PHANTOM IN TIME (14 page)

“Tell
me about yourself,
ma belle,
” he murmured.

His
question further unnerved her. “What do you want to know?”

He gestured
extravagantly. “Why, whence you hail, who your people are. You know, you made
quite a stir when you intruded onstage last night wearing that silly Valkyrie
costume.”

Fighting
a smile, Bella considered his query carefully and decided the truth would
suffice—to a degree. “Well, I'm from San Francisco. My parents were opera
singers.”

That
piqued his interest, judging from the way he straightened in his seat. “Indeed.
What are their names?”

“Mario and Carmita De La Rosa.”

He
scowled. “How fascinating—though I've not heard of them.”

“I
lost them six years ago in an accident.”

He
reached out to squeeze her hand, his dark eyes filled with compassion. “My
sincere sympathies,
ma
chère.”

Warmed
by his gesture and the heat of his touch, she slowly extricated her fingers
from his. “Since that time . . . well, I've had to fend for myself. Because I
had my musical background to fall back on, I've gone from city to city,
performing with various opera troupes.”

“But
how did you end up at the theater last night—and wearing that ridiculous
costume?”

Bella
had been expecting this question and had already decided to tell Jacques much
the same story she'd concocted for Helene. “You see, I was singing on a
showboat, and our director . . . he made improper advances. Suffice it to say I
had to leave the performance in a rush.”

Jacques
scowled darkly. “I'd like to call out the blackguard who tried to force himself
on you.”

She
smiled. “I'm afraid that's impossible. The riverboat is surely halfway to
Memphis by now.”

He
still appeared puzzled. “And afterward, you just roamed about the Quarter until
you conveniently heard the sounds of opera?”

Bella
couldn't contain a smirk. “Something like that. I did find the theater, and I
thought maybe I could join up with your company. I went in the stage door, got
lost in the wings, and the next thing I knew—”

“You
had intruded on our performance of
Carmen?”
he provided cynically.

“Something
like that.”

“Bella,
Bella. You are a lost little soul. But I would think with your talent for
fiction you should have become a writer rather than a singer.”

She
was crestfallen. “You don't believe me!”

Chuckling,
he reached out to pat her hand. “C
hérie,
I rather suspect there are some
aspects to your story that you have—er— neglected to share with me.”

She
was silent, glowering.

His
face was a picture of repressed merriment. “But do not fret, I'll take care of
you now.”

That
condescending remark badly rankled Bella's pride. “I don't need you to care for
me, Mr. LeFevre.”

“Ah,”
he murmured, his eyes glittering meaningfully, “so you are an independent sort,
are you, Bella? A woman of the world?”

She
laughed. “I can't really blame you for being skeptical. I suppose chorus girls
don't have so pristine a reputation here in the Gay Nineties, do they?”

“The
Gay Nineties?” he repeated, stroking his jaw. “That is an odd expression, one
I've not heard before—though it does suit this age, I suppose. As for your
reputation, Bella . . .” His voice trailing off, he perused her burningly. “Let
me assure you, I'm a most discreet man.”

Bella
fought the hot surge of titillation unleashed by that remark. “And a
hypocrite.”

He
appeared perplexed. “How so?”

“You'd
eagerly call out the cad who tried to ravish me last night, yet your designs
are similar.”

“But
they are not,” he protested, his face a picture of outraged male vanity.
“Mon
Dieu
,
I would never force myself on a woman.” His expression
softened to one of wry amusement. “It's never been a necessity, and I'm sure it
won't be with you.”

“Oh!”
she gasped, irate. “You, sir, are assuming far too much about me.”

Jacques
chuckled. “Then you are not a woman of experience? But that would intrigue me
even more,
chérie.”

“And
you persist in misunderstanding me,” Bella retorted. “What I am saying is that
my experiences—whatever they may be—are none of your damn affair.”

A
slow grin spread across his tanned face. “Still afraid of me, are you, Bella?”

“I'm
not
afraid of you!”

Jacques
only laughed.

The
carriage had paused before Antoine's, and Jacques opened the door, stepped
down, and assisted Bella out of the conveyance. She scanned the familiar lines
of the historic restaurant—the ground floor with its pillars, gaslights, and
softly glowing pale curtains behind the gallery, the second story with its
colorful flags and iron lace balconies. Along the front gallery, two elegantly
dressed couples were visiting, while a third was boarding their carriage. At
the front door, a maitre d’ was admitting a small family.

“It
hasn't changed much,” Bella muttered.

Jacques
raised an eyebrow and led her toward the entrance. A smiling waiter, wearing a
black tailcoat and trousers, a pleated linen shirt and a black bow tie, opened
the door and bade them enter. “M'sieur LeFevre, how good to see you.”

“Good
evening, Pierre,” replied Jacques. “I'd like you to meet the newest toast of
New Orleans, Miss Bella De La Rosa.”

Pierre bowed. “Miss De La Rosa.
Welcome to Antoine's.”

“Thank
you.”

“Is
my usual table ready?” Jacques inquired.

“But
of course,” replied the waiter.

The
tantalizing smells of hot fresh bread and spicy Creole cooking greeted Bella as
she and Jacques followed the waiter into the dining room. She noted that
Antoine's did indeed appear little changed from the present, an expanse of
white tile floors, linen draped tables lit by gas mantles, and brass
chandeliers. Couples and families were happily visiting as they dined on
succulent oyster, fish, and chicken dishes.

 Pierre
led them to a corner table and helped Bella into her chair. Jacques promptly
ordered an elaborate meal: white wine, bread, and
pommes soufflés,
followed by turtle soup, oysters Bienville,
filet de truite Florentine,
chicken Rochambeau, crepes suzette and cafe brûlot
.

Afterward,
Bella stared at him in amazement. “My heavens, Jacques, why did you order so
much? One would think you were feeding an army.”

He
reached out and took her hand, staring deeply into her eyes. “But I want you to
please you,
ma belle
. I want to tempt your palette with our finest
delicacies. After all, you are a newcomer to this region, and perhaps not all
of our cuisine will be to your liking.” Soulfully, he finished, “When I am with
a woman, I devote my undivided attentions to ensuring that she is . . .
gratified in every respect.”

Bella
eyed him askance. “Oh, brother. Talk about a line.”

“Line?”
he repeated, mystified.

“You're
just trying to make me forget all those showgirls you've been fondling.”

He
was chuckling as Pierre returned to deposit a basket of bread and another
filled with soufflé potatoes. The waiter poured Jacques a sample of the white
wine; Jacques solemnly sipped it and nodded his approval. After filling both
wine goblets, Pierre strolled away.

Jacques
lifted his glass and murmured, “A toast. To us.”

“Us?”
she queried.

“You
are here with me tonight, are you not,
ma
chère?
Indulge me.”

Resisting
an urge to roll her eyes, Bella dutifully clicked her wineglass against his.
“To us.” Noting the look of eager triumph lighting his face, she picked up one
of the
pommes soufflés
and plopped it into her mouth. The pastrylike
potato fluff melted instantly. “Oh, these are divine.”

“So
they are. Try the bread.”

“I
already know it's good.”

He
scowled. “You have been here before? But I thought you were new to our city.”

Bella
recovered quickly from her faux pas. “Jacques, any fool can tell by
smelling
French bread that it's wonderful!”

Grinning,
he broke her off a piece. “Eat,
ma
chère.”

Bella
nibbled on the delicious morsel. “Tell me about yourself, Jacques. Are you from
a musical family?”

“Not
entirely,” he replied. “Actually, my grandmother was the musical one.”

“Indeed?”

Jacques's
face gleamed with pride. “I must show you the beautiful piano she left me.”

“I'd
love to see it sometime.”

“And
you shall,” he said, his expression becoming wistful. “Grand-mere used to play
me lullabies when I was small. Her voice . . .” He paused, kissing his fingers.
“So heavenly. I'm sure she serenades the angels now.”

Remembering
her own grandmother with a pang, Bella nodded. “I know you must miss her. Is
your family from New Orleans?”

“
Oui
.
My father owned several cotton warehouses at the Exchange, and my mother was a
busy socialite. My parents tried to raise me in the typical Creole manner, but
I was born with a passion for music. While other boys my age were busy with
their fencing masters, I was taking piano and singing lessons. From the time I
was five years old, I insisted my parents take me to the opera every week. I
feel as if I spent my youth in my parents'
loge découverte
at the French
Opera House. I once saw Adelina Patti sing with Nicolini, and also Lillian
Nordica. I wept at the premiere of
La Forza del Destino,
and dreamed of
the day when I could sing tenor on that stage.”

Studying
his rapt expression, Bella was amazed. “You really do love the opera! How old
were you then?”

“When
La Forza del Destino
premiered? I was fifteen. That was thirteen years
ago, and if anything, my passion for singing has only deepened.”

“So
you're twenty eight now,” she muttered.
How young to die!
she thought.

“And
you're a young woman who has conquered the intricacies of mathematics,” he
teased.

She
wrinkled her nose at him. “Do your parents still live in New Orleans?”

He
shook his head.
“Non,
this damp climate was very hard on my father's
lungs. A few years ago, they moved to New Mexico, where my sister had already
settled on a ranch with her husband.” He sighed. “I miss them, although
occasionally one of Maman's friends will still invite me to a
fete,
or
to a
bal de société.
I attend enough of the functions so as not to
become a complete pariah. Still, having my parents gone gives me more . . .
shall we say, social freedoms?”

Bella
feigned an amazed look. “Your mean a fully grown man such as yourself would be
daunted at having his mother scold him for spending his nights painting the
town with chorus girls?”

Jacques
roared with laughter. “I doubt it is in my best interests to comment there.”

“I
agree.”

They
fell silent as Pierre brought their soup. Once the waiter was out of earshot,
Jacques asked, “The rehearsal today . . . you were pleased?”

Bella
was savoring the wonderful turtle soup with its flavors of garlic, bay leaf,
thyme, and cloves. “It was all right, I suppose.”

He
appeared somewhat distressed, his brow furrowed. “You will be continuing with
the troupe?”

“Why
do you ask?” she countered sweetly. “Afraid you might miss out on your next
planned conquest?”

Lifting
his spoon, he appeared not the least bit guilty. “I do make it a policy to
become acquainted with all the new chorus girls at the theater. It's sort of an
experiment I'm doing.”

“An
experiment?”

He
nodded, again looking deeply into her eyes. “I am searching for the woman of my
destiny—the woman to share the opera with me. And it could be you,
ma
belle.”

Bella
choked on her wine. “Oh, please don't try to con me with that tired line.”

He
appeared confused. “What do you mean by ‘line’?”

“I'm
not interested in becoming any man's experiment, Mr. LeFevre.”

Undaunted,
he sipped his wine, and spoke in a sexy undertone. “Then I must persuade you
otherwise, eh,
chérie?”

“Besides,”
she went on, though her voice trembled, “I've seen you in action and am
convinced your motives are far from pure. I think this search for the woman of
your destiny is just an excuse to try to seduce everything in a skirt.”

“That
is not true,” he protested. “Usually I can tell if a woman is the one simply by
kissing her.”

“You
wouldn't stop at kisses,” she accused.

“No,
I wouldn't,” he admitted. He leaned closer. “Especially not with you, Bella. As
lovely as you are, I doubt I would
ever
want to stop.”

Bella's
cheeks were burning, her stomach turning somersaults. She tried to glower
righteously at Jacques, but became lost in his burning gaze.

“I've
scared you a little again, haven't I?” he asked, regarding her sympathetically.
“I like that.”

“You
like frightening me?” she gasped.

“Non,
but I like the fact that you're not overly eager,” he admitted. “Most girls in
this day and age are shameless. They smoke cigarettes, belt down bourbon like a
man, and sometimes even bore me with lectures on woman's suffrage.”

Bella's
mouth fell open. “Why, you're a chauvinist.”

“What
does
that
mean?” he asked in exasperation.

“You
like to repress women.”

“Repress
women?” he repeated, flinging a hand outward. “Why, that is absurd!
Chérie,
I love women. I respect them. I want them to be free, not 'repressed' as you
call it. But I want them to
be
women. These wanton girls at the theater
. . .” He shook his head. “They are brash and throw themselves at me.”