Blessed Assurance (42 page)

Gabe sensed the ominous hush like a suffocating mist around his parents, his sister, and himself. After serving the chocolate-rum mousse, the St. Clair butler signaled the footman to leave with him. Despite the rich aromas of chocolate and rum, no one picked up a dessert spoon. Dinner had been a stilted meal full of pregnant pauses and reproachful glances. Who would open the discussion? Gabe's own taut nerves revved like a motor racing.

“I would be pleased, Sands, if you would tell me why our daughter returned to high school this morning.” His mother's low voice vibrated with outrage.

The ragged edges of Gabe's own discontent goaded him to speak. “And I'd be interested in knowing why you were in
my
court today?”

“Your court?” Father gave him a quizzing glance. “I thought it was Simon LeGrand's court.”

Gabe flushed.

“Is that where you went this morning?” his mother exclaimed. “Why was that Yankee girl in your office today?”

Father sipped coffee. “This family has been operating on two disastrously incorrect assumptions.”

“What assumptions?” Mother stared at her husband.

Father stirred his coffee. “The first assumption was that Belle wanted to quit school and get married this year.”

Mother's soft chin went up. “I've waited all my life to see Belle have her season—”

“I'm having a season, Mother,” Belle put in.

Color flooded mother's face. “Belle—”

“Celestia,” Father stopped her. “Why didn't you tell me Belle wanted to go to Newcomb?”

Mother waved her delicate hands. “That was just a girl's foolishness. A woman doesn't need an education. It could ruin her chances to make a match. Do you want people to think Belle is bookish?”

“That wouldn't bother me,” Father returned.

Mother looked nonplussed.

“Belle, tell your mother your plans,” Father continued.

Belle drew herself up. “During Carnival, I'll attend a couple of balls each week. I plan to graduate from high school in the spring.”

Mother pressed a napkin to her lips to suppress a moan.

Belle eyed her mother. “Then in the fall, I'll enter Newcomb. If I do well there, I plan to go on to nurse's training.”

“Over my lifeless body!” Tears sprung to her mother's eyes. “Ladies don't become nurses”—her voice quavered—“only poor, ugly women who can't find husbands—”

“Celestia, please let our daughter finish.”

Mother visibly grappled with her upset. “I can't believe this.”

Belle said in a coaxing tone, “I can marry after nurse's training, mother.”

Mother's lips quivered. “And what true gentleman wants a nurse
for a wife, may I ask? I was only seventeen when I married your father. Why is that wrong for my daughter?”

Father placed a hand on hers. “That was in another century,
mon cher
.”

“It was only twenty-eight years ago,” Mother declared.

“And that means you're too young to be a grandmother. You're more lovely now than you were at seventeen.”

This flattery obviously disconcerted his mother. Father never said such things in front of them.

Father spoke gently, “My
cher
, it is unreasonable to think that Belle's life would imitate yours exactly. Too much has altered in our world. I courted you in a horse and buggy. Our son grew up to fly in the air. There are dirigibles, movies, phonographs—”

“Those are just things. People are the same,” Mother interrupted.

“Are they? Belle was born in this century. She's better in tune with her generation. How do we know the changes she will face in the coming years?”

“Father!” Belle gazed at him with wide eyes. “You do understand!”

“Au petite.”
He sipped his coffee.

Mother hid behind her napkin. “How will I face our friends? I can't tell them my daughter is going to college.”

“If you say it with pride, you may be surprised,
cher
.” Father gave her one of his twinkling smiles, which Gabe hadn't seen in ages.

The smiled acted on his mother also, but she still looked dubious. “I can't believe this.”

Gabe agreed. His sister, a college girl—a nurse. What had been going through his sister's mind? When he'd returned from war, she'd been all grown up.
Maybe I should have talked to her more since I came home.

“Father, what was the second wrong assumption?” Belle asked. “I have double homework tonight because I don't want to miss the Jupiter Ball tomorrow night.”

Mother gave a little moan.

“Mother, Martine Leon and Nadine Roberts are applying to
Newcomb, too.” Belle turned to father. “Does the second assumption have to do with your going to court today?”

Looking grave, father nodded. “We all assumed my injury had ended my law career. It hasn't.”

Gabe objected, “You're not well enough—”

“Are you my doctor?” Father's tone stiffened.

“Dr. Sankey said you are able to go back to work?”

Father picked up his spoon. “He's been suggesting it for months.”

Mother looked startled.

“I'll never walk again. I'll continue having my headaches. But nothing has impaired my reason or my memory.” Father took a spoonful of the mousse.

After his riding accident, his father had been bedridden for months. At first, just seeing him in a wheelchair had been a joy. “What if a headache incapacitates you when you're due in court?” Gabe asked.

“If that occurs, most judges in Orleans Parish would give me a continuance, don't you agree?”

Gabe nodded grudgingly. Knowing his father would never use his headaches as a ploy, most judges would grant him a continuance.

Father caught his eye. “And since you decided not to come into practice with me, I may take in another young lawyer. Then I would have someone to cover for me, if necessary.”

Gabe stared at him. For over two years, Gabe had given up hope of practicing law with his father and taken the position with the parish. “I see.”

“I realize it will be peculiar to face each other on opposite sides at court—”

“What?” Mother demanded.

“I'm defending Miss Wagstaff's friend, Del DuBois—”

“Hey, that's Jake!” Belle leaped up and kissed her father.

Mother shook her head. “Belle, please watch your language. A lady doesn't use slang.”

Gabe still couldn't accept the changes. His father wasn't well enough to practice law. Belle was too young to make such momentous decisions. That Wagstaff woman's influence was changing, hurting his family.

Mother gave a sour expression. “I might have known that wild San Francisco flapper would be at the bottom of all this.”

My thoughts exactly.

 

Later, Gabe sat alone in his home office. Only the desk lamp shone in the dark room. He'd tried three more times to get a telephone connection to the Paris hospital where Paul now worked. His call to the still-ravaged city hadn't been important enough to get through. Official government calls had priority, relief organizations…

He rubbed his forehead. Then taking out a sheet of onionskin paper, he wrote.

He sealed the envelope and slipped it into his briefcase. He would send a duplicate as a telegram tomorrow. One or both would reach Paul. The agony of loss plunged its sharp, poisoned claws into him. “God, help him find her. She's so sweet, an innocent. Bring her safe to
me. I have no right to ask you anything. But for her sake. Please…” A sob forced its way through him. “Oh, God…God…”

 

From the Clairborne home for the Jupiter Ball, strains of jazz, “High Society Blues,” floated through the cool evening air. The day had been unusual—crisp and clear—and stars gleamed around the full moon.

Belle on Gabe's arm murmured, “What a luscious moon.” Ahead of them, their mother in a wispy gray gown walked beside their father, being pushed by the chauffeur.

Gabe squeezed his sister's arm in response. All day long, he'd thought about Belle's plans, the letter and telegram he'd written, Del's battered face, and Meg Wagstaff's tart words at Penny Candy. How had life suddenly become so messy? He had to convince Miss Meg Wagstaff to stop interfering with his family.

Inside the airy foyer, they were relieved of their wraps, then they drifted into the luxurious wine red and gold ballroom. Gabe scanned the large, filled room for Meg. He spotted her across the room chatting within a circle of gentlemen.

His sister teased close to his ear, “She does know how to catch a man's interest.”

He made a face at his sister.

A young man approached. “Belle, you're a regular baby vamp tonight.”

Belle giggled. “Oh, Corby, you're the cat's pajamas yourself.” She drifted away with Corby toward the younger set.

Though amused, Gabe didn't think he'd call anyone a “baby vamp” tonight. But Belle was right. Miss Wagstaff's black beaded evening dress with its elegant high neckline and long form-fitting sleeves flowed over her slender form to her ankles. When she turned, however, her backless evening gown was less than demure. All over the ballroom, heads turned to catch a glimpse of her elegant spine, then away. Gabe hoped this shocking display would be a lesson to his father. Was this Yankee woman someone he wanted his innocent daughter imitating?

The band stopped for one of their breaks. “Good evening, Gabriel. I see you were taking in the view,” Dulcine murmured.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. “Evidently, we're not quite up to the new Parisienne styles.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “My cousin Maisy mimics Miss Wagstaff's every move.”

Gabe said, “I'm sorry to hear that.” The band began a waltz. Gabe lifted Dulcine's wrist to read her dance card, which dangled from a golden cord there. “I see that I'm down for this waltz.”

“Are you? Did you write with invisible ink?”

Laughing, he drew her to the dance floor and into his arms. Dulcine's rapt gaze soothed his ruffled nerves. Her form was soft and pliant in his arms. For a second, behind Dulcine, he caught a glimpse of his mother's beaming face. He knew she approved of Dulcine as his potential bride.

Inside, he faltered, then gathered his composure. He had no plan to marry again. And if Paul didn't locate Marie, he'd be going back to France himself.

Dulcine chuckled, “Corby looks as though he's won a horse race.”

As Corby Ferrand whirled Meg around floor, Corby's hand pressed the bare skin at the small of the woman's back. For an instant, Gabe felt Meg's warm flesh under his own palm. The sensation enveloped him like fire. Immodest flapper. With the knightly courtesy he'd been raised to show a lady, Gabe danced the rest of the waltz with Dulcine. But his unruly eyes kept tracking the shocking brunette and the creamy skin down her slender spine. Vixen. Unfortunately, when the waltz ended, Gabe and Dulcine found themselves beside Corby and Meg.

“Dulcine,” Corby said, “is there any room left for me on your dance card?”

Dulcine pouted prettily. “You shouldn't wait so long to ask.” She glanced at her card. “I still have the two-step open.”

“Fill in my name.” Corby grinned.

While this exchange took place, Gabe locked gazes with Meg. The band began playing the lively new fox-trot.

“Thank you for a lovely waltz, Gabriel.” Dulcine touched his arm.

“I beg your pardon?” Gabe glanced at her. “My pleasure.” His gaze drifted back to Meg. Gabe was vaguely aware that couples formed around him and Meg. His thoughts scattered as he breathed in her French perfume.

Meg put her hand on Gabe's shoulder and took his other hand in hers. “Start dancing. People are beginning to stare.”

Gabe's face burned, but he took her into his embrace and began to dance. What had just happened?

“It's my elemental appeal.” She made her voice sultry and low. “I can't help myself. In an evening gown—I'm a siren.”

“Pardon me,” he said stiffly embarrassed, “I think you left half your gown at home.”

“Which half would that be?” She mimicked his southern drawl.

He ignored her comment. “Evidently the gentlemen here haven't fallen for your elemental appeal. You had space on your dance card.”

“What dance card?” She wiggled her wrist. “Are you seeing things now?”

“Why not?”

“Do you mean, why shouldn't you see things? Or why don't I have a dance card?”

He glared at her.

Meg shrugged. “I'm not a debutante, so I don't need a dance card.”

“That's right.” Her nonchalant dismissal of custom angered him. “You so kindly told my sister you went to Europe instead of having your debut.”

Her expressive face slid into melancholy. “It's not something I would recommend to her.”

This brought him up short. “Those are the first sensible words I've heard from your mouth.”

“You should know.”

And those three words formed a bond between them. He pulled
her tighter to him. Her skin against his palm warmed him. Her fragrance took him back to Paris, to crowded cafés where he had grabbed a few moments of relief from the war. He'd read deep loneliness in her eyes. The same loneliness he carried. He wanted to ask her, “When did the despair hit you? When did you realize you'd forgotten why you came? Who did you lose in France?”