Masquerade

by Janet Dailey

  Striding easily, he went down the levee's sloping bank, past the tin-roofed shanties stocked with cheap trinkets for the sailors, past the grog-shops with their many eager customers, and past the oyster stands. The street beyond was clogged with freight wagons, the river commerce turning New Orleans into a city of drays pulled by mules in tandem.

  As Brodie picked his way between them to the other side, he recognized some of the drivers and called easy greetings to them, lapsing into a heavy brogue. "Hey, O'Shaughnessy, why would you be holding your head like that? Was it too much to drink you had last night?" "Micheleen, tell your pretty missus I'll be stopping by for some of her scones—when you're not home, of course!" "Is that a black eye you got there, Dolan? Did you forget to duck again?"

  And they responded in kind: "Well, if it ain't himself—or should we be calling you Your Honor now?" "Would you look at the vest he's wearing? 'Tis fancy he's getting." "What would you be carrying in that package, Donovan? Lace kerchiefs for to be blowing your nose with, maybe."

  There was affection in their gibes, affection and pride for one of their own who'd made good— and hadn't forgotten them. Like Brodie, the Irish draymen were survivors of the bloody ditch, as they called the canal.

  He may have been one of them, but he wasn't like them. And the difference lay in more than the fineness of the black frock coat and brocade vest he wore, or the flat-crowned black hat on his head and the gleaming leather of his boots. The difference had been there even when he was dressed as shabbily as they.

  True, Brodie felt the same strong loyalty to his own that they did, and had his moments of dark moodiness, though they were rare. He loved a good laugh and his temper could be quick. And like them he was fiercely independent, but that need for independence had directed him on a different path and turned his thinking in other directions.

  Sure, he'd slogged through the ditch's muck and mire beside them, smelled the foul stench of the swamp and the rotting corpses along its banks, and fallen into his cot at night bathed in his own sweat. But never once in that swamp had he thought of Ireland's green valleys and sparkling brooks—not like they had. For him, the thought that had kept him going, that had given purpose to the sweat and weariness and death around him, was the dream that someday his ships would steam through the canal he'd dug . . . ships like the one he'd sailed on to America. He'd dreamed it, and the riverfront had shown him how he could make it happen. A roundabout way, to be sure—first flatboats, then riverboats, and finally his ships. But he'd learned that there was always a way, even if it wasn't a direct one.

  Leaving the bedlam of the riverfront behind, Brodie entered the old quarter, his glance straying to the new triple spires of the St. Louis Cathedral, which replaced the old bell towers, changing the area's skyline—a change made even more pronounced by the recently added mansard roofs of the Cabildo and the Presbytere and the twin three-story, redbrick and wrought-iron structures built in the Renaissance style by the red-haired Baroness Pontalba, housing magnificent apartments in its upper floors. Brodie doubted they would be the last changes the old Place d'Armes would see. There was currently a lot of talk about changing its name to Jackson Square in honor of the hero of the Battle of New Orleans. It would happen. Americans now held the majority of seats on the city council, and they'd see that it did—the Creoles be damned.

  Two more strides and his view of the spires was lost, buildings rising up on either side of the narrow street, their facades smoothly stuccoed and painted in mellow shades of peach or blue or pink, all of them dominated by their tall double-storied galleries, supported by iron posts set in the curb and edged by waist-high railings of delicate iron filigree in a dozen different designs. Brodie walked beneath the overhanging galleries, shaded from the sun, which gave a springlike warmth to the morning in place of winter's usual gray damp.

  Drays rumbled and rattled over the dirt streets, occasionally sharing the muddy thoroughfare with fancy carriages pulled by high-stepping blooded horses in gleaming harnesses. Directly ahead, a white overseer with a whip supervised the rare cleaning of the street's cypress-lined drainage ditches by a gang of chained and collared slaves —runaways, most likely.

  Brodie continued along the brick sidewalk—a banquette, the Creoles called it—past neat little shops and slave pens with heavily barred windows, past corner fruit stands and flower stalls, past travelers ogling the sights of the renowned city, past young, richly dressed sons of aristocratic Creole families, perhaps en route to fencing lessons with some of the many masters who ran schools on Exchange Street, or merely off to share a cup of coffee with friends, and past an ivory-skinned and incredibly beautiful mulattress—a femme de couleur, a free woman of color, her status declared by the brightly colored madras kerchief wrapped around her head like a turban, her eyes properly downcast, her satins and jewels closeted in her little house along the ramparts to await the pleasure of her white lover. Brodie touched a hand to the brim of his hat and nodded a Bonjour to a young Creole miss and her glaring chaperone, noting the quickly averted glance and smiling to himself at the hastily whispered "Yanqui."

  To the Creoles of Louisiana, all Americans, regardless of their origin, fell into two categories: the unlettered, uncouth, and hell-roaring river crowd were all "Kaintucks" and the rest—the merchants, the planters, the wealthy, and the scholars—were "Yanquis." To the first, the Creoles turned an icy shoulder, but as for the second—well, time, the overwhelming numbers of Yankees, and, most of all, economic circumstances had forced them to develop a tolerance of them. They did business with the Yankees, drank coffee with them, and attended the same social functions, but rarely was a Yankee invited to dine in their home. True, marriages between Yankees and Creoles had taken place, but Brodie had observed that in most cases such marriages were largely to the benefit of the Creole family, the union either bringing with it desired holdings or cementing a liaison of particular interests.

  The Americans and the Creoles represented two totally different cultures. After nearly fifty years, they'd learned to coexist—warily at times, occasionally clashing, but always competing, however subtly.

  Unlike most of his counterparts in the American section, Brodie had taken the time to learn the Creoles' language, though he often found it to his advantage to pretend he neither spoke nor understood it—at least not as well as he did. And he'd learned to control his impatience and not press for a decision on some business matter, instead allowing the conversation to follow leisurely lines before finally arriving at the subject—if it did at all. As a result, a good share of his business came from the Quarter, and several valuable contacts in Europe as well. Yes, he did a lot of business in the Quarter, but not all of it with aristocrats.

  On the corner a blind Negro played his violin, his curly gray hair bared to the sun, his slouch hat turned upside down on the brick banquette in front of him, and a pair of black-lensed spectacles partially concealing the heavy scarring around his eyes. Brodie stopped and dropped a dollar into his hat.

  "Merci" The old man bobbed his head the instant he heard the clink of the silver coin against the smaller ones.

  "How goes it with you, Cado?" Brodie interrupted, addressing the old free Negro in French.

  There was a quick cocking of the old man's head at the sound of his voice. "Michie Donovan" he said in immediate recognition of the voice, addressing him by the Negro's gumbo contraction for Monsieur as he continued to saw the bow over the strings, never once missing a note. "Old Cado is fine, suh, especially today with the sun warming my old, tired bones."

  "Is there any talk going around?"

  "There's a lot of weeping and praying at the Gautier house on Royal. The young Michie Gau-tier, he took offense at some little thing said by a planter from upriver. They met at dusk under the oaks. Now blood bubbles from the young Michie's wound where the planter's rapier pierced his chest."

  "A punctured lung," Brodie murmured, then asked, "Is there nothing else?"

  A small grin appeared. "Michie
Varnier from the Julian plantation lost fifty thousand last night in a game of brag. I think he'd sell his cotton cheap today."

  Brodie allowed a faint smile to curve his mouth. "You play beautiful music, Cado." And he dropped two more dollars into the old man's hat.

  "So do you, Michie Donovan. So do you." The old black man chuckled and immediately launched into a few bars of an Irish jig tune as Brodie moved away.

  At the curb, Brodie waited for two heavy drays to clatter by, then stepped into the muddy street and hailed the next one. The driver hauled back on the reins and called a whoa to his mules, cussing them out in a fine Gaelic voice as Brodie climbed onto the running board and balanced himself there, tucking the bundle he carried tightly under his arm and taking a pencil and notepaper from inside his coat pocket.

  "Would you swing by the Crescent Line office for me, Flannery, and give this message to my brother Sean?" He hastily scratched it on the paper, folded it, and handed it to the drayman, ignoring angry shouts and raised fists from the drivers of other wagons that had been forced to halt as well.

  "Sure I'll be doing it for you, but it's a whiskey you'll owe me, Brodie Donovan," the red-headed Flannery declared as Brodie hopped down.

  "Get it in Sean's hands in ten minutes and 'tis a bottle I'll buy you—and not tell your wife."

  " 'Tis a deal you've got, and I'll be holding you to it." He cracked the whip above the long ears of the mule team and slapped the reins on their rumps, urging them forward with shouts and curses and hollering at the wagons ahead of him to "Make way!"

  Dodging the freight wagons that quickly filled Flannery's breach, Brodie crossed to the other side of the street and walked down two doors to the millinery shop of Madame Rideaux, where a small sign in the window promised the latest in styles from Paris. The fulfillment of that promise was wrapped in the bundle under his arm—the most current fashion plates from France, only two weeks old, courtesy of his ship the Crescent Glory.

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then started toward the rear of the shop, automatically scanning the front area for the henna-haired proprietress who wavered so insecurely between the unctuous smiles of a shopkeeper and the haughty airs of a customer. His eye was first caught by the shimmer of velvet the deep, rich color of garnet. It drew his glance to a young woman clad in a velvet walking dress, her back turned to him as she tried on hats in front of a freestanding counter mirror. Brodie noticed two things simultaneously: the small span of her waist, accented by the wide circle the skirt made, and the jet-black of her hair, in lieu of the typical dark-brown color of most Creole women's tresses. Obviously she had some Spanish blood mixed in somewhere.

  In the next stride, Brodie saw her reflection in the mirror and halted abruptly, stopped by a sharp kick of feeling that momentarily stunned him. There was a perfection to her oval features that he could only liken to that of a cameo, her expression serenely composed yet possessing a subtle vibrancy that gave immediate life to her face. He stared, knowing he had to find out who she was but unwilling to move from this spot, for the moment content to gaze at her.

  Suppressing a sigh of dissatisfaction, Adrienne Jardin laid the bonnet aside and picked up a dress cap of pearl-colored silk, trimmed with a wreath of velvet leaves, flowers, and ribbons. She slipped it on, first letting the ribbons hang, then tying them in a loose bow. As she turned her head slightly to view her side reflection, she saw another face in the mirror—a man's face. For the briefest of seconds her eyes locked with his in the mirror. A small crease appeared between his dark eyebrows, his glance flicking to the bonnet, as he gave a faint shake of his head in disapproval.

  Adrienne immediately broke eye contact with him and fixed her gaze on her own reflection, stiffening in annoyance at the man's boldness, his rudeness. No doubt he was a Yankee. Did he think his opinion of the bonnet mattered to her?

  To make matters worse, she discovered she didn't like the bonnet, either. She kept it on a little longer, playing with the ribbons, tucking a dark curl in here and rearranging another there, trying to make it clear, when she finally did take it off and lay it aside, that her decision hadn't been influenced by his reaction to it. All the while, she pretended to take no notice of his reflection in the mirror, acting as if her peripheral vision hadn't observed his wide and slanted brow, the slight break in his otherwise straight nose, his well-formed chin, which neither jutted nor receded, his high, broad cheekbones, and his sharply angled jaws—or the deep mahogany red of his hair beneath his black hat, and the dark brown of his eyes. Honesty forced her to concede that he was handsome—in that rough, raw way Yankees usually were.

  As she picked up a white silk bonnet trimmed with satin roses and white lace, Adrienne wondered what he was doing in Madame Simone's shop. She remembered hearing the shop door open, but she had no idea whether he had entered alone or with another. Had he accompanied his wife, perhaps? Or his sister? Or his demimondaine? The last seemed most likely. There was a picaresque quality about him that would prompt him to appear in public with such a woman.

  Discreetly Adrienne scanned the interior of the shop, turning her head this way and that as if inspecting all angles of the silk bonnet on her head, while bringing every corner of the room into view. But non, there was only Tante ZeeZee at the counter with a patient clerk, engaged in what was, for her, an agonizing decision over which pair of gloves to purchase. As if gloves would help her appearance, Adrienne thought with a sudden twinge of pity for the woman who had raised her. Poor Tante ZeeZee had inherited Grandpère's very prominent nose, a feature that on him looked most noble, but on her . . . Adrienne understood why her aunt had acquired such an inordinate fondness for the jade-green absinthe.

  She looked again at her own reflection, discovering that she was back to her original question: what was the Yankee doing in Madame Simone's shop—alone? Had he business with the proprietress? But of what kind? He was too well dressed to be a tradesman, and he hadn't asked after the woman, who had been called to the rear of the shop to handle some minor emergency in the cutting room.

  With rising curiosity, Adrienne let her glance stray again to his reflection. Again eye contact was made, and again she saw the faint frown and slight shake of his head, rejecting the latest bonnet. And yet again, Adrienne pretended to take no notice of him. She recognized that it would be a simple matter to move to another mirror, but that would be an admission that she was aware of his attentions, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was in any way affected by his presence. It was always best to ignore these Yankees.

  Yet sheer perversity prompted her to try on a singularly unattractive bonnet with an extra brim, reminiscent of a calash and appropriately called an "ugly." The mirror showed that it was all of that and more. She allowed the barest trace of a smile to touch her lips as she darted a quick look at the Yankee. His eyes were downcast, as if he were hiding the humor in them, while his mouth twitched with a smile, bringing into play a pair of very attractive creases in his cheeks. Again there was a shake of his head, but this time it seemed to be more an expression of amusement.

  Hiding her own smile, Adrienne removed the bonnet and picked up a hat that had appealed to her earlier, of a somewhat sophisticated style, with a black lace demi-veil spilling from the brim, the effect slightly dramatic. She tried it on and liked it immediately. She felt certain that even the Yankee would approve of this choice. But when she stole a glance at his reflection to observe his reaction, he wasn't there!

  Startled, Adrienne threw a quick look over her shoulder to the place where he'd been standing, but he'd disappeared. The instant she realized what she was doing, she squared around again to face the mirror, stunned by the strange disappointment she felt. A second later she was doubly stunned to see him standing before her, next to the mirror. She was extremely conscious of the quick, small beats her heart struck—from the shock of finding him there, of course. There could be no other cause.

  "The hat is very attractive." He spo
ke in French, his accent definitely American and his voice deep-pitched. "Unfortunately it hides your eyes. And I'm certain you've been told before that you have very beautiful eyes, black-shining like the sea on a moonless night."

  She made no response. Frankly, Brodie would have been surprised if she had. Well-bred Creole misses didn't address strangers, and she was unquestionably well-bred. But it wasn't necessary that she speak to him; she had a very expressive face, and what it didn't tell him, her actions did.

  She had regained her composure with remarkable swiftness after initially stiffening in surprise at finding him so near. There'd been no betraying blush of discomfort, no hint of alarm in her eyes. More than that, there'd been no indignant walking away. She'd stayed—out of pique? Out of pride? Out of curiosity? Brodie didn't particularly care what her reason was. She was there, and she was listening—however much she might be coolly pretending not to be.

  The hat with the veil was exchanged for a white straw bergere with a wide, soft brim, a wreath of flowers encircling its flat crown and pink satin ribbons dangling at the sides. Instead of turning her into a picture of virginal innocence, the hat made her look even more alluring, yet . . . there was nothing of the coquette about her.

  This time Brodie made himself shake his head in rejection. "I admit the brim would protect your face from the sun, but it would also force a man to keep his distance. I wouldn't want you to be wearing it if you were on my arm."