Elene’s smile faded. Ryan’s continued passion for her should be gratifying. She would have liked to enjoy it, would have liked for the banter between them to be real and unforced. Somehow, it could not be. Wasn’t there something unnatural still in his constant need of her? Could it be possible for any man to be so physically enamored of a woman that the slightest touch could incite immediate need for possession?
Something was wrong; she knew it.
She suspected what it was, though she did not want to believe it. There had, for a short time, been a chance for hope. If what she thought was true, then that hope was false. And this time she was the dupe as well as Ryan.
There was only one way to be sure. Elene was reluctant to take it, not only because of the betrayal it might reveal, but because so long as the answer was in doubt she could hold to the illusion that Ryan felt something for her of his own will. There was comfort in illusion.
There was no conscious decision made to sleep on the problem. Elene simply closed her eyes, and worry and weariness did the rest. The heat of late afternoon was in the bedchamber when she awoke. The room had not been disturbed; the breakfast tray still sat on the side table and the French doors, instead of being closed to retain the morning coolness, stood open to the hot air gathering in the courtyard.
It was a knock that had awakened her. Hard upon it, Devota swept into the room and closed the door behind her. She carried a brass can of hot water. Crossing to the corner basin, she filled it from the can and began to lay out fresh toweling.
The maid glanced over her shoulder. “M’sieur Ryan is on his way from the levee and a meal is being reheated for him in the kitchen. I thought you might want to share it.”
Elene pushed herself to a sitting position, thrusting her fingers through her hair to free it of some of the tangles and drag it out of the way behind her shoulders. Her voice groggy, she said, “What time is it?”
“Late enough, not that it matters. There was a message earlier that m’sieur could not return at noon after all. I saw no reason to wake you for that.”
“No,” Elene said slowly.
“It was possible you would not care to get up even now.”
The acerbic tone of the other woman finally reached Elene. She stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“If you refuse a proposal from a man, most people assume you lack interest in him.”
“Do they? And who told you I had refused a proposal?”
“Benedict had the story, one direct from his master, or so he gave me to understand.”
“You are speaking to him now?”
“It was necessary to say something last night while we waited.”
While they waited for the tryst in the courtyard between master and mistress to end. Elene cleared her throat. “I see. As it happens, Benedict is correct.”
Devota set the water can down with a bang and turned to face Elene. “I could not believe it. I thought it must be a mistake. How could you refuse him when you are alone here in this place, this New Orleans, with nothing? How could you?”
“You of all people should understand my reasons.”
“I don’t see at all! What would be wrong with marrying Ryan Bayard? He is young and handsome and wealthy, and he desires you at the head of his table and in his bed. What more can you ask?”
“You felt the same about Durant.”
“Well?”
“Does it make no difference who becomes my husband? Will just any man do?”
“Bayard is not just any man,” Devota said with a stubborn tilt to her chin.
“No, but what of love?”
“He loves you.”
“Because he wants me when he can’t help himself? That isn’t love!”
“There is more than that between you.”
The words would have carried more conviction, Elene thought, if Devota had not looked away as she said them. “Is there? Is there really? What is it then, tell me that?”
Devota did not answer. Her soft brown face slowly suffused with grief. “I’m sorry, chère. I did not mean to make you doubt yourself. That was never the purpose at all.”
Did she have doubts? Of course she did, though at the moment it hardly mattered. Elene made an impatient gesture. “That isn’t the point.”
“Yes, it is. Because the perfume aided you in the beginning does not mean that your man can feel nothing for you without it.”
“No? What if he doesn’t? What if his infatuation fades even as I fall in love?”
“Ah, chère, is there some danger that will happen?”
“What does it matter?” she cried, sitting forward in the bed. “What I want to know is—”
They were interrupted as the door swung open. Ryan stepped through. He glanced from Elene’s flushed face to Devota. Of the maid he asked, “You told her?”
Devota frowned. “Told her what, m’sieur?”
“I thought the news might have arrived before me, though I came as soon as I heard.”
Elene answered him. “I’ve heard nothing. What is it?”
“A message came just now from Morven.” He stopped, as if reluctant to go on.
“Yes? What did he say?”
“It’s Hermine. She’s … dead.”
Shock rippled over Elene. She stared at him, the thought running through her mind of Hermine with her wry quips in her inimitable voice, her rich understanding of others and the current of vibrant life that was so apparent in everything she did. It was impossible that she could be dead. She whispered, “No.”
Ryan shook his head, his face grave. “It doesn’t seem so, but it is.”
“But … what happened?”
“They don’t know much just yet since she was found less than an hour ago. Morven thinks it must have been an accident. The doctor who was called in has declared it a suicide.”
“Suicide!”
“From an overdose of arsenic.”
Morven Ghent, for all the magnificent despair with which he played his tragic nobleman in performance at the vauxhall, was not the man to die for love. That was not to say that he did not grieve for Hermine. His eyes were red-rimmed, and now and then he would stop what he was saying and stare into space with a look of such ineffable sorrow on his strong, classic features that every woman in sight longed to comfort him. In the times in between, however, he talked with ease and assurance of his thoughts on the chances of success for a theater in New Orleans and the plays which might contribute to a satisfactory first season; of where he would go when he left New Orleans and what he thought was the future of the theater in France under Napoleon.
The reception, if such it could be termed, following Hermine’s funeral was held at the home of Rachel Pitot, a large house in the West Indies style located just outside the city gates. Ordinarily, a call of condolence would not be expected for over a week, but Hermine had been in the city so short a time, and the troupe of actors had so few acquaintances, that it had seemed best to lend Morven and Josie the support of the company of their friends. The other members of the group who had come together on the ship from Saint-Domingue must have felt the same, for they were all present.
If feminine support was what Morven required, there was plenty available. On one side of the actor sat Josie attired in black relieved with a white collar and cuffs, rather like a maid’s uniform from some play, while on the other was the widow Pitot in lavender-gray satin with a pelisse of black lace and, rather tastelessly, a necklace around her throat of silver with an amulet of a striking cobra.
As Elene approached to speak to him, the actor rose to his feet. He took the hand she held out to him, his green eyes dark as he smiled down at her, then he drew her into his arms. The embrace was close, molding her to his long length. He brushed her cheek with his lips, and would have taken her mouth if she had not turned her head in quick prevention.
Caught by surprise, Elene waited for some reaction to his touch. There was nothing except irritation for the advantage he was taking. To
repulse him would seem to indicate a lack of compassion for his loss. Still, as his arms tightened, it was only the comment Hermine had made weeks before on the ship that prevented Elene from using an elbow to break his hold. “He has no control where women are concerned,” the actress had said in droll acceptance, and perhaps she was right.
Behind Elene, Ryan cleared his throat with a soft, warning rasp. Morven let her go without haste. His gaze as he looked at his friend was unrepentant. “You don’t begrudge a hug, do you, old man? Some condolences are more effective than others.”
“They can also be more dangerous,” Ryan answered, and there was warning in the coolness of his smile.
Ryan had attended the service, as had Messieurs Mazent and Tusard, and also Durant. Women did not put in an appearance at such ceremonies in New Orleans, the experience being considered too harrowing. This one was more so than usual since Hermine could not, of course, be buried in consecrated ground.
As the evening wore on, Morven inveighed bitterly against that decree. Hermine had not had the least reason or intention of killing herself, he declared again and again. The church was adamant, however; the doctors called it a suicide and lacking proof, it must be treated as such.
“What I say,” Madame Tusard whispered to Elene, leaning to breathe hotly in her ear as she spoke, “is that Morven Ghent would like us to believe that poor Hermine’s death was an accident. Otherwise, that strutting cock of an actor might have to admit that if she had reason for taking her life, then it was he who gave it to her!”
“You can’t really believe Hermine would do such a thing?” Elene protested.
“She might if she were losing Morven, say, to that female there.” The former official’s wife nodded at Rachel Pitot. “Hermine was no match for such a black widow as I hear that one can be.”
“Hermine may not have been happy over his flirtation with Madame Pitot, but it was nothing unusual.”
Madame Tusard shook her head in decided disagreement. “They say the woman practices the black arts. Some even suggest that her husband died in a mysterious fashion.”
“Oh, really!” Elene could not hide her irritation with such malicious and unfounded chatter.
“You may not believe it, but such things happen.” Madame Tusard insisted, her expression taking on an injured cast.
“I’m surprised,” Elene said slowly, “that you would defend Hermine. I was under the impression that you had words with her a few days ago.”
The other woman gave her a fierce frown. “Are you suggesting that anything I might have said or done gave this cheap actress cause for swallowing poison? I assure you it isn’t so!”
“I thought I had made it clear that I can’t conceive of Hermine ever giving up her life willingly, not even for Morven.”
“Then just what are you saying?” Madame Tusard asked, her small dark eyes narrowed to slits.
There was something so cold and inimical between the two of them for an instant that Elene was startled. The impression was banished, however, as Josie came flouncing over to join them, casting herself down on the edge of the chair near the settee on which Elene and Madame Tusard were seated.
The girl eyed them with bright interest. “What are you two talking about over here? Something juicy, I’ll bet. Did you know that I’m to have Hermine’s parts on stage from now on? Morven has promised. We will look for someone else to play the ingénue, someone young and silly who will not ask for much except the chance to strut about in costumes.”
Madame Tusard turned her ire on the newcomer. “Some of Hermine’s parts were quite demanding.”
Josie shrugged. “I will give them my own style, or Morven can change them. You have no idea how tired I was of playing silly females, and of feeling left out when Hermine and Morven talked about how to act their roles with depth, whatever that may mean.”
“Madame Pitot may have something to say about who plays what on her stage at the vauxhall,” the older woman said.
Josie’s eyes darkened as she frowned. “As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we leave New Orleans and Madame Pitot, the better.”
Elene glanced across the room to where Rachel Pitot was holding Morven’s arm, leaning against him. “She does seem rather possessive.”
“She’s terrible! Do you know, she prowls in and out of our rooms here in the house as if we have no right at all to privacy, as if we were no more than her slaves.”
“That’s what happens when you allow others to support you,” Madame Tusard pointed out with condescension.
“We have paid for her support, believe me,” Josie said darkly. “Morven more than any, of course. But — you remember the perfume you gave Hermine, Elene? The widow took a sniff of it and decided she had to have it. Hermine tried to tell her it was special, but she wouldn’t listen. There was nothing to be done except give it to her.”
Hermine’s perfume. Elene felt a stirring of anger herself that the actress had not been permitted to keep it. It would not have been so bad if she could be given another bottle, but it was too late. Too late. Hermine was gone, and with her, her wonderful ability to laugh at herself and the world, and also the rich, hypnotic sound of her voice. Gone.
Madame Tusard changed the subject, speaking of the rumor in the streets of a pair of sailors from a ship just in from Havana dying at the charity hospital of yellow fever. The disease was a constant threat in the islands and a summer scourge in New Orleans. It seemed to strike the newest residents, as if it preferred fresh blood, or rather as if long acquaintance with it was a protection.
Even as the official’s wife spoke, however, Madame Tusard glanced busily about her for other topics of conversation. When Flora Mazent came into the room, followed closely by her maid Germaine, she called out to her.
“Oh, Flora, come and talk to us. How nice you look this evening. Tell me, is it true that there is to be an announcement of interest from your father in the near future?”
The girl colored a painful red, whether with embarrassment or annoyance was impossible to tell. “Wherever did you hear that?”
“One hears things. But is it true?”
“It isn’t decided.” The answer was carefully chosen.
“Is it true then. Is he handsome, this prospective fiancé?”
The girl sent them a quick, almost coy glance from under her short, colorless lashes. “Some people think so.”
“Who is he?”
Germaine leaned to whisper something in the girl’s ear. Flora nodded. Her voice barely audible, she told the others, “I would rather not say. Excuse me, now, I think my father wants me.”
Josie stared after the other girl with a look in her eyes both baffled and unbelieving. “How could someone like her have attracted a husband, and so quickly?”
Madame Tusard gave a harsh laugh. “You would be amazed how potent a weapon of seduction wealth can be.”
“That’s the way it is then?”
“So one assumes.”
Elene felt, suddenly, a suffocating sensation inside her. She got to her feet in haste and walked away, away from the heartless chatter, away from those who always assumed the worst, from those who seemed incapable, ever, of assuming the best.
13
IT WAS STRANGE HOW ONE DAY a person could be alive, laughing, talking, eating, breathing, and the next be dead. It was so final, and yet, nothing changed. They were missed, there was loss and its pain, but the process of living went on as before. The sun rose and set, the rain fell, the seasons advanced as they always had. The death of a single human being hardly mattered. It was, perhaps, egoism to think that it should, and yet it seemed there should be some sign of the event besides a stone marker in a muddy field.
The fabric of the refugees’ lives in New Orleans closed over the death of Hermine without a rent or wrinkle. The authorities made no attempt to look into the matter. By their lights, the actress was a transient, no part of the community they were sworn to protect. Moreover, she was a woman who acted on the st
age, which in their view placed her on the same level as the females who sold their bodies near the ramparts. Such women were forever killing themselves by design or being killed by accident or the intent of their lovers. The death of one more was not a matter for great concern.
The days crept past, the summer advanced. Elene learned her way around the city so that she moved up and down the streets with confidence with either Devota or Benedict at her heels carrying her shopping basket. She learned which merchants gave short measure and which gave lagniappe, that small amount of something extra to sweeten a sale. She discovered which hours were best to shop the stalls of the market on the levee for fresh vegetables and meat, and which to avoid because of the swarms of gnats, house flies, and bluebottle flies around the overripe bananas, stinking piles of fish, and hanging sides of meat. She perfected the art of bargaining with spirit and firmness and sudden smiles, or with confusing requests for a little more of this or that so that the totals had to be recalculated. And she learned how to avoid the glances of the men on the street so that they had no chance to stop her for conversation, or to return their bows with a single cool nod that gave them no encouragement to follow her.
She began to realize, also, that the milliner was right in part about the women of Saint-Domingue. They were instantly recognizable on the street or sitting on the balconies of the houses. There was verve in the way they tilted their sunshades or draped their shawls around their shoulders. They seldom wore hats or bonnets, but when they did, it was with a certain dashing impudence. The shades and hues of colors they chose made the paler tones of the ladies of New Orleans appear, if not drab, then at least rather faded. And these were the respectable ladies.
The quadroons and octoroons were even more noticeable. They tied their hair up in tignons of brilliant silk shot with gold or silver, painted their eyes with kohl, and hung sparkling jewelry in their ears. The bodices of their gowns, both morning and evening, were cut so low that the increasing summer heat could hardly have been a problem, and if it had been, the dampening of their petticoats to make their skirts cling to their voluptuous forms furnished the remedy. They walked about with a maid trailing them, sometimes carrying a lap dog or perhaps a pomander against the smells of the streets, a fan or a sunshade or a fly whisk of peacock feathers done up with tassels and ribbon. They were, it almost seemed, a breed apart and thoroughly enjoyed their special status.
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