April of Enchantment

by Jennifer Blake

  The state of affairs did not last long. Guests began to arrive, filling the house with their chatter and exclamations over each other's costumes. They demanded to know where Justin and Myra were, and to be shown over every inch of the marvelous old house. The musicians began to play. The champagne punch was ladled in a steady flow from the silver bowl set up in the dining room. The dance programs, plainly showing the limited opportunities for the gentlemen to dance with the ladies of their choice that night, encouraged participation. Soon men and women were circling around the floor.

  Laura had the first dance with Russ. He entered into the occasion with gusto, swinging her around in a Strauss waltz with good will if little finesse. The sweep of her skirts with their stiffened petticoats added something to the sensation, Laura found, giving her a feeling of magical grace and rhythm.

  Russ had given his second dance to Laura's mother with his characteristic courtesy, and Justin's father had signed Laura's program. It was while she and Mr. Roman were laughing through the movements of a quadrille, something on the order of a Virginia reel, that Laura noticed Justin had returned to the parlors and was dancing with his mother. Undoubtedly his first dance should have been with Myra, if they had not been busy elsewhere. Of his fiancée there was no sign until the interval between dances, when Laura saw her in a corner with her father, talking with quick, angry gestures.

  The name beside the third dance on her program was Justin's. As the music of another waltz filled the room. She looked up to see him coming toward her. His bow was smooth, without self-consciousness.

  “My dance, I believe, Miss Nichols?”

  She consulted her program as though in doubt, then smiled up at him. “So it is.”

  He drew her to her feet and into his arms, sweeping her out onto the floor. For long moments it was as though time spun backward. They moved in silent, mutual appreciation of the atmosphere they had combined forces to create. Beneath the pleasure and exhilaration that ran in Laura's veins, there was a poignant sense of nostalgia. Never again would this happen, not in just this way. Never again would anything be the same after this night. Almost against her will, she lifted her gaze to Justin's face. The expression in his eyes made her catch her breath, made her suddenly aware of the strength of his arms around her. They danced together with effortless ease, gliding, swaying in perfect unison, two parts of a whole. Their images were reflected in the huge pier mirrors, along with the other dancers, multiplied over and over until the walls of the room seemed to expand to hold hundreds of whirling couples. The lights from overhead shimmered on Laura's hair and shoulders, shining in the soft violet-blue of her eyes.

  “You are so beautiful,” Justin said, his voice scarcely above a whisper, “you hardly seem real.”

  “But I am,” Laura answered.

  “And never was I more thankful for anything.”

  Was there a promise in his voice, or did she imagine it? “It's—a lovely party, after all.”

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed, “an inspiration.”

  There was no time for more. The music came to a triumphant end. Justin led Laura back to the chair where her mother was sitting against the wall. They were joined there by Myra, who entwined her hand through his arm possessively.

  “You forgot to sign my dance program, darling,” she said, “but I left several dances for you.”

  As he hesitated, staring down at her, Russ stepped up to Laura, claiming her for the next dance. By the time she could answer his bantering remarks and look around again, Justin and Myra had been joined by Mr. Devol and the three of them were moving off together.

  Dance followed dance as the night wore on. There were enough people from the town who had been included on the invitation list to keep Laura from feeling neglected, but most of the faces she saw were strange, friends of Myra's, or so it seemed. Justin, busy with his duties as host, did not approach her again, but neither did he take the floor with Myra, which seemed odd, under the circumstances.

  It was nearing midnight when Russ appeared at Laura's elbow with two punch glasses. Grinning down at her, he said, “You must be thirsty after all that exercise. I know I am, and all I've been doing is watching you.”

  “That isn't so. I've seen you dancing with every pretty girl in the room.” Laura took the glass he pressed into her hand, raising it to her lips.

  “So you noticed? That's encouraging.”

  She only shook her head at him, laughter in her eyes above her punch glass.

  “It's a little hot in here. Shall we step out onto the gallery?”

  It sounded like an excellent idea. Laura accepted the arm Russ offered, and they made their way through the crowd toward the long windows that opened on the front.

  The night air was fresh and cool, a welcome relief after the heat inside. The air-conditioning had been switched on, but it should have been put in operation much earlier to overcome the effects of so many people crowded into such a small space.

  They finished their punch. Russ took her glass from her and set it with his own beside the base of one of the columns. Straightening again, he reached to take her hand in his, drawing her with him as he strolled under the lanterns, along the brick floor of the gallery. They passed the entrance and the windows of the sitting room, turning down the side gallery, away from the noise and confusion. The light was dimmer here, and only the unfamiliar strains of a polka followed them, vying with the night sounds of chirping crickets and croaking tree frogs.

  “Look,” Laura said as a tiny light flashed in the shadows of the garden to their right. “Was that a firefly?”

  “No, ma'am,” Russ said in his best imitation of the Hollywood version of a Southern accent. “That was a lightning bug, ma'am.”

  Laura laughed. “It's the same thing, silly.”

  “Do tell. It seems as if you are just what I need, ma'am, to keep me straightened out the rest of my life. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  As he spoke, he turned to face her, carrying her hand to his chest, where he placed it over his heart.

  “Oh, Russ,” was all Laura could think of to say.

  He dropped his pretense, his voice deepening. “I love you, Laura love. I will try always to make you happy. Will you marry me?”

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry, but I can't.”

  He was still for long moments, his eyes searching the pale oval of her upturned face. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. “It's Justin, isn't it?”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let her. “What—what does it matter?”

  “You deserve the best, and I would like to see that you have it.”

  “There's nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do.”

  He sighed, and with arms that held no more than brotherly caring, gathered her close against him. “Ah, Laura love, sometimes things don't work out. When that happens, we can only try again.”

  Was he comforting her, or himself? She did not know, but she stood still, her forehead pressed against his shirt front, for long moments before she stirred.

  “You are a dear friend. I would hate to lose you,” she said.

  “I'll be around to the last gasp.”

  That phrase usually meant until there was no hope left, though it could also indicate as long as life lasted. This was no time to question his semantics, however. With the sheen of unshed tears in her violet eyes, she said, “I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, smiling, dropping back into his fake accent. “Like the river, life do have a way of rolling along. Shall we go back inside?”

  Laura went with him as far as the entrance. There, she picked up their punch glasses. “If you will excuse me, I think I will go back into the kitchen and see how they are coming with the buffet.”

  He nodded his understanding, pushing his hands into his pockets. On impulse, Laura went up on tiptoe to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek before she turned away. She pushed open the door an
d stepped into the house, but as she moved down the hallway, she knew Russ was standing where she had left him, staring after her.

  In the dining room, Laura paused. Already, several dishes had been arranged on the sideboard, and silver, crystal, china, and napkins left ready upon the lowboy. The maid serving behind the punch bowl was just ladling out the last cupfuls, informing everyone that was the end of it, that the chef had sent for the key to lock the door of the dining room so he could finish setting out his most magnificent dishes without interruption. The guests, grumbling that it had better be worth waiting for, were moving out, back toward the parlors, as Laura slipped through the connecting door that led from the dining room, through the butler's pantry, to the kitchen.

  The chef recognized her, beckoning to her above the hubbub of preparation. He led her to where his piéce montée, or centerpiece sat, a towering confection of nougat shaped like a Greek temple that might, by some stretching of the imagination, be said to look like Crapemyrtle. Laura praised his handiwork anyway, asking about first one dish and then another that had been agreed upon.

  The housekeeper turned from the sink where she was rinsing dishes and putting them into a large, commercial-size dishwasher to speak to Laura and to take the punch glasses she held. The man who was acting as butler came in from the storeroom behind the kitchen carrying another case of chilled champagne, the keyring containing the house keys dangling from his fingers. The housekeeper wiped her hands, moving to show him where to put the case down, taking the keys from him, then promptly putting them down again on the end of the cabinet as she hurried to help the maid coming through from the pantry with the great silver punch bowl in her arms.

  Laughing a little, Laura sidestepped the housekeeper, drawing her wide skirts aside. The chef patted her on the shoulder.

  “Don't worry, Miss Nichols. I know it doesn't look it now, but everything is under control. The supper will be perfect, magnifique! I guarantee it!”

  “What is this? What is going on in here?” It was Myra who came bursting through the pantry door behind the maid. Her eyes were narrow as she looked at Laura. With her hands curved into claws she came toward her. “I should have known you would be in here, trying to run the show, acting the hostess. I suppose you're the one who told them to stop serving punch?”

  Myra was, apparently, no stranger to the chef. He drew himself up, his great size as impressive as the walrus mustache beneath his nose. “No, Miss Devol. It was I who gave the order.”

  “What's the big idea? My friends are still thirsty.”

  “Your friends will have to wait until supper is served. There will be more champagne then, and they can drink themselves into a stupor if they like. But in a few minutes I am going to place the food on the table, and I want no one looking over my shoulder telling me how to do my business.”

  “Is that so?” Myra sneered. “Let me tell you, my good man, that you aren't being paid to offend guests in this house!”

  “Offend? I? I, who am about to give them such a culinary treat as they have seldom seen?”

  “Myra,” Laura broke in, “it will only be for a few minutes, a half-hour at the most. Everyone is so busy dancing they will hardly notice.”

  “I noticed! I demand that the punch bowl be brought back!”

  “I demand that you remove yourself from my kitchen,” the chef shouted. “Do so now, or I will go, leave, depart. And you, Miss Devol, can serve your guests their supper yourself!”

  That threat effectively silenced Myra. She stood chewing the lipstick from her mouth in indecision.

  “I think,” Laura said, “that it would be better if we went back to the parlor.”

  “An excellent idea,” the chef seconded.

  Myra folded her arms. “First I want to see what is to be served to our guests.”

  It appeared that the chef had no need of her to handle the other woman. If she herself left, maybe Myra would feel uncomfortable enough alone in the kitchen to do the same. With that thought in mind, Laura stepped around a caterer's helper carrying an armful of cans containing almonds, and slipped back through the pantry into the dining room.

  She had started across to the hallway when she noticed that wax from the silver candelabra on the table had dripped onto the polished mahogany surface. It was warm and soft to the touch. Laura picked up the worst of the blob with her nails, but a residue was left. There was a roll of paper toweling in the pantry. She stepped back into the small room with its narrow pass-through to pull one from the roll, swinging back toward the dining room with it in her hand.

  At that moment, there came the clicking sound of a key in the lock of the door between the pantry and the kitchen. With a lifted brow, Laura swung to stare at the panel. Why the chef would want to lock that door instead of the one from the hallway into the dining room, she could not imagine. It looked to her as though he had locked himself into the kitchen, which made no sense at all. She supposed, however, that he knew what he was doing.

  Moving back into the dining room, Laura wiped carefully at the wax, polishing away the smear until the spot shone once more. With a small smile of satisfaction, she surveyed her handiwork, then stepped around the end of the table to carry the towel back into the pantry, where a trash can was located under one of the shelves.

  Myra burst into the room then from the direction of the hall. Her face was flushed with hectic color and she seemed out of breath, as though she had been running. In her hands she had the great brass ring that held the keys to the house. “So, you are still here, poking and prying and cleaning up like a busy little housewife. I expected as much!”

  “You should have,” Laura said, her patience suddenly at an end. “You've watched me do enough of it these last few weeks.”

  “Oh, yes, rub it in! Tell me how hard you have worked. You wouldn't want anybody to overlook it, would you, especially Justin? You've made a regular martyr out of yourself for his sake. I do hope he recognizes it.”

  “Do you? For myself, I don't particularly care.” Ignoring the other woman, Laura stepped into the pantry, disposing of the towel.

  “A likely story,” Myra said following her. “If that was true, you wouldn't have left Russ Masters outside moping while you came in here to wipe up messes.”

  “What I do, and who I do it with, is no concern of yours.” Laura's violet gaze was hard with anger as she stared at the other woman blocking the doorway. “I no longer have to put up with you or your outrageous demands and sneaking ways now that I am through at Crapemyrtle.”

  “Yes,” Myra cried, giving a vicious nod so that the feathers in her hair slid forward at an odd angle, making her look demented with rage. “Yes, through!” she screamed, flecks of spittle appearing on her mouth. “That's exactly what you are. You are through, you and this horrible house. I hate you, I hate both of you!”

  Laura saw what she intended. She saw and started forward with a diving step. Immediately Myra stepped back, and with a twisted smile of triumph, slammed the door between the pantry and the dining room, thrusting the key into the lock.

  Laura threw herself against the panel, hitting it with her shoulder. But the catch held, and then she heard the grate of the old-fashioned key snapping the bolt home. She was shut in.

  Myra laughed with the sound of hysteria that trailed off into a sob. Hearing her still in the dining room, Laura shook the door, twisting the knob this way and that. It did no good. She swung to the other door, which led to the kitchen, knowing as she did so that it would gain her nothing, that it must have been Myra who had turned the key in that door also. Still, she hammered against it. From inside, she could hear the hum of the dishwasher and the whir of a blender. No one came.

  Turning back, Laura moved to the end of the pantry, standing on her tiptoes to look through the pass-through. What she saw held her immobile with horror. In the dining room, Myra had picked up the candelabrum with its burning tapers from the table. Her fingers were shaking, and she held the base of the heavy silver piece in
a choking grasp with both hands. Muttering to herself, she moved toward the drapes over the windows. As she reached them, she thrust the flames toward the dangling tassels.

  Laura stretched as high as she could, banging on the window. “Myra, no! Don't!”

  If the other woman heard, she gave no sign. The tassels of the drapes caught with a rush. Smoke curled upward in a black cloud. Myra's eyes widened as she backed away, then suddenly she dropped the candelabrum and whirled, running from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “No,” Laura whispered, “no!” Not Crapemyrtle. It could not burn. Even if it did not come to that, if the fire-extinguishing system came on in time, there would be smoke and water damage, so much work gone for nothing.

  The pass-through was small, but so was she. She hoisted herself up onto the cabinet beneath it, catching the handles, pushing upward with all her strength. It was stuck in its own fresh paint, but as she strained, jerking at it again and again, it cracked free, sliding upward on the counterweights.

  Her wide skirts were an encumbrance, but she had no hoop like Myra. Standing on the cabinet, she unbuttoned the band that held her six thicknesses of petticoats and dropped them to the floor. Swinging around, she put first one leg and then the other through the opening until she was sitting on the sill. Bending low, she wriggled the rest of her body through, balanced a moment, then jumped down on the other side.

  At that moment, the smoke alarm set high on the wall gave a preliminary beep, then went off in a nerve-shattering sound. Laura swung toward the drapes with fear in her eyes, then went still. The tasseled fringe had burned for a few inches, and the fabric smoldered where the direct flames had touched it, but that was all. Though the smoke had activated one system, there had not been enough heat to cause the water sprinklers to come on.