CHAPTER 16
Wind tugged at the crepe bunting and velvet coffin skirts draped over the clotheslines in the courtyard. It fluttered the hem of Effie’s skirt and whipped strands of hair about her face. Dust billowed as she brushed the fabric, stinging her eyes and gathering at the corners of her lips. At least a year’s worth, maybe more, for who knew the last time anyone had bothered to clean them. She doubted Mr. Whitmark had even noticed the dingy state of these draperies, and Colm wouldn’t deign to do any such “women’s work.”
The clatter of horse hooves and iron-rimmed wheels in the carriageway startled her. Both the wagon and the hearse sat parked in the carriage house behind her. Clients never entered this way, and the shop wasn’t due for any deliveries.
A hard-top buggy with painted side panels and a plush upholstered seat rocked to a stop before the loggia. Mr. Whitmark’s brother stepped down and tied his horse to a metal ring drilled into the brick sidewall. A folded newspaper was tucked beneath his arm.
Hitherto, Effie had not gotten so long a gander at the man. He had the same deep-set eyes and cleft chin as Mr. Whitmark, the same broad shoulders and imposing height. But the brother’s chest tapered to a narrow, almost effeminate waist. Wax tamed his bushy eyebrows, and though he couldn’t be more than a few years Mr. Whitmark’s junior, his dark hair hadn’t a fleck of gray. The most pronounced difference, however, was his step, quick and resounding, where Mr. Whitmark scuffed and shambled.
He didn’t inquire of Effie whether Mr. Whitmark was in, bid her good day, or remark about the tempestuous weather. But he did tip his hat to her before entering the shop’s back door. A few moments later the door swung open.
“Listen for customers, Effie,” Mr. Whitmark said, propping the door open with a brick. “I’m going upstairs a moment.” His brother followed him up the curving loggia steps. From the upstairs gallery, Mr. Whitmark called down, “Boil us some coffee too.”
Effie frowned. He might at least have said please. In the kitchen, she set a kettle of water on the stove and tossed a handful of coffee beans and chicory into the grinder. Would that he had hired a maid instead of that lout Colm.
While the grounds and water boiled, she returned to the shop with an arm’s load of velvet from the line and set about arranging the newly brushed skirts around the caskets. Mr. Whitmark had been affable enough this morning when she’d arrived, bade her good morning with a grin, whistled about the shop, complimented her on the fine job she’d done with yesterday’s apoplexy case. But just as at that grand house in the Garden District, his brother and other men of his ilk seemed to sour Mr. Whitmark’s disposition.
The kettle’s whistle called her from the shop. In her haste, she stepped in a pile of dung the horse had left at the mouth of the carriageway. Drat! Nothing today had gone her way. Though Adeline’s ointment had indeed helped her burned scalp, the blisters had begun to scab and flake, making her hair appear infested with nits. Worse still, the letter she’d sent inquiring after Elijah Jones had returned to her this morning, undeliverable and unclaimed.
She sat down and scraped the warm dung from her boot while the kettle shrieked from the nearby kitchen. Evidently, Mr. Whitmark could hear it too for he called from the upstairs window, “Effie, the coffee,” as if she might be deaf, tempting her to add a bit of the boot scum to the kettle before bringing it up.
Her conscience got the better of her, though. In the kitchen, she arranged the coffee on a tray along with the sugar bowl and creamer, then stalked across the courtyard, more careful of her footing this time, and up the stairs.
“Damn it, James. You think I don’t read the papers?” Mr. Whitmark said, loud enough for Effie to hear from the steps. She paused on the mezzanine landing and listened.
“I didn’t know how your Republican rag might spin it,” James said.
“Spin it? You think the danger here is lost on us?”
“Them. Lost on them. You’ve got to start distancing yourself from this.”
A chair scraped across the floor.
“Us, them, the point is I’m not blind to what’s going on. I know the resolve of the North is . . . wavering.”
“Wavering? Those mangy radicals who seduced you to their cause have all but abandoned you. And it won’t just be wayward Negroes the Ku Klux comes after.”
Mr. Whitmark laughed, a hard, bitter sound that prickled Effie’s skin. “You talk like they’re not one and the same—the Klan, your little White League, the Democrats.”
“Now you’re just spouting Kellogg rhetoric.” James’s voice was calm, almost paternal. “You saw how the League behaved back when we took the statehouse. No unnecessary violence. And the Democratic ticket has pledged to uphold all the lawful rights granted the Negro after the War.”
In the quiet that followed, Effie heard a soft rattle. The tray in her arms was shaking. She hurried up the remaining steps and slipped quietly into the parlor. Mr. Whitmark was standing by the far window, staring out at the street below. If he’d heard her enter, he made no show of it. She set the tray down on the lip of the tea table near where James sat, keeping her gaze downcast for fear that he might read from her face that she’d been listening. With one hand steadying the tray, she gathered up the newspapers cluttering the table.
GRANT PARISH CASE DECISION SUSTAINED, one of the front-page headlines read. For a moment Effie stood paralyzed. She’d heard talk of the Supreme Court’s pending decision at the club meetings, remembered reading about the bloodshed at Grant Parish when she was yet living in Indiana. How enraged Samson would be at the news. And Mrs. Carrière, hadn’t someone said her husband was among those killed?
She jogged her head and slid the tray to the center of the table.
“Leave those,” James said. When she looked up at him, he pointed with his chin at the papers she’d cleared from the table.
She set the papers on the side table, wishing she’d managed to read beyond the first few lines, and backed out of the room.
“Thank you for the coffee,” James said.
At this, Mr. Whitmark turned around. He looked at her, but his gaze was diffuse, as if she were a specter and he could see right through her to the wall. “Yes, thank you, Effie.”
She heard the clink of coffee cups as she descended the stairs. Then James spoke again. “Listen, Georgie, now more than ever you’ve got to be reasonable. Carpetbagger rule is coming to an end. The South belongs to the South again.”
Mr. Whitmark only harrumphed. She imagined him rubbing his knuckles and looking wistfully to the card table, where his bottles once stood.
His brother continued. “You don’t have to be excluded from that. Colonel Randolph mightily appreciated the care you took with his son. He might even be willing to support your nomination to the club. Think of what that would do for the shop.”
“Business is going fine.”
“This isn’t just about your business, but your life. It’s not too late to marry, settle down. You work with the dead, know what a difference it is to have family left to mourn. Do you really want to meet your end alone?”
Another pause, and Mr. Whitmark said, “I was a colonel too, you know. Funny how he can still wear the rank and I’ve got to slink around and hope no one remembers.”
Effie left the remainder of the black fabric flapping in the courtyard and hurried down the street until she found a newsboy. The New Orleans Republican’s summation of the Grant Parish decision was unimpassioned and succinct. She read the entire article standing on the street corner in the span of a minute. A quick rifle through the pages revealed nothing more. She dropped the paper onto the newsboy’s stack and drifted back to the shop.
She returned just as James descended the stairs. She tried to read in the clap of his footfalls whether he’d been successful in swaying Mr. Whitmark’s loyalties. Not a triumphant clap, she decided, but not a defeated one either.
Effie resumed her brushing. She hurried from one cloth to the next, ignoring the dust that settled on her skin and eyelashes, anxious to be done and go . . . go where? The other women at Mrs. Neale’s would not have heard the news nor understand what she relayed. Effie wasn’t sure she fully grasped its significance. But it had been significant, for why else would Mr. Whitmark’s brother have come? She might go to Adeline, but likely her friend—if that’s what they were now—wouldn’t care. No, she must see Samson.
* * *
The Republican Office at 94 Camp Street was a three-story stone affair with arched windows and carved molding. She wasn’t sure if Samson or any of the others from the ward club would be here, but the halls of the statehouse were empty and she hadn’t any idea where else to look. Several young colored men lingered outside. A few of them smiled and doffed their hats as she climbed the stairs to the entry. Others, lost in conversation, didn’t look up. Words like scoundrels, abuse, injustice flew between them.
The vast foyer was a hive of activity, boot heels clapping on the stone floor, voices pinging from the mosaic walls and high vaulted ceiling. A printing press hummed from some far-off workroom. Effie stepped to the side and scanned the faces for one she knew. Men of every sort were here—old and young, black, white, and every shade in between. The office doors on either side of the foyer stood open with men crowded about the jams. Boys, as young as five or six, scampered about delivering telegrams, letters, and parcels, paper-wrapped sandwiches, tins of steaming gumbo, even bottles of whiskey.
Gaggles of men barely old enough to vote had overtaken the benches lined about the room, some sitting, some standing, some with their muddy boots propped upon the wooden bench tops. None she recognized, however. They blustered and argued, smacking their caps in their palms or throwing up their arms. When their eyes lit upon her, they quieted and straightened. More smiles.
Effie checked that her bonnet hadn’t fallen askew or that she hadn’t spilled sodden coffee grounds down the front of her dress, then credited their curiosity to the paucity of women about. Indeed, she realized, almost none. Two white women—schoolteachers judging from their chalk-dusted skirts and ink-stained fingers—stood at a small reception desk in the corner, speaking with an attendant. A white-haired negress lumbered up the steps at the far end of the room. That was all.
Effie half thought to follow the old woman, half thought to flee. The crowd, the din, the stares harried her already tender nerves. Then an arm coiled about her own.
“Oh, Effie, est-ce vrai? Is it true? What have you heard?”
It took Effie a moment to recognize Mrs. Carrière, so altered she appeared. A black bonnet restrained her frazzled hair; the bow at her neck hung loose and lopsided. Her eyes, ever shrewd and steady, fidgeted in their sockets like a madwoman’s.
“I . . . er . . . just got here. I don’t know anything other than what was reported in the paper.”
Effie tried to gently extricate her arm, but Mrs. Carrière’s grip held fast. She tugged Effie toward the stairs. Her other hand was clasped about Jonah’s, dragging him along too. When he looked up at Effie, his little face was grave.
Upstairs, Mrs. Carrière hurried them to a large meeting room. Tall, multipaned windows lined two of the walls, their sashes raised high to invite a breeze. The outside air, however, did not oblige, and the room was stifling, redolent of sweat and charged with anger.
Several men crowded around a long table. Jonah wiggled free of Mrs. Carrière’s grasp and slipped into the horde. Most of the men at the table were white, though she did spy Mr. Rousseve and a few other light-skinned Creoles seated among them. Those pressed together at the periphery were black.
Effie stood on her tiptoes, searching for Samson. She heard his sonorous voice before spotting him at the far end of the table, standing in a narrow gap between chairs. “We ought to be down at the jailhouse protesting the release of these murderers.”
Several of those standing clapped and hurrahed at his comment.
“So we can have a repeat here of what happened at Colfax?” one of the seated men said. Murmurs followed. A few nods.
Mrs. Carrière’s grip tightened about Effie’s arm. Her face had the sallow undertone of the dead. Effie scanned the room for someplace to sit her down—a bench, a couch, a chair. But there was hardly room to stand let alone a spare seat. Perhaps the wide lip of the windowsill would suit, so long as Effie kept hold of her, lest she faint and fall backward to the street below. Fresh air would certainly do her good. Effie charted a path through the bodies to the nearest window, but then found herself tugged in the opposite direction. Mrs. Carrière bullied them through the crowd until they stood right behind those seated.
“So it’s true? They’re releasing those murderous devils?” she said over the mutterings. “Mon Dieu! Hundreds dead and they walk free?”
The room quieted. Those seated at the table turned to look at her. Just as quickly they looked away—down at their manicured hands, pressed trousers, and polished shoes. Even Samson took sudden notice of the floor.
After a silence as stifling as the heat, Mr. Rousseve said, “Mo chagren, Marie. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Carrière swallowed. She clenched her jaw and blinked back the tears building in her eyes. Again Effie searched out the nearest window, but the body beside her was steady, unwavering.
“So what now?” Mrs. Carrière managed after a moment.
“That’s what we’re here to determine,” the man at the head of the table said. He was a thin, soft-spoken man, with hooded eyes and a broad nose. She’d not seen him at Adeline’s petite fête, but likely he was of the same set, a gens de couleur. Unlike Mr. Rousseve, however, who oozed self-importance, this man bore a cordial disposition, solemn but warm. “It’s clear we cannot rely upon the Federal courts for justice. The state has sole purview of crimes committed by her citizens now.”
“What’s to stop the White Leaguers from runnin’ out the rightfully elected sheriffs and putting in men of their own, ones who don’t care a grain about the Negro and won’t arrest nobody?” someone in the crowd asked.
“They’re already doing that in East Baton Rouge,” Samson said. “The sheriff, the parish judge, the tax collector were all forced to flee under threat of violence.”
“And in Feliciana,” said another man.
“And St. Helena!” came a voice across the room.
“Governor Kellogg”—the man at the head of the table raised his voice to be heard above the rising din—“Governor Kellogg has drafted a letter to address the recent disorder in East Baton Rouge.”
Samson snorted. “It’ll take more than words to stop these buckras.”
“And he authorized a posse comitatus should they not reinstate the officers and prosecute those responsible for their removal.”
“They had an entire militia in Grant Parish! Little good it did them,” Samson said.
Effie glanced askew at Mrs. Carrière and saw her flinch at the mention of the massacre. Her slender arm remained intertwined with Effie’s like a beanstalk about a pole.
Several men among the crowd harrumphed in agreement. Others gave a stomp, sending a tremor through the floorboards that traveled from the soles of Effie’s feet clear to the top of her head.
“We can’t change what happened at Colfax,” came a familiar steady voice. “And it looks like we won’t have the satisfaction of justice no time soon. But we can work to stop future bloodshed.”
A few more grunts and stomps. Effie saw Tom moving forward through the crowd. Little Jonah hung about his neck, as if to get a better view of the events. Once they were front and center, Jonah climbed down and plopped cross-legged beside him on the floor.
“Marie and all them who lost beloveds that day have our deepest and lasting sympathy.” Tom bowed slightly in their direction, and Mrs. Carrière nodded back. “But we gotta fight not with weapons, but with the vote.” He banged his cane atop the floor. “That’s the only way we can get officers of the law who’ll be sympathetic to our cause.”
“Hear, hear!” several men rejoined. Even Effie found her head bobbing in agreement.
“What good is it to elect such men if we haven’t the power to enforce their rule?” Samson said, the fire and earnestness in his voice swaying Effie as surely as Tom’s logic. His eyes met hers for the flash of a moment, sending a flush through her body as delicious and unnerving as Sunday’s champagne.
“That’s what we have the Federal Army for,” Tom said.
Mr. Rousseve lit a cigar. “Oui, but we can’t rely on them forever.”
“Hell! We can’t rely on them at all,” Samson said, eliciting a short but loud round of laughter.
“Ça alors. I can’t do this,” Mrs. Carrière whispered as her body sagged against Effie. These men didn’t seem any closer to a decision than when they’d first arrived.
Effie looked at Samson, willing the thrill of one more glance, but his attention stayed with those at the table. She turned back to Mrs. Carrière. “Let me take you home.”
They shuffled through the crowd and out of the room. While the cool hallway air invigorated Effie, Mrs. Carrière’s step remained sluggish, her hold about Effie’s arm fierce. She led Mrs. Carrière down the stairs, across the busy foyer, and out to the street. Evening shadows shaded the road, creeping up the brick facades of the buildings opposite them. She steered Mrs. Carrière upriver and they walked in silence.
They’d shuffled along three blocks before Mrs. Carrière raised her head and stopped. She looked right, left, right, then back over her shoulder. “Non, this isn’t right. We’ve gone the wrong way.”
“Don’t you live in ward two?”
She shook her head. “Faubourg Marigny.”
Effie bit down on her tongue and turned them around the way they’d come. “Where in the Marigny?”
“Umm . . . Rue Dauphine. Two blocks beyond Esplanade.”
They walked again without speaking, arm in arm, Effie navigating them through the waves of workers heading home from the business district. Mrs. Carrière scuffed along like a yarn doll, her slight form offering no direction or resistance.
“Why don’t you attend club meetings in your own ward?” Effie asked when they’d made it across bustling Canal Street. For once it was a relief to be in the French Quarter, no one elbowing past in a hurry.
“I did live in ward two, for a time.”
“On account of your husband?” Today, of all days, Effie ought to take Adeline’s advice and keep quiet, but the question slipped out before she could check it.
“Oui.” Mrs. Carrière raised her head, her gaze passing over Effie and fixing upon some distant spot above the slate roofs and stucco chimneys. Her eyes, though red-rimmed and bloodshot, were dry. Thankfully they remained so, despite Effie’s question. “We met not far from here. On Chartres. His master hired him out as a stonecutter. He was one of the best in the city, his services in such demand that—”
“He was a slave? But you—”
“No, I wasn’t. And the law strictly forbade association between us free people and those yet in bondage.” Her lips wobbled, almost reaching a smile. “We didn’t care, though. Youth predisposed us to recklessness, I suppose. And love . . . well, love turns even the best of us on our heads.”
Effie stumbled over an uneven row of pavers. Why wasn’t any part of this cursed city flat? Mrs. Carrière trod on smoothly, for a moment baring Effie’s weight instead of the other way around.
“We married in secret and saved to buy his freedom. But even when we had enough, his master—ce bâtard—refused.”
The vinegar in her voice saved Effie from having to work out the translation. “What did you do?”
“We made plans to flee North, but the War saved us the trouble.”
The War. Hadn’t it changed everything? And yet seemingly so little.
“What was your husband doing in Grant Parish?”
“He had a few friends who settled there after the War. Went as soon as he heard about the trouble. Not to fight but to help work out a compromise. Both parties claimed to have won the sheriff’s seat in the election and Samuel thought . . . well, he’d always been an optimist. But things had progressed too far by the time he arrived and . . .” She freed her arm from Effie’s and sobbed into her hands.
Dusk had fallen and lamps were being lit. Enough twilight remained, however, to see the dispassionate stares of passersby, heading to the theater or gambling house or dance hall. Effie stood a moment, dumbfounded as to what to do. She’d never been good in the face of such overwhelming emotion. The dead, after all, gave up nothing. The living, the mourning, that was always Captain Kinyon’s or Mr. Whitmark’s charge.
She glanced around and pulled Mrs. Carrière to the lee of an open carriageway.
“Bon Dieu, Effie. He burned alive in that courthouse! And the men responsible wiggle free from punishment.” She clawed about in her purse, then gave up and wiped her nose on her sleeve before Effie could offer her hankie. “God may have his vengeance when they die, but what of me? Don’t we deserve some small measure of earthly justice for all they’ve done to us?”
Effie swallowed, unable to reply. All she could think to do was run, to pull free of Mrs. Carrière and flee into the night. Her calves twitched at the ready. Her brain charted the fastest course back to her dark, quiet room. But her overlarge feet remained planted. She raised her arms, not pushing Mrs. Carrière away, but drawing her close, until her wet cheek rested against Effie’s breast.
They stood this way for several minutes, night deepening around them. Effie had no answers to her pleas for justice. No lies to spin about how fate would be righted in the end. All Effie had to offer was her stillness, her steadfast arms and sturdy legs. But it seemed enough.
Eventually, Mrs. Carrière’s sobs dwindled to a few errant tears. She straightened, took hold of Effie’s arm, and they started off again for the Marigny.
Mrs. Carrière’s home was a stucco cottage with two French doors, each elevated a step above the banquette. Lamplight caught the gleam of its freshly painted shutters.
“This was my parents’ home. I returned after . . .” She didn’t finish and started on the lock of the rightmost door. Just as it whispered opened she dropped her purse and spun around. “Mon Dieu! I’ve forgotten Jonah.”
She hurried back in the direction they’d come, shaking her head and crying anew, leaving her door open and purse on the step. “Tellement stupide! Mo suis horrible.”
Effie ran after her. “I’m sure he’s all right. I saw him with Tom. They’re probably still together.”
“How could I leave him there? He’s all I have.” She wavered as if she might faint. Her eyes had that look of madness again.
“I’ll fetch him home straightaway.” She steered Mrs. Carrière back to her cottage, despite her protests.
With the sidewalks less crowded now and only herself to mind, Effie made good time back to the Republican Office. The windows on the second story were dark, however, as were most on the ground level too. She tried the brass handles on the double-door entry and found them both locked. She knocked, but no answer.
Now what? She sat down on the steps, untied her bonnet, and used it to dab the sweat from her face. Damn this city’s humidity. Could nothing today go right for her?
She tied her bonnet back atop her head and willed her legs to stand. How wonderful her bed would feel right now. A basin of cool water for her feet. A slather of Adeline’s burn ointment. But she couldn’t return home. Not yet. Not until she’d found Jonah. She rapped on the lighted windows one by one until at last one creaked open. A balding white man with silver-rimmed spectacles popped his head out.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Tom Button. A Negro with a peg leg. He’s perhaps seventy inches in height, mid-length hair, dark eyes, solid—”
“Yes, yes, I know Tom. He’s not here, I’m afraid.” He started to shut the sash.
“But he was here earlier, upstairs with a crowd of men, discussing the Grant Parish ruling.”
“You his wife?”
Effie frowned at the irrelevance of his questioning, even as a flush lit beneath her skin. “No, I only wish to—”
“They’re at Ruggy’s Saloon, the lot of them I expect.”
Yet more slogging across town. She sighed, but thanked the man and followed his directions to a row of dingy-looking buildings fronting the levee. Fog had rolled in off the river, dampening the glow of the streetlamps. Music and laughter and ruckus spilled from the open windows. Effie clutched her purse strings and stayed wide of the men stumbling from one establishment to the next. She read the creaky shingles swaying above the doors until she saw RUGGYS—no apostrophe—in chipped green lettering. Before opening the door, she peered in through the window.
The saloon was nicer on the inside than it appeared from without. A polished cedar bar ran the length of one side with matching leather-topped stools and a long brass footrest crowded with boots. Booths with plushly upholstered benches lined the opposite wall. But it was at the center of the saloon, where several sets of tables and chairs sat clustered, that she saw the men from the Republican Office. Mr. Rousseve balanced on the back legs of his chair, his feet stretched out before him and his hands laced behind his head. The soft-spoken man sat upright beside him, sipping lager from a mug. She recognized several of the white men from earlier too, one playing with the corner of his graying mustache, another undressed to his shirtsleeves.
A few of the men standing around the far-most table sauntered off to the bar with empty glasses. In their wake, she saw Samson. He too had shucked his jacket and loosened his tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled back to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Each muscle showed beneath his dark skin—flexor carpi ulnaris, extensor digito-rum, extensor carpi radialis longus, brachioradialis—as clear as in her anatomy texts.
A woman sauntered to the table, one of only two in the saloon. Her low-cut dress hugged her bosom, accentuating her tawny brown skin and ample cleavage. She leaned across the table and plucked a pickle from the plate of food in the center. The men’s conversation seemed to stall. Their eyes followed the line of her long bare arm from her manicured fingers to her full lips as she placed the pickle in her mouth. Samson’s gaze lingered the longest, his head cocked in her direction long after she sauntered off and the men resumed their discussion.
Effie watched, though it pained her, so consumed she didn’t hear the footfalls until the man’s hand was already about her waist, his sour breath hot on her cheek. “Hello there, pretty.”
His touch bristled her skin. His roving hand groped between her legs. She jerked upright and jammed her elbow into the man’s gut. He wobbled, unsteady with drink. She turned around and pushed him from the banquette. A pile of manure cushioned his fall to the street.
Her relief at being free lasted only a second before her fear redoubled. The man was white. And a gentleman.
He sat there, either too stunned or too drunk to stand. Effie hurried into the saloon and prayed he wouldn’t follow.
The din petered to a murmur when she entered. Heads turned. Brows furrowed. The piano tune slowed. Then, just as quickly, all resumed as it was. Men went back to their conversations. Glasses clanked. The piano’s tempo rallied. Effie listened for the door to open behind her. Listened for some outcry from the street. Nothing.
Someone touched her elbow. She jumped.
“Chérie, whatever are you doing here?” Mr. Rousseve said to her.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Come, have a drink. You don’t look well.”
“No, I—”
“Miss Jones,” Tom’s voice cut across hers. “What are you doing here?” He took her other arm.
“I asked her the same question.”
And then Samson: “Miss Jones, you’re hardly the person I’d expect to walk in a saloon at this hour.”
The words piled one atop the other in her fear-addled brain, and she couldn’t reply. They seated her at a nearby table, Tom and Samson pulling up chairs beside her, Mr. Rousseve fetching her whiskey from the bar. It left a trail of fire down her gullet and shocked her to her senses. “I came looking for Jonah. Is he here?”
Tom nodded to the corner booth, where Jonah lay curled asleep on the bench. Effie made to rise, but all three men put a hand out to stop her. “I’ve got to get him back to Mrs. Carrière. She’s beside herself with worry.”
Samson laughed. The sound warmed her insides as sure as the whiskey. “And you mean to walk him back? By yourself? At this hour?” He stared straight into her eyes and her thoughts once again muddled. Surely on account of the whiskey.
“Night doesn’t frighten me, Mr. Greene,” she said, even as her gaze flickered back to the door.
“No, I suspect nothing does, Miss Jones. I just can’t decide if it’s bravery or damned foolishness.”
“Le courage, bien sûr,” Mr. Rousseve said. Effie turned and smiled at him, though in truth she’d forgotten he was even there.
“Life takes a measure of both, I suspect,” Tom said.
Before Effie could rejoin, a rustling noise drew near, snaring the men’s attention. The woman she’d seen through the window approached, her magenta-colored dress a riot of lace and flounces, her hair a sleek crown of curls, her skin smelling of jasmine blossoms.
“Aren’t one of you gentlemen going to offer me your chair?” she asked. Then to Samson, she said, “Or perhaps your lap.”
Effie would gladly give up her chair, provided the woman find another table to sit at. Better yet, another saloon.
“Here,” Tom said, the legs of his chair scraping over the floorboards as he stood.
“Thank you, cher. Though I hate to impose upon a cripple,” she said, not hesitating to sit.
Effie took another sip of whiskey, then set her glass down with a thud. “He gets around just fine without your pity.”
“Not pity, no. Concern.” She scooted her chair closer to Samson, who’d not for one moment returned his eyes to Effie. “I’ve concern for all the brave men who fought in the War.”
The smell of the woman’s perfume roiled the liquor in Effie’s stomach. If she could hear the insincerity in this woman’s voice, surely Samson could as well. But he listened on enrapt.
“I bet you’ve a few war stories to tell. A scar or two beneath this shirt.” She tickled her finger along his bare forearm, along the contours of muscle Effie had admired from the window.
Effie took another bitter pull of whiskey and stood. She’d rather take her chances that the man outside had left than watch this. “I’ve got to get Jonah home.”
But the whiskey proved stronger than the champagne and wine she’d drunk on Sunday, turning the floor to a rolling bog beneath her feet. She clutched the lip of the table and drew in a long breath of perfume-soured air.
“Miss Jones,” Samson said, standing, his gaze favoring her once again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to settle yourself a bit more?”
“I’ll walk you and Jonah home,” Tom said.
Effie knew she should be grateful for such an offer, but found herself wishing yet again another man had made it.
“Take my horse,” Mr. Rousseve said, and it was settled. Tom clomped off to rouse Jonah. Mr. Rousseve left to untie his horse from the bollard out front. Samson stood long enough to bid her goodbye, then returned to his seat beside the woman.
Outside, the air had turned cold and the fog thickened. Thankfully, there was no sign of the man she’d pushed into the gutter.
“I don’t think this is what the Party big bugs had in mind when they suggested Mr. Greene might make a more promising senator if he found himself a wife,” Mr. Rousseve said, readying his horse. He chuckled and handed Tom the reins.
“No, I dare say not,” Tom replied dryly.
Effie glanced back through the saloon window as Tom helped her into the saddle behind Jonah. She watched the woman in her fancy magenta dress scoot closer to Samson. Watched him lean in and say something that made the woman laugh. Watched her move closer still and whisper in his ear. She watched his hand come to rest on her thigh, satin bunching beneath his fingers as he gave a quick squeeze. At this, Effie could watch no more and turned her gaze upon the darkness.