Wilde, Jennifer (46 page)

"I
won't marry you, Jeff," I said. "I'll go to New Orleans with you.
I'll act as hostess at your gambling house, but I don't intend to marry
you."

"Reckon
I'll have to persuade you to change your mind."

"Don't.
You'd only be wasting your time."

"We'll
see," he replied.

Jeff
didn't like me to go out without an escort, and it really wasn't safe, even in
our section of the city, but the shop was only a few streets away and I was
completely out of perfume. Jeff was in his office, going over the accounts, and
Kyle was down in the cellar, taking inventory of the wine. One of the servants
could have fetched the perfume, true, but it was an unusually sunny day and I
looked forward to the walk. I adjusted the bodice of my dress, a tan silk sprigged
with orange and brown flowers. Then, taking out a long brown velvet cloak lined
with orange taffeta, I slipped it over my shoulders. I was wearing very grand
clothes these days, and it was most satisfying.

Leaving
my bedroom, I passed through the small, elegantly appointed sitting room and on
into the hall. Jeff's room was across the way. I had insisted on separate
bedrooms from the very first, and he had agreed with considerable reluctance,
grumbling that all that going back and forth would wear him out. Of late there
had been very little of it. I knew that he was seeing a beautiful,
honey-skinned quadroon with dark luminous eyes and luxuriant black hair. Her
name was Corinne. She always wore pink. She was one of the most celebrated
courtesans in New Orleans and one of the most expensive. I wished that I could
be jealous. Jeff wished so, too. I moved down the hall and down the gorgeous
white marble staircase that curved so gracefully to the entrance hall below.
The place was silent, and as none of the shutters had been opened, there was
very little light. On impulse, I toured the rooms downstairs. On the right, as
one entered, there were three spacious gaming rooms, one leading into the
other, and on the left there was an opulent ballroom, the ceiling two stories
high, crystal chandeliers hanging from the sky-blue ceiling traced with
patterns in gold gilt. The ballroom was only used as such once a month, when we
gave the balls for which Rawlins Palace had become famous. The rest of the time
it was filled with white silk sofas and gilded white chairs and tall green
plants in white porcelain urns, a social area where customers could eat, drink,
flirt, groan about their losses or boast of their winnings. A kind of
gentleman's club as well as a gambling house, Rawlins Palace offered all the
amenities.

What
a ruin it had been when Jeff first bought the place, I thought as I strolled
through the gaming rooms. He had converted all his holdings into cash, had
poured all his money into the place, running out before we had finished
renovations. He had been able to borrow at steep interest rates, and we had
finally finished, had finally opened. The first year had been extremely
difficult, but the place had caught on and the money had been paid back. Now,
after three years, we were making a very good profit, although Jeff was
constantly complaining about costs. We served the finest food, the finest wine,
and the atmosphere was undeniably luxurious. The ivory walls, gold carpets,
gold velvet draperies, the gleaming white marble bar made it truly a palace.
Rawlins Palace catered to the highest strata in a city where wealth, not birth,
distinguished a man.

It
was a shade more respectable than most establishments of its kind. Although the
men could bring their mistresses, and usually did, we did not allow unescorted
women. Our dealers were sharp, adept at their jobs, but they were honest. Some
of the young blades occasionally grew a bit too boisterous, some of the
customers grew quarrelsome when they lost too much or had too much to drink,
but Kyle was more than capable of handling them. He was six feet five, lean and
muscular, a sober, grim-faced chap who ousted potential troublemakers with firm
efficiency.

I
paused at one of the tables, fingering the green baize cloth, wondering how we
were going to replace Laval. He had been caught holding money back two nights
ago. The amount had been trifling, but Jeff had dismissed him immediately.
Laval wouldn't be dealing anywhere for quite some time. Kyle had followed him
out into the street, had pulled him into a dark alley and broken both his arms.
I was horrified when I heard about it, but Jeff merely shrugged, saying Laval
had it coming, claiming it would keep the others from attempting to skim a
little off the top.

"You
let one get away with somethin' like that, they all try it," he informed
me.

It
was going to be difficult to find a replacement, but I would let Jeff worry
about that. Stepping into the back room with the enormous gilt mirror hanging
behind the bar, I heard domestic noises coming from the kitchen and the
servants' quarters below. Kyle had a small room upstairs next to Jeff's
offices, but the rest of the household staff lived in the basement rooms. We
had a very good staff. I had trained them myself. Our French cook was rather
temperamental and the maids were terrified of Kyle, but the place was usually
run with harmony. All the staff adored Jeff, were intensely loyal, and they
received very handsome wages. The dealers and footmen who came in nightly to
manage the gaming tables and serve food and drink, respectively, also received
generous wages. Laval was the only one who had ever given us any trouble.

We
had come a long way in three years, I reflected. Rawlins Palace was a huge
success. Jeff and I had both worked at it, worked hard. Strolling into the back
hallway, I paused before the open doors leading into the spacious courtyard in
back of the building. The blue tiles were a bit warped, with tufts of grass
growing up between some of them, and the high tan stucco walls that enclosed it
were flaking and smeared with dirt, but it was nevertheless charming with the
lily pond and fountain, the ragged dwarf palm trees, the white wrought-iron
tables and chairs. A marmalade cat lounged on top of one of the tables,
stretching indolently in the sunlight. He belonged to Pierre, our cook, and
judging from his plumpness and sleek orange coat he received his fair share of
gourmet food. He didn't even bother to look up when a bluejay swooped down and
began to splash in the fountain. Although the courtyard looked a bit shabby and
run down in the bright sunlight, it was extremely romantic by moonlight,
usually filled with the music of rustling skirts and hushed voices in shadowy
corners. Many an assignation was made in the courtyard of Rawlins Palace, many
a new romance begun.

Moving
back down the hall to the front door, I stepped outside and began walking
slowly down the street in the direction of the apothecary shop. The
cobblestoned street was narrow, with rows of buildings on either side, and
although the sun was bright, little direct light streamed through. Everything
was blue and gray and shadowy tan. Black women with voluminous white aprons
over their dresses and red bandanas atop their heads strolled leisurely toward
the market place with their baskets. A tipsy young man staggered down the
street with a dazed look in his eyes, his fine clothes rumpled after a night on
the town. A painted, over-dressed prostitute stepped out of a courtyard and
turned to wave at a man standing on an ornately patterned black iron balcony.
Turning a corner, I moved down a much busier street. Carts and carriages
rumbled past. The sidewalks were crowded. The noise was deafening as hawkers
cried their wares and stray dogs barked and women argued in shrill voices.

I
kept a firm grip on my orange velvet reticule. Up ahead I saw a pair of nimble
thieves lift the wallet from a plump, smartly attired middle-aged man who
lingered in front of a shop. The pickpockets hurried on, grinning widely, and
the plump man had no idea he had been robbed. Two beautiful courtesans came out
of the hat shop and stepped into the elegant black open carriage that stood
waiting for them. One of the women wore a pink velvet gown, pink and white
plumes curling down on one side of her wide-brimmed white hat. I recognized her
at once. Corinne recognized me, too, peering at me with dark, resentful eyes as
the liveried coachman cracked his whip and drove on down the street. She was a
gorgeous creature, desperately in love with Jeff and eager to provide the
slavish devotion I withheld. I felt rather sorry for her, knowing he would soon
drop her just as he had dropped all the others.

Before
Corinne there had been Thérèse DuBois, a wealthy, aristocratic Frenchwoman with
the morals of an alley cat. Well into her forties, Thérèse had fallen under his
spell, too. Thin, tense, volatile, she had tried her best to take him away from
me. Jeff had amused himself with her, had treated her rather shabbily, leaving
her abruptly, causing the poor woman considerable anguish. There were so many
women ready to give Jeff the love he wanted only from me, and none of them
realized that it was his love for me and the frustrations it caused that drove
him to them in the first place.

I
turned another corner, nearing the open marketplace. I could smell fish and
bloody carcasses and spoiling fruit and flowers. This street was even darker,
narrower. A handsome Spanish soldier was strolling hand in hand with a nubile
young girl, and another soldier was ardently kissing a brunette in red in a
darkened doorway. Romance. New Orleans seemed to be obsessed with it. Perhaps
it was the hot, sultry climate, the warm winds constantly sweeping over the
city. Perhaps it was the too-fragrant perfume of too many exotic flowers that
overlaid the reek of filthy canals and congested slums. If people in Boston and
Philadelphia were ardently concerned with freedom from tyranny or loyalty to
the Crown, people in New Orleans were as ardently concerned with pleasures of
the flesh.

It
was unlike any place I had ever been to, an over-ripe fruit of a city that had
passed from hand to hand, nationality to nationality, retaining its own
personality all the while. Where else could pirates and smugglers mingle with
aristocrats and officials who were rogues at heart? Where else did convents
share the same street with brothels, sordid slums stand back to back with
gracious buildings featuring wrought-iron balconies, enclosed courtyards and
patios and opulent gardens? The city was too rich, too flamboyant with its
crowded waterfront, its industry, its wickedness. Inbred and isolated from the
events that kept the English colonies in a constant upheaval, New Orleans was
both seductive and alarming, totally unique.

Leaving
the narrow street with its strolling lovers, I walked across a busy, bustling
square flooded with sunlight. The smell of fish from the marketplace one street
over was strong here. A bell jangled loudly as I stepped into the apothecary
shop. It was cool and dim, crowded with tables and shelves holding bottles of
colored liquid, packets of powder, and boxes full of dried roots and herbs. The
apothecary was not in, but his apprentice hurried forward to wait on me. A lad
no more than seventeen, he was tall and well built with glossy brown hair, wide,
innocent blue eyes, and a full pink mouth that suggested a very sensual nature
not yet explored. The lad blushed when I told him who I was and what I wanted,
yet those wide indigo eyes looked at me with a calf-like longing. He was
obviously still a virgin, frustrated and eager to explore.

"Number
93," I said politely. "It should be ready."

The
lad nodded and hurried into the room in back of the shop. Highly skilled at his
work, the apothecary had created a perfume especially for me, a subtle, barely
discernible scent quite unlike the too strong, too sweet perfumes both men and
women used to camouflage body odor. Most of the more refined citizens of New
Orleans took a bath at least once every two or three months, relying on their
perfume the rest of the time. My daily baths were a great eccentricity, but I
refused to give them up even though they were considered both unhealthy and
highly dangerous.

The
lad returned, handed me the small bottle, and took my money. I put the bottle
in my reticule and, smiling warmly, thanked the boy in a quiet voice. He
blushed again, looking terrified and, at the same time, looking as though he
wanted to leap on me in a frenzy of passion. The bell tinkled again as I left
the shop. I could feel the boy watching me from the window as I crossed the
square. It wouldn't be long before his frustrations were relieved, I reflected.
New Orleans was filled with bored, restless women who would enjoy nothing more
than initiating so handsome a youth. In a year he would probable be a profligate
young rake ruining himself over someone like Corinne or Thérèse DuBois.

As
I neared the narrow side street that I had come down a few minutes earlier, a
loud commotion broke out nearby. A man yelled. Horses shrieked. I whirled
around to see two handsome grays still rearing, forelegs dancing in air, a
husky, rough-looking man waving his arms directly in front of them. The
coachman tugged on the reins, trying his best to calm the horses. The man who
had almost been run down was shouting vile abuse, and a crowd began to gather,
almost trampling a black woman who had dropped her basket of apples and was
crawling about nervously trying to gather them up.

"You
friggin' bastard! Why'n't ya watch where you're goin'! I've a mind to wring
your neck!"

"Out
of the way!" the coachman called. "Out of the way, I say, unless you
want a taste of my whip!"