Wilde, Jennifer (47 page)

While
the two men continued to abuse each other, I stared at the woman who sat back
calmly in the carriage, utterly bored with the furor. She wore long black lace
gloves and a gown of sky-blue silk, the bodice cut extremely low, the very full
skirt adorned with row upon row of black lace ruffles. She was small and looked
a bit frail, her full pink mouth wry, her nose turned up, her brown eyes
enormous. There was a scattering of light golden freckles across her pale
cheeks, and her silky blond hair was elaborately arranged in sculptured waves,
long ringlets dangling down in back. There was something vaguely familiar about
her, I thought, yet I couldn't quite place her.

She
sighed. She tapped the coachman on the shoulder with the tip of a furled blue
silk parasol, silencing him immediately. Calmly she stepped down out of the
carriage, her skirts rustling crisply. The crowd grew silent with anticipation
as she walked around to confront the scowling, belligerent pedestrian who still
shook his fist, still refused to move.

"What
have we here?" he asked sarcastically. "Come to give me a few coins
and send me on my way? You bleedin' rich! You damn near run over me with your
bleedin' carriage, and you think—"

"I
think you'd better move on
toot sweet,
mate, or I'm going to take this
umbrella and shove it up your ass!"

The
crowd roared with laughter. The black woman was so startled that she dropped
her basket of apples all over again. The man was dumbfounded, so dumbfounded
that he couldn't speak. The blond in blue glared at him, eyes flashing, and
after a moment he made a face and hurried away. There was more laughter, and
the crowd began to disperse. The blond sighed and began to scramble on the
ground, helping the woman gather up the evasive apples. When they were all back
in the basket, she stood up, brushing her skirt. I smiled, a great rush of joy
swelling inside. The blond felt me watching her and whirled around, ready to
snap.

She
stared. Her brown eyes grew wider, her cheeks turned even paler. She shook her
head in disbelief, then took a step nearer, peering at me. I nodded.

"It's
really me," I told her.

"My
Gawd! I—I can't believe it!"

"I
couldn't either, not at first. I thought I was mistaken, thought it couldn't
possibly be you, and then you opened your mouth."

"Marietta!"

We
fell into each other's arms then, hugging, sobbing, laughing there in front of
the carriage. The coachman watched with horrified disapproval. When the first burst
of excitement was over, she stepped back and grinned that wry, saucy grin I
remembered so well, the same old Angie—sumptuously gowned, elegantly coiffed,
but Angie nevertheless. She took me by the hand and helped me into the
carriage, climbing up beside me. Our skirts spilled over the side.

"To
the market café, Holt!" she ordered. "I still can't believe it,"
she said, clasping my hand. "I have so much to tell you! What on earth are
you doing in New Orleans?"

"I'm
hostess at Rawlins Palace. It's the most elegant gambling house in the
city."

"And
the owner is madly in love with you, showers you with jewels and gifts! I
knew
it! Remember me tellin' you, remember me sayin' we'd both end up on
top?"

"I
remember. You—you're so—"

"Piss-elegant,"
she supplied. "What about this carriage, this dress? I 'ave... uh...
h
ave
dozens more at home. Only been in New Orleans for three weeks, but it's already
my favorite town. So many opportunities!"

"Are
you—is there a man?"

"Is
there bloody ever. He's a bloomin' Spanish grandee, forty-five, tall and dark
and rich as the devil.
Very
peculiar in the bedroom. Met him on the
boat. I had to leave Boston in a bit of a hurry."

"Boston?
You were in Boston?"

"I've
been all over, luv. Wait'll we get to the café. I'll tell you all about it.
Just let us out here, Holt. We'll walk the rest of the way. You can take the
carriage back home."

The
coachman looked disturbed as we climbed down. "What am I going to tell Don
Rodriego?" he asked.

"Tell
him I'm screwin' a sailor and don't know when I'll be back," Angie
snapped.

The
carriage drove on, and Angie and I passed stalls laden with baskets of fruit,
carts full of flowers, wooden sheds with bloody carcasses hanging on racks,
counters covered with heaps of glittery silver fish and long black eels. There
were lobsters in wooden cages, tubs filled to the brim with shrimp. The market
was a kaleidoscope of color and movement, the noise ear-splitting, the odors
overwhelming. Flies abounded. The cobbles were littered with filth.

The
café was on the edge of the market, tables and chairs sitting out in the open
with only a tattered green awning to ward off the sun. We sat at one of the
tables and ordered the marvelously strong coffee that had to be taken with
cream. Angie sighed and shook her head again, gazing at me with those saucy
brown eyes.

"That
husky young farmer—" I began.

"George
Andrews. Had him eatin' out of my hand in less than a week, had him marryin' me
a month later. Couldn't keep his hands off me, George couldn't. As randy and
robust a buck as I ever hope to meet. Had quite a large farm, lots of land.
Poor George. Gored to death by a bull not more'n nine months after we were
married. I
told
him that bull was vicious, told him not to buy it. He
went ahead anyway, and two days later..." Angie hesitated and her eyes
were sad.

"So
you became a wealthy widow," I remarked.

"I
sold the farm and all the land and took off," she replied. "I had a
lot of unusual experiences, let me tell you! A year later I was penniless
again. Damned scoundrel named Peter. Handsome as all get-out. Sneaked out of
the inn with his shoes in one hand, my reticule in the other. Never saw the
bastard again. Served me right for trustin' him. Then this distinguished
British colonel came along, spent three days at the inn. When he left for
Boston, I was in the carriage with him."

"A
colonel?"

"Bleedin'
redcoats! Man was a wretched bore, always talking about rules and regulations,
giving the citizens a hard time. No wonder they're so unruly with sods like him
snapping orders all the time. I stuck with him for almost a year, though. He
was so prim and official and stern in public, so bloody high-falutin' in his
uniform, but when it was off, when he was alone in the bedroom with me, you'd
of thought the bed was a bloomin' battlefield and me the enemy!"

"What
happened eventually?"

"I
got bored. Bastard was tight as hell, didn't like to spend money on me. Began
to think I was some kinda servant. Actually expected me to polish his bloody
boots! He got more and more difficult to live with, and after the Tea Party he
was downright impossible. We got in a fierce argument about the tea that was
dumped—"

"The
famous Boston Tea Party? We heard about that even down here."

"Happened
last December. These three big ships sailed into the harbor filled with
tea—they were British East India Company vessels, and all that low-priced tea
was gonna wreck havoc, establish a monopoly for the company and deprive the
colonists of a lucrative source of revenue. They were riled up, I can tell you!
Felt it was another example of British interference in colonial trade."

Angie
paused as the waiter brought our coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a plate of
doughy fried cakes sprinkled with sugar. She took a sip of the potent brew,
grimaced, and then poured a generous amount of cream into her cup.

"Anyway,
the rebels—that's what my colonel called 'em, 'damned bloody rebels'—they
smeared themselves with dye and dressed up like Indians, rowed out to the
ships, and dumped all the tea into the harbor, hootin' and hollerin' all the
while. It caused
quite
a furor. The port of Boston was closed and'll
stay closed till the tea's all paid for. I sided with the rebels, said they
were only protectin' their interests. Colonel Bates went into a rage, roarin'
at me like I was some lowly private he intended to clap into irons after
administerin' twenty lashes. I let him rage on, and that night while he was
happily snoring away I picked the lock on his safe, filled my bag with lots of
money, and slipped off into the night. Like a thief," she added, saucy
grin flashing. "That was four months ago, and now here I am in New
Orleans."

She
reached back to pat the long silvery-blond ringlets dangling down to her
shoulders. "I was fed up with the Colonies, to tell you the truth.
Everyone's always so bloody worked up over things—the citizens rebellin'
against the government, the soldiers damnin' the rebels. It's all going to
explode one day soon. I decided to get out before the
real
fighting
commences."

"Is
it really that bad? We hear rumors, of course, but we're so far removed."

"It's
bloody tiresome," Angie replied. "The soldiers are gettin' much
stricter. The farmers are hidin' guns in the hayloft. But who wants to talk
about that! I've told you all about me, and I'm dying to know how you ended up
in New Orleans, lookin' like a bloody duchess. Come on, Marietta, tell
me."

I
stirred more cream into my coffee and gazed down at the cup, wondering how it
would be possible to tell her all that had happened during these past four
years. Pensive now, I told her about Derek and the plantation, Cassie and Adam
and my helping them escape, Derek's rage and his selling me to Jeff Rawlins.
Angie listened quietly as I continued, giving her a brief account of our
journey down the Trace, telling her about the gambling house and that first
difficult year before the place caught on.

"And?"
she said when I had finished.

"And
now it's very successful and... and Jeff and I are still together."

"And
you still love this bloke Derek?"

"I'm
afraid I do. I shouldn't. I have every reason to hate him. I've tried to hate
him. I can't. I... I don't actively think about him as much as I used to.
Sometimes a full week will go by without my thinking of him at all, and then...
then I'll find myself alone and suddenly he'll be in my mind and the pain will
be as... as fresh as it was that day he sold me to Jeff."

"I
guess I've been lucky," Angie reflected. "I've never been in love,
not really. I was fond of George Andrews, and I was wildly taken with Peter
Jamison, the bastard who ran off with my money. When he snuck off like that I
missed him terribly, missed his handsome face, his gorgeous body and teasin'
ways, but I missed the money a hell of a lot more, I can tell you for sure!
What about this Jeff fellow?"

"He's
good-looking in a rugged sort of way, and he's the most charming man you'll
ever meet. He's a superb lover, and he worships the ground I walk on."

"But
you don't love him?"

I
hesitated a moment before answering, gazing across at the colorful marketplace.
Black men wearing only ragged blue breeches were bringing in more baskets of
shrimp. An old woman in black was examining bright-yellow lemons and golden
oranges. An organ grinder with a monkey perched on his left shoulder strolled
along eating bits of fried fish from a curled paper, sharing the tidbits with
the monkey. How could I explain the way I felt about Jeff? It was so very
complicated.

"I
love him, yes," I said quietly. "But not in the way he'd like me to
love him. It's a very special kind of love, more than just fondness. I enjoy
sleeping with him, and the rest of the time I feel... almost maternal,
protective. He needs me. He loves me quite desperately, and without me he'd be
lost."

"You've
been faithful?"

I
nodded. "That's the least I can do. I wouldn't hurt him for the
world."

"But
still you won't marry him."

"It
wouldn't be fair to him, Angie. Jeff deserves so much more."

"Is
he
faithful?"

"There've
been several women. He has one right now. None of them mean anything to him.
He'll ask me to marry him again and I'll refuse again and then he'll feel angry
and frustrated, feel he has to prove something. He'll go out and find another
woman. But he invariably tires of them and comes back to me with that damned
sheepish grin on his face."

"You've
never considered leaving him?"

"I
couldn't. I owe him a great deal, Angie. He—after Derek, he was my salvation.
He gave me my freedom, gave me a whole new life. He needs me. One day he'll
meet someone else and transfer all that love to her, and then I'll leave. Until
that day comes I... I'll stick by him."

Angie
sighed, and I could see that it was all too much for her to fully comprehend.
Angie was one of the lucky ones, able to squeeze through life with jaunty
aplomb, taking the good with the bad and considering it all a delicious joke.
She had gone through just as many hardships as I since arriving in America, had
had tragic and harrowing experiences left and right, yet she had changed very
little. Her speech was a bit more refined, she wore beautiful clothes and had
elegantly styled hair, yet she remained the feisty, audacious little cockney
prostitute at heart. I had become a completely different person.