The children, who had been waiting on the steps with Analee, ran to the gate and jumped up and down with glee. Constance cherished their excitement at seeing their mother in this gleaming vehicle and then at the surprise of a praline each.
As Constance greeted them, her joy at her daughters caught in her throat. A block up the street a man stopped in his footsteps and fingered his distinctive A La Souvarov mustache, thin and growing round his face, where the top of a beard should be, connecting to narrow sideburns. Named for the great Russian general who never lost a battle. When he touched the brim of his hat at her recognition, fear blazed through her excitement. She whirled her body to block the girls from his line of sight, gathered Maggie in her arms, and motioned Analee to pick up Delia, their sticky fingers regardless. Constance saw in her expression that Dorothea had recognized the grim shift in the mood of things. Constance uttered a hurried farewell and mumbled her thanks before she and Analee bustled the children into the house, the girls whining for a ride in the car. When she set Maggie on her feet and pulled back the edge of the curtain, the man was gone.
Dorothea still stood by the footboard, staring off in that direction. Constance saw that somehow Dorothea knew more about this incident than she did herself.
*
Constance sat by the children’s beds long after they had fallen sleep. She could not still her fear for them. And for herself. Clearly, the Black Hand was at her door. Not only at her door, but shadowing her wherever she went. She had heard the tales of their cruelty and their power. However unsure she remained about precisely what had transpired in that train vestibule, there was no doubt that Benton’s life had been at risk from the Black Hand. They might stop at nothing to obtain the money he owed them. Would they come after her for what little inheritance she had? What of her girls? The depravity of Storyville—its bordellos, saloons, gambling, heroin and cocaine—might be legally contained, certainly was politically connected. A prominent legislator owned one bordello. The houses drew patrons at the top of society; some at Miss Josie’s said they went only for the music and conversation. But Storyville had few limits and no bottom to its depths. The thought took her straight to Benton and his terrible death, the desperate flailing of his limbs as he plummeted into the black water. For the first time since his death, Constance shed tears for her husband. And for herself.
CHAPTER 23
By morning, Constance had gathered herself. After breakfast she and Analee climbed to the third floor to prepare for Alice’s arrival. Constance could not remember how long since the room had been occupied. The air was close and sultry. She could have written her name in the dust on the furniture. In fact, she did. Then wiped it away with the side of her fist. The bare mattress required linens; the rag rug, a thorough airing; the curtains, laundering.
“Come with me. We got plenty of stuff we can use to fix this place up homey.”
Before she could resist, Constance felt Analee tug at her hand, pull her toward the adjacent attic storage. The hinges creaked as Analee opened the door. The dim-lit space loomed in Constance’s vision, and she jerked her hand free, stopping on the threshold. No, she could not have Analee searching about. Not now. Not until she could dispose of that suit, that wig, and the fake facial hair she had managed to conceal up here. She had not found the time or the means to rid herself of that incriminating disguise. She could not take the risk.
“Stop, Analee. There is nothing we need in there.” Constance took a deep breath to calm herself. “We just need to get that room clean and ready. We don’t have time to go poking around in here for odds and ends to make it more homey. The girl will not be staying that long. She’s here only long enough to make a ball gown for me. Now, come on out of there, and let’s get back to cleaning this room.”
Constance was aware of the look Analee threw her, askance, surprised, but Analee closed the door. She hurried past Constance, who stood for one blank moment in the empty hallway, wondering how Analee would see her if she knew the truth. Constance followed Analee into the dusty room. She snatched the feather duster from the basket of supplies they had hauled up the steps and swiped the surface of the dresser, where she had written and erased her name.
“Hold on, Miss Constance. You got to put that thing down. You gone stir up a dust storm. Got to have a damp rag to get this much dust. More than one, for sure.” Analee took the duster from Constance’s hands and dropped it in the hall. “Here. Help me roll up this rug. We got to get all this stuff downstairs before we go cleaning this place.”
By the time the room was ready to receive Alice, Constance had exhausted herself, and Analee, too. They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, saying little. The children played at their feet, tired out from running after the two women, up and down the stairways, into the yard, back and forth under the wet curtains in the bright sunshine. A new sewing machine, on loan from Dorothea, had arrived that morning, to be installed in an extra room on the second floor. It was a marvel—its sleek body decorated with a fine scrolled design in gold and red, the surface edged with the same, as if inlaid, and set in a beautifully finished oak cabinet. The children could hardly keep their hands off its magnificent surface and had to be forcibly pulled away from sitting on its rocking treadle.
Both rooms were ready for Alice’s arrival. Constance was still uneasy at having an unaccustomed person in the house. But she liked this young woman, liked her courage in coming south as a widow to make a new life. Alice would be too busy with her sewing for much exchange between them, except for fittings and design decisions. Constance might otherwise even be unaware of her presence, except for meals. She could make do there. Although she hated superficial conversation, she was accomplished at it. She had grown up with it at meals. And in the rest of life. She couldn’t remember one conversation with her family of any authentic significance. Every mouthful watched for perfect balance and to see that her lips opened only so much. Every word that she could remember balanced on how to sit, hold her shoulders straight, not to speak or laugh so loud and, for goodness’ sake, not to slurp.
It was for that very reason Constance was drawn to this krewe of Les Mysterieuses, women who were of a mind to break old expectations, if only for one night. Actually, their second time in four years. Veiled and anonymous, preempting priorities men took for granted as theirs. Perhaps it was this bold, unfamiliar shift in the balance of power that both excited and frightened Constance. But Alice would be installed here tomorrow and would play her own role in that alteration—Constance smiled at the unintended pun of her thought.
*
From the front window, the children watched for Dorothea’s magical vehicle. When it pulled to the curb, they flew, chattering and squealing with excitement, into the kitchen, where Constance and Analee were discussing small final details of the new living arrangements, primarily about a cutting table and wall hooks for the sewing room.
Dorothea arrived not only with Alice and her embroidered denim bag but also with three magnificent gowns, which, given their pristine condition, might have never been worn, though Dorothea described each ball with accompanying anecdotes, as she laid out the gowns.