His Dark Desires

by Jennifer St Giles

  “La Belle? An unusual name. Have I missed meeting more of your family?”

  “Only my sister Ginette. She is unwell this evening but should be fine by tomorrow. La Belle du Temps is the name of our home. My DePerri ancestors never settled for the ordinary. Everything had to be special.”

  He studied the detail around him. “They were wise. The results are beautiful.” The last remark was said as he looked at me. Even though I thought his flattery overdone, a blush still warmed my cheeks.

  “And what about you, Monsieur Trevelyan? Were your ancestors wise as well?”

  “I am afraid the answer to that is a matter of opinion. Most will say Trevelyan Manor has no equal to her beauty within a hundred miles, yet the Trevelyan men are not exactly viewed as wise or…trustworthy. Some deserve the criticism, but others, like my brother, do not.”

  Not trustworthy? The man was shockingly direct. Before I could decide in which category he put himself, Mrs. Gallier spoke.

  “I hear you went to town today, Mrs. Boucheron. Tell me, was Madame Boussard’s Dress Shop open? I spent some time there yesterday while Mr. Gallier and Mr. Fitz attended to business, and I was quite taken by her wares. She had several gowns that were imported directly from Paris this year. Of course they were exorbitantly expensive, but—”

  “Now, Mrs. Gallier. You’ve no need for more dresses,” Mr. Gallier directed.

  “Of course not, Mr. Gallier,” Mrs. Gallier said meekly, the sweet smile on her face faltering slightly. Though I could tell she often felt differently, she always agreed with her husband, reminding me of a pastel-hued painting I’d seen. It gave the impression of a woman, but when I looked closely there were no details—just brush strokes that her husband seemed to be constantly orchestrating. I decided I would leave some of my suffrage articles on the parlor table near the chair she frequently used.

  Mr. Gallier was obsessed with finery, making up for his wife’s lack. From watch fob to frock coat, he spent his every waking moment impersonating an English dandy.

  Sitting on Mr. Trevelyan’s left, Miss Vengle leaned surprisingly close to him and whispered something that I couldn’t hear. From the irritation pulling on Mr. Fitz’s handlebar mustache, he thought the action overly familiar, too.

  “The dress shop was open today,” I said, making a point of answering Mrs. Gallier’s question. “So you and Monsieur Fitz were in town yesterday, Monsieur Gallier?”

  “Yes, with excellent results,” Mr. Fitz said. “We now have a theater at our disposal, and as soon as we agree on which play to perform, we can begin advertising.”

  Mr. Trevelyan narrowed his eyes. “From our earlier conversation, I thought your Shakespearean troupe was well established and contracted to prominent theaters for performances in advance, not that you were just forming a troupe.”

  Mr. Gallier cleared his throat. “We customarily do. But we canceled our plans for New York this summer because Mrs. Gallier”—he patted his wife’s shoulder—“had a horrific bout of arthritis this winter, and the doctor suggested a warmer climate. Though I am not sure he meant New Orleans. This heat is murderous.”

  “It is murderous, which proves my earlier point, Edmund. Macbeth is a poor choice for our play,” Mr. Fitz commented. “Ask anyone here if I am not right.”

  Sitting straighter in his chair, Mr. Gallier bristled. “I have no doubt Macbeth will be well received, and Miss Vengle plays Lady Macbeth so well. The public will love us.”

  “Murder is always welcomed under the guise of entertainment. We are a bloodthirsty breed.” Mr. Fitz slashed his eyebrows together and wiggled his mustache. “Your abilities as an actor are not in question here, my friend, but rather the health of the audience is at stake.”

  “In what way?” Mr. Trevelyan asked Mr. Fitz.

  “Simple, sir. Once you have been here a day or two, you will sense what I do. Tensions are rising, especially in this infernal heat. And human nature being as it is, tempers rise also. I have seen it before. Senseless murders are apt to follow unless intercessory measures are taken.”

  “Like yesterday,” I said. “There was a murder on the steps outside of Monsieur Maison’s law office. Monsieur Gallier, did either you or Monsieur Fitz hear of it? Madame Boussard’s is on the same street.”

  Mr. Trevelyan dropped his spoon, making everyone jump when it clattered into his bowl. He was staring at me as if I had committed the deed myself. Had he heard of the murder? Was his surprise due to the fact that I spoke of it during dinner? I’m sure Godey’s Lady’s Book would not consider murder a proper dinner conversation.

  “Juliet, how horrible.” Mignon’s cheeks faded from pink to white. “You could have been in danger. Why did you not tell us immediately?”

  “A murder in broad daylight?” Miss Vengle asked. “How awful! Was the man robbed?”

  I hadn’t said the victim was a man, but it was an assumption anyone might easily make. “Monsieur Davis did not mention it if he was.”

  “And Mr. Davis would be?” Mr. Trevelyan asked.

  “The assistant to my attorney, Monsieur Maison.” I answered.

  “Perfectly dreadful,” Mrs. Gallier said. “And to think that I had been in town myself. When did you say this happened?”

  “Midday, I believe.”

  Mrs. Gallier paled. “That’s exactly when we were there.”

  “Thankfully, we missed the horrible event,” Mr. Fitz cut in, then returned to his earlier subject. “So you see, Edmund. I am right. Tempers are too volatile under this heat. I suggest Miss Vengle and I do a comedy.” He dipped into his soup with his spoon. “The Taming of the Shrew would be preferable to Macbeth.”

  “A play cannot affect an entire community, Horatio,” Mr. Gallier said.

  “Words have determined the fate of nations.” Mr. Fitz glowered back at him.

  “Theater does change lives,” said Miss Vengle. “Why, just look at poor little ol’ me. I would likely have starved to death if you all had not come to my town.” Her thick southern drawl reminded me of old molasses in the winter—oversweet and excruciatingly slow—and didn’t match the dramatic flare of her dark hair and eyes.

  “Do not upset yourself, Miss Vengle. Edmund and I will settle this.” Mr. Fitz patted her hand from his place next to her. “High emotion during meals leads to bilious attacks.”

  I found his advice amusing, since he and Mr. Gallier were generating a fair amount of tension themselves. In fact, now that I took a moment to discern it, the tension in the room had grown tenfold since I spoke of the murder in town, as if they were forcing themselves to act normal.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Trevelyan said, breaking into the tension. “Were I given the choice, I would much rather be entertained by the wiles of a woman, such as Petruchio’s Kate, than by the dark intrigues of murder and betrayal. What is your opinion in the matter, Mrs. Boucheron?”

  The way Mr. Trevelyan emphasized “wiles of a woman” with his blue gaze centered on me was entirely too…enticing. “As I see it, Macbeth is the lesser of two evils.”

  Six pairs of shocked eyes met my gaze. Mignon spoke first. “Why ever would you say that, Juliet? Lady Macbeth pushes her husband to kill their king.”

  “Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were at least masters of their own destiny. They had a choice. Kate, in The Taming of the Shrew, was a pawn. She had no choice.”

  “Preposterous,” Mr. Gallier said, his side whiskers seeming to bristle with outrage.

  Mr. Fitz cleared his throat. “Hush, Edmund. I, too, am curious as to why our hostess would choose murder and betrayal over love.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Trevelyan added. “Are you saying you condone murder as a means of directing your fate?”

  His conclusion startled me. “You both misunderstand me, gentlemen. I only meant to say that I prefer choosing one’s own fate as opposed to having it chosen. But we have strayed from the subject at hand. Were I to choose a play, I would pick Much Ado About Nothing.”

  “Beatrice’s sharp wit equal
s her man’s,” Mr. Trevelyan said, studying me. “And though they are tricked into confessing their hearts, the hero and the heroine choose their own fates.”

  “Exactly so, Monsieur Trevelyan.” His perception was disquieting.

  It didn’t escape my notice that Mr. Fitz had diverted the conversation away from the murder in town, and that all of the men had refrained from commenting on the crime. I had the distinct feeling they knew of it and had chosen to remain silent.

  “There’s nothing more appealing than a woman who knows her own mind,” Mr. Trevelyan said.

  His low-spoken words were a caress that made me tingle inside.

  Mr. Gallier choked on his wine, Mignon winked at me, and Mr. Fitz coughed.

  “A man after my own heart,” Miss Vengle said, batting her lashes as she leaned toward him.

  “A cheer for the ladies, then.” Mr. Trevelyan sounded as if he thoroughly enjoyed disrupting the men and captivating the women. He picked up his water goblet and toasted the room. As he did so, light sparkled off the gold ring he wore on his little finger. The face, a flattened disk, held an unusual design of interwoven circles. I could have sworn that I’d seen that design before, but I couldn’t recall where, which bothered me.

  But I knew one thing: I’d never met a man like him before.

  4

  “We finished early tonight,” I said to Mama Louisa as she placed the last of the cleaned pots on the shelf. Wiping a final crumb from the kitchen table, I folded the dishcloth. It felt good to see the tasks for the day coming to an end.

  “Done early means there’s more work the Lord must have for us to do, and we just don’t know about it yet,” Mama Louisa said.

  “Let’s hope not. I am going to check the house to make sure it is properly locked, though.”

  “I already had Papa John do that. There’s a strange feelin’ in the air, Miz Juliet, and it isn’t a good one. I’m going to check with him about it right now.”

  “Thank you,” I said as she headed up the stairs leading to her and Papa John’s quarters. Many times over the years, I wondered what we would have done without their love and loyalty.

  Mignon marched into the kitchen just as I turned to leave. She looked almost angry, a surprising emotion from her. “Juliet, if Monsieur Fitz and Monsieur Gallier had not brought up the subject, when would you have told us about the murder in town?”

  “Soon.”

  “When? My guess is you wouldn’t have mentioned it. You treat Ginette and me as if we were children.”

  My eyes widened. “How can you say that?”

  “You do not trust us. You do not tell us things we should know, like the increase in the taxes.”

  “I did not want you to worry.”

  Mignon sighed. “I know, but it has been ten years since Father died. I am not a child anymore. When you were seventeen, you were already engaged and putting together your trousseau.”

  “Which is exactly what you should be doing, instead of scrubbing your hands to perdition.”

  “What I should be doing is helping. Now, I want you to tell me how much we lack in being able to pay the taxes.”

  “If Monsieur Trevelyan stays as long as he plans, that will cover a good portion of it. But once the acting troupe moves on, we’ll need to fill their rooms.”

  “Then perhaps we should put another advertisement for boarders in the Picayune. How long did you say he would be staying with us?”

  “At least six months.”

  Mignon broadened her smile. “Plenty of time for you to get to know him, is it not?”

  Warning signals rang in my mind. “Nonnie, Monsieur Trevelyan is a man of sophistication and means who will be returning to San Francisco once he has concluded his business here. He is far above our station in life.”

  Mignon did not seem to be the least daunted by my words. “Don’t you think he is handsome?”

  “Very.”

  “And wonderfully charming.”

  I tried to lie, but couldn’t. “Yes. But the Lord put all manner of beasts upon the earth, and some of those are meant to be seen and not touched.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Why do you not like him?”

  “I did not say that. I do not even know Monsieur Trevelyan, but there are some things you can tell just by looking. You know fire is going to burn before you touch it, oui?”

  “Did you love Jean Claude?”

  I shut my eyes, then I met Mignon’s questioning gaze with honesty. “Papa arranged the marriage and Jean Claude was much older, but I believe over time we might have made a happy life together. If I could go back and relive my life, though, I wouldn’t marry for any other reason than love, and I wouldn’t marry a man who was so many miles down life’s road that he never saw the same roses I did.” I patted Mignon’s shoulder. “Now, no more talk of me or Monsieur Trevelyan. There is something you need to know. After calling you lovely and amenable, Monsieur Davis gave me the impression he’s getting serious about you. Has he mentioned what his feelings for you are?”

  Mignon blanched, biting her lip with concern. “Dieu, he asked if I enjoyed his company, and of course I had to say yes, but the truth is that he talks so much, I find myself wishing for my embroidery just to keep myself awake.”

  I laughed. Mignon hated embroidery. “Well, we will have to find a way to let him know you do not return his affections. He wanted to take you to the carnival Friday, and I managed to insert our whole family into his plans. We’re to meet him at the cathedral at seven o’clock.”

  Mignon laughed. “At least he won’t be lonely. What exactly do you think he meant by amenable?” she asked, her brows arching to a puzzled look.

  “I think it means being like Madame Gallier with Monsieur Gallier.”

  “Wherever did he get that notion from? Were I Madame Gallier, I would be sore pressed to keep a civil tongue. Monsieur Gallier makes it seem that his wife’s only purpose in life is to be the pedestal for his big head.”

  Surprise widened my eyes. “It heartens me to hear you’ve made such an observation. I am sure that if you expressed your thoughts on occasion, Monsieur Davis would not think you so amenable and wouldn’t wish to court you. Now I had best go see to Andre and Ginette.”

  “I’ll see to Ginette. I’ll sleep on the divan in her room in case she should wake and need anything. She gave me such a fright this afternoon, seeing her on the floor pale as death itself. She did not come around until I used the smelling salts. Even then she was disoriented and did not know who I was for a moment or two.”

  “I had not realized it was that bad. She seemed fatigued but well when I spoke to her earlier. I will send a note to Dr. Lanau in the morning, asking him to stop by tomorrow. If Ginette—”

  “Has any problems that I cannot handle, I will call for you, I promise.” She hugged me, patting my back almost as if she were the elder and I the younger. I returned her embrace, realizing she was right. She had grown up, and I’d been too busy to notice.

  The three of us were graced with the DePerri heart-shaped face, dark eyes, and hair as black as the Mississippi on a moonless night, but Ginette’s ethereal delicacy set her apart, as if she were an angel temporarily sent to live among mortals.

  I found my son in bed, though not asleep yet. He’d scrubbed his face shiny, but still had mud caked between his toes and on his bed sheets, which would now have to be laundered again.

  “Andre, why didn’t you take a bath?” I sat on the bed beside him, at a complete loss.

  He sleepily rubbed his eyes. “I’ll only get dirty again when I meet Phillipe and Will in the morning at the camp.”

  “I’ve told you many times that what a man does determines who he is. There are more important things for you to do than to spend every day off with your friends. Tomorrow you are to stay home and do the things you were supposed to do today, plus do whatever laundry needs doing by yourself. That includes the sheets you’ve now muddied.”

  He sat up as shock dropped h
is mouth open. “M-m-myself?”

  “Oui.”

  “But I must go. I promised Phillipe and Will that—”

  “You made a promise to me today.”

  He lowered his gaze. “You just don’t want me to go back to the camp.”

  “That’s not true.” I brushed a curl back from his forehead, noting he had spread across his pillow the soft blue coverlet my mother had made him before he was born. After all these years, he still liked to feel the worn material against his cheek. “I expect you to be a man of your word. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but you don’t understand about the camp. It is important.”

  “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow. And just so you know, Friday we’ll go to the carnival that’s in town. Won’t that be fun?”

  He shrugged. “Going with Phillipe and Will to the camp my father helped build is fun.”

  I sighed and kissed him good night, then arranged the netting about his bed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He nodded and shut his eyes. As I left his room, I felt unsettled that he’d shown no excitement about the carnival. His interest in the army camp was understandable, in some ways I’d underestimated his need to connect to his father. I hoped Mr. Goodson’s report proved what I believed in my heart to be true about Jean Claude.

  I took a long bath, letting the steam ease my tension, thankful that my father had had the foresight to have modern amenities installed. My mind kept wandering to Mr. Trevelyan, and my reaction to him, and I had to force myself to concentrate on more practical matters.

  I donned my nightdress, robe, and slippers, and as I left the bath, I searched the pockets of my dress for the telegram. They were empty except for Mr. Trevelyan’s card. My stomach sank when I dug into the pockets of my robe and found them empty, too.

  I must have dropped the note somewhere in the house. Grabbing a lantern, I retraced my steps on the third floor. After finding nothing in the corridor or in Andre’s room, I hurried down two flights of stairs. A quick scan of the kitchen and the butler’s pantry turned up nothing, but the tinkling of glass from the parlor brought me to a halt in the center hall. I swung around, my pulse leaping as I realized I was not alone downstairs. The parlor seemed dark and unwelcoming for the first time in my life. I snuffed out the light and tiptoed to the doorway.