by Danice Allen
“Jeffrey, I do like you. And you’re very special to me. Only …”
“Only what, Anne? I know I’m no Renard, but I hope you aren’t comparing me to him. Any man would come up short against such a fellow.”
Anne blushed. He’d hit on the exact truth. She was comparing him to Renard. He didn’t know, either, that she’d actually met Renard and shared a kiss that she could compare with Jeffrey’s. She knew it was nonsense to continue mooning over the romantic outlaw, especially with a very real man with some excellent qualities sitting right next to her. If Jeffrey didn’t exactly make her heart race, maybe it was only because she’d grown so comfortable with him. Maybe if she kissed him it would make a difference in her platonic feelings. Guilt won in the end; she supposed she owed him at least one kiss.
“All right.”
He grew very still. “You mean you’ll let me kiss you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” She closed her eyes, preparing herself, then suddenly got a brilliant, unscrupulous idea. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Jeffrey close his. “First tell me how you get your information about Renard, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey sat back, amused and exasperated. “You minx! That’s blackmail!”
“So it is. Now tell me.”
Jeffrey chuckled, lifting a hand to tuck a stray curl behind Anne’s ear. “I can’t tell you specifics.”
“Why not?”
He grew sober. “Because it would be dangerous for you. The men I pay to be moles, to ferret out information for me, aren’t the most savory fellows.”
Anne’s brows furrowed. “I can’t imagine you consorting with unsavory people, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey’s clear brown eyes took on a shrewd look that made him appear hard and threatening. It unsettled her. He didn’t look at all like the amiable friend she’d come to know. “Remember, Anne, I told you I’m a chameleon. I blend in wherever I go.”
When the strange expression disappeared from Jeffrey’s face as quickly as it came, Anne thought she must have imagined it. “These ‘moles’ you pay to obtain information for you, are they associates of Renard’s? Does he have traitors in his midst?”
Jeffrey looked surprised, then admiring. “You’re a quick one. Most of my informants pass along rumors from the street. Rumors are unreliable, but sometimes quite true. However, I do have one informant who is a close, trusted partner in Renard’s local organization, which is kept small for safety’s sake.”
“Has this traitor told you who Renard is?”
“No. He’s only given me tidbits so far, things to use in my articles—nothing that might jeopardize the operation. He likes the money. I think he has an opium habit, like a lot of the scruffy fellows I deal with. He’s edgy. He sweats a lot.”
“He sounds like a threat to Renard,” Anne said worriedly.
“Not yet. But he might become a threat in time. The reward for Renard’s capture grows larger every week. The fellow might decide to betray Renard and cash in on the money. It could buy enough opium to last a millennium.”
“Some men would do anything for money,” Anne mused.
“Well, money equals power,” said Jeffrey matter-of-factly. “Now, where’s my kiss?”
After that last comment, Anne was not as disposed to kissing Jeffrey, but it seemed there was no getting out of it. She closed her eyes and waited. She felt his lips touch hers and was encouraged that she felt no revulsion. Actually, it was rather nice. Then he wrapped his large hands around her waist and began moving his lips over hers, ever so softly. But when he slipped his tongue into her mouth and his hands begin to roam up and down her back, she stiffened.
Anne put her hands on Jeffrey’s chest and pushed, but he only held her tighter. His breathing was fast and irregular, and she was getting just a little frightened and … angry. She abruptly turned her head away and pushed harder against his chest. He let her go.
“Lord, Anne, I’m sorry,” he said instantly, dragging his hands through his thick, straight hair. “I lost my head. You’re so damned—I mean, you’re so beautiful and sweet, for a minute there I forgot myself and just couldn’t let go.”
Who was she to throw stones, anyway? She’d lost her head when Renard had kissed her that night on the Belvedere and done things Reggie would lock her in her room for a year for doing—if he only knew about them.
“It’s all right, only don’t do it again.”
“I can’t ever kiss you again?”
She waggled an admonishing finger in his face. “If I ever let you kiss me again, you had better stop when I want you to.”
He squeezed her hand. “I promise. Really, Anne. I’m sorry I—”
Reggie marched into the room. “You’re sorry you what, young man?”
Jeffrey seemed to have been momentarily struck dumb by Reggie’s unexpected appearance, so Anne improvised. “He’s sorry he can’t go with us to the cemetery.”
Reggie looked sour. “Is he? He should thank his lucky stars he doesn’t have to escort Katherine Grimms to the resting places of the three unfortunate men she called husband. It certainly gives me pause.”
Katherine swept into the room, her arms full of white chrysanthemums. “Are you afraid of bogeys, Reginald, or is it voodoo? I daresay you won’t find either at a Christian cemetery during the full light of day.”
Reggie sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his narrow chest. “After spending a month under your roof, Katherine, I daresay I shan’t be afraid of anything ever again. I was only anticipating that I might be overcome with sympathy for your departed husbands. Not because they died, mind you, but because they were each once leg-shackled to you!”
Katherine laughed out loud, a hearty laugh that made all the crystal in the room sing. “Reginald, sometimes you’re downright amusing. If you don’t watch out I might set my cap for you! And you’ve seen what happens to all my husbands.”
Apparently Reggie found this lightly delivered threat absolutely petrifying, much scarier than ghosts or even voodoo curses, called gris-gris by the superstitious locals. His mouth fell open, and he suddenly developed a pronounced twitch in his right eye. Anne and Jeffrey could barely contain their amusement as Reggie hastily excused himself and backed out of the room.
Laughing, Anne asked, “Do you think he’ll still come, Aunt Katherine?”
Katherine buried her nose in the fragrant bouquet of flowers she held against her large bosom. “Oh, he’ll come,” she said. “Much as he dislikes the whole business, he’d never think of letting us go alone. He’s too much of a gentleman—and a fusspot over you—to neglect his perceived ‘duty.’ Shall we go, dear?”
Jeffrey said good-bye, catching Anne’s eye with a significant loverlike look that made Anne’s stomach a little queasy. She was very afraid she was going to have a problem on her hands if Jeffrey continued to act like a mooncalf over her.
Katherine had planned their visit to the St. Louis Cemetery to coincide with the hour when most of the Catholic Creole population would be at Mass. That way, the cemetery would be much less crowded. They alighted from the carriage and walked through the neat rows of tombs, which had been whitewashed prior to All Saints’ Day by the families of the departed. Because of the high water table in the area, there were no underground graves.
The tombs were of varying shapes and sizes, and there were tall oak, magnolia, and loblolly pine trees scattered around the well-kept grounds. Everything was so bright and clean, Anne didn’t find the experience the least bit depressing. And there were flowers everywhere.
They had parked closest to the Protestant section of the cemetery, which was fenced off from the Catholic-only section and the area in the back that was specifically designated for the burial of blacks. Katherine and her first husband had bought a substantial plot of cemetery ground, and she had since put each of her husbands to rest in tombs that adjoined one another.
“There’s still plenty of room for my own tomb, although I hope I won’t be taking up residence any time soon,�
�� Katherine joked.
Katherine, Reggie, and Anne were standing in front of the tombs, the latter two casting their eyes over the epitaphs inscribed on the front of each.
While Katherine began arranging flowers on the end tomb, Reggie’s attention remained fixed on the epitaph of her first husband. He looked grave and thoughtful. Anne moved closer and read over his shoulder, “Herein lies my beloved husband, Nathaniel, and our son, David. May the angels rejoice in the arrival of two splendid, soaring souls who enriched my life beyond my dearest dreams.”
Anne was shaken. “Aunt Katherine? I didn’t know you had a son.” She and Reggie looked at each other, then looked at Katherine, who kept her back to them as she continued with her task.
“Oh, well, I don’t suppose I talk about it very much. I told your mother and father years ago, right after it happened.”
“They never said anything.”
“It was so long ago, I daresay they might have forgotten. They knew I didn’t like talking about it.”
Instantly chagrined, Anne said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine, I didn’t mean to bring up something painful to you.”
“I thought you might notice the inscription. I guess I should have prepared myself for the possibility.” She turned around, her face flushed. She smiled, but Anne detected a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Nathaniel was killed in a riverboat accident. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and the shock brought on labor. The baby—I called him David after his paternal grandfather—didn’t survive.”
She smiled again, the corners of her mouth trembling a little as she seemed to reminisce. “He was beautiful, just like his father. Nathaniel and I had intended to have several children, but life doesn’t always cooperate with one’s plans. And complications during the delivery made my chances for more children impossible, so I was very lucky, indeed, to find two wonderful men after that who loved me even though I was barren.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne again, feeling stupid and awkward. She’d never seen her aunt so close to tears.
“Never mind, child. It does me good to talk about it now and then, at least once a year when I clean the tombs and decorate them for All Saints’ Day.” Her voice took on its usual bracing pitch and tone. “But you see, I’m a survivor. Life is too rich and full to waste time regretting.”
But Anne’s heart was full of regrets for the sorrow her aunt must have suffered all those years ago as a young woman, and, though they were softened by time, the memories still obviously brought her aunt pain. Katherine went back to arranging her flowers, and Reggie remained silent, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Just when Anne thought she couldn’t possibly feel more blue-deviled, a cloud snuffed out the sun. She looked up and saw that, as so frequently occurred in New Orleans, a storm was brewing. But Anne didn’t really mind, because the sudden showers usually lasted only a short while.
“Would you mind if I wandered around a bit, Aunt Katherine?” said Anne, feeling the need for private reflection.
Katherine spoke over her shoulder, not looking at her or Reggie. “Oh, do, Anne! The cemetery is beautiful this time of year. Why don’t you go, too, Reginald?”
Reggie cleared his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind, Katherine, I noticed a few weeds around the lee side of … er … Nathaniel’s tomb, and I thought I might pull them.”
Katherine’s busy hands stilled for a minute, but she didn’t turn around. It was a good thing she didn’t, because Reggie’s face was so red, it was obvious he’d rather not be looked at just then. “If you’d like, Reginald. The whitewashing took me so long the other day that I worked till dusk. I’m sure I missed a few weeds when I tidied up.”
“Certainly … understandable, of course,” mumbled Reggie. “I’ll just lay down these flowers…”
Anne laid her flowers on the ground beside Reggie’s bunch, kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and walked away. She knew that, despite the barbed comments exchanged between her aunt and uncle, they felt an underlying mutual respect. And today they’d actually shown their tender sides to each other. Anne was sure they’d still argue, but she felt as though a threshold had been crossed. Maybe now they’d allow themselves the luxury of an occasional lapse of animosity and actually enjoy each other’s company. Or at least tolerate each other!
The sun was dodging in and out of the clouds. Anne was in shadow one minute, in bright golden sunshine the next. She strolled leisurely through the cemetery, skirting the edge of the Negro burial grounds. She wanted to go in and read the inscriptions, but she was afraid she’d be thought of as an intruder by the black people inside who were visiting the last resting places of their loved ones.
Finally she was in the Catholic section. Here the tombs were the largest and closest together, the flowers the most profuse. But very few people were about; as Katherine had predicted, most of them were attending Mass.
In the oldest parts of the cemetery, the tombs were so high and so close together that walking through them was like passing through the narrowest of alleys. Her visibility was limited. She heard voices without seeing who was talking, like disembodied whispers drifting from another plane of existence. This fanciful idea was dispelled when someone, quite solidly mortal, now and then appeared from behind a tomb when she least expected it.
She imagined that after dark the cemeteries could be very efficacious for committing crimes, or for romantic trysts. Even in broad daylight, especially when the sun was behind a cloud—as now—she sensed an aura of mystery and secrecy about the place. She remembered her aunt’s joking remarks about bogeys and voodoo, and a chill went through her. She was being silly, of course, but still—
“Oh!” Suddenly Anne was face to face with a gray waistcoat. Someone had come around the comer of a tomb at a very fast pace. She was surprised they’d avoided a painful and embarrassing collision. She looked up—way up—and stared at the most attractive black man she’d ever seen.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, stepping to the side and tipping his elegant beaver hat. He smiled briefly, his light gray-green eyes flashing in the sunlight that had just reappeared. “Are you all right?”
She smiled back. “Yes, quite. I was just a little startled.” He was backing away, still looking at her. She thought she saw a spark of admiration in his expression, and it pleased her. “You seem to be in a hurry, so don’t worry about me. Go on about your business. I’m sure it’s important.”
“Oui, mademoiselle, it is.” He smiled, tipped his hat again, and walked quickly away. His skin was a light copper color, and, judging by his smart suit of clothes, she assumed he was a gens de couleur. His accent was cultured, and his bearing was professional. He was obviously educated. She watched him until he made a turn and disappeared.
She continued her walk, but stopped when she thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure down another alley between tombs. She backed up, held on to the cold marble edge of a tomb, and peered around the comer to see.
It was Delacroix. He was dressed in riding clothes: a black jacket, white jodhpurs, and tall black boots. A plain white shirt and stock completed the outfit to elegant perfection. His several rings winked in the sun that had just crept out from behind a cloud.
But Anne had no intention of creeping out from behind her hiding place. She found Delacroix fascinating, and this was an opportunity to watch him while she remained unobserved. She’d tried many times to analyze her interest in Delacroix and why he made her feel slightly off-balance whenever he happened to be nearby, but she’d never come to a logical or satisfying conclusion.
The fascination he held for her was all the more confusing because she disapproved of him and everything he stood for. He was an infuriating flirt without a serious thought in his head. However, he wasn’t without wit, so there had to be quite a lot going on inside that handsome head of his. But what? He was nothing like the kind of man she’d come to America to find. He was a … curiosity. Yes, a curiosity. That must be
it. That must be why she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
He was leaning against a tomb, his arms folded over his chest, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was hatless, and his hair was a wind-blown riot of black waves, glistening in the sunlight. His head rested against the tomb, his face was tilted to the sky, and his eyes were closed.
Anne was reminded of the way he’d looked that night at the opera when he’d thrown back his head and laughed at her sarcastic retort about wishing to be the Creole ideal of womanhood. He’d exuded a kind of vital, masculine energy, and the memory of it had come unbidden to Anne’s mind many times over the past weeks. But the memory came with some pain attached to it as well. He’d left her rudely, with a woman on each arm and another one practically hanging on to his coattail.
Her eyelids drooped slightly as she continued to stare. The sun beat down on her shoulders, making her feel lazy and contented and a little … sensual. The smell of flowers filled the humid air. She leisurely perused his form from head to toe. It wasn’t quite fair for one mortal man to possess so many perfect physical parts…
He moved, and she ducked behind the tomb, resting her hot cheek against the cold stone. Her breathing was strangely quickened. She closed her eyes, gathering her composure. She was just embarrassed, she told herself. Embarrassed to be sneaking looks at a scandalous rogue—
“Mademoiselle Weston! Fancy meeting you here.”
Anne opened her eyes and pushed away from the tomb, standing ramrod straight. She snatched one quick look at his face and was afraid she saw amusement dancing in the depths of his black eyes. Because she feared to look again lest her suspicions be confirmed—that he knew she had been watching him and found the fact humorous—her distracted gaze darted everywhere.
“I … I’m here with my aunt and uncle. She’s decorating the tombs of her three husbands.”
