by J. T. Edson
“Then Baton Royale can continue to be run?” Belle inquired.
“Of course,” O’Connel confirmed. “Of course, you will have to take a man beyond the age for military service to act as your supervisor, as I don’t doubt war will break out against the Yankees any day now, if it hasn’t started already.”
“I’m going to ask Uncle Dennis to do so in my absence,” the girl declared, having always thought of Colonel Thatcher— and his wife, for that matter—in such a fashion despite there being no actual family connections between them. “I’ll be staying with him and Aunt Margaret until I leave.”
“Yes,” the attorney said, nodding in approval. “I feel you’re wise to go away for a while and try to put what’s happened out of your mind. When will you go and where, so I can keep in touch with you over anything that should develop?”
“I don’t know for sure where I’ll be going,” Belle admitted truthfully. “And I won’t be leaving until I’ve attended to a few things which I won’t be able to do wherever I have to go. But, when the time comes, I want Uncle Dennis to have my power of attorney to act completely in my behalf for as long as I am away.”
“That’s very wise of you,” O’Connel praised. “In fact, it is what I would have advised myself.”
“I’ll also want to have the means to have access to whatever money I might need while I’m gone.”
“That can easily enough be arranged through the bank.”
“Will you attend to it for me as quickly as possible, please?”
“That’s one of the things I’m here for, my dear,” the attorney declared, looking at the girl in a speculative fashion and noticing that there was something in addition to an understandably deep grief over the death of her parents in her demeanor, although he was unable to decide exactly what it might be for all of his well-developed judgment of human nature in general and knowledge of her personality in particular. “And you can’t tell me definitely where you’re planning to go, or how long it will be before you come back?”
“No,” Belle admitted quietly, yet her grim sense of purpose and determination to see it through was just discernible to the man across the desk from her. Her tone did not change as she continued, “I’ve no idea where I may have to go, nor how long it will take me to do what I have to do.”
~*~
Thinking of the way in which she would soon be dressed, Belle Boyd was pleased that Mattie Tobias was still not sufficiently recovered to have witnessed the choice she had made for the attire she considered was best suited for the visit she was intending to carry out. She was sure that neither the garb she had selected nor the man she was going to see would have met with the massive elderly Negress’s approval. However, she considered that Captain Anatol de-Farge could be of vital use to her purpose if she could persuade him to do as she wished.
Out of consideration for what she hoped to achieve by the visit she was about to make, the girl felt she was fortunate that the young man assigned to the task by Auntie Mattie had included the garments—including the black riding boots she prized so highly for their comfortable fit and the freedom of movement they permitted—she had worn during the fox hunt with the clothing he fetched from her bedroom. It was equally fortuitous that he had also fetched her epee de combat and brace of Manton dueling pistols, although he had not had time to collect the Colt revolver, even if he had noticed it lying where it was dropped by Auntie Mattie. She had already replaced it with one of the same model, but was not taking it with her.
As something of Belle’s less-than-conventional upbringing was well known to all the staff of the Thatcher mansion, while making it plain that he did not approve of such a flouting of accepted standards of behavior, the groom who had made ready the horse from Baton Royale that she was going to use had made no comment when being told she did not want it to be fitted with a sidesaddle which to his way of thinking was the only style a young woman of quality should use. Watching her riding away, he grudgingly conceded that—despite having been compelled to adopt the modified version caused by the rig she selected lacking the support for the left leg offered by the only acceptable type of female riding gear—she was contriving to handle the spirited horse without any noticeable difficulty. He also wondered why she had asked him to attach the sword and brace of pistols, which were suspended from the saddle.
If the groom had seen the changes the girl made to her appearance when in the area of woodland that surrounded and offered privacy, he would have felt even greater disapproval and probably no little concern over her electing to go there. First she took off and hung over a nearby bush the black masculine top hat with gray muslin fastened around the base and dangling almost to waist level down her back. These were placed with the headdress, but she retained her thin black leather gloves, as they were no impediment to freedom of movement by her hands. Using the blow to her head as an excuse, she had had her hair cut shorter than was currently considered fashionable although not to the extremes she would have it shorn later. The removal of the tight-waisted bodice and voluminous skirt of her modish and socially acceptable riding habit left her clad in an open-necked dark blue male shirt, snugly fitting black riding breeches, and the boots.
With the changes made to her appearance, Belle mounted the horse with none of the slight difficulty she had experienced as the result of wearing feminine attire in conjunction with a masculine type of saddle. Then, having paused for a moment she required to steel her resolve for what she was planning to do, she set the spirited bay moving. Rejoining the narrow track from which she had deviated so as to be able to leave her temporarily discarded garments in concealment from anybody who might pass before she returned, she soon came into sight of her destination. It was a mansion somewhat smaller than Baton Roy ale Manor or the Thatchers’ home, but gave indications of being equally well maintained.
There was nothing about it to suggest that the purposes to which the building was put by its owner were far different from those of any of his neighbors. However, Belle was aware—as were all the local women of her class with whom she was acquainted—that it was run as an establishment devoted to gambling by its owner. She was equally cognizant of the fact that, having been discharged from the United States Army by a court-martial following an accusation of cheating in a poker game for high stakes and acquiring the reputation for being a successful duelist with two fatalities to his credit, the man she was visiting was regarded as persona non grata by well-raised feminine society throughout the whole of Baton Bayou Parish.
Bringing the roan gelding to a halt in front of the main entrance to the property, Belle was amused by the reaction from the young Negro who came running up on discovering that she was a young woman dressed in masculine attire and having weapons fastened to her saddle. However, having said that he thought she could have come to the wrong place, without explaining why he had reached such a conclusion, he offered to take charge of the animal. Remarking that she was unsure of how long her business with Captain de-Farge would take, she removed the sword and pistols from the rig and surrendered the reins. Shaking his head in puzzlement instead of making any further comment, the man proceeded to lead the horse around the end of the building in a way that suggested it was a regular part of his duties. Feeling sure her mount would receive the best of attention, she walked across the porch and, placing the weapons where they would not be seen by whoever came in answer to her summons, used the large well-polished brass knocker in the shaped of a stylized face of the Devil.
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” Belle mused with a wry smile as she listened to the clatter she was making. “Oh well, I’ve only myself to blame for coming.”
“It’s too early in the d—!” announced an irate feminine voice with what the girl recognized as being an English accent that had the suggestion of some culture and refinement acquired by practice rather than as a result of having been to the manner born. Then there was the sound of the big door being unlocked and bolts were withdrawn so the door could be
drawn open a short way. Clad in a pink negligee that left little about her close-to-buxom and firmly fleshed physical attributes to the imagination and very little else except for open-toed and high-heeled white mules on her otherwise bare feet, a clearly less-than-pleased woman looked out. Her hair, which was of a hue suggestive in its redness of being in part achieved by the use of henna, was rumpled and her face devoid of the makeup it would almost certainly have in other circumstances. Showing an increasing disdain, she ran her gaze up and down in a way Belle found to be most annoying. “Oh, you’re one of them, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?” the girl queried, genuinely puzzled by the cryptic way in which the statement was made.
“Sorry, girlie,” the redhead said, still showing the superciliousness. “You’ve come to the wrong place. We only offer gambling and the occasional bout of fisticuffs for our gentlemen guests. Mrs. Jackson’s the one you want to go and see to play those kind of games.”
“Just a moment!” Belle snapped, knowing the woman who had been named ran what was politely termed a “house of ill repute” despite the pretense of being an actress. Belle was not sufficiently lacking in world matters that she failed to understand the implication of the explanation. “I want to see Captain de-Farge.”
“I just bet you do, girlie,” the redhead sneered, and she started to close the door.
Before the move could be completed, the door was given a push by the slender girl with such force that the woman involuntarily took a couple of paces backward to avoid being struck by it.
“I said I want to see Captain de-Farge,” Belle stated grimly, taking grave exception to the way she was being addressed and stepping across the threshold into what she guessed must be the main entrance hall of the building. Annoyed by the greeting she had received and the thoughts that motivated it, she failed to notice that the furnishings and appointments were all in excellent taste even by the strictest conventional requirements. Nevertheless, she was not unaware that half a dozen shapely women clad in an equally revealing fashion and a bulky old Negro in the attire of a footman were watching from the open door of what appeared to be a dining room. “So will you please—!”
“All right, girlie!” the redhead interrupted, the same emphasis continuing to be placed upon the clearly insulting designation. Clenching her right hand into a fist and looking menacing, she went on, “No matter how big and high muckety-muck your momma and poppa might be hereabouts, you’ve asked for—!”
Despite knowing that the words were spoken without the redhead’s being aware of who she was and how recently she had lost her parents, Belle responded to the implied threat. Realizing how dangerous the action she contemplated would prove to be if carried out against the woman, particularly as she believed it would be completely unexpected, she began to move. Pivoting with a close-to-balletic grace similar to that displayed to Auntie Mattie against the modified tailor’s female dummy in her sitting room, she sent her right foot crashing at face height against the wooden panels of the main entrance. There was a resounding crack as the sole and heel of the riding boot made the contact and, its sturdy bulk notwithstanding, the door jerked with some violence in response to the impact.
“All right, girlie!” Belle said, her voice and manner indicative of a still-controlled yet potentially dangerous anger, as her foot returned to the floor. “I still mean to see Captain de-Farge and you aren’t capable of stopping me, nor even dressed for trying.”
Staring at the mark left by the boot on the panel that was struck by the swiftly performed and clearly very powerful kick, the redhead found herself on the horns of a dilemma. While her every instinct warned that she had been told the truth about her attire should she elect to take physical action against the young and slender visitor, she had the reputation for toughness she had acquired, and that—along with a close relationship with her employer—gave her considerable moral ascendancy over her fellow female workers in the gambling house. If she refused to take up the challenge, she would suffer a serious loss of faith with them. On the other hand, competent though she knew herself to be at engaging in physical conflict against other members of her sex under more normal conditions, she felt sure the kick had not been made by chance. Rather, it was performed by one very well versed in such matters and whose footwear would allow the knowledge to be exploited to damaging and most painful purpose.
Aware that she was being watched with eager anticipation by the women with whom she had been taking breakfast, the redhead wondered how she might extricate herself from the predicament of her own making without her standing among them suffering an adverse effect.
Chapter Seven – Teach Me All You Know
“Well now, Roxanne my little spitfire, whatever are you up to this time?” Never had the well-mannered Southern drawl with its slight suggestion of the French-Creole patois of her employer sounded so welcome to the redheaded woman who called herself Roxanne Fortescue-Smethers and declared her ancestral home to be Belvoir—which she always said was pronounced “Beaver”—Castle in Nottingham, England, despite having been born Bertha Smith, but in a less exalted part of the same city where, however, the high-class residence she claimed was not situated.
Nor was Belle Boyd any less pleased to see the man from whom she had come to ask a favor.
The girl had not wished to jeopardize her chance by being compelled to defend herself against and possibly inflict serious injury upon one of his female employees.
Although Captain Anatol de-Farge generally dressed after the fashion of a wealthy Southern plantation owner, because the hour was early as he judged the time of the day, he was not wearing a jacket, collar, or tie and had on carpet slippers instead of his usual well-polished brown Hessian leg riding boots. He was tall, handsome in a somewhat swarthy Gallic fashion, with a slender build suggestive of wiry strength and agility, neither of which traits was lacking in his bodily makeup, as he always kept himself in the peak of physical condition. Regardless of his being a professional gambler and the owner of a well-known establishment offering a variety of games of chance along with other diversions for those wealthy enough to afford his high prices, he still bore himself with the carriage of the professional soldier he had been until a scandal and court-martial blasted his promising career.
“Good heavens!” the gambler almost gasped before the redhead could reply, having turned his gaze in Belle’s direction. “Is that really you, Miss Boyd?”
“I’m afraid it is,” the girl replied, noticing that there was a suggestion of disapproval in the way she was addressed.
“Miss Boyd!” Roxanne repeated, and a change to contrition came into her voice as she continued, “I’m sorry for what I said about your parents, Miss Boyd, but I didn’t realize who you are.”
“That’s all right,” Belle asserted, not sorry for the hostility shown by the redhead to be ended in a way that would cause none of the loss of respect she had been trying to avoid. “You weren’t to know. I thought I would attract less attention looking the way I do if I should be seen coming here.”
“May I ask why you have come, Miss Boyd?” de-Farge requested, but did not wait for an answer before looking at the scantily attired women in a pointed fashion and saying, “Shouldn’t you be finishing your breakfast, my angels, then getting yourselves ready for the afternoon’s activities?”
“Come on, girls,” the redhead ordered, speaking as imperiously as usual, while watching for any suggestions that her authority over the other women had been reduced by the indecision she had shown when issued what amounted to an open challenge in their circles from the slender girl. Seeing none, even from her closest rival, she went on, “Let’s go and do it.”
“Perhaps you would care to speak with me in my private office, Miss Boyd?” the gambler suggested, watching the girl’s face with the keen eye of a man who made much of his living by studying and seeking to assess human emotions. “I can ask Roxanne, or one of the other ladies, as a chaperone if you wish.”
“There�
�s no need for that, sir,” Belle replied.
“One of my French bloodline might take exception to that from an attractive young lady like yourself,” de-Farge claimed with a smile, contriving to sound even more Gallic than ever. “Or one far less attractive than yourself even, provided her... balance was of a satisfactory nature.”
“I really wouldn’t know what you mean, sir,” the girl answered, finding herself liking the man who many women of her class would have considered undesirable company for her. Allowing herself to be guided toward an inconspicuous door with nothing to indicate its purpose at one side of the entrance hall, she continued, “And I really must apologize for coming here the way I have.”
“You certainly gave dear Roxanne the wrong impression,” the gambler said, still smiling in a warm way that relieved some of the professional inscrutability from his handsome face and giving a hint of the kind of man he used to be during his early days in the Army. Opening the door and allowing Belle to precede him through it, he went on, “And, good as I know she is in such matters, I’m pleased she didn’t take up your challenge. I have seldom seen the chasse croise of savate performed with such grace and power and nev—!”
“And never by a mere woman,” the girl finished the incomplete sentence, but without any suggestion of having taken offense.
“I would never call you ‘mere,’ Miss Boyd,” de-Farge claimed, having seated his guest. “May I have coffee or anything else brought in for you?”
“No, thank you,” Belle refused politely. “I took breakfast with Colonel and Mrs. Thatcher before I left to visit you.”
