Money and a good family name—everything Adeline wanted.
“Of course, Adeline won’t be the only woman after him. I’ve an understanding with Monsieur Delille, otherwise even I might venture. . .”
Effie nodded but no longer listened. She watched Adeline pull a fan from her reticule and fling it open with a snap of her wrist. The sound drew the attention of Mr. Chauvet, who eyed Adeline as he carried on his conversation with a group of gentlemen. Effie suspected that had been Adeline’s intent, for she feigned a sudden raptness in her own party’s dialogue. The heat and humidity that dulled the eyes of others in the room, that melted their wax makeup and frazzled their hair, seemed only to enhance Adeline’s beauty. Her chest flushed pink. Her skin glistened in the gaslight. A minute later Mr. Chauvet departed his circle and came to stand before Adeline. He bowed and gestured to the seat beside her on the couch.
The flash of a smile and he was seated beside her. An exchange of words. He tugged on his cravat and smoothed his mustache. She laughed and nodded and played with her fan, snapping it closed and trailing the tip along her neck and collarbone. More words, nodding, and laughter. A quick whisper in her ear.
Effie turned away and picked her way through the crowd outside to the gallery. She’d hoped to catch a breeze, but the air was just as still and heavy. She’d long since finished her champagne and felt strangely off balance. The lull of violins from inside blurred with that of the crickets in the yard.
How easy it had been for Adeline to lure Mr. Chauvet to her side. It wasn’t just her beauty, for the room was filled with lovely women. Effie pulled the comb from her hair and turned it over in her palm, watching the lamplight reflect off the silver. She ought to feel lucky then to have so skilled a teacher. But whereas Latin and anatomy had been easy to learn, this skill, this talent of Adeline’s still seemed utterly beyond Effie’s grasp.
She leaned against the cast-iron railing and looked out into the night, trying to imagine herself seated on that parlor couch with Samson beside her. Nod and laugh. She could do that instead of talking about politics or embalming, couldn’t she? And she best get a fan like Adeline’s, one she could snap open and closed instead of the palm leaf fan she’d bought off a street vendor.
She rubbed the pearl comb against her skirt to buff away the sweat and oil from her hands. Captain and Mrs. Kinyon wouldn’t approve of all this: the finery, the gaiety, the spirits. Certainly not on a Sunday evening.
The Kinyons were not poor but frugal, their puritanical tendencies reinforced each week from the pulpit. They were strict, staid, but not overly stern. No talk of death or embalming was allowed at the supper table. No reading until daily chores were done. No chemicals inside the house. No anatomy textbooks left open in the parlor, lest one of Mrs. Kinyon’s friends glance upon the pages and suffer a fright.
There were other rules too, unspoken rules Effie learned by observation. No drinking, except in secret. No dancing, except at formal events. No laughing, except the occasional polite chuckle. No talking about Annabelle.
Effie started to tuck the comb into her purse but stopped and slipped it back in her hair. She needn’t please anyone but herself anymore.
“Effie, ma foi, there you are.”
She turned around at the sound of Adeline’s voice. Mr. Chauvet was with her, dabbing the sweat from his brow with a silk hankie. He looked older than Effie had guessed from afar, perhaps twice their age, but his face was kind.
Adeline rapped her on the wrist with her closed fan as if Effie were a wayward child. “I looked all through the parlor for you.”
“I needed some air.”
“Not a good night for it, I’m afraid,” Mr. Chauvet said. “By my recollection, late March was never this hot.”
“You’ve been away too long, then,” Adeline said, turning her fan on him and tapping him on the chest.
“Indeed I have.”
Without looking in her direction, Adeline said, “Effie, allow me to introduce Monsieur Chauvet. Monsieur Chauvet, Miss Effie Jones.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He bowed low.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Forgive me, but your accent. Are you from the North?”
“Miss Jones was born here but raised up North after the War,” Adeline said. “Illinois, was it?”
“Indiana.”
“Indiana. By white folks, no less. Poor Miss Jones’s an orphan, see.”
Poor Miss Jones’s an orphan? The words had the shock and sting of a hornet’s bite. Heat flamed up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Quel dommage,” he said. “What a pity. Between slavery and the War there’s not a life left unmarred. My condolences, Miss Jones.”
Effie didn’t want his condolences, his pity. Hadn’t she gotten enough of that up North? Must it come now from her own people? Then again, looking over their expensive clothes and high yellow skin, maybe they weren’t her people at all.
“I . . .” Anger choked her. Or was it shame? Effie couldn’t make head or tales of what she felt, only that she didn’t want to be here. “Could you . . . I need a drink.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He bowed again. “I’ll get us all something to wet our throats.”
As soon as his back was turned, Effie hurried down the gallery steps.
“Where are you going?” Adeline asked.
Effie spun around. “Is that why you brought me here tonight? To parade me around as your charity case?”
“Mais non. I only—”
“That’s how you see me, though. How everyone in there sees me. An Eliza, a hapless freedwoman, an orphan.”
“Monsieur Rousseve merely mistook your name.” She flapped her hand. “Eliza, Effie, they sound nearly the same.”
“And I’m sure he mistook Mr. Greene for Uncle Tom, and that dark-skinned waiter in there for Sambo.”
Adeline dropped her gaze to the white-painted steps. “Oh.”
“I’ve had enough of our little arrangement. It was madness from the start.” She turned and marched toward the street. The effects of the champagne had worn away, but still her step felt shaky.
“I’m nervous, all right? Scared stupid. My mother’s sick. My brother’s a drunk and a gambler. We haven’t nearly any money left at all.”
Effie stopped just before reaching the banquette but didn’t turn around. There was a tremble in Adeline’s voice, a rawness she’d not heard before.
“Tonnerre! I had to sell my father’s watch just to afford the hansom tonight.”
With the warm, numbing sensation of the alcohol gone, the burn on Effie’s scalp had begun to throb again. She wanted nothing more than her quiet little room and lumpy bed. But she turned back to the grand house. Adeline had sunk onto the steps, skirts crumpled around her, head leaning against the baluster.
“I could have paid the coachman,” Effie said.
“Invite you to come and then ask you to pay the cab?” She straightened, and her voice steadied. “I still have my dignity, even if I haven’t anything else. Besides, you haven’t money either.”
“I’ve more than you it seems.” She sat down on the far edge of the steps, yet undecided if she’d forgiven Adeline the insult, but too tired to stand. She patted her head and hissed at the pain. Where was Mr. Chauvet with their drinks?
“What’s wrong?” Adeline asked. “You’ve touched that same spot on your head at least a dozen times tonight.”
“I burned my scalp.”
Adeline scooted over and parted Effie’s hair. Despite her light touch, Effie winced.
“Mon Dieu! However did it happen?”
“An iron. I thought to straighten my hair.”
“By yourself?”
Effie shrugged.
“I recant what I said earlier. You haven’t any brains at all to try something like that on your own. Lucky for you I’ve got the perfect thing for it at home.”
“One of your potions?”
“They’re not all humbug. I’ll have y
ou know my grand-mère was a renowned healer in her day.”
Footfalls sounded behind them on the gallery. “Apologies, mesdames. Monsieur Dumas insisted upon showing me his wine cellar.”
Adeline rose as gracefully as an egret and brushed off her skirt. In the time it took to flick open her fan, she’d recast her forlorn expression into one of blithe serenity. Effie had more the gait of a loon upon rising and managed only to soften her frown.
He handed them both a glass of wine. “A claret. Of a good year.”
They toasted and drank. Effie gagged on the tart, earthy flavor, but took another sip in lieu of having to speak or smile.
Presently several others joined them on the gallery—two gentlemen, plus three more women Effie remembered from the sewing circle. Among them was Béatrice, the soubrette.
She embraced Adeline and said loud enough for all to hear, “So good to see you, ma belle. I didn’t think you’d make it tonight.”
“Why ever not?”
“Well, you know, the cost of these parties does add up.”
Effie balked. That was the sort of thing she might say, but in a matter-of-fact, observational way. She might even do a quick calculation—tallying and averaging all the little expenditures—to elucidate her point. But that was not Béatrice’s intent. The only thing she wished to elucidate was Adeline’s unfortunate financial position.
Adeline, however, seemed unfazed. “Indeed, one must be judicious in all things. But how I would have hated to miss Monsieur Chauvet’s homecoming.”
“Lucky for me you did not,” he said, clinking his glass to hers and taking a long pull of wine.
From there the conversation wound to staider topics. The wine proved less a medicament than the champagne, adding weight to Effie’s arms and legs and eyelids, but not touching the ache of her scalp. She’d given up her pitiful attempts at laughter and found herself nodding at random bits of chatter when all other heads were still.
The night had taken full command of the sky now, black and starlit in all directions. Mrs. Neale had likely nodded off in the parlor, her housemates long since lumbered up to their rooms. How Effie envied them.
Her attention returned to the conversation in time to hear Mr. Chauvet remark that his old tailor had moved North, and he’d not yet found a suitable replacement. Miss Detiège, who’d since joined them on the gallery, replied, “Why don’t you just hire Adeline. She’s quite the seamstress.” She giggled as she said this, wagging her glass in Adeline’s direction. Good thing it was empty or wine would have spilled all over her moiré silk Parisian dress. Effie wished in fact it had.
“Indeed,” said another of Adeline’s friends from the sewing circle. “You manage to make last season’s gowns look positively à la mode.”
The lovely blush drained from Adeline’s cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure. Though I’d be happy to recommend you a good tailor, Monsieur Chauvet. The one my father used is still in business down on Chartres Street, I do believe.”
He smiled, though with less ease than before. “Merci. I’ll . . . ah . . . call on him.”
Effie looked down at her drink. The claret trembled against the glass. “You make it sound as if it’s bad to have a skill. A talent beyond just standing on display and nattering.”
“We can’t all be a working girl like you,” Béatrice said. “Why, there wouldn’t be enough corpses to go around.”
All the women but Effie and Adeline laughed. The men furrowed their brows and tugged at their shirtsleeves.
“I provide a needed service. I may have been born a slave, but I’m freer now than any of you.” Effie set her glass on the banister for fear she might shatter it. “I was at your little tea and saw all your handiwork. I think you’re jealous because Miss Mercier sews better than all of you put together.”
Adeline put a hand on Effie’s arm. “Now, now, I’m sure—”
“Speaking of our little tea, as your friend so quaintly put it, Adeline, you’re behind on your membership dues, two months I believe,” Béatrice said, languidly fanning herself as if they were talking of nothing more than pickled oysters or spice cake. “I’d hate for you to be dismissed from Les Jeunes Amis.”
Adeline dropped her hand. Lamplight glimmered in her wet eyes.
“Surely thirty dollars isn’t too much for someone like you.”
“Now see here,” Mr. Chauvet said. “If we’re squabbling over a mere thirty dollars, I can certainly advance the money.”
His words wiped the last vestige of serenity from Adeline’s face. “Non. Merci, mais non. It just slipped my mind. Mamm’s been sick and I—”
“She’s got the money right here,” Effie said, fumbling with her purse strings. She stilled her hand, reached in, and pulled out all her bills. A month’s worth of wages. She thrust them at Béatrice. “Take it. You wanted it badly enough to debase the conversation. Take it!”
Béatrice evaded her stare, but snapped closed her fan and took the money. “You’re dolling out Adeline’s allowance now?”
“No, she’d lent me the money for . . . for a . . .” Effie stumbled to find purchase on a lie. The night’s labors had drained her empty. “A new chin supporter.”
“Comment?” someone said.
“Pardon, a what?” Mr. Chauvet asked.
“A chin supporter. To hold the jaw closed should surgeon’s silk prove insufficient.” She looked from one aghast face to the next. “I dare say you wouldn’t want the deceased’s mouth gaping open. Hardly—how do you Creoles say it?—comme il faut.”
The group stood in such silence the bells of St. Louis could be heard tolling in the distance.
“Ma foi, is that the hour?” Adeline said in a voice too thick for the weary smile she wore. “I best call for our carriage.”
“Allow me, mesdames,” Mr. Chauvet said. He strode into the house, returning a moment later with their shawls and escorting them down to the street. Adeline perked at his attention, waving adieu to her friends without a backward glance. He helped them both into the hansom when it arrived and kissed Adeline’s hand in parting.
“Bon Dieu, Effie. A chin supporter? Could you think of anything else ghastlier to say?” Adeline said as the carriage pulled away. But then she laughed, and Effie too. Her first real laugh of the evening. Adeline pulled her close, cradling her in a sideways embrace. Effie, far too tired to resist, lay her cheek upon Adeline’s shoulder.
“Poor chère. How your head must hurt. I’ve got just the ointment.”
Effie closed her eyes.
“I’ll pay you back, you know. Every cent of it. Madame Desâmes has two spirit sittings next week. And my brother means to sell some of our land holdings in Metairie.”
Effie nodded without lifting her head and enjoyed the gentle rock of the carriage as it rambled down the lane.
CHAPTER 16
Wind tugged at the crepe bunting and velvet coffin skirts draped over the clotheslines in the courtyard. It fluttered the hem of Effie’s skirt and whipped strands of hair about her face. Dust billowed as she brushed the fabric, stinging her eyes and gathering at the corners of her lips. At least a year’s worth, maybe more, for who knew the last time anyone had bothered to clean them. She doubted Mr. Whitmark had even noticed the dingy state of these draperies, and Colm wouldn’t deign to do any such “women’s work.”
The clatter of horse hooves and iron-rimmed wheels in the carriageway startled her. Both the wagon and the hearse sat parked in the carriage house behind her. Clients never entered this way, and the shop wasn’t due for any deliveries.
A hard-top buggy with painted side panels and a plush upholstered seat rocked to a stop before the loggia. Mr. Whitmark’s brother stepped down and tied his horse to a metal ring drilled into the brick sidewall. A folded newspaper was tucked beneath his arm.
Hitherto, Effie had not gotten so long a gander at the man. He had the same deep-set eyes and cleft chin as Mr. Whitmark, the same broad shoulders and imposing height. But
the brother’s chest tapered to a narrow, almost effeminate waist. Wax tamed his bushy eyebrows, and though he couldn’t be more than a few years Mr. Whitmark’s junior, his dark hair hadn’t a fleck of gray. The most pronounced difference, however, was his step, quick and resounding, where Mr. Whitmark scuffed and shambled.
He didn’t inquire of Effie whether Mr. Whitmark was in, bid her good day, or remark about the tempestuous weather. But he did tip his hat to her before entering the shop’s back door. A few moments later the door swung open.
“Listen for customers, Effie,” Mr. Whitmark said, propping the door open with a brick. “I’m going upstairs a moment.” His brother followed him up the curving loggia steps. From the upstairs gallery, Mr. Whitmark called down, “Boil us some coffee too.”
Effie frowned. He might at least have said please. In the kitchen, she set a kettle of water on the stove and tossed a handful of coffee beans and chicory into the grinder. Would that he had hired a maid instead of that lout Colm.
While the grounds and water boiled, she returned to the shop with an arm’s load of velvet from the line and set about arranging the newly brushed skirts around the caskets. Mr. Whitmark had been affable enough this morning when she’d arrived, bade her good morning with a grin, whistled about the shop, complimented her on the fine job she’d done with yesterday’s apoplexy case. But just as at that grand house in the Garden District, his brother and other men of his ilk seemed to sour Mr. Whitmark’s disposition.
The kettle’s whistle called her from the shop. In her haste, she stepped in a pile of dung the horse had left at the mouth of the carriageway. Drat! Nothing today had gone her way. Though Adeline’s ointment had indeed helped her burned scalp, the blisters had begun to scab and flake, making her hair appear infested with nits. Worse still, the letter she’d sent inquiring after Elijah Jones had returned to her this morning, undeliverable and unclaimed.
She sat down and scraped the warm dung from her boot while the kettle shrieked from the nearby kitchen. Evidently, Mr. Whitmark could hear it too for he called from the upstairs window, “Effie, the coffee,” as if she might be deaf, tempting her to add a bit of the boot scum to the kettle before bringing it up.
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