A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

  “Yes’m.” Amazing how much sarcasm Hattie fit into two syllables.

  Trula stopped dead in her tracks. “Look at her. Take a good hard look at that girl, Hattie. How can you be so hard hearted?”

  Hattie’s gaze slid right past Serena. Instead, the housekeeper raised a warning finger and said, “That girl is one of Emma’s. She’s not gonna let you take one of her girls just because some man beat her. Emma Johnson is an evil woman. She’s gonna bring down evil on this house and everyone in it.”

  “Zeke Barnes took care of Emma Johnson.” Trula wished the words back as soon as they left her lips. She hadn’t meant to tell Hattie about Zeke, but the housekeeper’s stubbornness and the fear lurking in the depths of her brown eyes made Trula forget that.

  Hattie’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

  Cursing her slip, Trula hurried after Gumbo.

  “Please send for Dr. Montrose. Now.”

  “I’ll go, Miz Trula.” Gumbo laid Serena down on Trula’s bed. He brushed the girl’s blood stiffened hair away from her face with a hand as big as a dinner plate and as gentle as a summer breeze.

  His tenderness misted Trula’s eyes. “Thank you, Gumbo.”

  He ducked his chin. “You did the right thing, Miz Trula.”

  She’d done the only thing a decent human being could do. Leaving Serena at Emma’s had not been an option.

  Gumbo hurried down the hallway and Trula scowled at Hattie’s crossed arms. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  Hattie’s gaze moved from Trula’s eyes to the unconscious girl and her face finally lost its hard edge. Hattie might pretend to be tough, but inside she was as soft and sweet as overripe fruit. She couldn’t turn her back on Serena’s injuries any more than Trula could. Hattie shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I reckon we’d better cut that shift. I’ll get a pair of scissors and a stack of towels.”

  Together they worked in silence, cutting the blood-soaked cotton shift from Serena’s bruised body. The black and purple marks stood out vividly against the girl’s pale skin. Gently they washed the girl’s wounds, starting near her eyes and mouth, then working to those on her breasts and down her stomach, her pelvis and legs.

  When they lifted her and found whip marks crisscrossing her back and buttocks, bile rose from Trula’s stomach and burned the back of her throat. She clutched the edge of the bed.

  “Andrew Farchmin paid to do this to her.” Her voice sounded as raw and damaged as Serena’s skin. “I think he wanted it to be me.” When Farchmin had gone looking for a girl to beat, he’d found one with her coloring, her straight brows, her height, her weight. There was no telling what Serena looked like when her face wasn’t swollen and purple, but Trula was willing to bet they’d have passed for sisters. She should have shot Farchmin when she had the chance. She should have put a hole straight through his gut. If she had, Serena wouldn’t be covered in whip marks.

  Trula let her face fall to her hands. She’d thought him a blustering bully without the courage to do real harm. She’d been so very wrong. It was her fault Serena lay unconscious, her face swollen, her arm broken, her back a roadmap of lacerations.

  Hattie’s hand closed around Trula’s wrist and squeezed. “This ain’t your fault. Blame the man who did it…and Emma Johnson.”

  Trula swallowed a lump in her throat. Some tiny part of her, the part untouched by emotion or horror, knew Hattie was right. That didn’t seem terribly important in the face of Serena’s injuries. Guilt gnawed at Trula’s stomach and ate at her heart. Trula swiped at a useless tear. “Will she live?”

  “I reckon she might. She’s made it this far and she ain’t dead yet.”

  Trula picked up Serena’s hand and held it. The nails were broken and ragged as if she’d tried to protect her face and the tender parts of her body. Surely with medical treatment and someone to care for her, she’d recover. She had to recover. The alternative was unthinkable.

  “You gonna tell me where you were last night?” Hattie’s voice might be soft but her eyes were as sharp and bright as a gull’s.

  Trula considered a lie, some story about spending the night in the French Quarter, a fantastical fabrication about dining at the house on Royal. But Hattie scented lies like bloodhounds scented raccoons. She sniffed them out, chased them up trees, then waited them out. Hattie would discover the truth. She always did. Trula exhaled. “Granny Amzie’s. I got caught in the storm and spent the night.”

  “Alone?” Hattie’s chin thrust forward. “You went out there alone?”

  Again Trula considered lying, but she’d already told Hattie that Zeke had been at Emma’s. And, from the cast of Hattie’s knowing gaze, Trula guessed the older woman already knew exactly who’d been with her at the lake. “Zeke Barnes was there, too.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing.” Trula closed her eyes, wishing she could close out Hattie’s questions. The night she’d shared with Zeke wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. If she could keep this one thing private, it would remain precious. A night of passion and sensation and joy. A perfect night caught forever in the amber of her memory.

  “What happened?” Hattie asked. Here was the inquisition Trula had dreaded. For one delicious moment Trula let herself remember Zeke’s hands on her body, his tongue on her nipples, the exquisite pleasure of their joining. She’d given Zeke more than her body. She’d given him part of herself. It wasn’t something she would talk about with Hattie.

  Apparently her silence spoke volumes. Hattie’s chin bobbed up and down, and a smirk spread across her broad face. “It’s about time you found yourself a man. You’re a woman, not a nun.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Lord almighty. Hell done froze over. Trula Boudreaux admitted she needs a man.”

  Trula scowled at her. Needed? No. Absolutely not. She didn’t need Zeke Barnes. Need suggested he was essential to her. That path led to disaster. Enjoyed was a better word. She’d enjoyed every second with Zeke. She’d enjoy doing it all again.

  “What do you reckon is gonna happen now?” Hattie asked.

  Trula deliberately misunderstood. “Now the doctor takes care of Serena.”

  “Ain’t what I meant.”

  Trula smiled sweetly. “I know.” She didn’t have an answer for Hattie. The path she chose when she let Zeke remove her dress didn’t lead to happiness. All she dared hope for was a few more nights lost in the paradise of his arms.

  Trula stretched her shoulders. “Will you sit with Serena a spell? I want to bathe before Dr. Montrose arrives.” That and avoid any further questions.

  “What are you gonna tell Zeke Barnes about the man you got stashed over in the Vieux Carré?” Hattie’s eyes narrowed.

  “If he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. Ned St. John is my brother.”

  “Your brother? So the man in the parlor was your daddy?”

  “Please don’t gab about it. I’d just as soon no one else know.”

  “What does he think about you runnin’ a house?” Hattie asked.

  “My father abandoned me when I was six. He doesn’t deserve to have an opinion.”

  Hattie snorted. “Not deservin’ something has never stopped any man I’ve ever met.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Men took what they wanted. Trula need only look at the girl on the bed for a reminder. But they weren’t all beasts. Gumbo wasn’t. Ned wasn’t. Zeke wasn’t. There was an outside chance even the Duke had a redeeming quality or two.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Trula had awakened in Granny’s cabin as loose-jointed and relaxed as a ragdoll and sore in a way that curled around her like a hug. But finding a vevé had constricted the first muscles. Finding Farchmin’s body had further tightened them. Then finding Serena… Her body hummed with tension. She needed a hot bath.

  Water trickled from her shoulder to her breast and beaded on her nipple, reminding her of the raindrop she’d licked from Zeke’s chest.

  She si
ghed. Last night…magical. Who knew sex could be so good? Zeke had done everything humanly possible to please her. His hands and tongue and body had touched her in the most intimate way, as if the act meant more than the mere joining of two bodies. As if he cared. As if driving her to the brink of madness with pleasure meant as much to him as it did to her.

  And now what? She’d picked her path. Last night anything seemed possible, but the morning light nudged such fancy aside. Granny’s tarot cards had shown her a lover. Not love.

  Tap, tap.

  Ada’s quiet voice slipped through the cracked door. “Miz Trula? Gumbo’s back. The doctor will be here soon.”

  “Thank you.” With a sigh, Trula rose from the tub, water sheeting off her body. She wrapped herself in a fluffy towel and let herself dream, for a moment, about a happy future with Zeke Barnes. Silly really. She could look forward to a few more nights with him, but nothing more.

  A second tap on the door returned her to reality.

  “I brought you coffee, Miz Trula.” Ada brought a steaming cup inside and put it down on the chiffonier used to store towels.

  Trula took a grateful sip. “Would you please bring me the navy shirtwaist with the lace yoke and the matching skirt?”

  After dressing, Trula emerged from the bathroom and resumed her perch on the bed next to Serena. She closed her hand around the girl’s still fingers.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Montrose entered in his quiet, efficient way. He didn’t moralize or look down on her girls. Instead, he took care of them with kindness. Trula liked him for it.

  He saw Serena and his round face darkened. “Who is she?” His usually mild voice sounded harsh.

  “Her name is Serena. One of Emma’s girls.” Trula need say no more. The doctor knew how Emma ran her house. The venal madam treated her girls like cattle. She spent no money taking care of any of them.

  The doctor shrugged off his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He smelled of liniment and fresh linen, just as a doctor should.

  “Can you help her?” Trula asked. His answer mattered. Desperately.

  His hands explored the length of Serena’s limbs. “The arm needs to be set. Why didn’t you take her to a hospital?”

  “I was afraid to move her at all. If she’d been anywhere other than Emma’s, I would’ve left her in her bed.”

  “It wasn’t one of Emma’s blasted shows, was it? If it was, I swear to God, I’ll see her closed down.”

  Trula shook her head. “The man who whipped her was murdered.”

  The kindly doctor muttered, “Good.”

  Trula silently agreed. Farchmin, with his shredded chest and slit throat, had gotten off easy.

  “There’s no reason she can’t be moved to Charity Hospital.”

  “Can you tell? I mean…will she…?

  “I reckon she’ll live,” the doctor said.

  Trula exhaled, relieved beyond measure.

  The doctor stood and patted Trula’s shoulder. “I’ll send an ambulance round.”

  Trula sat with the unconscious girl until the ambulance arrived. She held her hand and made silent, impossible promises she couldn’t keep. You’ll be as good as new. It won’t hurt for long. And one guilt-fed promise she could. No matter what, you’ll be taken care of.

  After the ambulance trundled away, Trula headed to the kitchen in search of company. She didn’t want to be alone.

  Earleen, a matchstick clamped between her lips, chopped onions. Already a first batch browned in a cast iron skillet. Their savory aroma filled the room. Diddy hunched over the pine table frowning at his school work. Gumbo sat across from him, shoveling grits and ham into his mouth. Ada sat with them, sewing a loose button onto Trula’s lavender jacket with the double peplum.

  “You want a bowl of grits, Miz Trula? They’s hot on the stove.” Earleen looked up from her chopping.

  “I’ll help myself.” Trula took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it, drizzling honey over the warm hominy. “Is there any coffee?”

  “Sit down.” Ada stood. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

  Weary to the bone, Trula took a seat at the table. “Thank you for your help this morning, Gumbo. I’m sorry to have awakened you so early.”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t no problem, Miz Trula. How’s that girl doin’?”

  “Dr. Montrose took her to the hospital. He says she’ll heal better there.”

  Gumbo ducked his head. “I reckon that’s the best place for her.”

  Ada set a cup of piping hot coffee, almost white with cream and sugar, in front of her and Trula smiled her gratitude. “How did things go last night?” she asked.

  A wave of pink heat warmed Trula’s cheeks. “I got stranded out by the lake on account of the storm.”

  “Same storm kept the gentlemen at home.” Ada reclaimed her seat and her needle. “Ain’t much happened round here.”

  Earleen pulled the matchstick from her lips. “That no-count laundress ain’t delivered fresh sheets.”

  Trula sighed and tasted her coffee. The sheets on each bed were changed at least once, sometimes two or three times a night. She owned a fortune in linens and spent a fortune having it all laundered. After all, rich men didn’t rut on dirty sheets. “Will we run short if she doesn’t deliver today?”

  “I reckon we can make it through tonight. Not the weekend.”

  Trula nodded. “Diddy, when you finish your work, run down to Miss Marietta’s and find out when the sheets will be ready. You know where she stays?”

  Diddy grinned and nodded. “I can go now.”

  She hid a smile. Diddy would volunteer for any chore if it meant avoiding his studies. “That won’t be necessary. Finish what you’re doing first.”

  He rolled his eyes. Trula pretended not to notice. She held her coffee with both hands, savoring its warmth. If the impossible happened and Zeke fell to one knee, how could she leave the people in her kitchen?

  She shook her head. She was dreaming again. It was a pernicious habit, acquired since Zeke’s appearance in her life. It was a habit she needed to break. Immediately. Zeke Barnes would never fall to one knee, not for any woman, but most especially not for a courtesan who’d become a madam. He might lavish her with tenderness for one night, perhaps two, but anything more was a pipe dream.

  Someone tapped softly on the screen. Earleen opened the door and her back stiffened. “What you want?”

  “Miz Trula said I might could come,” said a wavery voice.

  “Who is it, Earleen?” Trula couldn’t see around her cook’s disapproving back.

  “Another girl from down at Emma’s.” Earleen sniffed. “This one doesn’t entertain gentlemen.”

  “Let her in.”

  Earleen stood aside, grudgingly allowing Willa Rae entrance.

  Tears tracked down Willa Rae’s face and the clear outline of an open hand stood out against her cheek. Her lip was cut and the skin near her left eye puffed with the beginnings of a black eye.

  “She kicked me out, Miz Trula.” Willa Rae’s voice sounded more like a sob. “You said I could come and here I am.” She clutched a battered carpet bag in front of her. Everything the girl owned probably fit inside.

  “Willa Rae helped me get Serena out of Emma’s house,” Trula said. “I promised I’d take her in if Emma held it against her.”

  No one said a word. It wasn’t the first time she’d offered a home to someone in need. It probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Earleen’s back softened slightly.

  Diddy’s lips stretched in a smile.

  Gumbo nodded his head in welcome.

  And Ada said, “Glad to know you, Willa Rae.”

  Hattie might have a thing or two to say about another stray, but in the end, she too would warm to Willie Rae.

  “Ada, why don’t you help Willa Rae get settled in?” Trula said.

  Ada stood, folding Trula’s jacket over her arm. She gave the crying girl a reassuring smile and said, “Follow me.”
>
  “Is she a cook?” Earleen asked. Her dark eyes flashed trouble. Earleen didn’t stand for anyone interfering in her kitchen.

  “In this house, she’s a cook’s helper,” Trula said, smoothing ruffled feathers. Willa Rae would be grateful for the job and Earleen would appreciate a set of helping hands.

  …

  Zeke needed the cup of too-hot-to drink, chicory-laced coffee he held in his hands. Euphoria from the night spent with Trula might have carried him through an ordinary day, but this wasn’t an ordinary day. Apparently the dead man in the alley had connections; the police station was buzzing louder than a swarm of angry bees.

  “He hasn’t done a thing except moon over that damned whore.” Peake’s voice carried into the hallway where Zeke stood. “The man’s got a Harvard degree and he’s still being led around by his Johnson.”

  Zeke’s fingers tightened around the cup.

  Someone in the office spoke. The words were garbled but the tone placating.

  “I don’t care who brought him here. He ain’t done a thing.” Peake’s voice grew louder. “Do we have any new suspects? No. Killer been caught? No. More dead men? Yes.”

  Zeke stepped into the office where Peake, Kenton, and a captain sat around a battered table. Peake’s face flushed as if he knew he’d been overheard; his mouth twisted into a sneer as if he didn’t care.

  Kenton and the captain weren’t sneering, but they weren’t exactly exuding confidence in is his abilities either. “We need to interview all the girls at Emma Johnson’s.”

  “They won’t talk to us.” Kenton’s voice held no doubt.

  The young officer wasn’t wrong. Zeke acknowledged his point with a small nod. “They will if you threaten to close her down.”

  The captain shook his head. “Tom Anderson would be up in arms if we started closing houses in the district.”

  They didn’t have to do it. The threat would be enough. “He’d prefer the murderer roamed free?”

  The captain tilted his head to the side and pondered. He went so far as to pinch the bridge of his nose. Finally, he grunted his approval.