The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  “’Twas time Anne saw something beyond the gates of Weston Hall and London during the Season, where she was surrounded by fops who called themselves men, but who did nothing more manly than preen and pose in front of a looking glass. I dareswear I don’t know how she stood it for five years.”

  Anne saw Reggie stiffen. He considered Katherine’s frequent swipes at British manhood downright unpatriotic.

  “Please, Aunt Katherine,” Anne implored, “you know Reggie doesn’t like it when you malign our fellow countrymen.”

  “Damned good men, too,” muttered Reggie. “Pluck to the backbone. Fops don’t beat monsters like Napoleon, y’know.”

  “Anne said it herself—and don’t contradict me, niece! She said she wanted to go to a country where men were men, not sycophants living off their fathers’ money or their wives’ dowry. Men who have a purpose in life, with something more important to do than wager, womanize, gossip, and dance.”

  When Reggie gave his niece a hurt look from beneath his bushy, protruding eyebrows, Anne hastily explained, “I did not mean to imply that all English men were made of such frippery stuff, Uncle, but most of the men I met during the London Season were a trifle shallow. They seemed much more concerned with the cut of their coat than the cast of their character.”

  “You can’t fault a man for endeavoring to look his best, niece. I daresay you’d shun a man who didn’t take pains with his appearance. You wouldn’t want to be seen with the fellow!”

  “I’m not talking about neatness and good grooming,” Anne said seriously. “I’d expect that of anyone, male or female. But it seems to me that there’s a direct correlation between how many frills, fobs, and furbelows a man wears on his person and how many serious, original thoughts pass through his brain. The more fuss there is to a man’s dress, the less real substance there is to the man himself. In my experience, it is a theory which has proven true time and again.”

  “Then I wonder that you choose New Orleans to find a husband,” Reggie persisted. “’Tis my understanding that most Creole men fairly dote on the pastimes of wagering, womanizing, gossiping, and dancing.”

  “She chose New Orleans because I live there, and I’m her only relative in America,” said Katherine, looking at Reggie as if he were a nitwit. “Her reasoning is self-evident. And what better place is there to find a husband than New Orleans? I will admit that the Creole society does have its share of frippery fellows, and Anne will be obliged to meet and converse with several, but the city is brimming with real men, as well. I should know … having had three m’self. The best thing I ever did was leave England.”

  If Reggie was of a mind to made a sarcastic retort to Katherine’s last statement, he stifled it. He stared straight ahead, his lips clamped tightly together. Anne was grateful for his restraint. She knew from past experience that an argument between her two guardians could last for hours.

  Anne wrapped her hands around Reggie’s arm and leaned close to him. “Uncle, here’s a diverting thought for you. To continue the biblical analogies, let’s just say you’re my guardian angel, sent to keep me safe from the sins and snakes of Louisiana!”

  “There’s truth to that,” Reggie informed her in a softened tone. “Your parents would never have allowed you to come if I hadn’t agreed to accompany you.”

  Sharp-eared and always listening, Katherine said, “Anne didn’t need her parents’ permission. She’s a grown woman. She controls her own money—a fortune, I might add. She doesn’t need a guardian, either. She has me.”

  Reggie sighed heavily, trying manfully to disregard yet another of Katherine’s interruptions. “I’m happy to be of service to you, Anne, as you know. And always glad to show my affection and respect for your parents by helping out where I can. But, I daresay, this shall be the longest year of my life. Heaven, you say? Hell, rather.”

  Anne squeezed his arm and clicked her tongue consolingly. “No, don’t say that. It’s truly beautiful here, and everything is so exciting and new. It’s nothing like we’re used to.”

  “Precisely,” sulked Reggie.

  “Things will improve. We’ve been too much together on this long trip. You and Aunt Katherine needn’t spend so much time together once we’ve arrived.” Anne felt the strained muscles in his arm loosen a little. “And remember, while ’tis true that I didn’t need my parents’ permission to come to America, and I could have refused your chaperonage, your coming along has made them much easier about me. For that I’m very grateful.”

  Reggie’s furrowed brow relaxed. She had managed to soothe his nettled nerves for perhaps the hundredth time that week alone. Silently she added, Yes, your presence has made my parents easier, Uncle, but I still intend to do exactly as I please.

  Hoping the respite from arguing would last, Anne turned her attention back to the landscape. “Look at those beautiful trees, Uncle Reggie. The captain identified some of them for me. That’s a sycamore, there’s a pecan, and those flowered ones—”

  “Magnolias,” Katherine instructed.

  “And the Spanish moss looks like the long, soft beards of old men, doesn’t it? Those vines climbing up the trees, are they—?”

  Reggie said, “Yes, it’s wild honeysuckle, which accounts, in part, for the incredible sweetness of the air, I suppose.”

  “I love honeysuckle!” Anne said with enthusiasm, winning a genuine smile from Reggie. Relieved to see Reggie’s equanimity restored, Anne turned to her aunt and gave her a remonstrative look, as if to say, Why do you make me work so hard to keep the peace? Katherine merely shrugged and laid her hands, one on top of the other, over the large golden globe at the top of her cane.

  The waters were becoming more congested now as they approached the landing at Biloxi, Mississippi. There the Belvedere would restock firewood to fuel the engines, enough to get them to New Orleans by morning.

  Anne would be glad to finally reach their destination. Though she’d taken to life on the ship and the ungainly steamboat like a born sailor, she’d had enough water travel to last her for a while. The landing was in view now, and the boat gave three mighty blasts from its smokestacks. Anne felt a thrill go through her. Every landing was exciting. She smiled to herself, for no other reason than the pure joy of living. She’d never been happier.

  Lucien Delacroix watched the Belvedere pull alongside the dock, his eyelids drooping in apparent boredom. In reality he was anything but bored. He’d been visiting a horse farm in Biloxi, shopping for a new team of high-steppers for his town carriage, when, by mere chance, he’d overheard that Charles Bodine was transporting by steamboat a family of slaves he’d bought at auction that day.

  Lucien quickly rearranged his plans for returning to New Orleans, sending his carriage back by land and purchasing himself a ticket on the Belvedere. If asked, he’d explain his change of plans by confessing a hankering for the steamboat chef’s specialty of pompano en creme. No one would doubt that the pleasure-loving, impetuous Lucien Delacroix allowed his tastebuds to dictate his travel plans.

  Yes, there they were. In his peripheral vision, Lucien saw Bodine and two of his most trusted slaves herding a group of Negroes toward the dock. He would not look directly at them; after all, he shouldn’t be expecting to see them, nor should he exhibit any interest in something so commonplace as another plantation owner and his latest purchases. But Lucien was determined that this particular plantation owner would not get home with his new slaves. That is, Renard, the Fox, would see to it that he did not.

  He concentrated on the steamboat, keeping his posture as loose and casual as possible under the circumstances, since every time he got near Bodine his whole body tensed. Charles Bodine was a close friend of his father’s, but Lucien loathed the man. As a boy, Lucien had learned through a deeply painful personal experience just how cruel and licentious Bodine could be.

  Most people were generally ignorant of the extent of Bodine’s mistreatment of his slaves, but, because of his underground connections, Lucien had heard every s
ordid story of murder and rape. These stories only added fuel to the consuming hatred that Lucien had felt ever since that devastating boyhood experience. He would do anything to keep another family of slaves from falling into Bodine’s hands. This family had nothing to lose, everything to gain. The risks of escape were minuscule compared to the risk of permanent incarceration at Belle Fleur.

  His gaze drifted lazily over the smattering of passengers lining the steamboat railing. Suddenly his eyes widened, his interest piqued. Virtually penned in by two tall elders—one a man he didn’t know, and the other Katherine Grimms, returning from a visit to her sister’s in England—stood a very fetching female.

  Used to the waxen “magnolia” paleness of Creole women and the varying shades of brown in the Negro population, Lucien was attracted to the honey-gold complexion of this slim young woman in a scoop-shaped straw bonnet with yellow ribbons. He could tell she’d not minded her elders’ admonitions to stay out of the sun, for though she wasn’t unattractively sunburned, she had the delicate blush of a sun-kissed peach. Her hair, as pale and shiny as an English sovereign, was arranged in short ringlets at the sides and presumably bundled in a knot at the back.

  She was wearing a straw-colored silk traveling gown with a long, pointed waist, dome skirt, high neckline with a lace collar, and long, tight sleeves. Her waist was tiny, making Lucien extremely curious about how much she depended on a corset to achieve such a result.

  Fashion-wise, she was up-to-date but conservative. Thank God she did not appear to embrace the present popular philosophy of English femininity, the idea that quiet, anemic helplessness was appealing to the male sex. She fairly glowed with awareness of her surroundings, her very posture suggesting barely contained energy and passion. Just looking at her stirred Lucien. She was a firecracker waiting for a spark. Lucky would be the man to ignite that little explosive.

  Unfortunately, since she was apparently a guest of Katherine’s, and he did not dare to advertise his very real friendship with such a reformist type of female as Katherine Grimms, there would be no social interaction beyond brief public encounters. He would much rather get to know the new arrival in front of a cozy fire in Katherine’s drawing room. Such an intimate setting might put him in the way of a flirtation or a friendship. But friendship required a sharing of ideas and confidences. For Lucien that was impossible. He had too much to hide. If he expressed his true thoughts and feelings, revealed his true self, he’d jeopardize the cause, as well as his own life.

  For the first time in a long while, Lucien felt strong regret that he could not at least explore the possibility of a relationship with a lovely woman. However, for all he knew, this woman—this stranger who was engendering regrets without even speaking a word to him—could be as spiritually pallid and intellectually insipid as most of the unmarried women of his acquaintance.

  On the boat, he would secure an introduction through Katherine and discover for himself if the girl was worth regretting. Getting to know her would, as always, be a bit encumbered by the fact that he must not abandon his public persona of the decadent, devil-may-care aristocrat nicknamed Dandy Delacroix. After all, what girl worth her salt would encourage a scoundrel like him?

  Anne always managed to be on deck when the steamboat pulled along shore. She loved to watch the teeming activity at the docks: boxes and crates being hefted from carriage to ground, then loaded on various types of boats to be floated to market somewhere; pushcarts filled with luggage; families bidding farewell to one another; musicians playing for free, hoping for benevolent music lovers to toss them a coin.

  Sometimes what she saw on the landings, and had also seen on the steamboat, troubled her. Slaves. She’d always known they existed, of course. She’d learned about them in her history and geography lessons with Miss Bishop, her governess. But, like most people who are not directly impacted by slavery, she’d thought it very immoral, then put it out of her mind. Seeing the practice in action, in front of her horrified eyes, was very different from deploring it in theory.

  Most of the time the slaves seemed happy enough. They sang as they worked, moving about without the restraint of chains and shackles, but Anne would never forget the sad refrain of a song she’d heard a group of them singing on the dock the night the Belvedere left Charleston.

  De night is dark, de day is long

  And we are far from home

  Weep, my brodders, weep.

  Over and over again, they’d sung it till Anne felt like weeping herself. On the landing, right now, was a group of slaves tied together by a rope, neck to neck. They appeared to be a family. There were a tall man and woman, both bone-thin, three teenaged boys, and a girl who looked to be just past childhood. The girl’s small breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her ragged gown.

  The girl was pretty, and, despite her tangled hair and disreputable clothes, she seemed fresh and untouched. Men were looking at her, walking slowly past, leering. The girl stood with her shoulders hunched forward, her eyes downcast, obviously frightened. It made Anne so angry she unconsciously bit the inside of her mouth till she drew blood. She tasted the salt of it on her tongue.

  “Despicable!” said Katherine with a hard pound of her cane. “From a bankrupt estate, it seems, or else they’d be dressed better.”

  Anne turned to her aunt. “They’re a family?”

  “So it appears.”

  Anne grasped for an optimistic point. “At least they can stay together. It must be hard to be separated from your family with no hope of seeing them again.”

  “Bodine likes to keep them together, but he’s not motivated by sympathy. It’s more expensive to buy whole families, but they’re less apt to run away, and since it costs money to recapture them, Bodine sees it as a wise investment.”

  Anne fixed her gaze on the white man who was sitting on a bench near the slaves. He looked to be in his forties, tall, powerfully built, balding, already dressed for the evening in a black jacket and trousers and a shiny, pale blue waistcoat. “You know him, Aunt Katherine?”

  Katherine snorted. “Yes, more’s the pity. We’ll have to exchange polite how-do-you-do’s when he boards the boat. Mr. Grimms was obliged to do business with Mr. Bodine once or twice, a rare happenstance of a Creole crossing Canal Street to bank with an American. It was an opportunity Mr. Grimms could not pass up, since it might lend courage to other Creoles to mix more in the American business world. Mr. Grimms, like myself, abhorred the social segregation practiced by so many narrow-minded Creoles and Americans alike. Bodine, however, is not one of those Creoles with whom I would care to nurture an acquaintance, business or otherwise. He’s—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “He’s not very nice.”

  “I don’t like the looks of him, either, Anne,” said Reggie, frowningly observing Bodine. “You’ll stay away from him.”

  “Of course I will,” Anne readily agreed.

  Katherine strayed a few feet away, apparently to greet an acquaintance who’d just boarded, and Reggie added in an emphatic whisper, “I want you to associate with the best of New Orleans society, not just the opportunistic ragtags your aunt might introduce you to!”

  Anne smiled and shook her head. “Uncle Reggie, you know Aunt Katherine is quite wealthy herself. What makes you think her friends are ragtags?”

  “I understand that your aunt had a rather meager dowry,” he confided out of the side of his mouth, like a conspirator. “She is only wealthy now because she ensured a generous bequeathal to herself in each of her husbands’ wills”—he snatched a glance over his shoulder—“then drove them to their graves!”

  Anne laughed. “How can you be so unfair! Each of Katherine’s husbands was self-made,” she argued. “She helped them become rich and successful. She deserves her money. I’ve a mind to model myself after my aunt, you know. I think it would be exciting and romantic to help one’s mate carve a niche for himself in the world, as she did, instead of simply helping support him with your dowry while he fritters his time away at Whit
e’s and Boodle’s!”

  “Struggle and penury are not romantic,” Reggie said stubbornly. “They are deuced uncomfortable. And as for Katherine, I can think of any number of women I’d rather see you emulate than her. So unladylike! Her voice so abrasive it reminds one of porcupines tumbling in the briars! And that stick of hers, forever poking it in people’s faces—”

  “What? Did I hear my name being bandied about, and to no good report, I suppose?” said Katherine, bouncing her cane several times on the deck behind them. Anne and Reggie did a quick about-face. “I want to introduce you to Mr. Lucien Delacroix. My niece, Mr. Delacroix, the Honorable Miss Anne Weston. And this gentleman”—Katherine waved the globed end of her cane under Reggie’s nose—“is her uncle on her father’s side. No blood relation to me, you understand. Mr. Weston, Mr. Delacroix.”

  Before Anne had time to take a good look at the man before her, he swept into a low bow, then took her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips. She stared at the bent head, the black, wavy hair so thick one could positively lose her fingers in it …

  Anne was jolted out of her bemused contemplation when the gentleman slid her a sly look from under eyelashes as thick and black as his hair. They had barely met, and he was already flirting with her! She stared as he straightened up and shook hands with Reggie, murmuring a polite greeting. She discovered her mouth hanging open and hastily closed it. She had never seen a man so divinely handsome.

  Mr. Delacroix wore a well-tailored ensemble of a black jacket and narrow trousers that fit his tall, athletic figure to a nicety. At his throat and wrists were a modicum of snowy-white ruffles, just enough to lend him the continental flair for which Creole men were known. He wore a little more jewelry than the typical English gentleman, with two large rings on each hand and several chains and fobs crisscrossing his vest like glittery corset ribbons. He was somewhat showy, but still very tasteful. His slight excess in dress did not detract from his masculinity, either. Rather, a bit of ruffle and glitter served as a wonderful foil to his obvious male charms.