PHANTOM IN TIME (9 page)

Bella
groaned as if punched in the stomach. Heavens, had she traveled back in time to
a period
before
Jacques LeFevre had been murdered? Was she possibly here
to save his life? The prospect seemed outlandish, yet if she wasn't dead or
delusional, little else made sense.

And
what about Gran and the life she had left behind in the present—assuming she had
traveled through time? Had she vanished from the year 1996? Was she missed?
Wouldn't Gran be frantic over her sudden disappearance, despite having told
Bella to go where her destiny took her?

Oh,
God, poor Gran, so weak and sick, with Bella stranded far away, unable even to
communicate with her!

Feeling
a dizzying rush of confusion, Bella retreated to the trunk and struggled to
forestall panic. After taking several deep breaths, she realized there was
nothing she could do about Gran right now. She had to try to gain her bearings,
figure out what had really transpired. Then perhaps she could plot a course of
action.

Bella
removed her Valkyrie horns and chain mail vest, setting both down on the edge
of the trunk. Trembling, she strolled cautiously through the wings, passing a
few dressing rooms in which quaint costumes peeked out from racks. Several
laughing chorus girls in peasant attire eyed her askance as they rushed toward
the stage. An actor dressed as a nineteenth-century Spanish soldier tipped his
cap as he strode past.

Bella
continued down a dusty, cluttered corridor, in which a fanciful wicker baby
carriage had been heaped with garish wigs and brilliantly colored egret
feathers, and a huge, broken-down Victorian tricycle had been haphazardly
perched atop a frayed Grecian couch. She paused to stare up at an antique light
bulb—it was perfectly clear, and reminded her of a picture she had once seen of
the first Edison bulb. She paused by a hall tree and examined the old-fashioned
finery: beaver hats, topcoats, and umbrellas for the men; frilly shawls,
feathered hats, and lacy parasols for the women. Mystified, she walked back
toward the stage, and that was when she spotted a crumpled program on the
floor—

Leaning
over, she snatched it into her fingers. “
Carmen,”
she read aloud. “The St. Charles Opera House . . . July 4, 1896.”

Bella
emitted a small, stunned gasp. The program slipped through her fingers and
fluttered to the floor.
What
had happened to her? In a daze, she
stumbled back to the trunk and once again collapsed upon it.

Chapter Nine

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“Well,
hello, again, Bella, dear,” declared a familiar voice.

Soon
after the performance ended, Bella glanced up to see Jacques LeFevre standing
above her, a pretty girl on each arm. He'd changed out of his costume and
looked equally rakish in a black jacket, white shirt, red satin vest, and dark
pants. A familiar, sexy curl dangled over his forehead. His female companions,
whom Bella guessed were chorus girls, wore modest Victorian outfits—puff-sleeve
voile blouses, wide leather belts, and long, full skirts. One of the women
carried a small American flag, while the other smoked a cigarette, tempting
Bella to sniff in distaste.

“Hello,”
Bella replied woodenly.

Jacques
grinned. “Bella, meet Crystal and Cosette. They're cousins, and members of the
chorus.”

Bella
glanced again at the two women, who appeared related, sharing pretty, dimpled
faces and curly blond hair. Both had suspicious eyes trained on Bella. “How do
you do?”

Neither
woman replied, eyeing Bella in frosty silence.

Jacques
stepped in to fill the gap. “Why are you still here,
ma belle?”

Bella
felt hot color flooding her face at Jacques's query, and especially at his
endearment. “I—I didn't know where else to go.”

He
regarded her in bemusement. “May we drop you somewhere?”

“No,
Jacques!” protested Crystal. “You promised us we'd all go to the Fourth of July
masked ball at the French Opera House.”

Jacques
patted the hand of the pouting girl. “So I did, love.” He winked at Bella.
“Want to come with us?” He looked her over in her flowing robe and scrutinized
the headdress and chain-mail vest beside her on the trunk. “It appears you've
already found yourself an appropriate costume.”

While
Crystal uttered a cry of dismay, Cosette gestured with contempt at Bella's
flowing Valkyrie gown. “Jacques, she can't come with us wearing that ridiculous
getup! We're supposed to wear masks, not dress up like Brunnhilde about to
heave her lance.”

Jacques
chuckled. “Oh, I think Bella would enliven the ball considerably.” He flashed
her his most cajoling look. “Won’t you join us?”

“No,
thank you,” Bella replied primly, if in quivering tones.

Crystal tugged at Jacques's arm. “Come on, Jacques. Cosette and I still have to stop by
our apartment, change, and find our masks. We're missing all the fun.”

“Patience,
pet.” He regarded Bella speculatively. “Will we see you tomorrow? Will Etienne
try you out?”

“Er—yes,”
she replied.

As
Jacques broke into a delighted grin, the two chorus girls exchanged exasperated
looks and began tugging him away. He still managed to blow Bella a kiss.

“See
you tomorrow, love!” he called in his laughing voice as the women pulled him
into the wings.

Bella
sat shaking her head. “Not if those two have anything to say about it,” she
muttered.

The
sounds of Jacques's and the chorus girls' happy voices faded away, and
desolation swamped Bella. She was alone, penniless, not to mention ridiculously
attired, in a totally new and alien place. Where would she go and what would
she do? She felt completely lost. Only Jacques LeFevre and his thrilling effect
on her senses were the least bit familiar—yet she was used to dealing with a
ghost, not a real flesh-and-blood man who seemed determined to beguile her!

“Are
you all right?” inquired a kindly female voice.

Bella
glanced up to see a pretty girl standing at the stage entrance. Appearing to be
in her early twenties, she wore a long, pale green silk frock, elegantly
tailored, with puffed sleeves, a high neck, a ruffled front and a tight waist.
Her shiny red hair was fixed in a bun, the top poufed forward
Gibson-girl-style; her face was lovely and heart-shaped, distinguished by
large, light green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across her dainty upturned
nose. She was smiling at Bella with kindness and warmth. Bella felt both moved
and relieved to spot such a compassionate face.

She
stood, flashing the girl a tentative smile. “To tell you the truth, I'm not
sure I'm okay.”

The
young woman laughed and extended her hand. “You wouldn't be the first woman to
be unnerved by the dashing Jacques LeFevre. I'm Helene Dubec.”

Bella
gratefully shook the other woman's hand. “Pleased to meet you, Helene. I'm
Bella De La Rosa.”

“Nice
to meet you, too, Bella.” Eyeing Bella's costume, the girl chuckled. “I must
say you made some entrance tonight—”

“You
saw me?”

“Oh,
yes, I'm in the chorus. I was onstage when you appeared, and I don't know if
I've ever seen anything quite so bizarre. All of a sudden—pouf!—there you were.
No one can even remember seeing you enter the stage.” The girl playfully tapped
Bella’s arm. “And I must say I've never before seen Jacques LeFevre go blank
and stop singing that way—not for any woman!”

Bella
laughed. “I'm really quite embarrassed about the entire incident.”

Helene's
green eyes twinkled. “If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide to pull
such a prank?”

Bella
felt at a loss. “If I told you, I'm afraid you'd never believe me.”

“Doubtless
not,” Helene agreed, laughing. A thoughtful expression drifted in. “Is there
anything I can do for you, Bella? You do seem rather out of your element.”

Bella
bit her lip. Helene seemed very nice, but she was not certain just what she
should, or could, safely confide regarding her own situation. If she told
Helene the truth, the girl would surely think Bella crazy. Indeed, Bella
already suspected that she might have a few bats sailing around in her belfry.

“Bella?”
Helene prodded. “I'd be happy to help you if I can.”

With
a sigh, Bella admitted, “To tell you the truth, I am completely lost. I don't
even have a place to stay tonight.”

Her
face twisting with sympathy, Helene touched Bella's arm. “Oh, poor heart. You
must stay with me, then.”

“But
I wouldn't want to impose—”

“Nonsense,”
Helene assured her. “As a matter of fact, I've been looking for another young
lady with whom I can share the rental on my apartment.”

Just
like Dixie back in the present,
Bella thought with awe. Awkwardly, she replied,
“That's so generous of you. But I'm afraid I can't even pay you any rent right
now—”

Helene
waved her off. “Oh, don't worry about that. I heard the other girls gossiping
about how Jacques is determined to have you join the troupe. You'll be paid by
the company soon enough, I'm sure.”

Bella
felt color flooding her cheeks. “Very well, then, I'll go home with you, on the
condition that I pay you my rent with my very first paycheck.”

Helene
nodded. “My dear, you have a bargain.” She looked Bella over and frowned.
“Don't you want to change before we leave?”

Glancing
down at her voluminous classical gown, Bella felt miserably embarrassed. “This
is . . . well, I don't have any other clothing.”

“Oh,
my!” cried Helene, aghast. “You really are lost! You mean you have no other
garments—nothing?”

Bella
searched her mind for a suitable explanation. Finally, as inspiration dawned,
she blurted, “To tell you the truth, Helene, I was performing on a showboat
tonight—”

“Ah,”
said Helene meaningfully.

“We—er—were
doing a burlesque of opera as we cruised out on the river near the city.
Anyway, our manager is a real tyrant as well as a hopeless lecher. He tried to
force his attentions on me—and when I refused, he cast me off the boat at the
levee. I roamed around the Quarter and ended up here.”

“Oh,
you poor dear!” soothed Helene with an expression of intense sympathy.
“Scoundrels like that just make my blood boil! Well, we shall take care of you,
you may rest assured.” Helene stepped back a bit and studied Bella more critically.
“As a matter of fact, you appear to be about my size. I'm sure I have an extra
outfit in the dressing room that you can don before we leave the theater.”

“Oh,
you are too kind!” exclaimed a very grateful Bella.

Helene
led Bella to a small dressing room cluttered with makeup, wigs, and costumes.
She proceeded to a rack and briskly pulled down a long-sleeved white linen
blouse, a blue serge skirt, a frilly camisole, and a long, lacy petticoat.

In a
rustle of crisp fabrics, Helene thrust the heap of garments into Bella's arms.
“There. These should suffice for now. As for shoes . . .” She glanced at
Bella's feet. “You only have those thin slippers, don't you? They'll never do
for the street.” She turned away to a trunk, thrust open the lid, and rummaged through
it, then handed Bella a pair of black, button-topped shoes, a pair of gray silk
stockings, and garters. She pointed toward the farthest corner of the room.
“You can dress behind the screen.”

“Thank
you so much,” said Bella. “You're a true lifesaver.”

She
dashed behind the screen and changed, grateful that Helene would not see her
twentieth-century underwear. She skinned off her costume and slippers, putting
on the old-fashioned camisole and petticoat, both of which were heavily
starched and smelled of lavender sachet. The blouse fit her nicely, though the
skirt was snug in the waist. Bella found the Victorian garments cumbersome and
scratchy, especially as she was bent over struggling with the stockings and
shoes. The narrow, poorly cushioned, granny-type shoes were particularly
uncomfortable.

Feeling
rather ridiculous, Bella emerged from behind the screen, wobbling in her shoes.
She gave Helene a brave smile.

Helene
clapped her hands. “Oh, how lovely you look!” She pulled a hat from a rack and
handed it to Bella. “Here—the perfect finishing touch.”

Bella
stepped up to the dressing table and put on the ribboned straw hat. She laughed
at her own reflection. “Yes, I look exactly like a Victorian shopgirl.”

Helene
eyed her quizzically. “Why, what a singular thing to say. Shall we go?”

“Of
course.”

The
two women left the opera house through the stage door, entering a dark alleyway
amid the sultry New Orleans night. The stench of garbage mingled with the
lingering sweet scent of rain. A tomcat screeched and vaulted across their path
as they carefully made their way toward the front of the theater. Then Bella
stopped in her tracks as she caught sight of a bright flurry of fireworks in
the distant skies.

“Oh,
my!” she cried.

“It's
the Fourth of July fireworks display at City Park,” Helene explained. “We can
still catch a trolley on Canal and go watch it if you like.”

Bella
laughed. “Thanks, but I think I've had enough excitement for one night.”

As
they emerged onto Royal Street, Bella turned at the sounds of feminine laughter
and spotted Jacques LeFevre standing in front of the theater, signing programs
for a throng of enthralled women admirers, the group outlined by a pool of soft
light cast by a gaslight. Off to one side, Crystal and Cosette sulked at having
lost their dashing
escort.           

Bella
noted that the facade of the St. Charles Opera House appeared much the same as
it had before her bizarre adventure, the familiar Corinthian columns and marble
front steps giving her some measure of reassurance. In honor of the Fourth, the
columns had been wrapped with bunting and garnished with American flags.