They call her Dana (25 page)

"From Lavinia's letters, I expected a vulgar com husk slattern who still smelled of alligator oil."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"I didn't expect to find someone who admired fine furniture.

who appreciated Watteau and Fragonard and could pronounce their names property.''

"I don't image you did."

He raised one hand to stroke the cleft in his chin. He was my enemy, I knew that, yet the physical desire I felt for him continued to ache inside, a totally unreasonable thing under the circumstances. I was perfectly poised, facing him with icy composure, and he, of course, hadn't the least inkling of his eflfect on me, but had he taken me into his arms, I would have succumbed to him immediately, without the least hesitation.

"Apparently you're very clever," he told me. "You'd have to be to take my brother in so completely. Julian is something of a dreamer, I'll concede that, but, contrary to what many believe, he's no fool."

"You're quite right."

Charles frowned. My composure bothered him. It was the only weapon I had, and it was growing more and more difficult to maintain it. He looked at me with half-shrouded eyes, chin tilted, examining me again with that intense scrutiny so rude and disdainful. After a moment, he nodded.

"I can see how it happened," he admitted. "Julian's always had exquisite taste in women. He doesn't stray from his study often, but when he does, it's usually with a woman who makes him the envy of his peers.''

"Is that supposed to be a compliment. Monsieur Etienne?"

"You're a very beautiful woman. You know that. You've used your beauty to climb up in the worid, and you'll undoubtedly continue to do so in the fumre."

"I'm not a whore," I said.

"A rather unpleasant word, but I'm sure it applies well enough."

"Your brother—"

"My brother has taken temporary leave of his senses," he said sharply, "but I'm here now to extricate him from this mess. I know exactly what you are. Mademoiselle O'Malley, and I have no intention of letting you wreck Julian's life. God knows you've done enough harm already."

"I told you I stopped by the shop before I came home. My cousin Raoul was there. He told me about your disgraceful conduct at the Lecombs' ball—apparently the whole Quarter's talk-

ing about it. Not content with ensnaring my brother and taking him for all you could, you had to make him appear even more ludicrous by flirting outrageously with every young man at the ball and attempting to seduce his own cousin right on the premises. Oh yes, he told me about the episode in the courtyard."

"I'll bet he did," I said dryly.

"IVe no use for Raoul—he's a leech and a knave and I'd boot his backside out of the shop if he weren't family—but at least he had enough judgment to resist your blandishments. He wanted you, he admitted that, but for once he thought of the family name.''

His dark blue eyes held mine, full of accusation, full of distaste, and I didn't look away, nor did I say a word in my defense. Charles Etienne had already made up his mind about me, and anything I might say would be futile. I realized that. He was convinced I was a clever, conniving whore, and nothing was going to change his mind. Several brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated the room as we stood there, facing each other, and then, abrupdy, the rain ceased, still dripping from eaves and plants.

The accusation was there in his eyes, the distaste as well, but as long moments of silence passed, I realized there was something else, too. He despised me, of that there could be no doubt, but he also wanted me as I wanted him. His features were stem, his mouth tight, and he was in perfect control of his emotions, but the desire was there, a purely physical thing that had nothing to do with his opinion of me. My dress was dusty and there were perspiration stains, my hair fell to my shoulders in an unruly tumble and my face was dirty, but still he desired me. The muscles of his jaw tightened. A tiny vein throbbed at his temple. He despised me, but he wanted to throw me down onto the floor and take me here and now, roughly, savagely.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" he asked finally.

"Anything I said would be useless. You've already summed up the simation and reached your decisions about me."

"Are you telling me I'm wrong?"

I didn't reply. I had too much pride. My tightly held composure was beginning to slip. I prayed this would end soon. I could feel tears welling up inside, and I didn't want him to see me cry. I didn't want to give him that satisfaction.

"Are you telling me Lavinia was misinformed? Are you telling me Raoul was lying?''

"I'm not telling you a goddamn thing," I said.

"Ah, the ladylike demeanor begins to crack."

TWo bright pink spots bumed on my cheeks, and I welcomed the anger. I longed to slap his face. Anger was better than tears. The son of a bitch had decided I was a whore out to wreck his brother's life long before he returned to New Orleans, and nothing was going to change his mind. These past months had been like something out of a fairy tale, too good to be true, and I should have realized it would end like this.

"You're going to throw me out," I said.

"Indeed I am. You needn't worry. Mademoiselle O'Malley. I'll see that you are well provided for. I'll give you enough money to pay your expenses until you can ensnare some other hapless male."

"Keep your bloody money," I told him.

I turned then and left the room with all the dignity I could muster, my back straight, my chin held high, and it was only after I had journeyed halfway down the dim, murky corridor that my step quickened. I hurried on down the corridor and through the dusty labyrinth of rooms until I finally reached that front room with the French doors. He had left them open. Rain had swept in through them, making large puddles on the fine hardwood floor. It should be mopped up at once. To hell with that. To hell with everything. I dashed through the doors and out into the courtyard. Rain dripped noisily from leaves, splattering onto the tiles, and the fountain was still gurgling merrily. There was a fine mist in the air. It stung my cheeks as I hurried across the courtyard and moved up the iron staircase that wound up to the second-floor gallery.

Moments later I was in my bedroom, leaning against the French windows I had closed behind me. My heart was palpitating, and my breath was coming in short gasps. I closed my eyes, fighting the tears, stubbornly willing them not to fall. Crying was for weaklings, and I wasn't weak. I was strong. I was a survivor. I was on my own once again, but at least I was in a better position than I'd been in when I hit Clem over the head with the skillet and fled through the swamps. I stayed there against the windows for several minutes, trying to gain control of the emotions raging inside, and finally, a curious calm came over me.

First things first, I thought. I summoned Kayla and asked her to prepare a bath for me and told her about the water that had

blown into the room in the east wing and asked her to see that it was mopped up, and fifteen minutes later, in the small room down the corridor, I was soaking in a tub ftill of hot, scented water, rubbing my arms and shoulders with a rich lather from the French soap as smooth as satin. I spent a long time bathing. I washed my hair as well, toweling it dry afterward. Back in my bedroom I donned my petticoat and brushed my hair until it fell in thick, lustrous waves shining with rich highlights.

I selected my gown carefully. Why? Why did I want to look especially fetching tonight? I wasn't going to see Charles Etienne again. I wasn't going to see anyone if I could help it. Nevertheless, I took down one of Cprinne's loveliest creations and put it on. Of thick, creamy beige silk, it had pencil-thin stripes of gold and brown and bronze. The heart-shaped neckline was low, the full puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, and there was a narrow waistband of bronze velvet. The skirt belled out over the underskirts in gleaming folds. Ridiculous, dressing like this, but. . . I would need to look nice when I checked into the hotel.

Seeing the stack of books piled on my bedside table, I decided to return them to the library downstairs. It wasn't necessary, of course, but I wanted to see the library one last time. I encountered no one on my way downstairs, but I could hear Delia talking to one of the servants in her sitting room. I was relieved to know she had gotten back safely. She must be in a flurry of excitement after she learned of Charles's eariy remm. Lamps were burning in the library, but there was no one there. How many hours had I spent prowling around the shelves, pulling down weighty volumes, perching on the window seat to study the plates? How many times had I whirled that huge bronze and green and gold globe, trying to locate some country or other to complete my geography lessons? How many exercises had I done at that old desk with its embossed leather top, dipping my pen into the ink pot, scribbling my answers carelessly, eager to be finished? How many delightful, enthralling novels had I taken down and carried upstairs to read until the wee hours of the night? It seemed a hundred memories swarmed in my mind as I put the books I had brought down back into their proper slots on the shelves.

"Here you are dear," Delia said, stepping into the room. "I thought I heard someone moving around. My, you look ravishing tonight, child. I suppose you heard that Charles is back?"

"I heard," I said.

"I almost fainted when I got back and Pompey told me he was here. Jezebel will throw a fit, I thought—she likes to be prepared, likes to know exactly how many will be to dinner— but, on the contrary, when I went into the kitchen she was happily cooking all his favorite things, including her chocolate nut cake with marshmallow icing. He always loved it as a boy. She hasn't baked it since he left."

Delia was beaming, so elated she could hardly contain herself. She had changed into a lovely pale pink silk gown adorned with beige lace ruffles and deeper rose-pink velvet bows. Her eyes sparkled. A radiant smile played on her lips. Her hair billowed about her head like a silvery cloud. I realized that I loved her dearly. No one had ever been so kind to me. I was going to miss her dreadfully.

"For some reason or other, Charles was in a wretched mood. He gave me a quick hug and demanded to know where Julian was—I had no idea, it seems he went out today, too. Anyway, Julian got back about ten minutes after I did, and Charles gave him a surly hello and drug him off to the study. They're in there still. I stuck my head in to tell them dinner would be served at eight o'clock on the dot, and Charles almost bit my head off. Poor dear, he's probably exhausted from die trip."

"He probably is."

"It's wonderful having him back," she confessed. "He can be a terrible bore at times—so stem, so sober, such a grouch-but deep down he's really a darling. I always feel so much more secure when he's at the helm."

I put die last book in place and turned, wanting to tell her good-bye and knowing I hadn't the courage. Instead, I took her hand and squeezed it.

"I—I won't be coming down to dinner tonight, Delia,'' I said.

"But—oh dear ..." She looked alarmed. "Is something wrong?''

I managed a smile and shook my head, giving her hand another squeeze.

"I just—just have a headache," I lied. "I spent quite a long time in the east wing, and there—there was so much dust. I bathed and changed, hoping I'd feel better, but—I think I'm just going up to my room and go to bed early."

Her clear light green eyes were full of concern. "You must

take one of my headache powders, dear. I'll run fetch it immediately. ''

"I—I've already taken one. It's made me a little drowsy."

"I wish they'd make me drowsy. Nothing seems to help when I have one of my migraines. I just suffer, suffer, suffer, hours on end—but, my dear, you must have something to eat. I'll have a tray sent up to your room. Nothing heavy, of course. A bowl of soup, perhaps, and some—"

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "Delia, I—I love you very much."

Delia was immensely touched by my admission. She smiled a lovely smile and tightened her fingers around mine.

"Why—what a lovely thing to say. I love you, too, my dear. You've become the daughter I never had."

I fought the tears. I couldn't cry now. I couldn't. I let go of her hand and pushed a wave back from my temple.

"I just wanted you to know," I said.

"You run on up to your room and rest, dear. Charles will be disappointed when you don't come down for dinner, but the two of you can meet at breakfast."

"Yes," I said.

I gave her a hug and clung to her for just a moment, and then I released her and quickly left the library. Julian I would not see at all. I couldn't face that. Later, perhaps, I would send him a letter. I moved up the gracefully curving staircase to the second floor. Julian and Charles were cloistered in the study, and I had a good idea what they were talking about. Charles was telling Julian what a fool he'd been, what a clever, manipulating little harlot I was. I wasn't going to give Charles Etienne the satisfaction of throwing me out. I was going to leave of my own volition, tonight, as soon as I could pack.

Several old traveling bags were, I knew, kept in a storage closet at the end of the hall—I 'd seen them during my house-cleaning project. I walked to the closet and took out two of them, large, rather unwieldy bags of worn, supple brown leather with tarnished brass buckles on the straps. Charles would be able to call me thief now, as well as whore, for the bags weren't mine and I intended to take them with me. Carrying them to my bedroom, I put them on the bed and opened the wardrobe door and then the tears came, abruptly, spilling over my lashes in salty rivulets.

I didn't want to cry. I hadn't meant to. I was tough. I was a fighter. I could take care of myself. The tears came nevertheless, and I felt a wrenching sadness inside that was every bit as bad as that I had felt when Ma died, perhaps worse. I sat down and let the tears spill and let the sadness possess me, and a long, long time passed, soft candlelight bathing the bedroom, only darkness inside. An hour must have passed before I finally stood up and moved numbly over to the stand behind the screen and washed my face. I felt no better, but the tears were behind me now.