Somehow, Alice meant it. Truth must always be of use.
Near the corner of the corridor, Alice located the metal stairway and made her way down to the main hall, then slid along its ornate side walls, soaring, buzzing, and stirring with men, none of whom were her husband.
On the street she turned toward the concrete wall and vomited.
CHAPTER 11
Analee insisted Constance rest the next morning. Since no early knock came at her door, Constance managed to sleep until ten after nine. When she opened her eyes, she found her older daughter alone on the floor, coloring on a sheaf of papers, the childish images spread about her in the morning light. As Constance stirred, Delia clambered into the bed beside her. Outside Constance could hear Analee’s quiet voice making up stories with the little one. The morning was quiet, restorative, and the bit of relief lasted past lunch.
Sometime in the afternoon a knock at the door seized Constance with panic. She rose from the davenport in an impulse to flee. But Analee opened the door to a young woman in a rose-colored day dress and a wide-brimmed feathered hat, who presented her card, gesturing quietly with an elegantly wrapped box in her hand. Analee bade her enter and took her into the drawing room.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Halstead.” The young woman held out her calling card. “I am Juliet Farleigh. I am here on behalf of Mrs. Dorothea Richard, whom I believe you met at the recent luncheon for the krewe of Les Mysterieuses.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Farleigh. I had the pleasure of being seated beside Mrs. Richard. Would you have a seat? Analee, could you bring us a cup of tea, please?” Constance saw two little heads spying at the hallway door. They disappeared instantly upon her detection. Constance smiled, ostensibly at the attractive girl now standing in her drawing room.
Miss Farleigh remained standing. “I have the honor of delivering to you an important document from Mrs. Richard,” she said, her voice taking on a tone of importance parallel to her words. “Perhaps you would like to be seated before I present it, Mrs. Halstead.” She waved her hand toward the davenport, as if she, and not Constance, were in charge here. She set the red silk-covered container on the tea table and opened it with a bit of flourish. Inside lay a roll of parchment tied with a red silk ribbon.
Constance smiled again in a bit of amusement, both at the theatrics of the presentation and at the two play-tousled heads that continued to pop in and out of view at the hallway door. Constance gasped slightly, hand over her mouth, as the young woman untied the ribbon and let the roll of parchment fall in a flash of brilliant color and intricate forms.
“I am deeply honored to have been commissioned by Mrs. Dorothea Richard, Captain of the all-female Krewe of Les Mysterieuses, to present to you the following proclamation. That you, Mrs. Constance Halstead, shall be in attendance to Mrs. Marion Berger, Her Majesty, Semiramis, Queen of all compass points to the South, as Lady-in-Waiting for the Grand Ball on Friday evening, January tenth, following Twelfth Night, to be held at the Grand Opera House at eight o’clock in the evening.”
At this point, Constance realized that her messenger was working hard to contain an outburst of glee. Constance herself found her ribs constricted. She felt caught in the unexpected blast of a door thrown open in a storm. She struggled to maintain her composure. As Analee set the tea tray on the table, Constance motioned Juliet to sit.
She could scarcely manage her panic. Constance leaned over the parchment and ostensibly studied in detail all the complex symbols worked into the design: the compass with four needles, each needle a scepter; the red poppies worked into the gold-embellished borders; the mythical figures, each veiled face a woman’s. Regaining some sense of composure, Constance raised her eyes to those of Miss Juliet Farleigh, who burst into subdued laughter.
“Isn’t it grand?” she said. “Yet again, we women take charge of ourselves! The men will have to wait on us, follow us, be called out by us. They will experience what we have to experience every day—waiting on the favor of some man.” She set down her teacup, which she’d hardly touched. “Who knows, Mrs. Halstead? Perhaps next we shall have the vote!”
*
When the door closed behind Miss Farleigh, Constance stood watching her sprightly departing steps. Only a few short years ago, she thought, I was that young. I am almost still that young. I shall never be young again. There is nothing left of me to be anything at all.
“Take this, please, Analee,” she said., pointing to the ornate parchment. “Don’t let the children soil it. It may need to be returned. I am not feeling well. I shall be in my room.”
Constance stood at her upstairs window, watching the girls chasing at tag, first one, then the other, back and forth between the two, until both fell down, laughing and tickling one another. Analee, in the yard with them, leaned over to tickle them both at once, at which they leapt to their feet. Across the alleyway, Constance noticed a man in a dark coat. He stared in the direction of the girls, separated from him by the high wrought-iron fence. She gasped with a chill of vague recognition. He walked on. Desperation filled her.
What have I done? Foolish, foolish! Why did I have to know what he was up to? I had this—these girls, this life, this home. This was mine. I was safe. Constance darted back to the window, her finger tracing its panes. The alley was vacant. I will never be safe again. What if he walks in the door and stares at me with those eyes? Her last vision of those eyes as they fell backward burned into her brain. They stared at her all the way into the black water. She tried to wipe them away. The blurred motion of that man as the train door slammed after him, the dull thwack of Benton hitting the water far below them. She could not escape. There was no escape. She would never be free from what had transpired.
Constance had lost track of time when Analee brought the girls to her bedroom for a good-night hug and a kiss. Constance was listless but roused herself from her chaise to embrace them. She held them as if she might never be able to hold them again. Somehow, they felt it, pulled back, and stared at her.
“Are you sick, Mama?” Maggie asked, a tiny lisp in her whisper.
Constance felt Delia’s hand pressing on her cheek to turn her head. She studied the concern on that innocent face.
“Just a bit tired, my darlings,” she said. “It’s been a very busy week. Mama has had meeting after meeting, you know. Planning for Mardi Gras.” Constance injected an upbeat of enthusiasm into those last words, trying to divert the girls’ concern. “And lots of planning for the orphanage.”
“Why are they there, Mama?”
“Why is who where, Maggie?”
“The orphanage, Mama. Why are they there? Why don’t they go home? Don’t they have a mama and a papa? Like us?”
Analee tried to steer the girls away. Constance held up her hand. But she took note, with trepidation. Why had Analee reacted to that question? Did she somehow know? How could she?
“It’s all right, Analee.” Constance took the girls’ hands in her lap. “Sometimes things happen,” she said. In the silence, leaves outside rustled against the window. A momentary distraction as Constance studied her daughters’ curious faces. Sometimes things happen . . . What will I say? “Sometimes things happen,” she repeated, pumping their little hands in her lap. “Things you don’t know about yet. Now, let Analee take you to bed.”
“But, Mama,” cried Maggie. “We’re not sleepy yet. Will you take us to the orphanage to play? Maybe we could play tag. Please, Mama.”