They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Well—” I began.

  “Money’s no object!” Louella told me.

  “The asking price is fifteen hundred dollars,” I said calmly, “but it is a copy, after all, and—I really couldn’t sell it for over a thousand and have a clear conscience.”

  You’re going to go straight to hell, I told myself.

  “We’ll take it!” Louella exclaimed. “Just wait’ll Junie Summerfield sees it. Wait’ll I tell her how Josephine polished all the brass herself, dreaming of marryin’ an emperor. A mere thousand bucks! It’s a bargain, Herbie.”

  “It is indeed,” Charles said gravely.

  None of us had heard him come into the front of the shop. He had brushed his hair back from his brow and tucked his shirt in more securely and wiped the sweat from his face. His face was grim. Oh Lord, he’s going to throttle me, I thought.

  “I’m Charles Etienne,” he told the Kramers. “I’m the owner. May I be of some assistance?”

  “No assistance needed,” Louella said happily, “this little girl here has already sold us this marvelous commode. Herbie’s gonna pay cash. Give him the thousand bucks, Herbie.”

  “If you will just step back into my office with me, Mr. Kramer, I’ll write out a receipt for you, and we’ll make arrangements to have the piece shipped to you.”

  “Shipped, my eye! We’re gonna carry it with us!” Louella exclaimed. “We have plenty of room in the carriage—our man will help carry it out—and they can put it on the steamboat tomorrow morning. I ain’t lettin’ no one ship it. Might get lost on the way.”

  “Very well,” Charles said smoothly. “There are some crates and packing straw in back. I’ll pack it up for you myself.”

  “That’d be lovely, honey. Hurry up and give him the money, Herbie. I wanna stop by that fancy dress shop before it closes—Corinne’s. I saw a cunning hat in the window, pink straw with the sweetest velvet bows on the brim. It’ll be smashing with my purple satin gown.”

  Charles smiled at her and gave me a very severe look that said we had much to talk about and then led Herbie to one of the offices in back. Louella chatted nonstop while we waited. Herbie had made a bundle with Kramer’s Emporium, she informed me. Everyone thought he was crazy, buying that tacky little store that was going out of business, no one wanted it, you’re gonna lose your shirt, everyone said, but Herbie knew a good thing when he saw it and went right ahead and bought it and began to expand and first thing you knew it was making a mint and now it was the biggest store in town and the Kramers were rolling in money. Herbie had a genius for business, no doubt about it, he was thinking of opening branches all over the South.

  “Ten years from now we’re gonna be an empire!” Louella enthused.

  “I’m sure that will be lovely for you,” I said.

  Charles and Herbie came back, Herbie thrusting the receipt into the pocket of his frock coat. He stepped to the door and summoned his man inside, and the strapping Negro in green livery carried the commode into the back of the store, Charles and Herbie following. Herbie paused to grind his cigar out in a Meissen dish sitting on a table. Charles pretended not to notice. Louella continued her monologue, and after a while we heard banging as a lid was hammered onto one of the crates Charles had carried out into the alley earlier. The men returned shortly thereafter, and the Negro carried the crate out to the carriage. Herbie took Charles’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

  “Clever idea you have here,” he said, “having a beautiful young woman to wait on your customers. You gotta real gem. I never saw anyone make a sale so smoothly. Knows her stuff, this little girl does.”

  “Yes,” Charles said. He had to force the word out.

  Herbie turned to me and gave me a big grin. “If you ever wanna leave this place, ever wanna get yourself another job, you just come to St. Louis and look me up. I promise ya I’ll pay you double what you get here, even more if I have to. Kramer’s could use a lass like you.”

  “Why—thank you very much,” I said politely.

  Charles showed the Kramers out and returned a few moments later and closed the door and locked it and heaved a heavy sigh. He gave me a long, thoughtful look, and I braced myself for the outburst.

  “I—I suppose you’re angry,” I said nervously.

  “Not really. Mildly irritated, perhaps.”

  “I couldn’t resist it,” I said in my defense. “She wanted something she could show off to her friends, and—well, they’re going to be very impressed. I did tell her it was a copy.”

  “I heard.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Everything. How Josephine polished the brass with her own hands—that was a nice touch.”

  “It made her happy.”

  He nodded lazily, unfolding the arms he had folded across his chest, resting his hands lightly on his thighs. Bright afternoon sunlight slanted through the front windows, making restless pools on the carpet.

  “Mr. Kramer could afford it,” I said.

  “I’ve no doubt he could afford to buy the whole store.”

  “At any rate, you’re a thousand dollars richer.”

  “A hundred of it is yours,” he told me.

  I was startled. Charles nodded slowly.

  “Our salesmen—that’s Raoul at the moment—make a very small salary, but they get ten percent commission on every item they sell.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Why, I’ll bet I could sell a tremendous lot of things. It would be lovely working in a store like this, surrounded by beautiful things. It would help you out—Julian says Raoul’s a lousy salesman—and I—I’d be earning my keep.”

  Charles smiled, genuinely amused, and it was a lovely smile. I didn’t see what was so bloody amusing.

  “You can’t work at Etienne’s, Dana, though I’ve no doubt at all you’d be a whiz. Julian has spent an inordinate amount of our money trying to turn you into a proper young lady, and proper young ladies do not become shopgirls. Come along now, we have work to do in back.”

  “Don’t forget my hundred dollars,” I said peevishly.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled.

  We resumed our work on the inventory, and Charles was as testy and demanding as he had been before, and I wasn’t a bit better-versed on bronzes, making a number of mistakes that irritated him no end. Dripping with perspiration as I lugged yet another heavy bronze over to the desk, I suggested that he pull open the back door so we might have a little air, and he informed me that good honest sweat never hurt anyone. I shot him a look that should have felled him on the spot. We continued to work, and I carried over a pair of firedogs representing Jupiter and Juno by M. Anguier—French bronze, not Italian. I had the distinct impression it pleased him to see me straining under the weight of them. I was young and healthy and strong, true, but there were limits. Proper young ladies didn’t work like galley slaves. I told him so. He told me to find the bloody receipt and stop whining.

  “Well,” he said two hours later, “that’s the last of the bronzes.”

  “Thank God for that,” I snapped.

  “I can’t believe we’ve accomplished so much in one day. We should easily be able to finish the whole lot tomorrow.” He stood up and arched his back, and I could hear tiny bones popping. “We just have the furniture and the paintings left.”

  “If you think I’m going to move heavy furniture—”

  “No moving involved, you’ll simply tag each piece after I’ve listed it. I imagine you can handle that. Tired?”

  “Exhausted,” I complained.

  “You did a commendable job,” he told me, “better by far than Raoul would have done. The mood I’ve been in, I’d probably have killed him, but then he’s responsible for the mood I’ve been in. I’ll kill him when he gets back.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and brushed a spray of moist chestnut locks from his brow and smiled again. His smile was every bit as nice as Julian’s, I thought. What a beautiful mouth he had. What a beautiful m
an he was, however stern and formidable. I no longer detested him. I was no longer the least bit intimidated by him. He could actually be almost nice when it suited him, I reflected.

  Charles glanced at a lovely ormolu clock. “It’s almost five. Jasper will be arriving any minute now. Shall we call it a day?”

  “Gladly,” I said.

  He gave me a look that was—well, not fond but not at all hostile either. Had I won him over? Did he no longer resent my presence in his house? Did he no longer consider me a conniving little harlot? I couldn’t tell for sure, but I did know that both of us were more relaxed, more at ease with each other than we had been before. Charles stretched, throwing his shoulders back, a healthy, magnificent animal. He looked tousled and weary, and I decided not to tell him about the tiny smudge of ink on his jaw.

  Leaving the desktop a shambles with ledger open and papers scattered everywhere, he led the way to the front of the store. I brushed my skirt and adjusted my sleeves as he unlocked the door. How lovely it was to step out into the fresh air. There was a light breeze I found very welcome. Only a few carriages moved down the street. Jasper hadn’t arrived yet. Charles sighed, shoving errant chestnut locks from his brow yet again. His blue eyes were thoughtful, but he wasn’t thinking about me. He was thinking about business. A frown suddenly appeared, making a furrow over the bridge of his nose, and he snapped his fingers.

  “The records of last month’s sales—I meant to bring them home with me to go over tonight. I’ll go fetch them. You wait here.”

  “We forgot the baskets, too,” I said. “You’d better bring them.”

  He didn’t answer. He unlocked the door again and went back inside, and I peered down the street, looking for Jasper and our carriage. A few moments later a bizarre sight appeared, a grand and very ancient gold and white open carriage with a sturdy milk-white horse in harness. The horse had a bobbing golden plume fastened to its head, and the driver perched on the high seat in front wore very grand and very old livery of gold and white velvet. It was like something from an era long since passed, as was the passenger who sat on the tufted white velvet seat. She wore a gown of sky-blue satin much adorned with frothy cascades of beige lace and pink velvet rosebuds, a gown that must have been in the height of fashion sixty years ago. Her hair was done up in a towering powdered white pompadour, pink and white plumes affixed to one side with a diamond clasp, three long sausage curls dangling over her shoulder. Her withered face was heavily painted, and a black satin beauty mark was pasted on one cheekbone. I recognized her immediately, of course.

  Seeing me standing there alone in front of the store, the old woman leaned forward and said something to her driver. He slowed the horse down, pulling to a stop only a few feet away.

  “Good afternoon, Clarisse,” the old woman said. “How charming you are in that frock. Do you need a ride?”

  “No, thank you, Madame Lecomb,” I said pleasantly. “And it’s Dana O’Malley, ma’am, not Clarisse.”

  As I spoke that familiar name myself, realization dawned, and I could feel a cold chill inside. I remembered how she had mistaken me for someone else the night of the ball, and I understood why now. I knew I must look very much like my mother had looked twenty years ago.

  Madame Lecomb frowned, looking foggy and bewildered.

  “O’Malley? But I’ve never heard that name before in my life. Don’t tease me, child. It isn’t polite. You’re Clarisse DuJardin. Your mother, Mathilde, is—was—one of my dearest—but that was such a long time ago.” She looked very distressed. “What has happened to Mathilde? I haven’t seen her in years. She used to come to all my Sunday Afternoons, and then …”

  She shook her head, plumes waving.

  “There was some scandal …” she said, squinting, trying to remember. “The daughter ran off—none of us ever knew what became of her—and then Theophile was involved in some unpleasant business at the bank where he was a partner. I seem to recall—embezzling? But Theophile was such a gentleman. He—yes, he died—suicide. Poor Mathilde—all the money gone. She would have been penniless if her brother hadn’t …”

  Madame Lecomb frowned, and I could almost see the memories dissolving into a haze. After a moment she sighed and motioned for the driver to move on.

  “Lovely seeing you, Clarisse,” she said in that cracked old voice. “Tell your mother I’m expecting her next Sunday. Martineau is going to play Mozart, and we’ll have champagne and tiny iced cakes and that delicious goose liver pate she likes so well.”

  The carriage drove away. Charles came back out with the baskets, and I was so lost in thought it was several moments before I realized he was standing beside me. He looked at me with questioning blue eyes.

  “You’re pale,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  I shook my head. He wasn’t convinced.

  “I—I’m just tired,” I said.

  “You’ll feel better after you’ve had a hot bath and a good meal,” he told me. “Ah, here’s Jasper at last. Been a long day, hasn’t it?”

  I nodded. I was barely aware of his hand on my elbow as he helped me into the carriage. I was silent as we drove back home. Charles made a few remarks about the inventory, but I didn’t reply and he didn’t press me. My mind was on other things.

  Chapter Eleven

  DELIA WAS FEELING THE EFFECTS of the oppressive heat and was in her sitting room suffering from one of her headaches. I entered that small, comfortable room two mornings later to find her reclining on the embroidered peach silk sofa, holding a cologne-soaked handkerchief to her temples. I had no doubt Delia’s headaches were genuinely bad, even though both Charles and Julian slighted them, but Delia did make much of them, carrying on with high drama like an aging actress milking a scene for all it was worth. She sighed mournfully as I entered, dabbing at her brow with the handkerchief. Wearing a sky-blue silk frock trimmed with antique ivory lace, she looked up at me with miserable eyes that had faint mauve shadows beneath them. Her face was slightly pale, her forehead moist with a faint film of perspiration. The room was stifling. I set down the tray of lemonade I had brought her and, parting the pearl-gray velvet drapes, opened the windows to let in some air. Delia sighed again, throwing an arm over her eyes as though to protect them from the blinding rays of the sun which were nonexistent. The courtyard was full of blue-gray morning shadows.

  “I’ve brought you some lemonade,” I told her.

  “Oh, my dear, I don’t mean to be unappreciative, but nothing will help. I simply can’t endure this heat. It’s worse than ever this summer, although I remember one summer when I was a girl when it was so hot every plant in the courtyard simply withered away. I thought I was going to wither away, too.”

  “Jezebel put ice in the lemonade,” I said.

  “So sweet of you to bring it to me, dear. Perhaps I’ll have just a sip.”

  She managed to stir herself into a sitting position and weakly accepted the glass of lemonade and drank half of it with considerable relish, ice tinkling as she did so. I looked at the portrait hanging over the light gray marble mantel. As always, those dark blue eyes seemed to watch my every move.

  “Alicia Duvall has invited me to spend a couple of weeks with her at Grande Villa, and I’ve decided I simply must go. It’s right on the river, with a wide, shady verandah and the loveliest rose gardens—I always find a stay there wonderfully reviving, even if Alicia is a dreadful chatterbox—never stops talking for a minute, my dear, and rarely says anything worth remembering.”

  I had come to the sitting room with a definite motive in mind, and I knew I was going to have to use all my guile to allay any suspicion on Delia’s part. I took the now empty glass of lemonade from her and refilled it from the pitcher I had also brought on the tray.

  “Charles was so pleased with your help with the inventory,” Delia informed me. “He told me last night you’d finished it in half the time it would ordinarily have taken.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” I said.

  “
And you’re almost finished with the east wing.”

  “Kayla did a wonderful job supervising things while I was at Etienne’s, and everything is done but a few pieces of furniture I want to polish myself. I intend to get right to them. Delia—”

  “Such industry!” she exclaimed before I could change the subject. “I just don’t know how you do it in this heat. I just know it would give me a dreadful headache.…”

  Remembering that she had one, she picked up a palmetto fan and began to fan herself weakly, refusing the refilled glass I offered. I set it on the table in front of the sofa.

  “The Duvalls are a very fine old family, aren’t they?” I inquired.

  “One of the oldest, one of the finest—though not, of course, anything to compare with the Etiennes. The Duvalls came to New Orleans a good ten years later, and Pierre Duvall had made his fortune as a trapper in the Northwest, trading with the Indians for furs or something equally as distasteful. No class at all, I fear, though his children managed to acquire a little polish.”

  “You know all the old families, don’t you?”

  Delia nodded. Abandoning the palmetto fan, she picked up the glass of lemonade and took a big gulp.

  “I know the genealogies of all the families in the Quarter, dear, it’s been a hobby of mine for decades. I know most of the family skeletons, too—people do gossip, though of course I’d never stoop to such a thing myself. It’s so very undignified.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “You must send Jezebel my compliments on this lemonade, dear. It’s ever so refreshing—though nothing could help this wretched migraine,” she added mournfully. “I just suffer and suffer and suffer for hours on end. No one knows the agony of it, dear.”

  “Let me get you a headache powder.”

  “I’ve taken two already. I’ll just have to suffer. I’m definitely leaving for Grande Villa—Alicia’s chatter won’t help my migraine a bit, but those wonderful cool breezes off the river will be most welcome, I’m sure. I wonder what clothes I should take—there’s bound to be a summer ball. That pale rose taffeta Corinne did up for me should be all right—I’m certain Alicia hasn’t seen it—and I can use the gray tulle wrap lightly spangled with sequins. The buttercup-yellow silk, of course, and …”