How could she have been so wrong? How could a man she had hated for so many years convince her so easily to reassess her feelings toward him? It argued a blind spot of some kind in her nature that he had been able to do so. It made her wonder if, in some way she had not heretofore expected, she was susceptible to the blandishments of handsome men, that the overpowering strength of her own passions could make her forget reality. Or was it possible that it was only one man who could trigger those emotions, only one to whom she was vulnerable?
Her sole source of satisfaction was that, regardless of her supine behavior, she had not been weak enough to let Ravel go free. There would be no duel tomorrow, no matter what might happen in the future.
It was not much of a consolation. Slow tears, draining from the corners of her eyes, tracked down her temples into her hair. She turned her face into her pillow and wept.
The first thing Madame Rosa wanted to know when Anya entered the salon of the townhouse in New Orleans was what emergency had taken her from the city in the middle of the night. She was looking soignée in her usual plump and indulgent fashion, dressed in a morning gown of black silk and with a cap of white lace tied with lavender and black ribbon rosettes set with purple silk violets on her hair. She was having her usual cup of midmorning imperial tea, along with a few trifles to stave off hunger until noon, among them coconut bonbons, cream chocolates, and dragées on a crystal plate, with nearby a jar of English biscuits smelling strongly of vanilla, and beside that a plate laid with slices of Gruyère cheese, truffled sausages, small rounds of bread, and, as an aid to digestion, a few fancy dried prunes.
Anya removed her kid gloves and took off her bonnet, handing them to a maid. Moving to her step-mother’s chair, she bent to kiss her cheek. “If you will pour me a cup of tea while I go to my bedchamber to wash my hands, I will tell you all about it when I get back.”
“Certainly, chère, and I will put something on a plate for you. You have always been thin, but this morning you look positively peaked.”
Madame Rosa, for all her indolence, was nothing if not observant. Anya knew she should have remembered and been prepared. Aloud she merely thanked her and continued through the salon to the more private rooms of the house.
By the time she returned, she had pinched some color into her cheeks and was ready with a glib tale of an illness in the slave quarters that Denise had feared was dysentery from polluted water but had turned out to be merely a highly contagious stomach ailment. To forestall further questions, she went on to ask what the older woman and Celestine had done in her absence.
At that moment, Celestine swept into the room. Hearing the question, she answered before Madame Rosa could begin to speak. “We have had the most frustrating time this morning you can imagine! High and low we have looked for a scarlet petticoat like the one worn by Queen Victoria at Balmoral, and have not been able to find such a thing anywhere. All we have had is stupid jokes about red flags to bulls and the trouble sure to be brought on by wearing such a garment. One buffoon even suggested that after being tossed by a bull, the petticoat should then be called a ‘gored’ skirt!”
“I remember reading about it somewhere,” Anya said. “I suppose it’s become the rage?”
“Exactly. Not only is every merchant in the city sold out, but there’s hardly a piece of red flannel to be found anywhere, or a seamstress not already piled high with more embroidery work than she can handle. But Anya, it’s such a cunning style! It’s worn on the top of your crinoline, and the skirt of your gown is looped up on one side to show the fancy embroidered border at the hem in the most dashing manner.”
Anya had to smile at her enthusiasm. “It doesn’t sound like something Victoria would introduce.”
“I believe,” Madame Rosa said in her ponderous way, “that the idea was to enable her to lift her gown hem to protect it from the mud of Scotland, while showing something durable and commonplace instead of indiscreet white linen and lace. No one seems to think anything of pulling their skirts up quite high to keep them out of the dirt while they are wearing one.”
“Men, I assume, are in favor of the style, then?”
“Extremely,” Celestine said with a twinkling laugh.
“Gaspard considers it tasteless,” Madame Rosa announced, “but then so many women wear gowns with it that clash abominably with the red color.”
“What else has been happening?”
“Goodness, Anya, you sound as if you have been gone forever instead of only two days.” Celestine looked at her with wide eyes.
“Do I?” In truth she felt that way. It also seemed that she had changed in some fundamental way, so that her interest in such things as red petticoats was forced, merely polite.
Madame Rosa said, “I understand we missed a memorable performance by Charlotte Cushman as Mrs. Haller on the night of the bal masqué. We plan to remedy the error by seeing her as Queen Katherine in Henry the Eighth this evening, if you would care to join us?”
“I would enjoy that.” Perhaps it would be a distraction from her thoughts, if nothing else.
“Oh, Anya, you haven’t heard the news, have you?” Celestine suddenly exclaimed. “The most peculiar thing occurred; you won’t believe it! Murray came around before breakfast this morning to tell us about it, since he knew I would be sick with worry. All our alarms were for nothing. The duel did not take place! Ravel Duralde failed to appear. No one seems to know why, or where precisely he may be. It’s a great mystery.”
“How — strange,” Anya managed, keeping her lashes lowered as she sipped at her tea.
“Yes, indeed. It seems the man spoke with his seconds, asked them to act for him so that plans for the duel could be made, but has not been seen since. Murray is piqued. He feels that it is a deliberate slight, that Duralde considered him so negligible that he let the meeting slip his mind, leaving town without a thought of it. For myself, I don’t care. I am relieved beyond measure that it is over.”
“Yes, of course,” Anya said, summoning a teasing smile with an effort. “You were so relieved that you went out shopping at once for a red petticoat?”
“Exactly,” Celestine agreed with a bubbling laugh.
Madame Rosa entered the conversation. “The puzzle of the man’s absence has not received as much attention as it might have due to the terrible news in the newspapers this morning of the explosion aboard the Colonel Cushman. The steamboat was near New Madrid en route to St. Louis. They say eighteen people were killed, but as yet there is no news of the survivors.”
“One of Murray’s friends was on board with his wife and two children,” Celestine added.
“The usual cause, I suppose?” Anya commented.
“Too much pressure,” Madame Rosa agreed with a nod. “After the boilers exploded, the vessel caught on fire and sank inside twenty minutes. The passengers had to jump overboard. They say the Southerner, just ahead of them, turned around and came back to pick up those in the water.”
“There was no one we knew on her, by the blessing of le bon Dieu,” Celestine added.
“Yes, a blessing,” Anya agreed, sipping at her tea. There were more tragic things in this world than that which had happened to her. She would do well to remember it.
And yet she could not forget. The memory remained with her as stubbornly as a winter cold, increased tenfold by Celestine’s mention of Murray’s view of the events surrounding the duel. It carried with it outrage and chagrin and a nagging sense of anguish that demanded some kind of action as an antidote.
Despite the cold and overcast day, she dragged Celestine with her for a bout of shopping for Beau Refuge, buying casks of Louisiana Isabella wine from the 1856 vintage, also boxes of bottles of Chateau Margaux from Bordeaux, several half-bottles each of white and brown curaçao from Amsterdam, and a box of Copenhagen cherry cordial. She bought cases of Worcestershire and walnut sauce, three barrels of cracknel biscuits, two barrels of sardines, and a chest each of imperial and hyson tea. She bought a dozen brass
-bound churns for the plantation dairy, a bale of blankets for the storeroom for next winter, and for the dispensary a case of quinine and a barrel of castor oil.
Far from being satisfied with these wholesale purchases, she made a stop at Menard’s on Old Levee Street, where she placed an order for garden seeds, from tomatoes and cucumbers and okra and several varieties of beans, to pineapple melons, muskmelons, and yellow-orange watermelons. While there she also ordered sent to the plantation enough privets and pittosporums to form a double lane a hundred feet long.
As they were leaving, Celestine made the mistake of mentioning Mardi Gras, and how much she would like to join the maskers in the street on the evening of the great day as the magnificent parade being spoken of in whispers rolled along the Canal Street and through the French Quarter. Anya at once directed the coachman to take them to the Royal Street shop of Madame Lussan.
The small brass bell attached to the door jingled musically as they entered. The ground-floor shop was long and narrow, heated by a small fireplace with a grate in which coal burned with a pulsing red glow. The interior was dim, lighted only by the front windows. In the firelit gloom the masks of devils, apes, bears, cyclopes, satyrs, and other creatures that lined the walls took on a grotesque and menacing realism. The satin of dominoes in black and gray and red hung here and there, gleaming as they moved in the faint draft that drifted down the shop. Spangles and paste jewels glittered from the other costumes that lined the walls. There were heaped trays of jet and brass buttons. Strings of shimmering fake pearls and glass beads in rainbow colors dripped from racks. Around the counter were loops of the fashionable gilt and silver ribbon-tape, and also waterfalls of gilt and silver tassels on cards. The whole place glimmered and shone like a pirate’s treasure house.
Madame Lussan sat behind her counter sewing spangles on the bodice of a dress. She rose as they moved toward her, a plump woman with dark hair twisted into a tight knot on top of her head, bright eyes that missed nothing, and an eager manner.
“Bon jour mademoiselles, and how may I serve you this afternoon?”
“We wish costumes for Mardi Gras Day, but want something out of the ordinary,” Celestine said.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Madame Lussan said with sympathy. “How distressing it is to see yourself everywhere you look. My stock is most unique, I do assure. Even in the popular characters, the colors of the costumes or the details are different. They were carefully chosen in Paris, and are of the finest quality materials and workmanship; you need have no fear of them being destroyed by rain or a careless movement.”
Celestine, looking around with sparkling eyes, said, “You have a large supply, the largest I’ve seen.”
“Indeed. Since the fine parade of the Krewe of Comus last year, there has been great excitement about the day. So many more people are inquiring about costumes for Mardi Gras Day itself, instead of only for the balls, that I fear there will be a great crush in the streets.”
It had been only a year before that a group of men calling themselves the Mistick Krewe of Comus had formed a club for the sole purpose of celebrating Mardi Gras in what they considered to be the proper style. Mardi Gras had, for the past fifty years or more, been marked by street masking and impromptu lines of decorated carriages filled with young men in costume and groups of knights of Bedouins on horseback winding through the streets. There had been no organization, however, and due to the rowdy conduct of the lower elements of the town, the day had fallen into disfavor — until the Krewe of Comus had come upon the scene. The Krewe was made up mostly of Americans, some of whom had belonged to a similar club in Mobile called the Cowbellions that paraded on New Year’s Day. The group in New Orleans had selected Mardi Gras as the holiday for their parade, and had introduced a novelty called a tableau roulant, or rolling tableau. Brightly illuminated and highly colored, it featured a fantastic scene set up in tableau form on a platform built on wheels. This tableau was pulled through the streets with hundreds of other costumed figures following. The spectacle the year before had been fantastic, but was supposed to be even more stupendous this year, with many more of the rolling tableaux.
“Have there been many ladies inquiring for costumes?” Celestine asked.
Madame Lussan gave a quick nod. “A great number. The men are going to have to give way to the fairer sex, instead of expecting them to view the proceedings from a balcony as if it were a theatrical production. But I digress. Come, tell me, what is your dearest desire? Who would you choose to be above all else? That is what Mardi Gras, is about, after all!”
Anya tore her eyes away from the mask of a goat with a long white beard, horns as red and as spiked as those usually reserved for the devil, and a distinct leer in its glass eyes. “I have no idea what I want, or who I would like to be,” she said with a smile. “My secret desires are hidden even from myself.”
“It is usually so,” Madame Lussan said with a shrug. “Permit me to show you a few items.”
She turned and led the way toward the rear of the shop, saying over her shoulder as she went, “Will you be attending the ball at the Theatre d’Orleans tomorrow night? I have some truly elegant grandees toilettes.”
Before they could answer, a gentleman emerged from one of the small rooms at the back of the shop, the retiring, or toilet, rooms where one went to try the costumes for fit. He carried his hat and cane in his hand and was smoothing his hair with his other hand. To Madame Lussan, he said, “The Cossack officer uniform will do excellently. You may send it at your convenience.”
“Certainly, M’sieur Girod,” the proprietress answered.
“Emile!” Anya exclaimed in pleased recognition. “When did you return from Paris?”
The young man came toward them with a warm smile lighting his face. Of medium height, he had tightly curling hair of a light brown cut close to his head, liquid brown eyes in a mobile face, and a clipped mustache in the cavalry style on his upper lip. His complexion was typically Creole, with an olive undertone to the skin and a faint flush of color over the cheekbones. He was Jean’s brother. Born four or five years after Jean, he had been studying at the university in Paris for the past two years, the typical arrangement for the sons of the wealthier Creole planters.
He did not immediately answer Anya’s questions, but took the hand she gave him, bowing over it with a Gallic flourish. “Anya, how happy I am to see you! I called at your townhouse yesterday, but was told you were away from home. How magnificent you look, the same goddess I used to worship from afar.” He turned to Celestine, saluting her hand also. “And Celestine, we meet again; fortune is indeed with me. It was gracious of you to entertain me yesterday in your sister’s absence. What fun it was remembering old times.”
Emile, along with perfecting the Creole gentleman’s habit of extravagant compliments, had achieved a certain polish in the years of his absence. Because the exchange of visits between Beau Refuge and the Girod plantation had slowed upon Jean’s death, and because Emile had not been of an age to indulge in the social round of the winter season, Anya had not seen a great deal of him in the past few years. She remembered him primarily as the younger brother who had loved to tease her, and who had kept a pet crawfish, leading it around on a string or caging it in a glass case half-filled with mud in his room.
Now he went on. “I arrived back in New Orleans aboard the H. B. Metcalf by way of Havana a few days ago, and immediately went down on my knees to kiss the smelly mud of the levee. Ah, New Orleans, it’s like no other place on earth! Paris is beautiful and cosmopolitan, with some ancient stone pile of historical significance on every corner, but dear old damp and warm and comfortable New Orleans is home.”
“It isn’t so warm today,” Celestine said, drawing her shawl around her with a theatrical shiver.
“I am devastated to be forced to contradict a lady, but, believe me, compared to Paris in February, it’s balmy! But do I understand you are choosing costumes? I will go away if I disturb you, or if you prefer to remain ano
nymous in whatever you decide upon, but it would give me great pleasure to stay. Who knows, I might even be of service?”
He was, indeed. He unhesitatingly vetoed a daring and yet rather childish pierrette costume for Celestine, suggesting instead a court gown of richly embroidered russet panne velvet from the period of Louis XIII that gave her delicately rounded face and figure a somber majesty. He argued with Anya over the various merits of a softly draped and wide-sleeved medieval gown from the Court of Love of Eleanor of Aquitaine, of a graceful long tunic and toga in fine cream wool edged with gilt tape and wide bands of regal purple ribbon that might have been worn by a Roman goddess, and of a Japanese kimono of heavy, finely embroidered scarlet silk complete with hair ornaments and a sandlewood fan. Emile seemed to prefer the romance of the medieval costume, while Anya leaned toward the exotic look of the Chinese silk. In the end, she compromised and chose the simplicity of the Roman costume, and caught Emile winking at Celestine as if to say that had been his choice all along.
Anya enjoyed Emile’s company, his quick, laughing comments, his obvious pleasure in intimate female society, as well as the bittersweet memories he evoked of his brother, but she had another motive for encouraging him to stay with them. When they had reserved their costumes and left the shop, she invited him to return with them to the townhouse for refreshments. He accepted with all the amiability of a man with limitless time on his hands, declaring with disarming charm that he was unable to tear himself away from two such lovely ladies. On the short carriage drive they continued to exchange a rapid-fire banter, and were still laughing when they walked into the salon of the townhouse.
Madame Rosa looked up to greet them, laying aside a French copy of Trollope’s Barchester Towers without haste. She did not rise to greet Emile, but remained as she was with her small feet in high-buttoned black shoes resting on a silk-covered stool. He came forward to kiss her hand instead of merely bowing, as she was a married lady, and, with his innate good manners, stayed beside her talking while Anya moved to ring for a servant and order tea and coffee, eau sucre and orange-flower water, along with a selection of cakes.
Prisoner of Desire Page 12