Blessed Assurance (44 page)

Out in the darkness of the frosty January night, she clung to his arm and leaned into his strength. For a few moments, she allowed herself the illusion that she was protected and loved. Again. And who was he thinking of, remembering?

A short drive passed. He helped her out at the entrance of her hotel. At the curb, she paused beside him and asked the question that had been on her mind all through their meal, “What was her name?”

“What?” He scowled at her.

She walked past him, then turned back. “His name was Colin.”

Wrapped up in her thick cardigan, Meg wandered through the open-air stalls at the French Market. Only a mission of importance to Del's case would have dragged her here. A hundred voices called out their wares, “Chicken!
Poulet
! Sweet ham!
Jambon
! Turtle! Turtle eggs! Grouper!” The pushing and shoving of the shoppers, the loud voices, the odor of fish. Over tiny stoves standing on tripods, black women cooked fried oysters and fish. They looked tempting, but her empty stomach felt like a tightly knotted drawstring purse.

Last night, in spite of what had happened to Del, she'd been able to eat and slept soundly until morning. When Meg had gone down for a late brunch, she'd received a note from the desk clerk. The note had said simply: “Meet me at the French Market near the fish stalls after lunch.” No signature. Was this some trick? Gabe had mentioned kidnapping last night, so Meg had slipped her derringer into her sweater's large pocket, within easy reach. If she stayed in
plain sight and in the midst of so many witnesses, no one could lure her out of the market to the nearby river's edge. Still she glanced suspiciously over her shoulder.
Stop that.

Over an hour later by her watch, she wondered if the note had merely been a prank or a ruse. “Meg,” a low voice spoke beside her ear.

Meg halted, turning her head. Standing beside her was the pretty girl who'd worn a red dress at Penny Candy. “You know my name?” she asked amid the raucous voices all around.

“You're Meg. Del showed me your photograph once. I'm LaRae. Del and me…was close. He was gone take me to Chicago with him. I can sing…a little.”

“Del didn't tell me—”

“He wouldn't say nothin'. He'd try to protec' me.”

“Protect you from what?”

LaRae shook her head. “Can't tell. It would only get you in more danger than you're already in.”

“I'm
in danger?”

“Don't never come to the Penny Candy again. That's what I come to say.” Her large, dark eyes scanning the market, the girl edged away.

Meg caught her arm. “Please, won't you tell me what you know?”

“I can't…I mean, I don't known nothin' more than Del. Leave New Orleans.”

Meg tried to hold on to her, but LaRae pulled away and disappeared between two stalls, heading toward the riverside. Meg began to follow her, then froze in place. This girl could be the bait in a kidnapping attempt. Her heart pounding in her ears, Meg couldn't breathe in the crush of people. She pressed her folded hands against her lips. Jostled from behind, Meg spun around, thrusting her hand into her pocket.

“Pardon, Miss.” A shopper bowed his head in apology.

Grasping the cold metal in her pocket, Meg shivered. She pushed her way through the throng, then out onto the banquette. Unfamil
iar indecision paralyzed her where she stood. Across Jackson Square, gray and brooding St. Louis Cathedral and the historic Spanish government building, the Cabildo, loomed up on the opposite side of the grassy park surrounded by the black wrought-iron fence.

A tall, well-dressed man with his profile to her stood just inside the entrance to the park. Was that Corelli? No, it couldn't be.
My mind is running wild.
The idea that she was being watched sent icy tentacles up her spine.

A cab pulled up. “Taxi, Miss?”

Reacting to the request, Meg moved toward the taxi, then halted. What if this taxi driver had been paid to whisk her away from the French Market? She shook her head at him and stumbled backward.

Seeking cover in the jammed marketplace, she pushed back inside. She leaned against a rough wooden post while she tried to pull herself together. She trembled and it disgusted her.
Dear God, guide me. I'm all alone.

When she could, she threaded her way back out to the curb. Walking to the corner, she hailed a cabby. She slipped into the rear seat and gave the driver the name of her hotel. As it pulled away from the curb, she thought she glimpsed Pete Brown, the piano player at the Penny Candy. He was staring at her. Did he want to talk to her, too? She waved. The man turned away pulling up his shabby collar. Was his being here just coincidence? Was it really Pete Brown? Was her mind beginning to let her down? How long could a person go barely sleeping, barely eating before one caved in, fell apart?

 

At half-past eleven that evening at Antoine's, a distinguished French restaurant which had opened in the 1840s, Gabe watched Meg enter, wearing a flowing costume of fine white linen, sandals, and under one arm a small box of ornately carved wood. The irony of her costume was not wasted on him. When she arrived in New Orleans, she'd opened Pandora's box.

This took him back to this morning when he'd been six minutes late for Simon LeGrand's court. Wiring money to France had
proved more complicated and time-consuming than he'd anticipated. The judge's displeasure had irritated him, but wondering how to interpret last night's attack on Del was more upsetting. Since the advent of Miss Wagstaff into his life and Paul's letter, reality had tilted off-center.

“That isn't true,” Gabe confessed silently. Reality, his old reality, had vanished soon after he'd arrived in France and hadn't yet returned. He kept telling himself it was just a matter of time. But was it? Would things here ever be the same? Not if he was able to find Marie.

Last night at Alice's, he'd almost spilled everything about Lenore and Marie to Meg Wagstaff. But he'd known her for such a brief time and she remained unpredictable. Why hadn't he just taken her home? Resisting the pull to go to her, now he turned away and went outside to wait for his parents' arrival.

Meg saw Gabriel walk away. And was glad. She had too much on her mind to fence with him now. LaRae's assignation today had prompted Meg to reexamine every minute she'd spent at the Penny Candy. Del's three friends had looked at her with ill-concealed alarm. Corelli who'd already known her name had been at pains to unnerve her. LaRae knew something dangerous about why Del had been framed for murder. Or why would she warn Meg to leave New Orleans?

With these thoughts buzzing in her mind, Meg greeted her hostess. Pandora's Ball was already in full swing. The restaurant had been decorated in amber and green with silk and fresh garlands of glossy green smilax. Along the walls garden benches nestled among a profusion of potted palms. Also the rich scents of French cooking took her back to the outdoor cafés along the Champs-Élysées.

Finding an empty bench by the wall, Meg sat back to let the colorful costumes distract her. Spanish dancers in flamenco costumes, eighteenth century French nobles—ladies in wide brocade skirts and white powdered wigs with towering curls and men in pastel silk stockings and satin knee breeches. Meg noticed that Corby Ferrand wore a black-and-white-striped prison costume. Where was Belle?

“Good evening, Miss Wagstaff,” a cloying voice sounded beside her.

Meg turned to see Dulcine. “Miss Fourchette, what a lovely costume.”

The blonde wore a blue antebellum dress with a hooped skirt and a white picture hat, tied with a wide blue ribbon. “This dress belonged to my great-grandmother, the first Dulcine.”

Dulcine settled cautiously on the edge of the bench. A hoop skirt could be tricky. If Dulcine weren't careful, her dress could fly up in front—no doubt revealing ruffled pantaloons, probably also worn by the first Dulcine. Imagining Dulcine in that fix managed to amuse Meg, but she suppressed her grin.

“I hear that you persuaded Mr. St. Clair to allow his daughter to return to high school—”

What business is that of yours?
“I must protest,” Meg imitated Dulcine's oh-so-proper, sickeningly sweet tone. “I did nothing but soothe Belle's nerves and suggest she discuss the matter with her father.”

Dulcine pursed her mouth. “Be that as it may, your influence has encouraged my cousin, Maisy, to also reenter high school—”

“Now, that is shockin'.” Meg added Dulcine's southern accent to her imitation of the blonde's overbred speaking style. “What will New Orleans do with so many fair and educated ladies?”

Dulcine glared at her. “I might have expected you to behave in this way—”

“You expected me to behave just like this, didn't you? So you can tell everyone—behind my back—how unmannerly I am?”

“What an unpleasant remark.” Dulcine stood up abruptly, causing her skirt to sway and billow precariously.

“Be careful or you'll embarrass yourself.”

Without a backward glance, Dulcine sashayed away, her pretty little nose in the air.

Meg chuckled. But her amusement was shortlived. Worry over Del pressed down on her. In the early hours at Alice's, she'd felt the relentless pressure crushing her heart, loosen. But her sorrow
over losing her first love also would not release her. “
My sweet Meg,” Colin whispered, his tender lips grazing her ear. “Let us be happy while we can.”
Meg closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.
Our time together was too brief
.

“Good evening, Miss Wagstaff.”

Meg opened her eyes and gasped. “Belle, what a delightful costume.”

Belle blushed. The debutante had come dressed as a powder puff in sheered pink satin. A hoop high around her shoulders continued down and all around, stretching the pink satin in a full circle. Belle wore pink silk stockings and pink gloves up the length of her arms. On her head, she wore a tight matching silk cap which covered her hair completely.

“It's the most imaginative costume here.”

“I agree.” Corby Ferrand in prison stripes and a flamboyant mustache appeared at Belle's elbow. The friendly convict puffed his chest out and offered Belle his arm. “May I escort you to the punch bowl?”

Beaming, Belle nodded and Corby led her away.

Meg saw Gabriel St. Clair observe this from across the room where he stood beside his parents. Picking up her box, she rose and went to join him. After his sharing Alice's with her, she'd glimpsed the man under his facade. But she must keep her distance. Gabriel St. Clair was the prosecution. She must not forget this fact merely because she'd eaten a late-night supper with him in blessed peace.

He exchanged polite greetings with her. “Your costume suits you.”

Meg nodded but refused to pick up that gauntlet. Gabriel had come dressed as a gentleman at the time of the Louisiana Purchase. He wore a high white collar, a short fitted black coat with tails, and form-fitting, buff-colored knit breeches. The outfit showed off his athletic form and broad shoulders. Awareness of him skittered through her. She recalled leaning close to him last night, feeling his warmth and strength.

“Yours suits you, too.” Before he could reply, she turned to his father. “I've received your message at my hotel. I'm glad Del's continuance was granted.”

“Simon LeGrand is a stickler in court, but he is a reasonable man. I told you I didn't doubt I could get the continuance.” Sands had come dressed in regular evening dress.

She stepped close to him and bent to whisper into his ear, “I need to tell you something.”

“After dinner,” he replied.

Dressed all in lavender with a tall pointed hat, like a lady in a fairy tale book, Mrs. St. Clair frowned. “I don't like Belle's outfit.”

No doubt Mrs. St. Clair yearned to tell Meg to stay away from Belle, that she exerted a bad influence on her daughter. For a moment, a longing to be with Cecy welled up inside Meg. When Meg had been home in San Francisco, she had avoided being alone with her young, beautiful stepmother. Now Meg regretted this. Cecy would have been so kind, so understanding.

With a coy smile and a come-hither expression, Dulcine floated by in her antebellum gown. Meg expected Gabriel to follow her. The thought brought a distinct tug to her midsection. But he stayed at Meg's side. Why? She glanced at him. Had he begun to take Dulcine's true measure?

“Doesn't Dulcine look lovely?” Mrs. St. Clair cooed.

“Yes, she does,” Gabriel agreed. “Miss Wagstaff, may I escort you to dinner?”

Meg stared at him. “If you wish.”
But why?

Taking his arm, Meg let herself escape into this moment of nearness. His short hair still showed a tendency to wave around his ears. Meg imagined her fingers tracing the patterns of those close-cropped curls.

When they were far enough away from Gabriel's mother, Meg teased him. “I'm certain your mother would prefer you escort Miss Fourchette.”

“I'm old enough to make my own decisions.”

Looking up at him, she studied his gray eyes, so soulful. Then
she tilted her head, inquiring. “I agree. But are you escorting me to point this out to your mother?”

Meg located her name card on the table and sat down, greeting Emilie and her son-in-law, one on either side of her. After helping her with her chair, Gabriel bowed to Meg and drifted away to find his place. After dinner, Meg danced with Belle's young beau, then Emilie's son-in-law. Finally, she gravitated toward Sands and sat down beside him under a palm and the abundant glossy green smilax garland. “Alone at last,” Meg murmured.

For a change of pace, the band began to play the rollicking Virginia reel and one of the musicians took the role of caller. Dulcine and Belle had switched places. Corby partnered Dulcine while Gabe went through the lively steps with his sister.

Sands grinned. “What do you have to tell me?”

“When I went to Penny Candy, I noticed a pretty young black woman who looked as though she wanted to talk to me. When your son escorted me outside to take me back to my hotel, I purposely said my hotel's name loudly, so she would know where to find me.”

“How did she know who you were?”

“Del had shown her a photograph of me.”

“I see. Did she find you?” Sands glanced toward the musicians.

On the dance floor, the dancers laughed and called encouragement to each other as they tried to follow the caller. With her eyes, Meg followed the twists and turns of the dance. The flamboyant costumes and smaller-than-usual dance floor put the wall decorations at risk. One garland hung askew already.