The Kingdom of Bones

FORTY-TWO

Her appointment was for seven o’clock that evening. At six-thirty, she left the St. Charles Hotel with the Silent Man following a few paces behind.

She was heading away from the French Quarter and into an even older part of town. Many of these houses had been the dwellings of original Creole families, and a few of their descendants continued to hang on. Their golden age was long past, the buildings run-down. The houses lined the streets in rows. Their owners stayed hidden away behind empty balconies and shuttered French windows.

She found the address, an anonymous-looking door in a brick-and-plaster wall. When she raised the iron knocker and brought it down, she heard it echo oddly on the other side.

While waiting for a response, she turned to the Silent Man.

“It’s just a first meeting,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

He inclined his head and crossed to the other side of the street, where evening shadows were beginning to create niches of darkness in nailed-up doorways gray with cobwebs. The air was cool, but not unpleasant. Although this was December, it had the feel of a spring evening back in England.

When the Silent Man reached the far banquette, he turned. He barely appeared to move, but seemed to fade from sight as he eased back into a piece of the gloom.

Louise heard bolts being drawn, and faced the door. She composed herself. The door opened and before her stood a short, dark woman in immaculate linen and a folded headscarf.

“Miss Mary D’Alroy to see Mrs. Blanchard,” Louise said. “I’m expected.”

The servant woman stepped aside, and Louise went in. But instead of entering directly into the residence, she found herself in a wide passageway of about fifty or sixty feet in length. It was paved, like a passage under a castle; halfway along it, from its vaulted ceiling, there hung an iron lantern on a chain. At its far end, an archway led to an inner courtyard with palm trees and a fountain.

After the anonymity of the street outside, the courtyard was a small paradise. A spot of total privacy, with flower beds and hanging baskets and benches for sitting out. There were ferns and oleander, as well as the palms, and a brightly colored parrot in a cage. The area wouldn’t get much sunlight, but in the Louisiana summers that would be an advantage. Shade and a through breeze would be much preferred.

Balconies of filigreed ironwork overhung the courtyard at every level. Across it, another arch led to a stairway that ascended through each floor of the house.

Louise was led up and into a spacious drawing room that ran the full depth of the building. One end was open to the courtyard. The windows at the street end were shuttered, and candles had been lit there.

“I’ll tell madame you’re here,” the woman said, and continued up to the next floor.

As she waited, Louise inspected the room. Alone in the middle of it stood a rosewood piano. The floor was polished timber, dark as pitch. The walls were of plain white plaster. A brass chandelier hung from an ornate plaster rose on the ceiling. Looking at the way that house had been put together, she was reminded of a shipwright’s work: construction that was solid to the point of crudity, yet shaped by its journeyman maker to follow lines of taste and elegance. Apart from the piano, there were two sofas and a few other pieces of mahogany furniture.

Louise went over to the piano. It was a London-made Broadwood, probably the Drawing Room Grand. She could imagine its journey, packed in boxwood and bound up with ropes to cross the ocean, then up the river by steamboat for unloading onto the levee, and then a final, rattling half mile on a wheeled cart to bring it here.

How did they get it up to the second floor? Probably over the balcony from the street, with block and tackle. Now here they were, Louise and the piano. Two exiled Europeans, a long way from home.

She did not sit and play. She could accompany herself, but not well. It was for this reason that she’d mostly made her living from recitation—it was a fairly simple matter to hire a meeting hall or a YMCA to give passages from Les Misérables and The Mill on the Floss. Hiring a piano and rehearsing someone local to play it involved complications, and complications meant added risk.

However, she’d been finding that they did not understand her so well in the South. In Philadelphia, her accent had been a professional asset. Here they asked her to repeat her words, and not just for the pleasure of hearing her speak.

For her part, she couldn’t quite adapt to the local mixing up of language with French words rendered unrecognizable by American pronunciation. So out came the sheet music, and back came the vocal exercises.

She’d been exercising every morning. Whenever she could find a place to boil a kettle, she’d breathe in some steam. Louise had always assumed that her singing voice was something that she’d be able to call upon at will. But over the past few weeks, she’d discovered that it was just like any other neglected gift. She’d intended to keep it in use, but somehow over the years she’d never quite turned intention into action.

She sang well enough. Had she kept it up, she might now be sounding better than ever. But now she was coming to realize that she’d never again sing quite as well as she once had.

Well, as long as she could fill a room and please an audience. The smaller the room, the easier it was on both counts. Private events were the best of all—not only did she get to meet and charm her listeners beforehand, but the occasions made less of a mark in the public record. They might not be hugely rewarding, but for once money was not an immediate problem due to the contents of Jules Patenotre’s strongbox. Right now, it was more important for her to seek out and meet people of use and influence.

Someone was coming down the stairs. It was Mrs. Blanchard. She moved slowly, one hand on the mahogany banister and the other being supported by the servant woman. Louise had only met her once before today, and then only briefly; one of her sons had conveyed this invitation and handled the initial arrangements. She was elderly and frail, and movement took so much of her concentration that it was impossible to guess at her character from her expression. She might be kind, forbidding, impatient—anything at all from sweet old lady to terrifying matriarch. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore a full cotton dress in a pleasing lavender shade.

Louise hovered awkwardly as the two of them moved to one of the sofas, where Mrs. Blanchard lowered herself with care. On the way down, she looked up at the servant woman and said, “Sophie, will you ask Euday to come?”

“He downstairs,” Sophie said.

Mrs. Blanchard settled the last few inches and then, finally, was able to turn her full attention to Louise. “So, Miss D’Alroy,” she said. “What will you take?”

Louise said, “A glass of water?”

“Take a cordial,” Mrs. Blanchard said. “The water’s not so sweet today.”

Sophie left them, and there were a few moments of silence. Louise looked around and said, “Can I assume this is the room where I’ll be performing?”

“Assume away,” Mrs. Blanchard said. Her expression was stony, but her manner seemed warm. It was as if great age had robbed her face of animation and taken the strength from her limbs, leaving the person inside able to show herself in only small ways.

She said, “What do you think of my house?”

“I think it’s fine,” Louise said. “I think the whole town’s very fine.”

“Well, you can say that,” Mrs. Blanchard said. “But you never saw the old New Orleans.”

“I take it times have changed.”

“Oh, have they. This was the richest city in America, and you knew it. We had the cotton and we had the river. Then came Mister Lincoln’s war, and after that the railroads. Now it’s one of the poorest. We can still put on a show, but it’s not the place it was. There are some terrible people out there. I have Sophie lock the gates at night.”

“Even so,” Louise said. “There’s something welcoming about this part of the world. I’m finding I feel at home here.”

“And you’ve missed feeling that.”

“Since I left my own home? I suppose I have. I’ve been away for a long time.”

Mrs. Blanchard said, “You’re a very pretty girl.”

“I’m no girl,” Louise said. “But thank you.”

“And you sing like an angel. You’re giving me the feeling that you think your heart is empty. But you’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Louise said, unaware that she’d given any such impression.

“Yes, you are,” Mrs. Blanchard said. “People can lie. To others and to themselves. But I’ve heard you, and I’ll guarantee that music always finds you out.”

At this point, Sophie returned with a tray bearing a glass of cordial for Louise. She was followed into the room by a young black man in a brown suit with a high-collared shirt. He carried a brown derby hat in his hands and was in his twenties, no more than twenty-six or-seven.

Mrs. Blanchard said, “Euday, this is Miss D’Alroy. She’ll be singing for the gathering this weekend. Do you have your music with you, Miss D’Alroy?”

“I do,” Louise said, reaching down for the portfolio she’d brought along. “I’m afraid it’s been rather well used.”

The young man held out his hand for it and said, “I happen to believe that’s no drawback in a good piece of music, ma’am.”

He took the portfolio from her and carried it over to the piano. As he seated himself and took out the manuscript pages, Mrs. Blanchard raised her voice to say, “I had the tuner to it yesterday.”

“I thank you for that, Miz Blanchard.”

As the young man was looking through her pieces, Mrs. Blanchard said to Louise, “When Euday was ten years old, his mother came to my door and asked if I needed someone to clean my house. She was looking for a place with a piano. She needed somewhere they’d allow her boy to practice while she worked.”

Louise, knowing that the young man was within earshot and unable quite to bring herself to speak as if he wasn’t there, spoke loudly enough to make it clear that she was including him and said, “You taught yourself?”

“That’s what he tells them in those terrible places where he plays of an evening. No, he didn’t teach himself.” She raised her own voice again. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of a classical music education.”

Euday grinned without looking up from the scores. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Miss D’Alroy?”

“Yes?”

Now he looked up. “You’ve written something on ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’ Would it help if I were to transpose the key for you?”

“If you can do that.”

“I can.”

He carried on looking through. Mrs. Blanchard said to Louise, “Would you prefer me to leave while you practice?”

“It makes no difference to me.”

“I’ll just sit quietly, then. Forget I’m here.”

The occasion was to be an afternoon’s get-together of friends and family. There were similar events being held all over the city, both private and public, to mark the centenary of the Louisiana Purchase, the land deal of the century—this past one, or any other. The French had given up most of a continent for a pittance. Planned celebrations included a naval review on the Mississippi, a historical ball in the French Opera House, and what they were calling a “grand pontifical mass” at St. Louis Cathedral.

This would be a more modest affair. Cordials, conversation, and old-fashioned songs for old-fashioned people. Louise would sing in the drawing room and a quartet would play in the courtyard amid the jasmine and crepe myrtle.

Euday proved to be an expert sight reader and an accurate player. The only disappointment was the piano, a good instrument whose tone was beginning to go. Its sound was like everything else in the city: exuberant, warped, and slightly off-key. Tropical decay was in its timbers, as it was in everything else in this corner of the world where gilt always peeled, panels invariably split, and bright colors ran into one another.

They gave each of the pieces a going-over, adjusting tempo and clarifying the dynamics wherever necessary. Euday asked pertinent questions and anticipated many of the answers. His playing style was unique in her experience; where some pounded along, he seemed to float without effort.

It took them barely more than an hour. When they were done, Louise turned to Mrs. Blanchard, who, as good as her word, had said nothing throughout.

Louise said, “I hope you approve of the selection.”

“The selection is fine,” Mrs. Blanchard said. “What was that last one? I never heard it before.”

“It’s Italian. Something I used to sing when I first went on the stage. That was back in England.”

Having gathered the printed music pages together, Euday now handed them back to her.

“Yours,” he said.

“Don’t you need to keep them?” she said.

“Just bring them along on the day,” he said. “I think I’ve got them now.”

He bade her a good evening. Mrs. Blanchard thanked him, and asked him to send Sophie up on his way out.

After he’d gone, Louise said to Mrs. Blanchard, “I’ve something to ask.”

“And that would be?”

“I’ve been offered the use of a property. It’s a house and some land outside town. I’ve never seen it, and I’ve no idea whether it’s even livable. I could use the advice of someone who can look it over with me and say whether it’s worth taking on.”

Mrs. Blanchard considered for a moment. “I’ve a nephew who’s a banker,” she said. “Would he do?”

“I’m sure he would, if you’re recommending him.”

Mrs. Blanchard didn’t seem entirely happy with her own choice.

“I’ll think some more,” she said. “Where are you staying? The St. Charles?”

“For now.”

“Send the details over. I’ll have someone look at them and then call on you.”

When Louise emerged into the street, the Silent Man was at her shoulder within a few seconds of the door closing behind her.

Back at the St. Charles Hotel, she was handed an envelope along with her key.

“Who left this?” she said.

“I wasn’t here when it came, ma’am,” the desk clerk said.

She didn’t open it there and then, but took it upstairs to open in her room. Louise disliked surprises.

The envelope contained a sheet of heavy cream paper that bore a fancy crest and read, The Governor of Louisiana requests the honor of Miss Mary D’Alroy’s presence at the Celebration of the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Transfer of Louisiana from France to the United States.

It was a printed page in flowing script, with a space where her name had been added by a less-than-flowing hand. It would admit her to Sunday night’s historical ball at the French Opera House. The evening included a gala performance with a series of allegorical tableaux at its conclusion.

She fanned herself with the paper, thinking. A kindness from one of her new acquaintances. She had no fine dress that was suitable. But influential people might be there. Rich people. Bored people. People of all stripes, and of all inclinations. She had dealt out no pain to any living soul since the last earthly moments of Jules Patenotre.

The thought sickened her, but not as much as it once might have. Nowhere near as much. Her first time had caused her weeks of nightmares. But repetition had blunted the impact of the deed, until it held almost no spiritual horror for her. She brought these people what they wanted, and so did her best to satisfy the terms of the Wanderer’s unwritten contract. If she must do harm, she would do it only to those who sought it. When none offered themselves, she would wait.

And if the wait grew too long, what then?

She would accept the invitation, and she would go to the ball. There she would circulate, alone and anonymous. From among those who went out seeking pleasure in this strange, corrupt, and free-living city, she would find one whose needs matched her own. It would not be difficult. Like always seemed to know like. And in the event of an unlooked-for consequence, like the death of Jules Patenotre…well, on such nights there were always casualties, to be discovered and swept up in the morning with the fallen bunting and the beads.

Someone had laid out good money for this ticket. Her understanding was that they sold at a high price, to keep out the vulgar. Someone wished to see her there.

Like, perhaps, had spotted like.

On Saturday, she would sing. And on Sunday evening, join the dance.