A Haunting Desire

by Julie Mulhern

Trula could hardly refuse. “Of course.”

  “How…” It was Christine’s turn to let her voice trail into silence.

  “How did I become a madam?”

  Christine flushed. Smiled too brightly. “You don’t seem the type.”

  “I was a courtesan first. You know about John Dupree?” Of course she did. Everyone did. Trula gazed across Jackson Square at the cathedral, unwilling to glimpse judgment in Christine’s eyes. Trula never talked about her past. About John.

  “I know he left New Orleans alone and came back with you.”

  “We met in Paris. I went to the Opéra with my grandmother and he sent Champagne to our box. At first I thought he was interested in her.” Trula shrugged. “I think perhaps she did, too.”

  Their box had seemed too small, over-heated, and over-filled with the men who always flitted around her grandmother. Even in her fifties, Adeline Boudreaux was considered one of the most beautiful women in Paris. The American with his slow smile and languid manners was just another admirer. When his papery lips brushed the back of Trula’s hand, she’d covered a shiver of revulsion and turned her attention to the stage.

  “When he called on us at home, he made his intentions clear. My grandmother negotiated on my behalf.” Trula didn’t add that her grandmother negotiated without her knowledge or consent. “They came to terms and I became his mistress.” Keeping the bitterness out of her voice counted as a small victory.

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.” She risked a glance at Christine and found no pity on her face. Trula liked her better than ever.

  “How old was he?”

  Trula straightened her shoulders. “Sixty-five.”

  Silence spun between them. Uncomfortable. Itchy. Embarrassing. The girl in the old man’s bed didn’t need Christine’s pity. “We traveled.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in her ears. “The whole world.”

  “Why did you stay here? After he died, why didn’t you go back to Paris?” The milliner pronounced the city’s name as if it was paradise on earth. Perhaps to someone who cared so deeply about fashion, it was.

  “When John set out on his travels, he didn’t leave New Orleans alone. He took his staff with him. Hattie and her family were kind to me.” Kind was far too anemic a word to describe the way Hattie soothed her tears after the first night she spent in bed with an old man whose gnarled hands pawed her virgin body, a man whose wrinkled body demanded pleasure without returning any. “They became my family. When John died, he left them nothing. I opened my house so I could earn enough to support us all.”

  “I see,” Christine said quietly. Trula hoped it was empathy and not pity she heard in the milliner’s voice. She didn’t want pity. Not so much as an ounce. Pity was for the weak and she wanted none of it. Empathy she found oddly comforting.

  “And you? Hats? How does a lady go into trade?”

  Christine shrugged, a delicate, sophisticated lift of her shoulders. “My father lost everything. It was sell hats or find a rich husband. I much prefer hats to a man who thinks he owns me.”

  Trula couldn’t argue. They finished their coffee in a flurry of discussion over swan bill corsets and scalloped hems. Trula almost forgot the chasm that divided a lady and a madam as they critiqued the dresses passing them on the banquette.

  They finished their coffee, but Trula couldn’t bear to go to back to the house and wait to hear a doorbell that never rang. Zeke’s absence pierced her heart.

  His work hadn’t kept him from relentlessly pursuing her before. Now it did? Surely she deserved an explanation and a polite good-bye. But he hadn’t even given her that much.

  She swiped at an unwelcome tear, took a ragged breath through pursed lips, and stood. She’d visit Ned…and maybe talk to her father, maybe let him explain. Perhaps she’d settle things between them, send him back to England. At least at the house in the Vieux Carré she wouldn’t half-listen for a bell. She hailed a hackney. If she was going to the house in the Quarter, she needed supplies.

  Moppets mobbed her as soon as her shoe touched the banquette. They knew she’d have a box of chocolates from the Elmer-Miller Candy shop on Magazine Street and twists of fresh salt water taffy. She’d even stopped at the corner of Canal and Bourbon to trade with her favorite pralinier. The woman, Alice, had a voice like a foghorn. It carried for blocks. “Belles pralines!” The children adored the pecan-loaded brown sugar sweets. Their excitement was contagious and Trula’s lips curved into a smile. Would that a piece of candy could wipe away her worries.

  Then she caught sight of the nursemaid’s distraught expression. Trula tilted her head and offered her a silent apology. The poor woman would have to manage sugar-crazed children long after Trula’s carriage rolled away.

  “Only one,” she admonished the children. “Save the rest for after supper.”

  The children replied with gap-toothed grins. The scamps would stuff their cheeks as soon as her back turned.

  Trula stepped inside the brick carriageway and made her way to the curving stairs at the back of the courtyard that led to the living quarters. The interior balcony, with its elaborate, curling, twisting iron work, circled the open courtyard. Each room opened onto the balcony, allowing for air movement on the hottest, stillest of days.

  Ned met her at the top of the stairs, his face lit with a welcoming grin. “Nice hat.”

  Her hand swept the brim. “Thank you.”

  “Do you put it in water when you take it off?”

  Trula looked heavenward. “What do you know about women’s fashion, Ned St. John? If you had your way, we’d all dress like Gilcie ready for the evening.”

  His laughter filled the courtyard. “You have to admit, she is distracting. Do you want tea?”

  Trula swept past him into the sun-filled sitting room with an amused swish of sage silk.

  Most of the rooms in the French Quarter house were designed with children in mind. Serviceable furniture covered with durable fabrics, braided rag rugs that could withstand the treads of little feet, and a lack of breakable knickknacks defined the home. Except for the sitting room. She denied them only the room that housed her collection of Chinese porcelain. As such, the furniture was delicate, the upholstery was damask, and the carpet was thick and lush. It was hardly surprising the duke took tea there. Trula bit her lip and looked over her shoulder for Ned. He was nowhere in sight. She silently cursed her brother. He’d tricked her, left her alone with the Duke of Aberdeen.

  “Hello,” she mumbled.

  The duke stood and stared, apparently stymied. He couldn’t exactly welcome her to her own home. He swallowed. “Hello, Trula.”

  They might’ve stood forever, mute and pink with embarrassment, but for the arrival of a small, sticky boy. He tugged on Trula’s hand, conveniently forgetting he wasn’t allowed in the salon. Eyes as limpid and blue as the water in the gulf begged for a sweet. Trula bit back a smile. No one would ever guess from his forlorn expression that Rory had already grabbed his fair share of chocolates and taffy and pralines. The child was a fine actor. He did Gilcie proud.

  She opened her empty palms to communicate her lack of candy. The boy was unfazed, and directed his cerulean gaze toward the duke. The aristocrat patted down his jacket pockets until he located a peppermint. The child lisped, “Thank you, your Grace,” sketched a bow, then disappeared with his prize.

  Her lips twitched. “I heard you were not amused.”

  The duke’s eyes twinkled. “That’s Ned. The children delight in waking him up at first light. Apparently, after a night on the town, the southern sun is far too bright and rises far too early.”

  She snickered. A swarm of wild children buzzing around Ned’s bed, demanding beignets or pony rides before he’d had a chance to swallow a headache powder or drink a cup of coffee would be worth seeing.

  “Your brother has taken to the streets of Storyville like a duck to water,” the duke said.

  “Not my house.”

  “No. He told me. Tha
nk you for that.” There was no judgment in her father’s voice. In fact, he sounded grateful. “And thank you for coming here and…for seeing me.”

  She hadn’t been sure she’d actually come until her foot touched the banquette in front of the house. At each stop she made to buy candy, she’d considered going home. But home meant memories of Zeke in the parlors with his lips on hers, in the upstairs hall where he’d helped Gumbo break down Laurelie’s door, in her sitting room where he’d tried to save her from Andrew Farchmin. He haunted her and he wasn’t even a ghost.

  Home meant a doorbell that didn’t ring and the unavoidable fact that its silence rang louder than its sound.

  It was far better to deal with her faithless father than Zeke’s absence. Trula picked up a small Ming Dynasty bowl and turned it in her fingers. The blue and white pattern was fascinating, requiring close study, close enough to avoid the duke’s gaze.

  “You have a beautiful collection,” he said.

  “Thank you. I traveled to China with John.” Her voice faded. She didn’t want to discuss her protector with her father.

  “China.” He snorted. “Nothing but a bunch of lunatic men tied up in knots by a damn empress. Have you been reading the papers?” Apparently the duke didn’t much want to discuss Dupree either.

  She’d read the papers, and a war in China was a much safer topic of conversation than her travels with Dupree. “The Boxer Rebellion and the spirit warriors?” She perched on the edge of a fainting couch covered in lemon damask.

  Her father settled into his chair and picked up his cup. “Poppycock, of course. Spirits taking control of humans? There are no spirits.” He sipped his coffee. “Those yellow savages actually believed they had mystical powers.” He snorted. “The idea is ludicrous.”

  It didn’t sound ludicrous to Trula.

  “Turns out their non-existent spirits couldn’t save them. Guns worked just fine against the rebels.”

  If the duke didn’t believe in things he couldn’t see, he hadn’t spent enough time in New Orleans. “Perhaps the men died and the spirits escaped.”

  “We’re talking about spirits and ghosts, my dear. They don’t exist.” He settled more deeply into the arms of his chair, comfortable in his certainty. “Imbecilic to think otherwise.”

  Well, he was a duke. Maybe absolute assurance came with the title. Maybe that assurance, that belief he was always right, had made it easy to send her away. He’d been sure he was doing the right thing. The right thing as he saw it. Trula lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Men are often wrong.”

  Her father flushed.

  Saints! She’d offended him. Not that she cared one whit. Why would she? Her spine stiffened and she swallowed a sigh. This was awful. All she’d wanted was a respite from listening for a doorbell that didn’t ring. How had she ended up in a stilted conversation with the father who’d rejected her? The father she worried might haunt her if she couldn’t bring herself to forgive the unforgiveable.

  The duke cleared his throat. “I’m sure your brother has told you, you’re a rich woman.”

  She brought her attention back to the man sitting across from her and nodded slowly.

  “There are no strings. The money is yours. You could travel or…” His cheeks darkened to crimson.

  Trula finished his sentence. “Stop being a madam? I’m sure you’d prefer that.” She ignored the flash of pain in his eyes. If he hadn’t abandoned her mother, Grandmother wouldn’t have sold her to John and she wouldn’t be running a brothel in New Orleans. She wouldn’t be a madam.

  “Forgive him.” The hint of a whisper brushed against her ear. It was a child’s voice, light and high.

  She glanced behind her. Nothing but a patch of sunlight. Where was Rory hiding? She narrowed her eyes, searching for the boy under tables, behind a club chair. The little imp had found a good spot. She couldn’t find him. When she returned her gaze to the Duke, he’d stretched his long legs out across the carpet. She could almost believe he was at ease. Almost. The tightness around his eyes and lips betrayed a certain tension.

  “Forgive him.” The whisper was cold on her skin. Trula smelled peppermint.

  Apparently the duke had won the boy to his side with a single piece of candy. Did her taffy and pralines count for nothing? “Why?” she snapped, swiveling her neck so she could scowl at the child who offered unsolicited advice.

  The patch of sunlight was empty except for a milky shimmer, a ghost clad in the wisps of dungarees and a rumpled shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. He grew more solid, more real, until he looked like any ten year-old boy—gap-toothed, bared feet, messy hair, and freckles, with a smudge of something on his chin. All that was missing was a fishing pole and a straw hat. How had a ghost made it past Granny Amzie’s wards? She leapt to her feet and fear gripped her. Children lived in the house. Were they in danger?

  Her father stood, his eyes filled with concern. “Trula?”

  “He loves you,” the ghost whispered.

  Trula snorted. With the exception of Warwick Lambert, everything she knew told her ghosts twisted the truth for their own purposes. Perhaps the duke loved the idea of a daughter. He didn’t love her, a former courtesan, a madam, a woman who wouldn’t fit into his world.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.” The duke sounded contrite.

  “He’s always loved you. He never stopped.” Was the child, like Warwick Lambert, making some sort of amends? Who was he? How did he know her father’s feelings? And, more importantly, how had he made it into her house?

  Trula glared over her shoulder at the busybody spirit who was inserting his opinions into a private discussion.

  “Trula?”

  She massaged her temples, took a deep breath and ignored the troublesome spirit. She smiled at the duke. “I’m sorry. I’m not offended. You were saying…”

  “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m William, Zeke’s ghost. You should forgive him!”

  William? Zeke’s ghost? How in blazes had Zeke’s ghost made it past her wards? “How…here….wards…”

  “They don’t work on me. Forgive him.”

  “Go away,” she muttered. Her father looked worried. She smiled at him. “No. Not you.” She gritted her teeth so tightly her jaw hurt. Is this what Christine Lambert endured? Trula would hate to be truly haunted. To know a ghost, even a well-meaning ghost, always looked over her shoulder would drive Trula to distraction. Christine probably hated it, too. Trula would stake her favorite hat on it.

  The wrinkle of concern that formed between the duke’s brows deepened. “You look pale. Let me get you a brandy.” He stood, walked to the table that held a few cordials and a bottle of Rémy Martin and poured her a glass.

  She accepted it with murmured thanks.

  The little specter regarded her with anxious eyes.

  “Are you quite sure you’re well?” the duke asked.

  “Quite.” Her lips were so stiff they barely moved. “Thank you.”

  “He loves you. Forgive him!” The spirit was persistent. Annoyingly persistent.

  “Why?” Trula blurted. Who was she asking? The meddlesome ghost or her father? “Why did you send me away?” She’d heard the stock answer. He’d promised his wife. But how? How did a father send his daughter away? Forget about her? Leave her to her fate?

  The duke’s chin jerked back as if she’d punched him. His face was a study in shock.

  Saints! What was wrong with her? She didn’t lose her temper. She didn’t raise her voice. And now? Now she was demanding answers from a man who’d cast her aside. Demanding answers as if they mattered, as if they might make a difference. It was Zeke’s fault. She hadn’t slept more than an hour or two on Wednesday night. Last night she’d paced for hours until falling into a brief, fitful slumber. Damn the man. And damn the ghost. Her outburst was his fault as well. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at the interfering phantom.

  “I made the wrong choice. I never should have let you or your mother go.
” The duke’s elegant fingers laced together. He held them cupped in front of his chest, almost as if he was begging.

  “You didn’t let us go.” How dare he suggest his crime was failing to pursue them? He’d set them aside in favor of his wife and son. “We didn’t leave by choice. You sent us away.”

  “I was at a crossroads and I chose the wrong path.” The duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have to understand, Trula. I was delirious with happiness. It’s why I married Dorcas. I had to have a son. She gave me one.”

  “And daughters are worthless?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant. I needed an heir, a son to inherit, to ensure the title. When Ned was born, I was ecstatic, I could hardly think straight. In the heat of the moment, I made a rash promise. I never dreamt she would ask… I mean, I thought she would ask for jewels, a diamond as big as a quail’s egg or ropes of pearls. I never dreamt she would ask me to give you up.”

  Trula opened her mouth to reply and not a word came out. Despite herself, she pictured her father as a younger man with an illegitimate daughter and a legitimate heir, two women demanding his time and attention and no clear path. No matter what he chose, someone would be hurt. Of course the mistress and her illegitimate daughter had lost. The story was old as time. Trula sank back onto the chaise, exhausted, not sure she wanted to hear another word.

  “Trula, you may not want to believe me, but there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought of you, wondered where you were, wondered if you were happy.”

  “Forgive him,” the ghost whispered.

  “Stay out of this,” Trula hissed.

  “What?” Worry creased the duke’s brow. “You look pale as a ghost. Let me get you another brandy.” He stood.

  “Pale as a ghost,” she repeated. The idea made her giggle. Really, the first brandy was already working its magic. She probably didn’t need a second

  “Forgive him.”

  “Be quiet,” she snapped.

  The duke glanced around the room. Of course he saw nothing untoward. No ghostly boy. No shimmer in the sunlight. The lines etched on his forehead deepened to furrows. “Would you like to lie down?”