They call her Dana (33 page)

"How dare you—" she began and cut herself short when she heard the front door slamming. She shot a look at her brother. "Solonge," she said. "You'd better go prepare her."

Her brother nodded and left the room. My grandmother adjusted the folds of her black lace shawl again and looked at me with those cold eyes. I could hear voices in the front hall, a muted background. I felt trapped in the middle of a very bad dream. I wanted only to leave.

"You look exactly like her," Mathilde DuJardin said.

"I consider that a compliment, madame."

"Coming here was a grave mistake, young woman."

"I realize that," I said.

"I don't know what you hoped to gain, but—"

"What I hoped to gain is something you're quite incapable of providing," I told her.

She had no idea what I was talking about. Reaching for her cane, she propped it between her knees and rested her hands on top of it, looking at me with a total lack of feeling. Was it possible for a mother to hate her daughter, to be unmoved by news of her death? I found that hard to believe, but it seemed to be true in this instance. Mathilde DuJardin clearly blamed my mother for all those misfortunes that had befallen the family. I stood there in front of the shabby blue velvet sofa, amazed and appalled. The voices in the corridor grew somewhat louder, accompanied now by the sound of footsteps, and a moment later my aunt Solonge stepped into the room.

She was tall and extremely thin, almost emaciated, wearing a drab puce dress with long sleeves and a high neck. Her face was an elongated version of her mother's, the features pinched and sour, the eyes a lighter brown, almost amber, full of self-satisfaction and superiority. Her mouth was pursed, sanctimonious, and her mousy brown hair was pulled back and worn in a tight bun on the back of her neck. She had the officious, self-important air of the professional do-gooder, and no warmth. No warmth whatsoever. Everything about her was dry and brittle, as though the saps inside had long since turned into dust. She was clutching a Bible, I noticed. I suspected that she was rarely without it. When she saw me, she stopped and her face went a little white, but she did not lose a jot of her frigid composure.

"So," she said, "it's true. At first I thought you might be an impostor, but I can see that isn't the case."

"The resemblance is remarkable," her uncle said, stepping into the room behind her.

"Quite," Solonge DuJardin said. She looked at her mother. "I hope this hasn't distressed you too much, Maman."

"I'm fine, daughter."

"What a pleasant day this has been. The dear ladies I recruited did everything wrong, and I had to repack all the baskets myself—one apple to a basket, one orange—and I'll probably

have to distribute them myself as welL I had to dress down Mrs. Ashbury for being inexcusably tardy, and Father Phillipe had been at the sacramental wine again—I'm going to have to write a letter to his superiors, one is long overdue—and then I come home to find this charming situation confronting me. I don't know how I cope."

Admirably, I'm sure, I thought. Solonge DuJardin turned those piercing amber eyes on me, her mouth twitching with distaste.

"My uncle informs me that you are named O'Malley."

"That's right."

She nodded, a wintry smile now curling on those thin lips. She looked extremely pleased with herself.

"I know who you are," she said. It was an accusation, not a statement. A muscle twitched at the side of her left eye. "We may no longer be a part of the Grand Society, but we hear about everything that goes on in the Quarter. You're the giri Julian Etienne brought back from the swamps."

I nodded. Solonge DuJardin turned to her mother.

"He brought her out of the swamps and installed her in his house," she informed her. '*Then he made her his 'ward.' The entire Quarter was scandalized. She's nothing but a little whore."

She was still clutching the Bible.

"Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Oh yes, I can see the resemblance. The same face, the same body, the same guile—" She was addressing me now. "My dear sister could always twist the men around her little finger—starting with Daddy. I—I tried my best to please him in every way I could, but she was his favorite. Always. Daddy never caught on to her wiles. Darling Clarisse could do no wrong. She took after him, had his features, his coloring. / was the dutiful one, but she was the one beloved.'*

"I'm glad someone loved her," I said.

"The men flocked around her, all of them, vying for her favors, plying her with flowers and presents and attention—how she reveled in it. She could have married a fortune, could have saved the family. I would have done anything for my father, anything, but Clarisse chose to enter into a—a thoroughly disgusting illicit relationship with a scoundrel. He got her pregnant. He abandoned her. She bore his bastard and ended up in the swamps. She got exactly what she deserved, and I'm glad/'

"What a fine Christian lady you are," I said.

She didn't miss the irony. She recoiled, incensed.

"I'm not a whore," I told her, "and neither, thank God, am I a dried-up, frustrated, brittle old maid consumed with jealousy and hate. I pity you mademoiselle. I pity all of you. I can understand now why my mother ran away. How terrible it must have been growing up with a mother and a sister like the two of you. My mother was gende and compassionate and caring. I may be a bastard, as you pointed out with such relish, but I was raised with /ov^—something my mother had to find outside her home."

Mathilde DuJardin gasped, looking like some outraged duchess. Her daughter puffed up like an adder, ready to explode. Guy Chevrier had sunk down onto the sofa, ashen, broken, spineless, as bad as they were in his way. I marched over to the door and then turned to face the three of them.

"When my ma died, I had but one thought—to get to New Orleans somehow and find her family. I wanted to have a place. I wanted to—to be a part. I wanted to belong. I came to the city, and I did find a place. A man not related to me at all took me into his home and made me his ward, not for the reasons you believe, dear Aunt, but because he is kind and good and caring, because he actually practices those virtues found in the Bible you're clutching. He and his aunt and—and his brother have made me a part of their lives, and I belong."

I paused for breath. All three of them were speechless.

"Coming here was indeed a mistake. I thought I might find people like Ma, kind and Christian and good, but I see that I was wrong. We have the same blood flowing in our veins, but— thank God I'm not like any of you. Thank God Ma got away from you all and found some happiness with the man she loved, however brief it may have been, and—and thank God I don't have to see any of you ever again. How lucky I am to have a real family.''

Mathilde DuJardin was still gasping. Her brother looked at me with woeful eyes, wanting to say something to me, too spineless to do so. My aunt was ashen with outrage and looking more than ever like an adder with head thrust forward on her scrawny neck and amber eyes blazing.

"You—you impudent little tramp!" she spluttered. "How dare you speak to people like us in that manner. You—why, you act as though you think you're better than we are—you, the

bastard offspring of a highborn slut and her penniless paramour! You're your mother's daughter, all right."

"I am indeed," I said, "and I'm so very proud of it."

I turned then and left the room. I could hear my grandmother and her daughter burst into exclamations of outrage as I moved down the corridor. The skinny Negro giri peeked out at me from the kitchen door as I passed, her eyes as large as saucers. She'd undoubtedly overheard everything. I felt numb as I walked to the front door. I hadn't broken down. I had maintained my dignity throughout, despite the insults to me and to Ma. I was pleased with that much. I had been dignified, a lady. I hadn't cried ... Oh God, please let me get out of here before I start sobbing.

I opened the front door and stepped outside and pulled the door shut, and I could feel all the emotions I had repressed welling up inside. I could feel the tears, too. I stood there on the shady doorstep for a moment, gnawing my lower lip, willing myself to be strong. It was over. It didn't matter. It didn't matter at all. Home. I must get home. I was trembling inside now; trembling badly, though I was still cool and calm on the surface. I closed my eyes, praying for the strength to go on, and then I went down the steps and started toward Canal. I still seemed to be in the middle of a dream. The giri in brown linen with the green velvet reticule swinging from her wrist reached the comer, moved across the street, moved on, and another me seemed ta be watching her with curious objectivity.

Bastard. . .Whore. . .Tramp. . . It didn't matter what they said. It didn't matter what they thought. I was a good girl. I was. I wasn't a whore. I was ... I wanted to be a lady. I wanted to make Julian and Delia and . . . and Charles proud of me. I had been raised in the swamps and, yes, I was illegitimate, bom out of wedlock, a bastard, that much was true, that I couldn't deny, but Ma ... Ma had raised me right and she had loved me and oh, how I had loved her. I mustn't let go. I musm't. I couldn't fall apart out here on the street. I must move on.

Canal was very busy. Vehicles of every description rumbled up and down the street, and the banquettes were thronging with pedestrians, fine-dressed folk and rowdy sailors and flashy women and Negro servants, all moving along with purpose and. talking and laughing loudly and carriages clattered and horses neighed and I was in a daze, in a dream, moving against the

colorfiil flow and trying to remember why I was here. A cab. Yes, yes, I must hire a cab. A burly sailor leered at me. I started. The brassy blonde in pink velvet on his arm burst into gales of shrill laughter. I stumbled. A plump Negro woman with a kind face took hold of my elbow and kept me from falling. I thanked her with my eyes and stepped to the edge of the street, searching for something. What? Why was I here? Etozens of vehicles clattered past and a closed carriage halted a few yards away from me and the driver looked familiar and the carriage door flew open and Charles moved toward me at a brisk stride, his expression furious.

"What in hell do you think you're J<9ing!" he thundered.

He seized my arm and yanked it savagely and I stumbled again and then I was in the carriage and the door was closed and we were moving and he was yelling at me and I finally started to cry. I sobbed wretchedly and the tears spurted in a salty flood and he looked appalled and pulled me to him and held me and demanded to know what was wrong and somehow I managed to babble through the sobs and tell him about my visit to Conti Street and what they had said and how they had treated me and his strong arms tightened around me and held me closer and I rested my head on his shoulder and he murmured soothing words, holding me tightly, tenderly, and I managed to stop sobbing and whimpered quietly instead and finally grew silent and still. We rode on, down quiet streets now, and Charles Etienne still held me tight.

"Are you better now?" he asked finally.

I raised my head from his shoulder and nodded. "Don't— please don't tell anyone," I pleaded. "I don't want Julian and Delia to know.''

"I won't tell,"

"I—I feel so humiliated. I—"

"Forget it, Dana." His voice was stem. "I suppose it was something you had to do. It's over now."

"It's over. You don't need them. You have Julian and Delia— and you have me."

He held me, and I felt the strength in his arms and the warmth> in his body. Gradually the hurt and humiliation receded and I felt something else, a taumess inside, a delicious torment, that same languorous ache I felt when I woke up after the dream. He

held me, and I made no effort to free myself from that tight circle of arms. He was wearing a thin lawn shirt and I could feel its soft texmre against my cheek and feel the smooth muscles of chest and shoulder beneath. The carriage rocked gently, moving slowly now. My eyelashes were moist, and an occasional tear still spilled down my cheek. Charles sighed a disgruntled sigh and shifted his position, tilting me slightly.

"They mustn't see you like this," he said gruffly.

"Charles—"

"Be quiet," he ordered.

Keeping one arm curled around me, he began to brush the tears from my face, his fingertips blunt, rough, rubbing my skin. He looked down at me and I looked at his face and his expression was stem and his eyes were bothered, and I knew. He knew, too. Unable to stop myself, I reached up and ran my index finger along the full, smooth curve of his lower lip. His eyes held mine. His fingers rested on my cheek and then slipped down to curl around my jaw, tilting my head back even more. His lips parted. He grimaced then. He released me, even sterner now. I sat up straight and moved away from him and smoothed down my skirts, and we rode on in silence. Both of us pretended that nothing had happened, yet the knowledge was there between us. It was going to happen. We both knew that. It had been inevitable from the first. Now it was simply a matter of time.

chapter Twelve

CHARLES GAVE JUUAN A MANLY EMBRACE, pOUnded him OH the back, told him to stay out of trouble and departed for Etienne's. I had another cup of coffee while Julian finished his breakfast, and then he went into his study to make sure he wasn't leaving anything important behind. I joined him in the foyer a few minutes later. Julian told Pompey to let him know the moment Jasper retunied, and Pompey nodded and left to locate Elijah. Julian sighed, resting his hands on his thighs, just as Charies did. During these past weeks of isolation in his study, he had lost weight, I noticed. In his black knee boots, gray breeches, and silky white shirt, he looked leaner, I thought, looked like an older, more mellow version of Charies. How I loved those silvering temples and that plump litde roll of flesh beneath his chin, those compassionate eyes and that smile that curied so amiably on his fiiU lips.

"That's a fetching blue dress you're wearing," he said.

'*It isn't blue. It's turquoise."

"Not much of it on top," he observed.