She saw him for the first time when she was sixteen. The party at Belle Fleur, the Jefferson’s graceful colonial home on New Orleans’ St George Avenue was for Natalie Jefferson’s birthday. Augusta Lafayette had no idea how old Natalie Jefferson was. It was Natalie’s daughter, Mae, who was her closest friend. But at that moment she had no interest in Mae. Her entire attention was centred on the man who dominated the room with his sexual magnetism.
He was tall, inches over six foot. His shoulders were broad. Beneath the exquisite cut of his tuxedo Augusta could see the muscles of his shoulders ripple. There was nothing clumsy or bear-like in Beauregard Clay’s stature. He carried his height and breadth with ease and almost animal-like grace.
Beauregard Clay. She had been familiar with his name for years, but the sophisticated circles Beau Clay moved in were not those of a child. Beau Clay, whose widowed father had repeatedly threatened to disown him. Beau Clay who drank harder, drove faster than any other male in Louisiana. Beau Clay, whose lovers were legion and whose photograph appeared in newspapers from Mexico to Montana.
Around her, waiters moved with champagne: maids with exotic delicacies. New Orleans high society laughed and flirted with feverish gaiety.
Someone touched Augusta’s arm and asked her for a dance. She refused without turning to see whom the request had come from. Not taking her eyes from the demonic handsomeness incarnate before her.
His hair was blue-black, glossy as a raven’s wing, curling low over the collar of his lavishly laced and frilled evening shirt. His skin was olive-toned, the bones of his face almost abrasive in their masculinity. His dark eyes swept the room disinterestedly, and her heart ceased to beat for a second as his gaze slid over her and away.
She knew now why he excited such talk: such gossip. There was a brooding restlessness about him that was palpable: a fearlessness, a daring; an insolence towards life that was almost frightening in its intensity. She wanted to touch him more than she had ever wanted anything before in her life.
Her father’s cousin, Tina Lafayette, was approaching him, undeniably chic in a sleek fitting gown of black lace that stopped short just above her pretty knees.
Augusta suddenly felt gauche. Her dress was long, as was the dress of every other woman in the room. Only the delightful Tina could have got away with such a breaking of social rules.
‘Gussie, darling!’ Her aunt had seen her, was facing her across a vast expanse of polished floor and dancers, Beauregard Clay at her side.
Augusta’s heart began to beat in slow, thick strokes. They were walking towards her. A slight smile hovered at the corner of Beau Clay’s mouth as Tina laughingly whispered up at him. They were in front of her. Gussie gasped. Felt the blood pound in her ears.
‘Gussie, darling,’ Tina said, lustrous lashed eyes sparkling, ‘do meet the most notorious breaker of hearts New Orleans possesses. Beau Clay.’
Her hand was in his. His touch was like fire: she was aflame, burning with heat and longing.
‘Beau, meet my cousin, Gussie Lafayette.’
Did she speak? She couldn’t remember. His eyes held her prisoner. The music changed to a slow, slumberous waltz.
‘There are the Villeneuves,’ Tina was saying. ‘I must have a word with them before they get lost in the crush. Do excuse me, darlings.’
They were dancing: his body so close to hers that she could smell his skin and feel his heart’s strong beat. His grasp was firm: decisive.
‘So you’re little Gussie Lafayette?’
His voice was deep, rich-timbred, a lazy Southern drawl that sent her spine tingling.
She raised her head to his: his eyes were amused, slanting under winged brows.
‘Augusta Lafayette,’ she corrected, holding his gaze challengingly. ‘I’m not a child, Mr Clay.’
Beau threw back his head and laughed and around the crowded room eyes turned in their direction. Red-lacquered nails tightened jealously on the stems of champagne glasses. Fathers frowned, glad the girl was not their daughter. Bradley Hampton, who had asked Gussie for a dance and been so summarily refused, helped himself to a large glass of rum punch, his young jaw hardening, a nerve throbbing at his temple.
‘You’re certainly not,’ Beau said, black eyes gleaming.
She was a beauty all right. Hair pale-gold and water-straight, hanging in a silky sheen to her waist: eyes violet-dark, with something in their depths that told him she would be worth paying attention to in a year or two.
Above her head, his eyes met Tina Lafayette’s and his expression turned to one of heat. Tina Lafayette was thirty-two, five years his senior. But she was a woman in every sense of the word – mature, sensual, and with a sexual appetite that nearly matched his own. The dance had ended. White teeth were flashing in a smile. He was moving away from Augusta.
‘No,’ Gussie cried, stretching out a restraining hand.
Her plea was lost as the sound of jazz filled the room. Her desperate fingers caught only air. She was hemmed in on all sides by pulsating, gyrating bodies. Beyond them she could see his dark head, see her aunt’s pretty blonde curls, and then they were gone.
She moved dazedly to the side of the vast room and sat down on a gilt and velvet chair.
‘Beau Clay?’ Mae asked in wonderment as they sat drinking Coke by the side of the Lafayette pool. ‘You can’t be serious?’
Gussie’s fingers tightened over the cane arm of her sun-lounger. ‘I am, Mae. I’m going to marry Beau Clay. Just you see if I don’t.’
‘But he’s old,’ Mae protested. ‘Twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Besides, his girlfriends are all models or film stars. There was a photograph of him in last week’s States Item with Zizi Romaine, the star of Class.’
Augusta’s thickly-lashed eyes narrowed. ‘I’m going to marry him, Mae. Nothing on this earth is going to stop me.’
Mae sighed and sipped her Coke. ‘There’s Bradley Hampton,’ she said. ‘He’s always asking you for a date.’
‘Bradley Hampton is a kid.’
‘Bradley Hampton is nineteen and was the finest athlete of his grade: or any other for as long as anyone can remember. And his father is the richest man in New Orleans.’ She didn’t add that his thatch of curly hair and arresting blue eyes also made him the handsomest boy in town. If Gussie couldn’t see that for herself, she had no intention of pointing it out. She had ideas herself where Bradley Hampton was concerned.
Gussie rose restlessly and crossed to the pool bar. She mixed herself a forbidden Cuba Libre. What if he never paid attention to her again? What if he married one of his sleek, long-legged beauties? The breath was so tight in her chest it was a physical pain. He had to notice her. He had to.
Mae, sensing that her presence was no longer desired, slipped her sun dress over her bikini and said, ‘I’m going downtown. Are you coming?’
‘No.’ Moodily Gussie stared into the depths of her drink, her cascading hair obscuring her face. ‘See you later, Mae.’
Mae sighed. There had always been something a little strange about Gussie. ‘Intense’was the word she had heard her mother use. This sudden infatuation with Beau Clay certainly didn’t help.
Gussie returned to the pool with her drink, glad of her own company. Since meeting Beau she had no thought or time for anybody else. She narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun.
Beau Clay. Beauregard Clay. Augusta Clay. Gussie Clay. Beau and Gussie Clay. Beauregard and Augusta Clay. The names were etched in fire in her brain. If only – if only …
If Mae had hoped that Gussie’s infatuation was a momentary phase, she was soon disillusioned. All through the following year Gussie’s obsession grew. A Lafayette, with her stunning looks and impeccable background, she could have had her pick of the young bloods continually seeking the pleasure of having her on their arm. Nevertheless, Gussie rejected them all. They were not worth her while. They were not Beau Clay.
Mae had tried to reason with her. Beauregard Clay would never look in the direction of a girl as young and innocent as Augusta. His conquests were all women of the world. His tastes did not run to the virginal, even if the virgin was a Lafayette and daughter of one of New Orleans’oldest families. Lafayettes had been prominent citizens in the 1720s when the fleur-de-lis had flown over the city. Beau was uncaring of the family history Charles Lafayette was so proud of.
Judge Matthias Clay, his father, had fondly hoped that Beau would follow in his older brother’s footsteps – a glittering college record: a brilliant marriage: a career to add lustre to the name of Clay. But Beau had shown total disregard for his father’s wishes. At first, New Orleans society had condoned Beau’s scandalous behaviour, his money, charm and devastating good looks strong ameliorating factors. Yet not even the Clay name and wealth could shield Beau from the eventual disapproval of New Orleans society. Husbands cast suspicious looks at their wives whenever Beau Clay entered the same room. There wasn’t a woman in New Orleans who wasn’t aware of his negligent sexuality.
The young ones yearned hopefully, the middle-aged ones longed vainly, the elderly ones sighed sadly. Beau’s lovers came from New York. From Los Angeles. From London. From Paris: picked up and dropped with such rapidity that it was rumoured he never even remembered their names.
This was the man Gussie was convinced would one day marry her. The one for whom she scorned all other dates, preferring to remain day after day in the grandeur of St Michel, her father’s magnificent home in the Garden District of New Orleans, with no other companion but a maid.
Mae frowned as she regarded her friend sitting broodingly on the porch swing. She had failed to stop Gussie’s obsession, and Gussie’s behaviour had not gone unnoticed elsewhere. She had overheard her own mother saying tartly that Gussie was no different from her grandmother Gallière.
Their grandmothers. Why was it that no one would ever talk about their grandmothers? Mae’s mother could not be coaxed, would change the subject the moment Mae entered the room. All that Mae knew about her own grandmother was that she lived the life of a recluse in a crumbling, tumble-down plantation deep in the bayous in Cajun country. Mae had heard it said that Leila Derbigny had been a beauty in her time and that Henry Jefferson had been fortunate in winning her for a bride. Mae still thought her grandmother beautiful in her grandmother’s own strange and eccentric way. But visits to her were discouraged – had always been discouraged. As for Augusta’s grandmother, she was never spoken of. Not even in the Lafayette household. All that Gussie herself knew was that, within a year of Chantel marrying Julius Lafayette and then giving birth to Charles Lafayette, Chantel had committed suicide, drowning herself in one of the deserted, desolate lakes that lay deep in the Louisiana forests.
Had Chantel been mad? Unbalanced? A normal, healthy woman would never have chosen such a death, and Chantel Lafayette had been scarcely a woman. Only twenty whèn she had waded into the alligator-haunted water, deeper and deeper, her wheat-gold hair fanning around her as she embraced death.
Mae shivered. Was Gussie unbalanced? Certainly her obsession with Beau Clay – nearly a year old now – had become alarming in its fixation.
‘Austin Merriweather has asked me to the Carlton dance, I know Bradley wants to take you. Why don’t we make a foursome? It would be fun.’
Gussie swung to and fro, fanning her face as the heat throbbed in the air, rising in waves over St Michel’s lushly tended lawns.
‘If I go to the Carlton dance, I’ll go with Beau.’
‘But Beau isn’t even aware of your existence!’ Mae cried exasperatedly. ‘You’re wasting your life, Gussie. Throwing it away on a dream.’
Gussie’s eyes sparked fire. ‘I’m waiting for my life to begin, Mae! And it will. I’m seventeen now – nearly eighteen. I can go to the same places Beau goes. The same parties. The same clubs. Just another few months and I’ll be Mrs Beau Clay. I will. I will!’ Feverishly she pummelled the cushions on the swing.
Mae stared at her and the nape of her neck prickled. The Gussie before her was not the Gussie she had grown up with. There was nothing more to say. She left awkwardly. She couldn’t confide in Austin. She certainly couldn’t confide in her mother. Her mother would say Gussie was mad: as Gussie’s grandmother had been. She couldn’t confide in Gussie’s father, Charles Lafayette. If he knew for one second that his daughter was obsessed with Beau Clay, he would send her to Europe and Mae would have lost her best friend.
Miserably she drove her Mercury down St Michel’s long drive. She would go and see Eden Alexander. Eden had enough common sense to restore her spirit and put everything into perspective.
Eden regarded Mae with amusement. ‘Gussie is no madder than you or me. Let’s take some rum over this evening and have a party. Her father is playing bridge with my parents and Mrs James-Stanley. One thing about having no mother is that it makes fun at home easier.’
They laughed.
Gussie’s mother had died in childbirth and Gussie had grown up the adored child of her father and had never for a moment missed the presence of a mother. As for Eden and Mae, although they loved their respective mothers, there were certainly times when they were an inconvenience.
To Mae’s relief Gussie was undeniably pleased to see Eden. It wasn’t always so easy since Eden’s parents were newcomers to New Orleans, French-Canadians who were not of the same social elite as the Jeffersons or the Lafayettes, but who were intent on storming the bastions of the city’s rigid society.
‘I’m not going out with Don Shreve again,’ Eden said, expertly mixing up an exotic rum punch as they sat listening to records in the grandeur of St Michel’s main salon. ‘He takes liberties I wouldn’t allow Burt Reynolds.’
Mae giggled. ‘I’d allow Burt Reynolds anything.’
Eden and Gussie laughed. ‘Mae Jefferson. You’re becoming perfectly immoral.’
‘Not with Austin,’ Mae said, and the laughter increased.
Austin Merriweather III had many agreeable qualities. He was kind, rich and suitable but he was certainly no sex symbol.
The glasses were handed round. Jazz filled the room, soft and low. ‘I don’t think I can be in love with Austin when I still want to date Bradley Hampton so badly,’ Mae said, hugging her knees as they sat companionably on scatter rugs, the highly polished wood floor gleaming in the lamplight.
‘I think I’m in love with Dean Kent,’ Eden said calmly.
‘Dean Kent!’ Mae nearly choked on her drink and Gussie stared, round-eyed. Dean Kent was a lawyer: a close friend of Eden’s father. A suave, sophisticated, handsome man in his late thirties.
‘Does your father know?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Eden said smugly. ‘He’d throw a fit.’
‘But Dean Kent is old,’ Mae protested, shock making her unwise. ‘He’s even older than Beau Clay.’
Eden’s eyes took on a dreamy expression. ‘Now there’s a man who could tempt me from Dean.’
Mae’s eyes swung in Gussie’s direction but Gussie was sipping her drink, seemingly undisturbed. Mae relaxed. Gussie was all right. She’d been foolish to imagine otherwise.
‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you could make who you wanted fall in love with you?’ Eden said idly, helping herself to more punch. ‘Who would I choose? Burt Reynolds? Dean Kent? Beauregard Clay?’
Eden’s exotic mixture of rum and curaçao had made Mae light-headed. ‘You can if you really want to,’ she said suddenly. ‘If you really want to bad enough you can make anyone fall in love with you. I saw Bradley last night and I lay awake for hours wondering if I should make him love me. But I don’t know whether I want to badly enough. Besides, the thought scares me a little.’
Eden laughed. ‘Don’t be a goose, Mae. You couldn’t make Bradley fall in love with you. He’s in love with Gussie.’
‘I could make him love me if I wanted to,’ Mae repeated stubbornly.
‘How?’ Eden’s voice was amused, but in the glow from the lamps Gussie’s eyes had taken on a peculiar light and she had gone very still.
Mae drained her glass and obligingly allowed Eden to refill it. ‘My grandmother says it’s an old New Orleans tradition that if you want someone to love you forever you need only write his name backwards on a piece of paper … and then eat it!’
Eden laughed delightedly. ‘How do you spell Burt Reynolds backwards? I’d just love a six-month affaire with that man.’
‘It’s forever, Eden.’
‘Can’t it work just for a few weeks?’
‘No. It’s forever and forever and forever.’
‘Then it’s no good. I don’t want Burt Reynolds forever. I shall want someone else afterwards. I’m growing up an insatiable lady.’
‘I want Beauregard Clay forever,’ Gussie said suddenly.
The laughter faded. ‘Would you do it, Gussie?’ Eden asked.
Gussie’s eyes were feverish. ‘I’m going to do it. I’m going to make Beauregard Clay love me forever. Just you see if I don’t.’
‘It only works on Midsummer’s Eve,’ Mae said apprehensively. Gussie’s eyes gleamed. ‘It’s Midsummer tomorrow. That’s why you remembered it, why you thought of writing Bradley Hampton’s name on the paper and eating it. Are you still going to do it?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to, but I’m scared.’
‘Who could be scared of eating a piece of paper?’ Eden said affectionately.
‘Then you do it as well.’
Eden shrugged. ‘There’s no one that I want forever. It’s too long a time.’
‘Not for me,’ Gussie said passionately. ‘For me, forever won’t be long enough!’
‘I bet you don’t go through with it,’ Eden said, replacing Miles Davis with Cleo Laine.
‘I shall. Come over tomorrow night and see.’
The instant Mae had spoken Gussie had known that what she had said was true. She had felt the truth deep within her. It had seemed to strike some primeval chord that had previously lain dormant. She had known all along about the Midsummer’s Eve ceremony, though no one had told her of it. The knowledge was in her blood and bones. She couldn’t wait for Eden and Mae to leave. To run up to her bedroom and savour the excitement rising within her. She sat on the enormous bed, her arms around a carved rosewood post, her cheek pressed close to the wood.
Soon Beau Clay would be hers. She could almost feel the weight of his body forcing hers to be still. His mouth bruising and burning, his hands searching and demanding. With single-minded determination she began to count away the long hours.
Thoughts of Beau Clay had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She woke next day with an exclamation of horror. Tomorrow was not only Midsummer’s Day, it was her father’s birthday and she had still not brought him a present. A book, she decided as she dressed, ignoring the breakfast tray that had been brought up for her. Something that showed it had been chosen with care. She wriggled her slim hips into a pair of Parisian-cut jeans. She could order one over the telephone and have it delivered, but for the life of her she could not think of a suitable title. She needed to go down to Dolpen II and browse around.
Picking up a slice of toast, she ran lightly down the balustraded stairs and out into the heavy sunshine. Going for the book would help pass the time until evening. She felt sick with excitement. Mae’s grandmother was known for her skill in telling the future and there were rumours that she possessed far more sinister talents. It was whispered that she was far too friendly with her Black servants; that she knew secrets of voodoo and witchcraft. Even that she was an initiate. If Leila Jefferson said a man’s heart could be bound forever by such a simple ritual, then Augusta believed her.
Augusta parked her Chevrolet in Royal Street and strolled into Dolpen’s. She selected a glossy coffee-table book retelling for the hundredth time the Battle of New Orleans. It wasn’t a very original present but it was one that would please. There were suitably flattering mentions of the Lafayettes who had fought alongside General Jackson. How was it, Gussie thought, her arms clasping the book, her eyes taking on their all-too-familiar far-away expression as she left the shop, that in the days of old New Orleans all the men had been so dashing and devil-may-care and now, in the same city, they all seemed so everyday and ordinary. Apart from Beau, of course. Beau still carried a sense of danger and excitement with him wherever he went. He had only to enter a room for the whole atmosphere to become electric.
A dark figure stepped forward and caught hold of her arm. She gasped. For a second she thought it was Beau, for he moved with the same easy strength and confidence, and then disappointment flooded through her.
The hair was nearly as dark but instead of hanging in a glossy sheen, it was coarse and curly, tumbling low over well-marked brows. The laughing eyes held none of the black glitter of Beau’s.
‘You scared me half to death,’ she said bad-temperedly, wrenching her arm away from Bradley’s grasp.
He grinned. ‘I saved you from disappearing beneath the wheels of a Cadillac.’
There was an ominous roll of thunder and the sun disappeared behind burgeoning black clouds. The first heavy drops of rain spattered on the cover of the book.
‘We’d best take cover.’ His hand was on her arm again.
She shook it away, saying irritably, ‘I like rain. I enjoy thunder-storms.’
Bradley shrugged. A little rain never hurt anyone. If she didn’t mind, he sure as hell didn’t.
‘Which way are you going?’
She hesitated, looking around her with slight bewilderment. They were in the middle of Jackson Square. The band that had been playing was hurrying for shelter. The pavement artists were rapidly removing their pictures from the railings. With a slight furrowing of his brow Bradley realized that she had not known where she was.
‘To my car. I left it near Dolpen’s.’
The rain was coming down with a vengeance. The square, full only minutes ago, was now empty. Lightning flashed viciously over the cathedral and the rows of balconied nineteenth-century buildings. Taking her arm for the third time, Bradley led Augusta firmly in the direction of Royal Street. He preferred her like this: bad-tempered, out of breath, her face streaked with rain, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders as she was forced into a run by the rain that bounced off the pavement like bullets. At least she was with him in mind as well as body. Not just lost in some private world of her own.
‘Storms suit you,’ he said as they raced to the far side of the square.
‘You’re crazy.’ She was panting, her nipples showing clearly beneath the saturated cotton of her T-shirt.
‘I know.’ His voice caught and deepened. There was a sudden flexing of muscles along his jaw line. Without any warning he halted and swung her round to face him.
‘What the—’ she began.
Her breasts were pushed flat against his chest as he caught her to him, silencing her protests with a long, deep kiss. The book scored her ribs so that she wanted to cry out in pain. She let go of it and pummelled clenched fists against his rain-soaked shoulders. His lips were hard and insistent and he had wound one hand in her hair so that she could not twist free.
She struggled vainly, the book slipping and then falling on to the flooded pavement. Finally she tore her mouth from his, her nails scoring deep marks down the side of his face.
‘I’ll never forgive you for this, Bradley Hampton! Never! Never! Never!’ She was gasping for breath, her eyes feral in their fury.
He stared down at her, his face ashen. He had been patient long enough. ‘Who is he?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Who the devil is he?’
‘Beauregard Clay!’ She spat the name, stooping down to retrieve the ruined book. ‘And he loves me, and he’d kill you if he knew what you had done!’ Sobs rose in her throat. Clutching the book fiercely, she swung away from him, running blindly across the rain-lashed square.
Bradley watched her, his mouth a tight line of pain. Beau Clay. He should have known. Frowning fiercely, he retraced his steps. There were plenty of other girls in New Orleans. He slammed into a phone booth and dialled Mae Jefferson’s number.
Augusta was shaking by the time she reached her car. Bradley Hampton had spoiled her entire day. For months she had kept herself as untouched as a nun. All for Beau. Now, on the very eve that her waiting would be over, Bradley Hampton had kissed her with indecent thoroughness and in the middle of Jackson Square.
And her father’s birthday present was ruined.
‘Damn Bradley Hampton,’ she said, crashing through the gears, driving at a speed that was illegal. ‘Damn him, damn him, damn him!’
She spent the rest of the day in her room. The book, once it had dried out, had proved to be not so ruined after all. She had written prettily in it and wrapped it with care. Her father was having friends round for a game of cards in the evening. She need make no excuse for avoiding his company. She remained alone all through the long afternoon. Her score of dolls stared steadfastly at her. She rearranged them, adjusting a skirt here, a bow there. They all had old china faces and soft bodies. Each one was older than herself: legacies from her grandmother and her mother. The mother she had never known.
When the sunlight began to change to a soft glow, she bathed in deeply scented water and dressed for the coming ritual in the long, rose-pink gown her Cousin Tina had given her as a present after Tina’s last Parisian trip.
Eden arrived first and raised delicate eyebrows. ‘My, my, we are taking it seriously, aren’t we?’
Gussie’s pansy-dark eyes held hers with such intensity that Eden’s smile faded.
‘It is serious, Eden Alexander. If you don’t think so, you’d best leave right now.’
‘Apologies, apologies,’ Eden said, falling on to the lace-covered bed. ‘I wonder if Mae is going to go ahead and bind Bradley Hampton to her forever? I shouldn’t think he’ll be very pleased if she did.’
‘I’m not,’ Mae said, entering the room nervously. ‘And I don’t think Gussie should bind Beau to her either.’
‘It’s only a game,’ Eden said lazily, careful that Gussie did not hear her. She sighed and opened a packet of cigarettes. Goddammit. It wasn’t as if it would work. It would take more than a chewed-up piece of paper to make a man like Beau Clay take notice of seventeen-year-old Augusta Lafayette. Mae was taking the whole thing too seriously.
Gussie was glad Mae had changed her mind about joining her in the ritual. She wanted to do it alone: without Mae or anyone else taking part. Tonight was special. It was going to alter her whole life. Tonight Beauregard Clay would be hers – forever.
‘What do we do now?’ Eden asked as the sun sank in a blood-red haze. A strange calm seemed to have settled over Gussie.
‘We wait just a little longer. Until it’s quite dark.’
Even Eden began to grow nervous as the shadows in the room lengthened and the velvet of dusk turned into the darkness of night. Just when she was about to make her excuses and leave, Gussie rose from the bed and very slowly, almost regally, lit the candles in the candelabras at either side of her dressing-table mirror.
‘Oh my,’ Mae whispered fretfully, twisting her handkerchief in her hand. ‘I wish I’d never suggested this! What if …’
‘Shshsh!’ Eden said, gazing wonderingly at the almost ethereal expression on Gussie’s face.
Mae shushed, watching unhappily as Gussie sat on her dressing-table stool and began to brush her hair in long rhythmic strokes until it flowed down her back like a web of silk.
Even Eden was subdued. Gussie no longer looked like the girl she knew. She looked almost spectral.
There was a concerted intake of breath as Gussie picked up the silver fountain pen inscribed with her mother’s initials and in a strong, firm hand, and without a moment’s hesitation, wrote boldly YALC DRAGERUAEB.
‘No!’ Mae whispered. ‘Oh please, no!’
A slight smile curved Gussie’s lips. With cool deliberation she put the piece of paper into her mouth and swallowed.
The room erupted around her.
‘Upon my life, she’s done it!’ Eden shouted, leaping from the bed and seizing Augusta’s hand. ‘Do you think you feel any different? Has it worked?’
Gussie remained seated, staring into the candle-lit mirror, her eyes incandescent.
‘I’m sure I felt a cold wind blow through the room when she put the paper in her mouth,’ Mae said with a shiver.
Eden hooted with laughter. ‘You’re scared of your own shadow, Mae.
‘Let’s have some wine and celebrate.’ Eden held a bottle of Chablis triumphantly aloft. ‘It’s not very chilled, but who cares? Come on, Gussie. Have a drink. You deserve it. Weren’t you scared? Not even for a second?’
‘I was scared all the time,’ Mae confessed. ‘I didn’t dare look into that mirror. Did you see anything in the mirror, Gussie?’
The wine splashed into hastily gathered glasses.
‘To Augusta Lafavette,’ Eden cried, standing in the centre of Augusta’s vast bed and holding her glass high in a toast. ‘The girl Beau Clay will love forever!’
‘To Gussie!’
Glasses clinked and the colour gradually returned to Mae’s cheeks.
‘I guess it was all right after all,’ she said with a giggle of relief. ‘Nothing dreadful happened, did it?’
‘It will if we don’t leave this very minute,’ Eden said, a new inflection in her voice. ‘It’s five to twelve. If I’m out after midnight again this week my father’s going to put some of his threats into action.’
‘Mine too,’ Mae said, scrambling from the bed.
‘Bye, Gussie. It’s been fun.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Gussie stood at the head of the stairs, watching them hurry down towards the door where Louis, the Black butler, waited to close it behind her guests. A sliver of light showed beneath the card room door, indicating that her father’s card game was still in progress.
With suppressed giggles the girls disappeared into the darkness and towards their cars. Louis closed the door and shook his head in silent reproof.
Augusta let out a deep sigh and turned once more to her candle-lit room. She had done it! She had done it and she knew it had worked. She clapped her hands and whirled joyously around the bed.
The face in the candle-lit mirror had not been hers. It had been Beau’s: dark and lean, with mocking eyes, his mouth crooked in the merest hint of a smile.
‘Soon, dear love,’ she whispered feverishly to herself, pressing her face against the freezing cold of the window pane, staring out into the darkness. ‘Soon!’
Somewhere out there was Beau, his heart no longer his own, but hers. She sighed ecstatically. In the next few days New Orleans was going to be rocked on its heels. The notorious Beau Clay would be tamed at last. And by little Gussie Lafayette.
Humming softly to herself, feeling like a bride on her wedding night, she stepped free of her dress and slipped naked between the lace-edged silk sheets. ‘Beau Clay,’ she murmured, drifting off to sleep. ‘Beau Clay … Beau Clay … Beau …’