“Yes. Entirely true.” Dorothea waited a moment. “I will be frank, Constance. I do not find you to be ‘most people.’ In fact, though I have not known you closely, my distinct impression over time has been one of admiration for your seeming independence, especially with regard to the frequent and extended absences of your husband. And his demeaner with you in public, I might add.”
Constance stared. Was Benton’s nature so evident, in spite of his cordiality in social settings, his burning desire to make himself accepted in New Orleans society? This woman was astute.
“I—I’m a bit taken aback, Dorothea. But thank you. I simply live my life in the only way I seem to know how.”
“And as I said, I am being rather more frank than I ordinarily would be, though I am by nature rather untoward. You may have detected that at the luncheon. For some time now, I’ve been observing you from afar. Ah, I see by your expression that comes as a surprise. Well, good for my subtleties, then.”
Analee entered with the tea tray, set it on the table between the two, and retreated. Dorothea accepted the cup Constance poured for her and sat back on the divan. Both were quiet.
“You see, Constance, I am a natural observer of people around me—a student of human nature. I am also a confidante of a number of gentlemen who do not ordinarily confide in women. But my dead husband’s position in society and politics has left me with a certain power of persuasion that proves useful to some of them now and then. I keep my eyes and my ears open, you see. My point being that, as I have been in the company of you and your husband, I have noticed a certain distance between you. In addition to your own independence, I mean something else, less easy to define. I don’t believe I am mistaken. Am I?”
Constance rested her cup in her lap. “No. Dorothea. No, you are not mistaken. Especially since the death of our son.” She astonished herself to have confided so openly in this near stranger. Though she had no way to bare herself entirely: the long, welcome days of his absence due to traveling; the days she did not have to hide her grief from him, did not have to bear his hiding his own from her; their inability to comfort one another. When he was home, she sometimes heard him in the nursery, mumbling to himself. If she listened closely, sometimes cursing God, sometimes himself, and often times his father. But if she dared enter the room to touch him, he jerked away. Soon to be gone on the train.
Constance almost started when Dorothea spoke again. “I know. I am sorry for that. One never quite gets over the loss of a child.”
“No, I believe that grief is what draws me to the orphans and the half-orphans—trying somehow to fill the void.” The words slipped out, as if she had known this woman always.
“And now you have also lost a husband, but even in this brief conversation, I do not hear the same quality of grief or loss that I hear for your child. Am I right?”
“You are.” Constance lowered her head, troubled to feel so transparent.
“It is for that reason—and also because I am aware that Benton had a propensity for gambling, gambling to extremes—that I am asking you genuinely if you grieve for him. You do not have to answer that, however.”
“No, I will answer you, Dorothea.” Constance set her half-empty cup on the tray and folded her hands in her lap. “You have somehow managed to see what no one else would even look for, all their idées fixes blinding them. Or if they see something outside their standards, they resort to gossip.” Constance opened her hands in a gesture of helplessness. She saw by the bare shift of expression on Dorothea’s face that there must be rumors.
“There is, indeed, a deep sadness in me for Benton’s death, for the terrible circumstances of this accident—for many things—but you are correct in your observations. The relationship between us had its difficulties. And its distances. More than the physical ones of his work and travel. You are also correct that he had his propensity to gamble heavily and not always successfully. You seem to be offering me your trust, and so I will offer you mine and answer truthfully. No, though I am sorrowed and troubled by his death, and by its circumstances, it is not for Benton that I grieve.”
Dorothea took Constance’s empty hands in both of hers. “I thought as much.” She sat back again, dropping her hands, and said, “Now, let us move on. Let us discuss Les Mysterieuses and the ball. I needed first to be certain you had not declined because you were in a state of genuine grief. Now that my mind is relieved of that concern, let us go to other considerations.”
“Well, as I said, there is the issue of gossip and—”
“No one will know, Constance. Unless you wish them to. You will be costumed and veiled. We will all be veiled. Or not. As we wish. Unlike the traditional Mardi Gras festivities overseen by men, we are the mysterious ones. We will not have just one queen. We will have four, each enthroned, each with six maids. Our identities will not be revealed, except, of course, if a woman wishes to be known. It will be entirely up to her and no one else. You may participate yet remain virtually unnoticed, as you wish. I have a notion you are a woman who wishes to change things, even if it is only your own life. And Les Mysterieuses is doing just that—changing things. I am asking you to join us.”
Constance rose and walked to the window. Outside a carriage passed by. Driving it was the threatening mustached man, who struck her with more fear than ever. She fought for composure and turned to Dorothea.
“There is one more difficulty. You were correct about Benton’s gambling. And his losses. He was in debt when he died—”
“To the Black Hand?”
“I believe so. The police seem to have evidence.”
“Have they approached you to pay?”
“No.” She glanced back out the window. No one was there. “No. But I believe they may be watching me.”
“They will want their money. They can be quite threatening. You will let me know? I have some political connections.”
Constance looked at her in something close to disbelief. Dorothea nodded her head.
“I do, as does the Black Hand,” she said. “So, you are left without finances? Is that the reason?”
“No. By good fortune, I have a trust from my grandfather. Sizeable enough for us to live. And fortunately protected by Napoleonic law. Benton attempted, but, as you know, he could not touch it.”
Dorothea rose and took her hands again. “And you are afraid to waste it on something frivolous, like a ball gown? One not covered by your already paid membership?”
“You sense it exactly, Dorothea. I have two daughters to raise alone now.”
“All the more reason to participate in changing the position of women. I have an idea. One that will help change the life of an actual woman as well as women in general. I want you to go with me to the orphanage. I know you have a passion already for the orphans. This will be a perfect fit for you. Well, now there is unintended wordplay! I will fetch you tomorrow at two.” She leaned forward and kissed Constance on one cheek, then on the other. “You are not to worry yourself. I have the solution.”
CHAPTER 21
Constance bid her children goodbye and opened the front gate. Anticipation had stirred her with a faint hope of possibility. Yet when the sleek royal blue horseless carriage drew to the curb with its quiet hum, Constance clasped her palm over her mouth at the sight of Dorothea managing the tiller. Constance laughed aloud at her new friend’s exultant smile and threw her arms into the air. She clapped her hands as she rounded the vehicle, its gleaming carriage trimmed with scrolls of narrow brass, its patent leather fenders curving over wooden wheel spokes also trimmed with brass. Dorothea had the black landau top folded back, the carriage open to the bright air.
“Come now, Constance. No time for nonsense.” Dorothea laughed. “We have an errand to tend to.”