They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  Julian took me firmly by the arm and led me up the front steps. An expressionless Pompey held the door open for us, and I could have sworn he sniffed with disapproval as I passed. We were in a spacious foyer with high, domed white ceilings and paneled walls painted a soft white. A worn pink and gray carpet covered most of the parquet floor, an immense and rather dusty crystal chandelier dangled overhead, and, at the other end of the room, a lovely white spiral staircase rose gracefully to the second floor. The room was dim, the natural light softly diffused and wavering as though reflected from water. Pale lilac-gray shadows shifted and stirred, even at this hour of the afternoon.

  I heard a rustle of skirts, a clatter of heels, and Julian’s Aunt Delia came tottering into the room, halting abruptly when she spotted me standing beside her nephew. In her late fifties, she was not quite as tall as I, and admirably thin. Her face was lightly powdered, her lips painted a pale coral-pink, and her eyes were a clear light green. Her soft, silvery gray hair was cut short and floated out all around her head like the fluffy cap of a dandelion, an eccentric but curiously appropriate coiffure that suited her perfectly. She was wearing a lilac silk frock and a white organdy apron, and she twisted the latter in bewilderment as she looked at her nephew and then looked at me and then back at her nephew, a delicate frown creasing her brow.

  “You’ve brought a guest, Julian?” Her voice was lovely.

  “In a manner of speaking. This is Dana, Delia. She is an orphan. She is going to be staying with us.”

  “Well, I’m sure that will be charming, dear. We’ve plenty of room. Where did you find her?”

  “In the swamp. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

  Delia examined me more closely, her clear, lovely green eyes alight with curiosity. I needn’t have been nervous about meeting her, I saw. There was a fragile, otherworldly quality about Delia and a childlike innocence that was’ immediately endearing. Vague she might be, but she radiated goodness and gentility, and I sensed at once that she hadn’t a mean bone in her body.

  “She’s absolutely breathtaking, Julian,” she observed, “but—she’s only a baby.”

  “Seventeen,” Julian told her.

  “You’re not thinking of—you know I’m tolerant, dear, I never raise an eyebrow at anything you or Charles do, but—well, in this instance it really wouldn’t do, dear. I hope you haven’t already—”

  “It’s not like that at all, Delia,” Julian said patiently.

  Delia was visibly relieved. “I’m pleased to meet you, dear,” she told me.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, too,” I said.

  Delia blinked, frowned again, and looked at her nephew.

  “What’s wrong with her voice?” she inquired.

  “It can be fixed,” he said. “Elocution lessons. In fact, we’re going to have to hire a whole fleet of tutors. The child can barely read and write. We’re going to have to start from the ground up.”

  Delia was unperturbed. “I’m sure that will be very interesting,” she observed. “Where are her things?”

  “She hasn’t any—only the clothes she is wearing.”

  “That will never do. I’ll have to take her to Corinne’s tomorrow and make arrangements for a complete wardrobe. What fun it will be, dressing her. It’s been quite dreary around here of late, Julian, with Charles gone and everything. I’m sure I’ll be enchanted to have her stay with us, but—what will Lavinia and the others say?”

  “God knows.”

  “She and Raoul are going to be here tonight.”

  His handsome face registered shock, exasperation and, finally, weary resignation.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it,” he said.

  “I suppose you will, dear. I could never deal with Lavinia, even when I was younger. She does try one’s nerves, and her children …” Delia shook her silvery cloud of hair. “Magdelon is impossible, of course, and I fear Raoul is the worst sort of heartbreaker. The boy is much too good-looking, and he has no scruples at all when it comes to women.”

  “Any idea what she wants?” Julian inquired.

  “A more responsible position for Raoul,” his aunt replied. “It’s embarrassing to the lad to work at the shop like a common clerk, selling furniture.”

  “He’s rarely there,” Julian said. “He’s damned lucky to get a salary. If he weren’t an Etienne—”

  “I know, dear, I know. You put in your time at the shop, Charles did, too, both of you working without complaint on the floor for your dear father, charming all the customers, I’m sure, but Lavinia feels it’s demeaning for her Raoul. You know Lavinia …”

  Delia sighed and, dismissing the problem from her mind, came over to take my hand. Her own was like soft old parchment.

  “Poor child,” she said gently. “I’m sure you must be all tuckered out after the trip. I’ll just take you up to your room—let me see, the yellow room, I think. Pity there wasn’t time to have it properly aired.”

  Before I could say anything she led me toward the spiral staircase, chattering pleasantly the whole while. As we started up the graciously curving stairs, I looked back at Julian. He stood there in the foyer, watching us with a bemused look in his eyes. I felt I was in the middle of a dream as his aunt led me on up the stairs and down a wide, shadowy hallway lined with lovely old chests. Still holding my hand, she guided me around a corner and down another hallway, explaining that the yellow room had been her own when she was a girl, before she left to marry Mister Beauregard.

  “There’s a gallery that looks out over the courtyard and a flight of steps leading down to it. The entire house is built around the courtyard,” she continued, “all the French windows downstairs opening out onto it. The carriage house and the servants’ quarters are in the back. We’re in the west wing now. The east wing, facing this across the courtyard, is, alas, closed up, all the furniture covered with dustcloths. The house is far too large, you see—I do fear it’s an albatross, but one does one’s best to keep everything tidy.”

  Delia opened a door and led me into a small room with walls hung with faded old yellow silk, very pale. Bed, dressing table and wardrobe were of exquisite golden wood with fancy patterns inlaid in darker gold and brown wood, curlicues and garlands of old brass adorning each piece. A heavy yellow satin counterpane was spread over the bed, matching draperies at the set of French windows, and a worn but still lovely yellow, white and pale blue rug covered much of the floor, its floral patterns sadly fading. A pale blue silk screen with sprays of equally fading white apple blossoms stood in one corner. Delia tactfully informed me that behind it I would find pitcher, ewer and “all the necessities,” and then she opened the French windows.

  “Now you just rest up, dear, you hear? I’ll send Kayla up with fresh water and a little something to tide you over till dinner. If I were you, I’d slip off those shoes and that frock and have myself a little nap. You must be thoroughly exhausted.”

  “I—I am just a little tired,” I confessed.

  “Dear me,” Delia said, speaking to herself. “I’m sure I don’t know what Julian can be thinking of, but—” She looked at me and smiled. “We’ll cope,” she said.

  “I—I hope I’m not—I don’t want to cause any—”

  “I, for one, think it will be nice to have someone young around the place,” she told me. “It gave me quite a turn at first, but Julian is entitled to his little whims. Although this time—”

  She left the words dangling in air and examined me again.

  “It’ll be all right, dear,” she said.

  Delia came over to me and took my hand again and squeezed it, and then she sighed and shook her head and released my hand and drifted out of the room like a wraith, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Wavering rays of late afternoon sunlight drifted languorously through the windows, gliding the smooth gloss of varnished wood, making pale gold pools on the carpet. I thought of my shabby attic room with its bare board walls and corn husk mattress, and it was hard
to believe that I was actually here. I gazed in awe at all the lovely things, running my hand over the polished wood, cautiously fingering the frail blue silk of the screen and the lustrous yellow satin of the drapes, and then I moved through the French windows.

  A wrought-iron gallery wound all the way around the second floor like intricate, ornate lace, supported by lacy iron columns. Nearby a flight of steps led down to the courtyard, a matching flight across the way. The courtyard was completely enclosed and paved in glazed tile, an elaborate three-tiered fountain in the center. There were strange, exotic green plants and wonderful flowers—pink, purple, deep red—and two mimosa trees, one dusty mauve, the other a pale yellow-gold, the silky blossoms filling the air with a heady perfume. Shadows were beginning to spread in blue-gray layers, gradually darkening as the sun waned. It was incredibly beautiful and somehow mysterious. I seemed to receive strong impressions of time past. What dramas had unfolded in this courtyard during the past hundred years? What emotions had been expelled, leaving subtle traces that lingered still?

  Hearing a noise behind me, I turned around to see a Negro girl entering the room with a heavily laden tray. Thick black hair fell to her shoulders in glossy waves, and her large brown eyes were full of sparkle. The wide, flat nose and overly full red lips her only Negroid features. Her complexion was a deep, creamy café au lait, in truth not much darker than my own. The girl smiled, gave me a pert nod and set her tray down on the dressing table. Pert, vivacious, she promptly began to turn back the yellow satin counterpane.

  “I be Kayla, Miz Dana,” she informed me. “Miz Delia, she says I’s to make you real snug and comfy and see if you’s wantin’ anything. I brung up water for the ewer so’s you can wash yourself and I brung somethin’ to eat, too, some crabmeat paste spread on l’il pieces of bread, some cheese, an apple, a glass-a lemonade. These sheets is fresh, by th’ way. I changed ’em only a couple-a-days ago.”

  She plumped up the pillows with merry little pats, frankly examining me with those lively brown eyes.

  “I hopes you don’t mind me sayin’ it, Miz Dana, but you’s the most beautiful woman I ever did see.”

  “Why—why, thank you, Kayla.”

  “Is you a buffalo gal?” she inquired.

  I shook my head. Kayla spread a beruffled blue and mauve wrapper over the bed, arranging it in graceful folds.

  “I hope you ain’t offended, my askin’, but your skin ain’t that much lighter’n mine and—well, you never can tell. Some-a them gals paradin’ at the Quadroon Balls are whiter-lookin’ than you. Ain’t none of ’em as beautiful, though. Mister Julian done hisself fine, he did. Took us all by surprise, him bringin’ you here ‘stead-a settin’ you up in an apartment, but then Mister Julian’s never paid no mind to what people thunk.”

  “I believe you have the wrong idea, Kayla,” I said.

  The girl looked surprised. “You ain’t his lovin’ gal?”

  “I—I’m just his friend,” I told her. “I’m not anyone’s lovin’ gal, never have been.”

  “You mean you’s still intact?”

  I nodded, not at all offended. Kayla shook her head.

  “Gal as beautiful as you is—it don’t figure. Me, I ain’t been intact for years. I was thirteen when I gave my cherry to a fine-lookin’ stableboy. White, he was, a rogue with a wicked grin and twinklin’ eyes. Took my cherry an’ broke my heart. Been lots-a fellas since then. I tries to be good like Miz Delia says I should, but I got this weakness for lovin’. Makes you feel so tingly and cozy an’ all. Reckon I can’t help myself when I sees a fine-lookin’ fellow who wants to tumble. They all does, a-course.”

  I was at a loss for words in the face of this candid admission. “How pleasant for you,” I finally observed.

  “Oh, it’s pleasant—long as they don’t get too rough and long as you’s th’ one pickin’ an’ choosin’. Mister Raoul now, him I steer clear of. He’s as handsome as can be an’ randy as they come, but to him I’s just a nigger gal he thinks he can tumble any time he pleases.”

  “Raoul? He—he would be Lavinia’s son.”

  “Yes’um. Trapped me in the broom closet, he did, had his pants down and was ready to start plungin’, would-a had me, too, if Mister Charles hadn’t come along an’ heard me screamin’. Beat th’ tar outta Raoul, Mister Charles did. Said he’d kill him if he ever tried any-a that again in this house. Mister Charles, him I wouldn’t mind takin’ me, but he ain’t never showed th’ least interest.”

  Kayla sighed regretfully and stepped behind the screen to fill the ewer. I found the girl enchanting, if a bit too forthcoming. She arranged the food on a platter and put it on the bedside table.

  “Miz Delia said you’d probably be wantin’ to take a nap,” she informed me. “Dinner’ll be served at eight-thirty. I’ll come up round eight to help you get ready.”

  She paused at the door, giving me a long, appraising look.

  “Mister Julian’s a fine gentlemen,” she said. “A gal could do a whole lot worse, take my word for it. Spoiled that Miz Amelia to pieces, he did, gave herth’ moon. Older men—they’s th’ best. They takes their time.”

  Kayla left with a brisk rustle of skirts, and I sighed, feeling bone-weary now. I hadn’t intended to nap, but the bed looked terribly inviting and it was a long time until dinner. I removed shoes and stockings and frock, slipping the ruffled blue and mauve wrapper over my petticoat and tying the sash at my waist. I wasn’t really hungry now, but I sipped the lemonade and ate a few of the snacks Kayla had brought up. Lethargy stole over me, my eyelids growing heavier by the minute, and I stretched out on the bed, the mattress so soft beneath me, sheets a soft, sweet-smelling yellow linen. Older men are the best, Kayla had said, and I felt sure she spoke from experience. How free and easy she was about matters of the flesh, totally unfettered by bothersome conventions. I had guarded my cherry like a treasured jewel, but … yes, gladly would I have given it to the man who had rescued me from Clem and the swamp. Out of gratitude … or because he was so warm, so handsome, so wonderfully appealing? I closed my eyes, thinking about all that had happened, and sleep quickly claimed me.

  Soft rustles and whispers awakened me, and I stirred, feeling rather groggy, aware at once that the sultry heat hadn’t abated even though the room was full of velvety black shadows, all color faded. The drapes made silken music as a gentle breeze stirred them, bringing with it all the heady scents of the courtyard. The fountain below splashed and splattered, softly pattering, making another kind of music, and the sheets rustled as I got out of bed, pulling the wrapper more closely around me, adjusting the sash. Ruffles fluttered on the full skirt as I moved over to the French windows. The sky above was a deep opal, gradually darkening to black, the moon a thin silver disk. The courtyard was a nest of shadows, broken here and there by golden blurs of light fanning out from the windows downstairs.

  It had only been dark a short while, I could tell that from the color of the sky. I had plenty of time before Kayla returned, I reasoned, so I decided to explore the courtyard. Moving down the gallery to the stairs, I descended slowly, my bare feet making no noise whatsoever. Tall green plants rustled all around me, and soft fronds touched my cheek as I moved toward the fountain. The air was so heavily scented it was almost dizzying, and heat seemed to shimmer in the violet-gray semidarkness. The fountain was indeed a marvel, water spilling from tier to tier, a plump cherub with a dolphin in its arms perched on top, large lilies floating in the wide bottom tier.

  “—absolutely unthinkable!” a harsh voice exclaimed, and I whirled around, startled.

  “—really none of your concern, Lavinia.”

  “None of my concern! The family—the family name! It might not mean anything to you, Julian, but it means everything to me. I won’t be able to hold my head up. I won’t be able to face any of my friends. What will people say when they hear you’ve—no, it won’t do, Julian. It simply won’t do. I forbid you to let that creature stay in his house.”

  “It isn�
�t your place to forbid anything, dear aunt,” Julian said.

  The voices were coming through a partially opened set of French windows, and I moved through the courtyard toward them, unable to help myself. Standing just beyond the hazy fan of light, concealed by the shadows, I peered in at the brightly lighted room, a parlor of sorts, it seemed, the walls hung with pale lime silk patterned with white, sofas and chairs covered in varying shades of lime, emerald, and white. A somewhat dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, and candles burned in ivory wall sconces. Julian was standing in front of a white marble fireplace, a tall glass in his hand, his expression utterly indifferent as the thin, bony woman in black glared at him, seething.

  “All of us have tolerated your eccentricities, Julian. Going off to those god-awful swamps, collecting plants, holing yourself up in your study, filling notebook after notebook with scribbling while Charles runs the business—that’s bad enough. But this! I’ve no objection to your taking another mistress, but I will not stand by and see you bring ridicule to—”

  She cut herself short, trying hard to contain her outrage. She was standing beside one of the sofas, tall, imperious, frighteningly grand. A good fifteen years older than Julian, she had a very thin face with sharp cheekbones and a long nose and thin, pursed lips painted a bright scarlet. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, glittering now with icy rage, and her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, piled atop her head with a plump roll dipping down to midtemple on either side. No woman that age had hair that black, I thought. She must dye it. Long garnet earrings hung from her lobes, and a garnet brooch was fastened at the throat of her long-sleeved, high-necked black gown. Ugly as sin, she was, like a gaunt, haughty scarecrow.

  “We are Etiennes,” she reminded him in her crisp, icy voice. “We have an obligation to the community. There are standards we must uphold. Minor transgressions are one thing, they’re expected of the aristocracy, but this—this is outright defiance of every precept of—”

  Julian’s weary sigh interrupted her. I noticed then a shiny black boot and a deep plum trousered leg stretched out from a large white chair that was turned at an angle from my line of vision. The leg moved, and a man stood up, his back to me. He was wearing a superbly tailored plum-colored frock coat that accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and his hair was thick and glossy and startlingly black. He walked across the room to a liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink, turning then. Raoul Etienne, for that was who he must be, was lean and sleek and polished. His skin was deeply tanned. His dark brown eyes seemed to glow. His full pink mouth was undeniably sensual. As Kayla had said, he was as handsome as could be, but I sensed something crafty and dangerous just beneath the surface. He reminded me of a beautiful panther.