by Danice Allen
Just when Anne thought she couldn’t possibly feel more blue-deviled, a cloud snuffed out the sun. She looked up and saw that, as so frequently occurred in New Orleans, a storm was brewing. But Anne didn’t really mind, because the sudden showers usually lasted only a short while.
“Would you mind if I wandered around a bit, Aunt Katherine?” said Anne, feeling the need for private reflection.
Katherine spoke over her shoulder, not looking at her or Reggie. “Oh, do, Anne! The cemetery is beautiful this time of year. Why don’t you go, too, Reginald?”
Reggie cleared his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind, Katherine, I noticed a few weeds around the lee side of … er … Nathaniel’s tomb, and I thought I might pull them.”
Katherine’s busy hands stilled for a minute, but she didn’t turn around. It was a good thing she didn’t, because Reggie’s face was so red, it was obvious he’d rather not be looked at just then. “If you’d like, Reginald. The whitewashing took me so long the other day that I worked till dusk. I’m sure I missed a few weeds when I tidied up.”
“Certainly … understandable, of course,” mumbled Reggie. “I’ll just lay down these flowers…”
Anne laid her flowers on the ground beside Reggie’s bunch, kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and walked away. She knew that, despite the barbed comments exchanged between her aunt and uncle, they felt an underlying mutual respect. And today they’d actually shown their tender sides to each other. Anne was sure they’d still argue, but she felt as though a threshold had been crossed. Maybe now they’d allow themselves the luxury of an occasional lapse of animosity and actually enjoy each other’s company. Or at least tolerate each other!
The sun was dodging in and out of the clouds. Anne was in shadow one minute, in bright golden sunshine the next. She strolled leisurely through the cemetery, skirting the edge of the Negro burial grounds. She wanted to go in and read the inscriptions, but she was afraid she’d be thought of as an intruder by the black people inside who were visiting the last resting places of their loved ones.
Finally she was in the Catholic section. Here the tombs were the largest and closest together, the flowers the most profuse. But very few people were about; as Katherine had predicted, most of them were attending Mass.
In the oldest parts of the cemetery, the tombs were so high and so close together that walking through them was like passing through the narrowest of alleys. Her visibility was limited. She heard voices without seeing who was talking, like disembodied whispers drifting from another plane of existence. This fanciful idea was dispelled when someone, quite solidly mortal, now and then appeared from behind a tomb when she least expected it.
She imagined that after dark the cemeteries could be very efficacious for committing crimes, or for romantic trysts. Even in broad daylight, especially when the sun was behind a cloud—as now—she sensed an aura of mystery and secrecy about the place. She remembered her aunt’s joking remarks about bogeys and voodoo, and a chill went through her. She was being silly, of course, but still—
“Oh!” Suddenly Anne was face to face with a gray waistcoat. Someone had come around the comer of a tomb at a very fast pace. She was surprised they’d avoided a painful and embarrassing collision. She looked up—way up—and stared at the most attractive black man she’d ever seen.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, stepping to the side and tipping his elegant beaver hat. He smiled briefly, his light gray-green eyes flashing in the sunlight that had just reappeared. “Are you all right?”
She smiled back. “Yes, quite. I was just a little startled.” He was backing away, still looking at her. She thought she saw a spark of admiration in his expression, and it pleased her. “You seem to be in a hurry, so don’t worry about me. Go on about your business. I’m sure it’s important.”
“Oui, mademoiselle, it is.” He smiled, tipped his hat again, and walked quickly away. His skin was a light copper color, and, judging by his smart suit of clothes, she assumed he was a gens de couleur. His accent was cultured, and his bearing was professional. He was obviously educated. She watched him until he made a turn and disappeared.
She continued her walk, but stopped when she thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure down another alley between tombs. She backed up, held on to the cold marble edge of a tomb, and peered around the comer to see.
It was Delacroix. He was dressed in riding clothes: a black jacket, white jodhpurs, and tall black boots. A plain white shirt and stock completed the outfit to elegant perfection. His several rings winked in the sun that had just crept out from behind a cloud.
But Anne had no intention of creeping out from behind her hiding place. She found Delacroix fascinating, and this was an opportunity to watch him while she remained unobserved. She’d tried many times to analyze her interest in Delacroix and why he made her feel slightly off-balance whenever he happened to be nearby, but she’d never come to a logical or satisfying conclusion.
The fascination he held for her was all the more confusing because she disapproved of him and everything he stood for. He was an infuriating flirt without a serious thought in his head. However, he wasn’t without wit, so there had to be quite a lot going on inside that handsome head of his. But what? He was nothing like the kind of man she’d come to America to find. He was a … curiosity. Yes, a curiosity. That must be it. That must be why she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
He was leaning against a tomb, his arms folded over his chest, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was hatless, and his hair was a wind-blown riot of black waves, glistening in the sunlight. His head rested against the tomb, his face was tilted to the sky, and his eyes were closed.
Anne was reminded of the way he’d looked that night at the opera when he’d thrown back his head and laughed at her sarcastic retort about wishing to be the Creole ideal of womanhood. He’d exuded a kind of vital, masculine energy, and the memory of it had come unbidden to Anne’s mind many times over the past weeks. But the memory came with some pain attached to it as well. He’d left her rudely, with a woman on each arm and another one practically hanging on to his coattail.
Her eyelids drooped slightly as she continued to stare. The sun beat down on her shoulders, making her feel lazy and contented and a little … sensual. The smell of flowers filled the humid air. She leisurely perused his form from head to toe. It wasn’t quite fair for one mortal man to possess so many perfect physical parts…
He moved, and she ducked behind the tomb, resting her hot cheek against the cold stone. Her breathing was strangely quickened. She closed her eyes, gathering her composure. She was just embarrassed, she told herself. Embarrassed to be sneaking looks at a scandalous rogue—
“Mademoiselle Weston! Fancy meeting you here.”
Anne opened her eyes and pushed away from the tomb, standing ramrod straight. She snatched one quick look at his face and was afraid she saw amusement dancing in the depths of his black eyes. Because she feared to look again lest her suspicions be confirmed—that he knew she had been watching him and found the fact humorous—her distracted gaze darted everywhere.
“I … I’m here with my aunt and uncle. She’s decorating the tombs of her three husbands.”
“Ah, yes.” There was a pause. “But aren’t they buried in the Protestant section?”
“Yes. But I thought I’d look around a little, you know.”
He stepped closer. Anne could feel his gaze raking her face, and her temperature rose another degree. “Perhaps you overdid it?”
Her eyes flicked to meet his. “Wh—what do you mean?”
He smiled. “You were leaning against the tomb with your eyes closed.” He raised a hand and lightly traced his forefinger along the curve of her cheek. “Your face is flushed, and your beautiful eyes look a little feverish. Though it is November, the autumn here in New Orleans is much different than where you come from, n’est-ce pas? You must be very hot.”
“Yes, I am a lit
tle worn down by the heat,” she exclaimed too quickly, happy to be supplied with an explanation for her blushing embarrassment and unusual posture when he found her. Trouble was, as long as he continued to stand so close and to touch her so tenderly, she’d never recover from the “heat.” Why was he being so kind? she wondered. She glanced around again, half-expecting a dozen of his female fans to come out from behind the surrounding tombs.
“You must sit down.” He reached out and caught her elbow. “Come with me.”
Anne’s heart leaped into her throat. “Come with you? Where to?”
He laughed softly, seductively. “Don’t be alarmed, ma petite. Come … just around the corner.” He led her along with a gentle, supportive hand. Anne could hardly reconcile this courteous gentleman with the careless cad from the opera. “My family’s plot is close by, and there’s a bench you can sit on. It’s in the shade where you can cool off.”
“My aunt will miss me.”
“Don’t you mean your unde? It doesn’t strike me that Madame Grimms is much of a worrier, but your uncle is another matter.”
Anne gave a nervous laugh. “Too true. Uncle Reggie does worry about me. All the more reason why I ought to go back.”
“But if you collapsed on the way, I’d never forgive myself. Here. Just sit and rest for a spell. Then I’ll escort you back to the heathen section of the cemetery myself.”
Anne laughed and sat. “You’re very kind.”
He sat down beside her, crossed his legs, and casually draped one arm over his knee. Anne found herself admiring his legs again, and his hands—rings and all. He wore an enormous emerald on his left hand that was probably worth half her dowry.
Desperate for something to talk about, she blurted, “Why aren’t you at Mass?”
He smiled. He had begun to play with his emerald ring, turning it around and around his finger. The movement was oddly arousing. She looked away. “Dear Mademoiselle Weston, can you really picture a rogue like me in church?”
She could picture him there, all right … surrounded by women. She pushed the thought away and said, “You went riding instead?”
“Oui. Do you ride, cher?”
“I did in England, but I haven’t here.”
“Ah, you would love to ride on Bocage. There are acres and acres of lush green fields along the river.”
She nervously smoothed her skirt with a damp palm. He couldn’t actually be inviting her to go riding with him, could he? “I … I’m sadly out of practice, I’m afraid.”
“We have a poky old mare you could ride—”
She laughed. “I’m not that out of practice!”
He joined in her laughter. “I did not think so. And I have just the mount for you. A perfect match. A young filly with a light step and a long blond mane. She is frisky and is always tossing her head.”
Although she was still rather uncomfortably warm, Anne was beginning to enjoy herself. “Are you implying that I am frisky, Mr. Delacroix?”
“Oui.”
“And that I toss my head about like your horse?”
“You lift your small chin in a defiant pose, which is most alluring. Both you and my golden filly are haughty, beautiful creatures.”
Anne shook her head, smiling ruefully. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” And I’ll bet they’re just as ridiculously charmed as I am.
Delacroix smiled and shrugged, leaving her to wonder.
“What kind of horse do you ride, Mr. Delacroix?”
“A black steed.”
“To match your eyes?” She blushed, immediately sorry she’d mentioned his eyes. It seemed too intimate a comment.
Those black eyes gleamed with mischief when he answered, “No, to match my wicked soul, cher.”
“I don’t believe you’re as wicked as you pretend.”
His smile faltered for a moment, then returned just as broad. “You think I’m pretending?” he asked her in a low, provocative tone. “Shall I prove it? Shall I show you how wicked I am?”
Up shot her temperature again. She laughed nervously. “You are a scoundrel, Mr. Delacroix, teasing me so! But I must remark on the fact that while you didn’t attend Mass, you are still here at the cemetery on All Saints’ Day. You must feel some reverence for the religious holiday.”
She felt him shift on the bench, his arm grazing her shoulder, his thigh stirring her skirt. His mood shifted, too.
“I’ve five brothers buried here. I’m the oldest child, and, even though it was years ago, I remember each of them as clearly as if we’d just tumbled on the grass together yesterday, playing soldiers.”
Anne’s sympathy was instantly stirred. “I’m sorry, Mr. Delacroix.”
“Merci.”
“Do you mind my asking—no, never mind.”
“It’s all right. It’s natural that you’d be curious. They all died within a week of one another in a yellow fever outbreak. My parents were devastated. I just barely survived.”
“Are you the only child left, then?”
“No, I have five sisters and one brother. They are considerably younger than I am because they were all born after the others died.”
Anne shook her head, hardly capable of imagining the pain everyone involved must have endured, and then the courage it took to start another family. “Your mother must be a strong woman. I don’t know if I could bear losing so many children like that, especially all at once, and then go on and have more.”
“Not all Creoles are as frivolous as I am, you know. With her limited experience, and within her limited sphere of influence, my mother is strong, loyal, and loving.”
Anne felt the heat suffusing her cheeks again. “You are gently chastising me for my mocking comment that night at the opera, my implication that I do not admire Creole women and would never want to emulate them. I was wrong to lump them all together.” Anne smiled sheepishly. “I fancy myself so fair and unprejudiced, then I say something so bigoted.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, we all make mistakes. In our dealings with people, we so often find that there is more than meets the eye.”
It was suddenly overcast again and had started to sprinkle lightly. Anne hardly noticed, because she was staring at Delacroix, dwelling on his last words. At last she said, “I quite agree with you, Mr. Delacroix. For example, you present yourself to the world as a frippery sort of fellow, but there seems to be much more beneath your light facade.”
He laughed harshly. The sound was unexpected, intrusive. He stood up and extended his hand. “Are you rested, mademoiselle?” His arrogant drawl was back in full force. “It begins to rain. Besides, I should not wish for your uncle to think I’d absconded with his niece. I haven’t dueled in a fortnight, and I don’t wish to interrupt such a long stretch of good conduct. I promised my mother, you see.”
“I’m quite rested,” she replied stiffly, offended again. It seemed Dandy Delacroix’s moods were mercurial, and the man’s character too complicated to understand. She took his hand and stood up, but when she tried to pull free, he held fast. Then, with a little tug, he had her next to him, face to face, with only inches between them.
“Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Delacroix?” she mumbled, her gaze resting on the sly slant of his finely molded lips.
“I’m thinking of proving to you that I am, indeed, quite wicked, mademoiselle. I only promised my mother that I wouldn’t duel. I never said I’d refrain from seducing frisky females in the cemetery.”
Anne felt mesmerized. She watched as he bent his head and his lips drew closer, then curved in a rueful smile.
“It is customary to close one’s eyes when one is about to be kissed,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes. But instead of the warmth of Delacroix’s lips, Anne felt the first cool drops of rain. An instant later it was storming in earnest, large drops of water felling in buckets.
“Lucky girl,” he murmured. “Saved by Providence on All Saints’ Day.” Then he hur
ried Anne along, back toward the Protestant section of the cemetery and the shelter of her aunt’s closed carriage. Dazed and bemused, Anne moved like someone in a dream. Later, much later, she would try to understand what had happened, and why she’d almost let him kiss her…
Chapter 7
“In England a woman of quality would never send her niece out on a shopping errand,” grumbled Reggie, trailing Anne closely as she meandered through the stalls of the marketplace with a large basket dangling from her elbow. “That’s what servants are paid for, for heaven’s sake.”
Anne bent to examine a bunch of plump purple grapes. “Everyone comes to the market,” she said, paying for the grapes and placing them in the basket. “That’s probably one reason why I enjoy running these little errands for Aunt Katherine. At the market all races and social classes mix harmoniously.”
“I don’t know how you can describe a place with so much discordant noise as being harmonious,” argued Reggie, waving away a grinning mulatto boy who was hawking brass bracelets he’d cleverly displayed by adorning his own thin arms.
Feeling festive and hoping to improve her uncle’s disgruntled mood, Anne stopped a pretty girl who was selling boutonnières and bought one for Reggie. It was a tiny bouquet of Spanish jasmine, carnations, and violets.
“Here, hold my basket, Uncle.”
“I’m happy to take your basket. I’ve been wanting to carry it for you all afternoon. But you’re as stubborn as your aunt—what’s this? What are you doing, Anne?”
“I’m pinning this boutonnière to your lapel. Perhaps the beauty of it and its sweet smell will lighten your mood!” Having completed her task, she patted her uncle’s arm and smiled up into his face. He was peering skeptically down his nose at the cluster of flowers, but even as Anne watched, his expression softened. He lifted the lapel and inspected the boutonnière closely. “Humph! They are rather lovely, aren’t they?”
“Yes, you gruff old goat. Now smile for me, please.”
Reggie tried hard to be uncooperative, but eventually a smile emerged from beneath his large mustache. He pinched her chin. “You’re a minx, Anne. But if you really want my mood to improve, might I suggest we find a place to sit down? My feet are killing me.”
