PHANTOM IN TIME (11 page)

So
she seemed to be stranded in the year 1896, on July 4
^th
—exactly one
hundred years removed in time from the world she'd left behind her. She
continued to feel amazed by what had happened to her, and grateful that the
kindly Helene had come to her rescue. But what if she could never make her way
back to 1996? What if she
never
saw Gran again? 

On a
more rational level, Bella's instincts argued that her journey through time had
somehow been inspired by the intriguing Jacques LeFevre, who had wooed her as a
ghost and now seemed to want her as a man. But his attentions toward her
tonight had seemed purely libidinous, and he was clearly bound on a
self-destructive path. Was it her mission to redeem him, to save him from
himself as well as from the unknown person who sought to murder him?
Remembering him with the chorus girls, she quickly decided that reforming such
a womanizer would be difficult at best.

Especially
as daunted as she felt by her emotional response to him! Bella shivered at the
memory. As a ghost, Jacques had been tantalizing; as a flesh-and-blood man, he
was devastating. His virile presence had mesmerized her; his brief kiss had
jolted her senses. He was clearly both disarming and dissolute, capable of
turning her life topsy turvy.

Then
why was she here? Why would the fates whisk her away from a grandmother who
needed her desperately, if not for a truly critical purpose? Would she manage
to save Jacques but lose her own soul in the process? Had she been spun back in
time only to become some swaggering Lothario's latest aperitif?

***

“Jacques,
why won't you dance with me?” Crystal asked, pouting

It
was past 2 A.M., and Jacques LeFevre sat on a velvet Belter chair in the
sumptuous parlor of Madame Julie's Dancing Emporium—the term a euphemism for
“bordello.” He, Crystal, and Cosette had stopped off here after the French
Opera House closed down for the night.

Jacques
was sipping a mint julep. Overhead, the opulent crystal chandeliers beamed
brightly; around him on the Persian medallion rug, prominent gentlemen were
waltzing with sleazily dressed, heavily painted prostitutes to the sexy, slowly
syncopated music sounding out from the piano. In the corners of the large room,
on brocade settees and velvet Grecian couches, couples were brazenly kissing
and caressing.

Crystal loomed above him, extending her hand. With her blouse partially unbuttoned, her
eyes brightly glazed, her blond hair spilling around her flushed face, she was
the picture of the loose woman eager to be debauched.

Yet
Jacques found himself curiously unaffected by her charms. Instead of appearing
young, sensuous, and tempting, she seemed tawdry, tipsy, and all too eager.

He
patted her hand. “Not now, pet,” he murmured. “Surely there are other gentlemen
eager to waltz with you.” He nodded toward the far corner of the room. “Your
cousin Cosette has had no difficulty finding partners.”

Crystal turned to eye her cousin, who was waltzing with a dashing young Creole. Her sulky
gaze shifted back to Jacques. “But I came here with you. I thought we might go
home together.” She simpered a smile. “You know I can please you.”

Again
Jacques felt unaffected by her shameless enticement. He treated her to an
apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, love, but it's late. Tonight's performance was
exhausting, and I have much on my mind.”

Crystal's pretty features twisted into a snarl. “You mean you're preoccupied with that
little tart who threw herself at you when she trespassed onstage.”

Jacques's
eyes gleamed with mischief. “You mean Bella? She didn't throw herself at me.
And I'd hardly call her a tart, love.”

“Oh,
you wouldn't? Well, I would!”

Becoming
annoyed and determined to give her insult its just deserts, Jacques raised his
glass in a mock salute. “You speak from experience, I take it?” he drawled.

“Oh!”
A picture of outraged femininity, Crystal whirled and flounced off.

Watching
her, Jacques chuckled. He was acting the cad, but Crystal was being a slut, and
he was weary of women throwing themselves at him. He was in a mood to do some
pursuing himself. Indeed, if the lovely young woman who had intruded on his
performance was here now, he might dance with Crystal just to rouse her
jealousy—otherwise, he had little use for his inebriated companion. His
hesitation did somewhat surprise him, for it was unlike the libidinous Jacques
LeFevre to forgo easy conquests and easier pleasures.

He
actually sighed in relief as a gentlemen he recognized from his club approached
Crystal and asked her to dance. He smiled wistfully as the poignant Lassen
tune, “Thine Eyes So Blue,” spilled out on the piano, the familiar lyrics
playing through his mind, reminding him of the tantalizing belle he had met
only tonight:

Thine eyes so blue and tender,

When their soft glance I seek,

Awake me to visions of splendor,

Thoughts
that I may not speak.

He
could not believe he had met her only tonight—his lovely Bella with the blue
eyes and black hair—and already he was consumed with thoughts of having her.
Where had she come from, materializing during his solo like a ghost?

A
ghost . . .
For some reason, the very thought sent an shiver down Jacques's
spine. But Bella had come to him just that unexpectedly. One moment he had been
staring out at the audience, entrancing them with his singing. The next instant
she had just been there, wearing that ridiculous costume, but looking
ravishingly beautiful as she stared at him with those huge, lost sapphire blue
eyes. He grinned at the memory. Never before had
any
woman's presence
unhinged him so that he had actually stopped singing. Then she had dashed off
into the wings like a frightened doe, intriguing him all the more. Later, when
he had spoken to her, instead of being apologetic for ruining his solo, instead
of being grateful that he was offering her employment, she had just stared at
him again, as if
she
were seeing a ghost. And then she had coolly
rebuffed his invitation to go dancing.

He
chuckled at the memory. She was an odd one, all right, but also feisty, filled
with spirit. And mysterious. Jacques was mightily intrigued, looking forward to
getting to know Bella better.

He
greatly anticipated seeing her at the theater tomorrow. How would he pique her
interest? Eyeing Crystal, who hurled him a sullen glance from across the room
as she danced with another, he mused that there were ways to stir a female's
passion. Yes, there were always ways . . .

Chapter Eleven

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A
repetitive clicking sound slowly drew Bella toward consciousness. She opened
her eyes, staring through the wispy mosquito netting toward the window, where a
brisk breeze was knocking the edge of the roller shade against the window
casement.

With
a soft gasp, she sat up, gazing around the Victorian bedroom in awe. Soft light
splashed across the wooden floor, gleaming on magnificent cherry and rosewood
furniture and dancing through the prisms hanging from the old Baltimore gas
lamp on the dresser.

So
it wasn't just a dream—she really
had
traveled back in time to the
nineteenth century! Quite possibly she was stuck here.

Her
gaze settled on the girandole clock on the bedside table. She tensed, drawing
her fingers through her mussed hair.

“Oh,
no! Is that the time?” she cried.

“Bella,
is something wrong?” muttered a sleepy voice.

Bella
turned to Helene, who was yawning and sitting up beside her. “I'm sorry, I
didn't mean to awaken you. It's just that—it's nine thirty, and heavens, I'm
due for my audition at ten.”

Her
green eyes growing huge, Helene threw back the coverlet. “So you are! Gadzooks,
we had better step lively!”

Bella
touched her arm. “No, Helene, there's no reason for you to rush. Please go back
to sleep.”

“Don't
be silly—I'll be happy to help you,” Helene declared.

The
two women sprang into motion. Helene found Bella fresh undergarments,
stockings, and shoes, as well as a pretty yellow dimity frock to wear, then
rushed off to brew up a pot of cafe au lait. Bella hastily performed her
toilette, and breakfasted on no more than a couple of bites of beignet and a
few sips of the milk and coffee brew.

Helene,
still in her nightgown, followed Bella to the door, unceremoniously plopping
last night's ribboned straw hat on her guest's head. “Can you find your way to
the theater?”

Bella
adjusted the brim of the hat. “Yes, of course.”

Helene
pressed a coin into Bella's hand. “Here. For lunch.”

Touched,
Bella glanced at the silver dollar. “I can't accept this. You've done too much
for me already.”

“Nonsense.
I can't let you starve.” Helene playfully shoved Bella toward the door. “Now go
on and make your best impression on Etienne Ravel. I'm sure he'll accept you
into the chorus. Won't it be fun if we can share a dressing room?”

Bella
smiled, remembering Dixie, with whom she'd shared a dressing room in the
present. “Yes, that would be nice.”

“I'll
see you at rehearsal this afternoon.”

“Thanks,
you're the greatest!” Bella exclaimed, quickly hugging her hostess, then
rushing out the door.

Despite
her cumbersome shoes, Bella quickly made her way down the two flights of
stairs, breathing in scents of nectar from lush flowering baskets and the
plants in the patio below. Dashing through the courtyard, she smiled at a young
couple who sat there eating breakfast. Once outside the building, she hurried
up St. Ann Street toward Royal, amid the peal of the St. Louis Cathedral bells.
She passed businessmen opening their shops and a black vendor carrying a pack
of kindling on his back and towing along a small alligator on a leash. Amazed,
Bella gave the reptile a wide berth.

She
skidded to a halt at the corner of St. Ann and Royal, grabbing her hat as a
gust of wind battered it. An incredible montage greeted her. On the old
banquettes stretching past quaint, shuttered shops, businessmen in sedate suits
and bowler hats walked briskly about on their day's activities, and housewives
with baskets and small children in tow marched purposefully toward the French
Market. Colorfully dressed
cala
ladies wended their way through the
crowds, balancing large baskets of rice fritters on their turban-clad heads and
calling out, “
Bels calas—bels calas!”,
to tempt passersby. Vendors
pushing carts laden with everything from fruit to flowers to furniture added to
the general tumult.

The
parade of conveyances navigating its way down the street was even more
fascinating. First came a butcher's cart chased by a pack of yapping dogs,
followed by a brightly painted cream cheese wagon, then an elegant carriage
conveying several nuns and a priest, and finally an electric trolley car of the
St. Louis Line, its bell loudly clanging. A Metropolitan Policeman on
horseback, his features set in a scowl, followed the entourage.

Bella
could only shake her head. She could have observed the astounding scene all
day, but then she remembered her audition.

“Oh,
mercy!” she cried.

Although
she had left her wristwatch back in the present, she feared she was already
late. She tore on, running the several blocks to the opera house, despite the
affliction of badly pinching shoes. At last she reached the pillared facade of
the St. Charles, politely declining an offer of pralines from a black lady
hawking her confections on the front steps. She bounded up to the entrance and
was greatly relieved to find the front door unlocked.

By
the time Bella arrived inside the auditorium, she was flushed and panting. At
the front of the theater, Etienne Ravel popped up to glare at her approach,
removing a watch from the pocket of his vest and flipping it open.

She
lurched to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Ravel,” she greeted him breathlessly.
“I hope I'm not late.”

“You
are,” he snapped back, “by a full ten minutes.” He pointed toward the stage. “Kindly
take your place before I lose all patience and show you the door. Mr. Raspberry
is already at the piano.”

“Thank
you,” muttered Bella, pulling a face as she tore off for the stage.

“Oh, Miss De La Rosa!” called Etienne.

She
whirled. “Yes, sir?”

“What
will you sing for us?”

Bella did not hesitate. “Perhaps
‘Una voce poco fa’?

“Very
well.”

Bella
rushed up to the stage and took her place at its center. After taking several
deep, steadying breaths, she nodded to the pianist, who was an older black man
with a kind face. Hearing the Rossini intro, she tried her best to steady her
frazzled nerves. She knew that trying out for the chorus under these rushed,
stressful conditions was not a good idea, but she had little choice.

Yet
as soon as she raised her faint, quavery voice, she knew she would muddle
through the audition. Surely she had not traveled back in time a hundred years
only to be blocked from the outset by stage fright. Her instincts told her
she'd been sent here to help Jacques LeFevre, and she could not help him unless
she became a part of this company. She wondered at the irony of finding herself
once again auditioning to music from
The Barber of Seville,
just as she
had done in the present. Would she qualify for the chorus here as well?

As
she vocalized a delicate run in her pure but weak soprano, she glimpsed Etienne
Ravel listening to her with a bored expression. To her astonishment, he even
lit a cheroot and blew smoke rings! She finished her solo with a sinking
feeling, but grateful she had not succumbed to panic. Tensely she watched Ravel
stand and thrust his fingers through his black hair.