Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  “First Emile defends him, and now you. It seems strange.”

  “Gentlemen of the same stripe have a tendency to protect each other and also their peculiar habits against outsiders; a slur upon one Creole is a slur upon them all. You must not take that to mean that Emile doesn’t care about his brother’s death, or that he has forgiven the man who caused it. Nor am I suggesting that M’sieur Duralde is a man one would wish to know socially, though there are many, particularly among the Américaines, who do not look beyond his fortune.”

  “Isn’t the Creole emphasis on lineage and social desirability a little ridiculous considering the soldiers and adventurers who established New Orleans?”

  Madame Rosa shrugged. “I do not make the conventions, only abide by them. Change is difficult, and also most fatiguing.

  The answer was honest at least. As far back as Anya could remember, that had been Madame Rosa’s attitude. She was generous and tolerant and endlessly obliging, but there was a point past which she would not go, the point at which the effort seemed likely to exceed the benefit. She was not selfish, far from it, nor was she a hedonist, but she did tend to conserve her energy.

  Now the older woman went on. “In truth, it may be too late. M’sieur Duralde is a proud man who has suffered much. Resentment, for his mother’s sake if not his own, would be natural. Even if Creole society would accept him as this date, he might well scorn it.”

  It was of course possible; Ravel had pride. “What of Murray? You have permitted him to become betrothed to Celestine, and yet as an American should he not be even less respectable than M’sieur Duralde?”

  “This family is not all of Creole society, thank the good God; I am free to accept whom I please on a personal basis. Besides, if you will forgive my saying so, chère, as the wife of an American I was not the crème de la crème myself for some years. I have only redeemed myself by becoming a widow! Amusing, is it not?”

  They were interrupted by the noise of a carriage arriving in the street below. Within a few short minutes Gaspard crossed the threshold of the room. A maidservant came from the back of the house, and he relinquished his hat, cane, and cape to her before treading toward them with his elegant, not quite mincing, stride.

  He made them his best bow as he greeted them, then, flipping up the skirts of his evening coat, sat down near Madame Rosa. After every greeting and compliment suited to the occasion, he embarked on the king of polite and easy conversation that requires a degree of finesse but little thought.

  Gaspard was almost handsomely attired in a full-dress coat of solid black with silk lapels and silk-covered buttons worn with trousers of black elastic cashmere. Underneath it was a vest of silver-colored moiré silk embroidered in silver dots. His shirt, starched and ironed to a crackling satin gleam, had a standing collar encircled by a cravat of silver silk tied in a double bow. His boots were of patent leather with rather tall heels to give him added height.

  There was always such an air of sartorial perfection about Gaspard that Anya and Celestine had often accused him of being Mr. Prettybreeches. The appellation had been invented in a moment of wit by the editor of the Louisiana Courier as a means of introducing items concerning proper dress for men into his newspaper, items suggested by this fictional gentleman. Gaspard took the teasing as a compliment, or else, with his usual polished address, pretended to do so. He was so good-natured, so attentive to Madame Rosa’s comfort and well-being, so ready to be amused while at the same time supremely unaware that there was anything about himself that might be humorous, that Anya could not help liking him.

  A short time later, Celestine joined them and they moved to the dining room. When their meals were finished, they descended to the carriage for the drive to the Saint Charles Theater.

  The planking of the dance floor that had turned the theater into a ballroom the weekend before had been removed and the theater had taken on its proper character once more. The play, however, was slow moving and, perhaps because it was so familiar, uninteresting of plot. The first scenes held little meat for an actress of Charlotte Cushman’s ability, being merely the detailing of why and how Henry VIII meant to be rid of his unwanted first wife, Queen Katherine. There was a certain entertainment in seeing precisely how ridiculous the actor playing Henry could behave as he strutted and postured about the stage, but the greatest amusement of the evening was to be had from training ones opera glasses on the occupants of the other boxes and anticipating the visits back and forth of the gentlemen during intermission. Murray’s rather noisy arrival in the midst of the histrionics troubled no one.

  Hardly had the curtain rung down after the first act and the gaslights on brackets between the boxes turned up than Emile Girod presented himself. Jean’s younger brother was in fine spirits, and seemed delighted to be able to visit with them and display his best gallantries for the amusement of the ladies. They all discussed the actors, disagreeing amiably about the talent of the man playing Cardinal Wolsey, with Anya and Madame Rosa claiming that he was respectable, while Celestine and Emile declared him pedestrian. Gaspard, when appealed to, came down on the side of his inamorata. Murray, frowning in preoccupation at the young Creole who had possessed himself of the seat behind Celestine and sat leaning forward with his hand on the back of the young girl’s chair, could not for a moment be brought to understand what they were arguing about. Emile, a sensitive young man, removed his hand at once and turned to talk to Anya.

  The moment was awkward. To ease it Anya said, “What an egotist Henry was, ranting and raving about an heir for his throne, discarding one woman after another, ordering them put to death, and all for something that was probably his own fault anyway.”

  “Ah, but there was his son by his mistress,” Murray objected.

  “So the woman said, but who, pray, could prove it? The man was obsessed! Look at all the heartache he caused, to say nothing of the lives he destroyed and the damage he did to England by sowing the seeds of civil war. Men like him should be removed, no matter the means.”

  “Depose the tyrants?” Gaspard mused. “But unless you destroy them at the same time, they have a nasty habit of returning, worse than ever.”

  “A tidy assassination now and then would save everyone much grief,” Anya maintained stoutly.

  Madame Rosa pursed her lips. “Who should wield the sword? And would he not become a worse tyrant?”

  “It’s possible,” Anya answered impatiently, “but if you were confronted with a murderer with a knife in his hand while you held a pistol, would you fail to shoot out of fear that you might afterward become a murderer yourself?”

  “I agree with Anya,” Emile said. “There are some men who deserve to die.”

  “Ah,” Madame Rosa said, “but who should decide which ones?”

  “That is the heart of the problem, certainly,” Anya said. “I’m not really championing indiscriminate killing, but I still think it’s a good idea to remove those who have caused harm in the past and have the potential to cause more, the legal murderers such as kings, corrupt police, and duelists who use their power and positions and skill for their own ends.”

  “Duelists?” Celestine asked, puzzlement in her brown eyes.

  “We all know there are some who are quite unscrupulous, who use the threat of their skill to manipulate others.”

  “Such as Ravel Duralde?”

  Anya felt the warm tide of blood flow into her face. She lowered her head, pretending to be concerned with the fastening of her glove. “I wasn’t thinking of him in particular, but since you bring up the name, why not?”

  “No, no, Anya,” Emile protested. “You never used to be unjust.”

  Gaspard studied her with a mingled look of surprise and speculation. “An interesting theory.”

  “Such a weighty discussion,” Celestine complained with a smile, “nearly as weighty as this play. Now we all know that if Anya had been queen in Tudor England, there would have been no problem. Henry would have suffered a regrettable accident w
hile hunting, or else simply disappeared one dark night.”

  Gaspard looked pained at the suggestion. “Once, perhaps, when she was younger and more volatile; now she is far too much the lady.”

  “You can’t know her at all well if you think so!” Celestine sent Anya a sparkling glance that slowly faded as she saw the flush spreading across her half-sister’s cheekbones.

  Celestine could be as acute in an intuitive fashion as her mother at times. With a surpreme effort, Anya said in mock chagrin, “I protest, I am being maligned.”

  “I wonder—,” Celestine began, her voice shaded with speculation as she looked at Anya in the shimmering gaslight.

  “Ah, at last the curtain rises,” Madame Rosa said, overriding her daughter, distracting her. But, though the older woman’s smile was placid, the glance she sent Anya out of the corners of her eyes was thoughtful.

  The evening wore on. The trial scene was satisfyingly dramatic, with many tears and much hand wringing, which Cushman performed magnificently. The farce, Betsy Baker, was a well-acted bit of froth. Anya’s interest in it, not great at first, sharpened as it progressed. There was a dark-haired actress of opulent charms playing one of the bit parts. Her stage skills were less than impressive, but her shape, displayed in her scanty costume, was voluptuous. The program gave the name of the woman as Simone Michel. It was Ravel’s current mistress.

  Anya raised her opera glasses to her eyes, surveying the actress with more than ordinary interest. What was it men saw in such obvious creatures? Grasping, with scant intelligence and less virtue, what could they offer a man other than a warm body in his bed? Perhaps that was enough, all that most men wanted? Perhaps they preferred a woman who would not be hurt by their defection when they tired of her, one who would accept their parting gift, shrug, and go on to the next man? It might be less expensive for them, and less entangling, than a more lasting alliance. She would have thought, however, that someone like Ravel would have better taste.

  When they left the theater at the end of the farce, they discovered that rain had fallen during the performance. The streets outside glistened, reflecting the gaslights in the water that sheeted the banquettes and ran like a millrace in the gutters, washing them clean. Carriages crowded each other, wheeling and backing, jockeying for position near the door as the drivers sought to get close so that the ladies would not have to trail their skirts of silk and satin and velvet in the wet. Horses whinnied and jibbed. The men on the boxes cursed their beasts and bawled insults at each other. Nimble-footed boys wove in and out through the melee, offering cheap umbrellas for sale at exorbitant prices.

  Anya, Madame Rosa, Celestine, and Murray, along with Emile, stood waiting while Gaspard went further along to wave his cane at his driver in a command for the man to bring his carriage up. Madame Rosa had invited the young Creole to join them for supper, to “even their numbers,” she had said, blandly ignoring Murray’s lack of enthusiasm for the arrangement. Emile put forth the suggestion that he travel to the townhouse in the same way we had come to the theater, by the omnibus. Murray offered to do the same, so as to save crowding in the carriage and the inevitable crushing of the gowns of the ladies. Madame Rosa would not hear of it. It was beginning to rain again in a fine mist and looked as if it might pour at any moment. As a result, the waiting omnibuses were being filled to overflowing. The skirts of the ladies could surely stand a bit of crushing, since they were homeward bound.

  Conversation after that was fitful as they waited, being primarily concerned with whether the ladies wanted to step back inside, and whether the inexpensive silk umbrellas being hawked would actually stop rain without dripping dye all over the buyer.

  The downpour held off, and the carriage arrived. There was some hilarity as they squeezed into it, but finally Gaspard, Madame Rosa, and Anya were seated with their backs to the horses, while Murray, Celestine, and Emile faced them. They were still unable to proceed homeward, however. Two carriages had become entangled at an intersection some distance ahead of them, blocking traffic. Gaspard’s coachman on the box of their own carriage inched forward until a side street was reached, then swung into it. Rather than following the long, slow-moving line of the detouring carriages, the man continued on for a few blocks hoping to get out of the congestion before turning back toward the Vieux Carré.

  It was a great relief when the noise and confusion fell away behind them. They had left the area of the gaslights, and the streets here were quiet and dark. The houses were set back behind fences, closed in, the shutters tightly drawn, with only now and then a faint gleam of lamplight showing through their slats. Somewhere a dog barked, a sound with the monotonous persistence of a creaking gate.

  The carriage slowed and turned into a cross street. Here the dwellings were meaner, with crumbling plaster, peeling paint, and sagging doors. Interspersed among them were small shops, butchers and bakers and cobblers, with now and then a barrelhouse from which spilled sawdust and lamplight and the smell of cheap whiskey. Men reeled along the banquettes, a few with their arms wrapped around hard-faced women wearing gowns cut so low they revealed their breasts to the nipples.

  Celestine, staring out the window, reached to clutch Murray’s arm in a tight hold. He patted her hand, though his manner was distracted. Gaspard, his lips pursed, leaned forward to tap on the pass-through window, urging his coachman to go faster. In anticipation of having the order obeyed, Anya reached for the hanging strap beside her as she sat in one corner.

  Ahead of them, a ramshackle cart drawn by a mule pulled into the street from an alley. The man on the box above them swore, sawing at his reins, bringing his team to a halt so close to the cart that its broken-down mule kicked at the leader.

  There came a thudding noise and the carriage jolted on its springs as a heavy weight landed on the back. At the same time, a man ran from the side to leap onto the step and wrench open the door. The driver of the rickety cart in front of them flung himself down from his seat, abandoning his vehicle, dragging a pistol out of his waistband as he ran toward them.

  It was an ambush. Madame Rosa gasped and fell back against the seat. Gaspard turned to her in concern, grasping her hand. Emile, his face stern in the light of the carriage lanterns, twisted the knob of his cane and drew a slender and lethal blade, hissing, from the hollow staff. At the same time, he threw himself in front of Celestine to shield her. Murray, his face flushed with anger that might have been directed toward Emile as much as for the men converging upon them, thrust his hand under his coat and brought out a small, multi-barreled pistol of the kind known as a pepper pot.

  “Hold it right there, boys,” the rough-looking man in the doorway growled. In his hand was a large Colt revolver, darkly shining, the bore waving slowly from one male passenger to the other. Gaspard and Murray and Emile went still, freezing into position.

  Anya caught the sour animalistic smell of the man so close to her. The insolence of his voice, the incredible daring of this attack in the middle of the city brought the rise of virulent anger inside her. She did not pause to think. Clinging to the strap she held for purchase, she lifted her leg beneath the mound of skirts made by her gown and petticoats and collapsed hoop and kicked high.

  Her movement was hidden until it was too late. The man yelped as her foot caught his hand. The revolver went flying, tumbling in the air. In that instant, Murray fired. The man in the door made a choking sound as he was thrown backward by the blast.

  The cart driver, almost to the carriage, came to such a sudden stop that he skidded, stumbling, nearly falling on his face. He looked up, staring inside the carriage through the swirling, acrid screen of gun smoke. His skin turned a pasty white. “Mother of God,” he croaked, then spun around, taking to his heels.

  The third attacker did not tarry to look. He jumped from the rear of the carriage and pounded away into the night. The scrawny mule attached to the cart, startled into unaccustomed vigor by the shot, bolted, pulling the empty cart bumping and sluing behind him down the st
reet. Within a matter of seconds, the street was clear and everything was quiet.

  “Good shooting, mon amir,” Emile said with enthusiasm as he slapped Murray on the back.

  “Is the fellow dead?” Murray asked, leaning to stare out at his victim, his face pale with what could have been either regret or fury.

  “I should think so, at that range.” Emile sheathed his sword cane and turned his attention to Celestine, who had begun abruptly to cry.

  Murray, noticing his fiancée’s distress and the way the young Creole had taken her hands and begun chafing them, reached to remove Celestine from his grasp and take her in his own arms. “I suggest we drive on then.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least see if he’s still alive?” Anya objected.

  Gaspard was fanning Madame Rosa with the small black lace fan he had taken from her evening reticule. “We will inform the first policeman we see and let them deal with the matter.”

  “I’ll look at him,” Emile said, and, before anyone could protest, swung down. He knelt beside the sprawled figure on the street, feeling for a heartbeat. After less than a second, he got to his feet once more, wiping his hand on the handkerchief he took from his sleeve.

  “Well?” Murray asked, his voice tight.

  “Through the heart.”

  Emile, his attitude of nonchalance rather forced, stepped back into the carriage. The order was given to proceed. There was silence for some blocks.

  Finally Gaspard said, “They grow bold, these ruffians.”

  “Why should they not?” It was Madame Rosa who made that ironic reply, a reference to the poor protection given in the last few months by the police, one that needed no explanation.

  Gaspard nodded. “Indeed.”

  Anya sat staring out the window. Her hands trembled and there was a feeling of sickness in the depths of her stomach. Because she had acted, a man was dead. It had happened so quickly, but was no less final for that swiftness. In some peculiar way it seemed an omen. Could the same thing happen again? Was it possible that because she had involved herself in another dangerous situation, because she had abducted Ravel to prevent a meeting between him and Murray, another man might die?