, man!”
“Dere’s a fire, Mister Charles. Mister Danton, he said Etienne’s was done goin’ up in flames, and—”
The old man�
�s voice broke, and Charles and Julian exchanged looks and then rushed out of the room immediately, followed by Pompey. Delia sat down on the ivory velvet sofa, her face positively white. She had taken out her fine lace handkerchief and she was quietly tearing it into shreds, not even aware of what she was doing. I went to her and put my arm around her, and she looked up at me with huge, worried eyes. I patted her shoulder.
“Per—perhaps it isn’t so bad,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Perhaps the fire brigade will be able to—”
My voice was trembling. I cut myself short. Delia gazed at the shreds of lace in her lap and saw what she had done and shook her head. She sighed then and brushed the shreds aside and stood up.
“I shan’t go to pieces, my dear,” she informed me. “I am an Etienne, and for some peculiar reason we’re always at our best in the face of a crisis. I’m sure I can’t explain it, but it’s a fact. I’ll have to inform Jezebel that dinner will be postponed, of course, and—”
“I’ll do that,” I said quickly.
“And then I must tell Pompey to have the carriage brought round. The boys will have saddled their own horses. We must go, naturally. I don’t intend to sit around waiting to hear. I suppose I’ll need a wrap.”
Twenty minutes later Delia and I were in the carriage, driving through the night-shrouded Quarter to Etienne’s. She was admirably calm, silent, too, sitting beside me with back ramrod-straight and chin held high, a pearl-gray shawl around her frail shoulders. Although she didn’t speak, she held my hand tightly, so tightly I felt my fingers might break. Jasper drove rapidly, the sound of clopping hooves and clattering wheels echoing in the perfumed silence of the night. My heart seemed to be racing along with the carriage.
We could smell the smoke and burning wood long before we turned the corner. There was a huge crowd gathered in the street in front of the shop. They stood back, speaking in hushed voices, watching as the men in the fire brigade continued their work. Jasper stopped the carriage, and Delia and I climbed out. Only a few flames spluttered now, lazily licking already blackened lumber, and these were quickly extinguished. Fortunately, the fire had been contained—no other buildings on the block had suffered serious damage—but Etienne’s was a yawning, smoking black hole, completely gutted from within, roof gone. The air was still hot, filled with wisps of smoke and ashes, and the night sky seemed to retain a pale orange glow.
They Call Her Dana Page 35
