Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  Second Age of Pax Lincolnia

  At nineteen years, Miss Adele de la Pointe hadn’t yet figured out everything, but three things she did know. She never wanted to marry, these society parties were an utter bore, and her pet monkey was about as genteel as a roly poly at a butterfly tea party.

  "Put that down." Adele snatched a doily from Loki’s hairy fist and looked around the sunlit grounds.

  Be-ribboned and be-bustled ladies sauntered between tables covered in crisp white linen and half the available lace on the Gulf Coast, but none looked her way.

  Whew. No apparent witnesses to Loki’s shenanigans

  She smoothed the doily onto the lawn table, only a tad wrinkled from her monkey’s antics. Antics she must quell were she to survive this affair.

  “Loki, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t pull another stunt.”

  Her capuchin monkey nuzzled her cheek, and the chinstrap of his oyster-shell helmet chafed her ear.

  “Behave,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  Every time someone hinted that she should trade in her childhood shoulder pet for the more refined parakeet, her heart lurched, in an if-you-do-I’m-staying-with-Loki warning. Having such a mentally enhanced pet did pose a risk if she didn’t keep him occupied, however.

  She wended her way through the ladies to immortalize yet another society gathering for the local newspaper. But the subtle snubs and dismissive glances and behind-the-fan whispers followed in her wake.

  These same ladies would later scurry over and curry favor, showing off their latest hat or implant or dress. Adele pulled in a deep breath. Chin up. All right, so society reporter might not be her ideal profession, but it certainly beat the path these ladies valued--landing a wealthy husband. She rubbed the four tattoos vertically aligned on her neck, each denoting her grandparents' families. These would admit her to such a party without her official role, but the expectation inherent in its ink felt like an itchy reminder. She edged around a table and spotted the hostess simpering at the mayor’s wife. Adele tapped her pen against her lip.

  A fresh breeze from the Mobile River skittered through the yard, rustling the oak leaves and Spanish moss. The wind loosed a silk ribbon from Claire Chastang’s monstrous hat and slapped the mayor’s wife’s cheek. Adele pressed her gloved fingers to her mouth and suppressed a chuckle. How to cover the gathering without sounding scornful? What Adele wanted to pen for her society column would not do:

  Miss Claire Chastang was resplendent (resplendently tacky) in her tailored aerophane silk day dress, sporting lace trim and silk flowers reminiscent of an explosion at a ladies emporium.

  "Hello, my dear, how’s your aunt?"

  Adele started at the familiar elderly voice and signature gardenia perfume. "Mrs. Tuttle. Nice to see you. Great-aunt, actually. Still the same."

  Mrs. Tuttle waved an elegant hand, declaring the familial distinction irrelevant. Her faded neck tattoos identified her as a cousin of Adele’s Great-Aunt Linette. The older woman might be the image of proper Southern womanhood cinched into her fashionable shirtwaist with leg o’ mutton sleeves and a Gainesborough hat, but Adele had overheard her say, in her tête-à-têtes with Great-Aunt Linette, more than one naughty phrase.

  "Still a bit dotty, then?" Mrs. Tuttle winked like a co-conspirator, but dang if Adele knew the intrigue.

  Her aunt dotty? Eccentric maybe. Prone to wear hats to dinner maybe. "I haven't seen you at the house this week. Are you well?" Mrs. Tuttle and her great-aunt had a standing weekly canasta engagement.

  "Yes, yes. Had to leave town, only returned this morning. I'll be there Monday, never fear."

  Like the other women, Mrs. Tuttle had a shoulder pet, but unlike their parakeets, hers was a sleek ferret. Her single nod to fashion its matching hair color, a slate gray.

  She stroked a hand down Winston's tail. "Still rabid on Wollstonecraft?"

  Adele bounced on her toes. "Indeed."

  "While in Boston this week, I found an excellent bound edition of her memoirs her husband published. Next time I’m by your way, I'll bring it."

  "Thank you. So sweet of you to think of me."

  "Don't mention it, dear.” She patted Adele’s shoulder. “But you shouldn’t take her teachings too much to heart if it’s a husband you wish to capture.”

  “Well, nothing to fear there, as I have no plans to marry. Career woman for me.”

  “If you insist, but it’s beyond me why you’d forsake a gentleman’s companionship. They can be mighty useful,” she said with another wink. “In all seriousness, though, I am proud of you. It’s not easy ignoring society’s expectations.”

  And that comment made Adele feel so tall she was in danger of tangling her hat in the Spanish moss dripping from the overhanging branches of the live oaks.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Anyway, I better toddle off. I need to make an appearance, you know." She waved and Winston jounced his head up and down a few times in farewell.

  Adele smiled and consulted her notepad—what else to document? Clothes, check. Menu, check. Pithy quotes, hmmm. “What else, Loki?”

  Oooh, chocolate—dark and round with a fleur de lis drawn in white icing, they glistened in the humidity. She popped one in her mouth and closed her eyes. The creamy interior melted on her tongue and soothed. She glanced around—no one watching--and snagged a second.

  Another peek and she snuck Loki a cheese straw. “Want another?”

  "Talking to your shoulder pet, Adele?” asked a familiar feminine voice. “How quaint."

  Adele spun about, Loki deftly remaining on her shoulder. "Claire, how are you? Enjoying your party?" The words sounded natural enough, despite her jaw’s I-can-barely-tolerate-you clench.

  Claire stepped forward, her hyper-bred parakeet on her shoulder exactly matching the brown locks of her elaborate hairdo. "It's all right." Her faux-bored voice said it was anything but—after all, she mustn't look too pleased. Implanted between Claire's shoulder blades, a lightweight brass bar curved upward, topped by a frilly, crepe de Chine parasol in the same shade as her dress: mustard yellow. The parasol bzzzed, automatically shifting to block the sun. So, Claire had adopted the latest fad. Typical.

  Adele would never go under the knife for such frivolous enhancements, despite it being her father’s profession. Who cared about keeping pace and hobnobbing with Mobile's best families?

  Claire studied Loki as if he threatened her sterile, symmetrical, supercilious world and the thought was more than a little scary. "Here's a list of guests. I'd appreciate it if you talked to all of them. And include the full menu. No one else has displayed individual servings of Charlotte Russe in champagne glasses.” She fingered her diamond bracelet. “We imported the cherries from the new state of Washington." The last said with smugness.

  Oh, spare me. "I'll be sure to."

  "See that you do."

  Adele’s eyes—oh, they wanted to roll at that. Years of training in comportment held sway, and she imagined Loki doing it. Was she supposed to be impressed Claire’s family conducted trade with the West? The flaunting of wealth, nothing new there. But associating with the lawless and free-thinking West? A surprise given the Chastang’s politics and position in society. Ever since the Late Great Unpleasantness, the political and economic polarity had shifted from North vs. South to an East vs. West alignment.

  Claire eyed Adele, her petite nose wrinkling and dainty mouth puckering as if she’d found a June bug in her Charlotte Russe. “If cousin Pascal could see you now. Working?” she scoffed. “Truly a Godsend the engagement ended.”

  Claire paused. Waiting to see if her remark stung? Adele kept her face blank. Though the same age as Adele’s nineteen, Claire had married two years prior and viewed it as a singular accomplishment. Whereas Adele had seen her broken engagement as a blessing. Seen it as her path to independence. Seen it as A Very Near Thing. Claire’s verbal jabs might smart, but it was better than becoming like that woman. Society w
ife to a physician. Yes, a blessing indeed.

  “You’re a joke,” Claire continued. “First you’re engaged, then you’re not. Now you’re working, but for how long?” Claire nodded. “Flighty and immature,” her voice saying the words too fluidly, as if repeating another’s.

  Adele locked her knees and inhaled a shaky breath through a suddenly tight throat. All right. Claire’s jab-wielding skills had markedly improved. No one took her seriously? She pulled at her bodice’s ruffled collar, but a little ball of tension coalesced in her stomach and stubbornly squatted. She knew society wouldn’t approve of her decision—she counted on it—but it did bother her that they thought her flighty.

  She managed to make her shoulders shrug.

  “Word of advice from an old friend. If you quit now, you can be redeemed. Society reporter is a tad unconventional, but at least it’s respectable. With your family’s position, you’re still marriageable. Don’t ruin yourself completely.”

  With that, Claire spun around, the flounces on her skirt and bustle sashaying, exaggerated by internal mechanical springs.

  "Nretch bichiki," her capuchin monkey chittered, earning her glares from the nearest society ladies and their matching parakeets. Were they thinking the same as Claire? Adele rubbed Loki under his chin, tried to ignore her too-fast pulse.

  Adele shoved all the unpleasant emotions away, dredged up a party smile, and strode to the refreshments table. The clockwork mint julep maker handed her a chilled silver goblet and she sipped the sweetened bourbon. Mechanical hummingbirds, each clutching a globe illuminated by captured fireflies, buzzed overhead. She flattened her palm against her side to keep from swatting the annoying creatures. Interspersed amongst the hummingbirds flitted automaton sparrows puffing out plumes of lavender scent. One poofed a perfume lump overhead and Adele waved her hand, choking on the aren’t-I-so-cultured scent.

  Stately live oaks stretched their arms over the grounds, lending gravitas to the proceedings and making Adele dislike the frilly, dangling Spanish moss for the first time, as if it were an affectation especially ordered by Claire for her shindig. Another breeze hissed through the oak leaves, lifted the edges of the linens, and set an errant hair ribbon to tickle her cheek.

  Claire. Hoity-toity Claire. Her comments chafed. Because it had the can’t-be-ignored ring of truth. She had been growing tired of this job. But it was a better alternative. Following the expected path, with all its restrictions, fattened that anxiety ball. She couldn’t do it. No. And her choice of profession hadn’t been enough to make her unmarriageable?

  She glanced skyward. “Blessed virgin, grant me patience,” she whispered. A red and blue hot air balloon sailed overhead and it felt as if her chest expanded, aching to be in its wicker hold. Who was the pilot? What adventures awaited him?

  "The punch," someone cried nearby.

  Adele spun around, the lack of weight on her shoulder filling her with unease.

  Loki sat in the crystal punchbowl, splashing the too-pink liquid in his face and scattering large dollops on the starched white linen tablecloth. From across the expansive lawn, Claire screeched.

  That screech punched through Adele’s belly, hollowing it out. Criminy. The party seemed populated now with eyes, judging, condescending, see-what-a-joke-you-are eyes, all pointed at her.

  And that screech felt as if it arrowed straight to her boss across town. He would not be happy.

  No. Not at all.

  ****

  “Hold still a minute longer, Loki,” Adele pleaded, her throat tight. She scrubbed under his armpit, cleansing the last lemonade residue from his fur. She’d left after his stunt at Claire’s, the hot air balloon seemingly dogging her path overhead. Now she stood at the water pump in her family’s backyard, a growing pink-tinged puddle soaking into the gaps between the bricks and a fake-sweet scent permeating the air. “That was horridly wicked, you know.”

  Her monkey chittered and she couldn’t help but add, “But it was funny. The look on Claire’s face.” She bit her lip, her throat still tight—what would her boss say? Did she still have a job? And those judging eyes…

  Monkey finally clean, she fitted his armor back onto his lean frame, careful to keep her new seersucker skirt from trailing in the liquid. "Okay, Loki. Now let's collect pecans." She handed him his burlap collection bag and waved him toward the pecan orchard at their property’s rear.

  Loki trotted off, his bag swishing behind him in the grass. She slumped onto a marble bench in the shade of a crepe myrtle to await him and jiggled her leg up and down. A bumblebee scooted past and dipped into a nearby azalea dripping in dark red petals, flitted to another bush, and another, skipping those with already-wilted blooms.

  Spring had come late this year, and the bright bursts of deep pinks and reds of the azaleas marched down their property’s edge to the first of the pecan trees.

  God. So much had changed in the yard. No matter that she’d been back for a year, it still jolted her. Gone was her mother’s herb garden and vegetable patch, and the personality she imbued the whole with dashes of her wildflowers. Now the yard was stiff and fussy, a natural by-product of being maintained by a hired gardener.

  No scent of crushed mint. No blue-tinged butterflies danced near yellow tickseed. No fuzzy softness between her fingers from rubbing lamb’s ear leaves.

  She crossed her arms over her stomach and leaned forward, fighting grief’s nasty twist.When would the pain go away?

  No. No thinking about her mother.

  She blinked rapidly and inhaled deeply. How to pass the time? A time whose emptiness gaped before her like a gauntlet she had to run, prickly and chafing, if she didn’t fill it. Stay busy, stay moving was her motto—if no one took an interest or helped, she would be too busy to notice. Too busy to feel alone. Too busy to realize no one cared. Too busy to get in trouble. Too busy, period.

  She re-envisioned the scene at Claire’s, embellishing the events and Loki’s antics as if there would be no consequences. And the real consequences? Well… Later. She’d figure out what to do later.

  But the fantasy could use more detail. More imagery. Loki living up to his namesake and swinging from stouter tufts of Spanish moss, screeching with glee. That red and blue hot air balloon floating into view behind Loki, silhouetting him. Oh, yes. Colorful, indeed. At the helm, a devilishly handsome gentleman with windswept black hair and blue, blue eyes.

  Wait. Blue, blue eyes? Come on, she could dredge up a better descriptor. And what was this dashing fellow doing in her imagination anyway? No room in her busy life for a pesky gentleman. She shook her head.

  Overhead, wood and rope and wicker creaked, clearly not getting along. A humming noise permeated the air. She jerked her head up.

  Floating down, cool as you please, was the red and blue hot air balloon straight from her fantasy. Headed for her family's backyard.

  And a black-haired man at its helm. Were his eyes blue?

  "Help!” emerged from the hold. “This blasted thing. Whooops!"

  She jumped to her feet. Hot air balloons weren't uncommon, to be sure. But generally, they landed at d'Iberville Airfield near the Mobile River, or in public squares. Not in a family’s backyard. But who was she to quibble with such a welcome diversion—alone time with her thoughts was never her favorite pastime.

  The stranger yanked levers and ropes, panicked oaths punctuating the scene.

  Loki plopped down his bag, several pecans rolling out, and scrambled onto her shoulder, no doubt for a better view. It was an interesting spectacle.

  The balloon floated closer, skimming past the pecan trees, and she stood on her tiptoes for a better look.

  He wore no coat! How scandalous. Adele grinned. Beneath his shirtsleeves, his muscles bunched and flexed.

  He sported a pearl gray waistcoat, its top button undone. His white cravat was all to pieces, flapping around his neck. No. Sailing away now in the light breeze. His hand whipped out to catch it, but he tripped and fell to the bottom of the little w
icker hold. Fingers appeared, gripping the basket’s edge, and his head popped into view, his face tomato red.

  Loki leaped from her shoulder and streaked across the grass with a screech.

  The balloon floated closer. Still not near enough to see his eyes. If they were blue…

  Yes. Blue. Like the waters of the Gulf of Mexico on a clear day. No. Too fraught with imagery.

  Cerulean blue. Beetle blue.

  "I say, you there."

  Beetle blue? Not very romantic. But there were those little beetles with the iridescent underbelly...

  "Are you of any use, woman?" the stranger shouted.

  "I don't see how I could be of any service," she hollered, waving her arms. "You're doing splendidly. Now all you need do is land without crashing."

  The purple sails flaring from the back whined as they adjusted position a fraction.

  Thump. The balloon touched down--with nary a bounce--smack in the center of their manicured lawn, the sails expertly embracing the burbling water fountain.

  Bravo. Clearly, one of those proficient fellows who put on a bumbling show to gain more applause. "Well done, sir." She clapped. It had been a good show.

  "Secure this, will you?" He threw an anchor over the side. His voice had a delightful, clipped accent, the exotic tones washing over her like a fresh taste of adventure.

  British. Now she really wanted to know who he was. Story material? She wound the anchor around the marble fountain base and assessed him from the corner of her eye. His body practically vibrated at a job well done, his movements efficient.

  Hmm. The headline could be: Lock Up Your Daughters, Gentlemen of Mobile. Too Handsome Stranger from the British Isles Makes Dashing Appearance.

  How fortunate she was immune.

  The stranger unlatched the basket door and stepped onto the grass, a valise in one hand, his coat in the other. He set down his suitcase, shrugged into the coat, and buttoned the top waistcoat button. He fiddled with his collar and let his hands fall, brow furrowed. He lifted his chin and angled his head side to side, eyes closed.

  What a handsome specimen. His hair, as black as newspaper ink, cavorted with abandon, lending him a roguish air. And she never thought she’d be drawn by a gentleman’s eyebrows, but there it was. Sure, he possessed a well-sculpted face—pleasing angles and all that—but the slash of eyebrows, topped by his windswept hair, elevated his features to jaunty status.