With One Look (5 page)

The constable swallowed the whole of his cask, returned the cap and placed it back in his trouser pocket. He surveyed Place d'Arms, wondering if he should stay with them as they waited for the Reverend Mother or if he could quit their company.

He supposed 'twould look bad if he left them alone.... "There must be something more you can do?"

"I am doing everything possible, I assure you."

He offered them a patronizing smile, but the four good Sisters met the smile with something akin to horror before they looked away. The corpulent constable was not known for his energies or his sobriety. The sorry effects of drunkenness showed plainly in his large puffy nose, its hideous mauve color and visible capillaries, all of it squashy in texture. Sister Mary shuddered in disdain as she stared, unable to hide her disapproval.

The constable threw his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. Madonna! What did they expect him to do anyway? 'Twas close to midnight when they had summoned him to the young lady's house. Once they had revived Monsieur Deubler, he could not provide any clues or descriptions of the culprits. The man remembered nothing. The dog had been killed—a knife through his belly. The blind young lady and her aging servant were gone, missing, kidnapped or more likely dead. Murder was hardly a rare event. Just last Saturday night there had been three murders, all sadly unresolved.

There were dozens of murders in the swamp every month, and while these were usually drunken riverboat men, or aging prostitutes, it was occasionally a more respectable personage who had inadvertently met misfortune. Still, assuming it was possible she might be alive, he had sent all his men on the impossible task of trying to find this one young lady in a city of thousands.

Girod sighed again, wishing he had another cask. The nuns were so naive and he didn't have the cruelty necessary to dash their hopes. But the sad story was hopeless, he knew. If the

young lady weren't already dead, she would no doubt be placed in the white slave market that catered to the multitudes of brothels.

Which was odd, actually. He scratched his head, thinking on this. The slavers rarely took white women and then only if the poor creatures were destitute, with neither connections nor relations, the kind of woman who would sooner or later end up in a brothel anyway. "Are you certain no one had an argument or vendetta against the young lady?"

The question drew instant attention.

"Of course not," Sister Margaret cried. "Jade Terese was an innocent angel! An instructress at our school—" She stopped suddenly, and met Sister Catherine's horrified glance as her pale hand covered her mouth. Why had she said "was"? As if Terese was already dead...

Girod failed to notice the slip, for he had thought of the young lady in the past tense from the start. "'Tis just that it is unusual, this whole business." He nodded with the thought. "All the rumors about the Devon family..."

Sister Mary took affront at the oblique reference to the Devon family tragedy. "That was years ago, you know, and an accident. Nothing was ever proven."

"Yes, yes," Girod said, dismissing this, ignoring the anger on the Sisters' faces. Ah well, in any case 'twas nothing he could do about it. If she were alive and brought to a brothel, papers were already drawn up that proved the young woman was indentured. The young lady would be doomed to the fate, not always a bad fate either, he could have pointed out to anyone other than Sisters of the Church. Besides, how could he possibly search each and every brothel in the city? 'Twould take years! Mercy, but there were over a hundred. New Orleans was famous for them, everything from twenty-dollar parlor houses to the fifteen-cent Negro "crib," as they called the lowest kind of whorehouse and of course all of them paid quite well for protection.

Doomed, the young lady was doomed. Ah well. He wished he had gotten another cask....

The sun rose toward the meridian, beating down on the wooden planks of the curved bow of the flatboat where Mother Francesca stood, waiting for the city's levee to come into view. She had slept surprisingly well; she had found the apartment assigned to her quite adequate for her modest needs, despite the constant scuffle and noise of the hog pen to the rear at the stern. Over seventy feet long and twenty feet wide, the flatboat housed five passengers, including Sister Benedict and herself, domestic implements, a crew of eight, a hog pen and a number of crates to be

delivered to the market. They had hit only one sandbar along the way, which, as the good captain had informed her, was "A bit o' luck, no doubt delivered straight from above on account of the Cheery Queen's most important passenger...."

Mother Francesca had not believed in the direct intervention of God since she was five and lost her mother and sister to influenza, but nonetheless, she had acknowledged the thought with a warm smile.

Standing at the front of the barge and dressed in traditional costume, the good woman looked like a black-and-white bulwark ornament decorating the bow. The habit accentuated her unnatural height. No lines marked her advancing years, past sixty now and closer to seventy. The smooth strong lines of her face were softened by her religious life and many hours of meditation. A meditation that, as now, she often felt more intensely as she exercised her deep sensitivity and appreciation of the natural beauty of God's world.

She drew the fresh air deeply into her lungs. How she loved riverboat travel! God forgive her but she had barely been able to conceal her joy upon learning she was to accompany Father Nolte to Baton Rouge for the last rites of dearly departed Father Lopez.

The air felt fresh and moist, while the running water sounded like a soothing caress. She stared at the lone fisherman in sight. He sat in his boat in such perfect stillness on the water that he looked like a painting. A surprised smile lifted on her face when he waved to her. She waved back just as she heard the familiar shrill voice of her traveling companion, Sister Benedict. "Mother Francesca, you would do well to draw into the shade before you catch a burn...."

Mother Francesca turned to see her fellow Sister standing in the narrow shade of the cabin, hands neatly concealed in her habit. Actually, she could only see the black-and-white outline of the Sister's dress up close. The sun made her eyes worse. Ah well. Sister Benedict's directive was right, she supposed.

"Heavens, but I had a terrible night's sleep," Sister Benedict complained as her superior drew close. She cast a disparaging glance at the hogs nearby. "I could hardly sleep with the incessant racket of those uncouth creatures." Sister Benedict's high-boned face took on a grayish tinge against the starched whiteness of her habit.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mother Francesca replied. She turned back to the lure of green water, striving for, as always, an attitude of tranquil acceptance.

Sister Benedict considered her superior for a moment. "You look so pensive. I wouldn't wonder if you were contemplating the girl's decision just now?"

"Quite the contrary. I was enjoying the morning's warmth and air. I believe I am ready to face Jade Terese's decision, Sister Benedict." Whether or not Terese should take the vows was one of the many subjects she had discussed with Father Nolte. They both guessed she would not; indeed, Terese had hinted of it all week until they had realized she was trying to spare their feelings. "Father Nolte has convinced me it's for the best."

"The best? The best would be that she take the vows!" She shook her head, clacking her tongue in disapproval. "Perhaps if there was an alternative path. Despite her gifts, the unpleasant fact remains."

Mother Francesca sighed, searching for and finding a measure of patience for Sister Benedict's opinion. They had always disagreed on the subject of Jade Terese. "If by that you mean to imply she is ill suited to any other course in life, I would ask you to view it from the reverse position: does blindness or health problems necessitate or determine one's eligibility to say the vows?"

"Of course not." Sister Benedict's thin lips pressed to a hard line. "But what else can she do? The idea of spinster-hood and Jade Terese seem as likely as the Second Coming. The curse of her beauty attracts many scoundrels." She added with feeling, "Already! And yet what man would have a blind wife, even if she did not suffer from the seizures?"

"She has not had one for two years now."

Sister Benedict ignored the point as she shook her head, as if settling the matter. "Her countenance brings her trouble, and a good deal of it."

A frown sat on Sister Benedict's face as she thought of all the turmoil caused by the young lady—all her liberal ideas, for one thing, political ideas that were so brazen, modern, and sometimes, she felt certain, blasphemous. Jade Terese had ideas that would be most unbecoming from a man but that seemed positively indecent when expressed by a. woman. And she was always up to something. Just two weeks before the girl had the presumption to correct visiting Bishop Romanus's Latin! It was so irritating and embarrassing—no matter that she was right. And during this last week of blistering heat she had found Jade Terese's entire class adjourned to the shade of the oak grove and missing their boots. Every last one of those girls had been barefoot.

The young woman was wild. She was sure Jade Terese snuck off with her servant and swam in the lake—her mass of hair was always wet in the mid-afternoon heat. She still remembered the youngster soon after she had joined them at the convent: the girl refused to bathe in her chemise to protect her modesty. Lord, she knew then the girl was trouble. "Sister Benedict, I am blind. What good is modesty if there is no witness?" Horrified, she told Jade God was the witness. Jade Terese only laughed. "I am quite certain God has little interest in my bathing

habits. ..."

"That young lady is in desperate need of a guiding authority, and since marriage is out of the question, it should, it seems to me, be God."

The harsh point held some measure of truth, and Mother Francesca shifted uncomfortably.

It was a moot point after all. The day Mother Francesca had learned of the terrible accident that resulted in Monsieur and Madame Devon's death, she had gone to retrieve the thirteen-year-old girl from the neighboring plantation. Jade Terese had lain in a semiconscious state of shock. There had been no family to send the young girl to. It had been her own tender and gentle care that gradually brought Jade Terese up from the darkened abyss back to life, only to discover that part of the darkness remained. The girl had lost her sight in the accident.

Oh, the terror of that time ...

Mother Francesca knew Elizabeth would not have wanted her daughter to take the vows. "I can but hope Jade Terese's options in life are not as narrow as you suppose, Sister Benedict. In any case, we cannot force her to take the vows, can we now?"

The crew guided the boat to the eastern shore, preparing to dock.

"Reverend Mother," the captain called. "Look there! A number of good Sisters are waving from the market. By the shade trees!" He paused as he took in the anxious faces. "Well, Lord a- mighty, looks as if somethin's wrong. And the constable is hastening toward us!"

Alarming words. The two women rushed quickly to the side, searching the crowded marketplace. The mid-morning sun shone bright and hard, and their hands shielded their faces as they surveyed the long rows of stands spilling out from the Place d'Arms. Mother Francesca's gaze passed over the stands of housing wares in the far corner and the many fruit, vegetable and bread stands, all the restaurants closer to the levee. Sister Benedict pointed to where Sisters Margaret, Catherine and Mary ran toward the boat, black streaks made by their habits as they maneuvered around the multitudes of peasants, beggars, Negroes, common folk and grand dames strolling with

their gentlemen. They saw Sister Catherine almost topple a Negro boy obediently fanning flies from a fruit stand, then righting herself before catching up with the others, now following the riverboat.

"Goodness!" Sister Benedict gasped. "It is Constable Girod!"

The crew tossed long ropes to the waiting longshoremen. The Sisters frantically waved their arms. Constable Girod tried to straighten his shirt and coat as he followed. The plank lowered.

Nearby a young Negro boy ran from the fishmonger's stand to the river, where he dumped a bucket of rotting fish. Mother Francesca caught sight of the omen made by the half-eaten skeletons floating between the boat and the levee, their torn and silvery backs catching and reflecting a spectrum of sunlight. A shiver raced up her spine. She withdrew a small wooden statuette of Mary from the folds of her habit and clasped it tightly, bracing for terrible news.

"What? Merciful heavens!"

The whole awful story poured out before Mother Francesca's black boots had even touched land. For a long moment she only stared as the horror of the details mounted: Monsieur Deubler being found unconscious, apparently recovering from the ordeal but unable to tell anything more than the barest facts. The disappearance of Maydrian. Hamlet found in a pool of blood.

Sisters Benedict and Catherine grabbed Mother Francesca's arms to steady her as her mind absorbed the shock and, with effort, she suppressed a cry of utter anguish. Constable Girod was offering some placating words but Mother Francesca hardly heard. She felt her heart swing out over a black void, and bewildered, she waited for it to tremble back to safety.

Her thoughts raced in a frantic circle made of images she kept in the farthest recess of her mind: the rope twisting and pulling, Satan's own hate in Juliet's eyes as she died. She did die, she did! There would be another explanation for this....

Mother Francesca's hands went clammy; the world spun viciously. As if from far far away she heard Sister Benedict's alarm pulling her back. "Easy, Reverend Mother, easy. We need you now...."

A person of tremendous inner resources, Mother Francesca at last steadied herself. For Jade Terese. For the girl she loved. Abruptly her sharp eyes focused on Constable Girod, as if seeing him for the first time. The intensity of her scrutiny could pierce all but the most obtuse. The constable was not only rumored to be a drunkard but also was not known for his professional exertions. "How many men are out looking for her?"