They call her Dana (40 page)

"I didn't know if—if you'd come or not," I said quietly.

'*I started not to. I couldn't stay away."

"You're not—happy about that, are you?"

Charles didn't answer. He stepped toward me and took me in his arms, and I submitted to that kiss. When, finally, he drew back, I knew I must tell him before it went any further. I brushed a wave from my cheek. I could see his face now. His eyes were dark with desire. His mouth was tight. He hungered for me, but hunger wasn't love. Did he love me? What would his reaction be when I told him about Julian's proposal?

"You're strangely unresponsive tonight," he remarked.

"Do you love me, Charles?" I asked abruptly.

The question took him aback. I could see that. I hadn't wanted to ask it, but I felt I must. He scowled, not at all pleased.

"I'm bewitched by you," he said finally.

"That isn't an answer. Or—perhaps it is."

"What is all this, Dana?"

"Would you marry me?" I asked.

"Marry you? No, Dana. I wouldn't. I'm an Etienne. When I marry, it will be to a woman of my own background."

'*Julian would," I said.

*'Would what?"

"Marry me. He wants to. He told me so this afternoon."

Charles was stunned. He stepped back. Even in the moonlight I could see the color drain from his cheeks. He didn't say anything for a long time. I was silent, too, sad, for I knew I had made a dreadful error. I could feel him withdrawing from me, could feel his anger, his disapproval, his suspicion.

"Have you slept with him, too?" he asked at last.

"You know that's not true."

"Then how did you trick him into—"

"There was no trickery, Charles. He loves me. He wants me to become his wife."

He looked at me, not wanting to believe it, knowing it was true, and I felt a terrible pain inside. I loved him with all my heart and soul, but Charles didn't love me, not really. He made love to me, but that was something altogether different. He had disapproved of me from the first and had wanted to get rid of me, and then ... he had accepted me only because of Julian and Delia, only to keep peace in the family. I was good enough to visit furtively, to love in secret, in the darkness, but I wasn't good enough to marry an Etienne. I accepted all of these truths, yet I loved him still. I didn't want to. I wanted to hate him. I couldn't.

"What do you intend to tell him?" he asked.

"I—I don't know what I'm going to tell him. He promised not to press me. He doesn't expect an answer right away. I— don't want to hurt him, Charles."

''Nor do I," he said solemnly.

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," he said. "The fool!" he exclaimed then. ' 'The goddamned fool!"

He turned and moved back to the French windows, back into the silvery blaze of moonlight. He stopped, looking at me, and it was a long while before he finally spoke.

"I won't allow it, Dana," he told me.

He left. I knew that I had lost him.

chapter Fourteen

CHARLES LEFT TO INSPECT THE COTTON CROPS at Belle Mead and Ravenaugh the following morning, to be gone ten days. He left immediately after breakfast, avoiding my eyes throughout the meal. I didn't have an opportunity to speak to him, nor did I want to. I was completely devastated by what had happened, but somehow I managed to put on a front for Delia and Julian during the days that followed. I went to Corinne's with Delia to refurbish her wardrobe, helping her decide which fabrics, which styles were most flattering and suitable. More intent than ever to complete his work, Julian spent a great deal of time in his study, but he was wonderfully warm and attentive when he wasn't working, his eyes aglow with those tender emotions he found difficult to hide. If Delia noticed anything, she made no comment, merely observing that she was delighted he was no longer so grouchy. Day followed day in smooth progression, and I managed to get through each of them without betraying the desolation inside.

Charles had been gone for almost a week when, at breakfast one morning, Julian informed us that he was going to the printer's to look at some sample plates and asked if I would like to accompany him, adding that we could go to lunch afterward. I didn't really want to go, but he was clearly so eager for my company that I hadn't the heart to refuse him. I changed into a bronze taffeta frock, and an hour later we were on our way to the printer's, Julian looking splendidly handsome in his brown breeches and frock coat and another new waistcoat, dark burnt orange with narrow brown stripes, his neckcloth creamy tan silk. He chatted pleasantly about his work as we rode and, to my relief, made no reference to our conversation in the court-

yard. He was a gentleman, and he was going to give me plenty of room, plenty of time. He did squeeze my hand as he assisted me out of the carriage, holding it perhaps a moment or two longer than necessary.

The printer's shop was large and incredibly cluttered with strange machines, stacks of paper and pamphlets, boxes of lead type, dusty shelves filled with bottles of ink and more paper and various tools. Monsieur Delain, the printer, was small, stooped, ancient and bearded, wearing a black broadcloth suit as dusty as the shelves. A young blond assistant in shirt sleeves and a thin leather apron was busily setting type, a process I found fascinating. Monsieur Delain greeted Julian in a cracked, hoarse voice, nodded curdy when introduced to me and scurried into a back room, stumbling over a stack of freshly printed pamphlets as he did so. He came back a few minutes later bearing a large, bulky portfolio, his watery old blue eyes full of pride. Sweeping a long wooden worktable clear of its clutter of paper and type, he put the portfolio down, untied the strings and began to pull out the plates one by one.

Printed on large sheets of heavy, creamy paper, they were absolutely exquisite, details perfecdy executed, color bright and glowing. There was the swamp lily, pale pink and ivory, resting on its rubbery dark green pad, and there the wild bluebell blossoms, dangling from a slender green vine. I caught my breath as I recognized the painting Julian had been working on that day in the swamp, a gorgeous pale orange flower with dehcate gdd and bronze specks. The reproduction was remarkably exact, the fragile petals spreading open to reveal the deeper orange center, stamen projecting like a golden faiiy wand. There were twenty plates in all, each more breathtakingly lovely than the one before. While I exclaimed over their beauty, Julian and the printer discussed ink and engraving techniques and processing and a whole lot of technical jargon I couldn't even begin to comprehend. I learned that a renowned but impoverished French artist had done the actual engravings from Julian's paintings, and Monsieur Delain himself had experimented until he perfected a process that would allow each color to come through in vivid, natural shades.

"It's costing a fortune," Julian confided when we left the shop, "but Delain is a genius. I wouldn't trust anyone else with the plates."

' 'They were glorious. ' '

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"Those were just samples to test the process. The final plates will be even finer. Charles is going to croak when he finds out how much this is costing, but I've spent over a decade working on this book, and I will settle for nothing but the best.''

"Is Monsieur Delain going to print the text, too?"

Julian nodded. "There's no one better. The sheets will be bound in Baton Rouge by Clarkson Brothers, best bindery in the South. I'm thinking in terms of dark leaf-green leather, with marbled endpapers, of course.''

"The book is going to be wonderful."

"It's going to be a landmark in the field of botany," he said confidently. "The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Let's walk. Jasper can follow after us in the carriage."

We did so, Julian holding my arm as we strolled down the covered esplanade. I had never been in this part of the city before. It wasn't nearly as grand and elegant as the neighborhood around Corinne's and Etienne's, all the shops rather shabby, needing a new coat of paint, the front windows dirty, and there were not any costly items displayed. Here one bought hammers and nails, not perfume, and here one picked up a leather harness, not a bouquet of expensive hothouse flowers. The pedestrians were not nearly as grandly dressed, a number of buriy workmen and stevedores among them, and while some fancy carriages bowled up and down the street, there were far more drays and wagons loaded with big wooden barrels. There was vitality here, a sense of purpose, a reminder that New Orieans was not just the playground of pampered aristocrats but a vital, thriving city.

Near the waterfront, the restaurant was large and spacious and simple, with white walls and ceiling, a polished golden oak floor and tables and chairs painted white. Yellow curtains hung at the windows, and brass lanterns hung from the ceiling. Despite its lack of pretensions, the place was crowded with richly attired gentry, and the prices, I later discovered, were high enough to insure its exclusivity. The maitre d' recognized Julian and showed us to one of the better tables. People stared discreetly as we passed, and a buzz of whispers followed us. I pretended not to notice, but I was glad I was wearing the bronze taffeta. Julian ordered our lunch and nodded to a few acquaintances nearby, then gave his full attention to me. 'Like it?" he inquired.

"It's very nice, but—I'm surprised to see all these swells having lunch in this neighborhood."

Julian smiled at my use of the word 'swells.' "Alain's is another New Orleans institution. Originally it was frequented by workmen from the docks. The food was good, the prices reasonable. Soon the wealthy planters moved in to conduct their business deals over lunch and before long, for some inexplicable reason, the place became chic. The food is still good, but the prices are no longer reasonable."

"It seems a pity the workmen can no longer afford to eat here."

"Oh, they have other eating places. The 'swells' come and eat bouillabaisse and combread sticks and feel delightfully democratic because they're not dining on pheasant."

The bouillabaisse was served in large brown bowls, the combread sticks in a wicker basket, and while both were delicious, neither could compare to what Jezebel prepared. All around us was the hum of polite conversation, the sounds of refined laughter. There was a special atmosphere, as though this were a private club for members only, and I felt out of place. I didn't belong to this world. I never would. When bowls and basket had been removed, Julian informed me that Alain's was famous for its coffee and fried pies and said we must have some. He gave the order and smiled at me.

"You're rather subdued today," he remarked.

"Subdued?"

"Very much the proper young lady. Sometimes I miss the saucy waif with the wicked tongue."

' 'Blame Madame LeSalle. She's the one who gave me lessons in deportment and taught me how to conduct myself at the dining table."

"The transformation is remarkable. One would never know you weren't to the manor bom."

I indicated our fellow diners. "They know," I said.

"Does it bother you?" he asked.

"Not any longer," I said truthfully.

"You're worth a dozen pampered belles."

"I fear you may be—just a little prejudiced," I told him.

Julian chuckled quietly. How many women would give anything to have a man like this look at them with such adoration? Why couldn't I love Julian Etienne instead of his brothei? Love

him I did, of course, but in a filial way. How was I going to tell him I couldn't possibly become his wife? The pies and coffee were served. The pies had been fried to a crisp golden brown, then generously sprinkled with powdered sugar. Mine was peach. The coffee was so strong, I had to use half the small pitcher of cream. As I was sipping it, I saw Julian's expression change. He was looking across the room and seemed suddenly ill at ease. Tbming slightly in my chair, I saw the reason why.

Amelia Jameson had entered the restaurant on the arm of an attractive middle-aged man in cream-colored breeches and frock coat and a dark tan waistcoat. His longish blond hair was beginning to gray, and he looked rather apprehensive as they were shown to a table, Amelia clinging to his arm. She wore a spectacular violet silk gown, long black velvet gloves and a wide-brimmed black velvety hat festooned with violet ostrich plumes. She was as glamorous, as gorgeous, as I remembered, a wicked twinkle in her eyes as she observed her escort's unease. Hardly had they been seated when she spotted Julian. She murmured something to the blond man, got back up and came toward us, wide skirts swaying.

Julian slipped down a little in his chair and looked like he would like to slip through the floor as well, but, gentleman that he was, he stood when Amelia reached our table. He nodded nervously. She treated him to a wry smile.

"Fancy seeing you here," she said. "I thought you never left your study, darling."

''Only on occasion.''

"You're looking positively yummy."

"You're looking well yourself, Amelia. You remember Miss O'Malley?"

Amelia gave me the briefest of glances and nodded. I gave her a brief nod in return. I knew I should dislike her intensely, but I found her fascinating and curiously engaging.

"Your taste in clothes has improved considerably," she said.

"Yours remains the same."

"Touche, darling."

"I hear you've fallen upon hard times," Julian told her.

"It's only temporary, darling. I Ve sold a few of my things to your brother, true, but I'm getting by."

"Who's the man you're with?"

"He's only temporary, too. A planter from upriver, in the city

for a few weeks to do business. He's afraid someone here might recognize him and report back to his dragon of a wife. How's the opus coming, darling? Are you still working night and day?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm almost finished."

"Really?" She seemed genuinely pleased. "Somehow I knew you'd finish it. I always believed in you—I suppose that's why I spent so much time transcribing all those notes and copying pages for you. I probably know more about botany than any other woman in the South."