"Angie needs to go fetch her things," I continued. "She's going to move into the extra room upstairs. I'd like for you to take her in the carriage and go inside with her. It might be a bit uncomfortable."
"Not bloody likely!" Angie cried. "Don Rodriego will take one look at 'im and crawl under the bed. Are you sure it's safe for me to go traipsin' off with him? I've been raped before, but never by anything this size! I'm not sure I wouldn't take my chances with Rodriego's wrath."
Kyle's dark eyes hardened with disdain, and his wide mouth curled contemptuously at one corner, but he still made no comment. Instead he fetched his jacket, put it on, and held the front door open for her. Angie winked at me, emitted a delighted titter, and sashayed out with high heels tapping and ruffled skirt swishing noisily. Kyle followed her out like a sober martyr. I rather fancied that he had met his match.
Three hours later I was in my room getting ready to dress for the evening when Jeff came sauntering in. I was in my petticoat, but he was already elegantly attired in a dark-brown frock coat, matching trousers, and a rather dashing vest of dark-orange satin embroidered with leaves in brown silk. His boots were polished to a glossy sheen, his hair neatly brushed. Curiously enough, the dandified attire emphasized his masculinity instead of detracting from it. I stepped over to adjust his brown silk cravat.
"You look quite handsome tonight," I remarked.
"Don't I always?"
"Always," I agreed.
"You're a lucky wench," he teased. "You look pretty damned fetchin' in that petticoat, too. If it hadn't taken me so long to get into these fancy duds, I'd get right out of 'em and give you a treat."
"Oh? That would be a change."
"Hey, do I detect a note of resentment? An important chap like me can't spend all his time pleasin' the ladies. I know I haven't come visitin' your bedroom for the past few nights, but... uh... I've been busy."
"Indeed," I said dryly, moving over to the dressing table.
I sat down in front of the mirror. Jeff stepped over to stand behind me, resting his hands on my bare shoulders, peering at me in the glass. I picked up a sable brush, dipped it into a pot of rouge, and began to brush a faint suggestion of pink on my cheekbones. He watched, his fingers gently squeezing my flesh. I put down the brush, picked up the powder puff, and began to powder my face. Jeff continued to watch, and I tried to ignore him. It wasn't easy.
"You're not mad, are you?" he asked.
"Of course not."
"I'll be gone for a while tonight. Won't be missed. That's the nice thing about the place. It almost runs itself, no need for me to hang around all the time."
I put down the powder puff. "No need at all."
"Fellow can take a night off every now and then, take care of business, see his old friends once in a while."
I brushed my lids with light mauve shadow and applied a touch of cinnamon-brown paste to lashes and brows with a tiny brush. Jeff's fingers dug into my shoulders, not gentle, not quite hurting.
"You know, I wish I could believe you really were jealous. I don't know why I even bother looking at another woman when I have someone like you right here at my fingertips. It's just—"
"You don't owe me any explanations, Jeff."
"You could stop it. You could put an end to it once and for all. With two words—'I will.'"
I did not reply. He was frowning now, his brown eyes dark. He let go of me and stepped over to the table to pour himself a brandy from the crystal decanter. I touched up my lips with coral, patted my hair back in place and got up, moving over to the wardrobe to take down my dress, pale-yellow silk, the skirt aglitter with flowers embroidered in silver and gold. Jeff gazed into his glass of brandy, still frowning.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," I said quietly. "I told you in the beginning I wouldn't marry you. I appreciate everything you've done for me. You know that. You're very dear to me. You know that, too. Any time you want me to leave I'll—"
"Don't talk nonsense!" he said harshly. "You know I don't want you to leave."
I slipped into the dress, sure his bad humor would pass, as it always did. These moods came over him rarely, but when they did they usually resulted in some noisy brawl on the waterfront with the rowdy companions he still saw regularly. He would drink himself silly, come staggering home in the middle of the night, and feel wretched and apologetic the next day. And I would feel terribly guilty, knowing I was to blame, yet unable to do the one thing that would prevent these periodic outbursts. I would sit by the bed and bathe his temples with a cloth dipped in cologne, and I would smile and gently scold and reassure him of my affection in a thousand little ways, giving him affection when he wanted undying love.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to bark like that."
He downed the brandy and set the empty glass down.
"Jeff, promise me you won't drink too much."
"Fellow needs to loosen up once in a while."
"I always worry about you."
He lifted a brow. "Really?"
"You know I do."
"I guess that's one consolation," he said wearily.
I finished fastening the dress and stepped back from the full-length mirror to adjust the puffed sleeves that fell off the shoulder. The yellow went extremely well with my auburn hair, gleaming with coppery highlights in the bright glow of the candles. Satisfied, I turned away from the glass, deciding not to wear the diamonds tonight.
"How's your little friend doin'? She get moved in all right?"
I nodded. "She's downstairs at one of the tables right now. Frank and George were supposed to be giving her instructions, showing her how to deal. There was a huge pile of chips in front of her. Frank and George both looked a bit perturbed."
He grinned at that. "I like her. She oughta work out just fine."
"I'm a bit worried about Kyle," I remarked.
"He scare her?"
"Not at all. I think she scares him. She was cocky and insulting when they first met, and when they came back she had him carrying her things up like he was her own personal lackey, bossing him about outrageously. Kyle looked thunderous."
Jeff chuckled. "It's about time someone shook Kyle up a bit. Chap's much too gloomy. Well... uh... I reckon I'd better get goin'. I don't know when I'll be back. You behave yourself while I'm gone, hear?"
"You behave, too."
"Not much chance of that," he said jauntily.
He left then, and I sighed. He would pay a call on Corinne, would make love to her and feel manly and strong as she yielded, and then he would join his gang of friends and they would make a round of the taverns. He had done it innumerable times in the past... why should I be so concerned now? It wasn't just Jeff, I realized. Standing there in the middle of the beautifully appointed room, the soft candlelight causing my skirt to shimmer, I realized it was something more. Although I couldn't determine the reason, I was curiously disturbed. It was... it was almost as though I had a premonition. Something was going to happen. I could feel it in my bones.
Nonsense, I told myself. I was tired. It had been an unusually stimulating day, what with meeting Angie and talking so much about the past. I had been thinking of Derek a lot, and that was never good. Picking up my fan of yellow ostrich feathers, I left the room and walked down the hallway to the white marble staircase. As I started down, Kyle was just admitting the first customers. They were laughing, ready to have a good time. One of them saw me on the stairs. I smiled, the beautiful hostess, beautifully gowned, but try though I might I couldn't shake the feeling that something catastrophic was going to happen... quite soon.
CHAPTER 22
Lucille examined the sketch and knitted her brow in disapproval, immediately suggesting a bow here, a row of ruffles there, but I was adamant. She threw her hands in the air and then scrutinizing the sketch again, she finally began to nod vigorously.
"Yes, yes, I see. I see! The simplicity—it's cunning! The gown shall be cloth of gold—it'll cost you the earth, you know—and with all that gold you d
on't need the ruffles, the bows. You're a genius, Marietta! It will be the most stunning gown I've ever made."
"The skirt must be very, very full," I reminded her, "like a great golden bell, the sleeves narrow, off the shoulder, just as I've indicated in the sketch."
Lucille nodded briskly. I was her only customer this afternoon. Her assistants were in the cutting room, unpacking bolts of cloth and gossiping like merry magpies. Gray hair piled atop her head in a mass threatening to spill down at any second; thin, sharp face heavily rouged, she was a spry, brisk, frequently dictatorial creature in her late fifties who had devoted her life to the creation of beautiful gowns. She invariably wore a long-sleeved, high-necked black taffeta dress and dangling garnet earrings. She smoked thin black cigars, an eccentric habit her more respectable customers found utterly shocking.
She lighted one now, exhaling plumes of smoke, flicking ashes into a white porcelain saucer she kept on top of the counter.
"I only hope you never open a shop of your own," she exclaimed, peering at the sketch once more. "You'd soon run me out of business! Most of my customers have no idea what they want—you always bring a sketch, never let me do anything but run up the gown you've already designed. You have a genius for it. I mean that sincerely. There's not a woman in New Orleans so splendidly dressed, and the gowns are all your own creation. I'm surprised you even let me make them for you."
"If I had time to sew, I probably wouldn't," I admitted. "I'm quite good with a needle."
Lucille threw up her hands again, wispy strands of gray hair slipping down over her brow. "It's a waste! A shocking waste! You should be doing it for a living—though I hope you never decide to. Playing cards in a gambling house! A shocking waste," she repeated. "If only you'd been born pinched and plain like me. You'd have had to put your genius to use. The cloth has already arrived—" Lucille's conversation darted hither and yon with abrupt changes of subject that frequently dismayed those not used to her. "Do you want to see it?"
I nodded. Lucille gripped the cigar in the corner of her mouth, clapped her hands and, when one of the girls hurried out, instructed her to bring out the cloth of gold. When it came, Lucille draped a swath across the counter. It shimmered richly, gleaming like molten gold liquid. Lucille flicked an ash in the general direction of the saucer.
"All the way from Paris," she informed me. "That's a secret, by the way. God knows what I'd do if it weren't for Valjean and his crew! My very best goods are smuggled in through the bayous in the dead of night. They're our salvation, these smugglers. New Orleans would be lost without them. Of course, the Spanish are livid, but there's nothing they can do about it. Valjean and his ilk are much too clever."
"If it weren't for smuggled goods, half the shops in the city would be empty of merchandise," I said, "and the wine cellars would be empty, too. Jeff gets a monthly consignment of bottles. The men always come in the middle of the night, long after the place has closed."
"Making a fortune, the smugglers are! Charge the earth! I've no doubt they'll own the city one day. Romantic figures, too. The man who delivered this cloth—if I'd been thirty years younger!"
I smiled, knowing she longed to tell me about him. "What did he look like?" I asked.
"Tall," she said, "and ever so grim! The cart pulled up in the back alley—it was well after midnight. I was expecting them, was waiting at the back door with a candle. He stepped out of the shadows wearing a long black cloak and pirate boots. Gave me quite a turn! As cold as an iceberg he was, with windblown raven hair and piercing gray eyes. There was a thin pink scar from his temple to the corner of his mouth, made him even handsomer. Handsome as a lord, that man, and just as aloof. He had two lackeys with him, didn't say a word, just stood there in the alley with his cloak flapping in the wind while his men carried in the bolts of cloth. Acted as though he loathed what he was doing, didn't even count the money when I paid him."
"They're a strange lot," I remarked. "A necessary evil. Are you sure the gown will be ready in time?"
"Positive. Have I ever failed you? You'll wear the diamonds with it, of course?"
I nodded. Lucille sighed and shook her head. More gray hair spilled down, and three or four hairpins clattered to the floor. She put her cigar out, jabbing it viciously into the saucer.
"Such a generous man, that Mr. Rawlins," she said. "He came in just a few days ago—Oh Lord! I shouldn't have—" She looked up at me with distressed black eyes.
"I would imagine he came in with Corrine," I said calmly. "I know you make all her gowns, too."
"That one!" she snapped. "No imagination! It's always pink, pink and more pink! Pink satin, pink velvet, pink silk! She looks marvelous in it, of course, but you'd think—" Lucille waved her thin hands, disgusted. "I don't know what he sees in her."
"She's a very beautiful woman."
"You're so calm about it."
"Jeff will tire of her sooner or later."
"Sooner, I fancy. She's a sullen, moody thing, always pouting, always looking tragic and forlorn. She was in one of her moods when they came in the other day, complaining to him in that husky voice, threatening to kill herself if he—"
"I really don't care to hear about it, Lucille," I interrupted.
"I just babble away, never stop and think. Forgive me, dear. He is a charmer, isn't he? You've very fortunate. I just hope you don't have to sell those diamonds he gave you!"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
Lucille frowned and looked distressed again, and then she lighted another cigar, her thin face suddenly hard, all business.
"The fact is, dear, that he owes me a fortune. Hasn't paid the bill in months. He was always a bit late, of course, but I never actually worried until recently. You see, he's supposed to be paying for all her gowns, too, and what with the bill you run up every month—" She hesitated. "I really shouldn't have mentioned it, I know, but—"
"Give me a copy of the bill," I said. "Both bills, hers and mine. I can assure you they'll be paid tomorrow."
"Oh Lord, you're not angry?" Her distress was genuine.
"Of course not," I said quietly. "I'm embarrassed, Lucille. I had no idea Jeff hadn't been paying you every month. He—he's so busy with all his investments and such. I'm sure he just let it slip his mind."
Lucille stepped into the back room and returned a minute or so later with two long sheets with every purchase neatly itemized. Before folding them up, I glanced at the amount shown at the bottom of each sheet. The total owed was a staggering amount. No wonder Lucille had finally spoken up. I was furious with Jeff for letting the bills go for so long a time.
"Now don't you fret," Lucille told me. "Gentlemen never pay a single bill on time. It's against their principles! I'm not really worried about the money, but... well, I do have to keep the place going."
"I understand. It won't happen again."
"And now we'll just forget it. So unpleasant! Pompadour had a gown made from cloth like this. I didn't make it, of course. My shop was much too humble—never really came into my own until I left France." She began to roll the gleaming material back on the bolt. "Frigid woman, Pompadour. Don't know what the king ever saw in her. She was little more than a procuress, actually, had a whole bevy of nubile young girls ready to keep him amused when he grew bored with her constant chit-chat."
Kyle was waiting for me with the carriage as I stepped outside. Expressionless, silent, he helped me into the seat upholstered in dark-blue leather, then took his place in front, cracked the whip, and drove away. The carriage was open, and I was assailed by the sights, sounds, and smells of New Orleans. We were near the waterfront. I could smell the tar, the oil, the bales of cotton. A short while later we were driving through one of the better residential areas and there was the splash of fountains behind walls, the scent of exotic flowers, the beauty of iron balconies and marvelously designed iron gates.
Kyle let me out in front of Rawlins Palace, then drove on to put the carriage away. I stepped inside, angry with J
eff, determined to speak to him immediately. As I went upstairs, I felt again that curious, subtle feeling of vague alarm I had first experienced over a month ago, the day Angie had arrived. It had never left, really. It had been with me all the while, just beneath the surface. A premonition, I had called it. A month had passed and that catastrophic event hadn't occurred, yet the feeling remained. I tried to tell myself it was pure nonsense, a matter of strained nerves and discontent, but as I walked down the hall to Jeff's office, the sensation of impending doom was stronger than ever.
The office was empty, desktop littered with papers, the smell of whiskey strong. A half-empty bottle sat on a small table beside the desk, glass beside it. Frowning, I stepped to the door of his room and knocked. A merry voice called out, bidding me enter. Jeff was dressing for the evening, tucking the white cambric shirt into the waistband of his snug tan breeches. He looked up and grinned, eyes full of pleasure and delight.
"Just in time," he told me. "I can manage the waistcoat and jacket, but I doubt I can fold my neckcloth properly. Gotta look dandy for th' customers—" His voice was slightly thick, his cheeks flushed.
"You're drunk," I said coldly.
"Aw, not drunk, love, just a mite tipsy. Feelin' good. Man needs to feel good ever now an' then."
"Jeff—"
"Now look!" he interrupted. "I don't want no naggin'. I can drink if I want to. Those bloody accounts—'d take a wizard to keep 'em all straight in 'is head. Figures an' numbers, so much here, so much there—drive a man up the wall. Oughta get a bookkeeper. That's what I oughta do."
"Perhaps you should."
"Acid. I detect acid in your voice. My, my—we're cold an' haughty, ain't we. Just 'cause I had a couple. Come on, love, be a love. Be my gentle, understandin' Marietta."
"I think perhaps I've been too understanding."
"I love you, ya know. That's why I made all them 'vestments, 'cause I love you and wanna be rich, really rich. I get rich enough, you'll marry me an' we'll live happily-ever-after—" The last three words slurred together into one.
Wilde, Jennifer Page 34
