Josie chuckled. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t all go completely naked. What good are clothes, after all?”
“They cut down on the area where mosquitoes can land,” Ryan said, slapping at an insect on his face.
“That’s true,” Josie said as if presented with a new and arresting observation. “What vicious little creatures they are!”
“Permit me,” Claude Tusard said to the younger actress and, reaching out, crushed an insect that was sitting on her bare shoulder.
Josie gave him an arch smile. “Thank you, m’sieur.”
A smile twitched the mustache that decorated M’sieur Tusard’s upper lip. A gleam rose in his eye.
Madame Tusard drew a seething breath. “Claude!”
“Yes, chère.” The gleam was extinguished, leaving Madame Tusard’s husband with a morose expression on his lined face.
Flora, ignoring the byplay, had turned her attention to the box on their right where two men, Americans, judging from the square cut of their coats and simple cravats, were finishing their meal. Their voices were somewhat loud and they leaned back in their chairs, looking around as if they owned all they surveyed. Elene saw the young girl give an exaggerated shudder as she leaned toward Durant.
“Those men, one of them is staring at me,” she said in an undertone.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Durant said with a scant flick of his eyes in the direction Flora indicated. “Those two will stare at anything and everything, like bumpkins from the country.”
“I don’t like it. They give me shivers.”
“Then don’t look at them.”
“How can I not? Oh, do make them stop!” In her agitation the girl clutched at his arm.
Durant removed her fingers from where they were wrinkling his sleeve. “Calm yourself, mademoiselle.”
“Calm yourself, indeed!” Madame Tusard said, her breast swelling as she joined forces with Flora. “I hate being stared at also. It’s so vulgar, and possibly dangerous. What if those two ruffians should follow us on our homeward way and attack us?”
Flora gave a little squeal of dismay. Ryan, leaning back in his chair and picking up his wine glass, glanced from Flora to Madame Tusard, then at the Americans. “They may be vulgar, but look quite harmless to me.”
“One even looks rather sweet,” Josie said. “I think he threw me a posy just now. It wouldn’t surprise me if it wasn’t you he was watching at all, Flora.” The actress in her low-cut costume patted the curves of her breasts with a most self-satisfied air without looking to see the effect her words had on her audience.
“Slut!” Flora Mazent gasped. Picking up her wine glass, she dashed the contents directly into the cleavage of Josie’s gown.
Josie screamed and jumped up. With an oath straight from the back streets of Paris, she lunged for the other girl. Flora gave a small, frightened cry and leaped from her chair to back away. M’sieur Tusard and Ryan caught Josie before she could go after Flora. M’sieur Mazent got to his feet, wringing his hands. “Now, now,” he said, “now, now.”
Hermine gave a peal of laughter. Elene met the other woman’s gaze. Her lips twitched, then a moment later, she joined the actress. Around them, the audience roared.
For an instant, Flora blanched. Elene, seeing her distress, quieted at once. As the laughter rumbled on, she saw the realization strike Flora that the general merriment was for the action of the comedians on the stage. A sigh left the other girl. Trembling, she allowed Durant to lead her back to her chair, but only after Josie had resumed her seat.
Hermine caught Elene’s eye with one brow arched in comical dismay. The amusement of the actress died away, however, as she glanced toward where Morven and his patroness, the widow, had their heads together in whispering oblivion of what was taking place around them.
The waiter came to a halt at their table, holding a tray of food high above his head. Elene, sitting nearest to the box entrance, leaned forward in her chair so that the man could step up in the box and pass behind her. Her gaze met that of Durant, still standing behind Flora’s chair. He was staring at her with a taut, brooding expression in his black eyes that carried what seemed to be an accusation. He was exquisitely turned out by his tailor, as Hermine had told her, but the black of his evening wear gave him a severe look that was somehow threatening. The slash on his cheek, though perfectly healed, was livid.
Beside her, there was a scraping sound as Ryan got to his feet. Elene’s nerves leaped under the skin as he leaned to speak near her ear. His voice was no more than a murmur as he spoke, however. “Shall we walk while Morven and the ladies are eating?”
She agreed with alacrity. She had a sudden and imperative need to get away from the unsettling crosscurrents of emotion that eddied around the group. They would all doubtless make other friends here in New Orleans in time, but for the moment it seemed that they were drawn together, not only by the ordeal through which they had passed and the attitude of the people of New Orleans toward them as the latest, and least wanted, refugees, but also by a set of emotional relationships that grew more complicated each day.
They strolled in silence, with Elene’s hand tucked under Ryan’s elbow. They had plenty of company on the paths nearest the stage as others also walked off the effects of the meal. The farther they moved from that center, however, the fewer people they met and the more the noise of clattering silverware, laughter, and raised voices receded.
The darkness of full night had fallen while they ate. Many of the torches that lighted the paths had burned out. Now and then there was a giggle or a soft murmur from some twisting byway or vine-covered bower set among the trees as lovers took advantage of the darkness and seclusion. In the distance, from the stage, came the sound of music as the dancing started.
Elene glanced at the man beside her. “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Not really. Need there be before you will walk with me?”
“Of course not.” Elene was disturbed by the taut undertone of stringent control in his voice.
“Gambier has watched you this evening like a cat with its eye on a dish of cream that’s out of reach.” Ryan had not meant to say such a thing. It was as if he were driven.
“He may be concerned for my welfare. Our families have been friends for years.”
He wondered if she really believed that, or if it was something to say to placate him. “Next you will be saying he loves you.”
Did Durant love her? Elene had no reason to think so. But then, neither had he given her cause to think he did not. “It doesn’t matter, since we are not to be married.”
“Much to your regret.”
“I have no regrets at all,” she said sharply.
Ryan stopped, turning on her. “You won’t marry me and you don’t want to marry Gambier, or so you say. What is it you want?”
“Must I want something?”
“It’s usual.”
She wanted to sell her perfume, to have the money to pay her own way and that of Devota. She wanted the discomfort between Ryan and herself ended so that she could rest easy. She would like to recover the fortune her father had invested over the years in the property on Saint-Domingue, though she didn’t expect to ever see it. What else was there?
There was one thing more.
She wanted Ryan to desire her for herself, not because he was compelled by some Voudou magic. The thought sent a surge of purest exhilaration along her veins. She felt the heat of a flush rise to her hairline, and was fervently glad he could not see. Her heart throbbed, filling her chest, threatening to choke her.
“What is it?” he asked. She was so still, and yet he had heard the soft catch of her breath as if in sudden pain, or sudden pleasure. He put out his hand to touch her arm.
Her skin was soft, yet firm and resilient over the slender bones. Ryan felt an abrupt urge to hold her, to protect her, to take her there in the orange blossom-scented darkness. It had been so long. Three days and three nights without her. Pr
ide, that had been the reason. He had thought she might refuse him her body as she had refused her hand. Wary of another rejection, he had waited for some sign of her wishes. There had been none, and he would not force himself on any woman.
Now he could feel the trembling inside her and it hurt him somewhere deep, deep where he lived. He had not meant to cause her pain.
“Elene — chérie,” he whispered.
She drew a deep breath. “What I want,” she said, a distinct tremor in her tones that were so low they could scarcely be heard, “is for you to want me.”
He felt the words like a blow to the heart. Before their sound had died away, he swept her into his arms, holding her close. Against the silk of her hair, he said, “Always.”
She spread her hands over his muscle-clad chest and lifted her mouth in delicate invitation. The quickness of his response gave her a heady, joyous sensation. He did want her. She had drawn him to her, and without the magic of the original perfume.
His mouth upon hers was warm and sweet, infinitely tender, softly stroking, yet firm in its possession. He brushed the curves of her lips with his tongue, delicately abrading their smoothness, tasting, seeking entry. She gave it to him, and on a swift, indrawn breath, he caught her closer.
She slid her hands upward along the strong column of his neck to the thick curls that grew low on his nape. She twined her fingers through them, clasping, increasing the pressure of her mouth on his as with a wordless murmur she flattened her breasts against his chest. She could feel the buttons of his coat and waistcoat digging into her flesh, sense the rise of his desire for her. Rich languor poured along her bloodstream. She twined her tongue with his in frolicking play, flicking the hard and smooth edges of his teeth, retreating with refined enticements which he accepted at once. His movements, the heated feel of his invasion as he thrust against the moist and fragile warmth of her inner mouth, sent her spinning into a dark vortex of desire. Her breathing quickened. The layers of clothing that separated them were unbearable. She needed to feel him naked against her, inside her, with a longing too strong to be denied.
There came the scrape of footsteps. Ryan cursed softly, and swung to shield Elene with his body while she recovered her equilibrium. The intruders, a young couple walking arm in arm, passed by them with hardly a glance.
Ryan gave a short laugh. “It’s a good thing they came along.”
“Is it?” Elene patted her hair into place with trembling hands.
Ryan heard the shadow of frustration in her tone and felt its echo within himself. “It is indeed. The shells on the paths are too sharp for your tender skin, and the ground that’s not covered by them is too muddy for your finery. Besides, there’s a serious lack of privacy. Let’s go home.”
“The others—” she began, though the protest was weak.
Ryan’s smile sounded in his voice as he answered deliberately, “The others can’t come.”
M’sieur Mazent was ready to return to the city also, had been waiting, in fact, only for Elene and Ryan to get back from their walk so they could embark.
The homeward journey was completed in near silence. Other than a few desultory remarks concerning the entertainment, no one seemed inclined to talk. The bargeman was not only fresh out of songs, but must have been anxious for his bed, for he poled with such diligence that they were soon at the city gate.
The party separated then, everyone going in a different direction, calling out their last good-nights and promises to get together again as they picked their way across the mud. Within a few short minutes, Elene and Ryan were entering the porte cochère of his house where at the other end hung the lantern welcoming them home.
When they emerged into the courtyard, they heard voices raised in light, flowing laughter. They stopped abruptly. From the gallery above them, Devota called, “Is that you, chère?”
Elene answered. A moment later, Devota came down the stairs with the shadowy figures of two other women behind her. As she came into the lantern light, they were revealed as Serephine and Germaine.
“Evening, mam’zelle, m’sieur,” Serephine said in her soft and faintly slumberous tones. The Mazents’ woman, Germaine, hung back, offering only a nod by way of greeting.
“Good evening.” Elene kept her voice even, pleasant. She had never felt rancor toward the girl who was Durant’s mistress, and there was even less cause to do so now.
Serephine turned to Devota, giving her a swift hug, apparently in appreciation for the small blue bottle she held in her hand. Germaine clutched one also. The three women of color exchanged a few words. Then Serephine and Germaine turned quickly and passed into the porte cochère where they were soon lost to sight in the darkness.
Elene looked at Devota. The maid gave a slight shrug. “Serephine came about the perfume. She heard we were making it. Germaine she met on the way.”
There was something about the remembered laughter of the three women, as if they shared a secret life and a rapport of the blood unknown to white people, that sent small prickles of disturbance over Elene. She wondered if Serephine and Germaine, like Devota, were followers of the Voudou. It was impossible to know, however, or to find a reason for questioning Devota about it that did not sound as if she was suspicious of the presence of the other two women or else held resentment against her former fiancé’s mistress.
“I’m very tired,” she said finally with a quick glance, half-smiling, at Ryan. “I think I will go to bed.”
“I’ll join you in a moment,” he said.
Devota spoke. “Is there anything you need, m’sieur?”
“Benedict will see to it.”
The majordomo had come from his rooms downstairs under the garçonnière to stand silently waiting at the edge of the lantern light. Now he bowed, partly in greeting, partly in acquiescence. He suggested in soft tones, “Perhaps a cognac?”
Ryan agreed. Elene turned away, trailing up the stairs. She had thought perhaps Ryan would come with her, that they might undress each other and fall into bed. Privacy seemed no easier to come by here than at the vauxhall.
It was Devota who undressed Elene and put her in a nightgown of fine lawn decorated with tucks and a small crocheted edging at the neckline and around the cap sleeves. The maid poured warm water for her to bathe herself quickly in the basin and, afterward, brushed her hair into a shining gold curtain. She put away Elene’s evening gown and other accessories, then gathered up her underclothing to be laundered. Extinguishing the candles that burned in their candelabra, leaving only a single candle in a silver holder on a table beside the bed, Devota moved to the door.
The maid turned. “We sold our first perfume, chère.”
“So we did.” A slow smile curved Elene’s mouth, lighting her eyes. “That is, you did.”
“There will be others to buy, many others.”
“I’m sure of it.”
Devota nodded as if satisfied, her gaze steady on Elene’s face. Wishing her a good night, the maid went away.
Elene thought of the perfume and the identity of their first customer as she waited for Ryan. Who would have thought it would be Serephine? What reason could she have for wishing to use the same scent as the woman who would have been Durant’s wife? It made no sense. But then, what did it matter? The perfume was sold, the money was in hand. And there would be more.
She would have to be careful in the future how much of the perfume she used herself. It wouldn’t do to deplete the stock. Smiling a little, she reached out to pick up her own bottle of the new perfume and renew the fragrance she had applied earlier in the evening.
Where was Ryan? Surely he would have seen Devota put out the light and know that the maid had gone. He would come any moment. Just in case, Elene got up from the dressing table stool and moved to push the French door onto the gallery wider.
She stood with her hand on the handle, listening for some sound, watching for a movement. There was nothing except the soft rustle of the breeze in the top limbs of the oak, the fai
nt shift of the shadows cast by its great dark limbs on the pavement stones of the courtyard.
“Ryan?” she called.
The word seemed to fall into a soft and deadening pool of silence.
A bereft feeling gathered inside her. He wasn’t coming. He might even have gone out. Anger, fed by unappeased need, rippled through her and trailed away into dismal resentment. It forced her from the bedchamber and out onto the gallery. The hour was late. The quarter moon had set, leaving only the stars to light the night sky that arched above the rooftop. She stood for a moment, trying to penetrate the shadows in the courtyard, wondering if Ryan had drunk too much cognac on top of the wine at the vauxhall and gone to sleep. It was unlikely. She had never seen him the worse for drink.
There was a glow of light coming from under the gallery on which she stood. She thought at first that it might be reflecting from one of the servant’s rooms along the lower side of the courtyard square, but they were dark, even those of Devota and Benedict. The light was coming from the storerooms, from her workroom where the perfume sat on the counter in its fragile bottles.
She turned toward the stairs. At the head, she paused, then began to creep down the treads in her bare feet. She reached the bottom and rounded the newel post.
The light in the workroom went out, plunging the courtyard into utter darkness. Elene went rigid where she stood as a frisson of fear ran down her spine. There came the scrape of a footstep, a soft, stealthy sound.
The man came at her from under the open staircase, moving with lightning swiftness. One hard arm caught her around the waist and the other at the bend of her knees. She was lifted high against a chest like a breastplate of molded steel, held so close she could not move. Her mind congealed in the confusion of terror, though at the same time she was assailed by scents and sensations that brought the euphoria of relief and joy. Her senses whirled dizzily as the man swung with her, carrying her in a few long strides into the darkest depths of the courtyard, under the spreading arms of the great oak.
He stopped. She could feel the powerful thudding of his heart against her side. Overhead, the wind whispered among the leaves of the oak that shifted above them in the starshine, like vast schools of fish fleeing through deep blue-black water. When the wind stilled, the only sound was the musical tinkle of the water in the center fountain. Around them, the night gathered thick and protective.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 57
