In her room, Constance undressed and dropped her clothes across the carved mahogany footboard. Her green skirt slipped to the floor, where she left it. On the chaise by the open window, she lay back and listened to the emerging mix of crickets, tree frogs, and night sounds from nearby homes. In the deepening dark, she rolled her throbbing head from side to side against the high velvet back of the chaise and closed her eyes.
But though she might block out the world, she could not block out the events of the day. Nothing seemed real. Could Benton actually be dead? She had not ever wished him dead, no matter how grievous his failings. Everything had been just a blur: his face, his eyes on her, his arms beating at the air. That intruder flashing past. The thud of closing doors. Now she knew the truth of his gambling, his inordinate hammering her for money with excuses of investments, which she had known were lies. She had no way to gauge how deep his debts were, or to whom. Her thoughts jerked back to the man who ran past, the man she had taken for one of the gamblers. Was it his hand, not hers, that had sent Benton falling? Had Benton been murdered for debts, for money she had refused him, money from her grandfather’s trust, which he could not touch.
He had taken her for a boy. And he had touched that boy, approached that boy, and the shock of it was beyond absorbing. Her head pulsated with bewildered fear and muffled grief until she fell into a stupored sleep.
*
Morning came. The girls burst into the room without knocking to find her still on the chaise in chemise and petticoat, skirt and corset strewn at the foot of the bed. Analee appeared close behind them, then stood in the door, taking it all in.
“Mama, what you sleeping in your chair for?” said Delia.
Analee took the girls by the hand and guided them back toward the door. “Mama don’t feel so good now, girls. Let’s give her a bit of peace this morning.” She turned briefly as Constance stirred.
“Oh, Analee. What time is it? I—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You supposed to have that luncheon . . .”
“Oh, Analee.” Constance dragged herself to the edge of the chaise, but her legs refused to hold her as she tried to rise. “My mind is raw. I’ve forgotten everything.”
Analee reached out to help Constance lie safely back against the chaise. “Miss Constance, you forget about that luncheon now. All that Mardi Gras planning gone get done just fine without you. You got to rest.”
*
However, Constance could no more forget about that luncheon than she could have given up the meeting yesterday. She cared little for New Orleans social life, let alone the planning of the women’s Mardi Gras krewe, Les Mysterieuses. But she could not afford a mistake. Life must go on as normal. Or it must appear to. For as long as it might. There would be more and worse to come. Until the inevitable, she must endeavor to maintain normality: plan ball themes, arrange menus, commission gowns, hire seamstresses.
Late in the morning, Constance rose, piled her hair in a loose bun atop her head, donned a lightweight linen dress and fresh white gloves. Her progress down the wide staircase was barely more energetic than her ascent the evening before. Yet at the sight of her children, her face brightened. She lifted her skirt to make her steps livelier as they rushed toward her, and then she held her arms wide and took them in. Her chest tightened. She kissed them each on the top of the head and released them. With kisses blown in the sunshine, Constance descended the outside steps to the sidewalk. To a life she longed to forgo.
CHAPTER 6
Clarice Dougan’s house was a grand affair, a Gothic Revival of generous proportions, unlike Constance’s narrow house in the Marigny. She felt diminished as she approached along Prytania Street in the Garden District. She stared up at the pointed arches and the steep gable roof, with its quatrefoil ornamentation and elaborate finials on the gable peaks. Constance caught herself and dropped her gaze to the double front doors, the windows, all crowned with arches and hoodmolds. Above the door gleamed a transom of diamond-shaped glass. Constance raised her hand to knock, but the door opened almost on its own. A pleasant-faced servant girl bade her in.
Constance was overwhelmed with greetings, not only from Clarice but also from half a dozen other women, whom she knew she was expected to recognize but didn’t. There were introductions: Janine Musial, Alicia Constable, Maurine Thibodeaux, Beatrice Landry. Her mind began to whirl. What am I doing here? she thought. I’ve no business here. Constance felt her ribs imprisoned in her corset. She wrestled the urge to flee. Clarice guided her to a seat at the exquisitely appointed table, where her name was scrolled in fine calligraphy on the place card. Constance settled uneasily. The chatter in the room left her dizzy. She concentrated on her name, repeated it to herself in her head, as if she needed to memorize who she was.
“Well, now, isn’t this exciting?”
Constance startled when her neighbor spoke to her.
The woman spoke without introduction, as if they knew one another. “They’ve done it once. And now again, the second time. And this year we’ll be with them. You and I will be in Les Mysterieuses’ krewe. But no one will know who we are, because of the veils or the masks or whatever we decide on today. Isn’t that momentous? Women! A krewe of women. Turning the tide on men! We are making history here. Yes, this moment! Making history.” The woman had barely taken a breath. She tapped Constance on the arm and picked up her fork to begin her hors d’oeuvre of boudin-stuffed mushrooms.
Constance leaned toward the woman as if wishing to speak more directly. In truth, she wanted to see the name on the place card. She had time to make out only the first name: Marianne. “Ah, yes, Marianne,” she said. “It is history, isn’t it? You are so very right.”
“It is time that women spoke up for themselves, did for themselves, and we are part of that wave that will surely come to shore when we get the vote. But for now, having our own ball will have to suffice.”
The woman turned to her neighbor on the other side.
“Indeed.” Constance finished the last bit of mushroom, speaking to the air. Her fork clanged on the plate as the uniformed server whisked it away. It was replaced immediately with a sumptuous, but unpretentious luncheon plate of shrimp and asparagus, with a decorative sprig of green grapes.
On her left, a handsome older woman, uncorseted yet quite lovely, whom Constance vaguely remembered as Dorothea Richard, turned to her. Constance felt a sense of rescue.
“Indeed,” Dorothea said. “Our first ball in 1896 did make history—the first ever all-female krewe of Mardi Gras. We managed that because it was a leap year, as is this one.” She leaned forward and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Well, technically not. It’s been four years, but nineteen hundred can’t be divided by four hundred, so February hasn’t an extra day. But no one is paying attention to such mathematical complications. It’s four years. So we are counting it as a leap year and taking charge regardless.”
She leaned back and resumed her conversational tone. “Every convention turned on its head. Our ball was quite an affair, you know. You’ve probably heard.” She was taking her time as she spoke. “All the fine gentlemen were astounded at our switching places, leaving them to undergo what we normally experience—waiting to be chosen, waiting to be invited to dance, waiting for permission our whole life through, from father to husband.” She rested her fork across her half-finished plate. “Speaking of husbands, Constance, how is yours? I know Benton is away on his work so much. Does that seem to leave you free or abandoned?”
The questions came as a shock to Constance. Her stomach contracted. She had no answer for the first one. She had no idea if he were dead or alive, severely injured, nor what she would do if he returned. He had recognized her. Now this woman was speaking so boldly, throwing convention to the wind. Constance’s only possibility was to answer as boldly.