XVII
Jeff didn’t like me to go out without an escort, and it really wasn’t safe, even in our section of the city, but the shop was only a few streets away and I was completely out of perfume. Jeff was in his office, going over the accounts, and Kyle was down in the cellar, taking inventory of the wine. One of the servants could have fetched the perfume, true, but it was an unusually sunny day and I looked forward to the walk. I adjusted the bodice of my dress, a tan silk sprigged with orange and brown flowers. Then, taking out a long brown velvet cloak lined with orange taffeta, I slipped it over my shoulders. I was wearing very grand clothes these days, and it was most satisfying.
Leaving my bedroom, I passed through the small, elegantly appointed sitting room and on into the hall. Jeff’s room was across the way. I had insisted on separate bedrooms from the very first, and he had agreed with considerable reluctance, grumbling that all that going back and forth would wear him out. Of late there had been very little of it. I knew that he was seeing a beautiful, honey-skinned quadroon with dark luminous eyes and luxuriant black hair. Her name was Corinne. She always wore pink. She was one of the most celebrated courtesans in New Orleans and one of the most expensive. I wished that I could be jealous. Jeff wished so, too.
I moved down the hall and down the gorgeous white marble staircase that curved so gracefully to the entrance hall below. The place was silent, and as none of the shutters had been opened, there was very little light. On impulse, I toured the rooms downstairs. On the right, as one entered, there were three spacious gaming rooms, one leading into the other, and on the left there was an opulent ballroom, the ceiling two stories high, crystal chandeliers hanging from the sky-blue ceiling traced with patterns in gold gilt. The ballroom was only used as such once a month, when we gave the balls for which Rawlins Palace had become famous. The rest of the time it was filled with white silk sofas and gilded white chairs and tall green plants in white porcelain urns, a social area where customers could eat, drink, flirt, groan about their losses or boast of their winnings. A kind of gentleman’s club as well as a gambling house, Rawlins Palace offered all the amenities.
What a ruin it had been when Jeff first bought the place, I thought as I strolled through the gaming rooms. He had converted all his holdings into cash, had poured all his money into the place, running out before we had finished renovations. He had been able to borrow at steep interest rates, and we had finally finished, had finally opened. The first year had been extremely difficult, but the place had caught on and the money had been paid back. Now, after three years, we were making a very good profit, although Jeff was constantly complaining about costs. We served the finest food, the finest wine, and the atmosphere was undeniably luxurious. The ivory walls, gold carpets, gold velvet draperies, the gleaming white marble bar made it truly a palace. Rawlins Palace catered to the highest strata in a city where wealth, not birth, distinguished a man.
It was a shade more respectable than most establishments of its kind. Although the men could bring their mistresses, and usually did, we did not allow unescorted women. Our dealers were sharp, adept at their jobs, but they were honest. Some of the young blades occasionally grew a bit too boisterous, some of the customers grew quarrelsome when they lost too much or had too much to drink, but Kyle was more than capable of handling them. He was six feet five, lean and muscular, a sober, grim-faced chap who ousted potential troublemakers with firm efficiency.
I paused at one of the tables, fingering the green baize cloth, wondering how we were going to replace Laval. He had been caught holding money back two nights ago. The amount had been trifling, but Jeff had dismissed him immediately. Laval wouldn’t be dealing anywhere for quite some time. Kyle had followed him out into the street, had pulled him into a dark alley and broken both his arms. I was horrified when I heard about it, but Jeff merely shrugged, saying Laval had it coming, claiming it would keep the others from attempting to skim a little off the top.
“You let one get away with somethin’ like that, they all try it,” he informed me.
It was going to be difficult to find a replacement, but I would let Jeff worry about that. Stepping into the back room with the enormous gilt mirror hanging behind the bar, I heard domestic noises coming from the kitchen and the servants’ quarters below. Kyle had a small room upstairs next to Jeff’s offices, but the rest of the household staff lived in the basement rooms. We had a very good staff. I had trained them myself. Our French cook was rather temperamental and the maids were terrified of Kyle, but the place was usually run with harmony. All the staff adored Jeff, were intensely loyal, and they received very handsome wages. The dealers and footmen who came in nightly to manage the gaming tables and serve food and drink, respectively, also received generous wages. Laval was the only one who had ever given us any trouble.
We had come a long way in three years, I reflected. Rawlins Palace was a huge success. Jeff and I had both worked at it, worked hard. Strolling into the back hallway, I paused before the open doors leading into the spacious courtyard in back of the building. The blue tiles were a bit warped, with tufts of grass growing up between some of them, and the high tan stucco walls that enclosed it were flaking and smeared with dirt, but it was nevertheless charming with the lily pond and fountain, the ragged dwarf palm trees, the white wrought-iron tables and chairs. A marmalade cat lounged on top of one of the tables, stretching indolently in the sunlight. He belonged to Pierre, our cook, and judging from his plumpness and sleek orange coat he received his fair share of gourmet food. He didn’t even bother to look up when a bluejay swooped down and began to splash in the fountain. Although the courtyard looked a bit shabby and run down in the bright sunlight, it was extremely romantic by moonlight, usually filled with the music of rustling skirts and hushed voices in shadowy corners. Many an assignation was made in the courtyard of Rawlins Palace, many a new romance begun.
Moving back down the hall to the front door, I stepped outside and began walking slowly down the street in the direction of the apothecary shop. The cobblestoned street was narrow, with rows of buildings on either side, and although the sun was bright, little direct light streamed through. Everything was blue and gray and shadowy tan. Black women with voluminous white aprons over their dresses and red bandanas atop their heads strolled leisurely toward the market place with their baskets. A tipsy young man staggered down the street with a dazed look in his eyes, his fine clothes rumpled after a night on the town. A painted, over-dressed prostitute stepped out of a courtyard and turned to wave at a man standing on an ornately patterned black iron balcony. Turning a corner, I moved down a much busier street. Carts and carriages rumbled past. The sidewalks were crowded. The noise was deafening as hawkers cried their wares and stray dogs barked and women argued in shrill voices.
I kept a firm grip on my orange velvet reticule. Up ahead I saw a pair of nimble thieves lift the wallet from a plump, smartly attired middle-aged man who lingered in front of a shop. The pickpockets hurried on, grinning widely, and the plump man had no idea he had been robbed. Two beautiful courtesans came out of the hat shop and stepped into the elegant black open carriage that stood waiting for them. One of the women wore a pink velvet gown, pink and white plumes curling down on one side of her wide-brimmed white hat. I recognized her at once. Corinne recognized me, too, peering at me with dark, resentful eyes as the liveried coachman cracked his whip and drove on down the street. She was a gorgeous creature, desperately in love with Jeff and eager to provide the slavish devotion I withheld. I felt rather sorry for her, knowing he would soon drop her just as he had dropped all the others.
Before Corinne there had been Thérèse DuBois, a wealthy, aristocratic Frenchwoman with the morals of an alley cat. Well into her forties, Thérèse had fallen under his spell, too. Thin, tense, volatile, she had tried her best to take him away from me. Jeff had amused himself with her, had treated her rather shabbily, leaving her abruptly, causing the poor woman considerable anguish. There were so many women ready to give
Jeff the love he wanted only from me, and none of them realized that it was his love for me and the frustrations it caused that drove him to them in the first place.
I turned another corner, nearing the open marketplace. I could smell fish and bloody carcasses and spoiling fruit and flowers. This street was even darker, narrower. A handsome Spanish soldier was strolling hand in hand with a nubile young girl, and another soldier was ardently kissing a brunette in red in a darkened doorway. Romance. New Orleans seemed to be obsessed with it. Perhaps it was the hot, sultry climate, the warm winds constantly sweeping over the city. Perhaps it was the too-fragrant perfume of too many exotic flowers that overlaid the reek of filthy canals and congested slums. If people in Boston and Philadelphia were ardently concerned with freedom from tyranny or loyalty to the Crown, people in New Orleans were as ardently concerned with pleasures of the flesh.
It was unlike any place I had ever been to, an over-ripe fruit of a city that had passed from hand to hand, nationality to nationality, retaining its own personality all the while. Where else could pirates and smugglers mingle with aristocrats and officials who were rogues at heart? Where else did convents share the same street with brothels, sordid slums stand back to back with gracious buildings featuring wrought-iron balconies, enclosed courtyards and patios and opulent gardens? The city was too rich, too flamboyant with its crowded waterfront, its industry, its wickedness. Inbred and isolated from the events that kept the English colonies in a constant upheaval, New Orleans was both seductive and alarming, totally unique.
Leaving the narrow street with its strolling lovers, I walked across a busy, bustling square flooded with sunlight. The smell of fish from the marketplace one street over was strong here. A bell jangled loudly as I stepped into the apothecary shop. It was cool and dim, crowded with tables and shelves holding bottles of colored liquid, packets of powder, and boxes full of dried roots and herbs. The apothecary was not in, but his apprentice hurried forward to wait on me. A lad no more than seventeen, he was tall and well built with glossy brown hair, wide, innocent blue eyes, and a full pink mouth that suggested a very sensual nature not yet explored. The lad blushed when I told him who I was and what I wanted, yet those wide indigo eyes looked at me with a calf-like longing. He was obviously still a virgin, frustrated and eager to explore.
“Number 93,” I said politely. “It should be ready.”
The lad nodded and hurried into the room in back of the shop. Highly skilled at his work, the apothecary had created a perfume especially for me, a subtle, barely discernible scent quite unlike the too strong, too sweet perfumes both men and women used to camouflage body odor. Most of the more refined citizens of New Orleans took a bath at least once every two or three months, relying on their perfume the rest of the time. My daily baths were a great eccentricity, but I refused to give them up even though they were considered both unhealthy and highly dangerous.
The lad returned, handed me the small bottle, and took my money. I put the bottle in my reticule and, smiling warmly, thanked the boy in a quiet voice. He blushed again, looking terrified and, at the same time, looking as though he wanted to leap on me in a frenzy of passion. The bell tinkled again as I left the shop. I could feel the boy watching me from the window as I crossed the square. It wouldn’t be long before his frustrations were relieved, I reflected. New Orleans was filled with bored, restless women who would enjoy nothing more than initiating so handsome a youth. In a year he would probable be a profligate young rake ruining himself over someone like Corinne or Thérèse DuBois.
As I neared the narrow side street that I had come down a few minutes earlier, a loud commotion broke out nearby. A man yelled. Horses shrieked. I whirled around to see two handsome grays still rearing, forelegs dancing in air, a husky, rough-looking man waving his arms directly in front of them. The coachman tugged on the reins, trying his best to calm the horses. The man who had almost been run down was shouting vile abuse, and a crowd began to gather, almost trampling a black woman who had dropped her basket of apples and was crawling about nervously trying to gather them up.
“You friggin’ bastard! Why’n’t ya watch where you’re goin’! I’ve a mind to wring your neck!”
“Out of the way!” the coachman called. “Out of the way, I say, unless you want a taste of my whip!”
While the two men continued to abuse each other, I stared at the woman who sat back calmly in the carriage, uterly bored with the furor. She wore long black lace gloves and a gown of sky-blue silk, the bodice cut extremely low, the very full skirt adorned with row upon row of black lace ruffles. She was small and looked a bit frail, her full pink mouth wry, her nose turned up, her brown eyes enormous. There was a scattering of light golden freckles across her pale cheeks, and her silky blond hair was elaborately arranged in sculptured waves, long ringlets dangling down in back. There was something vaguely familiar about her, I thought, yet I couldn’t quite place her.
She sighed. She tapped the coachman on the shoulder with the tip of a furled blue silk parasol, silencing him immediately. Calmly she stepped down out of the carriage, her skirts rustling crisply. The crowd grew silent with anticipation as she walked around to confront the scowling, belligerent pedestrian who still shook his fist, still refused to move.
“What have we here?” he asked sarcastically. “Come to give me a few coins and send me on my way? You bleedin’ rich! You damn near run over me with your bleedin’ carriage, and you think—”
“I think you’d better move on toot sweet, mate, or I’m going to take this umbrella and shove it up your ass!”
The crowd roared with laughter. The black woman was so startled that she dropped her basket of apples all over again. The man was dumbfounded, so dumbfounded that he couldn’t speak. The blond in blue glared at him, eyes flashing, and after a moment he made a face and hurried away. There was more laughter, and the crowd began to disperse. The blond sighed and began to scramble on the ground, helping the woman gather up the evasive apples. When they were all back in the basket, she stood up, brushing her skirt. I smiled, a great rush of joy swelling inside. The blond felt me watching her and whirled around, ready to snap.
She stared. Her brown eyes grew wider, her cheeks turned even paler. She shook her head in disbelief, then took a step nearer, peering at me. I nodded.
“It’s really me,” I told her.
“My Gawd! I—I can’t believe it!”
“I couldn’t either, not at first. I thought I was mistaken, thought it couldn’t possibly be you, and then you opened your mouth.”
“Marietta!”
We fell into each other’s arms then, hugging, sobbing, laughing there in front of the carriage. The coachman watched with horrified disapproval. When the first burst of excitement was over, she stepped back and grinned that wry, saucy grin I remembered so well, the same old Angie—sumptuously gowned, elegantly coiffed, but Angie nevertheless. She took me by the hand and helped me into the carriage, climbing up beside me. Our skirts spilled over the side.
“To the market café, Holt!” she ordered. “I still can’t believe it,” she said, clasping my hand. “I have so much to tell you! What on earth are you doing in New Orleans?”
“I’m hostess at Rawlins Palace. It’s the most elegant gambling house in the city.”
“And the owner is madly in love with you, showers you with jewels and gifts! I knew it! Remember me tellin’ you, remember me sayin’ we’d both end up on top?”
“I remember. You—you’re so—”
“Piss-elegant,” she supplied. “What about this carriage, this dress? I ’ave … uh … have dozens more at home. Only been in New Orleans for three weeks, but it’s already my favorite town. So many opportunities!”
“Are you—is there a man?”
“Is there bloody ever. He’s a bloomin’ Spanish grandee, forty-five, tall and dark and rich as the devil. Very peculiar in the bedroom. Met him on the boat. I had to leave Boston in a bit of a hurry.”
“Boston? You
were in Boston?”
“I’ve been all over, luv. Wait’ll we get to the café. I’ll tell you all about it. Just let us out here, Holt. We’ll walk the rest of the way. You can take the carriage back home.”
The coachman looked disturbed as we climbed down. “What am I going to tell Don Rodriego?” he asked.
“Tell him I’m screwin’ a sailor and don’t know when I’ll be back,” Angie snapped.
The carriage drove on, and Angie and I passed stalls laden with baskets of fruit, carts full of flowers, wooden sheds with bloody carcasses hanging on racks, counters covered with heaps of glittery silver fish and long black eels. There were lobsters in wooden cages, tubs filled to the brim with shrimp. The market was a kaleidoscope of color and movement, the noise ear-splitting, the odors overwhelming. Flies abounded. The cobbles were littered with filth.
The café was on the edge of the market, tables and chairs sitting out in the open with only a tattered green awning to ward off the sun. We sat at one of the tables and ordered the marvelously strong coffee that had to be taken with cream. Angie sighed and shook her head again, gazing at me with those saucy brown eyes.
“That husky young farmer—” I began.
“George Andrews. Had him eatin’ out of my hand in less than a week, had him marryin’ me a month later. Couldn’t keep his hands off me, George couldn’t. As randy and robust a buck as I ever hope to meet. Had quite a large farm, lots of land. Poor George. Gored to death by a bull not more’n nine months after we were married. I told him that bull was vicious, told him not to buy it. He went ahead anyway, and two days later …” Angie hesitated and her eyes were sad.
“So you became a wealthy widow,” I remarked.
“I sold the farm and all the land and took off,” she replied. “I had a lot of unusual experiences, let me tell you! A year later I was penniless again. Damned scoundrel named Peter. Handsome as all get-out. Sneaked out of the inn with his shoes in one hand, my reticule in the other. Never saw the bastard again. Served me right for trustin’ him. Then this distinguished British colonel came along, spent three days at the inn. When he left for Boston, I was in the carriage with him.”
Love's Tender Fury Page 33