I waited until every voice was stilled, until they stopped rustling their programs and moving in their seats. I waited for absolute silence, and then I counted to fifty before I nodded to David that I was ready to begin. By that time the atmosphere in the house was electric. He played the opening bars of “Casta Diva.” My voice soared out over the hail, up, up to the highest seats in the balconies, all the way up to the sky. I never sang better in my life. Because I was singing for the man I loved.
I finished the first aria to deafening applause. I went on to the second, Beethoven. Then a thrilling Mozart concert aria which most of the people there were hearing for the first and only time because it was so fiendishly difficult that most sopranos didn’t even attempt it. I gave them Handel and Brahms and Liszt.
“These songs were written for me by a dear friend and teacher,” I told the audience. They referred to their programs and learned that the friend was none other than the legendary Liszt. Very impressive.
I sang the “Five Gypsy Songs.” And as I sang them I looked up at the box to my right and I looked at Seth, as if to say, “You see, you bastard? You didn’t believe in me and you were wrong!”
His eyes were burning but his expression was still fathomless. What was he thinking? Was he remembering a dirty-faced child dressed in rags, her face turned up to his, grinning as she pulled off his boot and massaged his leg? Or perhaps he remembered a girl with pearls in her hair, playing at being a lady, strutting and standing and talking the way she thought a lady would. Hair like golden silk cascading to the floor and a slender young body in his arms. Her face, full of mischief and devilment, bending over cards at a faro table. Her face shining up at him from satin pillows. Her face full or anger or joy. Or fear. Drained of blood. Blue and lifeless. Or flushed with enormous happiness as she smiled at her son.
I think he must have been remembering, for he stood up abruptly and left the box before I had finished my “Five Gypsy Songs.”
They said later that the applause nearly cracked the ceiling of the Opera House. I don’t know how true that was, but I do know that the carpet of flowers on the stage was so thick that I could hardly make my way to the front to take my bows. I sang seven short encore pieces and they wanted seven more. After the concert the young roves of the town, with Sean McClelland in the vanguard, unhitched the horses from my carriage and pulled it through the streets as they cheered lustily.
“But in two weeks time they will have forgotten me,” I told Steven later when we were alone in my music room.
They will have something new to interest them. A night like this is still just one night. But you and I will have many, many wonderful nights, Steven.”
I feel very humble, my dear,” said Steven in a mocking-pompous voice. “To have to compete with such adulation, such worship—!”
“Silly,” I kissed him and sat on his lap. “You don’t have to compete. You have my heart, you know that. But what happened to your brother? Doesn’t he like music?”
“I think he had a bad case of envy,” Steven chuckled. “I don’t blame him.”
“Envy? Really? Do you think so?” My heart quickened. Was Seth jealous? Does he love me, as his mother said? Well, what if he does? I said to myself. You don’t want him. Just remember what he did to you. “Poor Vulcan!” I sighed.
“What?”
“Oh,” I said hastily, “I call him that because he reminds me of Vulcan, big and black and silent, laboring in the dark reaches of the earth where no one ever sees him, while we golden gods play in the sunlight.”
“I just don’t see how you can give up your singing for marriage to a mere attorney,” Steven sighed.
“It might embarrass you politically to have a wife who appeared in public like that. Your enemies would persuade the critics to give me bad reviews! I wouldn’t care—I never read them anyway—but you would be furious. You would call them out and kill them, and your career would be finished!”
“What an imagination!” he laughed. He kissed me fondly. I slid off his lap and lay back on the settee, pulling him down with me. His hair fell over his eyes and I pushed it aside. He had such a sweet, dear face. Nothing secret, nothing hidden. His love for me shone in his eyes. It shimmered in his eyes. I loved him. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you again,” he sighed.
“Leave?” I stared at him. “What do you mean, leave?” He looked abashed. “I know we planned to get away,” he said, “and I still want to, but the President has called me to Washington. I leave tomorrow. It’s this Cuban business. I’ve met General Lopez, and President Taylor thought—but you don’t want to hear all that.” He saw the gleam in my eyes and sat up. “You’re angry.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “Only I didn’t expect—I don’t want to be alone—” With Seth.
“Silly,” he laughed. “You’ll never be alone. My family is here. You’ll have plenty to do until I get back. The season’s in full swing and there will be parties and balls until Mardi Gras. The Governor’s Ball is this week, and there will be lots of adoring young men to take you around. You might even be kind to poor Seth and let him take you out.”
“I could not do that,” I said crisply. “I cannot trust myself with a man like that,” I said with deliberate truth.
“Then by all means stay away from him,” Steven laughed. “I won’t be gone too long. No more than a month.”
My heart sank. A month. He might as well have said a year. A month with Seth hovering in the background.
“Couldn’t I come with you?” I asked in a small voice. “I wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“But I wouldn’t get any work done. And neither would anyone else in Washington.”
“Is this the way it’s going to be after we’re married? Are you going to run off all the time on other people’s business and leave me—to the wolves! It’s not fair, Steven. Married people should be together!”
“Poor Rhawnie,” he said with a sad smile, “don’t act like I’m abandoning you.”
“But you are! That’s exactly what you’re doing— abandoning me. What about Julie? Did you take her to Washington?”
“Of course not.” He began to look uncomfortable. "She was pregnant most of the time anyway and she didn’t like to travel.”
“That sounds like a wonderful arrangement. You came home once a year to kiss the babies and to get her started on another one. What was she supposed to do for love while you were away, live on little golden moments from the past?”
“That’s not quite fair, Rhawnie,” he said stiffly. “Julie was very happy being a politician’s wife.”
“Did she tell you that? Or did you tell her?”
His face grew cold. “She told me. And as for—loving,” he paused and took a breath, “she didn’t—. She—her upbringing was vastly different from yours, Rhawnie. She endured it, but she didn’t like it. She never—wanted it. Sometimes I could hear her crying softly in the dark, afterwards.”
But Seth had bragged that Julie was “no saint,” implying that she had given herself to him passionately and eagerly. And then I understood. She had married Steven, that secret still on her soul. The secret had come between them. She probably did like being a politician’s wife: writing him clever, newsy letters, mothering his children, keeping his home in order, dreading his return all the while she longed for it. The Lie was always there, haunting her, hurting her. Her deceit made everything she did for him a lie: every affectionate gesture, every loving word, every sacrifice.
Steven’s wonderful, happy marriage had been built on a lie. He had been sorely cheated, cheated of more than he would ever know. She might have been in love with Seth all that time, or she might not. It didn’t matter. She hadn’t spoken when she should have, and it got harder and harder and then it was impossible. The secret was locked inside her like a black vein of coal under layers of rock. Waiting had only made her torment worse.
“And the truth shall make you free,” I whispered. And there I was, about to do it to Steven agai
n, about to build a marriage on foundations that were rotten with deceit.
“But you, Steven,” I said softly. “How did you—did you have mistresses?”
“Politics was my mistress,” he said with a rueful smile. “There were a few women—but I hated doing it. It seemed so unfair to Julie. It wasn’t her fault, after all. But no one special—until I met you. So warm and caring. You weren’t ashamed, you weren’t embarrassed. You liked to look at my body and you liked me to see yours.”
Tell him. Tell him. But he looks so unhappy. It would crush him. I can’t. I can’t!
“What time are you leaving?” I asked him.
“In the morning.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “I’d better be going.” He started to stand but I held him back.
“No,” I said. “You will stay here tonight. I—I don’t want to be alone. The concert—I would be so disappointed if you didn’t. Please. Steven?”
He touched my face lightly, then took my hand and led me to the bedroom. We undressed each other quickly. He hurt me that night, for the first time since I’d known him. He was hungry, ferocious, demanding. He wanted me to make up for all those years of frustration and deprivation, and I tried. We slept fitfully and loved desperately, as though those were our last hours together.
Just before dawn I said, “You’ll be very tired today, Steven.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can sleep on the boat. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on Sean, but he’ll just have to fend for himself, which I am sure he will do without difficulty.” Steven and Sean would be travelling north together. Steven kissed my tumble of hair. “I feel very close to you now,” he murmured.
“I’m glad. I feel close to you, too. Oh, Steven, I want to talk to you." I was resolved. I was determined. I would tell him.
But he kissed me again, and yet again, and he said, “No talk. Not now.”
I’m a coward. I’m a Gypsy. I give myself up to the pleasure of the moment and let the future take care of itself.
For the next two weeks I basked in the attention of admirers. Invitations poured in to parties and balls and soirees. I sang at the St. Louis Cathedral, and Elise McClelland asked me to do a benefit for the Society of the Bereaved Widows of the Battle of Chalmette. Of course I consented. I had great sympathy for widows—and abandoned wives. It looked like I would certainly not be idle while Steven was away, which, as I told Anna, was all to the good. I saw Seth rarely, but often enough to know that he was still in town. I wished he would leave.
Then, at ten o’clock one Tuesday morning, he burst into my room, followed by an anguished Anna who kept trying to hold him back. I had been up only a few minutes and I was brushing my hair at the dressing table.
“Where is she?” he demanded in a strangled voice. “Come on, tell me! What have you done with her!” His face was pale and unshaven, his eyes were red-rimmed and blazing with anger.
I squinted at him and said drowsily, “What are you talking about? Who?” I wondered if he had suddenly lost his wits.
“You know who!” He came over to the dressing table and jerked me to my feet. His fingers dug into my scarred wrist. “If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll break your stupid lying head right off your Gypsy neck!” He shook me. “Gaby’s gone! You’re hiding her, aren’t you? This is all your doing!”
He released me and I fell away from him and rubbed my wrist. “I don’t know anything,” I said. I was suddenly wide awake. “For the love of God, calm yourself, Seth, and tell me what’s happened. What do you mean, she’s gone? Where?”
He pulled a crumpled note out of his coat pocket and threw it at me. “Read that. You do know how to read now, don’t you?” he sneered. “We thought she was staying with Colette and Philippe. I went over to see them this morning and they hadn’t seen her! She’s been missing a week. This came an hour ago. It was posted right here in the city, by a friend, no doubt. Did you send it, Rhawnie? Did you?”
I scanned the page with difficulty, picking out an odd phrase here and there. The strength went out of my legs and I sat down heavily. “ ‘Dear Mother and Father . . . please forgive ... hope you will understand ... Boris and I—!’ Boris!” I cried. “Oh, that foolish one! Oh, my God, this is terrible!” I shook the note at him and said, “She has run away with that—that monster! Do something, Seth! Find her!” I leaped up and put my hands on his arms. They felt as hard and stiff as tree limbs. “I warned her about him, Seth. You think I had a part in this? I hate Boris Azubin! He is cruel and selfish and evil! I told her he would break her heart, as you—.” I bit my lip and moved away from him. “Please believe me, Seth,” I pleaded, “I had nothing to do with this.”
“She first met him here, didn’t she?” he barked. “He’s Russian and so are you. He was probably one of your lovers. Wasn’t he Wasn’t he?”
“No, no!” I looked to Anna, who was standing in the doorway watching us with wide, frightened eyes. “Tell him, Anna! He was only here to gamble a few times, and once after—I never—” I put my hands to my temples and said, “Bring some coffee and brandy, Anna.”
“You thought—because of what I said—you thought I wanted to hurt you, through her.” I looked at him. He sat wearily on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees. “It was just talk, Seth, that’s all. I love your family. Oh, I should have known she was planning something!” I paced the floor and wrung my hands. “She was too quiet, too content. Your mother and I both thought she had forgotten him. I should have known better. Women don’t forget men like that easily. And he’s just the kind of swine who would think he had to have revenge. Devils, all of you! I’ll get dressed and help you look.”
I flung open the doors of my wardrobe and pulled out a simple Spanish-style riding outfit with a short split skirt and a fitted bolero jacket, and frilly white shirt. I had just stripped down to my chemise when David Thatcher burst in without warning. I gave an affronted gasp and held my blouse over my breasts, but he didn’t even look at me.
“Any news?” he asked Seth without preamble. Seth shook his head.
“You know?” I asked, pulling on my clothes.
David nodded. “I ran into her father at Maspero’s this morning. He doesn’t want the whole town to know and that’s the best place to make discreet inquiries about anything.”
Anna brought the coffee and they both helped themselves. I sat down and pulled on my boots while they discussed where she might have gone. Gabrielle—and that foul creature. How could she be so blind? And David Thatcher wandering in and out of a place like Maspero’s, which had the worst reputation in the city. For all I knew, he was as big as a blackguard as Seth McClelland. Men, I thought disgustedly. They’re all the same.
Then Garth McClelland strode in, big as a snow-capped mountain. My bedroom seemed to be a rendezvous for all the men in New Orleans that morning.
“I’ve heard something,” he said. “Someone saw them—or a couple that matched their description— boarding the steamship Valerie Jane last week. They paid for passage to St. Louis. They’re halfway there by now. The Valerie Jane’s the fastest steamboat on the Mississippi.”
“We can ride after them!” David cried. “They can’t do more than fifteen miles an hour against the current.”
Seth said, “No, we’ve had too much rain. The river roads are knee-deep in mud. Wait a minute, the Delta Belle’s docked here, isn’t she? I know her captain, Farley Seward. I know I can get him to go after the Valerie Jane. He’s a fool for racing.”
“I’ll come with you!” David said.
“No,” Garth put his hand on the boy’s arm. “I might be wrong about this. It’s possible that they’ve gone in another direction, or they might even be in town yet. I’ll need you here, David. Keep asking around the Quarter, you might hear something important. If you do—if they’re not on the Valerie Jane—send a wire to Seth in St. Louis and he’ll come back. Don’t worry, lad. She’ll be all right. Seth, I’ll send word to the house for George to pack a valise for you and send it
down to the dock. You go see what kind of deal you can strike with Seward.”
Then the three of them left the room, with nary a backward glance at me.
“So foolish, so young,” I sighed. “Why, why wouldn’t she listen to me, Anna? No good will come of this, no good at all. I’m afraid for her, Anna.”
I thought of how desperate and sad I had been when Seth had left me, and how I might have died of sorrow if it hadn’t been for Anna. Somehow, having another woman there, to talk to and commiserate with, had helped me.
I said, “Anna, I am going with Seth! On that boat, the Delta Belle! Pack a large valise for me. Some medicines and tea, some brandy and vodka and a little food. One dress will do, something sturdy and plain. Underthings and a warm cloak—but I’ll wear that. And rip the last of my jewels out of that petticoat! I may need them.”
Then I sat down at my desk in the music room to dash off a note to Steven. It was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life—not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I had never written a letter in my life, and it had been a long time since my lessons with King Ludwig.
“Deer Stefan,” I wrote, spelling the words the way they sounded to my ear. My pen made a fat blob on the page. I core it up, cursing, and started again. “I now yu vill unterstend.” The pen nib broke, I was pressing so hard. I didn’t know what to do next. David did all my writing for me, and God knows where he was at that moment.
Clearly I was not meant to write to Steven. He would have to hear the details of our departure from someone else, and I hoped he would understand. And perhaps when I returned I would have the courage to tell him the truth.
The dock in front of the Delta Belle swarmed with activity. A crew of black men was unloading every piece of freight and every article of furniture that would add to the weight of the boat. A man on the bridge kept shouting at them to hurry. I decided he must be the captain, Farley Seward. I caught a glimpse of Seth pacing the deck behind him. Of course he was burning to be under way.
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