Crescent City Courtship (13 page)

Abigail bowed her head, tracing the beautiful black wing of the baby’s eyebrows with her finger.

“The practice has to be stopped.” John said. “Wealthy women ought to be able to nurse their own babies.”

“Of course they can. But they’d rather shop and take tea and drive around the Commons.”

John could hardly blame Abigail for her cynical tone. His own mother and sister were at this moment driving home from church in a tooled leather carriage, dressed in fine cotton gauze, satin ribbons and Mechlin. They would have passed this orphanage without a second glance.

“Do they have enough to eat?” The one lying on his
back with his thumb in his mouth looked wiry and tough, but there was a rattle to his breathing that John didn’t like.

“Once we got our cow back,” Mammy said with an undertone of humor.

“I’ll get you another one.” Weichmann’s sudden deep voice startled them all. He plucked one of the babies out of Winona’s lap and laid him against his shoulder, eliciting a loud burp. Laughter leavened the tension in the room.

John had no idea where Weichmann would get a milk cow, but had no doubt he’d manage somehow.

By mid-afternoon John and Weichmann, assisted by Mammy, Abigail and Winona, had examined every child in the orphanage, diagnosing two cases of pleurisy, a cleft palate—which John thought could be improved with surgery—and rampant disorders of the lower intestines. He wanted to bring the little fellow with rattling breathing to the hospital for further examination.

On the way back to the Lanieres’ the four of them discussed the problem. “If it’s pneumonia and we don’t treat it, he’ll die,” John argued.

Weichmann shook his head. “The nurses don’t like contagious cases brought in.”

“There’s got to be a place to take them,” Abigail said. “Those children deserve professional care.” She looked at Winona. “I know Mammy’s doing the best she can, but proper nutrition and hygiene would make all the difference.”

“If my mother could just see…” John muttered. “She could make a difference.” He stopped and grabbed Abigail’s wrist. “That’s it. We’ll make her see.”

“How are you going to do that?”

He looked around. Weichmann and Winona had walked on, leaving John and Abigail behind. “My mother is
throwing a party to introduce my sister to society. You remember, my father mentioned it. I want you to come.”

Her gaze flew to his. “You can’t be serious. I’m no society deb, John. I’d be completely out of place. I have no pretty dresses—”

He cut her off with a slice of his hand. “I’m sure Camilla will find you something appropriate. You always look neat.”

She gave him a fulminating look. “Neat is one thing. Evening dresses are quite another. Do you have any idea how much silk costs?”

“Of course I know what silk costs.” He waved away the objection. “I’ve a bit left of my last quarter’s allowance. I’ll buy you a dress.”

“You cannot!” she gasped. “Even I know a lady doesn’t allow a man to buy her garments unless they are wed.” To his astonishment, tears sprang to her eyes. “You’re trying to shame me.”

“And you’re being unreasonable. You need a dress and I can help you get it. What’s wrong with that? Nobody has to know. Abigail, please. I want you there. I…” He swallowed. Somehow the conversation had shifted from sick children to something more personal. “I need you there.”

She stared at him. “What possible difference could my presence make at some family dinner party—or whatever it is.”

“Dinner, drinks, dancing. You might actually enjoy it.”

She turned her head, deliberately, though he could tell she was weakening. “John, I don’t even know how to dance. I’d be humiliated.”

He leaned close to her ear. “I’ll teach you. I’m a good teacher, remember?”

She swayed toward him, then stiffened. “No. You’ve got
some selfish motive behind this and I’m not falling for it. Ask someone else.”

He sighed. “All right. I’ll come clean.” He slid his hands down to cup her elbows. She stared at the top button of his waistcoat. “It’s not just the children. My mother has a girl picked out for me to court. She’ll be there and I don’t want to get stuck with her before I have a chance to look her over. I need you for a sort of…buffer.”

Abigail’s mouth dropped open. Then she began to laugh. “You’re absolutely mad! Nobody in their right mind would take me as a rival for some finishing school debutante. Your mother will throw me out of the house the instant she lays eyes on me.”

John’s eyes kindled. “She most certainly will not. As my guest you’ll be afforded all proper respect. Besides, my father already invited you.”

“John, I could come in with a fistful of invitations and nobody’s going to take me for anything but what I am—a misfit clinic attendant from the District.”

He stared at her for a moment, his lips clipped together. “If you won’t take my word for it, would you believe Camilla?”

Abigail shrugged. “Camilla has more common sense than you. She’ll agree with me.”

John grinned and leaned down to give Abigail a loud kiss on the forehead. “We’ll see about that.”

W
ith a creak of leather and springs, the Laniere carriage stopped in front of the Braddock mansion on Chestnut Street. Abigail waited for Camilla to move, not sure what manners dictated in these circumstances. She had never in her life been delivered to the door of a mansion via any method but her own two feet. Even the dinner with the emperor had required no transportation, as she and her father had been housed within the palace.

Before she could do more than glance at Camilla, however, the carriage door was jerked open from the outside, and the Lanieres’ man-of-all-jobs slid the steps in place.

“Go ahead, Abigail,” said Camilla kindly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Abigail took Willie’s gloved hand and stepped down. As she waited for Camilla and the professor to alight, she smoothed a hand down the side of her dress. It was the most beautiful garment she had ever owned. Made of jade shantung silk and trimmed with pale green banding, it hugged her waist and hips, bunched in a smooth bustle in the back and fell in graceful folds to her dainty slippers.
The Vandyke bodice was modest, its lace jabot tickling her chin, but the design accentuated the curves of her figure. Camilla had assured her it was appropriate for a formal occasion, so Abigail had to take her word for it.

Smiling, Professor Laniere was offering an arm each to Camilla and Abigail. “Ladies?”

Abigail slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow and looked up at the lights blazing from the enormous three-story brick house. The second level was ringed by a wrought iron balcony in the French style, supported by four tall, white columns. At least eight windows opened on each level, spilling gaslight halfway down the street.

Abigail wanted to stop and simply stare, but she meekly followed her hosts up the flaring front steps. Somehow John had managed to have her included in the invitation delivered to the Lanieres’ front door by post a week ago. She’d tried to demur, but Camilla was a force to be reckoned with. Insisting on providing Abigail with a new dress, she’d accompanied her to the shops for silk, thread and trimmings. Then she provided slippers and a fan and the most luxurious silk-lined cloak.

The cloak was so soft and warm, Abigail was loath to part with it when the Braddocks’ funny, Cockney-voiced butler tried to take it. Recollecting herself in the reflection of Camilla’s amused eyes, she relaxed and let Appleton, as he called himself, bear it off in triumph along with the other guests’ outer garments.

And then she was following the Lanieres into a ballroom dazzling with lights and music and laughter. She hung back, overwhelmed. She was going to embarrass her hosts, humiliate herself, say something in Chinese or Latin, spill something on that polished marble floor.

She’d actually picked up her skirts and turned to run when John stepped in front of her.

“Where are you going?” His eyes were bright, amused.

She’d barely seen him since the encounter in the orphanage nearly two weeks ago. And never had she seen him so elegantly and formally dressed in white shirt and stock, pristine against black dinner jacket and trousers. His hair was arranged to fall into his left eye, his side whiskers neatly trimmed to accent the strong jaw and humorous mouth. He belonged here in this beautiful home, with all these beautiful, glittering people.

“I’m going home.” She tried to step around him.

He blocked her again. “Abigail, you can’t cross the city by yourself at night.”

“I’ll take the streetcar. Let me pass.” Panic surged through her stomach.

His smile faded. “It’s not like you to run away. I want to introduce you to my parents.” John stepped closer and took her gloved hand, letting his eyes caress her face. “You look lovely tonight. I want to dance with you.”

“John!” came a sweet feminine voice behind Abigail. “There you are. Dorothée is asking for you.”

“Lisette.” He looked over Abigail’s shoulder with a smile. “Come here and meet Miss Neal.”

Abigail snatched her hand away and clutched her fan so hard she heard it crack. She turned and found a diminutive dark-haired young lady staring up at her with huge, myopic brown eyes.

“Oh! You’re so very tall!” exclaimed Lisette Braddock. “I mean—How do you do?” She dropped a blushing curtsy.

“Miss Braddock,” Abigail murmured, surveying the
girl’s sunny yellow gown, which displayed a thin, childish figure. Lisette couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Lisette dimpled. “Please excuse my staring. I’m nearsighted, and Mama insists I may not wear my spectacles during a formal occasion. Isn’t that silly?”

Abigail relaxed, charmed by her young hostess’s ingenuous chatter. “I’ll defer to your mama.” She glanced at John. “Perhaps, because you’re wanted elsewhere, your sister will consent to make the introductions to your parents.”

Lisette beamed. “I’d be happy to—”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure Miss Molyneux will find her dance card quite full without my monopolizing her time.” John offered his arm to Lisette and took Abigail firmly by the elbow. “You’re not getting away from me that easily,” he murmured into her ear. “Speaking of dance cards,” he said more loudly, “where is yours, Miss Neal?”

“I don’t have—”

“Oh, I have an extra!” Lisette fumbled in a tiny beaded bag dangling from her wrist and produced a small square of cardboard connected to an equally wee pencil stub. She handed it to Abigail. “Be sure to make John—”

“Thank you, Lise,” he said affectionately, “but I’m capable of contracting my own engagements.” He commandeered the dance card, wrote Abigail’s name at the top and scrawled his name on it three times. “There.” He handed it to Abigail. “Now you can’t run away.”

“Run away?” Lisette looked bewildered. “Why would she run away?”

“Your brother is teasing us both.” Abigail sighed. She would have to make the best of this awkward situation and use it to help the women of the District. She smiled down
at John’s sister. “Miss Braddock, I understand you’ve an interest in philanthropy.”

Lisette looked uncertainly at her brother, who didn’t even try to hide the twinkle in his eyes. She put up her small, pointed chin and smiled at Abigail. “Yes, of course I do.”

Abigail ignored John’s chuckle. “Then might I share with you a need that your brother and I have encountered in a neighborhood not far from here? There is much good that could be done with just a little effort.” She linked arms with her young hostess, and the two of them began to stroll toward the stairs, which presumably led down to the ballroom on the ground floor.

As they walked, John accompanied them, mercifully containing his part in the conversation to murmurs of agreement as Abigail explained the need for education in maternity and nutrition in the poor areas of the city. Lisette was a quick study, her hero worship for her big brother patent, and plied Abigail with intelligent questions. By the time they had reached the head of the stairs, where a middle-aged couple stood receiving guests, Lisette and Abigail were in perfect charity.

Lisette eagerly tugged Abigail toward her mother, a brown-haired woman in dark blue satin, who had Lisette’s fragility and John’s fine good looks. Her husband Abigail had already met, of course. His evening clothes did little to hide the air of ruthlessness that hung about him like the cloud of smoke emanating from the cigar between his fingers.

“Mama!” Lisette rushed to take her mother’s elbow. “You must meet John’s Miss Neal. She has quite opened my eyes to a way we can help our neighbors. She’s the one staying with the Lanieres, and she’s from—” She turned
to Abigail, confusion in her nearsighted eyes. “Oh dear, I forgot to ask where you came from!”

“Lisette,” Mrs. Braddock sighed, clearly exasperated by her daughter’s social ineptitudes. “
Try
for a little decorum.” She smiled vaguely at Abigail. “Welcome to our home, Miss Neal. I hope you will find our little party invigorating. This is my husband—”

“Miss Neal and I are already acquainted, my dear,” said Phillip Braddock heartily. “She was helping John and the other fellows haul bodies out of the tenement that burned in the District a couple of weeks ago. Wasn’t that enterprising of her?”

Lips parted, Mrs. Braddock gave Abigail a blank stare. “Er—quite. John, I don’t believe you mentioned that to me.”

Wishing she could sink through the floor, Abigail felt the muscles of John’s forearm cord under her hand.

His face remained bland, however, as he laid his hand on top of hers. “Miss Neal is one of the most heroic women I’ve ever met, Mother. Capable of saving lives—a much more useful talent than ruining reputations, wouldn’t you say?”

“I—” Eliza Braddock helplessly looked at her husband.

He executed a brief bow, as if in touché, toward his son. “It appears our guests have all arrived, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll speak to the orchestra director and start the dancing.”

He was gone, leaving Abigail to stare at the floor while John gave his mother more unwanted details about the aftermath of the fire. Lisette, however, seemed enthralled with the story, gasping at appropriate intervals.

“I could never be so brave,” she said, looking at Abigail with wide, admiring eyes. “I’m afraid the closest I’ve come to such adventure is in the pages of a book. Did you read
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
Miss Neal? I found it
most
instructive.”

“Indeed, I did,” Abigail said. “My father had it in a shipment of books from—” She paused, noting too late the frost in John’s mother’s eyes. Mrs. Stowe’s antislavery novel would not be a popular title with the Southern gentry. “That is, I lost my copy some time ago. Oh! I hear the music. What fine string players…”

“Indeed, they are.” John gestured toward the staircase where the strains of a waltz drifted from the ballroom. “And I believe this is our dance, Miss Neal.”

“Is it?” She glanced at the little dance card, blind with embarrassment.

“It is. Mother, if you’ll excuse us?”

Abigail found herself stumbling down the stairs beside him, hardly aware of her surroundings except for the fine texture of John’s sleeve and the strength of his arm beneath her fingers. She didn’t belong here and she was a fool to have agreed to come.

They descended into a glittering gaslit room—one wall lined with mirrors, two painted with a spectacular garden mural and the fourth a bank of French windows opening onto a well-lit brick terrace. As she and John twirled round the room Abigail felt as if she were in the center of a floral kaleidoscope, the dresses of the women like colorful stained-glass petals against the reflected greenery of the walls.

She hung on to John, staring up into his unsmiling face, feeling one of his gloved hands at her waist, the other clasped around hers. They had explored death together. This mindless shuffling of feet should not have been so exalting. But she found herself moved to the point of tears by the burn of his eyes on her face. His fingers gathered hers closer, threading through hers, palm to palm. And then his lips curved, a lazy droop to his eyes.

Oh, he knew what he was doing to her.

She stiffened, jerked her gaze to his shoulder. “Stop it,” she whispered.

“Stop what?” His voice was slow, amused.

“I don’t know what you want from me, but you don’t have to look at me that way.”

“Abigail. You’re a beautiful woman. How else am I supposed to look at you?”

“Is this a show for Dorothée or whatever her name is?”

He chuckled. “It’ll give my mother something to think about. Quit jerking at my hand. You’re ruining the rhythm.
One
two three—Which reminds me. You told me you didn’t know how to dance.”

“I’m a fast learner.” Trembling in the circle of his arms, she turned her head away, terrified that she might have revealed her feelings. And how had this happened, anyway? How could she have any sort of affection for a man she so mistrusted? A man who was so different from her in every way? He might
say
she was beautiful, he might pretend to look at her with that tender, amused gleam in his eyes, but why on earth would a man like
him
want
her
—tall, desperately gauche, without any sort of financial or social recommendation?

“Indeed, you are,” John said quietly. “In fact, I think you could learn anything you set your mind to.”

She looked up at him, mutinously silent. He wanted her to bat her lashes, simper, fall at his feet in adoration. This she could not afford to do. The hard-won measure of respectability she had regained was too fragile to withstand the kind of dalliance he clearly had in mind.

He chuckled, snatched her close for a breathtaking moment, then whirled her to a halt next to several young
matrons. He bowed to Camilla Laniere. “Mrs. Laniere, I return your protégée healthy and whole.”

Camilla tucked her arm through Abigail’s. “My dear, are you having a good time? John, you must procure a glass of lemonade for Miss Neal. She’s looking quite flushed.”

“I’ll be happy to.” He bowed again, turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Abigail flipped open the fan she’d borrowed from Camilla for the evening. “I’m having a lovely time. It’s just the heat…” She plied the fan vigorously.

Camilla laughed. “Indeed. I remember it well.”