by Danice Allen
Her behavior with Jeffrey was much easier for Anne to understand. Reggie’s snobbishness about Jeffrey’s orphaned background and his distrust of Jeffrey’s ambitions and intentions toward her had conspired to make her more determined to get to know him better.
For once Katherine stayed out of the fray, and, after several minutes of heated discussion with her uncle, Anne decided to put the subject to rest. Laughing, she fell back against the plush squabs of Katherine’s well-sprung carriage. “I’m flattered by all this vigilance on my account, Uncle Reggie, but you’re jumping to conclusions. You act as though I’m ready to marry Jeffrey Wycliff. I do like him—very much—and I do admire him, but I’m not mad to marry him! Don’t worry, I don’t intend to be hasty about anything as serious as that.”
These few heartfelt words seemed finally to reassure Reggie. He, too, relaxed against the cushions, his face disappearing in the shadows. They continued their slow drive to the Faubourg St. Mary in noncontentious silence, allowing Anne to drift into private speculations about the most interesting of the men she’d met so far in America. Jeffrey, Renard, and Delacroix. Yes, Delacroix.
But first Jeffrey. He seemed to Anne to be exactly the sort of man she’d hoped to meet in America. He was self-made, ambitious, and involved in meaningful work. He was attractive, too. But the thing that most drew her to Jeffrey was something she was wise enough to keep from Reggie. They were both avid fans of Renard. On that basis alone, Anne knew they could be good friends. Whether something romantic was possible between them, she didn’t know. So far he hadn’t made her heart leap into her throat as Renard had.
Renard. He was her romantic ideal. Their chance meeting on the Belvedere had become to Anne like a sharply focused, golden dream. She had no hope, certainly no expectation, of ever seeing Renard again. But once in his arms was better than never, even though, after her brief but thrilling encounter with Renard, she would always compare other men to him. With such daunting competition, would a regular fellow ever be able to win her heart and hand?
Then there was Delacroix. Anne shook her head and smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile after the way he’d behaved tonight. He was an enigma. There was something about him that stirred her. Was it curiosity? He was clever … Was she charmed by his wit? Or was she really so shallow that she could disregard his conceit, arrogance, bigotry, and loose morals, and simply be enthralled by his physical beauty?
She didn’t know. But something about Delacroix had made her heart race more than once…
She closed her eyes. American men were a diverse lot, she thought sleepily. Diverse indeed.
Chapter 6
Midmorning sunshine slanted across the ruby-red and peacock-blue Persian rug covering Katherine’s drawing room floor, the light that streamed through the tall French windows illuminating the exotic art that hung on the walls and the strange artifacts and barbaric-looking sculptures that littered the tabletops.
A vase of roses stood on a wrought-iron stand next to the sofa, the deep yellow buds exactly matching the color of Anne’s walking gown. She was reading Jeffrey’s latest article in the Picayune, and he was watching her. All was quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and the muted tick of the ormolu clock on the marble mantel.
When she finished, she folded the paper and set it down, drew a long breath, and smiled at Jeffrey. “Isn’t Renard wonderful? Did he really do all that? How is it that you’re always the first reporter to know what the Fox does, Jeffrey?”
After three weeks of almost daily association—either at public functions and private parties, or at the Grimms mansion—Anne and Jeffrey were now the best of friends and called each other by their Christian names.
“Which question shall I answer first?” he asked her, grinning.
“All of them, and in order, you tease,” said Anne.
“Well, yes, Renard is wonderful. We’ve always agreed about that. And, yes, he did orchestrate the escape last night of five slaves from the Latrobe house on Bourbon Street, getting them out of the very heart of the city without being apprehended. As to how I know about these things before anyone else…” He shrugged his shoulders.
“You won’t tell me? How rude of you, Jeffrey.” Anne playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “I thought we shared everything.”
“Not everything, Anne.” He glanced toward the entryway and lowered his voice. “We’ve never kissed, and certainly not because of a lack of interest on my part. Perhaps we’ve just lacked the opportunity? Where is the old watchdog, anyway?”
Anne laughed. “If you mean Uncle Reggie, I’m just as surprised as you are that he’s not here. I’m sure he would be if he knew that Aunt Katherine had left us alone to fetch her bonnet. I’d almost believe she planned this. She’s been gone several minutes.”
“She likes me.”
“Yes, I know. She’s always liked men of the literary persuasion. But more than likely she’s having the servants pick flowers at the last minute to take to the cemetery. She has three husbands’ tombs to decorate for All Saints’ Day, you know. It’s a beautiful day, and the place will be awash with fresh-cut blooms. You’re welcome to come with us, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey grimaced. “No, thanks. I don’t like cemeteries, even when they’re decorated for a party. Having no relatives at least saves me from obligatory postmortem visits to them.”
Anne winced and smiled, amused by his phraseology but still rather shocked by his lack of sentiment. “That’s rather callous of you.”
“No, just honest. Now, back to the matter of the kiss…” He darted another look toward the entryway and scooted an inch closer to her. “Your aunt likes me, but do you like me?”
“Of course I do.”
“More to the point, do you like me well enough to kiss me? If you do, this would be the perfect time to tell me … and to show me.”
Anne looked up into Jeffrey’s eager face. His brown eyes were clear, his intentions direct and sincere, his expression ardent. She liked him, she really did. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to kiss him. He took her hand and chafed it between his two. His palms were cool and rough. She looked down and studied his square-tipped fingers, the wide knuckles, and the clean, close-clipped nails. There was an ink stain on his thumb. For some elusive reason she found herself mentally comparing his honest workingman’s hands to Delacroix’s, whose hands were more like those of an artist or a musician—lean, sensitive, strong yet graceful.
“Anne,” prompted Jeffrey in a gentle but urgent tone, “you’ve given me reason to hope that I’m something more to you than a friend.”
He was right. She’d been flirting with him since the night of the opera when they’d met for the first time. She had supposed all along that when the opportunity presented itself, she’d happily give him the kiss he was asking for. But now she wasn’t so sure it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know if Jeffrey could ever be more than a friend. Maybe it was just too soon.
“Jeffrey, I do like you. And you’re very special to me. Only …”
“Only what, Anne? I know I’m no Renard, but I hope you aren’t comparing me to him. Any man would come up short against such a fellow.”
Anne blushed. He’d hit on the exact truth. She was comparing him to Renard. He didn’t know, either, that she’d actually met Renard and shared a kiss that she could compare with Jeffrey’s. She knew it was nonsense to continue mooning over the romantic outlaw, especially with a very real man with some excellent qualities sitting right next to her. If Jeffrey didn’t exactly make her heart race, maybe it was only because she’d grown so comfortable with him. Maybe if she kissed him it would make a difference in her platonic feelings. Guilt won in the end; she supposed she owed him at least one kiss.
“All right.”
He grew very still. “You mean you’ll let me kiss you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” She closed her eyes, preparing herself, then suddenly got a brilliant, unscrupulous idea
. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Jeffrey close his. “First tell me how you get your information about Renard, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey sat back, amused and exasperated. “You minx! That’s blackmail!”
“So it is. Now tell me.”
Jeffrey chuckled, lifting a hand to tuck a stray curl behind Anne’s ear. “I can’t tell you specifics.”
“Why not?”
He grew sober. “Because it would be dangerous for you. The men I pay to be moles, to ferret out information for me, aren’t the most savory fellows.”
Anne’s brows furrowed. “I can’t imagine you consorting with unsavory people, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey’s clear brown eyes took on a shrewd look that made him appear hard and threatening. It unsettled her. He didn’t look at all like the amiable friend she’d come to know. “Remember, Anne, I told you I’m a chameleon. I blend in wherever I go.”
When the strange expression disappeared from Jeffrey’s face as quickly as it came, Anne thought she must have imagined it. “These ‘moles’ you pay to obtain information for you, are they associates of Renard’s? Does he have traitors in his midst?”
Jeffrey looked surprised, then admiring. “You’re a quick one. Most of my informants pass along rumors from the street. Rumors are unreliable, but sometimes quite true. However, I do have one informant who is a close, trusted partner in Renard’s local organization, which is kept small for safety’s sake.”
“Has this traitor told you who Renard is?”
“No. He’s only given me tidbits so far, things to use in my articles—nothing that might jeopardize the operation. He likes the money. I think he has an opium habit, like a lot of the scruffy fellows I deal with. He’s edgy. He sweats a lot.”
“He sounds like a threat to Renard,” Anne said worriedly.
“Not yet. But he might become a threat in time. The reward for Renard’s capture grows larger every week. The fellow might decide to betray Renard and cash in on the money. It could buy enough opium to last a millennium.”
“Some men would do anything for money,” Anne mused.
“Well, money equals power,” said Jeffrey matter-of-factly. “Now, where’s my kiss?”
After that last comment, Anne was not as disposed to kissing Jeffrey, but it seemed there was no getting out of it. She closed her eyes and waited. She felt his lips touch hers and was encouraged that she felt no revulsion. Actually, it was rather nice. Then he wrapped his large hands around her waist and began moving his lips over hers, ever so softly. But when he slipped his tongue into her mouth and his hands begin to roam up and down her back, she stiffened.
Anne put her hands on Jeffrey’s chest and pushed, but he only held her tighter. His breathing was fast and irregular, and she was getting just a little frightened and … angry. She abruptly turned her head away and pushed harder against his chest. He let her go.
“Lord, Anne, I’m sorry,” he said instantly, dragging his hands through his thick, straight hair. “I lost my head. You’re so damned—I mean, you’re so beautiful and sweet, for a minute there I forgot myself and just couldn’t let go.”
Who was she to throw stones, anyway? She’d lost her head when Renard had kissed her that night on the Belvedere and done things Reggie would lock her in her room for a year for doing—if he only knew about them.
“It’s all right, only don’t do it again.”
“I can’t ever kiss you again?”
She waggled an admonishing finger in his face. “If I ever let you kiss me again, you had better stop when I want you to.”
He squeezed her hand. “I promise. Really, Anne. I’m sorry I—”
Reggie marched into the room. “You’re sorry you what, young man?”
Jeffrey seemed to have been momentarily struck dumb by Reggie’s unexpected appearance, so Anne improvised. “He’s sorry he can’t go with us to the cemetery.”
Reggie looked sour. “Is he? He should thank his lucky stars he doesn’t have to escort Katherine Grimms to the resting places of the three unfortunate men she called husband. It certainly gives me pause.”
Katherine swept into the room, her arms full of white chrysanthemums. “Are you afraid of bogeys, Reginald, or is it voodoo? I daresay you won’t find either at a Christian cemetery during the full light of day.”
Reggie sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his narrow chest. “After spending a month under your roof, Katherine, I daresay I shan’t be afraid of anything ever again. I was only anticipating that I might be overcome with sympathy for your departed husbands. Not because they died, mind you, but because they were each once leg-shackled to you!”
Katherine laughed out loud, a hearty laugh that made all the crystal in the room sing. “Reginald, sometimes you’re downright amusing. If you don’t watch out I might set my cap for you! And you’ve seen what happens to all my husbands.”
Apparently Reggie found this lightly delivered threat absolutely petrifying, much scarier than ghosts or even voodoo curses, called gris-gris by the superstitious locals. His mouth fell open, and he suddenly developed a pronounced twitch in his right eye. Anne and Jeffrey could barely contain their amusement as Reggie hastily excused himself and backed out of the room.
Laughing, Anne asked, “Do you think he’ll still come, Aunt Katherine?”
Katherine buried her nose in the fragrant bouquet of flowers she held against her large bosom. “Oh, he’ll come,” she said. “Much as he dislikes the whole business, he’d never think of letting us go alone. He’s too much of a gentleman—and a fusspot over you—to neglect his perceived ‘duty.’ Shall we go, dear?”
Jeffrey said good-bye, catching Anne’s eye with a significant loverlike look that made Anne’s stomach a little queasy. She was very afraid she was going to have a problem on her hands if Jeffrey continued to act like a mooncalf over her.
Katherine had planned their visit to the St. Louis Cemetery to coincide with the hour when most of the Catholic Creole population would be at Mass. That way, the cemetery would be much less crowded. They alighted from the carriage and walked through the neat rows of tombs, which had been whitewashed prior to All Saints’ Day by the families of the departed. Because of the high water table in the area, there were no underground graves.
The tombs were of varying shapes and sizes, and there were tall oak, magnolia, and loblolly pine trees scattered around the well-kept grounds. Everything was so bright and clean, Anne didn’t find the experience the least bit depressing. And there were flowers everywhere.
They had parked closest to the Protestant section of the cemetery, which was fenced off from the Catholic-only section and the area in the back that was specifically designated for the burial of blacks. Katherine and her first husband had bought a substantial plot of cemetery ground, and she had since put each of her husbands to rest in tombs that adjoined one another.
“There’s still plenty of room for my own tomb, although I hope I won’t be taking up residence any time soon,” Katherine joked.
Katherine, Reggie, and Anne were standing in front of the tombs, the latter two casting their eyes over the epitaphs inscribed on the front of each.
While Katherine began arranging flowers on the end tomb, Reggie’s attention remained fixed on the epitaph of her first husband. He looked grave and thoughtful. Anne moved closer and read over his shoulder, “Herein lies my beloved husband, Nathaniel, and our son, David. May the angels rejoice in the arrival of two splendid, soaring souls who enriched my life beyond my dearest dreams.”
Anne was shaken. “Aunt Katherine? I didn’t know you had a son.” She and Reggie looked at each other, then looked at Katherine, who kept her back to them as she continued with her task.
“Oh, well, I don’t suppose I talk about it very much. I told your mother and father years ago, right after it happened.”
“They never said anything.”
“It was so long ago, I daresay they might have forgotten. They knew I didn�
��t like talking about it.”
Instantly chagrined, Anne said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine, I didn’t mean to bring up something painful to you.”
“I thought you might notice the inscription. I guess I should have prepared myself for the possibility.” She turned around, her face flushed. She smiled, but Anne detected a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Nathaniel was killed in a riverboat accident. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and the shock brought on labor. The baby—I called him David after his paternal grandfather—didn’t survive.”
She smiled again, the corners of her mouth trembling a little as she seemed to reminisce. “He was beautiful, just like his father. Nathaniel and I had intended to have several children, but life doesn’t always cooperate with one’s plans. And complications during the delivery made my chances for more children impossible, so I was very lucky, indeed, to find two wonderful men after that who loved me even though I was barren.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne again, feeling stupid and awkward. She’d never seen her aunt so close to tears.
“Never mind, child. It does me good to talk about it now and then, at least once a year when I clean the tombs and decorate them for All Saints’ Day.” Her voice took on its usual bracing pitch and tone. “But you see, I’m a survivor. Life is too rich and full to waste time regretting.”
But Anne’s heart was full of regrets for the sorrow her aunt must have suffered all those years ago as a young woman, and, though they were softened by time, the memories still obviously brought her aunt pain. Katherine went back to arranging her flowers, and Reggie remained silent, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the ground.