CHAPTER 39
The day passed, though Constance’s sense of time seemed warped, as if she had slipped into a dream in which small events tumbled over themselves, going nowhere. There seemed nothing to do and everything to do. Her mind leaped unceasingly to that fateful morning she had transformed herself into a young man, a boy really, though heavily mustached and wigged, everything accomplished in a rapid sequence to make the train. To follow Benton to an unintended death. A death for which she sustained responsibility and after which she was now defying the conventions of widowhood. She, the sweet innocent her parents had raised, the ornamental wife who had succumbed to a husband’s invectives, the woman who had refused to surrender the money her husband demanded; she who had grown to distrust him, suspect him of what she knew not—womanizing, gambling, illicit business dealings? Whatever her vague suspicions, they had been fierce enough for her to disguise herself and follow him. Ah, yes, she the handsome lad on the train, watching him squander yet more to the Black Hand; she the handsome lad to whom he had turned in desperation; she with her hand extended, watching him fall to his death, knowing at last who he was, what he was, this husband of hers. But had she accepted now who she was? No innocent girl, naive and believing, now she lived with her life in disguise, with the feel of his worsted serge jacket yet on her fingers, watching in horror his flailing arms, the look on his face midair as he plummeted.
Constance covered her face in her hands and sobbed.
When Analee entered the sewing room, Constance choked on her breath as she attempted to wall up the tears, but with Analee’s arms now warmly around her, she heaved in grief, not for Benton, but for the wilderness of uncertainty she had entered, from which she feared she might never emerge. Who was this woman named Constance, this stranger she could no longer label, this person she no longer knew? A widow without grief? A mother unable to protect her children? A friend who must hide who she was? A murderer who had no idea if she was responsible for her husband’s violent death? One of Les Mysterieuses, a mysterious woman unable to shed her disguise. And now she must put it on, wrap herself in it, and go out into the world.
As Constance dried her tears, Analee released her. But clasped her still at arm’s length, holding her steady.
“You gone be all right now. You gone be all right.”
Constance studied Analee’s face, this resilient, familiar face, those dark eyes holding her. The cells of her body began to calm. She knows, Constance thought. The sudden realization penetrated with reassurance. She knows what I am. She knows me.
Analee released her then and said, “I’m gone fetch Miss Alice. And the childrens. Make them little girls happy to help dress they mama up.”
“Just give me a moment, Analee. I need a few minutes.” Constance’s breath was ragged still.
Analee nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I bet those girls might need to gather up some fancies for they dolls and bring them in to dress up same time you getting fixed up. Then they be busy making those dolls fine as Mama, instead of hanging on to Mama. I be back in a minute or two.”
At the sound of Analee closing the door, Constance stood still for a moment, then went to stand before the gown where it hung. She gazed not so much at it as into it, as if into a mirror, seeing herself in the gown. Its simplicity of line reassured her. The graceful lines of pearl on the bodice transported her to her father’s study, to the newspaper photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. Today, tonight, she was crossing a bridge into another sense of self, an unknown, unexplored woman, a woman incognito, even to herself. And holding those lines of strength was the dove, Analee’s handiwork, the strength of peace holding everything, there on the gown, there at her heart, again on her face, beneath her eyes, allowing her a new vision, though she herself would not be seen. Constance fingered the smooth finish of the silk, this fine fabric given to her by someone who believed in her, who mentored and cared for her, whoever she was as a woman, without the constraints of convention. She turned the gown and gazed at its train, centered with the Gothic arch of the bridge, now converted into a torch of liberty. Everything in this gown spoke of strength and transformation, nothing left behind. There were her children, the girls as shimmering fish swimming freely, even her dead son transformed into light, the light of the bridge into the unknown.
As she gazed at the pearls, the iridescent pastel crystals, it struck her how these simple objects, little more than fragments of tantalizing brightness in themselves, meant nothing. Only in combination, in coming together with purpose, did they hold such meaning. This is how we are meant to be, Constance thought. Our meaning in mutual purpose.
Constance turned at the click of the doorknob, and her smile as Alice entered was one of pure warmth and gratitude. She held out her arms to embrace this exceptional woman.
*
The gown was transferred from the sewing room to Constance’s bedroom, where it hung on a hook beside her window in what now became the official dressing room. As Alice and Analee performed their ministrations, the atmosphere was tranquil, and their quiet confidence filled Constance with a sense of peace. Even the girls were in a state of concentrated focus with the adornment of their dolls. Constance could not imagine in what spare moments Alice and Analee had managed to create two simple silk gowns from scraps and leftovers of fabric and trim for those two lucky dolls, along with veils from remnants of tulle for their faces. The girls sat on the floor beneath the corner shelf that held the small domed clock Constance had received as a child herself, a gift from her parents. She glanced now at these two beautiful children, so resembling their father as to be uncanny, except for the blond curls, which they had inherited from her and which were a gift from her own mother’s lineage.
Constance thought of her mother now. What would she think of Constance’s life as it had come to be? Her mother, the lady who became an animated magnet when away from her father. The lady who loved to ride horses, loved even to groom them and brush them, plait their manes and tails, adding ribbon and bows to prevent them unraveling. Her mother’s mother—Constance barely remembered Grandmère, and only with a bit of leftover dread at her sternness—had not approved, but Grandpère had colluded with Maman to allow for freedom in and out of the stables. Maman had ridden sidesaddle with assurance and grace. People had commented on her accomplished ladylike riding style, which had placated Grandmère, but alone with Grandpère, she had thrown up her skirts, straddled those horses, and raced with him to the ends of the trails. He had died before Constance was born, but she had grown up aware how her mother loved and missed her father.
It was to him Constance owed her financial security. It was he who had left his estate to her mother in trust and thereafter to her children, of which Constance was the only one. Thank goodness for the protection of Louisiana’s Napoleonic Code. Constance was aware that in no other state did comparable protection of a woman’s right to property and assets exist. Thanks to that, Benton had been unable to access her trust. Constance shook her head in mild amusement at the double entendre of that thought: no, he had not been able to access her trust, not only financially but in every other aspect of their marriage, including—no, especially—in his role with their infant son.
She shook her head to throw off the thought of David’s death, the sight of Benton shaking her innocent baby, and, in doing so, knocked the hairpins from Alice’s hands. Analee bent to retrieve them.