Witch Angel

by Trana Mae Simmons

  A tiny woman flew from behind a curtain separating the main shop from what was probably a workroom in the back. She pattered over to them on almost noiseless feet, her mouth pursed and brilliant turquoise eyes sparkling. The pile of obviously-dyed, carrot-colored curls atop her head wobbled precariously, and she reached up to pat it back into place as she approached, the wobbly bosom on her petite figure threatening to spill from her low-cut gown.

  “Monsieur Jake,” she simpered. “You have brought your delightful niece for me to dress. Ohhhhh. I have heard of you already, Mademoiselle Alaynia. The women who are my clientele, such gossips they are. Several of them have already visited me today. But I knew they were making light of your beauty, because they have all been throwing their daughters at Monsieur Shain for years now. Come.” She took Alaynia’s arm. “Come over here where the light is better. I must feast my eyes on your wonderful skin.”

  Alaynia glanced helplessly at Jake, but he only grinned and walked over to a chair set against the wall. Madame Chantal tugged Alaynia toward the window with a surprisingly strong grip for such a small woman. Once Madame had Alaynia positioned to her satisfaction, she took Alaynia’s chin and moved her head back and forth amid more murmured ohh’s and ahh’s.

  An instant later, Madame grabbed a bolt of tangerine cloth from a pile, unrolled it, and draped it around Alaynia’s neck.

  “Ohhhhh. See?” she said with a glance at Jake. “Half of my customers have wanted dresses from this cloth, but I would not sell it to them. No, no, no, I would say. Their complexions would disgrace this, no matter what wondrous dress I fashioned for them. But look how it makes the roses bloom on your niece’s cheeks—and her eyes glow with hidden lights. What do you think, Monsieur Jake?”

  “I’m used to choosing my own clothing,” Alaynia gritted. She’d had about enough of kowtowing to males for one day. “If you’ll just show me to a mirror ...”

  Madame’s heavily rouged face broke into a frown that deepened the wrinkles she tried to hide with a layer of powder, but Alaynia saw a calculating look settle in her eyes. The couturiere’s attitude did an about-face.

  “Why, of course, Mademoiselle,” she murmured. “And with your striking beauty, I am sure you have had considerable experience in knowing what will bring out your best features. Not that there is much you cannot wear. Oh, my other customers will be so jealous when they see you. They will be fighting to get me to design them something that will make them as lovely as you. But I will have to tell them that it is impossible. First, I will say, they must give me something to work with, and their so-protected, milk-white skins leave much to be desired when choosing a color to wear.”

  Alaynia tried to stifle her laughter, but a smothered giggle escaped. Lordy, was Madame ever a saleswoman. She would bet Madame would assure each one of her other customers that, why, of course, she could make them every bit as beautiful as Mademoiselle Alaynia. When she stared into the mirror Madame Chantal led her to, she had to admit the woman had chosen well for her.

  She had no desire to compete with the other women in the parish, though. Only one person’s opinion of how she looked mattered, and she studied her reflection, trying to see herself through Shain’s eyes. Madame adjusted the material, then scurried over to bring back a roll of silver lace, which she draped across what would be the neckline. The delicate lace appeared as frothy as a dew-sparkled spider web, and Alaynia smiled and nodded her head.

  Jake sat complacently for a full two hours, while Madame intermittently draped Alaynia with various other materials from the bolts lining one wall of her shop and pointed out the designs she had in mind in the crisp, new Peterson’s on a shelf. When Alaynia mentioned having recently perused a Godey’s, Madame pooh-poohed that as old-fashioned and provincial. Alaynia managed to hide her wry smile this time. Madame would be horrified if she knew that everything she showed Alaynia was old-fashioned in her former world.

  Madame kept up a spatter of gossip as she worked. Since Alaynia knew none of the people, she finally tuned her out. Only once did she pay attention, when Madame mentioned Cole Dubose’s name. “Such a darkly handsome man, do you not think, Mademoiselle?” Madame Chantal asked. “He is in town today.”

  “Yes,” Alaynia casually responded. “He rode in with my uncle and me.” She adjusted a paille de riz bonnet on her head and smiled at the jaunty ostrich feather tucked into the cerise velvet band. Women had lost much when hats went out of style. She liked the perky set of the bonnet on her head and marveled at the intricate weaving in the rice straw.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” Madame said with a giggle and a sly glance. “Madame Escott was in this morning. We would like to see them meet, would we not?”

  Although Alaynia failed to respond, Madame prattled on about Cole until the innuendos fell into place. It appeared Madame Escott, the former Annette Maxwell, had once thought herself engaged to Cole Dubose, and even had a fourteen-year-old daughter named Colette. My, the parish had been scandalized when the young Mademoiselle Maxwell had given birth with no sign of impeding matrimony. She had instead married Monsieur Escott two years later—a man who everyone knew had married Annette for not only her beauty, but the plantation she inherited on her parents’ deaths.

  Alaynia’s attention abruptly shifted from Madame Chantal’s gossip. She hadn’t heard the door open, yet she knew before she turned around that Shain was in the shop. She turned as Shain sat down beside Jake, crossed his long legs at the ankles, and tucked his thumbs into his trouser pockets as he slouched in the chair. A brilliant smile crept over her mouth, and Shain gave her a languid wink, then a nod when she reached up to touch the bonnet on her head and lifted her brows inquiringly.

  “I’ll take this one,” Alaynia told the couturiere. “And I believe that will be all for today.”

  “Not quite,” Shain said as he rose and sauntered over to her. Though he directed his words to Madame Chantal, his eyes remained on Alaynia. “What do you have in white? Something light and airy.”

  “Ah, yes,” Madame said excitedly, with a glance at Alaynia. “I see exactly what you mean, Monsieur St. Clair. I have it in the other room.”

  Madame scampered away, and Alaynia murmured, “I thought you were busy today.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”

  “I’d like to,” Alaynia admitted, “but something tells me you changed your plans about coming into St. Francisville for some other reason.”

  He covered up the dark hint of fury in his brown eyes so quickly she could almost make herself believe she had imagined it. Instinctively, she reached out to touch his arm. “What is it, Shain? What’s happened now?”

  “We had a couple of wagons loaded with cotton, ready to bring in to the gin today,” he said. “Like a fool, I had the men leave them out in the fields overnight, and someone took advantage of the fire last night to haul them down to the creek where we found those piglets yesterday—dumped them and rode their horses around over the cotton. It’s not salvageable.”

  “Oh, my God! Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “No way to know. They came back into St. Francisville on the road. No way to pick their tracks out from among the others closer to town. I’ve reported it to the sheriff, and Cole went back out to take a look. I stayed behind to escort you home.”

  “Is it a terrible loss for you?”

  “Not only me, but my workers. They had a share in that cotton.”

  “Then maybe we should forget the dress,” Alaynia insisted.

  “Not on your life,” Shain growled. “I’ve had enough grief for a while. Don’t deprive me of this small pleasure.”

  Madame Chantal reemerged from her workshop carrying a bolt of material. Propping it against the shelf on the side of the wall, she hurriedly leafed through her Peterson’s, then waved Shain over and laid her finger on one of the pages. Shain turned back and studied Alaynia, but when she started forward to look at the Peterson’s, he quickly closed the book and picked up the bolt of material to fi
nger it.

  “Exactly,” he said to Madame Chantal. “We need it by next Friday, since we’re having a small dinner party at Chenaie.”

  Something told Alaynia not to demand to see the dress he had chosen, as she had insisted on earlier when Madame had deferred to Jake. Shain’s face, set a second ago in lines of barely-concealed misery, had softened when he glanced over at her. She could at least give him this—the pleasure he’d contended he would get from selecting her dress.

  Instead, she browsed among the bonnets on the shelf, finally selecting one she considered appropriate for Jeannie. After Shain and Madame ended their discussion, she carried it over to Shain to ask his opinion.

  “It’s rather a mature style for my sister,” Shain said, eyeing the array of peacock feathers in the blue velvet band. “I’d think something with ribbons and flowers might be more appropriate.”

  “Shain, she’s going to be fifteen, not five. Good grief, I saw a couple young women about Jeannie’s age while we rode through town. Not one of them had ribbons dangling down their backs. Jeannie would be embarrassed to death, if I got her a bonnet like that.”

  “Mademoiselle is right,” Madame Chantal put in. “And this bonnet will be perfect with the gown I made for your sister. It is so saucy—so perky. It bubbles with joy, as Mademoiselle Jeannie does.”

  “Guess I’m outnumbered.”

  Shain attempted a smile, but Alaynia sensed the resignation in his voice came more from the disasters he’d had to deal with in less than twenty-four hours than having his opinion overridden. His shoulders slumped tiredly as he left them to join Jake, while Madame placed the bonnet in a hatbox and Alaynia paid for it.

  Before they left the shop, Jake carried two more things over to Madame Chantal, then handed them to Alaynia, his glance warning her not to argue about accepting them. With a murmur of thanks, she slipped the change remaining from her purchase of the bonnet into the pearl-studded drawstring bag and started to push the white parasol open.

  “No!” Madame leapt forward and grabbed the parasol. “Oh, no, no, no! Do not raise the parasol inside, Mademoiselle. Such bad luck it will bring!”

  Rolling her eyes heavenward, Alaynia said, “Madame, that’s only a superstition.”

  Madame huffed out her bosom in indignation, then glanced over at the bolts of cloth waiting for her needle, a calculating gleam replacing her annoyance. Alaynia knew she had realized that it wouldn’t do to antagonize such a profitable customer. Instead, Madame flew into a flurry of action, apparently forgetting she carried the parasol with her.

  “Mademoiselle Jeannie’s dress!” she gasped as she scurried toward the back room. “You mustn’t forget it.”

  Only a second later, she came back with a box in her arms, which she handed to Shain. Grabbing the hatbox, she thrust it into Alaynia’s hands and accompanied them to the door.

  “I will have the white dress and at least two of the others ready by next Thursday, Mademoiselle,” she said. “Shall I have them delivered, or would you prefer to come back and try them on, in case there are any alterations needed?”

  Thinking of how busy she would be with Jake’s house, Alaynia replied with a laugh, “You measured everything from my neck to my toes, Madame. I’ve no doubt everything will fit perfectly. Please have them delivered, if it’s not too much bother.”

  “No bother at all,” Madame assured her. She followed them out the door, and not until then did she suddenly seem to remember she carried the parasol. With a grand gesture, she opened the lacy, white sunshade and laid it on Alaynia’s shoulder with a twirl.

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed as she clapped her hands. “And it will go with the dress Monsieur Shain has chosen, too.”

  With a wave at the two men, Madame disappeared back into the shop and closed the door.

  “Such a fuss over a silly superstition,” Alaynia said to Shain, but he didn’t return her amused look.

  “It’s part of what some people believe in,” he warned. “Don’t underestimate the importance of it to them.”

  Recalling the gris gris bag Zeke now wore, Alaynia glanced at Jake. Rather than enter the discussion, he took her arm and steered her down the street.

  “I’ve got one more stop to make,” Jake said. “Need to check my mail over at the post office window in the general store.”

  The store was only two buildings down, and Shain and Alaynia accompanied Jake inside. Jake wandered over to a sliding window beside the counter, as Alaynia avidly studied the array of goods lining the shelves. She started down one aisle with shelves of kitchen implements and reached for a stained coffee grinder just as she heard a grunt of recognition from Shain, who had followed her.

  Gazing down the aisle, she saw a dark-haired woman about her own age in deep conversation with a pudgy man dressed in a gray suit. She slipped a glance at Shain, whose face was creased into a scowl. The woman must have spied them at that moment, because her slightly shrill voice called a greeting to Shain, and she walked toward them, her stout companion right behind her.

  “This must be your houseguest,” the woman said, upon reaching them. “Won’t you introduce us, Shain? I’d thought to have to wait until next Friday to meet her.”

  “Alaynia Mirabeau, this is Annette Escott,” Shain said in an even voice. “And Evan Fitzroy.”

  Alaynia remembered to only touch fingertips as Annette extended her hand, though she ardently studied the other woman who, according to parish gossip, had once been Cole Dubose’s mistress. She had to admit to herself that the story interested her—maybe only because she knew so little about the lives of the people in this time period. Or maybe because the mysterious Cole appeared to be such a different person around Shain’s sister.

  Evan Fitzroy took her hand the moment Annette relinquished it, bowing over it to place a moist kiss on the back. With an effort, Alaynia kept from brushing her hand against her skirt to wipe away the lingering feel of his pursed lips.

  “Charmed, Miss Mirabeau,” Fitzroy murmured. “It will be a delight to enjoy your company, also, next week.”

  “I don’t recall extending you an invitation to our dinner party, Fitzroy,” Shain growled.

  “Oh, Shain,” Annette said with a simper. “Mister Escott will be out of town on some dreadful business matter or the other. I truly hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Evan to be my escort, since it simply wouldn’t do for me to attend the affair alone. All the other neighbors will be there, and Colette does so want to come visit with Jeannie.”

  “Chenaie’s hospitality is always open,” Shain replied grudgingly.

  “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to discuss some bus—” Fitzroy began.

  “This party is for my sister’s birthday,” Shain broke in bluntly. “I intend it as an evening of pleasure, not an atmosphere conducive to conducting business. We’ll see you both then.”

  Without giving Alaynia a chance to even murmur a leave-taking, Shain placed his hand on her back and fairly shoved her down the aisle. She managed one apologetic glance over her shoulder at Annette, but the other woman didn’t appear to notice, as her gaze remained fixed on Shain’s back. Piercing darts of anger emanated from her darkened eyes, and when Fitzroy caught Alaynia’s backward observation, he stepped in front of Annette to block Alaynia’s view.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, Shain clenched his hand in the material on her dress back, and Alaynia flinched when the zipper teeth bit into her skin. He immediately dropped his arm.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “You ready to go, Jake?”

  Jake approached them with a roll of paper under his arms and a sheaf of mail in his hands. “Yes, I’m done. And I have something for you, Alaynia,” he said, extending two pieces of paper toward her. “They just came back in the mail. Pick one.” Alaynia raised her brows in inquiry, and Jake continued, “It’s my tickets for the Louisiana lottery drawing in two weeks. We have to mail off to New Orleans for them.”

  “That da
mned lottery’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” Shain said. “It’s just a way for the politicians to raise money to finance their campaigns.”

  “Heck, it’s fun, Shain,” Jake said. “My old heart gets all excited while I’m driving into town to check the numbers each month. Come on, Alaynia. Choose one.”

  Alaynia chose one of the tickets and stuck it in her drawstring bag as Jake tucked the other one in his shirt pocket. As they walked out the door, Jake handed her the roll of paper, which she took after a quick glimpse at Shain’s face.

  “I hope this is what you need to draw up the plans, Alaynia,” Jake said, ending any hope Alaynia had of confronting Shain in privacy with the news of her recently-acquired job. “I’ll pick you up again in the morning, so you can get started.”

  “Started on what?” Shain asked.

  “Why, on my house, of course,” Jake said, as though Shain had been privy all along to their discussion. “You’ve been after me for years to build myself a decent place, and now I’ve found the perfect person to design it for me. But there’s a lot of preliminary work to do before we can break ground, isn’t that what you said, Alaynia?”

  “Quite a bit,” Alaynia agreed, resolutely not meeting Shain’s glower. “I’ll want to measure the site and see if we need any fill for the foundation. Get a better idea of the size of house you want, before I start drawing up the plans.”

  “You’re not gonna be spending your days with a bunch of damned men constructing a house,” Shain said angrily. “There’s carpenters Jake can hire, if he wants a house built!”

  “I’ll be damned if you’re going to tell me what I can or can’t do,” Alaynia spat back. “I’ve already accepted this job, and we’ve begun ordering supplies!”

  “You should’ve checked with me first. It’s not a proper thing for you to be doing. Once Jake gets the house built, we can talk about your maybe assisting him in furnishing it.”