Sweeter Savage Love

by Sandra Hill

  “A person who likes to have sex with dead people,” Harriet explained with a great deal of satisfaction.

  “Really?” Joleen exclaimed. “Mr. Baptiste is one of them?”

  “Really.” Harriet crossed her heart for emphasis. “I know for a fact he was screwing around in a coffin back on the train just a few hours ago.”

  By the look on Joleen’s face, Harriet just knew the word would pass along the whorehouse grapevine faster than the juiciest gossip. The weasel deserved it.

  “Hey, some men feel the need to make love with anything that moves. Then there are those who don’t want to limit themselves.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” Joleen agreed.

  Then, recalling her guard job, Joleen plastered a glower on her face. Once again, she was about to leave.

  “Who are you?” Harriet asked, ambling closer, thinking she might establish a friendship with the woman and thus find a way out of this place.

  “Huh? I’m Joleen. Your man already told you that.” The woman was clearly uneasy standing there talking with her.

  My man? “Are you a…a…” Harriet felt her face redden as she searched for the right word.

  “Hooker?” the woman offered, amused at Harriet’s discomfort. “I usta be, but I ain’t serviced a man, for coin, in more’n five years. Got plum tuckered out durin’ the war. Practically got calluses on my backside.” She chortled at her own jest.

  An ex-hooker? “I didn’t know they used that word now. Hooker, I mean.” Harriet was rambling, trying to distract the woman and ease her way out the still-open doorway.

  “Ain’t you ever heard of General Joe Hooker? Durin’ the war, all the soldiers was huntin’ for a bit of it, but Joe Hooker…he was a real handsome figure of a man…he visited so many of the bawdy houses in Nawleans, they renamed it Hooker’s Division. Hee, hee, hee! An’ they named us gals after ’im.” Joleen laughed heartily in remembrance, then proceeded to describe in graphic detail the size of the general’s equipment, and she didn’t mean his cannon. She probably hoped to shock Harriet.

  Instead, Harriet informed her, “You know, a man’s virility is not commensurate with the size of his bodily appendages.”

  Joleen gaped at her, then chuckled, “Well, tarnation, don’t I know that better’n most.”

  With a grin, Harriet asked, “Do you know what men and snowstorms have in common? You never know how many inches you’re going to get or how long it will last.”

  Joleen slapped her knee with a whoop of appreciation. “Best time I ever had was with a private that had a pecker the size of my thumb, ’ceptin’ when it got to salutin’. Whooee!”

  Harriet was having second thoughts about having encouraged Joleen with a dirty joke.

  “But General Hooker, he was a different can of beans all t’gether. Yessiree, he was built like a stud bull.”

  This was all very enlightening, but Harriet was more interested in the other stud. The one who ordered her about as if she were a real captive. They’d come a long way from forceful seduction. All she’d gotten from him lately was force. “Can I at least take a bath?” she asked with a sigh. “You could stand guard outside the bathroom door.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Joleen hesitated.

  “I promise I won’t escape…while I’m in the tub anyhow.”

  “Girly, you ain’t gonna escape nohow while I’m watchin’ over you. And Mr. Baptiste didn’t say nuthin’ about no baths.”

  “He didn’t say I couldn’t have a bath either,” she coaxed.

  “Well, you do smell like an old sock.”

  While they walked to the end of the corridor where the bathing chamber was located, Harriet regaled the seasoned whore with graphic details of all the distasteful things Etienne liked to do with female cadavers. Harriet never knew she had a talent for obscenity. Until now.

  Harriet leaned her head back against the rim of a deep copper tub encased in a magnificent mahogany cabinet. The scent of gardenias filled the air from the huge dollop of bath oil she’d dumped in the warm water.

  It wasn’t the double tub Simone had offered. Harriet doubted that one existed, realizing belatedly that a woodpaneled, brass-fixtured bathing room such as this would be a luxury in itself for this time period. Simone and Etienne had been teasing her, she concluded now.

  Now that she was relaxed, she had time to think, and wonder what had brought her to this incredible juncture in her life. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to understand.

  These were the facts: She was in the year 1870. Time-travel of some sort had taken place.

  But how? Could the train derailment have resulted in a more serious accident than she’d perceived? Perhaps she’d died instantly. Could this be a form of reverse reincarnation?

  And why? There was no scientific explanation for time-travel. But Harriet did believe in miracles. Maybe some heavenly being had brought her here for a purpose.

  Etienne! she concluded with sudden insight. He must need me. God must have sent me here to help Etienne. She bit her bottom lip as an unbidden idea wormed its way into her head. Or do I need him? Now that was a thought to give her nightmares.

  No logical answers were forthcoming.

  Harriet had been in worse fixes before in her life—well, not worse, but bad—and she was confident that her intelligence and determination would pull her through this one, too. It was important that she put a positive spin on this experience.

  So Harriet let her tense muscles loosen in the warm water. Perhaps she’d take a short nap when she got back to her hooker-heaven bedroom, to further energize her for Etienne’s “torture” to come. She had a feeling it would be of a sexual nature.

  Suddenly, the water felt a lot hotter.

  By late afternoon, Harriet paced angrily across the opulent bedroom. A prison, really, since the door was locked and there was a guard outside in the hall.

  Her full-length silk wrapper swished about her legs as she stormed back and forth, muttering livid imprecations against the domineering man responsible for her dire straits. The only people she’d spoken to for the past four hours had been Joleen and the young maid, Charity, who’d brought her a meal hours ago—a delicious shrimp gumbo with homemade bread and butter, sweet, crisp pralines for dessert, and a glass of buttermilk. Neither woman would answer her questions, or listen to her lecture on the perils of the most degrading profession in the world.

  “How many men do you…uh, service in one night?” Harriet had asked.

  Charity had shrugged. “Five. Once I did eight, but that was ’cause it was Mardi Gras. All the Creole men gets a bit of religion during Lent. So I guess they was storin’ up.” She grinned at Harriet.

  Harriet hadn’t been amused. “You women need a good union.”

  Joleen had told her she needed a good something else.

  “Well, I never—”

  “That’s for certain! Too bad General Hooker’s not around anymore. He could have done the job good and proper.”

  Charity had come back one other time, at Etienne’s instruction, to clean their clothing. The only response Harriet had been able to get out of the timid girl then was a gasp when she told her about Etienne being a necrophiliac.

  Later Harriet realized she was left practically naked, with only the thin, belted gown for covering. Just like Ginny in Sweet Savage Love, she thought. Except that Steve Morgan had locked Ginny in a brothel, totally naked, so that he could have his carnal way with her. Thus far, Harriet’s version of good ol’ Steve hadn’t exhibited all that much interest in her, carnal or otherwise. Except to accuse her of being a spy. Harriet the Spy! Golly! If she were really a spy, she’d have figured out this whole mess by now and been on her way home.

  Where was Etienne?

  Harriet wasn’t used to idleness, and her lack of physical or mental activity was driving her crazy. On her fiftieth loop of the room, she noticed her briefcase and his satchel. Okay, master spy, time to test your James Bond talents.

  Sinking to th
e floor, Harriet opened Etienne’s satchel and began to rummage through the contents. Some clothing, a man’s blond wig and mustache, her panty hose, ammunition, a leather pouch holding some primitive condoms, a velvet case the size of a deck of cards, and a small book called French Letters—a Bible. A Bible?

  Harriet sat back on her heels and opened the miniature Bible. On the flyleaf, in flourishing script, was written, To Etienne. God be with you. Love, Papa. December, 1861.

  Well, well, well. The lout had a father. He must have given him the Bible when Etienne went off to fight in the Civil War. Harriet felt a peculiar sadness as she held the well-worn book in her palm, caressing its cover.

  She put the Bible down and picked up the velvet case. Pressing the tiny catch on the side, she opened it to see a trifold frame, holding three sepia-toned photographs.

  One was of a man and woman, standing before a California-style ranch of the previous century. The man was an older version of Etienne, dark and broodingly handsome. He had his arm wrapped around the waist of a beautiful, brunette woman, also tall, who stared up at him adoringly. The wicked smile on the man’s face as he regarded the woman bespoke humor and great love.

  Harriet’s heart swelled just looking at the photograph, and for some reason, tears filled her eyes. “I want that kind of love someday,” Harriet whispered, and the thought just about floored her. When had she started yearning for love?

  Forever, a voice in her head said.

  Pushing that uncomfortable realization aside, Harriet slipped the picture out of its frame and turned it over. A different handwriting—bold and without fuss—proclaimed, Papa and Selene, Last Chance Ranch, California, 1855.

  She replaced the photo and directed her scrutiny to the next frame. A lovely old plantation home, showing signs of disrepair, stood at the top of a rise, highlighted by an alley of arched oak trees, dripping moss. In the forefront was a bayou stream. The three-story mansion with its wide center staircase had deep, roofed galleries and massive columns. The picture was a poignant vignette of the Old South, and Harriet felt an odd pulling sensation when she gazed at it.

  Home, she thought, and couldn’t explain why the place felt like home to her. She’d always lived in cities. High-rises. Concrete. Crowds. She would never feel comfortable in a war-ravaged place like this. It appeared desolate and neglected.

  And she wished, with all her heart, that it belonged to her. Or rather that she belonged to it.

  The heat must be getting to me.

  Pulling that photo from the frame she read in the same script as that in the Bible, Bayou Noir, 1845.

  Setting the picture aside, Harriet turned to the last one. Eight children and a humongous shaggy dog posed on the porch and steps of the same ranch as in the first photo. The three oldest boys, aged about twelve, stood with arms linked over each other’s shoulders, grinning impishly. It wasn’t hard to identify the two identical black boys as Cain and Abel, and in the center stood Etienne. He was darling, even then showing promise of a sinful handsomeness.

  Next, Harriet studied the remaining, much younger children—two boys and three girls. They ranged in ages from about two to six and resembled Etienne in one way or another, even the smallest blond girl. Harriet smiled at the charming picture. But then she pulled this photo from its frame, too, and almost reeled with shock at what she read: California, 1852. Cain, me, Abel, Rhett, Ashley, Scarlett, Tara, Melanie, and Dreadful.

  Dreadful? Harriet smiled. She just knew that Etienne had dreamed up that name for a dog.

  But how was it possible that someone had given children those Gone With the Wind names in 1852? Something was wrong with this picture. Drastically. Harriet put her fingertips to her forehead and pressed tightly, trying to figure out the puzzle. Margaret Mitchell hadn’t written her famous novel until the 1930s. This photo said 1852. Now, the name Rhett or Scarlett or Ashley or Melanie, even Tara, might have been used in the 1800s, but not all together. That was too much of a coincidence.

  There was something else. Harriet returned to the first photograph and peered closer. The woman looked vaguely familiar. Oh, no! It couldn’t be. Yes, it was. Sandra Selente…the famous model who was known by the single appellation Selene. She’d disappeared suddenly last year during a photo shoot in…oh, geez…New Orleans.

  Goose bumps stood out all over Harriet’s body as she tried to comprehend what she saw before her very eyes. Was it possible…no, it couldn’t be…was it possible that time-travel really could occur? And that she wasn’t the only one who’d traveled back in time?

  It was just too much to take in, and accept.

  Seeking something familiar to anchor her, Harriet turned to her briefcase. Carrying it to the bed, she crawled up onto the high mattress and sat cross-legged in the middle, setting the leather Louis Vuitton attaché case in front of her. It had been a gift to herself on getting her doctorate degree from Stanford three years ago. Turning the combination lock, she flipped it open.

  First, smiling smugly, she took one item out of the briefcase and slid it under the mattress for safekeeping. She’d forgotten about that little bit of insurance she’d stashed away. It might make the difference in her survival here in the past.

  There was another item or two she’d forgotten as well in her briefcase…the two books. When she wanted to convince Etienne that she came from the future, all she would have to do was pull out Sweet Savage Love or Female Fantasies Never Die.

  A short time later, she sat engrossed in mind-numbing work, taking notes, dictating into her recorder. Although she operated intelligently on one level, Harriet knew she was in deep shock.

  “God, help me,” she whimpered more than once. Harriet hadn’t prayed in years, but she did now. “Please, please answer my prayers.”

  She thought she heard a celestial voice in her head say, I already have. Harriet groaned. Because she was really, really afraid that the answer to her prayers had black hair, blue eyes and a killer grin. A mortician-pirate-gunslinger-rogue. Talk about divine justice!

  Chapter Eight

  “So what’re you goin’ to do with your Dr. Ginny?” Cain slurred.

  “My Dr. Ginny?” Etienne peered up over the rim of his glass, and even that effort caused the sweet buzz in his head to intensify. This was only his third glass of absinthe, but it came from Simone’s potent private stock.

  Exhausted from spending the entire afternoon covering their tracks and making plans to leave the city tomorrow, he and Cain sprawled lazily in Simone’s second parlor on the first floor, their long legs propped on a low table. It wasn’t yet time for the evening trade to arrive.

  Cain belched lustily. Disdaining the licorice-flavored liquor, and lacking his usual finesse, he drank straight from a bottle of bourbon.

  They weren’t yet knee-walkin’ drunk, but well on their way. That must have been why Etienne’s thoughts kept returning to the woman upstairs. A dozen willing whores sold their wares in Simone’s house, and he kept picturing the talkingest wench in the South. Naked. Soaking in a tub. Reclining on the big tester bed. Posing in front of the triple mirror. Stretched out on the fainting couch just high enough off the floor for a man to…

  Something else even more alarming nagged at him. All her talk about time-travel. Ridiculous! And yet he found himself asking, “Cain, do you remember that magazine of my stepmother’s we found when we were boys?”

  At first, Cain frowned. Then his face brightened. “You mean the one that had her picture in it? The one with the year 1996 on the cover?” Before Etienne could answer, Cain protested, “Oh, no! Don’t tell me. You’re startin’ to believe that doctor woman’s stories?”

  Etienne felt his face redden. “Of course not.”

  “You don’t sound sure. You’re drinkin’ mash and talkin’ trash, boy. How much you had to drink?”

  “Not as much as you, boy,” Etienne snapped. “And it’s not liquor logic. I wondered about Selene lots of times. She was…well, different.”

  “Different doesn’t mak
e her a time-traveler,” Cain scoffed.

  “Remember those arrow-backs classes she taught the slaves for exercise? And the stories she told us about other planets?”

  “Yes. For a long time, you made everyone call you E. T. after that one nursery-tale character…a visitor from outer space.” Cain grinned in memory. “Did you ever ask Selene?”

  Etienne shook his head.

  “So there! You couldn’t have been too convinced.”

  “You’re right.” Etienne sighed, then took another sip of the Creole liquor. “But I’m wishing now that I’d left Harriet, or Ginny, or whatever the hell her name is, back on the train.”

  Cain nodded. “You prob’ly should have slit her tongue so she couldn’t pass on information. And maybe cracked a few bones in her fingers to keep her from writin’ any notes.”

  “That’s not very doctorly of you,” Etienne observed, knowing Cain wasn’t serious. Cain was a formidable foe when backed into a corner, but he never caused pain except in defense.

  Cain shrugged. “I don’t feel much like a doctor anymore.”

  “You are a doctor. A good one,” Etienne declared fiercely, “and you’re going to resume your doctoring this time. The bayou needs you.”

  “The bayou needs you, too, my friend,” Cain challenged him with a level look.

  Etienne prepared to argue, but then he slumped lower in his chair. He had no energy for enumerating all the reasons why Bayou Noir was no haven for him anymore. Or anywhere else that he could think of. “Ah, Cain, how did we become so crippled inside? You’re as wounded as I am by that damn war.”

  “We both should have stayed in Europe.”

  “Well, we didn’t. And now we have to move on. At least I’m getting my sense of humor back,” he quipped.

  “And your rooster,” Cain pointed out drolly.

  “You’re uncouth.” Etienne laughed.

  “Yes, and I learned it all from you.” Cain took another long swig from his bottle. “So, back to your Dr. Ginny. Even if she is working for Pope, I can’t see you killing her outright.”