They call her Dana (32 page)

*'I ain't to wait for you?"

I shook my head. Jasper looked dubious. He looked stubborn, too.

"How you gonna get back?" he asked.

"I—I'll stroll down to Canal and hire a cab."

"It ain't fittin' for a young lady like you to be traipsin' around the city without a chaperone, Miz Dana. I'd better wait for you. Mister Charles'd have my hide if somethin' happened to you."

I gave him an imperious look. "I'll hire a cab, Jasper," I said firmly. "There is no need for you to wait."

"But-"

"Don't argue with me."

Jasper hesitated, still dubious, but he finally scowled and climbed back up onto his perch and picked up the reins. I waited until the carriage was driving down the street before moving up those soot-stained white steps. Now that I was actually here, panic swept over me. My body seemed to turn ice-cold and my heart seemed to leap and I knew I couldn't do it, knew I hadn't the courage, was going to turn and flee. It must be after four o'clock now, and the street was spread with soft purple-gray afternoon shadows. It was too late. I would come back in a few days, after I had written them a letter, after I had prepared them. I was terrified. I realized that, and I knew I couldn't let it get the best of me. I waited another few moments, trying to compose myself, and then lifted the knocker and rapped on the door.

The sound seemed to echo in the empty hall beyond. The street was empty at this hour, and I felt terribly vulnerable and exposed standing there in front of the door. There was no answer. I waited, I knocked again, and again the sound seemed to echo inside. Maybe no one is home, I thought hopefiilly. I

can leave without feeling like a coward. It's better this way. I'm not ready to see them just yet. This was a very foolish idea. I was far too impulsive. Then I heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door from within. I caught my breath. I felt frightened and resigned, and then, strangely, the fear vanished and a peculiar calm came over me.

The door was opened by a handsome, rather heavily built man who appeared to be in his early sixties. Although completely silver now, his hair was thick and had a healthy sheen. Although lined and worn, his face with its strong jaw and broad, flat cheekbones bore the vestiges of extreme good looks. His complexion was deeply tanned, and his hazel eyes were sad, full of disillusionment. He was wearing a superbly tailored gray frock coat that had clearly seen years of wear, as had the silver-gray satin waistcoat and black silk neckcloth. He looked weary, looked resigned, looked as though life had dealt him one too many hard blows and he had given up the battle. He gazed at me with questioning eyes, as though to ask why in the world I would be bothering him, and then recognition flickered in those eyes and he blinked, stunned.

"Clarisse . . ."he whispered.

"Not Clarisse," I said. "Her daughter."

He stared at me, holding the door open, his hand gripping it tightly, and I feared the shock might be too much for him. The handsome face seemed to sag, and the hazel eyes gazed at me and saw the past and grew even sadder. It was several moments before he was able to speak again.

"Cla-Clarisse's daughter. Yes—yes, there can be no doubt. I—none of us ever knew she—"

He cut himself short, unable to go on. I stood there on the doorstep, full of conflicting emotions, superbly composed on the surface. A carriage passed on the street behind me. Guy Chevrier, for it must be he, finally managed to pull himself together. He straightened up, and his expression grew guarded. When he spoke, his voice was guarded, too.

"I'm Guy Chevrier,'' he said.

I nodded. "My great-uncle. I'm Dana O'Malley."

"If it's money you want—"

"I didn't come here for money," I said.

"Then-"

"I came to see you—and my grandmother and aunt."

Guy Chevrier looked at me closely, suspiciously now, I fancied, and finally he stepped back and asked me to come inside. I moved into a small foyer with a faded blue and gray rug on the dark hardwood floor and cheap flowered blue wallpaper on the walls. The paper was faded, too, the pink and gray flowers almost white now. My great-uncle led the way down a narrow corridor toward the back of the house, and I could smell something cooking. Cabbage? Corned beef? A skinny Negro girl in a calico dress stuck her head out of the kitchen, peering at us as we passed. I had the impression visitors were rare indeed at number four Conti Street.

The parlor he showed me into was at the very back of the house, French windows looking out over a small, unkempt walled garden. There were no azaleas, no camellias, only a few pathetic rose bushes and what looked like a patch of vegetables. I found it very sad, depressing. The parlor was done in shades of gray and blue and mauve, a purple carpet on the floor. Most of the furniture was old and shabby, but there were two or diree sumptuous pieces—a magnificently gilded white cabinet, a gorgeous mauve silk screen, a pair of very ornate silver candlesticks with amethyst wax candles. These relics of a grander time served only to emphasize the genteel shabbiness of the rest of the room. A basket of knitting sat beside a large blue velvet chair with worn nap, and religious pamphlets were stacked untidily on a table in front of the matching sofa.

"My niece is at church," Guy Chevrier said. "A group of ladies are packing baskets of food for the needy or something of the sort, and Solonge is supervising. My sister is in her room, resting. I hesitate to disturb her. This is very distressing. Miss O'Malley."

"It wasn't my intention to distress anyone," I said.

There was a catch in my voice. I was losing courage fast.

"Then why did you come?" he asked.

"Because—because you're my kin."

Guy Chevrier frowned and examined me with suspicious eyes, debating whether or not he should inform his sister of my presence in her house. He was my blood kin, and yet he looked at me as though I were some kind of criminal, as though I had blackmail in mind or planned to run ofl" with the silver candlesticks. I was still cool and poised on the surface, but I knew I couldn't maintain that facade much longer. Frown deepening.

I

my great-uncle examined me for a while longer and then, decision reached, gave me a curt nod.

"I suppose I might as well alert my sister," he said. "We might as well get this over with and be done with it. Mathilde has not been well, but—if you will wait here. Miss O'Mal-ley . . ."

He left the room. I could hear his footsteps moving back down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. I waited. I didn't sit down, I was far too nervous. Several long minutes passed. Shadows were spreading in the back garden, stretching across the dusty yard like hazy blue-gray fingers. This was what my grandmother looked out upon every day. How sad she must be when she remembered that glorious blaze of azaleas and camellias, when she thought about those garden parties for which she had been celebrated. Was she sad when she thought about her daughter, too? How could anyone disown a child? It had probably been done in the heat of emotion. She had probably regretted it all these years, longing to see Ma again, but Ma had had too much pride to contact her folks again after she had been abandoned and left with child.

I wandered restlessly around the small room, idly examining things. A set of hand-embroidered samplers hung on one wall, all neatly framed, all with a religious motif, the messages grim and not at all uplifting. One depicted a gravestone with a weeping mother placing a flower on the mound of earth in front. In His Arms Now, the embroidered message read, and in the upper right-hand comer a chubby infant could be seen resting on clouds. Hardly a cheerful thing to spend weeks working on. The others were as morbid. I suspected that my aunt Solonge had done them. The religious pamphlets on the table were pretty morbid, too, I discovered, all about hellfire and doom and the perils besetting those who dwelt in this vale of tears. Solonge DuJardin was printed on the flyleaf of each pamphlet. She must not be a very happy person, I thought.

At least twenty minutes passed. I was even more restless, my nerves on the verge of snapping altogether. Had my grandmother refused to see me? Were they just going to leave me waiting here? When, finally, I heard footsteps descending the staircase, I caught my breath and tried valiantly to compose myself. I heard low voices, my uncle's soothing, the other a harsh grumble, and then footsteps moved down the corridor.

moved slowly, and I heard the unmistakable thump-thump of a wooden cane. My heart seemed to stop. My uncle entered the room and turned to give his sister some assistance. She waved him away impatiently, moving into the room on her own, leaning heavily on her ebony cane. She gave me a long, cold look that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, then moved with regal stiffness over to the large blue chair.

Dressed in black broadcloth with a black lace shawl wrapped around her arms and shoulders, she had a stout, solid body and steel-gray hair worn in two tight braids twisted into a coronet on top of her head. She had her brother's square jaw and his broad, flat cheekbones, but there the resemblance ended. There were no vestiges of beauty in her face. It was harsh, hard, the lips thin and disapproving, the eyes dark brown, bitter. There was no warmth, no softness, nor was there any of Ma's sweet gentility. Gripping her cane with both hands, she lowered herself into the chair, again disdaining her brother's assistance. Leaning the cane against the side of the chair, she adjusted the black lace shawl to her satisfaction and gave me another cold look.

"Well, young woman," she snapped, '*what is it you want?"

*'I—I wanted to meet you," I said. My voice trembled.

"If your mother thinks she can use you to wedge her way back into the family after all this time, she's sadly mistaken."

"My mother is dead," I said quietiy.

Guy Chevrier took a step forward. His face seemed to crumple. I could see that he was shocked, that he had been fond of his niece. Mathilde DuJardin displayed no reaction at all. I might have been commenting on the weather.

"How?" my uncle asked. "When?" His voice was weak.

"Ma died earlier this year—in the swamps. She had had consumption for a long time. I—I was with her when she passed on."

He shook his head, staring into the past again, and then he stepped over to the gilded white cabinet, opened it and took out a decanter and glass. Mathilde DuJardin pursed her thin lips as she watched him pour a strong brandy.

"Really, Guy," she said. "It's barely five o'clock. Must you start quite so early?"

"I've just received some very upsetting news, Mathilde."

He downed half the brandy. His face was still crumpled. He toyed with the glass and looked at his sister.

"I loved the girl," he said.

"I know you did. So did her father. Clarisse had a way with men, even as an infant. They could never resist her charm."

I was appalled by her attitude, her lack of emotion. "You— you don't care that she's dead?" I asked.

"My daughter died for me the day she ran off with that dreadful man. I had plans for her. She could have married Jacques Cartier. He was mad for her, and he was the greatest catch in the Quarter. He inherited two plantations and over a million dollars when his father died."

"She didn't love him," Guy Chevrier pointed out.

"Love! What did an empty-headed slip of a girl know about love? That man beguiled her. I told her he was no good. I told her if she didn't give him up I would disown her. If she had married Jacques, there would have been money and her father could have—put back what he borrowed. Everything would have been different."

My great-uncle finished his brandy. He no longer looked broken. He merely looked resigned and very, very sad.

"You can't blame Clarisse for all that, Mathilde."

"I told her we needed money. I didn't go into detail, but I told her that her father was having problems at the bank and it was imperative she bring money into the family. Jacques would have done anything for her. She wouldn't listen to me. She was in love. Her family didn't matter."

"She was only a girl," my uncle said.

"A selfish, willful girl. Her father spoiled her dreadfully. So did you, Guy. All the men spoiled her. She was pretty and capricious and they all wanted to make her smile. She could have had anyone—anyone—and she chose to run off with that nobody.''

Mathilde DuJardin pressed her lips together, her eyes burning with terrible bitterness. This woman was my grandmother. I had nourished foolish fancies of a joyous, loving reunion, of intimacy and days spent together in warm companionship. My grandmother may have loved her azaleas and camellias, but she had never loved my mother. She gave me another cold look, still the haughty aristocrat despite her present surroundings.

"I suppose you're his daughter?" she said.

I nodded. "I—Ma never told me who—"

"I don't suppose he married her, did he?"

I shook my head. She looked triumphant.

"I told her that would happen. I told her he'd leave her high and dry and in serious trouble. Your name is O'Malley, Guy said. I suppose she found another fool man to give her bastard a name."

"Who was my father?" I asked.

"I vowed his name would never pass my lips," Mathilde DuJardin said stiffly. ' 'I have no intention of breaking that vow now."

"But—"

"If you've come here to blackmail us, young woman, you've wasted your time. Everyone in the Quarter believes my youngest daughter went to school up East and married a Yankee. At one time the knowledge that she ran off with a good-looking charlatan and bore his bastard would have ruined the family name, but shortly thereafter her father ruined it so sufficiently that nothing people found out now could possibly matter."

"Do you actually believe I came here to blackmail you?"

' 'Of course you did.''

"Not—not everyone is venal and cold hearted, madame," I informed her.

Mathilde DuJardin caught the implication at once. Her mouth flew open and her brown eyes widened. She was outraged that anyone had the temerity to speak to her that way. What a dragon she must have been before her fall. The old Creole families of the Quarter were notorious for their snobbery and arrogance, but she must have given new meaning to those words. Perhaps because she wasn't bom into the society, I thought unkindly. Guy Chevrier wasn't "one of us," Delia had said. Before her marriage to Theophile DuJardin, my grandmother would have been an outsider, too.