Blessed Assurance (45 page)

Meg brought her mind back to Sands. “She got a note to me early today, asking me to meet her at the fish stalls at the French Market after lunch. So I went.”

“I wish you would have consulted me—”

“I woke late and you were due in court.” Meg paused. In the dance, Belle shook her head good-naturedly at Gabriel. “Besides I took my derringer in my pocket.”

“Heavens.” Sands grimaced ruefully. “Modern women. Did she come?”

Meg nodded. “She told me I was in danger and to leave New Orleans.”

“What kind of danger? From whom?” Sands demanded in an undertone.

“That's all she would say.”

“Think back. Tell me everything she said.”

Meg closed her eyes, concentrating against the rollicking tune of the Virginia reel. “She told me her name, LaRae. That she was a close friend of Del and that I should never go to Penny Candy, that I should leave New Orleans.”

“That's all?”

“Essentially.” The dancers began to swing their partners round and round.

Sands frowned. “Did you see anyone else you knew?”

“I thought I saw one of the musicians from Penny Candy and maybe Corelli, the new manager.”

Sands's brows drew together, making him look grim. “I don't want you taking
any more
chances like this in the future. We don't know what slime we'll be digging into with Del's case yet. Understand me. You're not to run this kind of risk again.” Sands's stern tone reminded her of her own father.

She nodded. “I won't.”

In the country dance, Corby Ferrand miscalculated swinging Dulcine a little too wide. The back of her oversized hoop skirt rocked up and caught on the tail of a green garland. Instead of giving way, the garland didn't budge. Off balance, Dulcine stumbled, tried to catch herself, but down she went on her bottom. The garland released its hold. Her hoop skirt flew up in front, hiding the damsel's face, but revealing modern underwear.

The music cut off. The dance halted. Shocked gasps and laughter burst out. Meg pressed her hand over her own mouth, fighting laughter.

“Oh! Oh!”
Dulcine's voice proclaimed her outrage.

Corby tried to help her up, and Belle rushed over, too. Gabriel finally succeeded in lifting Dulcine to her feet.

The blonde's face, flushed hot-red, twisted in an ugly expression. “How dare you?” she shouted at Corby. “Why didn't you watch what you were doing?”

Corby, glassy-eyed, tried to answer, but his mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

Belle stepped forward. “Dulcine, it was just an accident. I'm sure Corby's very sorry—”

Dulcine gave a fierce growl, silencing Belle. Reaching over, she snatched the pink satin cap off Belle's head. A collective gasp went through the room.

Dulcine, you're a fool
. Then Meg realized Belle looked different. “She's bobbed her hair!”

Sands grunted. “The fat's in the fire now.”

Arriving at home, Gabe, his parents, and sister filed into Father's first-floor office. Orange-gold flames flickered in the hearth, a few low electric lights glowed against the dark wood and brown leather of this masculine sanctuary. They'd come here to thrash out the unpleasantness over Belle's haircut.

Still in costume, Gabe as a Creole gentleman, his mother as the medieval lady, and his sister as a pink powder puff arranged themselves as if the office were a courtroom. His mother took the lone armchair to the right, as prosecutor facing his father, who rolled behind his desk as judge. Since Belle had settled down next to Gabe on the short sofa at the other side of the desk, she had evidently chosen him as her defense lawyer. If this had been a moment for
humor, Gabe would have chuckled at the almost theatrical scene, complete with costume.

“Mother?” The judge prompted the prosecution.

Tears seeped through Mother's words. “How could you cut your beautiful hair without one word?”

Dulcine's “uncapping” of Belle had been farce. Gabe wondered if Belle felt ridiculous dressed as a powder puff for this confrontation.

Belle sat hunched, her pink-gloved arms crossed. “It's
my
hair.”

“That attitude won't work here,” Father replied. “You're our daughter who is not yet an adult. Now, I want you to explain to your mother why you cut your hair when you knew this would displease her.”

Belle glanced at Gabe as though asking counsel if she should plead the Fifth Amendment. Gabe shook his head. Belle sighed theatrically, “My cap didn't fit over my long hair. It ruined the whole look of the costume. So I crossed the street to Gray's Beauty Salon and had my hair cut and marcelled.”

As a defense, it didn't have much to recommend it other than it proved lack of premeditation. Gabe knew this matter was very serious to his mother, but he couldn't help feeling it was much ado about nothing.

“Belle,” Father began, “I understand that you think differently than we do, but as a young woman, no longer a child, you must consider how your
every action
will affect others.”

Belle hung her head. “I'm sorry, Father, Mother,” she said in a contrite voice.

“Now, Belle, no more surprises. Promise us.” Father stared at Belle.

“I promise.”

Gabe couldn't make the same commitment. Right now, he hoped Marie would be on her way to New Orleans in a matter of weeks, at most a month. How, when, could he break this news to his parents?

Mother sighed. “Well, after all it's only hair. It was just the shock.”

“I think it was mean of Dulcine to embarrass me that way,” Belle grumbled. “She knew my hair had been cut because she was at Gray's Salon at the same time.”

This piece of information didn't set well with Gabe. He'd thought Dulcine had pulled off Belle's cap in innocent retribution, but if she'd known…

Father said, “Celestia, will you take Belle up with you? I'll come up in a few minutes.” Mother gave both Gabe and his father assessing looks as she and Belle left. Gabe wondered what it meant.

Father turned his gaze to Gabe.

It penetrated Gabe like the rays of a hot summer sun. “What is it, sir?”

Father lifted his shoulder muscles, trying to loosen them. “What's bothering you, son?”

Gabe opened his mouth, but couldn't bring out any words.

“You haven't been yourself since you got home. At first, I thought it would just take time for you to get over your experience in France. But lately, I say something and you don't hear me…”

Father's questions sank beneath Gabe's surface like a barbed hook, catching him by surprise. Gabe locked up inside.

“Son, I've heard you call out in your sleep.”

Gabe swallowed, but his mouth was dry. He'd thought he'd done such a good job of hiding his ragged nerves and ghoulish memories.

Father's gentle voice continued, “I didn't see much action in the Spanish American War, but I did go. That's why I wouldn't let your mother say anything when you enlisted.”

Gabe managed to nod. A buzzing sounded in his ears.

Father turned his chair to stare into the glowing embers on the hearth. “Your grandfather lost a leg at Chickamauga. The day after I turned fourteen, he took me away on a hunting trip. But instead we sat and he told me about the war. I'll never forget that day.

“It demolished my illusions about the glory of war.” Father gripped the armrests of his chair. “But it made it more difficult when it came time for me to leave for Cuba in ninety-eight. So…” Father looked Gabe directly in the eye: “I didn't tell you about your grandfather's or about my war experience. Did I do wrong?”

Gabe shook his head no.

Father propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, then his chin on his hands. “What is it, son?” Father's caring voice was low, barely a whisper.

Gabe's chest constricted. He couldn't take a deep breath. Too much bottled up inside.

“I read enough to know this war, your war, differed greatly from any before. Tanks, trench warfare, bombing from the air, mustard gas…” Father's voice faded. “Just remember I'm always ready to listen.”

“I know.” The words scraped Gabe's throat.

Father closed his eyes. In the ensuing silence, Gabe found comfort in his father's understanding. Not everything had changed. His father, an honest man, still loved him. Maybe the God his father had taught him about would hear Gabe's prayers and bring Marie safe to this home. Soon he would muster the courage to tell his father.

Opening his eyes, father broke the quiet, “You're upset by Miss Wagstaff's influence on Belle.”

“I was.”

“The world is changing. I think the war, your war, changed everything.”

Whether we wanted it to or not.
Gabe nodded.

“I want Belle to be ready to be a part of these new times.”

“And Meg Wagstaff is the woman of the future?”

“Yes, women may have the vote for this year's presidential election. If so, in four years Belle will be old enough to vote in the next presidential election.”

Gabe tried to imagine Belle walking into a voting booth. A different vision came instead. “I can see Meg Wagstaff voting.”
Meg is
equal to anything.
Gabe wished now he had given an honest answer to Meg's question, “What was her name?”

A smile burst over his father's face. “Exactly. I want Belle to learn from her.” Father grimaced suddenly.

Gabe wondered if this evening had brought on one of his father's headaches, which might put him in bed for a day or two.

Father smiled ruefully at Gabe. “I've loved your mother since she was fourteen. But many times I have wished I could discuss my law cases and politics with her.” Father sounded as if the final words he spoke pained him.

This thought struck Gabe as revolutionary. “Do you think that will ever happen?”

Father shook his head. “She's always insisted she couldn't understand the law or politics.” Father sighed with audible weariness. “These social evenings take more out of me than a day in court.”

“I'll get your man to help you to bed.” Gabe went into the hallway and froze.

His mother stood just a few paces from the doorway. He didn't have to ask her if she'd overheard father. Fresh tears sparkled in her eyelashes. Her hands covered her mouth. His father would be grieved to know his words had been overheard by his wife and had wounded her. Gabe tried to think of something soothing to say.

She shook her head, then turned and slipped away, making no sound.

“Is there anything wrong?” Father's voice came from behind Gabe.

Gabe couldn't tell the truth. His mother had signified that plainly. But he couldn't lie either. “Sorry. I'll get your man.”
Mother, oh, mother
.

 

Gabe allowed Meg's heavy, sweet fragrance to envelop him. Her French perfume made the gloomy parish jail less depressing.

“It's very kind of you to arrange this for me.” Meg walked beside Gabe down the gray scuffed corridor to the cells.

“I knew you'd want to see your friend once he was moved out of the infirmary.” His guilt over the attack on Del had prompted him. Plus he couldn't get the sensation of her leaning close to him on the street in front of Alice's out of his mind.

“What did the doctor say?”

“Delman will make a full recovery.”
In time to hang
.

Meg glanced up at him as if she heard Gabe's harsh thought. He recalled, as he had countless times, her parting question to him after their supper, “What was her name?” He didn't believe in voodoo, so her needle-sharp insight must be because of their shared experience.
Who was Colin and what happened to him
?

Gabe nodded at the grizzled jailer who with a huge, old-fashioned key unlocked the last door before the cells. The man's circle of keys clanked as the lock turned, a chilling noise.

Meg passed through ahead of Gabe. He recognized a tall burly man his father had often employed as bodyguard sitting outside a cell. He murmured close to her ear, “That must be Delman's guard.”

As they walked down the cement floor toward the man, prisoners stood up in the cells and eyed them. A low wolf whistle came from a prisoner to Gabe's right. Gabe glared at the man.

Meg looked neither right nor left.

He couldn't help but admire her aplomb. Not many women could look as cool, as composed in this hellhole. His father had been more than correct in his assessment of Meg Wagstaff.

Del's hired bodyguard stood up.

Gabe nodded to the man. “Miss Wagstaff, this is Mortimer Smith.”

Meg startled Mortimer by shaking his hand. “Thank you for taking this job. I'm sure you're bored sitting here.”

The ex-prize fighter grinned, showing two broken teeth. “Always like to work for Mr. Sands. He's a gent.”

This pleased Gabe. His father's reputation had always been a shining example. If only he might not be a disappointment to his father. Rooney's recent behavior had caused Gabe, for the first time, to doubt his wisdom in taking a public position. “I'll leave now, but will be back in ten minutes to walk you out, Miss Wagstaff.”

Meg nodded her assent. The man seemed almost human today. Mortimer motioned her to take his chair, then leaned back against the bars, staring at the other prisoners. The oppressive atmosphere of the bleak, damp jail cells settled over her. She sat down sideways on the straight-back chair, so she would be closer to Del as she faced him. Then stiffening her courage, she allowed herself to peer at him through the iron bars separating them. “How are you?” The phrase sounded pathetic in her ears.

His face looked drawn and ashen. He held himself stiffly. “I'm alive.” Del's voice came out low. He cradled one of his arms in his lap.

“Is there anything you need or want?”

He stared at her, his expression stating clearly that she couldn't give him what he wanted—his freedom. She reached between the bars.

Del leaned away from her hand. “Don't touch me,” he whispered.

“Can't keep your hands off him, can you?” One of the white prisoners taunted her with a vulgar name.

Meg turned to look at the man. Now she understood Del's warning. Her relationship to Del could only bring him abuse here.

And Meg had come because she needed information about LaRae. She whispered, “LaRae met me at the French market.”

Del's head jerked up. “Where'd you meet her?” He hissed.

Meg kept her voice so low. “I went to Penny Candy.”

“I'd like to shake you.” Del's face contorted with frustration. “Don't you ever go there again.”

When they were children, he'd always tried to protect her, too. She whispered, “I couldn't just sit here and let you wait for the noose. I will go wherever I need to and do whatever I need to.”

“Leave it to Mr. Sands.”

“Let me tell you what LaRae said. She wanted me to leave New Orleans. Why?”

“Because you should.”

“Is Corelli the man LaRae's afraid of?”

“You met Corelli?” Del looked appalled.

“He introduced himself to me when I was at the Penny Candy.”

“Don't you ever go there again.”

“You're repeating yourself,” Meg snapped. “How did Corelli get ownership of the nightclub after Mitch Kennedy was killed? Did Corelli kill—”

“Corelli is a poisonous snake. I told you to let Mr. Sands handle this.”

Meg shut her mouth down tight and glared at Del. Why did men—even Del—have to be so stubborn? Should she ask Del about Pete Brown? No, he'd just tell her to stay away from him. A thought occurred to her. “Is LaRae in danger?”

Del gave her a troubled look. “I hope not.”

“Del, how close were you and LaRae?”

His mouth straightened into a line. “That's not for you to ask.”

“If she's dear to you, should I get her out of town? I could send her to my father.”

Frowning, Del looked uneasy. “She thinks she's in love with me. I was letting her sing a song or two with us so she could get off the street.”

That sounded like her Del. Always looking out for others. “Then should I send her to San Francisco?”

“You might put her in danger just by trying to contact her.”

A cold stone dropped in the middle of Meg's stomach. “What if someone saw her talking to me?” Had Corelli, Pete Brown been there? Meg stared at Del. “If she's in danger, I think—”

Del shifted his position and pain crinkled up his face.

“Where can we get in touch with her?” Her oldest and dearest friend had been snatched beyond her control. She couldn't even bring him a cup of water here.

“I'll tell my lawyer to handle LaRae. I don't want you getting in any deeper.”