Farragut had turned the city over to the army commander, General Benjamin Butler. The general's first act had been to hang a boy still in his teens who, in the flush of anger and frustrated patriotism immediately after the fall of the city, before its official surrender, had torn down the federal flag. His second had been to require the signing of an oath of loyalty to the Union. The property of those who would not sign had been confiscated. They themselves had been loaded into wagons and herded across the state line into Confederate Mississippi.
The threat of search and seizure was constant, with much wanton destruction attending it. The belongings of Rebel sympathizers, the silver and china, books, bric-a-brac, jewelry, clothing of lace, silk, and velvet, the carriages and horses, all were impounded and sold at auction, often for less then a tenth of their value.
No one was immune to arrest. More than sixty men had been rounded up and arbitrarily sentenced to hard labor at various federal forts. Clergymen were dragged from their pulpits and brought before Butler for refusing to pray for the defeat of the South; editors faced him for daring to print news of southern victories, druggists for selling medicines to the men being smuggled out to join the Confederate army, storekeepers for refusing to open their stores, and even a bookseller for displaying a skeleton tagged with the name of a well-known northern defeat.
A woman was taken up for laughing as a federal funeral procession passed her home, another for refusing to walk under the federal flag, and yet another for having Confederate literature in her armoire. Several young girls were hustled before the military commander under guard for daring to sing "Dixie" and "The Bonnie Blue Flag."
But, in the British press, the greatest outrage was expressed for Butler's Order Number 28, which stated simply that any female who insulted a member of the federal army by word or deed would be treated as a woman of the streets plying her trade.
Lorna thought often of New Orleans and of what her situation might now be in that city if Ramon had not taken her from it. Would it have been better or worse? There was, of course, no way to tell.
Late one evening as she descended the rather steep stairs that led from the belvedere, she looked up to see Nate Bacon blocking her way. She had not seen him alone since that night in her room; he had merely bowed to her, his mouth twisted sardonically, across the width of the dining room several times, but had made no attempt to come close to her again. There had been a rumor circulating about the docks that he had bought a ship, a former merchantman, and was fitting her out, with no expense spared, as a blockade runner. Lorna had hardly been able to credit such a rumor. Now, he stood with his hands behind his back and his feet spread, a cold smile in his blue eyes.
She made as if to step around him, and he shifted to prevent it. Her voice sharp, she said, "Let me pass."
"After finding you alone for once? Don't be foolish, my dear."
That superior, patronizing tone grated on her nerves, though she refused to allow him to see it, or the apprehension he roused in her. "I have nothing to say to you."
"But, I have a great deal to say to you. There will be no one to interrupt us this time, I think. This is not a popular spot, and most of the other guests are dressing for dinner."
"After the last time, I would think you would be embarrassed to face me."
If she had hoped to disconcert him by her plain speaking, she was forced to accept disappointment. "I will admit the meeting gave me no… satisfaction, but I don't hold it against you."
"Don't you?"
"Oh no. You see, I know that you will come crawling to me in the end. I intend to see to that."
Lorna gave him a look of purest contempt. "I can think of nothing more unlikely."
"Oh, but you will. When you haven't a shred of reputation left, when your friends desert you and your lovers are driven away, then I will be there, waiting. I will take you in and dress you in silk and lace and diamonds when we go out in public. But at home, I will keep you naked, at my mercy. I will teach you every whore's trick and you will perform them at my command. Your body will be mine, every inch, every curve and orifice, and I will use you until I tire of the pleasure."
A shred of reputation. She should have known it was Nate who had started the whispered innuendos, the echoes of which she had caught around her. She gave him a cold look.
"What of you? Does it make no difference that I am the woman who killed your son."
"My son, and also his invalid mother, my wife, who did not live five days after I gave her the terrible news of Franklin's death. But, no matter. I care nothing for what people here think of my predilection for you. It will be a fitting punishment, I think. You will hate it more than anything I could do. And if thoughts of Franklin intrude, I can always beat you-at least until the urge passes and others take its place."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" The ugliness of what he was saying made her feel unclean. She had to stop him somehow.
"Cazenave? I have plans for him."
"You had plans once before, if memory serves, but they never came to pass."
"Next time there will be no mistake; that's if he makes it back, of course."
"He will!" she cried.
"Who can say? It's a dangerous business he's in, mighty dangerous. When he's gone there'll be no one to protect you. No one to keep me from doing… this."
He reached for her as she stood on the step above him. His beefy arm circled her waist and the sewing basket she held fell, tumbling downward. But, she had been afraid he would try some assault and the piece of shirt collar she had been stitching was clasped in her stiff fingers.
His thick, formless lips were wet and hot as they sought her mouth. She turned her head, feeling them smearing over her cheek, while his stubby fingers with their wiry black hairs fumbled for and found the curves of her breasts. He squeezed one so hard she gasped with the bruising pain, and he lifted her against him, her upper hoop pressing into his groin. Blindly, she sought a place on his body not padded by material. There was a small space between his waistcoat and the top of his trousers at his side that she could reach with the hand that was clamped to her side. Making certain of it, she grasped the needle that was woven into the collar and thrust it into him with all her strength.
He bellowed, releasing her, thrusting her from him, so that she fell backward on the stairs. Twisting, he found the cloth and embedded needle. He grabbed them and, cursing, pulled the sharp instrument from his flesh. He stared at it, then looked down at her. Flinging it away over the stair rail, he reached to grab her by the material of her gown between her breasts. Jerking her toward him, he slapped her viciously.
"Stick a needle in me, will you, you bitch," he said, and brought his hand back again, catching her on the other cheek.
"Lorna!" Someone called out.
Nate yanked her to her feet, then pulled down his waistcoat and straightened his cuffs. He was bending to pick up her basket, all solicitousness, when Peter rounded the turn of the stairs.
"I knew you were up here when I saw this floating down," he began as he caught sight of her. In his hand was the collar piece, still holding its bloodstained needle. It dropped to his side as his gaze fell on her face where the livid prints of Nate's fingers stood out against the paleness of her skin. His tone entirely different, he said, "Is something wrong?"
"Now, now, don't get in a pelter," Nate said, at his most unctuous. "We had a little run-in here on the stairs. I'm afraid, me being the heftier of the two, that Lorna got the worst of it."
"Is that right, Lorna?"
What she would not have given to be able to say no, to loose the rage and horror she felt for Nate Bacon. But to do so might well involve Peter in a problem that had nothing to do with him. She nodded, reaching for the collar, taking the basket Nate proffered. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I feel a little shaken. I think I will go to my room."
"Why, Lorna, I'm so sorry," Nate said. "I never meant to do so much damage, I swear. But, I don't know what this gentleman mu
st be thinking about your manners. Permit me to introduce myself, sir. I'm Nate Bacon, this young lady's father-in-law."
The Englishman's aplomb was perfect. Not a muscle in his face moved as he inclined his head in a bow so shallow as to be an affront, ignoring the hand Nate offered. "How odd that you should be here," he said. "You must be the father of the man she killed." Turning to Lorna, he said, "I came to tell you, love, that a message has come from Fort Fincastle. There are steamships in the channel, heading toward Nassau. The runners are back."
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Chapter 17
The Lorelei was not among the ships that steamed slowly up the channel and dropped anchor in the harbor during the night, nor was she one of the two that arrived just before daybreak. She had left Wilmington on the same night, but had not been sighted since. It had been a rough trip, with a gale encountered just before they reached the Gulf Stream. The federal cruisers had been out in force, as thick as fleas on a dog.
The salient fact that Ramon had not returned had been evident as soon as the ships hove-to in the harbor. The remainder of the information came the following morning as the captains gathered on the piazza, throwing themselves into chairs with the bonelessness of exhaustion and shouting for drinks with the vigor of men who had met danger and given it a nod before sailing past. The money and liquor flowed, the goombay music played, and the trade winds blew. None wanted to think of Ramon for long. Instead, they proposed a party.
The plans were drawn up then and there. There would be a ball held in the hotel dining room as soon after dinner as the place could be cleared. A cold collation could be set up somewhere, perhaps in the ladies' parlor, for supper. Musicians would be rounded up. Everyone would ride in a different direction to deliver the invitations. The only question that remained was whether the champagne should be served by itself, in a cocktail, or as a punch. Where was the difficulty the ladies always complained of in the arranging of a ball? Let the hotel manager be called and given his orders.
Lorna was present because, seeing her passing by, the captains had insisted. The last thing she felt like doing was entering into the preparations for an impromptu party; still, she could not get out of it. Before she knew where she was, she had agreed to supervise the preparations; to see to it that flowers and greenery were brought in and that the fruit punch for the elder ladies was mixed and set to chill, and to inspect the food for the supper. It crossed her mind to wonder if they were trying to distract her from dwelling on Ramon's absence. But no, they could not know how disturbed she was, not even if she did get up and move to the railing, staring out over the sea, a dozen times in the hour.
It had been assumed that she would be in attendance at the party, and she did nothing to change that assumption. But, she would not be there. She had no stomach for merriment, and neither was she anxious to see the moment when the gossip about her reached the runner captains. She would stay in her room, slipping out for a few minutes only to check on the supper before returning.
She reckoned without Peter. He knocked on her door five minutes after the ball had begun. As she opened the door to him, nodding to the guard at his side to indicate that it was all right, she could hear the music of a waltz coming through the French doors behind her, rising from the converted ballroom on the ground floor below.
"I've come to escort you," he said.
He was impeccably dressed in his frock coat with a crimson hibiscus flower in the lapel. As he sketched a short bow, giving her a warm smile, the gaslight gleamed on the fine blonde hair brushed back from his high forehead.
"I don't believe I'll go, Peter. Really, I don't feel well."
He studied her. "Sick with fright?"
"What can you mean?" She stared at him, her gray eyes cold.
He did not look away. "Oh, I think you know."
"So, you've heard," she said, her voice flat as she swung from him, moving into the center of the room.
"I heard, but you forget; I know the truth." He pushed the door wide, as convention demanded, then followed her.
"The truth? But, that day in Wilmington, Ramon only said-"
"He said you had killed your husband. He told me the whole story, later."
Had he? Had Ramon told him everything? She doubted it. Somehow, she hoped he had not. Some things were too personal to tell even someone like Peter.
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. There's no reason I should go downstairs and let them stare at me."
"Would you rather they thought you were hiding?"
"Of course not," she snapped, "but why should they notice one way or another?"
"They will notice," he said dryly, "the men because they miss you, the women because of the men."
"And if I go, they will look to see how a murderess comports herself."
"You are no murderess. What should they see, but pride and beauty?"
You are no murderess. Ramon had said that once, too. Where was he now?
Twenty-four hours past due. Had he and his men been chased down and captured by a cruiser, taken prisoner? Had his ship, dangerously overloaded as the runners always were, foundered in the gale? Had damage from shelling on the outward run through the blockade made the Lorelei unseaworthy in rough weather? Or had she been sunk with all hands, lying now on the bottom with the shifting ocean currents washing through her while sharks and barracuda feasted? Such thoughts, such images, had haunted her all day. She shook her head now to rid herself of them, raising her hands to her mouth.
"Lorna?"
"Peter," she whispered, "where' is he?"
His voice hard, he asked, "Are you mourning him already? Is that why you won't come?"
She whirled on him. "No!"
He stood watching her, waiting, a brooding look in the back of his blue eyes.
"Oh, all right!" she cried, flinging out her hands. "If you will wait in the gentlemen's parlor, I will be with you as soon as I can."
She dressed quickly, taking little pains with her appearance. The music rising in the dark outside her window tore at her nerves. The gown of lavender tulle was her only choice and she put it on, then braided her hair into a coronet. She bit her lips to make them red, wishing for some lip pomade. To add color to her pale face, there was the milk-glass pot of French camelian rouge, and she used it with a liberal hand. She stepped into her slippers, searched out her fan and gloves from a drawer, snatched up her key and slipped it into the net purse that lay on the washstand, then slipped the strings over her arm. Feeling rushed and half-dressed, she whirled from the room and locked the door behind her. For all her hurry, it had been nearly three-quarters of an hour since Peter had left her.
He looked up as he caught the silken whisper of her skirts on the stairs. Rising, he came forward from the parlor to meet her in the hall. He took her arm, turning immediately back toward the stairs. Smiling down at her as they descended, he said, "Lovely, as always."
She had need of the boost of his compliment. The music had just stopped as they paused at the open double doors that gave access to the dining room-cum-ballroom that, like the eastern end of the building, was shaped in a half-oval. It seemed to her that every head in the room turned toward them as they entered, that every gaze was narrowed in sordid speculation. She ignored them as best she could, gazing around at the potted palms, ferns, and aspidistra that were banked before the ensemble of piano-forte, French horn, viola, and two violins; at the softly glowing chandeliers suspended from elegant plaster medallions down the room; at the intricate open cornice-work around the high ceiling; the walls papered in pale pink, and the fringed and swagged drapes of gold satin at the French doors, fifteen in number, that stood open to the coolness of the night.
There was need of the last, for the room was warm with the advance of the season and the number of people crowded into it. The ladies standing with their partners around the verge of the polished floor were fluttering their fans, while the faces of the men were flushed with their exertions. Lorna had just b
egun to open her own fan of ivory and lace when the music struck up, a reel. Peter, his arm about her waist, swept her forward, and the dancing began.
It was more of an ordeal and, at the same time, less of one, than she had expected. The formality of dance cards had been dispensed with for this affair. It was every man for himself, since the males far outnumbered the females; there were no wall-flowers. The runner captains gathered around Lorna with unabated enthusiasm, so that she scarce had time to catch her breath. She drank champagne punch and was whirled in waltzes until she was giddy. There was no opportunity to watch the reaction of the matrons ranged in the corner opposite the musicians, or to speak to any of the younger women on the floor. The Lansing sisters were there, but were surrounded by admirers. Since Lorna did not expect them to notice her, she was not disappointed. Still, there was no pleasure in twirling in the arms of one perspiring man after the other. The effort to smile and make gay conversation was wearing. Her mouth was stiff, her head ached from the noise and heat, and her feet were sore. Her heart was so leaden that she felt like a china doll moving stiffly in a child's game.
The supper dance belonged to Peter. When it was over and there was a general movement toward the stairs and the meal laid out on the next floor, Lorna begged off. She was not hungry. All she wanted was quiet, solitude, and air. She urged him to eat, saying she was going to her room, but would come back down later, and, finally, he agreed.
At the third-floor landing, she paused, then without conscious thought continued upward through the sleeping silence of this upper section of the hotel. She passed the fourth floor and, holding her skirts high, mounted the steep stairs to the belvedere.
The glass-paned doors had been closed for the night. Lorna skirted the chairs that were set around the walls of the small, octagon-shaped eminence and turned the handle of the nearest door, swinging it wide as she stepped outside. The wind at this height was fresh, almost cold. She lifted her face to it as she stood gazing out over the dark city lit here and there by glowing windows and street lamps. The moon had risen, riding high above the island; it was round and full, bright gold veined with gray. Its brilliant light gleamed far out on the sea, catching the crests of the waves that moved relentlessly shoreward.
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