They call her Dana (30 page)

"We forgot the baskets, too," I said. "You'd better bring them."

He didn't answer. He unlocked the door again and went back inside, and I peered down the street, looking for Jasper and our carriage. A few moments later a bizarre sight appeared, a grand and very ancient gold and white open carriage with a sturdy milk-white horse in harness. The horse had a bobbing golden plume fastened to its head, and the driver perched on the high seat in front wore very grand and very old livery of gold and white velvet. It was like something from an era long since passed, as was the passenger who sat on the tufted white velvet seat. She wore a gown of sky-blue satin much adorned with frothy cascades of beige lace and pink velvet rosebuds, a gown that must have been in the height of fashion sixty years ago. Her hair was done up in a towering powdered white pompadour, pink and white plumes affixed to one side with a diamond clasp, three long sausage curis dangling over her shoulder. Her withered face was heavily painted, and a black satin beauty mark was pasted on one cheekbone. I recognized her immediately, of course.

Seeing me standing there alone in front of the store, the old woman leaned forward and said something to her driver. He slowed the horse down, pulling to a stop only a few feet away.

**Good afternoon, Clarisse," the old woman said. "How charming you are in that frock. Do you need a ride?"

"No, thank you, Madame Lecomb," I said pleasantly. "And it's Dana O'Malley, ma'am, not Clarisse."

As I spoke that familiar name myself, realization dawned, and I could feel a cold chill inside. I remembered how she had mistaken me for someone else the night of the ball, and I understood why now. I knew I must look very much like my mother had looked twenty years ago.

Madame Lecomb frowned, looking foggy and bewildered.

"O'Malley? But I've never heard that name before in my life. Don't tease me, child. It isn't polite. You're Clarisse DuJardin. Your mother, Mathilde, is—was—one of my dearest—but that was such a long time ago." She looked very distressed. "What has happened to Mathilde? I haven't seen her in years. She used to come to all my Sunday Afternoons, and then ..."

She shook her head, plumes waving.

"There was some scandal . . ."she said, squinting, trying to remember. "The daughter ran off-none of us ever knew what became of her—and then Theophile was involved in some unpleasant business at the bank where he was a partner. I seem to recall—embezzling? But Theophile was such a gentleman. He—yes, he died—suicide. Poor Mathilde—all the money gone. She would have been penniless if her brother hadn't ..."

Madame Lecomb frowned, and I could almost see the memories dissolving into a haze. After a moment she sighed and motioned for the driver to move on.

"Lovely seeing you, Clarisse," she said in that cracked old voice. "Tell your mother I'm expecting her next Sunday. Mar-tineau is going to play Mozart, and we'll have champagne and tiny iced cakes and that delicious goose liver pate she likes so well."

The carriage drove away. Charles came back out with the baskets, and I was so lost in thought it was several moments before I realized he was standing beside me. He looked at me with questioning blue eyes.

"You're pale," he said. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head. He wasn't convinced.

"I—I'm just tired," I said.

"You'll feel better after you've had a hot bath and a good

meal," he told me. *'Ah, here's Jasper at last. Been a long day,

hasn't it?"

I nodded. I was barely aware of his hand on my elbow as he helped me into the carriage. I was silent as we drove back home. Charles made a few remarks about the inventory, but I didn't reply and he didn't press me. My mind was on other things.

chapter Eleven

DEUA WAS FEELING THE EFFECTS of the Oppressive heat and was in her sitting room suffering from one of her headaches. I entered that small, comfortable room two mornings later to find her reclining on the embroidered peach silk sofa, holding a cologne-soaked handkerchief to her temples. I had no doubt Delia's headaches were genuinely bad, even though both Charles and Julian slighted them, but Delia did make much of them, carrying on with high drama like an aging actress milking a scene for all it was worth. She sighed mournfully as I entered, dabbing at her brow with the handkerchief. Wearing a sky-blue silk frock trimmed with antique ivory lace, she looked up at me with miserable eyes that had faint mauve shadows beneath them. Her face was slightly pale, her forehead moist with a faint film of perspiration. The room was stifling. I set down the tray of lemonade I had brought her and, parting the pearl-gray velvet drapes, opened the windows to let in some air. Delia sighed again, throwing an arm over her eyes as though to protect them from the blinding rays of the sun which were nonexistent. The courtyard was full of blue-gray morning shadows.

"I've brought you some lemonade," I told her.

"Oh, my dear, I don't mean to be unappreciative, but nothing will help. I simply can't endure this heat. It's worse than ever this summer, although I remember one summer when I was a girl when it was so hot every plant in the courtyard simply withered away. I thought / was going to wither away, too."

"Jezebel put ice in the lemonade," I said.

"So sweet of you to bring it to me, dear. Perhaps I'll have just a sip."

She managed to stir herself into a sitting position and weakly

accepted the glass of lemonade and drank half of it with considerable relish, ice tinkling as she did so. I looked at the portrait hanging over the light gray marble mantel. As always, those dark blue eyes seemed to watch my every move.

"Alicia Duvall has invited me to spend a couple of weeks with her at Grande Villa, and I've decided I simply must go. It's right on the river, with a wide, shady verandah and the loveliest rose gardens—I always find a stay there wonderfully reviving, even if Alicia is a dreadful chatterbox—never stops talking for a minute, my dear, and rarely says anything worth remembering."

I had come to the sitting room with a definite motive in mind, and I knew I was going to have to use all my guile to allay any suspicion on Delia's part. I took the now empty glass of lemonade from her and refilled it from the pitcher I had also brought on the tray.

"Charles was so pleased with your help with the inventory," Delia informed me. "He told me last night you'd finished it in half the time it would ordinarily have taken."

"I'm glad I could help," I said.

"And you're almost finished with the east wing."

"Kayla did a wonderful job supervising things while I was at Etienne's, and everything is done but a few pieces of furniture I want to polish myself. I intend to get right to them. Delia—"

"Such industry!" she exclaimed before I could change the subject. "I just don't know how you do it in this heat. I just know it would give me a dreadful headache. ..."

Remembering that she had one, she picked up a palmetto fan and began to fan herself weakly, refusing the refilled glass I offered. I set it on the table in front of the sofa.

"The Duvalls are a very fine old family, aren't they?" I inquired.

"One of the oldest, one of the finest—though not, of course, anything to compare with the Etiennes. The Duvalls came to New Orleans a good ten years later, and Pierre Duvall had made his fortune as a trapper in the Northwest, trading with the Indians for fiirs or something equally as distasteful. No class at all, I fear, though his children managed to acquire a little polish."

"You know all the old families, don't you?"

Delia nodded. Abandoning the palmetto fan, she picked up the glass of lemonade and took a big gulp.

"I know the genealogies of all the families in the Quarter, dear, it's been a hobby of mine for decades. I know most of the family skeletons, too—people do gossip, though of course I'd never stoop to such a thing myself. It's so very undignified."

' 'Of course," I agreed.

*'You must send Jezebel my compliments on this lemonade, dear. It's ever so refreshing—though nothing could help this wretched migraine," she added mournfully. "I just suffer and suffer and suffer for hours on end. No one knows the agony of it, dear."

"Let me get you a headache powder."

"I've taken two already. I'll just have to suffer. I'm definitely leaving for Grande Villa—Alicia's chatter won't help my migraine a bit, but those wonderful cool breezes off the river will be most welcome, I'm sure. I wonder what clothes I should take—there's bound to be a summer ball. That pale rose taffeta Corinne did up for me should be all right—I'm certain Alicia hasn't seen it—and I can use the gray tulle wrap lightly spangled with sequins. The buttercup-yellow silk, of course, and ..."

Delia paused, looking torn.

"Tell me, dear—and please do be honest—do you think the white silk with the mauve velvet bows is a bit too girlish for a lady of my years?''

"I think it's lovely, perfect for you. Delia, I wonder if—"

"Then I'll take it, and some light morning frocks, of course, and perhaps a sprigged muslin or two for strolling in the rose garden, and I mustn't forget my wide-brimmed garden hat, white tulle with trailing ribbons. Oh dear, there's so much to remember. ..."

"I'll help you pack," I said, beginning to feel quite frustrated. "Delia, I—I wonder if you've ever heard of a family named DuJardin? I don't remember meeting anyone by that name at the Lecombs' ball."

"You wouldn't have met a DuJardin at the ball, dear— although I seem to remember that Mathilde DuJardin was one of Madame Lecomb's regulars years ago, before the scandal. Why are you so interested in the DuJardins, dear?"

"I—oh, I just heard the name mentioned," I said quickly, covering, "and I wondered if you knew them."

''Such a scandal," Delia declared, warming up. "Theophile DuJardin was one of the most respected men in the Quarter-very old family, very best lineage, a considerable fortune. The DuJardins and their two daughters lived in a perfectly beautiful house, one of the grandest in the Quarter, and their gardens were a marvel. Mathilde had an absolute passion for azaleas and camellias, and in season they were a perfect blaze of pink and white and red and mauve. Mathilde introduced the garden party to the Quarter—she gave the very first one, and they caught on immediately. Everyone started giving them—I gave several myself. I remember one in particular—oh, it must have been thirty years ago. I was much younger, of course, and I remember I wore white and yellow muslin. ..."

Delia remembered at great length and in considerable detail. I wore an interested expression and tried my best not to scream. She rambled on and on, her headache quite forgotten.

' '—and that was the party where Therese Delys first met Beau Gabin, such a handsome boy he was, though a complete rogue. They married a few months later, and poor Therese never could learn to accept his infidelities. She took to gin, eventually took to laudanum, finally swallowed a whole bottle of it. Beau broke up at the funeral, actually threw himself on the casket. He loved her, you see, even if he couldn't resist a pretty face."

"And it was Mathilde DuJardin who started the vogue for garden parties?" I said, hoping to lead her back to the subject.

"They were all the rage. Poor Mathilde, she doesn't even have a garden at that tacky little house her brother bought for her—number four Conti Street, I believe, gray brick, green shutters, my dear, the front steps leading right down to the sidewalk. There could be a garden in back, but of course no one from the Quarter has ever been there. Mathilde might have weathered the storm—she wasn't responsible, after all—but she chose to turn her back on the Quarter and live in seclusion."

Number four Conti Street. I committed the address to memory.

"Actually, people felt very sorry for her. Theophile was vice president of one of our biggest banks, handled the finances of half the families in the Quarter, and he'd been using some of their money for personal investments and embezzling on the side. Everyone was horrified when he was finally exposed— quite a few families lost their savings. Jail was inevitable, but

before that could happen Theophile strolled into Mathilde's lovely garden and blew his brains out. I remember well the sensation it caused—"

Before she could remember at length, I asked her what had become of the two daughters.

"Solonge was still living at home—a tall, plain girl, unfortunately, old maid written all over her. She moved to Conti Street with her mother. The other girl, Clarisse, had already left home. The DuJardins claimed she had gone to a fancy finishing school up East and married a Yankee, but there were rumors she ran off with some good-looking scoundrel from out of town. I could give no credence to such rumors. She was a shy thing, as pretty as Solonge was plain, with such lovely manners. Mathilde had hoped to make a grand match for her. It wasn't to be, alas. Clarisse never returned to New Orleans, not even to attend her father's funeral."

I didn't say anything. I was finding it diflicult to contain my emotions. Delia mustn't suspect my interest was anything but casual.

"Mathilde's brother came to her rescue," Delia continued. "He wasn't one of us, you understand, although he was a perfectly respectable man. He owned a number of warehouses down on the docks, and several of the men in the Quarter did business with him. Anyway, Guy Chevrier bought the house for Mathilde. He made some very bad investments several years ago, lost most of his money and lost the warehouses as well. I understand he moved into the house with Mathilde and Solonge and now makes a living supervising cargo on the docks."

Delia shook her head. "Pity," she said, and then she glanced at the clock. "My, it's almost eleven. Dana, dear, please tell Jezebel I've changed my mind. I'll have a bite to eat, after all. Charles said he'll be home for lunch today, and that'll make four of us if we can pry Julian out of his study. A nice nourishing lunch might help this wretched headache."

Lunch was an ordeal. I had an aunt, a great-uncle and a grandmother living right here in the city and not too far from here— I knew that Conti Street was near Exchange Alley, where the fencing academies were located, and close to both Royal and Bourbon. I could hardly contain my impatience. I longed to rush over to number four immediately, but I had to sit at the table with Charles and Julian and Delia and maintain a calm de-