They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  He would try. I knew that. No woman could ask for a finer man than this. No woman could ask for love stronger than that shining in his gentle brown eyes. Why, why, why did it have to be this way?

  “But—” I hesitated. “I—you’re an aristocrat, Julian. You come from a fine old family. I—I come from the swamps. I’m a bastard. I’m—people already believe I’m a trollop. If you married me—”

  “Those things don’t matter, Dana.”

  “Your family—”

  He took my hand again, holding it tightly.

  “I love you,” he said. “That’s all that counts.”

  “I—don’t know what to say.”

  “I realize you—well, you’re very young and I—I don’t expect you to feel the same way about me, but—” He looked suddenly afraid, doubtful. “I believe you—you could learn to love me.”

  I couldn’t bear that look in his eyes. I rested my free hand on his cheek. “I love you already,” I said quietly.

  “But—not in that way?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t bring myself to wound him. Julian let go of my hand and sighed, and then he smiled that beautiful, gentle smile that touched my heart every time I saw it.

  “I know this must all come as a great surprise to you,” he said. “I never thought I’d have the courage to—speak my piece. I was scared spitless you’d laugh at me.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “I realize you’ll need time. I just—I just want you to think about it. Will you do that, Dana? Will you think about marrying me? You needn’t make up your mind right away.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said gently. “I—I’m very honored, Julian.”

  “We—uh—we won’t say anything about this to the others,” he said. “It will be our secret.”

  “I think that would be best,” I agreed.

  Julian let go of my hand and stepped back, looking relieved now and looking suddenly shy and awkward as well. He grinned boyishly and then said he’d better go wash and change. I said I would see him at dinner. He nodded and turned and moved back toward the French windows in a long, brisk stride. The fountain continued to splatter merrily. Afternoon shadows continued to spread, darker now, purple-gray. I stood there for a long time, facing this new dilemma, wondering how I was going to handle it, and then, finally, climbed thoughtfully up the outside staircase and moved along the gallery to my bedroom.

  Jezebel outdid herself that evening in celebration of Julian’s return. We had a marvelous lobster bisque to start with, savory and thick with meat, then a delicious cucumber salad. For the main course we were each served an individual oyster loaf, a small, flaky, piping hot loaf of buttery bread stuffed with baked oysters cooked in a sauce and a variety of wonderful herbs and spices. Delia was radiant in an ivory silk frock with mauve velvet bows, chattering nonstop about her visit to Grande Villa. Charles wore his dark blue frock coat and a sky-blue waistcoat embroidered with sapphire leaves, looking splendid and neat and irritated as his aunt continued to babble charmingly. Julian was wearing a dark brown frock coat and a handsome waistcoat I had never seen, light tan satin with brown and gold stripes. Leaner than ever, with his new tan and the sun-streaked hair, he did indeed look younger. When, finally, Delia paused for breath, he told us about his trip, about his experiments with soil, about the plants he couldn’t resist bringing back with him.

  How warm and genial he was, wry and witty and full of good humor, an honorable man indeed. I sat there in my pale apricot silk frock, watching him, loving him, wishing he were the one. Charles, to spite Delia, I suspected, asked a number of questions about the soil, about the plants, egging his brother on, and Julian grew even more expansive. Pompey and Elijah cleared our places and then brought in dessert, vanilla ice cream with pecans and hot praline sauce, a rarity as ice was so very expensive. Delia clapped her hands in delight, declaring it a wonderful surprise, and I saw Jezebel peeking through the door, a wide grin on her round black face.

  “And how is business?” Julian asked. “Have you gone to inspect the cotton crops yet?”

  “Uh—not yet,” Charles replied. “I thought I’d wait a little while longer. There are a few business matters I do need to discuss with you, though.”

  “Not at the dinner table,” Delia insisted. “We’ve had to endure all that dreary talk about mud and roots and such. I positively refuse to listen to business talk. You boys can go into the study after we finish.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charles said.

  “We wouldn’t want to bore you,” Julian agreed.

  “Heaven forbid,” Charles added.

  “I’m in much too festive a mood to let you boys rile me,” Delia told them. “It’s wonderful to be back, and it’s wonderful to have you back, too, Julian. I must say, all that tramping around in the swamps seems to agree with you. I’ve rarely seen you looking so hale and hearty.”

  “Thank you, Auntie.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful!” she cautioned. “You know I detest that appellation. I do hope, dear, that you can pull your brother out of the mopes. Charles has never been the most amenable person I know, but ever since I returned, he has been downright somber. I suspect it has something to do with business.”

  “Business is fine,” Charles said.

  “Perhaps it’s a woman, then. Oh my word! You haven’t gotten involved with that dreadful Amelia Jameson, have you?”

  “I haven’t,” he replied, “and Amelia is not dreadful at all. She’s a delightfully charming, sophisticated woman who happens to still be carrying a huge torch for Julian.”

  “Really?” Julian inquired.

  “God knows why,” Charles replied.

  The men retired to Julian’s study after dessert, and I took coffee with Delia in her sitting room, conscious as always of the stern scrutiny of those eyes in the portrait hanging over the mantel. Running out of gossip, Delia recounted the plots of two delicious new novels straight from France she had read while at Grande Villa. Really, she confided, that M. de Balzac was getting a bit too racy even for her taste, but I would love Eugenie Grandet and she would get a copy as soon as the stores here had it.

  It was after ten when I escorted Delia to her room and told her good night. Charles and Julian were still in the study. I went to my own bedroom. The bedcovers were turned down and candles were burning. I put most of them out, preferring a hazy semidarkness. Still wearing my apricot frock, I walked out onto the gallery and stood there looking at the moonlight and shadows. It was a warm night, though not nearly as sultry as it had been two weeks ago, and a gentle breeze stirred the greenery below. A single window was lighted in the servants’ quarters. Was that Jasper’s room? Was Kayla with him? Kayla was shopping around for the right man to marry, and the finest man in New Orleans wanted to marry me. He was ready to face the wrath of society, perhaps even ostracism, in order to do so.

  What was I going to do? He loved me as every woman wants to be loved, sincerely, utterly, exclusively, and I had no doubt he would be as passionate a lover as his brother was, but therein was the rub. I loved his brother. I didn’t want to, I realized that now. I didn’t want to love him as I did, I didn’t want anyone to have that kind of power over me, but love him I did, and there was nothing I could do about it. I stood there on the gallery for a long time, thinking about my problem and wondering how I could possibly find a solution. I watched the moon sail lazily behind a bank of clouds, watched silver pools vanish below, and the clock struck eleven as I went back inside.

  I put the rest of the candles out. I was sitting in the darkness when, almost an hour and a half later, I heard his soft step outside. I hadn’t known if he would come or not. I stood up, my apricot skirt rustling. He stepped into the room, silhouetted dark against the moonlight that now streamed down in brilliant rays. He was still dressed, too, although he had taken off his frock coat and neckcloth. How tall he was, how lean and muscular. How my blood stirred at the sight of him. I almost resented that hunger inside. If
I were free, if I were my own person again and not a captive of these emotions, everything would be much easier. Because he stood in front of the silvery blaze, I couldn’t see his face, only the shape of him, but I could feel those eyes studying me.

  “I didn’t know if—if you’d come or not,” I said quietly.

  “I started not to. I couldn’t stay away.”

  “You’re not—happy about that, are you?”

  Charles didn’t answer. He stepped toward me and took me in his arms, and I submitted to that kiss. When, finally, he drew back, I knew I must tell him before it went any further. I brushed a wave from my cheek. I could see his face now. His eyes were dark with desire. His mouth was tight. He hungered for me, but hunger wasn’t love. Did he love me? What would his reaction be when I told him about Julian’s proposal?

  “You’re strangely unresponsive tonight,” he remarked.

  “Do you love me, Charles?” I asked abruptly.

  The question took him aback. I could see that. I hadn’t wanted to ask it, but I felt I must. He scowled, not at all pleased.

  “I’m bewitched by you,” he said finally.

  “That isn’t an answer. Or—perhaps it is.”

  “What is all this, Dana?”

  “Would you marry me?” I asked.

  “Marry you? No, Dana. I wouldn’t. I’m an Etienne. When I marry, it will be to a woman of my own background.”

  “Julian would,” I said.

  “Would what?”

  “Marry me. He wants to. He told me so this afternoon.”

  Charles was stunned. He stepped back. Even in the moonlight I could see the color drain from his cheeks. He didn’t say anything for a long time. I was silent, too, sad, for I knew I had made a dreadful error. I could feel him withdrawing from me, could feel his anger, his disapproval, his suspicion.

  “Have you slept with him, too?” he asked at last.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Then how did you trick him into—”

  “There was no trickery, Charles. He loves me. He wants me to become his wife.”

  He looked at me, not wanting to believe it, knowing it was true, and I felt a terrible pain inside. I loved him with all my heart and soul, but Charles didn’t love me, not really. He made love to me, but that was something altogether different. He had disapproved of me from the first and had wanted to get rid of me, and then … he had accepted me only because of Julian and Delia, only to keep peace in the family. I was good enough to visit furtively, to love in secret, in the darkness, but I wasn’t good enough to marry an Etienne. I accepted all of these truths, yet I loved him still. I didn’t want to. I wanted to hate him. I couldn’t.

  “What do you intend to tell him?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. He promised not to press me. He doesn’t expect an answer right away. I—don’t want to hurt him, Charles.”

  “Nor do I,” he said solemnly.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The fool!” he exclaimed then. “The goddamned fool!”

  He turned and moved back to the French windows, back into the silvery blaze of moonlight. He stopped, looking at me, and it was a long while before he finally spoke.

  “I won’t allow it, Dana,” he told me.

  He left. I knew that I had lost him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CHARLES LEFT TO INSPECT THE COTTON CROPS at Belle Mead and Ravenaugh the following morning, to be gone ten days. He left immediately after breakfast, avoiding my eyes throughout the meal. I didn’t have an opportunity to speak to him, nor did I want to. I was completely devastated by what had happened, but somehow I managed to put on a front for Delia and Julian during the days that followed. I went to Corinne’s with Delia to refurbish her wardrobe, helping her decide which fabrics, which styles were most flattering and suitable. More intent than ever to complete his work, Julian spent a great deal of time in his study, but he was wonderfully warm and attentive when he wasn’t working, his eyes aglow with those tender emotions he found difficult to hide. If Delia noticed anything, she made no comment, merely observing that she was delighted he was no longer so grouchy. Day followed day in smooth progression, and I managed to get through each of them without betraying the desolation inside.

  Charles had been gone for almost a week when, at breakfast one morning, Julian informed us that he was going to the printer’s to look at some sample plates and asked if I would like to accompany him, adding that we could go to lunch afterward. I didn’t really want to go, but he was clearly so eager for my company that I hadn’t the heart to refuse him. I changed into a bronze taffeta frock, and an hour later we were on our way to the printer’s, Julian looking splendidly handsome in his brown breeches and frock coat and another new waistcoat, dark burnt orange with narrow brown stripes, his neckcloth creamy tan silk. He chatted pleasantly about his work as we rode and, to my relief, made no reference to our conversation in the courtyard. He was a gentleman, and he was going to give me plenty of room, plenty of time. He did squeeze my hand as he assisted me out of the carriage, holding it perhaps a moment or two longer than necessary.

  The printer’s shop was large and incredibly cluttered with strange machines, stacks of paper and pamphlets, boxes of lead type, dusty shelves filled with bottles of ink and more paper and various tools. Monsieur Delain, the printer, was small, stooped, ancient and bearded, wearing a black broadcloth suit as dusty as the shelves. A young blond assistant in shirt sleeves and a thin leather apron was busily setting type, a process I found fascinating. Monsieur Delain greeted Julian in a cracked, hoarse voice, nodded curtly when introduced to me and scurried into a back room, stumbling over a stack of freshly printed pamphlets as he did so. He came back a few minutes later bearing a large, bulky portfolio, his watery old blue eyes full of pride. Sweeping a long wooden worktable clear of its clutter of paper and type, he put the portfolio down, untied the strings and began to pull out the plates one by one.

  Printed on large sheets of heavy, creamy paper, they were absolutely exquisite, details perfectly executed, color bright and glowing. There was the swamp lily, pale pink and ivory, resting on its rubbery dark green pad, and there the wild bluebell blossoms, dangling from a slender green vine. I caught my breath as I recognized the painting Julian had been working on that day in the swamp, a gorgeous pale orange flower with delicate gold and bronze specks. The reproduction was remarkably exact, the fragile petals spreading open to reveal the deeper orange center, stamen projecting like a golden fairy wand. There were twenty plates in all, each more breathtakingly lovely than the one before. While I exclaimed over their beauty, Julian and the printer discussed ink and engraving techniques and processing and a whole lot of technical jargon I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. I learned that a renowned but impoverished French artist had done the actual engravings from Julian’s paintings, and Monsieur Delain himself had experimented until he perfected a process that would allow each color to come through in vivid, natural shades.

  “It’s costing a fortune,” Julian confided when we left the shop, “but Delain is a genius. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the plates.”

  “They were glorious.”

  “Those were just samples to test the process. The final plates will be even finer. Charles is going to croak when he finds out how much this is costing, but I’ve spent over a decade working on this book, and I will settle for nothing but the best.”

  “Is Monsieur Delain going to print the text, too?”

  Julian nodded. “There’s no one better. The sheets will be bound in Baton Rouge by Clarkson Brothers, best bindery in the South. I’m thinking in terms of dark leaf-green leather, with marbled endpapers, of course.”

  “The book is going to be wonderful.”

  “It’s going to be a landmark in the field of botany,” he said confidently. “The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Let’s walk. Jasper can follow after us in the carriage.�
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  We did so, Julian holding my arm as we strolled down the covered esplanade. I had never been in this part of the city before. It wasn’t nearly as grand and elegant as the neighborhood around Corinne’s and Etienne’s, all the shops rather shabby, needing a new coat of paint, the front windows dirty, and there were not any costly items displayed. Here one bought hammers and nails, not perfume, and here one picked up a leather harness, not a bouquet of expensive hothouse flowers. The pedestrians were not nearly as grandly dressed, a number of burly workmen and stevedores among them, and while some fancy carriages bowled up and down the street, there were far more drays and wagons loaded with big wooden barrels. There was vitality here, a sense of purpose, a reminder that New Orleans was not just the playground of pampered aristocrats but a vital, thriving city.

  Near the waterfront, the restaurant was large and spacious and simple, with white walls and ceiling, a polished golden oak floor and tables and chairs painted white. Yellow curtains hung at the windows, and brass lanterns hung from the ceiling. Despite its lack of pretensions, the place was crowded with richly attired gentry, and the prices, I later discovered, were high enough to insure its exclusivity. The maître d’recognized Julian and showed us to one of the better tables. People stared discreetly as we passed, and a buzz of whispers followed us. I pretended not to notice, but I was glad I was wearing the bronze taffeta. Julian ordered our lunch and nodded to a few acquaintances nearby, then gave his full attention to me.

  “Like it?” he inquired.

  “It’s very nice, but—I’m surprised to see all these swells having lunch in this neighborhood.”

  Julian smiled at my use of the word ‘swells.’ “Alain’s is another New Orleans institution. Originally it was frequented by workmen from the docks. The food was good, the prices reasonable. Soon the wealthy planters moved in to conduct their business deals over lunch and before long, for some inexplicable reason, the place became chic. The food is still good, but the prices are no longer reasonable.”