With One Look (50 page)

Madame Claighborne finally spotted the mayor's carriage pulling up the courtyard drive.

Oh dear, her husband was already upstairs. They would see it as a slight. She

nervously smoothed her yellow taffeta skirts and forced a smile, mentally preparing to greet them. '

Madame Claighborne was determined to demonstrate that the two communities could share in the fortune of their fine city; tonight would prove it if everything went smoothly and they could at least pretend to have a good time of it. She was well aware that behind her back Lucretia called her dowdy, plain and hopelessly provincial, dismissed her as altogether too American. She tried to forgive the mayor's wife the uncharity of her remarks, her vanity, her pretensions, all of it. She harbored no illusions about her beauty anyway, and as the eldest daughter of a Virginia reverend, she had been raised to the virtues of modesty, charity, and well, old-fashioned straightforward honesty. And while she counted as among her friends all the great men and their wives of the new republic, she would never—-no never—develop the elaborate social pretensions of women like her.

Frankly, she had always been appalled at the way the mayor's wife always managed to have the rest of society jumping at her slightest whim: where to go, whom to be seen with, and even what to be seen in. It struck her as ridiculous! Practical to the end, if the truth were told, she did not care a whit what Lucretia thought of her, so long as they were able to join together for galas, fund- raisers and the community efforts that depended on them.

The good woman's smile vanished as she beheld Madame de Bore's gown, and with it went a good portion of her goodwill. It was indecent! The white silk dress's ruby—ruby, of all outrageous colors!—bodice pushed her voluptuous breasts up and out. A delicate hand went to her heart as she waited for the display Madame Lucretia's next breath would make. She would never get used to these Creole women! The way they flaunted their beauty like a virtue! Their indecent dress and shameless, flirtatious manners. Not a man here would be able to keep his eyes from the sight.

Monsieur de Bore all but vanished at his wife's side, smiling as if her immodesty was his personal creation. Madame Claighborne remembered her husband's unkind comment after a particularly frustrating incident when the mayor's wife seemed to actually prohibit her husband from joining in a state and city venture. "An idiot's grin! As if he hasn't a single thought between his ears ..."

Lucretia's eyes filled with intense excitement. She had saved this gown for the occasion; it had been made by Paris's leading dressmaker, the man who had originally done most of the gowns for the French Napoleonic court. Besides the white silk skirt and ruby-red bodice, the flounces, the sleeves and the bodice were all trimmed in gold cord decorated with red stones. The ruby-colored silk provided the perfect contrast to her ivory skin, so that somehow the eyes were drawn to the voluptuous swell of her breasts pushing impudently through the fabric. The artful arrangement of her dark hair was lifted into a crown, wrapped many times by a long gold coil, its end sporting a snake's head with two rubies for eyes and a matching ruby necklace and earrings.

"I ... I'm so glad you came." Madame Claighborne tried to recover as they stepped through the doors and into the nearly empty entrance hall.

Laughter from upstairs floated down as Lucretia offered a comment in French and her husband, Etienne, inquired as to the governor in French. Madame Claighborne forced a smile and begged their pardon, explaining: "I'm afraid my French is sorry indeed!" She refrained from adding the obvious: that Louisiana was now part of the United States and the proper language was English, that they had better get used to it. "Perhaps we might all converse in English?"

Lucretia only laughed at the outrageous suggestion, her hand reaching into a hidden pocket in the folds of the ruby silk overdress, and removed a beautiful fan, which she lifted to her face as she explained in French. "Madame Claighborne, I am sure your French will much improve with practice. Let me know when I might lend my assistance in your effort."

The mayor just rocked back on his heels, smiling.

Madame Claighborne was horrified at their rudeness. She began to look around for her husband, needing his consultation on just how far they should go to humor the Creole society. She forced a smile again, and pointed out that they were the last party to join the festivities. "Shall we go upstairs to the ballroom? Madame Nolte has arrived, and everyone is having fun as she tries to put names to faces. You have heard about her miraculous recovery?"

Lucretia's response was too quick for Madame Claighborne to catch, but the governor's wife understood that her guest was most eager to take a turn with Madame Nolte's game. Madame Claighborne followed behind as the mayor and his wife ascended the stairs.

Victor and Sebastian were across the room, Mercedes and Jade were clasping hands as they stepped down from the dais, surrounded by friends and well-wishers. All gazes turned to the burst of ruby and white silk into the ballroom. Whispers of excitement and awe raced through the crowd. Jade was relieved that the attention had been drawn away from her at last, and she turned to Victor. He was staring at Lucretia and her husband, Sebastian's ribald comment on the woman's dress making him chuckle.

Jade turned toward the sight. Dozens of people stood between her and the mayor's wife, and while she was tall for a woman, Jade could not see over all the men's heads. By some supernatural force an opening in the crowded room formed between the two women.

Jade beheld the sight.

Her reaction was intensely felt, and all of it physical. Her breath caught in a gasp. Color drained from her face. The hairs lifted on her neck and blood vacated her limbs, leaving her unsteady, numb, a sick rush of bile turning in her throat.

She was seeing a ghost. She was seeing the snake woman come to life again. She was seeing her mother's murderer.

She had no breath to give sound to a scream.

Lucretia moved toward her with her hands outstretched.

"Jade?" Mercedes said in a whisper, confused. "'Tis Madame de Bore. Lucretia. Jade, darling, what—"

"Jade Terese!"

Lucretia reached out to embrace her. Jade's eyes widened more and she jerked away. "Don't touch me!"

The room fell silent. Victor was rushing through the crowd to get to her side, but it was too late. Jade was shaking her head, her eyes filled with feverish intensity, as

the room started to spin. Jade's scream sounded as she stared at a blood-washed room where her mother hung up side down with her throat slit and Lucretia de Bore knelt over her dead father, blood dripping from her hands, her pale ice-blue eyes shining with an unnatural light.

*****

The scandal rocked the city for days. “That poor, beautiful lady," people would begin at the market and at church, going on to lament the loss of Jade Terese, how tragic it was for her husband, a man whom everyone knew could not love his wife more. "She had seemed so gay and well just moments before!" Those who were there would declare, confused by what they had witnessed. "And poor Madame de Bore. She was so startled. Imagine! She was so upset she cried as Jade Terese started screaming at her that she was a murderer, a beast woman—"

"A snake woman? Oh Lord, was that what she was calling her?" The ladies shuddered nervously, delicately, the conversation reduced to "That poor, poor young lady. Such a tragedy. I feel so for Monsieur Nolte.”

His father sat silently across from Victor, offering no words because there were no words that could ease his pain. Distant clouds hung on the horizon over the river. A storm was moving in. A light wind blew the chilly autumn air, stirring the cypress leaves. Small swirls of dust and leaves rose and fell in the small garden of his father's cottage, and Victor stared without seeing.

Jade Terese, I love you....

He felt so tired. So very tired. An aching numbness gripped his mind, body and soul, as if to prevent him from feeling the magnitude of his loss. To save him. As he watched the wind blow the leaves into a neat pile, he remembered his mother's funeral.

He remembered the profound finality of her death, felt a piercing sting when the last shovel of dirt fell on the coffin. Grief had struck him so hard that he was barely aware of his father's arms coming around him, of the last tears he had ever cried falling with his father's.

He had not needed his father like that again. Until now. His gaze finally found his father's face, a mirror image of his own gravity. "She can't be left alone. Not for a minute. I don't know what I would do if it weren't for Mercedes, Sebastian and Murray. She is in such a state of distress ..."

Her words, endlessly repeated, echoed through his mind. "You must believe me, I must make you believe me, don't you see this was her plan, to make it look like I am mad ..."

"No reasoning or words of comfort touch the mad ideation that Madame de Bore is her parents' murderer."

Father Nolte nodded slowly. He had sat with his daughter-in-law for many hours this past week. When he wasn't at his son's house, he was fielding the endless inquiries about her. With mounting frustration, feeling inexplicably angered, he had issued a statement and left the entire matter in the hands of a subordinate. He could only thank God or nature for making his son one of the strongest men he knew. For the emotional trial of these last years would have broken many a lesser man.

"How I wish the Reverend Mother was still with us...."

Victor sighed, nodding. "She could always ease the worst of Jade's—" He stopped on the word, feeling it catch in his throat with a surge of emotion.

Madness. He had lost her again....

This time it looked like forever. He was finding it nearly impossible to accept. He wished his love alone had the awesome power to take back the day so long ago when a thirteen-year-old girl opened a door to behold her murdered parents. All his tenderness, gentle words and obsequiousness were no tonic for the dark shade that day drew over her precious life. The words spoken in his vision of Elizabeth Devon came back to haunt him: "You will destroy her!"

Yes, he had destroyed her, the woman who meant more to him than life itself, the only woman he had ever loved or would ever love. He had destroyed her.

He shook his head, scared by how desperately he wanted her still. He said, "We will have to move."

Father Nolte nodded. Even though such a drastic thing would separate the family and nearly ruin his son's burgeoning shipbuilding enterprise, it was obviously not good for Jade to remain here, where her parents had died. Perhaps in a new location, she would gain some measure of peace.

The bell rang. Father Nolte motioned that it was time. Victor nodded and stood up.

"I can come with you," his father said.

Their gazes locked, their mutual love and respect strong and powerfully felt. "I think I'd like that," Victor said.

The mayor and his wife had said they would receive him at three. He owed them an apology at least. He had already been received by Governor Claighborne and his wife, who gave all expressions of sympathy, compassion, and something strange and awful that he was quite unused to receiving, their pity. It was very nearly unbearable. Margaret was quite certain Jade Terese would soon recover and "be up and fine in no time!" He had barely managed to refrain from explaining that Jade did not suffer from a head cold, that one did not recover from madness very often, if ever, and that if she did ever recover, it was not likely to be for many, many years.

The mayor's house was on Bourbon Street, down four blocks past the opera house. The two men walked in silence at first through the chilly autumn air, their boots crushing the autumn leaves at their feet. They wordlessly passed a chain gang—all runaway Negroes brought from the jail, working to clean out the wood-lined gutters on both sides of the street. Neither Victor nor his father nodded acknowledgment to the white guard, his whip coiled and ready to use. The dark side of the wondrous city.

Victor was surprised to realize he was cold. The endless hot spring and summer days had obliterated the memory of winter and he wore only a shirt and vest, coatless, as if he could no longer be bothered with the details of living. Not when the foundation had been ripped from him. The bougainvillea and banana trees were scarred from a recent frost, and the normally lush landscape and fine houses looked gray and decrepit. He studied the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Soon, by tomorrow or the next day, a storm would be upon them.

They were passing in front of the opera house and Victor caught a glimpse of the bench where a young lady dressed in white muslin once sat and had first captured his heart. Her laughter echoed through his heart, the vision of her smile, the light in her eyes, the tiny cross hanging from her neck rose in his mind.

Jade, I love you....

"Have you heard from Marie Saint?" his father asked suddenly.

"Yes," Victor said. "She sent a note when she heard what happened." He said nothing more and then wondered why. Perhaps it was just that the dear woman's fantastic beliefs and visions proved too much for him at this time; he could not bear even the slightest uncertainty, much less court Marie's elaborate flights of fancy.

Yet his father would not have this. "Victor ..."

"Well"—he sighed—"the dear woman claims to be visited every night by Elizabeth Devon; she says she is visibly distressed and frightened by what has happened. Marie asked me to bring Jade to her, so she could try to determine what had happened and why."

"Oh, I see," his father said sadly.

"Obviously the last thing Jade needs is for someone to actually entertain her insane ideas and thoughts."

"I quite agree."

They rounded the corner and progressed down the street, passing ragged children—slaves' children—playing in the street, a boy selling newspapers, an apple vendor, two statuesque Negroes on their way to the market.

The de Bore mansion came into view. It was an old-fashioned house, built at the turn of the century, and like all the finer houses in New Orleans, it was made of brick and covered in whitewashed stucco, its three stories topped by a tile roof. They turned into the garden courtyard; Victor stopped at the well. He leaned over and splashed icy cold water on his face, grimacing at the idea of seeing Lucretia again.