PHANTOM IN TIME (12 page)
Authors: Eugenia Riley
“Very
well, young lady, you're hired for the chorus,” he muttered wearily. “Your
voice is technically competent, but lacks conviction.”
“So
I've been told,” Bella replied ironically.
“You're
fortunate that we need another voice at present,” Ravel continued, “and that
Jacques LeFevre appears to have appointed himself your mentor. At any rate, we
begin rehearsals for our next production,
Kaleidoscope,
this afternoon.”
Bella
felt a chill wash over her. “And when will this production premiere?”
“Three
weeks from now, on July 25
th
. The revue will run through August.”
“August,”
muttered Bella. Oh, heavens, Jacques would be killed sometime in August! She
felt light-headed, realizing she might have less than a month in which to save
his life—assuming she even remained here!
“If
you'll follow me to my office,” Ravel went on briskly, “I'll issue you your
scores. After that, you'll be free until one o‘clock this afternoon. I presume
you can manage to be on time?”
“Oh,
yes, Mr. Ravel, I'll be here,” replied Bella, heading offstage. “And thank
you.”
To
Bella's surprise, Ravel laughed cynically. “Young lady, knowing Jacques LeFevre
as I do, I'm not sure I've just done you a favor.”
***
Moments
later, Bella emerged from the opera house. She was in the chorus now—whatever
that meant. Remembering Etienne Ravel's ironic warning, she had to agree that
she wasn't sure he'd performed a kindness.
Walking
down the steps toward the bustling street, she realized she had almost three
hours left before rehearsal, and wondered what she should do. She could go back
to the apartment . . . but surely Helene would enjoy some time alone to rest
before rehearsal, and besides, it would be great fun to further explore the
city.
On
the banquette, Bella passed a
cala
lady, caught a tempting whiff of the
freshly baked fritters, and realized she was starving. The black lady evidently
picked up her subtle cue, for she turned and smiled.
“
Cala,
mamselle?” she asked in a twangy, French-accented voice.
“Yes,
I believe I will,” replied Bella. She pulled the silver dollar from her pocket
and paused, wondering how much a
cala
cost. Surely not much, she mused,
if a dollar was ample for lunch. She extended the coin toward the woman. “You
have change?”
“
Oui,
mamselle,” replied the woman.
Within
seconds Bella was continuing her walk, nibbling on a delicious rice fritter and
stuffing a handful of change back inside her pocket. She made her way over to the
French Market, which appeared little more than a succession of rickety sheds
compared with the modern open-air structure where she'd shopped in the present.
In the yard spilling off the stalls, shoppers and vendors noisily intermingled.
A jumble of English, French, and Spanish filled the air. Vendors hawked raw
fish and live birds while hucksters peddled ague remedies and blood
restoratives. Indians displayed brightly woven blankets and young boys polished
shoes. The enticing smells of newly cut flowers and fresh baked goods vied with
the unpleasant odors of fish and meat ripening in the midmorning sun. Bella
strolled through the booths, smiling at an old woman who tried to sell her a
fringed shawl, buying a banana at a fruit stand, eyeing the colorful rag rugs,
handsome boots, and framed Currier & Ives prints hanging from the eaves of
the stalls.
The
tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee drew her to the Cafe du Monde, where, as she
had done so often in the present, she took a seat and ordered cafe au lait and
a beignet from a white-aproned waiter. Sipping the delicious brew and nibbling
at her doughnut, she observed a charming young couple at the next table
flirting with each other in French.
On
the chair next to her a discarded copy of a newspaper beckoned, and she picked
up an edition of the
New Orleans Herald
dated July 5, 1896. Scanning its
pages, she chuckled over a scathing editorial bemoaning the decline of morals
in the city, “with gambling and prostitution running rampant, and those in
power all too eager to look the other way for the proper enticement . . .” She
rolled her eyes at an advertisement for “Grandma McCurdy's Miracle Cure All,”
which purported to cure everything from diarrhea to warts. Her gaze paused on a
sketch of a Gibson girl type model wearing a ribbon around her neck and a
lovely off the shoulders frock, featured in an ad for “Vogel's Emporium, where
all the latest New York fashions may be found . . .”
She
was amused by notices of a wrestling match down near the waterfront and bicycle
races at the Fair Grounds. She even found a couple of announcements concerning
the arts: there was to be a jazz parade down Canal this coming Saturday, and a
German singing contest at Festival Hall on Monday night. Turning to a page
featuring national news, she read of how Utah's giving women the vote was
inspiring suffragettes everywhere, chuckled over a cartoon picturing the famous
journalist Nellie Bly in a hot air balloon with Jules Verne, and paused over an
editorial criticizing President Cleveland's ties with big banking and praising
the Republican nomination of McKinley, who was “certain to win the presidency
over the upstart bimetallist, William Jennings Bryan.”
Bella
was about to set down the paper when she was arrested by the title of a brief
article: “Will Blooms Sing in New Orleans?” Intrigued, she read: “At the debut
performance of their American tour, European opera sensations Maurice and
Andrea Bloom brought a New York City crowd to its feet and performed no less
than five encores of Verdi and Puccini . . . Not since P. T. Barnum sponsored
the American tour of ‘the Swedish Nightingale,’ Jenny Lind, has the country
been so consumed by opera fever. But the question is, will the Blooms grace New
Orleans with their blossoming talents, as did
La Lind
almost five
decades ago?”
Finishing
the article, Bella smiled sadly, musing that fame was indeed fleeting. Since
she did not remember the Blooms from any of her opera history courses, she had
to assume they were no more than a flash in the pan.
Bella
left the Cafe du Monde and strolled over to Canal, marveling at the ornate
Victorian office buildings and department stores, the antique trolley cars, the
huge electrical tower and tall telephone poles decorating the street with a
maze of wires. A funeral procession, complete with jazz band at its fore, was
wending its way toward the north. When she arrived at the intersection of Canal
and St. Charles, she was amazed to see an enormous statue of Henry Clay looming
in the middle of the street, a statue that definitely hadn't been there in the
present. Any lingering doubt that she was living in the year 1896 was rapidly
dissolving.
On
St. Charles, she boarded a quaint trolley car pulled by a steam donkey, and
rode past block after block of charming Victorian houses with jaunty railings,
carved bric-a-brac, elaborate gingerbread work, and faceted glass panels on the
doors and windows. Yet the Creole influence was also apparent in the black
grillwork balconies and intricate iron fences, in the narrow, deep designs of
the homes. The yards, with their sun-dappled grasses, blooming crape myrtles,
and gleaming magnolias, were utterly exquisite, as were the verandas garnished
with ferns and lined with rockers.
When
the car passed the house where Gran lived in the present—and Bella spotted a
different color of paint on the shutters, and a housewife sitting on the porch,
watching her young children at play in the yard—she felt her throat constrict
with sorrow. Yes, she was stranded far, far away from her beloved Gran now. Although
Bella was beginning to get her bearings, even to see some logic and purpose in
her journey through time, her feelings of loss were no less painful.
This
era had its charms. But Bella well knew now that she might never make her way
back to the life she had left behind, might never again communicate with the
twentieth century . . . And this reality left her heartsick over Gran.
Chapter Twelve
Bella
arrived back at the theater just before one o’clock and entered through a side
door. She was making her way through the wings toward the stage when she
spotted Jacques LeFevre sitting on the very trunk she'd sat on last night, a
pretty chorus girl in his lap. The two were passionately kissing!
Bella
stopped in her tracks and considered backing away, but she was too late.
Jacques had already lifted his head and noticed her—and he appeared delighted,
the devil! At the sudden waning of his attentions, the girl in his lap twisted
around to stare at Bella with resentment. Pink-cheeked and voluptuous, wearing
a frilly high-necked frock, her hair in the exaggerated chignon of a Gibson
girl, this young woman was clearly not one of the two women Jacques had gone carousing
with last night. The rascal!
Yet
his grin was totally unrepentant. “Well, hello, Bella,” he greeted in a sexy
drawl. “Etienne tells me he has accepted you into the chorus. Congratulations.”
“Thank
you,” she replied stiffly. She smiled at the pouting girl. “If you'll both
excuse me . . .”
“Wait!”
Jacques nudged the girl to her feet and stood. He patted his companion’s hand.
“Run along now, Tess. You don't want to be late for rehearsal.”
Tess
hurled Bella a scathing look. “What about you, Jacques?”
“Tell
Etienne I'll be right there.”
Glaring
at Bella, Tess flounced away.
Jacques
chuckled, stepping closer to Bella and looking her over with a thoroughness
that stirred her pulse. “I must say I like your costume better today. Yellow
suits you.”
“Mr.
LeFevre, I could care less what pleases you,” Bella retorted, starting for the
stage.
But
he caught her arm. “Wait a minute! Have I done something to offend you?”
Scorched
by his warm fingers, Bella shook free of his grip and regarded him
incredulously. “Offend me? No. Simply because I’ve seen you pawing three women
in the last twelve hours, then you summarily dismiss your latest flame and
start in on me, is no reason to take affront, I'm sure.”
Jacques's
dark eyes mocked Bella. “Have I started in on you,
ma
chère?”
Feeling
heat shoot up her face, Bella sucked in her breath in a scandalized response
that brought a maddening grin to Jacques's lips. “I'm not going to dignify that
insult with a reply.”
She
tried to escape again, but once more he caught her arm. “You're jealous. I like
that,
ma
chère.”
Her
mouth dropped open. “Don't flatter yourself.”
Jacques
crossed his arms over his chest and set his chin at a cocky angle. “If you're
not jealous, then please explain the ruffled feathers.”
“Very
well,” Bella replied. “My sensibilities are always offended whenever I
encounter a shameless womanizer such as yourself.”
Jacques
threw back his head and laughed. “But I'm not a womanizer, love.”
“Baloney.
What were you just doing?”
“Why
I was comforting poor Tess,” he replied innocently. “Her cat ran away and she
is . . . distraught.”
“Hah!
The only catting around I've seen so far in this theater has
not
been
done by a feline of the species.”
“But
I'm telling you the truth, Bella,” he protested, fighting laughter while melodramatically
pressing a hand to his heart. “I'm very good at comforting forlorn ladies, you
know.”
“I'm
not forlorn.”
“But
that is so much better.” He moved closer, raising her hand to his mouth and
searing her flesh with his warm lips. “I can simply concentrate on charming
you, wooing you.”
Bella
backed away from the too-titillating touch of his mouth. “You stay away from
me.”
He
chuckled. “Do you think I'm dangerous, Bella? I can be, you know.”
The
two were staring at each other, Bella breathless and rapt, Jacques grinning
arrogantly, when a loud voice called out from the stage: “Jacques LeFevre,
where in blazes are you?”
Laughing,
Jacques yelled back, “I'll be right there, Etienne.” He grabbed Bella's hand.
“Come along, love.”
Before
she could protest, Jacques had pulled her out onto the stage with him. Bella
was dismayed to see at least two dozen people gathered there—and all of them
were staring pointedly at her and Jacques.
A
scowling Etienne Ravel stepped forward, snapping open his pocket watch. “So there
you are, Jacques. I thought you and Miss De La Rosa were going to miss our
first rehearsal.”
Jacques
laughed and wrapped an arm around Bella's waist. When she tried to squirm away,
he merely tightened his grip. “Miss De La Rosa and I had to clear up a slight
misunderstanding out in the wings.”
Amid
speculative murmurs from the others, Etienne gestured in frustration. “No
doubt. Take your places.”
“But
first I must introduce Bella around,” Jacques protested.
Hearing
Etienne groan, Bella said, “Really, that is not—”
But
Jacques was already dragging her toward a statuesque woman, an aging beauty
with a twinkle in her hazel eyes and gray streaked black hair caught in a bun.
“Bella, this is our lead soprano, Maria Fortune.”
Bella
automatically smiled at the woman. “How do you do?”
The
woman returned Bella's smile and shook her hand. “Pleased to have you in our
chorus, dear.” She glanced at Jacques. “But watch out for this rascal. He's
been known to sweep a girl off her feet before the curtain even rises—but he
never sticks around for the finale.”
As
the rest of the company laughed uproariously, Jacques shot her a chiding
glance. “Maria, you're going to scare Bella away before I even have a chance to
charm her.”
