Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  They talked of commonplaces until the servant had brought the tray of refreshments. At an indolent gesture from Madame Rosa, the tray was placed before Anya. Anya poured the orange-flower water for her stepmother, a concoction she could not stand herself, since the laudanum with which it was liberally laced made her sleepy, but one that was a great favorite among older women. Celestine took tea and Emile coffee. When Emile passed the other two ladies their cups or glasses and placed his own cup on a table beside his chair, Anya poured black coffee for herself and leaned back.

  “Tell me, Emile,” she said in a tone as lightly conversational as she could summon, “as a man-about-town you must have heard of the fiasco this morning of the failed meeting between Ravel Duralde and Celestine’s finance. What are they saying in the cafés?”

  Emile shifted in his chair, his face sobering. He was so long in answering that Anya spoke again.

  “Oh, come, I know this is a subject that women usually avoid, but there is no point in pretending that we don’t know about it.”

  He stirred pale golden sugar into his coffee with a small silver spoon, then gave a small shrug. “There are some who are saying Ravel Duralde wished to avoid the meeting because of the unhappiness he has already brought to the women of this family. Others claim his action was an intentional affront. Then there is a third group, including many of the men who served under him in Nicaragua, that has been searching high and low for him along Gallatin Street and in the Irish area called the Swamp, afraid of foul play. They claim that it is the only reason he would fail.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I have no reason to love the man,” he said, his voice cool in contrast to its earlier warmth, “and it’s true I don’t know him well since he is several years older. However, nothing I have ever heard of him leads me to believe that he would run away from a fight or treat a matter of the duello so lightly as to stay away without good reason.”

  There was a stir at the doorway. Murray, his face flushed, stepped into the room. His manner was a shade belligerent as he faced the Creole. “Ah, but there you have the reason. Duralde is getting old and tired of fighting. He heard that I had some prowess with weapons, and did not care for the odds. He thinks that I will forget the matter, that it will blow over if he stays away for a time. He will discover precisely how wrong he is when he returns.”

  Anya sat staring at Murray with a frown gathering between her brows. His manner was unbecoming in her opinion, possibly out of a relief that he could not afford to express, and perhaps out of the fear that someone would sense it. It could not be that he did not realize his lucky escape. Ravel’s reputation as a duelist was based primarily on his skill as a swordsman, but he was also a soldier, and considered deadly with firearms as well.

  She leaned forward in her concern. “Surely there is no need to go to such lengths as to force another meeting. As reasonable men, there must be some other way to settle this ridiculous business.”

  “Ridiculous?” Murray asked, placing his hands on his hips. “It was a question of an insult to you, a lady, if you will recall, Anya.”

  “I recall the incident very well, and I have no memory of an insult. If you are at all concerned for my good name, or for Celestine’s fears, you will let this matter rest.”

  “I am sorry for Celestine’s concern, of course,” he said with a faint smile directed toward the other girl, “however, I must question how your good name comes into the matter.”

  “If you persist, everyone will begin to wonder exactly what it is Ravel is supposed to have done to me.”

  “They already wonder,” Celestine said, though her words were softly spoken.

  “What do you mean?” Anya asked, swinging to face her.

  “Well, there are one or two who have made a point of trying to find out the cause of the duel, asking sly questions, particularly after you left the city on the same night.”

  “The curiosity is natural,” Madame Rosa said, “but it isn’t something that I like, this gossip and supposition about my husband’s daughter. Anya is right; the business should be stopped.”

  Murray gave them a smile of triumph. “From what I have seen there is little need to worry. I could tell even on the night of the masked ball that the man did not want to meet me. Apparently he wants it even less now.”

  The manner of Celestine’s fiancé grated on Anya’s nerves. She had to bite the inside of her bottom lip to prevent herself from pointing out his error in judgment to him. If Ravel had been reluctant to meet Murray, she knew with sudden clarity, it had had nothing to do with fear or with age. Ravel was not old, being only a little more than thirty, but by his own admission he was weary of fighting, and wary of senseless duels.

  “I would take care how I spoke if I were you, m’sieur,” Emile said with deliberation.

  Murray stared down at him. There was a suggestion of a derogatory inflection in his voice as he spoke. “Would you indeed?”

  “It may be that you will wake up one morning and discover that Ravel Duralde has returned. His anger has not until now been aroused. But have no doubt; if the things you have said here have also been expressed elsewhere, and if they should come to his ears, you will be called to answer for them.”

  The words were firm, regardless of the flush that tinted the cheeks of Jean’s younger brother. There was, Anya saw, a streak of iron in Emile beneath his mannered grace and florid compliments. That he should champion Ravel, a man who must be considered his enemy, seemed strange until she realized he was defending not the man but one of his own race against an Américain and a Northerner.

  Whatever the reason, she applauded his stand. It occurred to her suddenly that she was very close to taking Ravel’s part in this quarrel. The realization so astonished her that she sat back silent and aghast in her chair. Was she that susceptible to the man that she had, against her will, allowed his arguments to sway her? It did not seem possible, and yet what other explanation could there be?

  Murray, scowling down at Emile, said hardily, “Sir, are you questioning my discretion?”

  “How should I since you are a stranger to me?” Emile answered, his gaze limpid. “I merely seek to warn you.”

  Madame Rosa, stirred to movement by the tension in the room, sat up. Her manner, aided by her size, took on a hint of the imperious. “Gentlemen, if you please, quarreling is much too fatiguing; pray do not do so it my salon. M’sieur Nicholls, I beg you will be seated so that we may have save ourselves the trouble of looking up at you. Ah, very good. So amiable. Now, what may Anya pour out for you in the way of refreshment?”

  7

  THE AMUSEMENTS AVAILABLE IN New Orleans that winter season were many. In January the celebrated aeronaut Morat, veteran of seventy-one balloon ascensions, had been in the city to afford celestial views of the environs to anyone wishing to go up in his mammoth new balloon, the Pride of the South. The first female magician, Madame Macallister, wife of the late master of the art, had for the sake of her children taken up the wand and presented nights of magic including the aerial suspension of her assistant, Mademoiselle Mathilde, manipulation of a gorgeous magic cabinet, and the display of splendid paraphernalia for her varied experiments in mechanism, electricity, hydraulics, and pneumatics. At Spalding and Rogers Museum and Amphitheater on St. Charles Street, the elephants Victoria and Albert were entertaining audiences and giving the newspapers opportunities for humorous quips concerning the royal personages for which they were named. Also featured was the Human Fly, a man who walked on the ceiling with his feet up and head down, and the Siamese twins Chang and Eng. To compete, Vannuchi’s Museum further along the street had imported a double-headed female child with four limbs who could sing, waltz, and play the harmonica but who, as the advertisement put it, “lapsed into a singular unity of persons as regards their animal functions.” The museum also featured the miniature Venus, Mrs. Ellen Briggs, only thirty-five inches high, and Kentucky giantess Mademoiselle Oceana, the largest woman in the world,
weighing 538 pounds.

  In a more serious vein, world-renowned Louisiana chess player Paul Morphy had a month before demonstrated his incredible prowess at the game by playing against two other players while blindfolded. Edwin Booth had received mixed reviews for his performance at Crisps Gaiety Theater, before its closing, in the lead roles in Hamlet, Richard III, and Othello, the Moor of Venice. For February, there was the promise of a lecture by Thomas Forster, editor of the Boston Banner of Light, on “Spiritualism in the Trance State,” and another on “Poetry and Song” by the Englishman Charles Mackay, editor of the well-known Illustrated London News.

  For the music lovers, the opera season was in full swing, with the Theatre d’Orleans having already featured performances of La Favorite and Verdi’s Ernani, with plans for Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto. There had also been advance notice of a week of concerts to be given by the famous maestro Sigismund Thalberg on the pianoforte with accompaniment by the brilliant Vieuxtemps on the violin.

  Art for the moment was represented by a showing of Rosa Bonheur’s marvelous painting Horse Fair, a canvas that had previously been exhibited only in London and Paris. A large and ambitious work much praised by the critics, though with some caviling about minor details, it was on view in the Lecture Room of the Odd Fellows Hall.

  Anya and Celestine drove out to see the painting on the day after Anya’s return, the last day of its exhibition. They stood before it in silence for long moments. Framed in heavy gilt, it was a view of a horse fair, or sale, in the Bois de Boulogne near Paris. It contained some twenty animals and twenty-five or thirty human figures, all beautifully alive and full of movement and color. The spire and rotunda of the famous Hotel des Invalides appeared in the distance. Clouds of dust stirred by the prancing hooves hung among the branches of the trees. The muscles and veins and contours of the horses were perfection. The costumes of the spectators were vividly colored and accurately depicted complimenting the bodies beneath them and their natural movement. It was a most pleasing and inspiring piece of work. If there were blemishes, Anya could not see them.

  Celestine sighed. “I wish I could paint. I mean really paint, not just make daubs on china.”

  “It’s just as important to appreciate art as to create it,” Anya said, though she too felt the stirring of a kind of jealousy of the woman who had produced the masterpiece before them.

  “Yes,” Celestine agreed. “This reminds me, I must buy a valentine for Murray since Sunday will be Valentine’s Day. They have a good supply at the booksellers on Canal Street, if you would like to stop by and look at them?”

  It had been pointed out many times that the Creole passion for the arts was largely confined to music and dancing. In Celestine’s case, it was obviously true. Smiling a little at her half-sister’s transparently brief moment of artistic fervor, Anya led her away to search for valentines.

  Their sortie into intellectual pastimes did not end there, however. There was still the visit to the theater that evening to see Cushman. Anya was ready early for the simple reason that, lacking any other occupation, she had begun dressing far ahead of time. The salon where the party would be gathering beforehand, a room charmingly done with an eye to an appearance of summer coolness in shades of blue and with crystal ornaments sitting here and there, was empty when she entered it. Celestine was still in her bath, if the sounds of an off-key aria coming from her bedchamber were any indication, and Madame Rosa was undergoing the torture of having her hair pomaded and arranged by the woman who was hired by the month as hairdresser to the ladies of the house. Anya paused a moment, then moved to stand at one of the French doors that overlooked the streets. She drew aside the gold silk-brocade drapery and lace-edged muslin curtain that covered it, staring out.

  Night was falling and the sky was colored gray and gold and pink above the rooftops. Pigeons wheeled in flocks, catching the last rosy light under their wings. The street below, beyond the narrow balcony that fronted the house, was dim, but not yet dark; the streetlamps had not been lighted. Now and then a glossy carriage pulled by highbred horses rattled past. A dog wandered along, sniffing at the garbage in the open gutter that ran down the center of the paved thoroughfare. A young mulatto with a white apron over her dress, a striped kerchief on her head, and a wide tray on her hip swung along under the overhanging balconies on the opposite side, singing of her tout chaud calas, or hot rice cakes, and of her creamy pralines rich with pecans. A young boy balancing on his head a tray of woven rattan filled with perfect red camellias on short stems offered belles fleurs to nestle in the hair of the ladies or the buttonholes of the gentlemen going out for the evening.

  The rest of the street vendors, the oyster man and the cream cheese man, the woman who sold greens and scallions and chives; the vendor of sweet milk and buttermilk and the man who peddled cheap red wine from a barrel; the broom man, coffee man, knife sharpener, and the man who fixed tin had all gone home, leaving only these hopefuls to wander the streets crying their wares.

  At Beau Refuge, Marcel would be taking Ravel his evening meal. Anya wondered how the Black Knight had fared through the long day, and if he knew she had left the plantation to return to New Orleans. If he did know, he would doubtless be enraged at being left in his prison, chained to the wall. The imprecations he would call down upon her head would sear her ears no doubt, if she could hear them. He might even be plotting other ways of catching his keepers, Denise and Marcel, off guard and so win his freedom.

  It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she had seen him. She wondered if his head wound was mending and if he found his solitary state oppressive. Not that she was losing sleep worrying over him; he deserved what had come to him, and probably a great deal more.

  She thought of him, lying with his long body stretched out on the bed in that small gin room, with his feet crossed and his hands behind his head, of the slow and faintly mocking smiles that curved his molded mouth and reflected in his dark eyes. She thought of him reaching out for her, drawing her down beside him, his hands upon her warm and sure, his lips—

  With a gasp she swung from the window. She raised her hands to her face, pressing them hard against the bones under the skin as she squeezed her eyes shut. She would not think about that, she would not. Such pleasures as he had given her she could find with any man. There was nothing unusual in her response to him, a man of his experience, nothing unusual at all.

  The stern words quieted her mind, but did nothing for the ache deep inside her. She had not been prepared for the storm of feelings he had aroused in her. She was herself, the same, and yet changed by it. It was as if some vital part of her had been taken apart and reassembled to a new design, with some essential element missing.

  “What is it, chère? Do you have a headache?”

  There was concern in Madame Rosa’s voice as she came into the room. She wore her usual black, though softened by the magnificent amethysts and diamonds that winked at her throat and ears and on both wrists. Draped at her elbows was a shawl of soft black wool that she could pull around her shoulders if she felt chilled. She looked placid and yet distinguished in a peculiarly French fashion, though there glinted in the depths of her eyes a look of anxiety.

  Lowering her hands, Anya attempted a reassuring smile. “Only a little one.”

  “Shall I order a glass of orange-flower water for you? It is best to deal with things before they become entrenched.”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. Perhaps I’m just hungry.”

  “It could well be; you ate little enough at noon.” Madame Rosa glanced at the clock that ticked on the mantel. “Is that the time? We must sit down to our dinner soon if we are to make it to the theater by curtain time.”

  Performances in New Orleans were protracted, beginning at seven and lasting, with the inclusion of the farce or other light entertainment following the main performance, until near midnight. It was customary to have a simple meal before leaving home, then go to a more elaborate supper afterward.

  “W
ill Gaspard and Murray be dining with us?” Anya asked, not because she wanted to know but because it was something to say.

  “Gaspard will, and so will be escorting us to the theater. Murray could not get away in time. He will be joining us there.” Madame Rosa moved to a settee and settled herself upon it as she spoke.

  The taffeta of Anya’s dark sapphire blue evening gown made a crisp rustling sound as she took a turn about the room. She paused at a side table to pick up the stereoscope that lay there, looking through it at a scene from the interior of the London Crystal Palace with its palms and flitting birds. After putting it down again, she wandered to the small pianoforte in one corner, pressing down a note so that it chimed softly through the room. She glanced at her stepmother, then looked away again.

  “I’ve been thinking of Ravel Duralde,” she said, her tone carefully casual. “Tell me, how does he strike you?”

  “I have always thought him a most unfortunate young man.”

  Anya sent Madame Rosa a flashing glance of surprise. “Unfortunate?”

  “What else, when he was born to a recluse of a father self-centered to the point of madness, a man who must force the memory of a less than ideal family history upon the notice of the public? Then there is his mother, a woman of much sensibility and ill health. He grew up with heavy responsibility in such a family. And what must he do but add the tragedy of killing his dearest friend to these burdens? I pity him with all my heart.”

  “He killed Jean.”

  “You can’t think he meant to do it, or that he has not regretted it more bitterly even than you? He has sought so long to escape it, in traveling, in war, in gambling, in women. It cannot be done, and now after so many years he must know it. His mother’s illness is such that he has now to remain in New Orleans. He can no longer rove the world seeking forgetfulness, but must find it here, where he was born.”