They stood this way for several minutes, night deepening around them. Effie had no answers to her pleas for justice. No lies to spin about how fate would be righted in the end. All Effie had to offer was her stillness, her steadfast arms and sturdy legs. But it seemed enough.
Eventually, Mrs. Carrière’s sobs dwindled to a few errant tears. She straightened, took hold of Effie’s arm, and they started off again for the Marigny.
Mrs. Carrière’s home was a stucco cottage with two French doors, each elevated a step above the banquette. Lamplight caught the gleam of its freshly painted shutters.
“This was my parents’ home. I returned after . . .” She didn’t finish and started on the lock of the rightmost door. Just as it whispered opened she dropped her purse and spun around. “Mon Dieu! I’ve forgotten Jonah.”
She hurried back in the direction they’d come, shaking her head and crying anew, leaving her door open and purse on the step. “Tellement stupide! Mo suis horrible.”
Effie ran after her. “I’m sure he’s all right. I saw him with Tom. They’re probably still together.”
“How could I leave him there? He’s all I have.” She wavered as if she might faint. Her eyes had that look of madness again.
“I’ll fetch him home straightaway.” She steered Mrs. Carrière back to her cottage, despite her protests.
With the sidewalks less crowded now and only herself to mind, Effie made good time back to the Republican Office. The windows on the second story were dark, however, as were most on the ground level too. She tried the brass handles on the double-door entry and found them both locked. She knocked, but no answer.
Now what? She sat down on the steps, untied her bonnet, and used it to dab the sweat from her face. Damn this city’s humidity. Could nothing today go right for her?
She tied her bonnet back atop her head and willed her legs to stand. How wonderful her bed would feel right now. A basin of cool water for her feet. A slather of Adeline’s burn ointment. But she couldn’t return home. Not yet. Not until she’d found Jonah. She rapped on the lighted windows one by one until at last one creaked open. A balding white man with silver-rimmed spectacles popped his head out.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Tom Button. A Negro with a peg leg. He’s perhaps seventy inches in height, mid-length hair, dark eyes, solid—”
“Yes, yes, I know Tom. He’s not here, I’m afraid.” He started to shut the sash.
“But he was here earlier, upstairs with a crowd of men, discussing the Grant Parish ruling.”
“You his wife?”
Effie frowned at the irrelevance of his questioning, even as a flush lit beneath her skin. “No, I only wish to—”
“They’re at Ruggy’s Saloon, the lot of them I expect.”
Yet more slogging across town. She sighed, but thanked the man and followed his directions to a row of dingy-looking buildings fronting the levee. Fog had rolled in off the river, dampening the glow of the streetlamps. Music and laughter and ruckus spilled from the open windows. Effie clutched her purse strings and stayed wide of the men stumbling from one establishment to the next. She read the creaky shingles swaying above the doors until she saw RUGGYS—no apostrophe—in chipped green lettering. Before opening the door, she peered in through the window.
The saloon was nicer on the inside than it appeared from without. A polished cedar bar ran the length of one side with matching leather-topped stools and a long brass footrest crowded with boots. Booths with plushly upholstered benches lined the opposite wall. But it was at the center of the saloon, where several sets of tables and chairs sat clustered, that she saw the men from the Republican Office. Mr. Rousseve balanced on the back legs of his chair, his feet stretched out before him and his hands laced behind his head. The soft-spoken man sat upright beside him, sipping lager from a mug. She recognized several of the white men from earlier too, one playing with the corner of his graying mustache, another undressed to his shirtsleeves.
A few of the men standing around the far-most table sauntered off to the bar with empty glasses. In their wake, she saw Samson. He too had shucked his jacket and loosened his tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled back to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Each muscle showed beneath his dark skin—flexor carpi ulnaris, extensor digito-rum, extensor carpi radialis longus, brachioradialis—as clear as in her anatomy texts.
A woman sauntered to the table, one of only two in the saloon. Her low-cut dress hugged her bosom, accentuating her tawny brown skin and ample cleavage. She leaned across the table and plucked a pickle from the plate of food in the center. The men’s conversation seemed to stall. Their eyes followed the line of her long bare arm from her manicured fingers to her full lips as she placed the pickle in her mouth. Samson’s gaze lingered the longest, his head cocked in her direction long after she sauntered off and the men resumed their discussion.
Effie watched, though it pained her, so consumed she didn’t hear the footfalls until the man’s hand was already about her waist, his sour breath hot on her cheek. “Hello there, pretty.”
His touch bristled her skin. His roving hand groped between her legs. She jerked upright and jammed her elbow into the man’s gut. He wobbled, unsteady with drink. She turned around and pushed him from the banquette. A pile of manure cushioned his fall to the street.
Her relief at being free lasted only a second before her fear redoubled. The man was white. And a gentleman.
He sat there, either too stunned or too drunk to stand. Effie hurried into the saloon and prayed he wouldn’t follow.
The din petered to a murmur when she entered. Heads turned. Brows furrowed. The piano tune slowed. Then, just as quickly, all resumed as it was. Men went back to their conversations. Glasses clanked. The piano’s tempo rallied. Effie listened for the door to open behind her. Listened for some outcry from the street. Nothing.
Someone touched her elbow. She jumped.
“Chérie, whatever are you doing here?” Mr. Rousseve said to her.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Come, have a drink. You don’t look well.”
“No, I—”
“Miss Jones,” Tom’s voice cut across hers. “What are you doing here?” He took her other arm.
“I asked her the same question.”
And then Samson: “Miss Jones, you’re hardly the person I’d expect to walk in a saloon at this hour.”
The words piled one atop the other in her fear-addled brain, and she couldn’t reply. They seated her at a nearby table, Tom and Samson pulling up chairs beside her, Mr. Rousseve fetching her whiskey from the bar. It left a trail of fire down her gullet and shocked her to her senses. “I came looking for Jonah. Is he here?”
Tom nodded to the corner booth, where Jonah lay curled asleep on the bench. Effie made to rise, but all three men put a hand out to stop her. “I’ve got to get him back to Mrs. Carrière. She’s beside herself with worry.”
Samson laughed. The sound warmed her insides as sure as the whiskey. “And you mean to walk him back? By yourself? At this hour?” He stared straight into her eyes and her thoughts once again muddled. Surely on account of the whiskey.
“Night doesn’t frighten me, Mr. Greene,” she said, even as her gaze flickered back to the door.
“No, I suspect nothing does, Miss Jones. I just can’t decide if it’s bravery or damned foolishness.”
“Le courage, bien sûr,” Mr. Rousseve said. Effie turned and smiled at him, though in truth she’d forgotten he was even there.
“Life takes a measure of both, I suspect,” Tom said.
Before Effie could rejoin, a rustling noise drew near, snaring the men’s attention. The woman she’d seen through the window approached, her magenta-colored dress a riot of lace and flounces, her hair a sleek crown of curls, her skin smelling of jasmine blossoms.
“Aren’t one of you gentlemen going to offer me your chair?” she asked. Then to Samson, she said, “Or perhaps your lap.”
Effie would gladly give up
her chair, provided the woman find another table to sit at. Better yet, another saloon.
“Here,” Tom said, the legs of his chair scraping over the floorboards as he stood.
“Thank you, cher. Though I hate to impose upon a cripple,” she said, not hesitating to sit.
Effie took another sip of whiskey, then set her glass down with a thud. “He gets around just fine without your pity.”
“Not pity, no. Concern.” She scooted her chair closer to Samson, who’d not for one moment returned his eyes to Effie. “I’ve concern for all the brave men who fought in the War.”
The smell of the woman’s perfume roiled the liquor in Effie’s stomach. If she could hear the insincerity in this woman’s voice, surely Samson could as well. But he listened on enrapt.
“I bet you’ve a few war stories to tell. A scar or two beneath this shirt.” She tickled her finger along his bare forearm, along the contours of muscle Effie had admired from the window.
Effie took another bitter pull of whiskey and stood. She’d rather take her chances that the man outside had left than watch this. “I’ve got to get Jonah home.”
But the whiskey proved stronger than the champagne and wine she’d drunk on Sunday, turning the floor to a rolling bog beneath her feet. She clutched the lip of the table and drew in a long breath of perfume-soured air.
“Miss Jones,” Samson said, standing, his gaze favoring her once again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to settle yourself a bit more?”
“I’ll walk you and Jonah home,” Tom said.
Effie knew she should be grateful for such an offer, but found herself wishing yet again another man had made it.
“Take my horse,” Mr. Rousseve said, and it was settled. Tom clomped off to rouse Jonah. Mr. Rousseve left to untie his horse from the bollard out front. Samson stood long enough to bid her goodbye, then returned to his seat beside the woman.
Outside, the air had turned cold and the fog thickened. Thankfully, there was no sign of the man she’d pushed into the gutter.
“I don’t think this is what the Party big bugs had in mind when they suggested Mr. Greene might make a more promising senator if he found himself a wife,” Mr. Rousseve said, readying his horse. He chuckled and handed Tom the reins.
“No, I dare say not,” Tom replied dryly.
Effie glanced back through the saloon window as Tom helped her into the saddle behind Jonah. She watched the woman in her fancy magenta dress scoot closer to Samson. Watched him lean in and say something that made the woman laugh. Watched her move closer still and whisper in his ear. She watched his hand come to rest on her thigh, satin bunching beneath his fingers as he gave a quick squeeze. At this, Effie could watch no more and turned her gaze upon the darkness.
CHAPTER 17
Effie jabbed the iron poker at the flaming logs. The cook fire didn’t need tending, but it gave her an excuse to hide her face from Adeline.
“Brood all you want, but I can tell something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Effie said, setting aside the poker. “I’m tired is all.” She stirred the pot of sand hanging from the crane above the fire, working the wood spoon round and round through the granules, preferring the flame’s heat to Adeline’s interrogation. The image of Samson’s hand about that woman’s leg wouldn’t leave her mind, the way her lips brushed his skin when she whispered in his ear. She pulled a hankie from her pocket and mopped the sweat from her forehead.
For two sleepless nights and two overlong days, she’d thought of nothing else. No, that wasn’t true. The letter too. Unclaimed—Return to Sender.
Wasn’t that the story of her life? She never should have gone to the statehouse with Adeline. Never should have rifled through those boxes. Never should have allowed such hope into her life.
“The sand requires constant stirring? Are you sure this is worth it?” Adeline asked from across the kitchen.
“Yes. No. I mean . . .” She stopped stirring and set down the spoon. After taking a moment to becalm her expression, she turned around. “No, the sand doesn’t require constant stirring. And yes, this will be worth it. Hand me my bag.”
Adeline’s incredulous stare only deepened when Effie unwrapped the round, flat-bottomed flask she’d purchased that morning at the pharmacy.
“What’s this for?” Adeline picked up the flask by its long neck and peered through the glass as if she’d never seen such a container. Perhaps she hadn’t. Most young girls, Effie reminded herself, played with dolls, not beakers and flasks and laboratory tubes.
“Careful, it’s fragile. Now pay attention.”
Adeline leaned in, plopping her elbows down on the kitchen table and cradling her chin in her hands. “And people say you’re not pleasant and charming. I can’t imagine why.”
“You’re the only one who says that.”
“Well, they’re thinking it.”
Effie frowned, but couldn’t argue. She pulled a bottle of olive oil from her bag along with a small pouch of waxy yellow powder. “Six to one, that’s all you have to remember.” She measured out two spoonfuls of powder into the flask followed by twelve of the oil, then swirled it together. After it had sufficiently mixed, she set down the flask and heaved the pot of sand from the fire onto a cast-iron trivet set atop the table.
“Now we add the sand?”
Effie about laughed. It was perfectly obvious the sand—
“I hope you don’t eye your beau that way.”
“What way?”
“With that haven’t-you-a-single-wit? expression. I told you, les hommes like to feel smart, not inferior.”
Heat radiated from the pot. The fire crackled at her back. Effie dabbed her forehead again. Why ever would Adeline have cause to know the uses of a sand bath? “I’m sorry. I’m not myself today.”
“You are yourself. Mais encore pire. Good thing at least one of us is of bonne humeur today. Go on.”
Effie gave the flask a final swirl, then nestled it into the sand so only its narrow glass neck protruded. “The sand affords a gentler, even heating.” She placed the pot back on the crane and swung it over the fire.
“How long must we wait?”
“Half an hour.”
They moved out to the courtyard and sat on the lip of the crumbling fountain. Effie took off her bonnet and flapped the cool air toward her face.
“How’s your burn?”
“Better.”
“See? I told you that ointment would work.”
The garden that fringed the yard had grown bushy since last she’d seen it. Weeds crowded the budding perennials. Thorny rose canes twisted this way and that, the first of their blooms just beginning to unfurl. It was a welcome respite from the bustling streets just beyond the walls. The entangled scents of wisteria and sweetshrub smelled far better than the dirty bath water and horse piss in the gutters.
“Is Mr. Chauvet the cause of your bonne humeur?”
Adeline smiled. “Maybe.”
“Then maybe you have no need for this latest trick of mine, after all,” Effie said, making a great show of retying her bonnet as if she were about leave.
“Let’s not be too hasty, chère. I need more than a few days to cast my spell.”
Did she mean that literally or figuratively? Likely both, Effie decided. “Have you seen him again since the party?”
“He may have called once or twice.”
Effie scowled. “I’m not one of your Jeunes Amis, remember?”
“Béatrice did behave deplorably Sunday. Bringing up money like that. At une fête no less. Not at all—”
“I know, not at all comme il faut,” Effie said, waving her hand. Though in truth it was nice for once not to be the one who’d broken etiquette. “Mr. Chauvet . . .”
“Oh, oui. Monsieur Chauvet called Monday. Sooner than I expected, really. I thought perhaps Tuesday, but he took a drink in the parlor while I freshened up my hair and . . .”
Effie listened. Distractedly at first. She didn’t
care the style of dress Adeline had changed into, the particulars of Mr. Chauvet’s waistcoat, or how gentlemanly he sipped his tea. In little time, however, she found herself drawn in, her worries over Samson and the letter receding from her mind. The excitement in Adeline’s voice was contagious. At some point she took hold of Effie’s hand, squeezing every time she said Mr. Chauvet’s name. Instead of pulling away, Effie leaned in.
“Do you love him, then?”
Adeline drew back her hand. “Ma foi! Before becoming reacquainted Sunday, I hadn’t seen Monsieur Chauvet since I was a child. Five days is hardly time enough to fall in love.”
“I loved Mr. Greene the moment I heard his voice in Tivoli Circle.” It sounded foolish spoken aloud, and saying his name rekindled the pain of the last two days. Nevertheless, it was true.
“We can’t all live some fabled romance, Effie.”
It didn’t feel like a storybook tale, except perhaps the part in Aschenputtel when the ravens plucked out the stepsisters’ eyes. That was how it had felt watching Samson with that woman. Effie shook her head and turned her thoughts back to Adeline and Mr. Chauvet. “But you could love him? In time.”
Adeline shrugged.
“Right. A good income and a good name. That’s all you’re after.”
“You make it sound so mercenary.”
They sat a moment in silence.
“Has it been half an hour yet?” Adeline asked.
“No.”
More silence. A lizard skittered up the far wall. The leaves of the magnolia tree fluttered in a limp breeze. Beside her, Adeline shifted and fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, picking at her cuticles. The heady excitement they’d shared bled away.
A pigeon landed on the head of the cherub at the center of the fountain, cooing once before Adeline shooed it away. “You don’t know what it’s like. The indignity of poverty. It’s one thing never to have had money. Something else entirely to have had it and then lost it.”
True, Effie didn’t know about money. Not French silk and crystal stemware kind of money. The Kinyons were well off, but not at all wealthy. Here, on her own in New Orleans, she had enough to get by. Enough to build a small savings. Enough to feel lucky when she passed the street-side beggars and prostitutes. But then, what did Adeline know of poverty?
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