Dangerous Obsession

by Natasha Peters

  “For you. Baroness?” he leered at me. “You know I would do anything for you.” He boldly put his hand down my bodice. I sat bolt upright but said nothing. “And what will you do for me in return?” he whispered thickly. “Will you give me—this?” He squeezed, hard.

  I pushed him away and said angrily, “How dare you! Leave at once!” I was breathing hard. The man revolted me. I could not seduce this creature to save Gabrielle; I couldn’t do it to save my own sister. “Get out. You sicken me!”

  Boris Azubin stood up and stretched lazily. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to some sort of agreement. Baroness. There might have been circumstances under which I might have been persuaded to give up my lovely Gabrielle.”

  “How much do you want?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “Ten thousand dollars would do for a start,” he said with a casual shrug. “Not too much to ask for the virginity of a beautiful girl.”

  “I won’t have any money to spare until after my concert in December,” I said truthfully. As it was I would have to pawn or sell some jewels to get enough money to live on until then. "But you shall have the money then, I promise you. Just pledge to me that you will not try to see her again.”

  “What? Deny myself the pleasure of her company for over two months, on the strength of a promise from a woman like you? A Gypsy whore?”

  I leaped to my feet and slapped his face. He lunged at me and put his hands around my throat. His thumbs dug into my larynx.

  “I could fix you so you’d never sing again,” he said angrily. “Not even a note. I could make you mute, like that servant-girl of yours.” His eyes burned.

  “Listen, Boris Leontovitch,” I said in a gagging whisper, “I’ll get the money sooner—in just a few days— ten thousand!” I would go to Steven, he would help me.

  “I don’t want your money. Baroness,” he sneered, pushing me back so that I fell against the tea cart. China smashed, tea and cream spilled. “I’m having too much fun with little Gabrielle to give her up so soon. She is beautiful and headstrong and impetuous. What she has to give me is beyond price.”

  “Devil!” I croaked. I put my hand to my throat. My neck ached and I wondered if he had hurt my voice. “Get out of here before I murder you!”

  He laughed lightly and made a mocking bow. When he was gone I sat down wearily and rubbed my throat. Boris was a devil, thoroughly corrupt, completely amoral. I had underestimated him. I had failed utterly and miserably. I was a fool. I hoped Gabrielle would act like a sensible girl and listen to her parents’ counsel. I had done all I could.

  I tried to sing, to test my voice.

  “Come away, come away—.” I sang softly at first, then more loudly. “Come away, Little Paprika, with me!”

  I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. My voice was all right. The swine hadn’t done any harm.

  I was rather surprised to receive a note from Steven the next day, inviting me to dine with him. I made David handle all my correspondence because I had great difficulty reading script in English. We met at Felix’s, one of the city’s finer restaurants. I felt constrained with him and a little nervous. I was sure that he really didn’t want to have anything to do with me, that he just wanted to find out how I had fared with Boris.

  We chatted about inconsequential things. I told him about my small victory over the managers of the French Opera House, who, “as a rule,“ didn’t permit solo recitalists to appear on their stage but who made an exception because I was such a “well-considered artiste.” I drank a lot of champagne but it had no effect on my spirits. I wanted to ask Steven if he ever thought about our nights together at the château, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to be rebuffed, and I didn’t want him to know that I thought about them—with longing.

  “You’re rather subdued this evening, Rhawnie," Steven observed. “I hope you’re not concerned about your reception here. Don’t be. You’ll conquer New Orleans as you’ve conquered the rest of the country."

  So kind, so sweet. He always said the right thing.

  “I talked to Boris Azubin the other day," I said, twisting my wine glass by the stem. The candlelight gleamed on my filigreed gold bracelets. I wore a high choker on my neck to hide the blue bruises Boris’ fingers had left. “I’m afraid I made rather a mess of things, Steven," I confessed glumly. “He was—unreceptive."

  'Did he hurt you?" Steven asked quickly, putting down his knife.

  “Oh, no! He was just rude, that’s all. But he refused to stop seeing Gabrielle. I might even have fired his determination. He will continue to behave badly now, just to spite me."

  Unselfconsciously I put my hand to my throat. Steven saw the movement, and reaching around behind me he unfastened the choker, which fell into my salad dish. I tried to cover the vivid purple marks with my hand.

  “An accident,” I explained lamely? “David Thatcher and I were trying to discover the exact location of the upper register—”

  “Swine,” Steven said darkly. I knew who he meant. His lips tightened with anger and he threw down his napkin. The waiter cleared and brought dessert, but a pall had descended over us that not even trout meunière and mousse au chocolat could dispel.

  “Was anything wrong with the meal, Monsieur McClelland?” the headwaiter asked anxiously as we stood up to leave.

  Steven assured him graciously that everything had been perfect and that we would return when we could do justice to the cuisine. As we stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, waiting for Steven’s carriage, Boris Azubin strolled by, swinging his cane and whistling cheerfully as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Well, well,” he said lightly, “the two conspirators, caught in the act. You really shouldn’t associate with her, Monsieur McClelland. You’ll damage your reput—”

  Steven snatched the cane out of Boris’ grasp and started to thrash him with it. The slender ebony stick snapped on the fourth or fifth blow, and then Steven used his fists. He was like a different man when he was enraged, and he was terrifying in his violence. Boris squealed like a pig and cowered like a dog.

  “Stop him! Stop him before he kills me!”

  I put my arms around Steven’s shoulders and pulled him away. “Let him go,” I implored. “You will only make trouble for yourself, Steven. Let him go!”

  Steven allowed me to drag him away from the snivelling Boris. “If you ever touch this woman again I’ll murder you,” he said slowly. “And if I catch you near my sister—”

  “You’ll have me arrested?’ ’ Boris sneered. Now that the danger was past he could afford to be flippant. “On what charge?”

  “Don’t worry about the charge,” Steven said. “A man doesn’t need an excuse to exterminate vermin.”

  A crowd had gathered. I heard scandalized whispers: “It’s Steven McClelland! What happened? Who’s that with him? Not that singer!”

  Boris limped away through the crowd and Steven’s carriage pulled up. We climbed inside and rode in silence back to my house on Esplanade Street, not far from the Mississippi. The carriage drew to a halt.

  “I meant it,” Steven said, breaking the silence. “I will kill him if he bothers either of you again.”

  I touched his hand. “He’s not a complete fool, Steven,”

  I said gently. “He’s a coward. He’ll go away, I’m sure of it. It’s over now and your sister is safe. He’s such a villain— she could never love him.” I could see that the incident had disturbed and upset him. He was unaccustomed to violence. “Will you come in with me, for coffee?”

  He shook his head. “Another time, Rhawnie. I still have work waiting for me at home.” He walked me to my door and saw me safely inside. He seemed preoccupied and distant. We wished each other good-night and he turned to go. He looked back at me and said unexpectedly, “I’m glad you’re here.” And then he went away.

  We saw each other a few times after that. We dined together and went to the theater. But he always made excuses when I invited him to come into the
house, and the only kisses I got were sweet, sisterly pecks on the cheek. I was in agony. I wanted to throw myself at him, and kiss and caress him until he shouted for mercy, but I didn’t. I was certain that he would be put off by a brazen show of lust. It was only logical: nice women don’t behave like whores; nice men don’t patronize whores. Steven McClelland was a nice man; if I behaved in too forward a fashion, he wouldn’t want to see me any more. I liked seeing him, if only to admire him and torment myself because I couldn’t have him. Therefore: I had to behave—nicely.

  One night as we were strolling arm in arm along the levee near my house, after a very satisfactory meal at Felix’s, he said.

  "I ran into your friend last night, on Royal Street. After midnight.”

  “Which friend? Boris?”

  “No, your pianist. David Thatcher.”

  “Ah. I wonder what he was doing, prowling around after dark like a cat? I have often thought of following him when he left the house, just to see what he does in his spare time. He’s very secretive.” I shrugged. “Perhaps he takes a constitutional after dinner. He wasn’t with a young lady, was he?”

  “No, he was alone. “I’m—confused. I thought he lived—in your house?”

  “David?” I laughed. “No, no. He says that the two or three hours we spend together each day are all his sanity can take. I asked him once, in jest, of course, how he kept himself from falling in love with me. He said that not only was he smarter than most men, he was more near-sighted. He’s very insulting, but I keep him because he plays better than anyone, except Liszt. I tell him he plays better than Liszt, though, because men like flattery. And there isn’t anything else about him that I can flatter believably—oh!” He pulled me around and kissed me soundly.

  “What was that for?” I asked weakly.

  “For being yourself. And because I’m an ass and an idiot. I won’t say any more.”

  Then he slipped my arm through his and we continued our walk, as if nothing had happened. My little imp of desire kept shouting at me to do something, but I couldn’t. His closeness paralyzed me, and only after he had left me and I was preparing for bed did I kick myself and curse myself for not taking advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself.

  “He was jealous!” I said amazed. “He was jealous—of David!” And I hugged myself and buried my face in my pillows.

  I didn’t hear from him for two weeks. Then in late October I received a charming note from his mother inviting me to spend a week at Highlands, their plantation upriver. She said that Steven and I would be coming up together.

  We travelled on the steamboat Eulalie which was about a hundred feet long, decorated with freshly-painted, elaborately carved woodwork, with promenade decks and lushly-appointed salons and staterooms. Anna and I agreed that travel on the river was much superior to ocean travel. The trip to Highlands took only a few hours, and as we rounded a bend in the Mississippi, Steven pointed out a red brick mansion perched on a knoll above the river.

  “The only house like it in Lousiana. My great-grandfather was a stableboy who wanted to be an aristocrat. He grew up in England. This house is an exact copy of his master’s house. It’s very plain, don’t you think? But rather beautiful. Simple, symmetrical and beautiful.”

  He rested his elbows on the railing and turned his head so that he could look under my broad-brimmed hat. I smiled down at him and the breeze on the river whipped my shirts and sent my ribbons streaming. The sun still felt warm, but not so warm as Steven’s smile.

  The steamboat anchored at a wharf at the bottom of the knoll and put out its gangplank. A crowd of black men shouted greetings to Steven, and they rolled enormous barrels up the ramp to the boat.

  “Molasses,” Steven explained. “We had a fine sugar cane crop this year. Some of those barrels will go as far as New York.”

  “And those are your slaves?” I asked. Two black men in livery smiled to us and carried our luggage up to the house. Steven and I followed at a slower pace, and Anna brought up the rear.

  Steven said, “All our workers are free men. My mother refuses to have a slave on the place, and whenever she hears about a fugitive, or a slave who is mistreated by his owner, she shelters him and buys him and then gives him his freedom. They all adore her. We pay them a wage and provide living quarters. Most of them grow their own food in small plots near their houses. Those little cottages over there.” He pointed. “My Uncle Phillippe lives near here—he’s the one who owned the château at Lesconflair, remember? His plantation is La Rêve. We passed it just before we docked. Philippe is married to Colette who is the sister of mother’s first husband. It’s rather complicated. I’ll let Mother unravel the family history for you.”

  The grounds were well-shaded and beautifully landscaped. A small white gazebo stood at the highest point overlooking the river. As we sauntered up to the house we heard a shout and Sean McClelland raced towards us from one of the outbuildings. He was about nineteen, thin and dark but with flashing blue eyes, like Steven’s. I remembered him from my soirees. When he greeted me his expression became calf-like and he blushed a little.

  “Monsieur Sean,” I said sweetly, “it is such a joy to see you again! Will you take my arm? I am feeling rather fatigued.” He looked as if he would die of pleasure. My eyes caught Steven’s and he winked at me.

  A butler opened the door for us and when we stepped into the cool interior of the house Sean bellowed, “They’re here, Mother!” He gave me an apologetic look and said, “Excuse me. Baroness. I’ll go and get her. We expected you on the afternoon boat, Steve. You might have told us. The Guv’nor’s not even here now. He went down to La Rêve a couple of hours ago.”

  Steven laughed and said to me, “Would you like to see your room or shall we have some refreshment first?” I opted for tea. Sean darted away, shouting, and George, the butler, said he would show Anna where she and I would be sleeping. Steven led me into a drawing room. The ceilings were high, the walls a creamy white, and the furnishings were old but elegant, and highly polished.

  Gabrielle came in while Steven and I were admiring the view. She threw a stranglehold around her oldest brother’s neck and hugged him tightly. When she saw me she dropped a curtsy, and made a short formal speech of welcome.

  I took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. “It is wonderful to see you again, Gabrielle. I am so glad that I will be able to know you better. What a pretty dress! I wish I could wear yellow, but on me it looks vile. You are fortunate to have such vivid coloring.”

  She looked pleased. She was small and dark, with curling black hair and large brown eyes, which looked suspiciously as if they had been weeping. I didn’t doubt it. She was sixteen and at sixteen gorgio girls cry a lot.

  We heard a musical laugh and a small woman came briskly into the room. “Every day Gaby says, ‘Mother, why isn’t my hair yellow and straight like Steve’s?’ I hope you can talk some sense into her. How do you do. Baroness? I am Elise McClelland.”

  She embraced me warmly and then stood back and said. You’re right children, she is beautiful! You know, my dear, ordinarily I detest tall women. My husband’s first wife was tall and blond.”

  Gabrielle groaned, “Oh, Mother!”

  “I know, isn’t it awful to be so prejudiced?” said her mother cheerfully.

  I said, “I have always felt sorry for short women, until now. I envy you your beautiful family, Madame.”

  She laughed merrily and led me to a sofa. She was energetic and humorous, and she still looked very young. There were only a few grey strands in her dark hair, and fewer lines in her face. She must have looked a lot like Gabrielle does now, I thought, when she was young. She could have been one of her own children, so easy and relaxed was her manner with them.

  George served tea. As she poured, Elise said eagerly, “I must know the truth, did you really ride a white charger bareback down Broadway in New York?’.’

  “Not at all, Madame,” I replied. “The horse had a saddle.”

&n
bsp; We all laughed. Sean entered. He had put on a coat and he had tried to plaster down his dark curls with water. As his hair dried the locks sprang up, willful and unruly, and he kept trying to crush them down with the palm of his hand. Finally Garth McClelland returned from his ride. He had with him a little girl of eight or nine, who launched herself into Steven’s arms with a happy cry.

  “This is Marie,” he told me. “The boys are in school in Massachusetts, but they’ll be home for Christmas. This is the Baroness Rhawnie, dearest.”

  “How do you do, Baroness?” Marie said politely, dropping a curtsy. I did the same, and we shook hands. “Welcome to Highlands!”

  Garth McClelland came forward. “I reiterate, Baroness. Welcome to Highlands!”

  “It is good to see you again. Your son tells me you have lost your job. I’m so sorry.”

  Everyone laughed and Elise McClelland said. “I'm not a bit sorry. I have him all to myself now.” She put her arms around her husband’s waist and hugged him and he kissed the top of her head.

  “I haven’t told you,” Garth said, “I’ve decided to run for President.”

  “I won’t hear of it!” Elise cried. “Not that you’d stand a chance of being elected. You’re a threat and a troublemaker to the people down here.”

  “You’re the threat and the troublemaker,” her husband corrected her. “I’m just guilty by association.”

  They obviously adored each other. Elise never left his side, but fussed over him and kissed him frequently. I saw Gabrielle squirm and turn scarlet at her parents’ open display of affection, but none of the rest of us minded. Steven gave me a look that made me feel warm, too. We could be like that, I thought wistfully. And then I buried the wish deep inside me. It could never happen.

  Sean asked his father if he could live in town. “Things are pretty dull around here this time of year, Guv’nor.”

  “You should be preparing yourself to go back to school,” Garth said. “You’re going to the University of Virginia after Christmas, remember?”