Dorothea’s gleaming brass whistle was at her lips again, its jewels twinkling as if they, and not she, were commanding the signals. One by one she led each queen in a grand march of presentation, announced in the rich tones of the celebrated actor Arlington Joseph. The processions were trailed by cheers and applause. Then together, all four queens in procession, and finally the attendants in sequence behind them to the swelling orchestral strains of Aida. The four fair queens mounted their respective thrones; the ladies-in-waiting resumed their seats. Elaborately masked and costumed members of the krewe Les Mysterieuses glanced at their dance cards to commence their callout of the waiting men. Constance knew from conversation at their luncheons and meetings just how these women relished the leap year turnabout of men having to await the sound of their name before taking a lady’s hand for the quadrille, of the women leading the men to the floor, the women ostensibly in charge. Now she was grateful to Dorothea for her role as a lady-in-waiting. Without it, she would be compelled to call out three different men in their white-tie finery for three different rounds of dancing before the second grand march. Dorothea had known Constance could not do that. She might break the conventions of widowhood by her presence, but she could never venture that far beyond them without breaking herself. Now, at the end of the final grand march, before the general dancing began, she could slip away amid the revelry and find her way quietly home. Like Cinderella, her carriage awaited. She would not be lingering till midnight. She would mind her daughters’ injunction.
The parquet floor swirled with dancers. At the edges of the crowd, avidly conversing and drinking, Constance skirted her way, head lowered, hoping not to be noticed. Masked faces nodded to her; gentlemen stepped aside to give her passage. As she searched for Dorothea, her restricted vision frustrated her. The veiled mask, which made her truly a mystery, hampered her. Swiveling to avoid catching her train on a chair, Constance found herself face-to-face with an ominous figure. A man staring directly into her eyes. A man dressed appropriately in white tie, a small brass-tipped wand in his gloved hand, with which he tapped her shoulder as if casting a spell. A man with eyes that gleamed with malice through his black mask, a malevolent grin beneath his thin A La Souvarov mustache. Constance froze in terror.
“You will pay,” he uttered. “One way or another.”
And then he was gone. Constance twisted her head one side to the other to see. What was he doing here? How had he found her? She had to get home.
In her frantic search, she caught sight of Dorothea surrounded by a group of krewe members. As she struggled toward them, Constance caught sight of Martin Birdsong. He seemed to be studying her. She gave no sign of recognition, though she desperately wanted to run to him, to find safety. Dorothea was much engaged in the excited conversation of first one woman, then another, before her attention turned to Constance. Her face lit in quiet recognition, then concern, but she gave no hint to those around her as to who this might be. What did she see?
“There you are, my dear,” Dorothea said. “I hope this has proved a pleasant evening for you.” She reached out and took Constance by both hands. “You ladies go and enjoy your privileged time now,” she said, politely dismissing the other women. She led Constance a few steps toward the outer edge of the crowd. “You are magnificent, my dear. If I didn’t already know, I would have no inkling who you might be. Is everything all right with you now?”
Constance shook her head, squeezed Dorothea’s hand. “That man is here . . . was here.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Yes.” Constance’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, and Dorothea leaned close to hear her above the music and laughter. “I will never be free.”
She felt Dorothea’s grasp as an ornately costumed woman approached, pulling a tall gentleman behind her. Constance turned toward the door, only to see Martin standing before her. She stood impatiently, thinking he would move aside. Instead, he spoke.
“I beg your pardon, Madame. I am indeed aware it is a night for the gentlemen to step into the background and allow the ladies to take the lead, but I wanted to say that your costume this evening is magnificent.”
Constance nodded her head at him, panic overwhelming her. She moved to go around him. He leaned to the side, blocking her escape. She tipped her veiled face up in consternation.
“It is a night for the queens to be honored, to be sure, but I must say I believe you have outshone them.” Martin still did not budge.
Did he recognize her, or was he simply being forward?
“It’s the simplicity with which you have adorned yourself, I believe. Adorned by being so unadorned, I might say.” He smiled.
She had seen that smile all her life. So difficult now to behave as if she did not know this old friend, a friend of her childhood, a friend she desperately needed at this moment. Yet she must not give herself away. She tried to move past again, but he moved with her.
“You are the epitome of Les Mysterieuses. And you have yet to dance even once. I perceive that you are possibly trying to escape. I wonder if you would do me the honor of one dance before you go?”
Constance pulled back.
“I beg your pardon. It’s so difficult to change old habits,” he said. “I am not supposed to be the one asking for dances tonight. Let me see. Ah, perhaps I might ask you if you would like to ask me for one dance before you disappear entirely.”
How like him, Constance thought. She wanted to run but stifled her impulse. There was nothing that evil man could do at this minute. The children were safely in bed; the house was locked; Analee and Alice were awaiting her return. They would be on guard for anything amiss. She held out her hand.
Martin was adept on the floor, but she knew that already. He had been her friend forever. He had been her friend when she had no women friends. He had been her friend in knowing she was not cut out for society’s conventions. He had saved her multiple times before at various balls where she had no interest in flirtations, at dinner parties when she had no interest in the conversation, at society gatherings where she had no interest in the cause at hand. He had saved her children from various fevers and itches. It was he, in fact, who had delivered them both, who had put them in her arms for her first glimpse of their dear little wrinkled faces and misshapen heads. It was he who had come to pronounce David dead and had put him into her arms for the last time. At the thought, she dropped Martin’s hand and made her way hastily from the floor.
As she reached the entrance, Martin’s hand was on her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have broken your convention here tonight.”
She looked at him, sure that her eyes must convey her distress. How well he knew her.
“I am terrified, Martin. The Black Hand rogue was here. He threatened me again.”
“Come with me,” he said.
He took her arm and steered her through the spinning crowd. Like the turning and swirling she sought to escape in the ballroom, her emotions were whirling inside her. Would life never be simple again, forever taking her unaware into grief? Once they were outside the opera house, she took the hand Martin offered to help her mount the carriage. She settled her gown around her and gripped his hand.
“I should go with you,” he said.
“No, I must do this alone.”
It was only after the driver had flicked the reins and the carriage had rolled away from the curb that she realized, with an unexpected sense of both relief and concern, that Martin had given her address almost automatically. Beyond the sound of the horse’s clopping hooves and the creaking wheels, she was aware without turning of the similar sounds of a carriage following close behind. Her sudden terror diminished when reason told her that the sinister rogue was always on foot. She knew without turning that Martin was riding behind her, guarding her safely home. She calmed in the light of passing windows along familiar streets, streets along which she had grown up, where she and Martin had grown up. If she halted now to give him thanks for protecting her, she knew he would deny this and say he was simply going home.
CHAPTER 41