Blessed Assurance (39 page)

 

The evening mist masked the moon and stars. Dressed in a sleek ebony wrap, Meg stepped out of Cousin Emilie's car. Feeling nearly invisible in the gloom, she was greeted at the door by a white-haired
black butler in tails. She'd guessed correctly, then. This would be a formal dinner. A footman received her evening cape and she was announced to a drawing room dotted with about ten people. The ivory and green room had a faded elegance.

Cousin Emilie, a petite graying widow, came forward with arms outstretched. “Meg, honey, we are so happy you could join us. Fleur has often mentioned you in her letters over the years.”

Meg murmured polite responses while being drawn to a grouping of chairs around a fireplace. A generous fire flickered behind a brass screen and chased away the damp chill of the January night. Emilie seemed honestly glad to see her and that soothed Meg's frayed nerves. Maybe she would find help for Del here.

Emilie introduced the assembled party: her daughter, son-in-law, and her teenage granddaughter, Maisy. All three women showed a family resemblance to Fleur—all petite, attractive brunettes. A blond cousin, Dulcine Fourchette, about Meg's age, affected the pouty look of film star Mary Pickford.

When Meg was introduced to the other guests, Mr. and Mrs. Sands St. Clair and their teenaged daughter, her interest perked up. Mr. St. Clair, still a handsome man with graying temples, sat in a wheelchair. His wife sat beside him plump and pretty in a china-doll way. Could they be related to Gabriel St. Clair? She didn't ask. She didn't think that, at this moment, she could be civil about Gabriel St. Clair. Besides she hadn't gathered enough facts to come up with a strategy to free Del. On no account did she want to make the wrong impression or to embarrass Aunt Fleur. She banked the fire in the pit of her stomach. Meg needed these people and what she could learn from them. Taking the place Emilie indicated, Meg lounged back against a wicker chair and smiled politely.

“I just love your dress, Miss Wagstaff,” Emilie's granddaughter, Maisy, gushed.

“Thank you. I brought it back from Paris.” Meg had chosen to wear a black silk Charmeuse that skimmed over her slender form. Meg noted the cousin, Dulcine, surreptitiously weighing and measuring her.

So Meg reciprocated. Dulcine, her long blonde hair pulled low in a neat bun, wore a long blue satin skirt. Did Dulcine think Meg intended to be her rival? How amusing.

“You've been to Paris?” Maisy asked, excitement lighting her eyes.

The girl's innocent reaction made Meg feel at least a century old. “Yes.”

Emilie exclaimed, “Meg was one of our brave young American women who worked at YMCA canteens sustaining our gallant doughboys.”

Both young girls looked at Meg as though she'd just been crowned queen. But Mrs. St. Clair cast a worried glance at her young daughter.

Meg was used to this reaction.
Don't worry, madam, the war is over.

The raven-haired St. Clair girl, appropriately named Belle, breathed, “How exciting that must have been.”

Why did young women still react like this? Hadn't enough truth about the war reached the States? “Sometimes the work got a little too exciting,” Meg commented dryly. “You can't believe what it was like being one of only three women when a hundred soldiers came to dance.”

Her two young admirers looked a bit daunted.

“My, that
does
sound like a sacrifice,” Dulcine slipped in.

“You're too modest, Meg.” Emilie made a deprecating motion with her hand. “Why, Fleur wrote me that you were injured at the Somme.”

Meg smiled and pushed away her dark memories of the Somme.

“You were?” Belle squealed. “How?”

“Belle,” Mrs. St. Clair admonished, “Miss Wagstaff is a lady and a lady never discusses physical problems.”

“Well,” Maisy announced, “being in Paris didn't hurt you. Your dress makes us all look frumpy by comparison.”

Dulcine shot a razor-sharp glance at Meg.

Meg shrugged. “Most of us bought Parisian designs to help the
designers get back on their feet. The war decimated the French economy.”

“That was indeed charitable of you,” Sands St. Clair put in.

Meg caught the hint of irony in his tone and laughed. “And, of course, the temptation to come home with the thoroughly modern look was irresistible.”

“Personally,” Mrs. St. Clair said with a disapproving moue, “I don't understand what the Paris designers are thinking. How much skill does it take to drop a sack on a woman?”

Meg could detect all too clearly the likeness in outdated ideas between the prosecuting attorney and this woman.

“Mother!” Her lovely daughter with her long black hair coiled at her nape blushed with embarrassment. “Miss Wagstaff will think us dreadfully old-fashioned.”

Meg laughed again. “My father wasn't too happy with it either. My skirts are much too short.” She smiled warmly at the little brunette.

“I think you're the cat's meow.”

The butler announced dinner and Cousin Emilie led them to the dining room. Meg was given the place of honor next to her hostess. Meg noted one seat unoccupied. This day of extreme emotions had begun to tell on her. With so much on her mind and heart, how would she endure polite conversation?

“Everyone, enjoy the wine.” Emilie lifted her glass to salute her guests. “That dreadful Prohibition is only weeks away.”

Meg raised her glass to her hostess, but didn't take a sip.

“Emilie,” Sands St. Clair spoke up, “you needn't fear losing your right to drink your own wine in your own home. Prohibition only regulates the sale and distribution of liquor.”

“But my wine cellar cannot hold a lifetime supply,” Emilie countered.

“Those foolish Yankees pushing such a ridiculous law down our throats.” Mrs. St. Clair frowned. “Why can't they understand that dinner without wine is like a rose without its fragrance?”

A murmur of agreement flowed around Meg. This woman, who
evidently wanted no change in the still-new century, must be Gabriel St. Clair's mother.

“It is a foolish law,” Sands said with quiet authority. “How the U.S. government expects to enforce this law with the vast borders of our country and without spending money on a sizable enforcement fleet, is beyond me. It is not only a foolish law. It is a bad law.”

“You speak like a lawyer,” Meg commented.

“Until my riding accident before the war, I had an active law practice.”

Meg nodded. “My father, though a teetotaler, says bad laws make honest men criminals and law-breakers rich.”

“Well said,” Sands agreed.

From the dining room doorway, the black butler announced, “Mr. Gabriel St. Clair.”

Hearing the name brought Meg instantly alive. St. Clair strode in, wearing impeccable evening dress. The phrase, “devastatingly handsome,” slipped through Meg's mind. He bowed over his hostess's hand, then glanced up.

Concealing the shiver of recognition, Meg lifted her water glass to him. Round three was about to begin.

Forced to smile, inside Meg flared with animosity. Of all the people in New Orleans, she'd be eating dinner with Gabriel St. Clair!

“How dreadful you had to work late again, son,” his mother said.

He turned and bestowed a light kiss on her unrouged cheek. “Sorry. I'll make it up to you and Emilie.”

From her place at the head of the long damask-covered table, Emilie waved gaily to him. “Gabriel, I must present to you Miss Meg Wagstaff from San Francisco.”

Meg read no sign of recognition on his face. He wouldn't deny meeting her earlier, would he?

But unbelievably, he greeted her as though he'd never seen her before and took the chair beside his mother.

“Gabe,” his sister claimed his attention, “Miss Wagstaff was in France.”

“Very interesting,” was his only comment.

Dulcine greeted him. Although the young blonde betrayed no partiality, Meg sensed the other woman's interest in him as clearly as a spoken word.
Dulcine, you're welcome to him
.

St. Clair chatted with his mother, Dulcine, and teased his sister about a beau. If he intended his denial to put her at a disadvantage, he'd failed. Meg toyed with the idea of embarrassing him by recounting his refusal to help her, but she couldn't put her hostess in an awkward position, and in the end, it would do Del more harm than good.

The highly polished silver gleamed in the candlelight. The gilt-edged china was obviously old but treasured. Emilie certainly knew how to set the mood of elegance and ease and Meg's own deep fatigue threatened to take the edge off her alertness. She pondered the enigma of Gabriel St. Clair. Finally, she decided to stir the simmering situation and see what floated to the top. She leaned against the table. “Mr. St. Clair?”

Both men looked at her.

She smiled. “Yes, I might as well address this to both of you. I'm looking for a good defense lawyer.” She observed St. Clair closely, but he didn't show a flicker of recognition.

“Why do you need a defense lawyer?” The senior St. Clair appraised her with a sharp glance.

Emilie replied before Meg could, “That's why I invited you,
Sands. I thought you and your son might advise her. She's come to get her old nurse's grandson out of some trouble here.”

Meg nodded. “Yes, after being mustered out of the infantry, Del decided to come here to learn more about New Orleans jazz.”

Mrs. St. Clair murmured in a disapproving tone, “That awful jazz.”

Ignoring this, Meg leaned forward, folding her hands under her chin. “He's been arrested for robbing and murdering his boss at the nightclub where he played piano.”

Dulcine paused with her fork above her plate and smiled archly. “Not a very appetizing dinner topic, Miss Wagstaff.”

“No, indeed,” Mrs. St. Clair agreed.

“I agree, but I need to find Del counsel. He's obviously been framed and I need someone who can prove that in a court of law.”

A lull came over the table as though everyone waited for a response to Meg.

“A most unfortunate incident,” Sands murmured. “Are you positive he's innocent?”

His question didn't anger Meg. He didn't speak condescendingly. “Del's no murderer.”

Sands accepted her answer by nodding.

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and challenged her with his glance. The flickering shadows of the candlelight wavered over the contours of his face, giving him a mysterious quality. Meg resisted the pull toward him from deep inside her. He was just the kind of man she couldn't respect. He had no social conscience.

“What if you're wrong? Do you know what evidence there is against him?” His blunt words weren't unexpected, but they hit Meg hard.

His mother spoke up, “Perhaps you could call on Gabriel tomorrow for advice. Let's talk about the social season. After all, this is Belle's year to come out.”

Maisy, Emilie's granddaughter, exclaimed, “Miss Wagstaff, you've come to New Orleans at just the right time. It's Carnival!”

Meg tried to look interested.

“Carnival starts each year with January's Twelfth Night Ball and ends the night before Ash Wednesday. That's Mardi Gras,” Gabriel said, watching her.

Emilie smiled. “Yes, you must come to our cocktail party tomorrow evening. I'll be one of the first hostesses in New Orleans to give one! A pox on Prohibition!”

The facts of the New Orleans social season were of no interest to Meg, but she made a polite rejoinder. With any luck, she and Del would be long-gone before Mardi Gras. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Belle's young face. The girl looked close to tears. Why would talk of parties depress a young debutante?

Meg sat back as the remainder of the evening flowed by. Beneath her unruffled surface, dangerous currents swirled and eddied. She must find a willing and competent lawyer, then visit Del at the jail. Recalling his mangled face, she gripped the arms of her chair.

Later, at Emilie's request, Gabriel offered the Yankee his arm, escorting her to his Franklin touring car to drop her at her hotel. The air was thick and chill. He watched his parent's car as their chauffeur drove them away. His sister's underlying unhappiness had been evident to him. He drove down the short lane to the street, glancing at Meg from the corner of his eye.

Beside him, she lay back against the seat. Her sensuous posture mocked him. “So why didn't you want anyone to know that we had met earlier?”

Her mocking tone scraped his taut nerves. “I have better manners than to discuss legal business at dinner. Ladies aren't interested in law.”

She had the nerve to chuckle. “Where do you get these Gothic notions?”

He tamped down his rising irritation. This woman may have popped up three times in his day, but she wouldn't last in New Orleans for long. She'd find out all too soon she couldn't wrap every man she met around her little finger even with her “come-hither” look. “My mother has always requested that my father not discuss legal matters at dinner.”

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” The ivory lace of her collar shone in the darkness, casting faint light onto her face.

Her implied criticism galled him. “My mother is a wonderful woman—”

“Your mother is a wonderful
nineteenth-century
woman.” Languidly, she pushed her bobbed hair behind her ear.

Her presence worked on him even as he resisted it. “Well, isn't your mother?”

“Heavens, no.”

“I don't expect you to understand our ways,” he asserted.

“Yes, I'm just a Yankee.” She stretched like a cat. “Now why didn't you let on that we had met earlier?”

He gave no answer. Reading Paul's disturbing letter about Marie, then tedious hours of courtroom detail and duty. After an hour of trying to get a phone call through to the American Embassy in Paris in vain, to find her at the table in the midst of friends…He'd been through too much today.

Meg ran her fingers through her bangs. “You're angry with me because I wouldn't do what you told me to do.”

His exasperation burst. “You are the type of modern woman I dislike the most. You say you are the equal of men, but you don't hesitate to use feminine wiles to get your own way.”

She taunted him by angling her body toward him using all her feminine attraction to mock him. “If you're honest with yourself, you'll recall I was frank with you until you began acting like a medieval lord. If you don't fight fair, I don't feel compelled to either.”

How dare she tell him how he should behave? “You don't know what you're talking about.”
You don't know me at all
.

She sniffed audibly.

“That boy is guilty. The evidence proves that.”

“Boy?” she retorted. “Del's a man, a good man and he's innocent. You and your vicious police have made a mistake. All I need is a good lawyer to prove it.”

“Fine. Some people have to learn everything the hard way.”

 

Today if Meg survived the search for a lawyer to represent him, she would finally get to visit Del. In the early afternoon, Meg smiled at the legal secretary, the fourth one she'd met that day, the last lawyer on St. Clair's list. A night of worry had brought her no new ideas on how to find counsel for Del. Though outdated and narrow, St. Clair might be honest. If nothing else, she would eliminate the four names he'd suggested, then go on.

The secretary showed her into the lawyer's office. A white-haired man stood to greet her. Facing Del today without a lawyer would crush them both. “I'm interested—”

“This is about that black boy charged with murdering Mitch Kennedy?” the man interrupted.

This frankness threw Meg off her stride. “Oh?”

“I'm afraid I'll have to give you the same answer I've heard others have. I just don't have the time to take on another case right now.”

The room felt as though it was growing warmer, much warmer. Meg stood up abruptly, afraid she might begin to cry. Outdoors, she stood on the street corner, wondering what she could do now. The judge's continuance gave her only today and tomorrow to obtain counsel for Del. How could she give Del hope if she couldn't even hire him a lawyer?

She knew a great deal about law, but not Louisiana law and she'd be no help to Del without a New Orleans lawyer. Hiring counsel shouldn't be so hard. Del's arrest had been a dreadful mistake. A good lawyer could unravel it and she and Del could get out of New Orleans. This thought fired her frustration twice as hot as the day before. She marched back inside the same office building. She scanned the list of lawyers and notaries public on it. An hour later and more rejections, she walked across the narrow street and into the first law office there. This office held no secretary. A very young lawyer greeted her himself. Interest flared in the man's eyes. Using her most convincing helpless-female tactics, she told him she was a stranger in New Orleans and needed legal advice.

“Please, Miss, do take a seat. Now how may I help you?”

“I have a friend who needs a lawyer.”

“What is the charge against him?”

Meg was so weary of explaining, but she had to keep trying. She kept her eyes downcast demurely. “I'm afraid it's murder.”

“You mean that black boy?” The young man's tone hardened.

“Yes, Del Dubois.” She looked him in the eye.

“That's not the kind of case I'm interested in.” The man literally hurried her out of his office.

What was going on here? First, she'd thought St. Clair had given her a list of the worst attorneys; then she decided to try his list. Finally, she'd gone hunting her own and been turned down by everyone she asked. Was it Del's race? Was it the crime he was charged with—a black man killing a white man?
What am I missing
?

 

Dread gnawed at Meg's empty stomach. In 1917, she'd gone overseas plump. She'd come home without an ounce of fat. She barely ate at all these days. Food never seemed to be what she needed to satisfy her. Now, as she walked down the dingy corridor with others who had come to visit a friend or a relative at the Orleans jail, she was glad her stomach was empty. The scent of disinfectant, body odor, and cheap perfume sickened her. How could she face Del and tell him she had failed? Her knees weakened.

Along with the others, she halted and listened to the deputy's gruff practiced speech: “When you enter the room, go to the table of the prisoner you wish to visit. Sit down and put your hands on the table. Keep them there or you'll be asked to leave. Are there any questions?”

Aware of covert glances from the other visitors, Meg felt like replying to the unasked question that hung in the air around her: “That's right. I don't belong here and neither does Del.”

The deputy unlocked the door and began letting them in one by one asking for the name of the inmate from each. Meg's turn came. She murmured Del's name. The deputy touched her arm halting her. “Who?”

She repeated Del's name.

The man's expression made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. “You'll be sitting on the colored side of the room.” So Jim Crow lived in jail, too.

Everyone watched her as she crossed from the area of white inmates to the black. As she negotiated a path around the many square wooden tables, her heart beat in her ears like the bass drum in a marching band. She sat down, placed her hands on the scarred tabletop, then looked at Del. The swelling had gone down from the day before, but Del still looked haggard. She longed to take him out of here to a doctor, a hot bath, and a good meal.

He attacked without preamble, “Why didn't your father come?”

“He couldn't leave Cecy so near the end of her pregnancy.”

Del nodded, but his expression stayed stormy.

Even under normal circumstances, he hated waiting. Now he had to kill time, powerless to get this sorted out. She wanted to touch his hand, to tell him she was taking care of everything, but she could do neither. Pointing out his helplessness would only make him feel more desperate. Her own failure caught in her throat. Finally, she said, “Tell me what happened. How did you get mixed up in this?”

He hung his head. “You were right. I should have stayed in Paris. But I thought I could lose myself in playing jazz here.” He sighed. “I was wrong. This was the last place on earth I should have come.”

“Because of the racial unrest?” Fear crouched inside her as she recalled stark newspaper headlines. The KKK was riding high even north of Dixie.

“Black men serving in the war and returning home in uniform has upset the racial apple cart. We need to be reminded of
our place
. But the KKK didn't get me arrested.”

“Who did?” Her mouth went dry.

“I decided to head north to Chicago. That's where everyone's going—Kid Ory, Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong. Jazz was born here, but the music is too free to prosper here. In Chicago and New York, they're paying big bucks and even recording good bands. A few guys decided to head north with me. The boss didn't like it.”