Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  “What has happened?”

  “Bodine. He’s done it again.”

  Lucien’s jaw clenched. “What? Rape?”

  “Worse. He’s killed all three of the men we’d arranged to transport next week. One of them confided in another slave—trying to convince her to come along, I suspect—a mulatto girl Bodine gives special privileges for tattling on the others.”

  Lucien kneaded the tight cords at the back of his neck. “The fool! He knew the terms of our agreement! Didn’t he know the risk he was taking, the danger he was placing himself and the other two men in?”

  “He may have been a fool, but he was a brave fool. They all were. Our connection at Belle Fleur saw it all and reported this bad news to me not more than an hour ago. Bodine beat them. He wanted them to tell him where you were planning to rendezvous. He was going to surprise you with a posse of hangmen in place of the slaves. Ever since we took the family of slaves from the Belvedere he has a vendetta against you, Lucien. They wouldn’t tell him where the meeting place was.” Armande’s voice quivered with suppressed anger and emotion. “We can be grateful for that.”

  “Gratitude is the least of what I’m feeling right now! I’d like to take Bodine’s whip and layer a few welts on his worthless hide, then string him up with it! Now there will be rampant fear at Belle Fleur. There won’t be another man or woman who’ll dare try for freedom, though that plantation of Bodine’s is the worst hellhole for slaves in the South, I’d wager.”

  Armande wiped his brow with a handkerchief he’d pulled from a waistcoat pocket, “Time will dull some of the fear. Because of the cruelty at Belle Fleur, there will be others brave enough to take the chance of escape. So far, you’ve been amazingly adept at moving them out of the state. This is the first … mishap.”

  “One too many, Armande.” Lucien sighed deeply and moved to the French doors leading to the balcony, wishing again for the whisper of cool air on his face. Armande stayed behind in the shadows. Silent, pain-filled moments passed.

  “Maybe it was a premonition,” Lucien said at last, more to himself than to Armande.

  “What, mon ami?”

  Lucien turned slightly, throwing Armande a self-derisive and grim smile. “The weather has been hotter than usual for this time of year. I’ve felt smothered all day. I was thinking about … things, when suddenly I imagined I felt a cool breeze. I could smell the mountain air of Switzerland, Armande. I could feel the brisk wind from the Thames. It was eerie. Now I begin to think it was a premonition, a chilling precursor to your grisly news.”

  “The Creole, the blacks, we are all superstitious. Probably it was a premonition, but maybe not a bad one.”

  Lucien made a scornful noise at the back of his throat. “It sure as hell appears that way to me!”

  “No, Lucien. The beatings, they were done yesterday. Maybe this cool breeze—this spiritual transportation to a place where you were happy and serene—maybe it was a good omen. Maybe something good is coming to you, something from the continent.”

  Lucien immediately thought of Anne, and his heart lifted, but he ruthlessly dismissed the wistful, foolish surge of hope and made a wry face. “A broad interpretation for the whimsy of river breezes, my friend.”

  Armande shrugged and smiled, a purely Gallic gesture. “Perhaps. I’m no fortune-teller. If you want your fortune told, you must visit the voodoo queen.”

  Lucien shook his head with resignation. “All I see in the future for me and the South is strife and danger.”

  “It will change, mon ami. You will help to bring the changes—slow and sure, like the Mississippi swelling in the spring to overflow the banks. Once they build in power, in momentum, nothing will stop the changes. But until that time comes, you must still keep the secret, you must still wear the mask, you must still play the masquerade.”

  Lucien sighed and turned away, staring into the dark night.

  “It’s lovely, Anne, but it’s not white.” Reggie peered critically through his spectacles at Anne’s midnight-blue gown.

  “You didn’t really expect me to bedeck myself in white like some debutante straight out of the schoolroom, did you, Uncle Reggie? Goodness, I’m twenty-three years old!”

  “I only thought it might be more traditional if you first presented yourself to New Orleans society in a coming-out color. I understand all the young ladies make their first social appearance at the opening night of the opera. There will be a veritable sea of white, and probably one little dab of midnight-blue.”

  “Good,” said Anne, fastening a gold bracelet over the long white glove that came to the middle of her upper arms. “I shouldn’t wish to be just another fleck of foam in a sea of white. I like being different. And if there are going to be so many young women there, it’s best I wear something that makes me stand out in a crowd. An old spinster like myself must use every possible trick!”

  “What nincompoopery!” Katherine’s voice preceded her as she entered the drawing room. “You will always stand out in a crowd, my dear, no matter what you wear. You’re beautiful. You take after my side of the family.”

  “You look splendid, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne, eyeing her aunt appreciatively. “You look absolutely regal in purple.”

  “It’s the height and the bosom, I suppose,” agreed Katherine, patting her upswept hair, simply styled as usual to match the austere elegance of her town and opera cape.

  “Ahem,” said Reggie, pinkening.

  “What is it, Reginald?” said Katherine, turning to observe him as he stood uncomfortably by the mantel, tugging on his mustache. “Oh, yes, of course. You look very nice, too. All men look best in black.”

  “Good God, you don’t imagine I was fishing for a compliment, do you?” He shifted from foot to foot, obviously flustered.

  “Well, if you weren’t wishing to be noticed and flattered, why were you clearing your throat in that odious manner?”

  “If you must be told, I was discreetly objecting to your use of the word bosom in so casual and coarse a fashion, and in mixed company!”

  “Lord, you’re a prude, Reginald. Did you think Anne had never heard the word before? Sheltered though you are, you can’t be objecting for your sake, I hope. If you’ve never heard the word bosom spoken in the company of females at your advanced age, Reginald, I pity you.”

  “Save your pity, madame,” he said stiffly, thrusting up his nose in a pose of offended dignity. “I cherish and honor the purity of my past no matter how dull you might deem it to be in comparison to your own. Now, shall we go the opera? I trust I won’t be humiliated by your conduct in so public and revered a place as the opera house, will I, ladies?”

  Reggie slid a meaningful glance at Anne. He obviously felt he had no influence with Katherine, and, besides, her behavior was probably tolerated by a society who knew her well after twenty years of exposure. But he cared what they thought of Anne, and he believed her debut tonight could determine her acceptance into the more preferable circles.

  Anne wasn’t sure just how much she and Reggie agreed on who and what were “preferable,” but she had no desire to cause him undue distress by debating the point as they were about to leave for an evening on the town. She smiled sweetly and answered just as she ought. “I will be as good as an angel, Uncle.”

  Relieved, Reggie smiled and offered his arm to Anne. “Shall we go, then? The carriage has been waiting this quarter-hour.”

  Anne slid her gloved hand into the crook of Reggie’s elbow. As he was about to lead her into the hall, she squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Uncle?”

  Reggie’s brow furrowed. “I’ve a gardenia for my lapel, my opera glasses, money, and a clean handkerchief. What could I have possibly forgotten?”

  “Ahem!”

  They turned at Katherine’s exaggerated imitation of Reggie’s habitual throat clearing. Her lips were pursed, her arms were crossed, one slipper-shod toe was tapping the Persian r
ug beneath her feet, and her gaze was directed at the ceiling. There could be no clearer message to Reggie of exactly what—or whom—he’d forgotten.

  Before any other vanity the modest man might own, Reggie prided himself on his gentleman’s manners. Turning the rosy shade that was fast becoming his usual complexion, Reggie offered Katherine his other arm. He cleared his throat, caught himself, then blushed more deeply. “Yes … er … Katherine, why don’t we … er … go?”

  Katherine’s teeth gleamed in a benign smile, much in the manner of a potentate forgiving an underling. She floated majestically across the short distance that separated them and rested her fingers lightly on Reggie’s forearm, holding her ever-present cane in the opposite hand. Anne squeezed his arm gratefully, and the three of them sashayed into the hall with a rustle of silk and satin, and the infinitesimal squeak of new patent-leather pumps.

  Lucien arrived late at the opera. Dandy Delacroix considered punctuality a fashion faux pas. He headed straight for his parents’ box, intending to stay through the first act, then slip away to an elegant little house on Rampart Street and into the voluptuous embrace of his mistress. After the news of Bodine’s most recent deplorable crimes, he was in no mood for the trivial gossip and smug self-importance of society’s “best.”

  Lucien’s four jeweled rings winked in the bright candlelight spilling from the large chandeliers in the hall as he strode to his parents’ box. Just outside the curtained entrance, he shook down the cuff of his white silk shirt and adjusted his cravat. A single white rose adorned the lapel of his black evening jacket. One last deep breath, and he was ready to face his family.

  He slipped inside and quietly took stock of the situation before making his presence known. Just his mother and father, his younger brother, Etienne, and one of his numerous sisters, Renee, were present. Renee, who had turned sixteen last month, was making her come-out. Just like all his other sisters, Renee was beautiful—tall, slender, and raven-haired.

  During first intermission, the box would be bombarded with would-be beaux, vying for her attention. Champagne would flow, and compliments would be thrown around like so much confetti. Within the fortnight, there would be offers for her hand. After weighing each competitor’s wealth and family genealogy, Jean-Luc Delacroix would make a choice for Renee. A betrothal would be announced, and she would be duly married after a decent interval of engagement. Unless Renee was very different from his other sisters, she would acquiesce to this method of courtship without the slightest complaint. It was the way things were done.

  Just then his mother turned and motioned to him. Lucien stepped forward, kissed his sister on the cheek, and bowed to Etienne—who returned the bow with a curt nod—before sitting down beside his mother in the front row. Etienne was highly critical of Lucien’s wastrel pastimes and, just like their father, he took every available opportunity to manifest his disapproval.

  Lucien’s father was scrutinizing the audience through a pair of opera glasses, paying not the least attention to the beautiful aria being performed or even bothering to acknowledge his son’s presence.

  “Maman, you look charming as usual.”

  “Lucien, mon fils, how delicious to see you.” She tapped his knee with her pearl-seeded fan and smiled warmly. Even after bearing twelve children, only seven of which had lived beyond infancy, Marie Delacroix was still an attractive woman. Her black hair was streaked rather strikingly with silver, and her waist, with the help of a corset, was only a couple of inches thicker than it had been on her wedding day thirty-five years before.

  “Are you all settled in, Maman?”

  “After so many years of setting up housekeeping in the city each autumn, Lucien, I have perfected a system. That is why your father insists we stay at Bocage till the very day the opera begins. He feels there is no need to come sooner, and you know how he loves the country.”

  Lucien glanced at his father’s stern profile, his thick silver hair combed in a smooth pompadour above his high brow, his mouth a thin, straight, unequivocal line. “How is Papa?”

  Lucien’s mother leaned close to him and whispered. “Not as well as he pretends to be. He’s short of breath sometimes. I worry for his heart.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh, Lucien, you come so seldom to Bocage!”

  “I come as often as business dictates.”

  “Your father would enjoy it if you came just to see him, you know.”

  “You’re mistaken, Maman, if you think I’m a comfort to my father. Once we’ve talked about the crops, we’ve nothing to say to each other. He won’t discuss his health, and I’ve learned not to inquire after it unless I want my head bitten off.”

  “It would make him so happy…” She paused and took Lucien’s hand, squeezing it till the facets of his rings cut into his fingers. “It would make us both very happy if you married this year, Lucien.”

  Lucien smiled warily. “Must we argue, Maman?”

  “Lucien, have you seen Liliane Chevalier since their visit to Bocage last spring? She is enchanting, so grown-up now. Here, take my glasses and look at her. Next to Renee, I believe she’s the handsomest girl in the house.”

  Grudgingly, Lucien accepted the opera glasses his mother handed him. Then he remembered that Katherine Grimms had a box at the opera and made it a point to attend opening night. In his depression over the murders at Belle Fleur, Lucien had forgotten that he might catch a glimpse of Anne Weston tonight. That sudden realization caused his spirits to soar to the domed ceiling of the Orleans Opera House. He looked through the glasses with a boyish eagerness that frightened him.

  Dutifully, impatiently, he panned the room first to locate the Chevalier box. Finding it quickly by the coordinates whispered in his ear by his mother, he gave Mademoiselle Chevalier a cursory inspection. She was good-looking enough, even-featured, plump in all the right places, ruddy-lipped, dusky-haired, and dressed in the usual white. But she radiated about as much liveliness as a marble statue.

  “Well, aren’t I right, Lucien? Don’t you think she’s lovely?”

  By now Lucien had turned his head slightly to the right and up a tier, and was looking at a vision in midnight-blue; a vivid, animated female with smiling lips and sparkling eyes. Among the several guests Katherine Grimms had already attracted to her box, Anne Weston stood out like a full-blown wild rose in a patch of field daisies.

  She was just as he remembered her. No, she was more than he remembered. More lovely, more alive, more desirable than ever. And she was sitting by a man Lucien knew well by reputation. Jeffrey Wycliff was an editorial journalist and reporter for the American newspaper, the Picayune. They were whispering to each other, smiling and laughing as if they were old friends.

  “Lucien … What do you think of her?” his mother prompted.

  “I think she’s lovely,” he replied truthfully, his eyes still trained on Anne.

  “Bon. I knew she would be just to your liking. Will you visit her at intermission?”

  “Who, Maman?”

  “Why, whom do you think? Will you pay a call to the Chevalier box?”

  Lucien slowly lowered the opera glasses and handed them to his mother. “I won’t have time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve business to attend to.”

  “But surely, Lucien, you have time to say bonsoir?”

  “There will be hordes of men clambering to say bonsoir to Liliane Chevalier. I’m sure I won’t be missed in such a crush.”

  “All the more reason why you should go. Do you want to lose your lovely lady to someone else?”

  Lucien paused and pondered his mother’s question. He didn’t suppose he had any hope at all of preventing Anne Weston from getting romantically involved with any one of the numerous men who might pursue her. He had no right, no business even wishing he could pursue her for himself. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to be near her. And now that he’d seen her again, he didn
’t think he could help himself from spending just a few precious moments in her presence. Even if she hated him for it.

  The ponderous velvet curtain fell at the end of the first act. He got up, kissed his mother good-bye, exchanged brief stilted pleasantries with his father and siblings, then excused himself just as Renee’s first admirers stepped through the curtained entryway. He walked quickly around the opera house and up the stairs till he found Katherine Grimms’s box. Muttering “Caution be damned” under his breath, he stepped inside.

  Chapter 5

  “Mr. Wycliff, I believe you’ve managed to make me talk about myself through the entire first act!” Anne said gaily. “I’m embarrassed, and Uncle Reggie is looking very disapproving.”

  “I hope he doesn’t lecture you on my account. I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed the Barber of Seville quite so much.”

  Anne smiled. “Do you always know exactly what to say?”

  Jeffrey Wycliff smiled back, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m a writer, you know. I’m never at a loss for words. At the opera I’d always rather converse with someone than watch the dramatics on stage, but I’ve never been fortunate enough before to sit next to a good-looking female who goes after a subject with the same relish that you do, Miss Weston.”

  Anne laughed. “What? Don’t you like the opera, Mr. Wycliff? How gauche of you to admit it! And how very much I like you for being so unfashionably honest. But if you don’t enjoy the drama and the music, why do you come?”

  Anne was aware that behind her someone had entered the box, but she was enjoying her talk with Mr. Wycliff so much, she was determined to avoid the inevitable callers as long as politely possible. Since Katherine had been away several months, Anne hoped that her aunt would be the center of their attention for a few more moments while she enjoyed a rather stimulating conversation.

  “I come to the opera because everyone comes, and it amuses me to watch society all tricked out in their finery and playing their circumscribed parts. I have the natural curiosity of a journalist.”