April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (18 page)

The next day dawned bright and clear, one of those lushly fecund days when things could almost be seen growing. The sun was so brilliant it hurt their eyes, and sunglasses had to be brought out for protection. The dark glasses gave Justin a distinguished, faintly foreign look as he sat behind the wheel of his car in a casual sports shirt of cream knit and a pair of brown pants. Laura, though dressed in a similar style in green pants and a knit shirt of cool green trimmed with lavender and white, and with her hair in a clasp, falling down her back, felt plebeian by comparison.

The uninitiated might have expected to find antiques such as they were looking for in one of the larger and more famous shops, in those that lined Royal and Magazine streets in New Orleans. They would have been looking in the wrong places. The shops in the smaller country towns, those nearer at hand when the large country estates and old homes were broken up, were the ones most likely to come across such fine old pieces. These might eventually find their way to the New Orleans showrooms, thanks to buying trips made by the dealers, but if and when they did, the price would become astronomical instead of simply high.

The shop they were heading for was not in Louisiana at all, but across the river in Mississippi, several hours away. Knowing the drive was going to be a long one, they had started early. Laura leaned back on the leather seat, making herself comfortable. The car Justin was driving was not his classic, but was just as luxurious, and from the same maker, though of the current year’s model.

“What happened to the Zephyr?” she asked, smoothing a finger over the chrome edging on the seat.

“It’s at home where it belongs. I trust it for anywhere up to a hundred miles, but I hate to get much farther away from my favorite garage with it.”

Laura nodded her comprehension, and a small silence fell. Justin broke it.

“This Mallard bed,” he said, “I realize it’s supposed to be special, and I seem vaguely to have heard of one before, but I’m blank on the details.”

This was Laura’s element. “Mallard, whose first name was Prudent by the way, learned cabinetmaking in Paris. He came to the United States sometime in the late 1830s, landing in New York, where he worked with Duncan Phyfe. Not long after that, he moved to New Orleans and opened a shop on Royal Street in the French Quarter. In a period when most furniture was embellished within an inch of its life, he kept his designs simple. Most of his pieces are big, but they also have grace and excellent proportions. He made other things, but it happens that he specialized in beds.”

“It certainly sounds as if a Mallard fits the bill.”

“There’s no argument about it. The furniture that Mallard made was designed especially for the houses along the Mississippi River, those in the delta region of Mississippi and Louisiana. Nowhere else in the South, or in the United States for that matter, were homes built with ceilings quite so high.”

“Because of the heat?”

“That’s right. In this part of the country, before climate control, keeping cool was more important than keeping warm. Heat rises and is trapped near the ceiling of the twenty-foot rooms, leaving the air much cooler at the floor level. But this extra height throws the rooms out of proportion. The furniture had to be made to fit, or else it looked squatty and out of place. What happened was that most of it became taller and more massive. The cabinetmakers in New Orleans catered to the planters who owned these types of houses. Mallard, along with another man named François Seignouret, was among the most famous of his day.”

“I can see why his work is so valuable.”

“Yes, except you would think the demand wouldn’t be that high. It’s not every house that can accommodate a ten-foot tester, and the trend generally has been to smaller pieces that will fit into modern, eight-foot-high rooms, or perhaps I should say that’s where the turnover is.”

“Standards change over the years,” Justin said, his tone musing, “whether it’s in furniture, houses, or in manners and morals.”

Laura sent him a swift glance. For all the light tone of his voice, she thought there was a purpose behind his words. She could only agree, however.

“For instance, there was a time when, if two people, such as you and I, had spent so many hours after dark alone in a secluded, empty house, it would have been grounds for a forced marriage.”

“I suppose so.”

“If I understand the way it worked correctly, not even my engagement would have been enough to save us. I would still have been held responsible for your reputation, and that would have been more important than other plans I might have had.”

“It’s almost enough to make you wonder if they were more distrustful of human nature than we are today, or only more realistic about it.” Laura kept her voice light, making an effort to meet his mood.

“Because they were always ready to assume the worst? In that, at least, people aren’t so different now.” He sent her a quick smile, though his expression was hidden by the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m trying to ask you how you feel about the gossip that is supposed to be circulating about that night.”

“I’m not sure there is any such thing,” Laura said, her tone stiff.

“Myra was certain.”

His quiet comment had the effect of bringing the scene on the loggia and his fiancée’s ugly insinuations to mind. Laura kept her violet gaze turned deliberately ahead. “Even if it’s so, it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t hold you responsible. People are going to have to realize that the old standards don’t apply, now that women are a part of the work force and have to cooperate closely with men.”

“Standards may change, but human nature doesn’t.”

Laura sent him a narrow look. Was he saying that people would always talk, or that a man and a woman in a compromising situation would usually behave in a compromising manner? The last was exactly what had happened between them, she realized belatedly, and looked quickly away again. “I see no need for an amende honorable, if that’s what you are getting at.”

“Don’t you? Too bad.”

His tone was wry. He had been joking; he must have been. Laura shook her head, smiling. “No such sacrifice will be called for.”

It was a moment before he spoke, then he kept his attention on the road. “I’ve been thinking about Lorinda. Do you suppose it was something such as we were just talking about that caused her to marry so soon after the last ball at Crapemyrtle?”

“It might have been, or it could be my great-great-grandfather caught her on the rebound.”

He sent her a quick look. “That makes it sound as if she was jilted, and that wasn’t my reading of it at all. The way the situation stood, Jean had asked her to go away with him to Paris while he divorced his wife, then his wife discovered she was pregnant and told Lorinda, who was her friend. Lorinda then broke off all contact with Jean, went to New Orleans for a month, and announced her engagement when she returned.”

“The way I understand it,” Laura said, “the man she married, who was my great-great-grandfather, of course, followed her to New Orleans and returned with her on the steamboat. Something about the way the last entry in the diary is worded, when she says she has decided to accept him, leads me to believe he had asked her before to marry him, maybe a number of times.”

“That still wouldn’t have prevented her from accepting his proposal for the purpose of scotching any rumors that might have been circulating,” he pointed out.

“Maybe not, but it seems to me like a poor reason for marrying a man, especially if you’re in love with someone else.”

“Who’s to say she didn’t feel something for the other man, even if it was only commiseration and affection? At times in a person’s life, it may be easier for them to let themselves be loved than it is to refuse.”

Was that the way it was with Myra and him? The question came unbidden to Laura’s mind. She did not dare ask it, however. Murmuring an agreement, she let the moment pass.

The antique shop was a metal building with a false front featuring cypress shingles and show windows cut into panes by aluminum strips. Inside was a motley collection of furniture, most of it tables and china closets holding cut glass and porcelain. There was also a lot of bona fide junk, the kind of thing a shop acquired when buying wholesale lots of furnishings at auctions. The few good pieces were in the back, ranged without order around the walls, coated with dust. The Mallard bed — or rather its pieces, since it was too large to be put together in the space available — and the armoire stood out like elephants in a flock of sheep.

The proprietor, a small birdlike woman with quick movements and inquisitive black eyes, came from the back. She smiled, looking from Justin to Laura and back again. “Can I help you?”

“We just wanted to browse,” Laura said. Justin watched with amusement in his eyes as she worked her way through the odds and ends, asking about first one thing and another, until she came to the items they were really interested in. “This is a tester bed, isn’t it?”

“Not just a tester, but a Mallard,” the woman said. “Anyone with the place to put it wouldn’t go wrong investing in something like this.”

“Investing?” Laura murmured.

“Such things don’t come cheap, but when you consider that a quality set of fine bedroom furniture bought brand-new costs a couple of thousand, it isn’t that bad.

The new stuff wouldn’t bring a fraction of its worth a month after you bought it, but this Mallard bed, and its armoire, over there, will double in price, or more, in the next ten years. Its value is hard to calculate. It’s like solid gold.”

It was a good sales pitch. Laura glanced at Justin. “What do you think?”

He was studying it. The saleswoman took a cloth from her pocket and wiped the dust from the headboard, pointing out the shell design and the egg motif hidden within it that was Mallard’s trademark. He examined the workmanship and smoothed along the mahogany of the tester frame, rails, and footboards to be certain there was no damage. “It looks fine to me, but this is your department,” he said. “Whatever you think.”

The woman beamed at Laura. “Now there is a man after my own heart. I’m sure if you take this bed, you and your husband won’t regret it. There’s been a lot of happiness discovered under its canopy, I’m sure but there’s still a lot more left.”

“I — we —” Laura began.

“We’ll take it,” Justin said, cutting short her attempts to explain by taking out his checkbook and identification.

“Good! I’ll just make out a ticket on it.” The woman scuffed away toward an old rolltop desk covered with papers, account books, and dusty ledgers.

“Why did you do that?” Laura whispered. “We could have gotten it for less if we had bargained and used the dealer’s license from the shop.”

“She’s such a nice old lady,” he told her, a warm look in his eyes as he smiled down at her. “Besides, it’s nearly lunchtime, and I’m too hungry to haggle.”

Against her will, Laura felt her lips curving in response. “She flattered you,” she said with mock sternness. “I never knew you were so susceptible.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t found out about me yet,” he answered, then turned away as the proprietor of the shop came toward them once more.

While Justin attended to the details of payment and delivery, Laura wandered back toward the bed. She touched one of the clustered posts with the tips of her fingers, thinking idly of how it should be positioned at Crapemyrtle in the master bedroom. The material stretched inside the tester now, gathered in the center in a sunburst design, was thin red velvet faded to an orange color. It should be replaced with either a soft rose or pale celadon green.

Myra wanted emerald satin. At the thought of the other woman stretched out on the old bed with its softly glowing wood and romantic hangings, lying beside Justin, pain assailed Laura. It crowded into her chest with a suffocating feeling, its scourging sharpness taking her by surprise. She drew a deep breath, her eyes unseeing. So that was it.

“Ready to go?”

It was Justin beside her. She answered his question with a nod, turning with limbs that were suddenly stiff and unwieldy to walk from the shop. He opened the car door, and she slid in, sitting staring straight ahead as he moved around to the driver’s side.

“Where shall we go for lunch?” he asked as he turned the key, starting the motor.

Laura roused herself to answer, suggesting a motel restaurant a few miles back in the direction they had come, a place she and her mother had stopped at once or twice on their antique-buying expeditions. By the time they were turning into the parking lot, she had herself well in hand again.

Homemade soup and garden-fresh salads were the luncheon specials offered by the place. They were shown to a table set with silver and linen napery amid hanging plants, stained glass, and antiques ranging from cotton-carding combs and horse collars to wrought-iron gumball stands and wooden iceboxes. They served themselves from the long, curving counter and carried their choices back to their table.

Justin was in a good mood, it seemed, now that they had gotten their main business out of the way. As they ate, he drew her out, asking questions about her father and other houses she had helped to redo, wanting to know the interior-design courses she had taken and the aspects of restoration that she most enjoyed. They talked of the brown-and-gold color scheme she meant to employ in the library-study Justin intended to use for an office, moving from there to other rooms. His mother was anxious to see the house, he said, and also to meet the young woman who was the guiding hand behind the project. He would bring both his parents out one day when he came.