April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  Abruptly she pushed away from him, reaching for the door handle, sliding from the car. She whispered good night, a strangled sound, then she whirled and ran for the house, away from Justin, away from herself and the weakness that urged her to stay, away from the knowledge that she was fleeing from the man with whom in a misguided, unknowing moment, she had fallen in love.

  Nine

  If she had thought about it, Laura would have known the day she had spent with Justin would not go unnoticed. She did not think about it. There were far too many things to occupy her wayward imagination, too many hopes, fears, and suppositions pushed below the level of her daily problems. It came as a surprise then when Myra came charging down upon Crapemyrtle two days later while she was overseeing the refinishing of the yellow heart-pine floors. She demanded, in a voice that carried even above the noise of a sander, to see the old bed.

  Laura offered to take her upstairs to where the armoire and the bed, not yet put together, had been placed in the master bedroom. The woman hardly waited until she was out of earshot of the workmen before she began.

  “I couldn’t believe my ears when Justin’s mother told me you and he had gone together to choose the bed we would sleep in as husband and wife. It beats anything I have ever heard for brass!”

  “You don’t understand. The Mallard pieces were rare and expensive. I didn’t like to make such a decision on my own,” Laura tried to explain.

  “Who do you think you’re kidding?” Myra sneered. “You wanted Justin to yourself.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “If that wasn’t it, why didn’t you call me to see if I wanted to go along for the ride? Especially since you must have known the trip would take all day and half the night? Oh, yes, I know how long it took. I didn’t find out where he was until this morning, but I tried to reach him several times that day — yes, and that evening, too.”

  “I honestly didn’t think you would be interested. You weren’t too impressed with the other antiques that were bought for the house.” Laura kept her voice even with an effort. One thing that enabled her to keep a tight rein on her temper was the knowledge that there might be a small grain of truth to the woman’s accusation.

  “You don’t fool me,” Myra said as they moved along the upper hallway. “I’ve seen it from the beginning. You want Justin and this house. But I can promise you this much: you’ll never have them. No matter what happens, I’ll see to that.”

  Color rose to Laura’s cheeks. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I don’t think so,” the other woman said with a shade of complacency. “Still, I would advise you to remember what I said. I don’t give up what’s mine easily.”

  Though Myra stared straight ahead, not even trying to meet Laura’s gaze, there was a fanatical gleam in her vivid green eyes. Speaking as quietly as possible, Laura said, “There’s no need for threats.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Justin has had precious little to say for himself lately. He spends all his free time here, with you.”

  “It’s the house, trying to get it finished and see to his business at the same time.” Laura deliberately made her voice low and soothing.

  The other woman’s red lips twisted. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I think it’s time we announced our wedding date, and I can’t think of a better time than at the party I’m throwing when this house is done. The sooner you get through and get out, the better.”

  “That suits me.” Laura opened the bedroom door and stood aside for Myra to enter.

  “My God,” the dark-haired woman said, stopping in the middle of the floor. “That thing is what you “wasted a whole day buying?”

  “It’s a Mallard, and extremely valuable —” Laura began.

  “I don’t give a damn what it is! I’ve never seen anything so big and ugly.”

  “It’s in good proportion to the room.”

  “It’s just like that big mirror over there that I told you to throw out. I couldn’t stand to sleep in such a hideous thing. It would be like trying to rest with a weight hanging over you, ready to drop at any minute.”

  “Wait until you see it put together,” Laura urged.

  “I don’t need to see it put together. I hate it already. If I had to have something old, why couldn’t it have been in the French style?”

  “This is French, Louisiana French-Creole, and especially appropriate for the house and the area.”

  “No, I mean real French, Louis Quinze or Seize, or whatever. Something with curved legs and scrolls and gold leaf, something pretty and elegant.”

  “It will look different when your emerald-satin hangings are in place,” Laura said.

  “It won’t be the same. If that thing has got to stay, I don’t care what you do with it. But I’ll never sleep in it, I’ll tell you that much! I’ll pick out another room for myself. Let Justin have his monster bed and see how he likes sleeping in it by himself!”

  The gladness that Laura felt rippling along her veins was a revelation that brought with it the memory of her own dread as she had pictured Myra lying beside Justin beneath that same tester. It was a touch of guilt that made her try to stem Myra’s tirade.

  “There’s no need to get excited about it; I’m sure Justin will be reasonable if you talk to him and explain how much you dislike it.”

  “Is that so? I don’t doubt he seems reasonable to you; so far he’s sided with you every time when it comes to a choice between what I want and what you think is best for his precious Crapemyrtle.”

  “I can’t help that,” Laura told her. “I’m only trying to do my job to the best of my ability.”

  Myra sent her a sly look. “I seem to have heard that before, but never mind. I’ll talk to Justin, and if he won’t listen, I guess I’ll just have to get used to this — this horror chamber.”

  The woman’s easy flip-flop in attitude, from adamant refusal to resignation, threw Laura off balance. Despite the fact that she had seen it several times before, she could not get used to her changeable personality. It was with something like amazement that she watched the other woman give a small, petulant shrug and turn away, dismissing the entire incident.

  Speaking over her shoulder, Myra said, “About the party, I’ve been thinking. It would be fabulous if it could be done like a ball, the way they used to do it in the old days. The women could wear hoop skirts, the men white ties and tails. We could have a band to play waltzes, hundreds of candles everywhere, and a fountain that pours champagne. That ought to please Justin, don’t you think?”

  “You could have a few candles, but to use them everywhere would be too much of a fire hazard. Besides, the chandeliers are being wired for electricity. They will use the small candle bulbs that give the same effect and light level as real candles. As for the champagne, we could have that, but I think it would much more likely have been served in a punch, ladled from a silver bowl.”

  “There, I knew I could count on you to know how things should be done.”

  It was the first time Myra had ever shown any appreciation for her knowledge. Laura could not help but be skeptical, though she also could not suppress excitement at the thought of such a party. Slowly she said, “The invitations could be hand-delivered by a groom in livery and white gloves carrying a ribbon-decked basket.”

  “I know just the man, my father’s chauffeur,” Myra exclaimed.

  “The ladies could carry dance cards shaped like fans, with every dance numbered and a space beneath for the men to write their names.”

  “And the ball gowns! Mine will be light-green taffeta trimmed with darker-green velvet, with an absolutely enormous skirt, yards and yards of material, held out by a hoop. I’ll wear one of those feather things in my hair.” Myra’s eyes sparkled with green lights.

  Laura looked doubtful. “Hoop skirts weren’t the fashion until twenty years after the house was built. The style in 1840 was similar, but not so wide or ornate. The skirts were held out by petticoats stiffened with starch, or else
reinforced by a horsehair crin, or band of stiffening.”

  “Horsehair? Ugh!”

  “It may sound terrible, but it was a shiny fabric a little like taffeta, only suffer and a bit scratchy. That’s where we get the word for crinoline.”

  “Oh, I think as far as the style goes, we can stretch a point,” Myra said. “No one will notice except purists like you. What about the food? Shall we have a dinner?”

  “It depends on the number of people you mean to invite.”

  “Hundreds! As many as the house will hold,” Myra exclaimed.

  “You may have to settle for dozens, and even then, it will be impossible to seat them all at a table. You could have a late buffet supper, though, served just before midnight. That was often done.”

  “Lovely,” Myra said, her tone becoming brittle. “And I suppose you know exactly what to serve?”

  “Well, you could have daube, and meringues, and a centerpiece of nougat. I know a caterer who has a chef who still makes those nougat candy figures.”

  Myra gave Laura a smile that was both brilliant and malicious. “Fine, you see to it. In fact, I’ll leave it all to you. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent and authentic job. That, plus finishing up the rest of the house, should keep you so busy you won’t have time for anything else, particularly Justin.”

  There was more than a little truth to Myra’s parting gibe. Laura stayed on the run in the following weeks, seeing to the endless final details of the house, and in addition, interviewing women for the position of housekeeper for Justin, ordering hand-lettered invitations and dance programs for the party, arranging for musicians, engaging a florist, seeing to a dress for herself, as well as hiring a caterer and discussing menus and recipes that would combine traditional dishes with those more likely to suit modern tastes. She spent a day in New Orleans ordering tablecloths and napkins matched to the china that Justin’s mother had sent out to the house, and also laying in a supply of linen, pristine white with hand-embroidered monograms — thirty Turkish towels and washcloths, and hand-embroidered linen hand towels to hang on the antique wooden towel racks in the baths. With a wry smile, she even chose soap for the bathrooms and the powder room. Later, she made the rounds of the French Quarter antique shops where she picked up a few tables, ottomans, and a set of wrought-iron boot scrapers shaped like lyres for the front and back doors.

  While she was there, she also found what she had been looking for to go in the double parlors, a matched pair of mirrors, tall pier glasses topped with foliated scrolls and a raised cartouche coated with gold leaf, along with their marble-topped bases with cabriole legs. The mirror at one end would go between the windows, whose brass cornices were in a similar style, while the other would sit between a pair of recessed alcoves hung with draperies. There would be no other effort to make the two rooms, divided by great sliding doors that could be pushed back into the walls, match each other. It would be better to harmonize the furnishing, treating them like one room.

  The house began to take shape. The painters completed their work and left, the paperhangers crawled up and down ladders, cutting into expensive rolls of paper with abandon, then collected their tools, paste pots, and paychecks. The sound of hammers and saws ceased. The electricians installed auxiliary smoke alarms, turned the last screw that held the chandeliers in place, and inserted small candle bulbs. The telephone service man came out and secreted phones in various cabinets. A cleaning crew was brought in to scrape away the vestiges of paint left on the window glass and wash the panes, rubbing them until they glittered in the bright spring sun. They cleaned the floors and polished them to a mirrorlike finish, washed down the gallery floors, removed the stickers and tags from fixtures, wiped down the sawdust from the baseboards and cornices, and left the house looking and smelling new.

  Behind them came delivery men bringing rolled carpets and rugs, and wrestling furniture into place. Laura herself, along with the new housekeeper, spent the better part of two days rubbing lemon oil polish into the antique furniture in the house, while outside a gardening crew cut and trimmed the lawn, pruned the azaleas, spread fertilizer, removed spent blossoms, then finally swept up all the grass clippings and vacuumed the brick walks.

  Though the major work was over, there was still no time to rest. Justin moved in, an operation that, off and on, took the best part of a week. With him he brought several boxes of ornaments that had been donated by his mother, handed down from his grandparents. He also brought a number of portraits of his various ancestors, among them one of Jean Bienvenu Roman by Healy — Jean, a darkly handsome man with a stern face who bore a striking resemblance to Justin himself. While he was engaged in hanging the portraits, Laura polished a silver and cut-glass epergne, a candelabrum, and several separate candlesticks. She set out Parian glassware, a set of Wedgwood urns, and a collection of millefiori paperweights, watched jealously by Myra, who wandered back and forth between Laura and Justin giving unwanted, unasked advice. When Myra tried to help wash a few of the ornaments, she dropped a delft china slipper into the sink and would have broken it, if it had not fallen on a cushion of toweling Laura had placed in the bottom against just such falls.

  That was still not all. On the morning of the party, Laura had to return to the house, to be there when the florist and caterers arrived in order to show them where and how everything should be placed. Justin would not be there. He had gone into the office to get a little work done, and also to be on hand for the inevitable calls from friends in Baton Rouge asking for directions to the house. That, at least, would be a relief.

  The caterer was punctual to the minute. He and his helpers set to work, along with the chef, who would be on the premises until the party was over. The florist, however, was late. Lunchtime came and went, and still he had not put in an appearance. Laura called the shop and was told that one of their delivery vans was having mechanical problems, but that they had another. It was behind schedule, but Crapemyrtle’s order would be on the doorstep in two or three hours at the most, if she would only bear with them.

  It was odd to have nothing to do. Laura wandered out to the kitchen, where the catering staff was at work. The new addition was a hive of activity, a scene of ordered chaos. She watched for a time and spoke to the chef, a rotund man with a gray walrus mustache. Feeling in the way, she retraced her footsteps through the pantry, passing through the dining room, with its long mahogany table and chairs, lace tablecloth, sideboard, lowboy, and tea chest, and then moving out into the hallway.

  The noise from the kitchen did not penetrate here. The quiet of the house surrounded her, encompassing her in its expansive, generous content. An ache grew in the region of her heart, and with deliberate footsteps Laura moved down the hall, touching the scenic paper with the tips of her fingers, placing the palm of her hand on the Sheraton mahogany console table with satin-wood banding that sat against the wall, caressing the polished banister of the staircase where it ended in a serpentine coil for a newel post.

  She mounted the stairs, admiring its clean, freshly painted, spiraling sweep. The upper hallway had been laid with an Axminster runner in gold and green marked off in squares with black. In one bedroom done in blue was a cherry tester bed with a graceful canopy fitted out in a Chinoiserie print. The same cloth had been used in drapes at the windows, which were embellished with tassels and tiebacks and drawn aside to show swiss muslin under-curtains, and also on the bed in a spread that was overlaid by a hand-crocheted coverlet. The walls of another room had been given a delicate striped paper in eggshell white and gold. It had a gold swag border that matched the swag design on a commode set that graced a washstand, including the pitcher and bowl, slop jar, footbath, chamber pot, and other toilet articles.

  It was the master bedroom that drew Laura, however. She pushed open the door, but did not go inside. Here, the Mallard bed had been set up and fitted out with mattresses and monogrammed sheets. The sunburst beneath the canopy was in gold antique silk, fastened with a circular pin of bronze. The o
ther hangings were of soft green with the faintest possible undertone of gold. The walls had been painted off-white and left severely plain. In one corner stood the cheval glass, while in another was a footed shaving stand. The armoire took up one wall, and a small dressing table of fine inlay work sat between the windows. Drawing all these elements together was the rug on the floor, a fine Wilton reproduction of green and gold on an off-white ground. Justin’s robe lay across the foot of the heavy linen coverlet on the bed. His silver-backed hairbrushes were on the shelf of the shaving stand.

  Myra had seen the room since it was finished, but she had not commented one way or another on the absence of her emerald satin. She seemed to have forgotten her request for it as quickly and easily as she had discarded her passionate yearning for a game room and a pool. It was just as well. In the end, Laura had not been able to inflict such a color scheme either on the room or on Justin.

  Pressing her lips tightly upon each other, Laura closed the door once more. She swung away, moving out onto the gallery. The sight of the trim lawns and shrubbery, the double row of crape myrtles already forming small, hard green balls of buds could not hold her attention. She felt on edge, strangely tearful and overtired. Without pausing, she turned back into the house.

  Descending the stairs, she moved through the gold-and-white double parlors with the Belter chairs and settees, the matching mirrors, and the gold-and-red Oriental rugs rolled up out of the way, to leave the floor clear for dancing. Everything was in readiness here except for the bower of ferns and palms that would partially conceal the musicians in one inside corner, and the empty bowls sitting on marble-topped tables that would hold arrangements of roses and old-fashioned sweet peas, forget-me-nots, and fern. There was nothing for her to do there.

  Across the hall, the sitting room had a welcoming air, though it may have been her imagination. Its soft cream walls were ornamented by a rose-garland border paper under the cornice. The rose-marble mantel had been cleaned, as bad the slate hearth, and a brass fireguard and other fixtures set in place. On the floor was an Aubusson carpet in rose, gold, and cream with green touches. The drapes at the windows were of antique satin in a dusty-rose shade, the edges finished with tasseled fringe and the fullness caught back with satin ropes. The bottom hems were folded onto the floor in a small pile of excess material as had been the style in the early Victorian period when generosity in all things had been a much-admired symbol of wealth. The draperies had been modeled after a set in a house in Natchez, Mississippi, up the river, the only difference being the material, which, like the other hanging and window coverings throughout the house, had been treated for flame retardation. There was a pair of Sheraton wing chairs in a flower print, and a Directoire chaise-sofa in a dark-rose brocade. A number of smaller rosewood chairs and tables and a secretary-desk completed the furnishings.