Toward midnight of an endless day, worn out with loving and discarded fears, soothed by the endless song of the rain, she slept in Ryan’s arms.
When she awoke, the storm was over.
And Serephine was dead.
16
THE GATHERING WAS NOISY, overly bright with the extravagant use of candles, too warm with the crowding of too many guests in too small a place with too few windows, and totally unorganized. The dinner that preceded the dancing had featured an excess number of heavy dishes served without elegance. The wine, though plentiful, was cheap, and the orange flower water and tafia that accompanied it were both too weak and too sweet. The music was much louder than necessary. The floor had not been waxed so that the grit tracked in on the shoes of the dancers made a scraping sound that rasped on the nerves. The clothing of the men was too somber and far too heavy for the climate, while that of the ladies lacked refinement, style, or, in some cases, even decency.
The party was American, in celebration of the confirmation of the cession of Louisiana, even though the transfer was still delayed. Doubtless the arrangements would have seemed elegant in another place, under other circumstances, but Elene was in no mood to be pleased.
Elene had not wanted to come, but Ryan had insisted. The host was a business acquaintance of his originally from Boston in the United States, a man of wealth and influence who was also a friend. There was nothing to be gained by ignoring such men, he said, except a reputation for clannish snobbery and discourtesy. The Americans were here to stay, and soon there would be more of them. In was a fact of life, one they must learn to live with whether they wished it or not. A new era was beginning, one that promised prosperity. The French could become a part of it, or be left behind. The choice was simple.
It was a choice Ryan had made without regret, or so it appeared. He moved with ease among the Americans, the Spanish, and the French alike, a man respected by all. Whatever he might have been in the past, it was plain that he was a man of standing here in New Orleans now. The city, once a provincial backwater, was on the edge of a new frontier and a vast new future. What was required to make it prosper were men of vision and daring. Ryan, it seemed, was just such a man.
The gathering was graced by the presence of the colonial prefect and his lovely wife, who was barely showing her delicate condition in the current forgiving fashion in gowns with high waistlines. Also present were Bernard Marigny and Etienne de Bore, the latter rumored to be Laussat’s choice as mayor of New Orleans if the French regime ever came into being, plus a number of other prominent men of business from the French community. In one corner sat Madame Tusard, whispering to her husband while her sharp gaze darted about the room. Claude Tusard nodded dutifully as he sipped his wine, but had a gloomy, trapped expression on his face. Nearby stood Rachel Pitot, dressed in black satin daringly trimmed with ruby-red silk, thought to be the color of the devil, and with a red-dyed aigrette in her high-piled hair. She had a retinue of young men about her, though she still searched the crowd with avid eyes for others.
The only other member of their group from Saint-Domingue who was in evidence was Durant. He leaned his shoulder against the wall on the far side of the room from where Elene stood, an elegant and remote figure in white knee breeches, gray satin waistcoat embroidered in black, and a gray satin coat. There was a drawn look about his face, however, that was as much a reminder of his recent loss as the black arm band on his coat sleeve.
As if he could feel her scrutiny, Durant turned to look in Elene’s direction. For an instant their eyes met, a clash of gray and black. There was weariness in his expression, and pain, and a fleeting glimpse of longing. A moment later, he turned away.
Elene danced with Ryan and with their host, and then with Ryan again. It was good to discover that her strength was equal to the exertion, particularly as the hour was growing late. She had been telling Ryan for days, since the weather had turned cooler after the storm, that she was completely recovered from her fever; perhaps now he would believe her.
The American’s house was in a much coveted location, being one of those near the levee that looked out over the river. The breeze from the water blew through its rooms and there was a fine view of the wide crescent turn of the Mississippi just before the city. As the dancing began to pall near midnight, the guests were invited to step outside for a special treat.
A buzz of anticipation ran around the room. People began to crowd toward the long windows that opened out onto the railed gallery. If the American had thought to surprise his guests, however, he should have made other arrangements, for as they moved outside whispers of “pyrotechnics” ran among them. They were all craning their necks expectantly when the first explosion of fireworks went off.
The fireballs soared out over the water from somewhere below the house, glowing puff-balls of blue and green, yellow and red that chased each other into the dark, star-sprinkled sky. The colors lit the night, staining the upturned faces of those who watched, and were reflected in the gliding surface of the river. The popping, thudding, whizzing noises filled the air, while the thundering bursts of the rocket explosions echoed back from the far shore. Set pieces, anchored on barges in the river, were set alight, great spluttering and sparkling fountains and trees, dragons and catherine wheels of fire. Hardly had the last such fiery piece died away to the sound of wonder and applause before more rockets went up, climbing higher, bursting louder, showering down more fiery sparks.
Elene, standing near the front railing, felt the movement at her side before Durant spoke. “A vulgar display, but impressive.”
“Yes.”
“One assumes that’s the way it will be now. The Americans have much energy but little finesse.” When she made no answer, he said abruptly, “You might have paid a condolence call.”
She sent him a quick glance. The light of a blue and gold fireball made his face look bruised. “I’m sorry about Serephine, truly I am. I would have called if I had thought it would help, but the situation was rather … awkward.”
He drew breath, then let it out in a sigh. “I suppose so.”
“It must have been quite a shock.”
“Yes.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Elene was tempted to make some excuse and leave him, perhaps to join Ryan who was with his host a few feet away. There was something about Durant, an air of dejection, an intimation of despair, that prevented it.
Reaching up to touch the arm band he wore, she said, “This is a lovely gesture.”
“Under the circumstances, you mean? Because Serephine was no more than my mistress, and a quadroon at that?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, withdrawing her hand.
“No, please, I know you didn’t mean it like that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You loved her, that’s all.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “You understand that, don’t you? It’s funny, but I think you must be the only person I know in all the world who does.”
“You need not speak of it if you prefer, but we’ve heard so little about her death. Was she ill long?”
“Ill? She wasn’t ill at all.”
She met his gaze. “You mean — it wasn’t the fever?”
“By no means. The police have not concerned themselves greatly in the matter, Serephine being what she was, but they seem to think I may have killed her.”
“You?”
Around them, people turned to stare. Ryan swung to look in their direction, and a frown drew his brows together. Durant said hurriedly, “I can’t explain here. But I would like to talk about it, if you will permit me to call.”
What could she say? The past that lay between them would have demanded that she give him a hearing, even if compassion and curiosity had not. Elene agreed, and together they turned to watch the pyrotechnics, their shoulders touching in a way that was almost companionable.
On the following morning, Durant presented himself after Ryan had left the house, but before Elene was d
ressed. It might be the custom for certain ladies, such as Napoleon’s sister Pauline, to admit men into their boudoirs while they bathed and donned their clothes, but Elene had no intention of following their lead. It was bad enough to receive a man without Ryan being present; there was no point in exacerbating the situation unduly. Instructing Benedict to serve Durant coffee and cakes in the salon, she sent a message also that she would join him there at length.
It was a gray day, with a misting rain falling beyond the windows and an unseasonable coolness in the air. Elene wore a paisley shawl over her morning gown of yellow muslin, though she was sure that she would have to discard it immediately if the sun came out. She held the shawl’s fringe back with one hand and gave the other to Durant as he rose to greet her. As he kissed the smooth backs of her fingers, then stood holding them while he looked down at her, she felt a moment of uncomfortable familiarity. They had met like this many times in the days of his courtship. It was possible this visit was going to be a mistake.
They seated themselves across from each other. Durant smiled at her as he leaned back with one elbow propped on the arm of the settee and his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I always forget how beautiful you are when I’m away from you. I used to think my life was perfect, you know, all those acres of cane beside the sea and a gracious home, servants to do my bidding, the amusement of the town when the country palled, a compliant mistress, and the prospect of a beautiful and intelligent wife.”
“I see I came last,” she said in an attempt at lightness.
“Only because you were to be the final and most perfect addition.”
Flirtation or truth? It was impossible to tell, and in any case, it did not matter. She gave him a straight look. “Fate decreed otherwise.”
“Yes, and now it’s gone, all of it.”
She allowed a moment of respect for his very real losses before she spoke again. “I don’t at all understand about Serephine. Why should the authorities think you killed her?”
“I suppose they don’t actually, or I would be in the calabozo kicking my heels and listening to the gallows being built outside. It was merely a possibility that held their attention for a time. They seemed to think I might have wished to be rid of her and decided poisoning her was easier than providing for her.”
“Poison,” Elene said slowly. “Not … arsenic?”
“Exactly.”
Questions crowded in upon her, too numerous to be sorted into coherent thought. Frowning in concentration, she fastened on a portion of what he had said. “Why should anyone think you wanted to be rid of her?”
“I have no idea.” He made a quick gesture with one hand without looking at her.
“Don’t you really?”
“All right, we had quarreled, a rather noisy quarrel over a trunkful of new gowns she had ordered. But that was no reason to kill her.”
Elene could not picture Serephine quarreling with Durant. She had always been so —w hat was the word he had used? Compliant. That was it. Serephine had always smiled and agreed, smiled and obeyed. People did not always behave in private as they did in public; still, the quarrel did not ring true.
It was more likely that Durant had been abusive, berating his mistress for her extravagance.
Aloud, she said, “I thought you had brought enough wealth with you from the islands that you had no need to worry over a few gowns.”
“So a great many people thought,” he said with a shrug. “One can only borrow so long.”
“Borrow?”
“Tailors and carriage makers have an uncomfortable habit of demanding to be paid. Borrowing is one way to satisfy them.”
She assumed he meant he had borrowed against his estates on the island; it was possible there was a lender willing to gamble on their return. It would be ill mannered to pry further. “Was Serephine upset? I mean, was she distraught enough to—”
“You mean, did I drive her to take the poison herself? I don’t know.”
His words were hard, to cover his pain and the guilt that rode him. That was why he was so haggard. It was the guilt.
“I don’t believe it.”
The hope that sprang into his face was distressing to see. “Don’t you?”
“She enjoyed living, enjoyed loving too much. She may not have thought about tomorrow and its problems; her concern was for the present and its pleasures. That kind of person doesn’t take her own life.”
There was in Elene’s mind a disturbing echo. She had said much the same thing about Hermine, hadn’t she?
Durant gave a hard nod. “I know that’s what she was like, but I can’t seem to convince anybody else. If they don’t have the sensational murder of a mistress by her paramour on their hands, they aren’t interested. The clerks write down everything carefully, then go away and push the papers into a drawer somewhere and forget them. They look at me, and I can see they think that if I didn’t kill her myself with an arsenic draught, then I did it with words, words that threw her into such despair she couldn’t bear to live.”
“There was a rumor,” Elene said carefully, “that you were about to contract an advantageous marriage.”
He stared at her. “Where did you hear that? Not that it matters. It isn’t true. I promise you it isn’t true at all.”
They went on to speak of this and that, of Morven who was rumored to be conducting a discreet affair at the moment with the wife of a prominent Spanish official, in spite of residing still with his widow and new ingénue, and of M’sieur Tusard who was seen often, according to Durant, in the gaming halls beyond the city walls. There came the time, finally, when Durant could prolong the call no longer without encroaching on the noon meal. Elene walked with him to the door of the salon where Benedict appeared with his hat and cane.
With these accoutrements in his hand, Durant bowed once more. “This has been most pleasant. It was good of you to receive me; I didn’t expect it.”
“I don’t have so many friends and acquaintances in New Orleans that I can afford to ignore one of them.”
“That puts me in my place along with everyone else,” he said with a wry smile. “I hope it also means you will allow me to come again?”
“Of course. Though not too often when Ryan isn’t here.”
He smiled again without replying, then released her hand and turned to go. After two steps, he turned back. “I don’t like to disturb you, Elene, but I can’t leave without asking—”
“What is it?” she asked as he came to a halt.
“I have been wondering, are you sure your own illness was yellow fever?”
“Reasonably sure. Why?”
“Nothing,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Nothing at all.” Turning again, he walked away down the stairs.
Yellow fever or poison?
That question and a thousand others haunted Elene for days.
She thought she had had yellow fever, had been told that was her illness, but was it so in truth? It must be. The symptoms had been there, the fever, the red lips, the black bile pouring from her throat, and then the yellow skin. What else could it be?
Except that arsenic, administered in small doses, could cause many of the same symptoms.
No, it was impossible. Her skin had been as yellow as sunflowers.
But there were other substances that could be given a person to bring jaundice to the skin.
She would not believe it. The colonial prefect and a hundred others had been stricken with yellow fever at the same time. It had been epidemic, as it was to a greater or lesser extent every summer in most southern ports. She had had the same doctor as Laussat, a chemist from Paris who must know arsenic poisoning when he saw it, and could certainly compare two cases of yellow fever. Like the colonial prefect, she had survived the tropical malady, which made her one of the lucky ones. Instead of raising specters for herself, she should be thinking of who might have killed Serephine.
The problem was, there was no one. Serephine had had no enemies, had no
t been a threat to a soul. Even if Durant had wished to be married, which he denied, Serephine had been no impediment. She had been totally harmless, a lovely and generous plaything who lived only to provide happiness for Durant. The only possible reason she might have been killed, and it was grasping at straws indeed, was for revenge against Durant.
There was, of course, the similarity between Serephine and Hermine. The actress had lived to give joy to many on the stage and to Morven in private, but had been a danger to no one. Everyone had liked her.
And yet, was that strictly true? Madame Tusard had accused her of leading her husband astray. It had been a mistake, but the accusation had been made. Josie, as subsequent events had shown, had coveted the roles the more experienced actress played and also the caresses of Morven. Rachel Pitot might even have felt that Hermine stood in the way of her final possession of the handsome actor.
Poison, they did say, was a woman’s weapon.
But what possible connection could there be between Hermine and Serephine? The answer appeared to be none. They hardly knew one another, had scarcely spoken. They had been chance passengers on the same ship, nothing more. Nothing.
So had M’sieur Mazent been on that ship, and he was also dead of arsenic. And yet, even if there could be found some tenuous link between the two women, it seemed highly unlikely that they could both be found to have anything in common with the middle-aged planter.
Yet, there had to be something. There had to be.
There was.
It was perfume.
Hermine had owned a small blue bottle of Paradise, as had Serephine. Mazent had never owned one himself, but his mistress Germaine had, and had shared it with his daughter.
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