Authors: Jill Marie Landis
“What about your work, sir?” Intrigued by his intricate rolls of drawings, Katie was in the habit of asking all manner of questions about his architectural projects.
“The work will keep. In the meantime, you continue to take note of all the elements of style we’ve talked about. When I get back I’ll show you how to start drawing plans of your own. There’ll be a need for architects to rebuild the North after the war ends. It won’t
be easy, but if you dream big you just might become one of the first female architects in the country.”
“Rebuild the North?” Marie’s lip quivered. “I thought you said it would be over soon.”
Her lilting voice was barely audible now. She took great care setting her fork upon her gilt-edged Limoges plate. As always, Marie was a vision — the genteel, refined Creole lady of the manor. Her silk gown was from France, and the table was set with the finest china and sterling silver. A house slave hovered a few feet from Marie’s chair, silent and watchful, ready to do her bidding at the slightest lift of her hand.
“Surrender
will
come soon.” Patrick raised his stemmed wineglass, twirling it as he gazed at the thick, red Bordeaux in the candlelight. “Mark my words.”
Amelie was tugging at Katie’s wide sleeve. “Come on. I want to show you my new gown,” she urged.
Still clutching her rose, Katie bid the Delanys good-night and thanked them for their hospitality, then followed Amelie to the stairs at the end of the gallery. Would she ever have a husband as kind and gentle as Patrick Delany or as handsome as Colin? One who enjoyed candlelight dinners beneath the Louisiana night sky?
Upstairs, Amelie pulled her newest gown out of the massive armoire and held it in front of her while she twirled around the room.
“I just love this shade of yellow silk, don’t you?” She stopped for a second to study herself in the mirrors on the armoire doors. “I begged for it to be completely off the shoulder but Mama said it wasn’t fitting for a girl my age. The skirt is so full it’s going to take a bigger hoop to hold it out. What do you think, Katie? Isn’t it just a confection?”
“It’s perfect. I love the embroidered trim and the ribbons along the waistline.” Katie reached out and rubbed the silk between her thumb and forefinger. The bright fabric reminded her of Marie’s
roses. No telling how many times Amelie would actually wear the gown after all the young men marched off to war.
“A photographer is going up and down River Road taking pictures of all the men in their uniforms. Papa has him scheduled to come over in the morning, and we’re going to have a picture made of all of us, and I’m wearing this.” She tossed the dress over the end of her bed. “Will you help me with my hair? That new girl, Bertrice, doesn’t know one end of a hairbrush from the other yet.”
“Of course.”
“Get rid of that silly rose and let’s dance.” Amelie tried to take it, but Katie scooted away and placed the rose on a table near the door where she wouldn’t forget it.
Amelie grabbed her hand and then bowed and laughed. They waltzed around the room and then began jumping through a lively polka. Marie Delany had hired a visiting Frenchman to instruct them both in the fine art of ballroom dancing, but they’d been hopeless as serious students of the art. They’d learned far too quickly and then spent the rest of the allotted time teasing the poor man and falling into helpless giggles.
The girls careened around until they were both out of breath and then collapsed on the bed.
“I think it’s high time I kissed someone,” Amelie announced.
“You don’t mean it!” Katie tried to hide her blushing cheeks behind her hands. She adjusted her glasses, which were slightly askew from their tumble onto the bed.
“Haven’t you ever wondered what it will feel like?” Amelie turned her head and Katie found her staring. She was glad Amelie couldn’t read her thoughts. She had been curious about the taste of Colin’s lips, but certainly no one else’s.
“Sometimes,” Katie admitted.
“Well, I’ve been practicing.” Amelie grabbed her pillow. “First I’ll slip my arms around him like this.” She hugged the pillow close. “Then I’ll close my eyes and pucker up like this.” Amelie pursed
her lips and pressed her face into the pillow. She twisted her face all around and then fell back with a sigh.
“There are bound to be victory balls galore when the war is over and you’d better be ready.” Amelie snatched up another pillow and shoved it at Katie. “Go on. Try it.”
“Should I take off my glasses?”
“Of course.”
“I won’t be able to see anything.”
“So what? Follow your instincts.”
Not sure she had any of those particular instincts, Katie slipped off her glasses and squinted as she hugged the pillow close. Before she pressed her face against the fine cotton, she puckered up. When she closed her eyes and her lips sank into the down, the not-quite-imaginary beau she pretended to kiss was Colin.
LOUISIANA, 1876
A
lmost home
.
Katherine Lane Keene drank in the sight of the familiar landscape as the carriage rolled along the twists and turns of snakelike River Road.
Despite the War of Northern Aggression, despite everything that had happened to the land, the familiar scent of the rich, fertile earth was a constant. Miles of long, rectangular fields of green stretched far and away between levees and the highway that paralleled the Mississippi between New Orleans and Baton Rouge.
Acres once abundant with sugarcane were now overgrown and neglected, as were many of the once-grand plantation houses that dotted the land. As the carriage passed Destrehan, one of the earliest Creole estates in the area, Kate’s heartbeat sped up. She had nearly reached her destination. The dream she’d nurtured for so very long was about to come true.
She reached for the long, thick rolls of architectural plans tied with black ribbon on the seat beside her, set them on her lap, and ran her gloved hand down the newsprint. She’d poured years of painstaking work into the plans for the reconstruction and
refurbishing of the once-grand house at
Belle Fleuve
. Her mother called it an obsession; for Kate it was a labor of love.
She’d spent almost half of her life preparing for this day. People told her she was crazy, that architecture was a man’s field. They said she would be better off getting married and raising a houseful of children. Kate wanted no other home.
For now, all that mattered was the house at
Belle Fleuve
and its owner. She had awaited his return for so very, very long.
“I hear he’s insane.” Myra O’Hara startled Kate out of her reverie, forcing her to turn her gaze back to the interior of the carriage. Myra straightened her cocoa-brown traveling skirt, folded her plump hands across her ample waist, and lowered her voice as if
he
could hear. “Crazy as a loon. Won’t come out of the
garçonnière
. Holed up in there like a madman.”
“I’ve heard the rumors.” Kate feigned nonchalance. “They’re nothing but gossip, and I’ll take no stock in them until I’ve seen Colin Delany for myself.” Who knew what state Colin might be in? She hadn’t laid eyes on him since before he went off to war.
If rumors were to be believed, Colin was no longer the dashing, confident young man who had enlisted with his father and gone off to fight for the Confederacy.
“You’re obsessed with the place,” Myra grumbled. “Much as you are with him.”
That much was true. Kate’s heart had broken the first time she’d witnessed the neglect and decay that threatened to ruin the place beyond salvation. From that day until now she had labored over the reconstruction plans.
“This isn’t just about
Belle Fleuve
or Colin.” Kate never tired of defending her vision. She blinked away tears. “It’s about how good the Delanys were to me, about how they opened their home and their hearts to me. My childhood would have been terribly empty without them. Besides, if Colin is as bad off as they say, then it’s my Christian duty to help him.”
Surely Colin would appreciate all the work she’d done, the
details and effort she had put into the drawings. After all, it was his father, Patrick, who’d inspired her love of architecture.
But according to the rumors, Colin had sequestered himself from the world. What if he refused to give her permission to begin?
Kate took a deep breath and reached up to be sure her hat was secure.
Let him try to stop me
.
“Did you just say something?” Myra raised her voice over the crunch and clatter of carriage wheels against the oyster-shell drive.
“I don’t think so.” At least Kate hoped not.
“Wouldn’t y’ know it? It looks about to rain.” Myra stared at the sky.
The carriage turned onto an
allee
, an arcade of ancient live oaks flanking a narrow lane that led to the wide front gallery of the mansion at
Belle Fleuve
. Kate had instructed the driver to pull up near the
garçonnière
next door.
As the carriage rolled past the main house, Kate slid a finger beneath her spectacles and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. It never failed to upset her — the terrible condition of this once impeccable, glorious house.
The first time she’d witnessed the toll the war had taken on
Belle Fleuve
had been four years earlier. She had just returned to New Orleans from an extended stay abroad and settled into her mother’s townhouse. She then went directly to
Belle Fleuve
. Her Irish temper had flared the moment she saw the odious notice nailed to the front door: Auction Due to Failure to Pay Back Taxes.
Kate had ripped down the offending poster and immediately returned to the city. She’d marched into the tax office and used funds from her inheritance to pay the back taxes on
Belle Fleuve
, but with the stipulation that she remain anonymous. On the very day she ripped up the foreclosure notice, she had vowed to see the place restored to its former glory.
The passage of time had only added to the decay. Even more windows were broken. Finely carved woodwork was rotted. Gallery
railings were splintered and missing. Inside, shredded wall coverings and crumbling stucco exposed interior walls constructed of Spanish moss and sand —
bousillage entre poteaux
, as the French called them.
Her vision was needed now more than ever.
When the carriage suddenly stopped Kate forgot all about the state of the house. Colin was home. How would he receive her? She’d grown up since they’d seen each other last. In a moment or two she would be looking into his eyes again, hearing his voice. Her gloved hand trembled. Kate tightened it around the plans, then tried to relax.
Myra touched the sleeve of Kate’s short-waisted violet cloak as they waited for the driver to open the door.
“You know there’s no shame in turnin’ back,” Myra whispered.
“Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.” Kate smiled at her longtime travel companion and friend. There was no room for fear or doubt here. “I’m not one to back down. Don’t you worry. Everything will soon be right as rain.”
The minute she mentioned the word
rain
, huge drops began to spatter against the roof of the carriage and the air filled with the scent of damp earth. Kate glanced up at the low, angry clouds. The sky was about to open up.
The driver hopped down, pulled his collar up around his ears, and looked put out as he opened the door. He stepped aside so Kate could exit. She pressed the roll of drawings against her bodice, hunched her shoulders around them protectively, and ran for the door of the
garçonnière
.
Halfway there she noticed another vehicle on the drive. A scuffed, covered buggy was parked beneath a tree not far away. A Negro driver with his hat pulled low was perched on the high-sprung seat. He watched Kate’s progress in silence.
Hugging the plans, pressing close to the door of the
garçonnière
, Kate reached for the weathered brass knocker. Before she could grab the ring, the door flew open. Kate stared at a tall, redheaded
woman who was apparently just as shocked to see Kate standing there as Kate was to see her. The woman stepped out and slammed the door behind her.
Standing toe to toe with the stranger, Kate inhaled an overpowering scent of cheap perfume. The woman’s hair was a garish shade of henna, her cheeks dusted with bright-pink rouge, her lips carmine. Dark kohl outlined her small, close-set eyes. A slim, painted brow slowly arched above her left eye as she studied Kate. Then a slow smirk curled her upper lip.
“Good luck with that one, honey.” The frowzy redhead indicated the door behind her with a toss of her hennaed head. She looked Kate over from head to toe and barked a harsh laugh. “He’ll chew you up and spit you out in no time.”
With that, the fancy piece stepped around Kate and ran for the safety of the buggy. The woman scrambled aboard and the vehicle started down the drive. Refusing to let the odious creature shake her confidence, Kate wiped raindrops off the lenses of her spectacles with a gloved finger and raised her hand to knock again. When there was no answer, she twisted the knob and cracked open the door.
“Colin?” Kate held her breath in anticipation. Inside her gloves, her palms were damp.
When there was no answer, she pushed the door open another fraction of an inch.
“I said get out!” The hoarse shout was followed by a deep growl. Something heavy slammed into the door, crashed against the floor, and shattered.
Kate stood tall and quickly thrust the door open. Broken pieces of a ceramic vase crunched beneath her sturdy traveling boots as she stepped inside. Across the room, a tall, lean man, fully clothed but barefooted, was stretched out across a narrow bed. His thick, wavy, black hair reached past his shoulders. The lower half of his face was hidden beneath a heavy beard and moustache.
He bore little resemblance to the young man with the ready
smile and deep laugh, the man who never would have wallowed in such a state of dishevelment. His once-bright eyes were glassy, his full lips hidden behind his shaggy beard. Kate’s fantasy was shattered in that very instant. A bittersweet ache filled her soul. The Colin Delany she knew was gone and in his place was this broken, angry remnant of a man.