Sandra Hill - [Creole]

by Sweeter Savage Love

  “My pleasure to oblige,” he snickered.

  “Ahem,” Cain coughed to halt their ill-timed bickering. Then, in a deliberate attempt to change the subject, he picked up the thread of Harriet’s earlier conversation, asking, “One of your stepfathers lived here?”

  Harriet gave Etienne one last scowl and shifted away from him slightly to show her distaste for even the brush of his shoulder. Then she smiled at Cain, indicating he wasn’t quite as much of a creep as his friend, and explained, “Yes, my mother was married five times. In fact, her marriage to Vincent lasted only two years, but I came back to Louisiana lots of times to visit with my sisters, Sheila and Blanche, who are Vincent’s daughters.”

  As she thought back now, the gentle Cajun restaurateur was one of the few stable influences in her young, shaky life and that of her two younger sisters. Their summer vacations with him had represented much more than childhood visits.

  She started to ask if they’d ever been in Vincent’s lakeside restaurant, but stopped herself when she realized that, of course, they couldn’t have. It hadn’t even been built yet.

  Or had it?

  Oh, God!

  “And how many times have you wed?” Etienne asked, although he didn’t seem particularly interested.

  For some reason, his indifference bothered Harriet. Didn’t he even care that she might be involved with another man? For all he knew, she was married. And how about him? Oh, geez, what if he was married? What if she’d been making out with a married man in a casket? That made her indiscretion even worse.

  “Are you married?” she snapped, more brusquely than she’d planned.

  “No,” he said, his tone redolent with distaste.

  “Ever?”

  “Never.” He laughed.

  She breathed an inner sigh of relief, feeling an inordinate pleasure at his single word.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Etienne reminded her. “How many times have you been wed?”

  “None,” she answered. “My mother’s husband-hopping taught me one thing…never depend on a man for my identity. Be independent. Financially and personally. Always in control.”

  “Sounds logical,” Cain assured her with a pat on the knee.

  “Sounds boring,” Etienne said at the same time, If he dared to pat her knee, she swore she would break his hand.

  She glanced at said hand, holding the reins loosely, and noticed he had a missing fourth appendage. “How did you lose your finger?” she asked bluntly. “Did you stick your hand in the cookie jar at the wrong moment?”

  Cain inhaled sharply, and Etienne stiffened.

  At first, she didn’t think Etienne was going to reply. Eventually, he shrugged. “Someone wanted my ring.”

  Cain squeezed her knee in caution, but Harriet blundered on. “Someone cut off your finger to get a ring?”

  Etienne looked at her then, and she reeled at the brief pain that flared in his luminous eyes, immediately replaced with contempt. “The man…a Confederate guard at Andersonville…thought I was dead. I’d been mistakenly put on the refuse pile with the corpses.” His voice was cold.

  Andersonville Prison? Harriet felt awful. “Oh…oh. Etienne I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that—”

  “Have you ever been covered with maggots?” he went on. “God, that swampy hellhole was a breeding paradise for the slimy suckers. They grew to an ungodly size, and they were everywhere. In our beds, our food, our hair, up our noses, in our ears…” His words faded off as he realized how much he’d revealed.

  And Harriet couldn’t speak for the tears that choked her throat. Without thinking, she laced her right hand with his left one, the one with the missing finger, and refused to let him tug away. In the end, he relaxed and they lapsed into silence again.

  She imagined, with impossible logic, that their hearts communicated at that spot where their two wrists pulsed against each other. As if in confirmation, Etienne jerked his hand suddenly, his eyes locking with hers in question. She held tight, needing a connection with someone familiar in this strange world she’d entered. At least, that was why she told herself she held his hand so tightly. A familiar soul…that was all Etienne represented to her.

  Familiar? Harriet gazed about her once again. Alarm shook her as she was forced to accept the fact that, while she was familiar with all the nooks and crannies of the Crescent City, what she saw now was in no way familiar. She recognized the typical Louisiana assault on the senses—myriad smells, vivid colors, shimmering heat, raucous sounds—and yet this New Orleans was vastly different from the one she knew. It was a city shabby with neglect from years of wartime occupation and Reconstruction poverty, but now undergoing a major overhaul by carpenters, masons and painters, no doubt from Northern carpetbag money.

  It was a living nightmare.

  But, unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream. Harriet knew that now. Too much time had passed. It was all too real.

  With a droop of resignation, Harriet inspected her companions further. Their tense demeanor bespoke the danger that still hovered over them like a black cloud.

  But Harriet couldn’t obsess over the supposed danger from Pope’s men, or government agents, or the whole gold theft situation. She was more concerned, and more frightened, than she’d ever been in all her life, about a different kind of danger. In shock, Harriet had tried to avoid thinking about the unbelievable evidence assaulting her at every turn, ever since Etienne had told her more than two hours ago that this was 1870. But the reality of her time-travel, or whatever it was, blasted her at every turn. She had to accept facts.

  Somehow, some way, she had landed in another century.

  If Harriet hadn’t been convinced before, she was now, as the colorful, post—Civil War city unfolded before her with infinite, way-too-authentic detail.

  “Is this really 1870,” she whimpered.

  Etienne clucked his displeasure and shook off her hand.

  Cain turned to her with surprise. “Yes, it’s 1870. Why do you ask?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

  “She claims to come from the year 1997,” Etienne informed him dryly. “On a broom, no doubt.”

  “No, a train,” she said. “And it’s not funny.”

  Both men were grinning.

  “I’ve been thinking about this, and I’ve come to the conclusion that my time travel, or whatever it is, has something to do with the train derailment and that railroad bridge over the river that you told me hadn’t been built yet.”

  “Huh?” Cain said.

  “She claims to have been on a 1997 train that runs straight through from Chicago to New Orleans,” Etienne explained to Cain.

  “Well, that will be possible when the railroad bridge is completed later this year,” Cain pointed out.

  “Oh, God! That’s it,” Harriet exclaimed, feeling a ray of hope for the first time since she’d fallen through this time hole.

  Etienne put a hand to his forehead. She’d probably given him another headache. “Please, Cain, I beg you, don’t ask—”

  “What is it?” Cain asked.

  “—her what she means.” Etienne continued to rub his forehead, being careful to avoid the goose egg.

  “Don’t you see, all I have to do is board that train when it takes its first nonstop ride back to Chicago. Somehow, I just know that’s the key to my return to the future. When will that be?”

  “The end of October, I think,” Cain said.

  “Two months! What am I going to do here for two whole months?” Suddenly she brightened. “I know. I’ll take lots of notes. Think of all the books I’ll be able to write. Maybe this nightmare isn’t really a nightmare, after all. I should consider this an opportunity.” She smiled brightly at both frowning men.

  Neither Etienne nor Cain looked any more convinced than if she’d said she came from the moon.

  “There’s a new insane asylum in Chicago, Etienne. I visited the facility yesterday. Perhaps she escaped from there.�
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  “You visited a hospital yesterday?” Etienne inquired with raised eyebrows. “I thought you and Abel spent the day in bed with those whores at the opera house.”

  “Only half the day.”

  “I think that’s where she came from, Cain. Madame Dubois’s Opera House. She told me she was at the opera house. Are you sure you didn’t see her there? Maybe let something slip about our…work?”

  “Good heavens! And you two think I’m nuts?” Harriet interjected. “No, I’m not insane. And I never said I was a prostitute at some opera house. I said I was on the Oprah show.”

  “Oh. What did you do at this…Oprah show?” Cain wanted to know. “Madame Dubois puts on a show with an Egyptian girl who’s so limber she can dance and…ah, fornicate at the same time. Her backbend is something to behold. I don’t suppose you…?”

  Etienne’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth.

  “Aaarrggh!” Harriet screeched. “Will you two listen? Something strange happened. I am a psychologist…Dr. Harriet Ginoza. I was on the train from Chicago to New Orleans—where I was supposed to give a lecture today related to my new book—”

  “What new book?” Cain asked, his forehead creased with puzzlement.

  “Don’t ask,” Etienne advised him.

  “Female Fantasies Never Die.”

  “Too late,” Etienne groaned.

  “Really?” Cain remarked, clearly interested. “What fantasies might those be?”

  “That’s irrelevant As I was saying…I was on the train. There was a minor derailment. I woke from one of those blasted dreams of mine”—she cast Etienne a condemning glare—“and next thing I knew it was 1870.”

  Etienne and Cain exchanged a look that said, “Yep, insane asylum.”

  “I know that time-travel’s impossible,” she went on, “although now that I think about it, I had a client a few years ago who claimed to have traveled from ancient Rome to 1993. Thought he was a gladiator, and his chariot was a vehicle of time-travel. Gee, I wish now that I’d listened more closely, been more open-minded. Of course, I also had another client who wore a space suit and said he was an alien from another planet, come to study earthlings.”

  Etienne rolled his eyes.

  “Do you reckon Pope would have hired an agent like her?” Cain asked Etienne, obviously not buying her story.

  “Possibly. Her tale’s so far-fetched it’s almost believable. I think he means her to be a distraction to us, especially sending her in that leopard-print chemise. He’s hoping our brains will be led by the divining rod between our legs.”

  Cain peered down in the general vicinity of his divining rod, probably considering it more like his “divine rod.”

  “I am not a spy,” Harriet said between gritted teeth. “Nor am I a prostitute.”

  Just then a loud shot rang out, followed by another, which hit the side of the wagon. Etienne and Cain ducked, pushing her down into the well of the seat. In delayed shock, Harriet felt the pain in her shoulder. Glancing to the side, she saw blood beginning to run down in rivulets, marring her beautiful gown.

  She moaned, drawing Etienne’s attention.

  He inhaled sharply as he took in her condition. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her from the wagon and began running down the crowded sidewalks. Cain grabbed Etienne’s satchel, his medical bag and her briefcase from the wagon bed and soon caught up.

  Several shots followed, and Harriet heard some women scream and men shout in outrage at the men who chased after them.

  In and out of the crowded streets, through some private courtyards, in the front door and out the back of a busy mercantile they ran, never stopping as they headed out of the French Quarter. Harriet had a stitch in her side, her lungs burned, and she’d lost her pretty hat along the way, her hair flying every which way. But she didn’t care, being too concerned about the wound in her shoulder and the danger closing in on them.

  Ultimately, they stopped behind a distillery, which reeked of heavy spirits and other unpleasant smells. Slumping against the wall, all three of them panted heavily, especially Cain, whose bruised ribs must have been killing him.

  Regaining his breath, Etienne took her by the upper arms and hunkered down at eye-level, asking, “Are you all right?” Somehow, he’d managed to retain his spectacles, and the center part in his hair was arrow-straight.

  “Yes,” she said, barely able to get the word past her heaving chest. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it were lodged in her throat.

  Taking hold of the rounded neckline of her gown, Etienne tore it to the left, exposing her wounded shoulder. She gasped, then cried out in pain when he used a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away some of the blood.

  Cain stepped forward and took the cloth from Etienne’s hand. Wielding it in a more gentle, doctorly manner, he cleaned her off, examining the area thoroughly.

  “How bad?” Etienne asked with surprising tenderness.

  “The bullet creased the skin. Nothing serious. Won’t even need stitches.”

  Etienne ran his hand over his mouth distractedly. “We’ve got to get out of the city, go into hiding for a few days.”

  “Bayou Noir?” Cain inquired as he took his own handkerchief and made a makeshift bandage around her shoulder, tying it under her armpit.

  “Probably. But we have to find a room in the city for tonight. Pope’s men will be watching the outskirts like vultures.” Making a decision, Etienne grabbed his satchel and took her uninjured arm, yanking her in the opposite direction from which they’d come. Cain picked up his bag and her briefcase.

  Harriet wasn’t sure she should be moving so far away from the train, her vehicle of time-travel. Digging in her heels, she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Simone’s Sporting House,” Etienne replied. “It’s as good a place as any to hide out for the night. Perhaps Abel will catch up to us by morning.”

  “An athletic club? Now? You haven’t had enough exercise today?”

  “Huh?” they both said. Then Etienne laughed. “Simone operates a…uh, parlor house.”

  “Oh, you two are incredible. You’re going to a house of prostitution,” she accused.

  “Yes.” Etienne admitted with no shame whatsoever.

  “Uh-uh! You can drop me off right here. I’m going back to the train station.”

  “I beg to differ, mam’zelle. You’re coming along with us,” Etienne told her. “I still want to know who sent you.”

  “Well, it should be obvious to you now that I’m not in cahoots with that Pope guy. I’ve been shot, for heaven’s sake.”

  “They were aiming at me and Cain, not you.”

  “Well, I’m not going to some…cathouse.”

  Etienne cast a sidelong glance of amusement at her choice of words, maneuvering her along by the waist now. His lips were way too close to hers when he whispered, “And maybe we’ll find a good use for that mouth of yours yet in the right setting.”

  Red-faced, she clamped her lips shut tight, irritated with the laughter rippling from the two lugs at her sides.

  “I still think you should check out her tongue,” Cain said as they continued walking, skirting in and out of alleys and courtyards, obviously well acquainted with the back-ways of the old city.

  “I did, And she does have a cat tongue. Really. You can just imagine the attraction she would be for Simone.”

  “The most popular bordello in the south,” Cain supplied.

  Harriet stared straight ahead, refusing to rise to their teasing. At least, she hoped they were teasing.

  Then she thought of something else. “Steve Morgan took Ginny to a brothel in Sweet Savage Love. Against her will. And he was hiding out, too.”

  Etienne groaned. “Sacrebleu! The book again!”

  “Hmmm. You know”—she returned her gaze to Etienne—“I’m beginning to think, more and more, that I’m here because of that book and that blasted dream. And you.”

  Etienne groaned louder. “The dream aga
in!”

  “Really. Think about it, Etienne. Maybe it’s a reincarnation kind of thing. Destiny. Fate.”

  He responded with a terse one-word expletive.

  “What did you and Etienne…I mean, this Steve and Ginny…do in that bordello?” a confused Cain asked, huffing along beside them.

  “Yes, what did we do?” Etienne chimed in. He tucked her in even closer to his side, his right hand riding high above her waist, almost to the underside of her breast.

  Oh. my God! Forbidden images of her sexual fantasies flickered through her mind at his insinuating question. She lifted her chin and declined to answer, unable to decide whether she was more embarrassed by the picture in her head of all the outrageous things she’d done with this brute in her dreams, or by the outrageous things she’d like to do.

  Etienne and Cain burst out laughing.

  Simone’s house of ill repute was a camelback mansion of gaudy splendor—two stories in the front rising to four in the back—located in New Orleans’s red-light district, aptly named for the ruby glass or red lanterns hanging on each building’s front.

  They entered clandestinely by the rear door, bypassing a young stable hand who recognized them.

  Harriet thought briefly about escaping from her “captors,” but where would she go? No, it was better to wait things out. Especially if she had two months to wait until her time “hole” opened up again, as she suspected.

  They strolled through the kitchen, walking by the startled cook and maid, who were peeling shrimp on a wide oak table. Obviously knowing their way around, the two men led her into a pristine, walnut-paneled hall whose fine Brussels carpeting cushioned their steps. The air held the scent of talcum powder, freshly ironed linens, liquor, and an indefinable something, which Harriet quickly recognized as sex.

  “Mon cher!” exclaimed a tall, slim woman with auburn hair piled into a knot atop her head. She rushed through the sliding wood doors of a parlor and into Etienne’s open arms, hugging him warmly.

  “Simone, chérie!” he greeted her as he whirled her in a circle.

  Unlike the hardened soiled doves Harriet had expected to meet in a brothel, Simone could pass for a well-bred Creole virgin…pure as the driven snow. Well, more like pure as the driven slush, Harriet quipped to herself. The woman’s long black skirt and high-necked, white blouse was more what Harriet would have expected of a schoolmarm, not a madam. But her large breasts and slim waist, prominent in the close-fitting garments, would be an asset in her line of work, Harriet observed, perhaps unkindly.