TEN
“I’m sorry, monsieur, but it couldn’t have
been me,” Marie-Anne said. “I was on stage at the time.”
The women seemed to have recovered from their
shock, Marie-Anne's at learning that Patton had disappeared, and Pauline's at
seeing what had been done to Stewart. He knew it was ridiculous, but he'd felt
somehow proud when telling her of being attacked. At least he thought it was
pride; what else could account for the flush of pleasure he'd experienced when
she'd touched his bruised face and whispered of her fear for him with such
sincerity? He'd been so sure, two days ago, that his duty to Colonel Walker
would demolish any feelings he had for this woman. Seeing her now made him a
world less sure of that.
"You're sure this mystery woman was a—a
woman of the town?" Pauline asked.
"The Creole lady I spoke to seemed
pretty sure of it," Stewart said. "I just assumed that, living across
the street from a brothel, she would know." Cleburne snorted, having
failed to completely suppress a laugh.
"I'm not sure why your next thought was
to speak to me," Pauline said carefully.
"It was because Patton went so readily
with the woman," Stewart said. "We'd been warned by—by our
superiors—about the women of the town. I thought Patton would have resisted any
woman he didn't know. The woman was blonde, and the only blonde he knows in New
Orleans is Marie-Anne, so..."
"You still have a few things to learn
about soldiers," Cleburne said. “The fact is, there are a lot of blonde
prostitutes in New Orleans. We thought that perhaps with your help, ladies, we
could narrow the field a bit."
"And how would we know anything about
prostitutes?" Pauline asked sharply. Stewart winced. Seeing Pauline again
had revived feelings that at once confused and exhilarated him; it seemed that
with each word Cleburne spoke, the exciting aspect of these sensations crumbled
and the confusion grew.
Pauline and Cleburne were definitely not
getting along. She seemed to resent Cleburne's presence in the dressing room,
and after an initial glow of pleasure at seeing Stewart she had grown
progressively more sullen, an effect enhanced by her costume. She was dressed
as an old woman and wore a gray-haired wig, and Stewart wondered if that meant
that she'd permanently inherited the part she'd told him of the other night.
"I don't think I like your tone, Mr.
Cleburne," she said with a shake of her head. Marie-Anne stepped back and
stood against a dressing table; was she taking precautions, Stewart wondered,
based on previous experience with Pauline's temper?
"I was merely being practical,"
Cleburne said. "You ladies"—was there an insulting inflection to that
word?—"are our best chance of finding the woman who lured Captain Patton
into trouble." He smiled, and his mustache lifted rakishly; Stewart,
concerned at the direction Cleburne seemed to be taking, still found himself
wondering whether a mustache would flatter him.
"I meant no insult, I assure you,"
Cleburne added in a way that made it clear that he hadn't meant to flatter
either. Stewart saw Pauline's brows arch, and knew with a sick certainty than
an explosion was coming.
"I find your assurances as sincere, Mr.
Cleburne, as your smile." Pauline stood a good six inches shorter than the
Irishman, even in her boots and wig; still, she didn't hesitate to thrust
herself toward him in as confrontational a posture as Stewart had seen any
sergeant adopt. "I expect an apology from you at the least."
"I do apologize," Cleburne snapped.
"I thought we were dealing with music-hall actresses, and I see I've been
in error. I'm actually speaking with the second coming of Fanny Kemble, someone
who wouldn't know a thing about the sort of woman who accosts strange men in
the streets, or who accepts dinner invitations un-chaperoned."
Pauline raised her hand to slap Cleburne;
Stewart reached over and grabbed her wrist as gently as he could. "This is
not helping anything," he said to the two of them. "I don't care
about what you are or aren't. It wouldn't matter to me whether you were the
Holy Roman emperor and empress. What I care about is finding Patton. You
people," he said, "are my best chance of doing that. You know this
city. You know the kind of people who might know about what happened. Now will
you please forget your pride for a few minutes and make yourselves
useful?"
Pauline started to say something, then closed
her mouth. She looked at Stewart, and for a second he saw a yearning there,
perhaps a pleading that he look beyond the degrading truth of what Cleburne had
said, to see the woman she wanted to be and not the woman she was. At that
moment he realized that there'd been truth in what he'd said. He truly didn't
care about what actresses did or didn't do to keep themselves alive. What he
cared about was that this woman made him feel important, vital. He wanted to
hold her, to reassure her of his feelings for her. Wanted, he realized, to take
her back to Virginia with him. He saw in her eyes that
something—understanding?—had passed between them, that she knew at least some
of what he felt.
She smiled. "I am truly sorry, Captain
Stewart," she said. "You are right, of course." Carefully, she
stepped away from Cleburne and joined Marie-Anne in front of the dressing
table. "We'll do what we can to help. When we can, that is." She and
Marie-Anne shared a look, and nodded agreement to something.
"We can't afford to miss tonight's show,
of course," she said. "In spite of what Mr. Cleburne might think, we
are serious about our work. But if you'll meet us here tonight after the final
curtain, we will accompany you on an expedition to some of the bagnios
of our part of the city. If we can, we'll try to learn something about your
mysterious blonde before you return."
Her expression darkened a bit, and she seemed
to hesitate before speaking. "I think that you gentlemen should obtain
pistols before you meet us tonight. Some of the streets we'll be visiting
aren't the most safe, and I'd feel better knowing that you could defend us if
necessary." Stewart thought he detected a hint of a tremor in her voice,
and for a moment he wrestled with guilt that he was making her share the risk.
It was only a moment, though. This is important, he
thought, and we're all going to be taking risks.
"That's a good idea," he said.
Then, "Could I speak with you a moment, Miss Martin? In private?"
The others left the dressing room; the door
hadn't even clicked shut when she was in his arms. The kiss she gave him was
surprisingly demure in light of the intimacy they'd shared, but he felt heat
through the makeup and knew that she was holding herself in check. "I
missed you last night, my captain," she whispered. "And I thought my
heart would break when I saw you all bruised and battered. Did they hurt you
badly?"
"Not at all," he lied. "It
looks much worse than it feels. And I wish I had ignored my sense of duty last
night and come here." His voice sounded odd to him, and his throat seemed
constricted. "I—" He hesitated, then decided to risk all. "I've
never felt anything like this before, Pauline. And I'm afraid."
"Don't be," she said.
"I'm afraid of what my feelings for you
might cause to happen. I'm not supposed to be here—and I want to be."
"You have your duty," she said.
"I know that. I accept it. It's enough for me to have you for a
while."
"Know that if I can—"
"Don't." Her eyes were moist as she
looked up at him, and Stewart felt a welling up of some great mixture of fear
and joy and desire. "Don't leave any hostages to fortune, my Charles. Take
what we can today, and let tomorrow worry about tomorrow."
He knew that it was her experience speaking;
he had not traveled this country before, but she had. It was strange, but he
felt no jealousy, no scorn, not even any curiosity about Pauline's life before
him. That was another person; the Pauline he wanted to be with was someone
new-born, a Tabula Rasa on which he
could feel free to write his own story.
She disentangled herself from him and stepped
back. "You should go now," she said. "Because of you, I'm going
to have to reapply my makeup." Then she looked at him, and laughed
shakily. "You seem to be wearing a good bit of it yourself."
"Let me see," he said as she
reached for a cloth. The face that looked back at him from the mirror was badly
blotched, greasepaint of several unflattering shades combining spectacularly
badly with the purple and green of the bruises on his forehead, cheeks and
chin. Even so, he was sure that underneath the smears he was different than he
had been a few minutes ago. The feeling in him was so strong that it had
to be visible in his face.
"Sit," she said, and he allowed
himself the pleasure of her careful ministrations as she removed the makeup
before sending him on his way with a kiss on the cheek. As he stepped through
the door she grabbed his hand and squeezed for a moment before releasing him.
Cleburne gave him a look that seemed both
perplexed and concerned, but he said nothing as they left the theatre. Stewart
was content to leave it that way. He didn't think he'd have been able to
articulate his feelings anyway.
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