The Gilda Stories (10 page)

“Yes. Sorel agrees I really have nothing appropriate for these circumstances,” Gilda responded with a hint of defensiveness. Something in the shape of his words made her wary.

Anthony sensed he had said more than he should have. He responded with encouragement. “You'll have quite a time of it then. Eleanor frequents the best dressmakers and has access to fabrics known only to her. And she enjoys the challenge of bending the tradespeople to her will. Please remember, though, everyone here is like two people: be certain to learn both faces. It can be dangerous if you don't.”

Anthony left the room as Gilda dressed. She thought of his admonitions as she put on the silk blouse and soft, serge skirt but forgot them entirely as she descended the stairs to the salon. She stood at the bar with her foot on the rail, feeling completely refreshed by the bath and the prospects of new clothes and a new life. She had two sips from her glass of champagne and exchanged glances with two gentlemen who looked at her with puzzlement and the impersonal distance she had noticed since her arrival. The bartender made small talk knowing her to be a special guest of Sorel's. There was little need, however, to entertain her: Gilda felt strong and Eleanor arrived promptly.

Again as she entered the room the early clients of the salon all looked up. Eleanor didn't hesitate to walk directly to Gilda and take a place beside her at the bar.

“May I order some champagne for you?” Gilda asked.

“No, I'll sip from yours and then we're away on our adventure much more quickly.” With those words she tilted her head back and drank down the rest of Gilda's wine. They left the room, climbed into Eleanor's carriage and set off like young girls at play.

“I hate those awful trolleys that plague our streets now.” Her voice was petulant and made Gilda want to wave her hands above the streets and banish all the offenders, although she herself found them intriguing and was anticipating her first ride. During the afternoon Eleanor often expressed her dissatisfaction with the changes in the city. Gilda commiserated.

It was not until the first shop they visited that Eleanor learned exactly what a task she had at hand. “I'm afraid I will be comfortable in gowns only intermittently,” Gilda said, unmoved by the dresses the dressmaker proffered. “I think we best outfit me with everyday clothes first.”

“But surely you'll wear dresses,” Eleanor responded incredulously.

“I don't think so,” Gilda said, trying not to sound too adamant. She didn't want to offend her new and intriguing friend but recognized immediately what she would feel most comfortable in: pants—whatever effect that had on the society that Sorel proposed to introduce her into. She decided she was already outside of it. Most would only see her as a former slave, so why should she force herself to emulate them unnecessarily.

“It sounds as if I've a Bloomer Girl on my hands,” Eleanor said with some humor.

Gilda looked puzzled, uncertain whether or not she was being insulted. She responded to Eleanor's smile with one of her own as she said, “If that means I'll do whatever you ask except wear skirts everyday, then that's indeed who you have.”

“Umph,” was the sharp retort. This made shopping more of an adventure than either had anticipated. The dressmakers were alternately dismayed, disgusted, and challenged. After three hours Gilda had been fitted for several outfits. Under Eleanor's steely influence Gilda had conceded to a design that from a distance looked like a skirt but was, in fact, split like pants and afforded Gilda the freedom of movement she would not forego. Atop the yards of cloth draping softly at her hips and down her long legs would be a tight bodice much like those worn by most women in town. Gilda insisted, however, that they all button down the front like jackets. She added soft shirts beneath them, and in some cases ordered matching ties to complement the fabric of the skirt/pants.

Gilda was languishing at the end of the day on the dressmaker's divan, ready to go home, when Eleanor insisted on at least two gowns. The fabrics were luxurious, and the dressmaker seemed inured to Eleanor's whims; she extolled the plunging neckline and exaggerated hip that was so popular in the salons and that made Gilda uncomfortable. Gilda finally took pen in hand and drew exactly what she wanted, bowing slightly to Eleanor's will. The craftswoman had obviously dealt with Eleanor for many years and felt secure in how hard she could push. She became silent, then grew attentive as Gilda sketched a bodice. It was much like the others she had ordered but cut lower so the glistening fabric would frame her breasts and shoulders in a way she was not accustomed to but willing to try. She extracted about two yards of material from the skirt design so that the cloth would fall smoothly across her hips rather than envelop her.

When she and Eleanor were satisfied that the dressmaker would follow her instructions, even if under protest, they closed the door behind them and stepped out onto the muddy wooden-slatted walk, filled with satisfaction.

“You're more willful than I'd thought,” Eleanor said with a smile. “Will you fight me on where we have tea as well?”

“Not at all, I'm in your hands.” Gilda felt invigorated by dealing with the merchants and dressmakers. It reminded her of the old days in New Orleans when she and Bird had gone shopping for the house. She followed Eleanor into the carriage which soon deposited them at her salon, much smaller than Sorel's and nearer the waterfront.

They took a seat in a modestly appointed room outfitted with tea tables and brightly upholstered divans. A waiter greeted Eleanor with familiarity and deposited an ice bucket at their table. He returned in a moment with a bottle which he opened and poured, never speaking.

“I've my own stock here. Not as extensive as Sorel's, of course, but…” Eleanor said, leaving the sentence in the air with an impish air of helplessness. A man walked up to their table and looked down with bold curiosity at Gilda. He directed his question to Eleanor.

“What have we here, my sweet?”

“We have a rude man ruining a lovely evening, my sweet.” The sharpness in Eleanor's retort startled Gilda, but so, too, did the uneasy feeling she experienced under the man's fierce gaze.

“I can't have been here that long,” he responded with a false languor.

Eleanor looked up at the man whose thick blond hair fell carelessly over his unfocused eyes. They were a deep blue, and just at the edge of the pupil Gilda could detect the flecks of orange. She sensed the anger rushing through Eleanor's body as she tried to will the man to go away. He simply ignored her, addressing himself to Gilda directly.

“I am Samuel. You must be the Gilda we've heard about.” He extended a long, thin, unpleasantly pale hand. Gilda reached out her hand. He shook it as if she were a man before raising it tentatively to his lips. She was uncertain whether he would kiss it or take a nip to see how negroes tasted.

“I'm at a disadvantage then because I know no one as yet.”

“Except Sorel, the Great, and his minion.”

Gilda bristled. “If you mean Anthony, I'm sure even you can discern how inadequate a title that is for him. Perhaps you'd like to think of a more suitable one before we continue to get to know each other better.” She felt Eleanor's amusement.

“I, of course, meant to say
companion,”
Samuel countered with a smirk.

“I'm sure,” Gilda said, then turned to Eleanor, deliberately closing Samuel out of her vision. “What were we saying?”

“I've sent my messenger to Sorel's. Anthony will know exactly what of your native earth to package and deliver to the dressmaker. There's a wonderful process that will make the soil and fabric almost as one. She has been my dressmaker for some time and will know what to do. She's satisfied herself that it has to do with herbalism and nothing more—here that's not exceptional. Many have grown accustomed to the new knowledge of the ancient Oriental sciences. But I expect the dresses will take a bit longer because she will try her best to ignore your instructions and then simply succumb and construct the best clothes of her lifetime.” Eleanor reached over to lift the bottle of champagne and refill their glasses, ignoring Samuel. He turned on his heel and stalked away.

“You were wonderful. I can't believe it—he's such a pest sometimes. He just has no discretion whatsoever. You would think after all these years he'd know better.”

“Why has he such a dislike of Sorel?”

“It's a long and tedious story, my dear. Like most of us, Samuel is full of jealousy and hate. He just hasn't learned how to handle them properly yet. He's not a bad fellow, actually. We've had our moments,” Eleanor said, looking at Gilda with guileless eyes. “Will you stay with us long?”

“I don't have plans for the moment. I'm content here and have no home to which I can return. To settle in one place again for a while might be good for me.”

“Then you're not rushing off to hunt for the Indian woman?”

“Bird? No, I think not.” Again the reality of someone else's knowledge of Bird was startling.

“Good, I've need of you here. It can be so boring sometimes. Nothing but rude men tearing up the mountains looking for gold and other ways to make their fortune. I need civilized company.”

That said, Eleanor settled back in her chair as if she had made the decision for Gilda. They stayed together for two more hours before Eleanor showed Gilda to the carriage and instructed the coachman to return her to Sorel's. Gilda left after they had promised to meet again in two days' time. Gilda was happy to be alone in the regenerative silence. She asked the driver to let her off as soon as she recognized the area. She slipped him a coin to quiet his misgivings, then began to walk slowly up the hill toward the house.

The lights sprang to life around her as she picked her way across the muddy planks toward the brightness that was Sorel's. She passed much smaller homes, woodframe buildings that seemed to tumble over each other down the hill. It was such an unreal landscape to Gilda; she almost giggled with fascination. She took in the damp air with deep breaths and found it energizing.

Gilda gasped in surprise when Samuel stepped out of the gathering darkness in front of her. He looked less supercilious now, but Gilda stood still, firmly and defensively planted on her feet. When he finally spoke his voice sounded nothing like the haughty, angry one he had used earlier.

“You mustn't try to take her away. If you do there'll be trouble—for us all.”

Gilda said nothing, as if she were accustomed to meeting jealous rivals on foggy streets. Her silence forced Samuel onward. “She'll deceive you, as she did me, as she does everyone. She's not sweetness and light, I'll tell you that. My life was happy before I met her. Ask anyone. My wife was…” Samuel's voice was choked off by a dry sob.

Gilda reached out for his arm. I don't know what you mean, or what you want. How can Eleanor have hurt you so? She couldn't have meant to—”

“She meant it. She's a deceiver, that one is. She killed my wife to have me. She bewitched me just as she bewitched her before she grew tired of her company. She'll do the same with you. It's life to her!” He looked around him, suddenly remembering he was on a public street.

“Perhaps you people from Africa know of these things. It's the devil, believe me. You must know this yourself.”

Gilda tried to cut into his speech, to silence the foolish words, but he continued. “I know she was lost to it unfairly… she was lost unfairly. As I was. Can you understand? I was lost even more unfairly than she. I said neither yea or nay. Samuel's voice rose higher as he spoke, a discordant arpeggio. “I was asked no questions so could give no answer of consent. It's an unfair bargain she made. But she's dead now…don't interfere.”

Gilda could make no sense of Samuel's words. He sounded like he'd lost his wits in the fog. She tried several placating gestures, but they were wasted on him.

“Stay away. Please.”

The current of pleading in Samuel's voice chilled her more than if he'd been threatening her. His misery was sincere, but Gilda could not accept Eleanor as its cause.

She took a step backward to let him pass. “I'm expected at Sorel's.”

Samuel turned on his heel abruptly. Gilda barely discerned his back: he moved away so quickly he almost vanished. She stepped into the space where he'd stood just seconds before and could still feel the heat of his body in the air.

She continued up the hill at a less leisurely pace, anxiety and questions making her footsteps sound more quickly as she got nearer to Sorel's. She would ask many questions when they sat down together at their appointed hour in his rooms.

When Anthony tapped softly on Gilda's door she put down her pen before finishing the last sentence she'd been writing in her journal. She opened the door eagerly.

“Shall I show you to Sorel's room?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Perhaps later in the evening you'd like to go out as we did last night?”

“Yes, Anthony, I'd like that.” She walked beside him as he led her down a back stairway and into a hallway that did not appear to be accessible from the front of the house. Anthony knocked on a large, heavy door and then stepped aside as Sorel opened it widely.

“Come in, my dear. Anthony will bring us glasses while we talk.”

Gilda stepped inside a spacious sitting room filled with huge chairs, thick rugs, and electric lamps burning brightly beside heavy candles in polished silver holders. A fire burned in the fireplace although the evening was not very chilly. Sorel indicated chairs near the fire and plopped down unceremoniously in one nearest it. He wore a fully cut, elegant blue suit and soft, velvet shoes in the same shade. His bulky body looked extremely tidy and mobile. His sartorial splendor made Gilda anxious for her new clothes to arrive.

Sorel's eyes betrayed a dark corner of concern before he even spoke. “I hear you've met Samuel.”