by Lyn Cote
At half-past eleven that evening at Antoine’s, a distinguished French restaurant which had opened in the 1840s, Gabe watched Meg enter, wearing a flowing costume of fine white linen, sandals, and under one arm a small box of ornately carved wood. The irony of her costume was not wasted on him. When she arrived in New Orleans, she’d opened Pandora’s box.
This took him back to this morning when he’d been six minutes late for Simon LeGrand’s court. Wiring money to France had proved more complicated and time-consuming than he’d anticipated. The judge’s displeasure had irritated him, but wondering how to interpret last night’s attack on Del was more upsetting. Since the advent of Miss Wagstaff into his life and Paul’s letter, reality had tilted off-center.
“That isn’t true,” Gabe confessed silently. Reality, his old reality, had vanished soon after he’d arrived in France and hadn’t yet returned. He kept telling himself it was just a matter of time. But was it? Would things here ever be the same? Not if he was able to find Marie.
Last night at Alice’s, he’d almost spilled everything about Lenore and Marie to Meg Wagstaff. But he’d known her for such a brief time and she remained unpredictable. Why hadn’t he just taken her home? Resisting the pull to go to her, now he turned away and went outside to wait for his parents’ arrival.
Meg saw Gabriel walk away. And was glad. She had too much on her mind to fence with him now. LaRae’s assignation today had prompted Meg to reexamine every minute she’d spent at the Penny Candy. Del’s three friends had looked at her with ill-concealed alarm. Corelli who’d already known her name had been at pains to unnerve her. LaRae knew something dangerous about why Del had been framed for murder. Or why would she warn Meg to leave New Orleans?
With these thoughts buzzing in her mind, Meg greeted her hostess. Pandora’s Ball was already in full swing. The restaurant had been decorated in amber and green with silk and fresh garlands of glossy green smilax. Along the walls garden benches nestled among a profusion of potted palms. Also the rich scents of French cooking took her back to the outdoor cafés along the Champs-Élysées.
Finding an empty bench by the wall, Meg sat back to let the colorful costumes distract her. Spanish dancers in flamenco costumes, eighteenth century French nobles—ladies in wide brocade skirts and white powdered wigs with towering curls and men in pastel silk stockings and satin knee breeches. Meg noticed that Corby Ferrand wore a black-and-white-striped prison costume. Where was Belle?
“Good evening, Miss Wagstaff,” a cloying voice sounded beside her.
Meg turned to see Dulcine. “Miss Fourchette, what a lovely costume.”
The blonde wore a blue antebellum dress with a hooped skirt and a white picture hat, tied with a wide blue ribbon. “This dress belonged to my great-grandmother, the first Dulcine.”
Dulcine settled cautiously on the edge of the bench. A hoop skirt could be tricky. If Dulcine weren’t careful, her dress could fly up in front—no doubt revealing ruffled pantaloons, probably also worn by the first Dulcine. Imagining Dulcine in that fix managed to amuse Meg, but she suppressed her grin.
“I hear that you persuaded Mr. St. Clair to allow his daughter to return to high school—”
What business is that of yours? “I must protest,” Meg imitated Dulcine’s oh-so-proper, sickeningly sweet tone. “I did nothing but soothe Belle’s nerves and suggest she discuss the matter with her father.”
Dulcine pursed her mouth. “Be that as it may, your influence has encouraged my cousin, Maisy, to also reenter high school—”
“Now, that is shockin’.” Meg added Dulcine’s southern accent to her imitation of the blonde’s overbred speaking style. “What will New Orleans do with so many fair and educated ladies?”
Dulcine glared at her. “I might have expected you to behave in this way—”
“You expected me to behave just like this, didn’t you? So you can tell everyone—behind my back—how unmannerly I am?”
“What an unpleasant remark.” Dulcine stood up abruptly, causing her skirt to sway and billow precariously.
“Be careful or you’ll embarrass yourself.”
Without a backward glance, Dulcine sashayed away, her pretty little nose in the air.
Meg chuckled. But her amusement was shortlived. Worry over Del pressed down on her. In the early hours at Alice’s, she’d felt the relentless pressure crushing her heart, loosen. But her sorrow over losing her first love also would not release her. “My sweet Meg,” Colin whispered, his tender lips grazing her ear. “Let us be happy while we can.” Meg closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Our time together was too brief.
“Good evening, Miss Wagstaff.”
Meg opened her eyes and gasped. “Belle, what a delightful costume.”
Belle blushed. The debutante had come dressed as a powder puff in sheered pink satin. A hoop high around her shoulders continued down and all around, stretching the pink satin in a full circle. Belle wore pink silk stockings and pink gloves up the length of her arms. On her head, she wore a tight matching silk cap which covered her hair completely.
“It’s the most imaginative costume here.”
“I agree.” Corby Ferrand in prison stripes and a flamboyant mustache appeared at Belle’s elbow. The friendly convict puffed his chest out and offered Belle his arm. “May I escort you to the punch bowl?”
Beaming, Belle nodded and Corby led her away.
Meg saw Gabriel St. Clair observe this from across the room where he stood beside his parents. Picking up her box, she rose and went to join him. After his sharing Alice’s with her, she’d glimpsed the man under his facade. But she must keep her distance. Gabriel St. Clair was the prosecution. She must not forget this fact merely because she’d eaten a late-night supper with him in blessed peace.
He exchanged polite greetings with her. “Your costume suits you.”
Meg nodded but refused to pick up that gauntlet. Gabriel had come dressed as a gentleman at the time of the Louisiana Purchase. He wore a high white collar, a short fitted black coat with tails, and form-fitting, buff-colored knit breeches. The outfit showed off his athletic form and broad shoulders. Awareness of him skittered through her. She recalled leaning close to him last night, feeling his warmth and strength.
“Yours suits you, too.” Before he could reply, she turned to his father. “I’ve received your message at my hotel. I’m glad Del’s continuance was granted.”
“Simon LeGrand is a stickler in court, but he is a reasonable man. I told you I didn’t doubt I could get the continuance.” Sands had come dressed in regular evening dress.
She stepped close to him and bent to whisper into his ear, “I need to tell you something.”
“After dinner,” he replied.
Dressed all in lavender with a tall pointed hat, like a lady in a fairy tale book, Mrs. St. Clair frowned. “I don’t like Belle’s outfit.”
No doubt Mrs. St. Clair yearned to tell Meg to stay away from Belle, that she exerted a bad influence on her daughter. For a moment, a longing to be with Cecy welled up inside Meg. When Meg had been home in San Francisco, she had avoided being alone with her young, beautiful stepmother. Now Meg regretted this. Cecy would have been so kind, so understanding.
With a coy smile and a come-hither expression, Dulcine floated by in her antebellum gown. Meg expected Gabriel to follow her. The thought brought a distinct tug to her midsection. But he stayed at Meg’s side. Why? She glanced at him. Had he begun to take Dulcine’s true measure?
“Doesn’t Dulcine look lovely?” Mrs. St. Clair cooed.
“Yes, she does,” Gabriel agreed. “Miss Wagstaff, may I escort you to dinner?”
Meg stared at him. “If you wish.” But why?
Taking his arm, Meg let herself escape into this moment of nearness. His short hair still showed a tendency to wave around his ears. Meg imagined her fingers tracing the patterns of those close-cropped curls.
When they were far enough away from Gabriel’s mother, Meg teased him. “
I’m certain your mother would prefer you escort Miss Fourchette.”
“I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”
Looking up at him, she studied his gray eyes, so soulful. Then she tilted her head, inquiring. “I agree. But are you escorting me to point this out to your mother?”
Meg located her name card on the table and sat down, greeting Emilie and her son-in-law, one on either side of her. After helping her with her chair, Gabriel bowed to Meg and drifted away to find his place. After dinner, Meg danced with Belle’s young beau, then Emilie’s son-in-law. Finally, she gravitated toward Sands and sat down beside him under a palm and the abundant glossy green smilax garland. “Alone at last,” Meg murmured.
For a change of pace, the band began to play the rollicking Virginia reel and one of the musicians took the role of caller. Dulcine and Belle had switched places. Corby partnered Dulcine while Gabe went through the lively steps with his sister.
Sands grinned. “What do you have to tell me?”
“When I went to Penny Candy, I noticed a pretty young black woman who looked as though she wanted to talk to me. When your son escorted me outside to take me back to my hotel, I purposely said my hotel’s name loudly, so she would know where to find me.”
“How did she know who you were?”
“Del had shown her a photograph of me.”
“I see. Did she find you?” Sands glanced toward the musicians.
On the dance floor, the dancers laughed and called encouragement to each other as they tried to follow the caller. With her eyes, Meg followed the twists and turns of the dance. The flamboyant costumes and smaller-than-usual dance floor put the wall decorations at risk. One garland hung askew already.
Meg brought her mind back to Sands. “She got a note to me early today, asking me to meet her at the fish stalls at the French Market after lunch. So I went.”
“I wish you would have consulted me—”
“I woke late and you were due in court.” Meg paused. In the dance, Belle shook her head good-naturedly at Gabriel. “Besides I took my derringer in my pocket.”
“Heavens.” Sands grimaced ruefully. “Modern women. Did she come?”
Meg nodded. “She told me I was in danger and to leave New Orleans.”
“What kind of danger? From whom?” Sands demanded in an undertone.
“That’s all she would say.”
“Think back. Tell me everything she said.”
Meg closed her eyes, concentrating against the rollicking tune of the Virginia reel. “She told me her name, LaRae. That she was a close friend of Del and that I should never go to Penny Candy, that I should leave New Orleans.”
“That’s all?”
“Essentially.” The dancers began to swing their partners round and round.
Sands frowned. “Did you see anyone else you knew?”
“I thought I saw one of the musicians from Penny Candy and maybe Corelli, the new manager.”
Sands’s brows drew together, making him look grim. “I don’t want you taking any more chances like this in the future. We don’t know what slime we’ll be digging into with Del’s case yet. Understand me. You’re not to run this kind of risk again.” Sands’s stern tone reminded her of her own father.
She nodded. “I won’t.”
In the country dance, Corby Ferrand miscalculated swinging Dulcine a little too wide. The back of her oversized hoop skirt rocked up and caught on the tail of a green garland. Instead of giving way, the garland didn’t budge. Off balance, Dulcine stumbled, tried to catch herself, but down she went on her bottom. The garland released its hold. Her hoop skirt flew up in front, hiding the damsel’s face, but revealing modern underwear.
The music cut off. The dance halted. Shocked gasps and laughter burst out. Meg pressed her hand over her own mouth, fighting laughter.
“Oh! Oh!” Dulcine’s voice proclaimed her outrage.
Corby tried to help her up, and Belle rushed over, too. Gabriel finally succeeded in lifting Dulcine to her feet.
The blonde’s face, flushed hot-red, twisted in an ugly expression. “How dare you?” she shouted at Corby. “Why didn’t you watch what you were doing?”
Corby, glassy-eyed, tried to answer, but his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
Belle stepped forward. “Dulcine, it was just an accident. I’m sure Corby’s very sorry—”
Dulcine gave a fierce growl, silencing Belle. Reaching over, she snatched the pink satin cap off Belle’s head. A collective gasp went through the room.
Dulcine, you’re a fool. Then Meg realized Belle looked different. “She’s bobbed her hair!”
Sands grunted. “The fat’s in the fire now.”
Chapter 9
Arriving at home, Gabe, his parents, and sister filed into Father’s first-floor office. Orange-gold flames flickered in the hearth, a few low electric lights glowed against the dark wood and brown leather of this masculine sanctuary. They’d come here to thrash out the unpleasantness over Belle’s haircut.
Still in costume, Gabe as a Creole gentleman, his mother as the medieval lady, and his sister as a pink powder puff arranged themselves as if the office were a courtroom. His mother took the lone armchair to the right, as prosecutor facing his father, who rolled behind his desk as judge. Since Belle had settled down next to Gabe on the short sofa at the other side of the desk, she had evidently chosen him as her defense lawyer. If this had been a moment for humor, Gabe would have chuckled at the almost theatrical scene, complete with costume.
“Mother?” The judge prompted the prosecution.
Tears seeped through Mother’s words. “How could you cut your beautiful hair without one word?”
Dulcine’s “uncapping” of Belle had been farce. Gabe wondered if Belle felt ridiculous dressed as a powder puff for this confrontation.
Belle sat hunched, her pink-gloved arms crossed. “It’s my hair.”
“That attitude won’t work here,” Father replied. “You’re our daughter who is not yet an adult. Now, I want you to explain to your mother why you cut your hair when you knew this would displease her.”
Belle glanced at Gabe as though asking counsel if she should plead the Fifth Amendment. Gabe shook his head. Belle sighed theatrically, “My cap didn’t fit over my long hair. It ruined the whole look of the costume. So I crossed the street to Gray’s Beauty Salon and had my hair cut and marcelled.”
As a defense, it didn’t have much to recommend it other than it proved lack of premeditation. Gabe knew this matter was very serious to his mother, but he couldn’t help feeling it was much ado about nothing.
“Belle,” Father began, “I understand that you think differently than we do, but as a young woman, no longer a child, you must consider how your every action will affect others.”
Belle hung her head. “I’m sorry, Father, Mother,” she said in a contrite voice.
“Now, Belle, no more surprises. Promise us.” Father stared at Belle.
“I promise.”
Gabe couldn’t make the same commitment. Right now, he hoped Marie would be on her way to New Orleans in a matter of weeks, at most a month. How, when, could he break this news to his parents?
Mother sighed. “Well, after all it’s only hair. It was just the shock.”
“I think it was mean of Dulcine to embarrass me that way,” Belle grumbled. “She knew my hair had been cut because she was at Gray’s Salon at the same time.”
This piece of information didn’t set well with Gabe. He’d thought Dulcine had pulled off Belle’s cap in innocent retribution, but if she’d known…
Father said, “Celestia, will you take Belle up with you? I’ll come up in a few minutes.” Mother gave both Gabe and his father assessing looks as she and Belle left. Gabe wondered what it meant.
Father turned his gaze to Gabe.
It penetrated Gabe like the rays of a hot summer sun. “What is it, sir?”
Father lifted his shoulder muscles, trying to loosen them. “What’s
bothering you, son?”
Gabe opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring out any words.
“You haven’t been yourself since you got home. At first, I thought it would just take time for you to get over your experience in France. But lately, I say something and you don’t hear me…”
Father’s questions sank beneath Gabe’s surface like a barbed hook, catching him by surprise. Gabe locked up inside.
“Son, I’ve heard you call out in your sleep.”
Gabe swallowed, but his mouth was dry. He’d thought he’d done such a good job of hiding his ragged nerves and ghoulish memories.
Father’s gentle voice continued, “I didn’t see much action in the Spanish American War, but I did go. That’s why I wouldn’t let your mother say anything when you enlisted.”
Gabe managed to nod. A buzzing sounded in his ears.
Father turned his chair to stare into the glowing embers on the hearth. “Your grandfather lost a leg at Chickamauga. The day after I turned fourteen, he took me away on a hunting trip. But instead we sat and he told me about the war. I’ll never forget that day.
“It demolished my illusions about the glory of war.” Father gripped the armrests of his chair. “But it made it more difficult when it came time for me to leave for Cuba in ninety-eight. So…” Father looked Gabe directly in the eye: “I didn’t tell you about your grandfather’s or about my war experience. Did I do wrong?”
Gabe shook his head no.
Father propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, then his chin on his hands. “What is it, son?” Father’s caring voice was low, barely a whisper.
Gabe’s chest constricted. He couldn’t take a deep breath. Too much bottled up inside.
“I read enough to know this war, your war, differed greatly from any before. Tanks, trench warfare, bombing from the air, mustard gas…” Father’s voice faded. “Just remember I’m always ready to listen.”
“I know.” The words scraped Gabe’s throat.
Father closed his eyes. In the ensuing silence, Gabe found comfort in his father’s understanding. Not everything had changed. His father, an honest man, still loved him. Maybe the God his father had taught him about would hear Gabe’s prayers and bring Marie safe to this home. Soon he would muster the courage to tell his father.