Prisoner of Desire (43 page)

There had never at any time been any sign of resentment for that fact. She had always been generous with the profits Beau Refuge engendered, had even depended for many years on Madame Rosa’s sane and sensible advice for investment of them. Neither her stepmother nor her half-sister had the least desire to usurp her place. It was, in fact, much more comfortable for them to allow her to do the work that provided the means for them to live.

As for the others, Emile was simply Jean’s younger brother. He might have a grudge against Ravel, but that had nothing to do with her. It was true she hardly knew him; he had been away so long and had seldom been a part of her circle, still what she had seen of him she liked. Murray was Celestine’s beloved fiancé, a nice, ordinary man from a nice, ordinary Midwest background. He had a great deal of quiet charm, and modest ambitions in his work as a law office clerk; he intended to stand for the bar soon and had mentioned the possibility of going into politics. If he was not particularly suave nor voluble in the manner of Creole gentlemen, he pleased Celestine, which was recommendation enough.

Then there was Gaspard, fastidious, elegant Gaspard, who did not appreciate Murray and who kept a quadroon mistress on Rampart Street while assiduously playing the part of faithful and indispensable escort to Madame Rosa. What reason he might have had to see Anya dead during the gin fire she could not fathom, but it was possible he realized she was aware of his quadroon, possible also that it was a secret he would go to great lengths to keep. Still, if that were so, surely the man would not have used his love cottage as a meeting place? For all the masculine humor concerning the impossibility of women keeping a secret, men were hardly more likely to hold such information sacred.

Anya, studying Gaspard as she considered his case, recognized suddenly that he was watching her with a pensive and rather ironic gaze. She looked away and, propelled by a peculiar embarrassment, came to her feet. “It’s sweet of all of you to be concerned, but I truly don’t need coddling; I’m perfectly all right, I assure you. Isn’t it about time we made ready for the ball?”

Celestine did not release her hand. “You are sure you feel like going?”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it, nor would I think of depriving any of you. I feel terrible enough already for being the cause of most of you failing to see the parade of Comus properly. It was — quite beautiful.”

“We will have to hurry if we are to be in time to see the tableaux,” Madame Rosa said.

“Exactly my point,” Anya declared, her brisk air only a little strained around the edges. “Has anyone ordered the carriage?”

Her ball gown was of soft teal blue satin with a black lace bertha, a black satin waistband accenting the waist, and rosettes of black lace around the hem of the enormously full skirt. There was no time for an elaborate hair arrangement; she had her maid dress it in deep waves around her face and a simple figure eight at the back decorated with a spray of teal blue velvet leaves tied with black steamers. Her jewelry was a parure of aquamarines and diamonds that included earrings, necklace, and a pair of bracelets. Anya was standing, allowing her maid to fasten the right bracelet, when it suddenly came to her what Ravel had meant by his parting words so short a time before.

She had accused him of proposing a marriage, using the conventions as an excuse, to gain the respectability he could not have in any other way. What was it she had said, something about wanting the things one could not have? For him, however, the subject had not been respectability, but herself. He had wanted her. And yet, the painful truth was that he had already possessed her in the physical sense, therefore he had proposed marriage in order to make the possession permanent. In his peculiar way, he was saying his motive for requesting her hand had been desire, just that and nothing more.

She did not know whether to be gratified or enraged or pained, and was in fact each in turn. One thing was certain: despite her blithe promise to inform Ravel when she had discovered his meaning, she would not be mentioning the matter to him.

The enormous hoops worn this season under ball gowns were collapsible; still there was scarcely room for more than two ladies with them on in a single carriage. For comforts sake, Madame Rosa did not aspire to such enormous width, she claimed to believe such ostentation unbecoming in a widow. Her embonpoint was such, however, that she needed at least half a seat so as not to feel crowded. It was usual then for only four persons, two ladies and two gentlemen, to ride in a carriage. The Hamilton party had for some time contained the awkward number of five, three of them ladies; therefore two carriages were needed for most outings. Their number was ordinarily divided so that Murray and Celestine could ride together in the Hamilton carriage with Anya as chaperone, while Madame Rosa and Gaspard came on in a second carriage belonging to the dapper Frenchman. The addition of Emile caused complications. He had shown no sign of feeling the odd man out, and so it was to be assumed that he had constituted himself Anya’s escort for the evening also. How then was their party to be allotted carriage space? There seemed no help for it but to separate Gaspard and Madame Rosa.

It had been much simpler in the old days, Anya thought as she proceeded toward the salon with her evening cape over her arm, when everyone walked to the ballroom with a maid behind her carrying her dancing slippers.

“How prompt you are,” Gaspard said, turning from the window as she moved into the room, “and how lovely. We have been assigned to the first carriage, along with M’sieur Girod. We will go as soon as he returns so that seats may be saved at the theater for Madame Rosa and Mademoiselle Celestine. I fear time may be critical; it’s going to be terribly crowded.”

Anya agreed easily enough. The arrangement might not be what she would have chosen, but it was logical. A small silence fell. In an effort to make conversation, Anya said, “How late it seems, to be setting out.”

“Yes, the result of waiting for darkness to begin the parade. Everyone must see it first before attending the ball, and you must admit it is much more impressive by torchlight.”

“Oh, yes. The effect would not have been at all the same without it.”

She sounded as ill at ease as she felt. Why did not some of the others come? She straightened the folds of her wrap, a cape of black velvet. Her dead came up in sudden alarm as Gaspard took a deliberate stride toward her.

“Come, Mademoiselle Anya, this will not do. We have known each other too long for this tiptoeing around. You obviously feel you know something to my discredit and are being painfully discreet. Come and sit down and let us discuss it.”

“You — you want to talk about it, to me?”

His thin lips moved in a wry smile. “It’s not something of which I am ashamed, and I pay you the compliment of thinking that you will understand.”

Because she was not precisely an innocent herself? No, she must not be quite so cynical. Moving to the settee, she maneuvered her skirts so as not to crush them and seated herself.

“I believe — that is, I am led to understand,” he said, sitting on the edge of his chair and crossing one ankle over the other, “that you saw me at the home of my mistress.”

Anya inclined her head in agreement.

“The woman has been under my protection for some time, since we were hardly more than children. Such arrangements usually end when a man marries; I never married.”

“But you have been escorting Madame Rosa for years!”

“True. One thing does not exclude the other.”

“Are you saying you love both of them?”

“In different ways,” he agreed, unperturbed.

“Indeed.”

“You need not scoff. One is comfortable, uncomplicated, quite earthy, the other stimulating to the mind but soothing to the soul.”

Which was which? Anya stared at him, fascinated by this glimpse into the complicated emotional life of a man who had always seemed so simple. “What if you were to marry Madame Rosa?”

“That hardly seems likely.”

“Why not? Have you ever proposed?”

“The time never seemed right.”

“Oh, come, that isn’t much of an excuse!”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, “but I have never cared to jeopardize the standing I have with her.”

“So you do nothing.”

“Does that seem cowardly? I assure you I have thought so myself often enough.”

“It seems,” Anya said forthrightly, “as if you were loath to disturb the nice arrangement you had established for yourself.”

“I can see why you think so, but can you tell me, this moment, whether Madame Rosa would accept me if I were to chance the question?”

Anya opened her mouth, then shut it again. A frown drew her brows together. With surprise, she discovered that she could not with confidence give him the assurance he seemed to require. “You will never know unless you try.”

“Yes, but my fortune is not large, my home not so impressive as Beau Refuge. What have I to offer her except my homage?”

“Your love?”

“And if that is not enough?”

“If it is, what then? What of the woman on Rampart Street?”

“I have not visited her at night, except for the meetings, for five years. She would not be surprised to receive a settlement, though for now she serves to protect Madame Rosa from the malicious tongues of the gossips.”

Devotion took strange forms. So did confidences. Anya could find nothing to say to the one she had just been given. She grasped at the reminder of other involvements.

“These meetings, what is their purpose? What is it about them that caused the police to put a stop to the one that night?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“If it pleases you to put it that way. It would be best if you applied to Duralde for an answer.”

Madame Rosa, moving with a stride that was quiet for her size, spoke as she came into the room. “An answer to what?”

“Ah,
chérie,
utterly chic as always,” Gaspard said, rising without haste and going toward his inamorata. “An answer? Why, to the question of what Comus means to do next year to surpass this evenings spectacle.”

The carriage ride to the theater seemed long. The earlier events had cast a pall over the evening. Anya’s two escorts, Emile and Gaspard, were solicitous, but not talkative. The vehicle swayed over the flour- and confetti-strewn streets. Celebration of the day was still going on, though with less joy. Women and children had gone inside for the most part. The maskers they passed were mostly young men or members of the rougher element.

Their carriage rolled in and out of the thin yellow pools of gaslight, the flickering radiance striking in peculiar angles of light and shadow across their faces. Anya caught herself glancing often at her stepmother’s favorite escort. The things he had said disturbed her mind. He had not slept with his quadroon mistress for five years. Did he mean to imply then that he reserved that pleasure for Madame Rosa? It seemed so strange to think of it, but looking back, Anya knew it was possible. Five years of discretion. Five years of pretense. The course of love, it appeared, did not grow smoother as one grew older. Pride and stubbornness were not restricted to the young; if anything they hardened into more rigid masks to hide behind. Desire was balanced by an equal and paralyzing fear of rejection that must lead to self-ridicule.

But to think of Gaspard, so urbane and pleasant and sartorially perfect, silently coming and going, silently pleasing and taking pleasure in Madame Rosa while concealing his love for her. So many years slipping away, safe but only half-lived. And Madame Rosa herself in her constant black, declining into complacent widowhood, not knowing how he felt. It was pathetic when all that was needed was a bit of forthrightness.

All?

There was no risk greater than forthrightness concerning matters of the heart. She loved Ravel, but it was impossible for her to go to him, not knowing how he felt in return; impossible to say, “I’ve changed my mind, I will marry you after all.” There was no guarantee that he still wished to be her husband, or that if he did, it would be for the right reason.

Reasons. Anya leaned her head back against the velvet seat and closed her eyes. Desire was the one he gave, but was it so uncomplicated? Could it not be he wanted her also for revenge, for position, to right the wrong he had done to her as convention demanded, to expiate his guilt over Jean’s death, to gain control of Beau Refuge, to reestablish his mother if not himself, even perhaps to save her from the menace he had caused?

Ravel might once have been a straightforward young man. However, driven by the past, he had become hardened mercenary and an opportunist. He had become rich and gained a degree of power. Far from being the outcast she once had thought, he seemed to have found his way to the inner circles of American business and social community as epitomized by the Mistick Krewe of Comus. It would not be unusual if in the process he had come to feel that his desires were paramount, that any way of achieving them was perfectly valid.

That being the case, perhaps she had been right, no matter how he tried to deny it. Perhaps the attack and his rescue of her this evening were too timely indeed. Perhaps she was supposed to be frightened into turning to her protector. How desperately he must want her then.

Gratitude had been mistaken before for love; was it possible that was what she felt now, what she had been meant to feel?