Page 18 of Frankly, My Dear

“Is there anyplace in your room you could hide Selene?”

Fergus nodded. “Probably. But…are you sure you want to go to all this trouble for the wench? After all, she’s just a stranger. Can’t you let her fend for herself with Victor?”

James practically snarled, “Do you think I’d let that slimy brother of mine get the best of me? In anything?”

“Does this mean I’ll miss my boat?” Selene asked.

“Oui.” He didn’t look happy at the prospect.

“Can I get another?”

“I certainly hope so.”

As she followed Fergus through the door, Selene looked back over her shoulder at James, who was watching her intently. She thought of something else.

“James?” she inquired in a coaxing voice.

His face turned immediately distrustful. “What?” he snapped.

“When you come back, could you bring some beignets?”

He said a very, very foul word.

“Well, are you satisfied?” Selene asked the police officer later that day, raising her chin defiantly. Corporal George Atwood reminded Selene of a Klansman she’d seen in a movie.

She and James had arrived at the Calaboso, a combination police headquarters and prison on St. Peter Street, two hours ago. They’d been interrogated by Corporal Atwood since then.

James stepped into the corporal’s office from another room where he’d been filling out some papers related to the complaint against Selene. He was not a happy camper, having been forced to attest in black and white that Selene was his fiancée and that he would be removing her from the city when he left in two days for his plantation.

“Let’s get out of here,” he told Selene, ignoring the corporal.

He and Atwood had already exchanged heated words when the corporal had wanted to examine her himself. “Why are you protectin’ her, Baptiste?” the rude man had shouted, his ruddy skin turning bright red with anger. “She’s nuthin’ but a worthless darky, even if she is light-skinned. You kin be sure she’ll have to show her flesh—all of it—on the auction block, not that anyone would want to buy such a skinny wench, ’ceptin mebbe for those tits of hers. Bet you been enjoyin’ them, Baptiste.”

Selene’s skin had crawled when his beady eyes lit on that part of her body.

James had very calmly but firmly told Corporal Atwood, “Either you call your wife or I will—in which case, I wonder how she will feel about your insistence on examining a nude woman.”

The policeman had reluctantly sent for his wife, but Selene shivered now with shock at how close she’d come to a public stripping, and she began to understand firsthand the defenselessness and utter humiliation of slavery. What if she were trapped in this time flashback? How would she be able to exist in a society that not only subjugated women, but sanctioned slavery, as well?

“You’d best watch your step, missie,” the corporal called after her now. “I’m watchin’ you, an’ I agree with Victor. There’s somethin’ mighty suspicious about your appearance in Naw’leans. Mebbe you’re one of them abolitionists. Mebbe you really are a high yaller helpin’ niggers escape North.”

“Now, that’s a good idea,” Selene said, putting her forefinger to her chin and tilting her head as if actually considering the possibility. “Where might one go to sign up for that underground railroad thing?”

The corporal’s face turned purple with rage, and Selene figured that they’d better leave before he had an apoplectic seizure or came up with some trumped-up charge to hold them both. She tugged on James’s coat sleeve, pulling him from the room.

James headed out the door. She hurried to catch up and almost reeled at the wave of humid heat that hit her when she stepped outside. And it wasn’t even noon yet.

She executed a few quick skipping steps before arriving at James’s side. He continued to walk, ignoring her, as he stared forward with glowering concentration. Criminey! The man took life way too seriously. He was always brooding or angry. Didn’t he ever smile or laugh?

And her situation really was humorous, Selene thought, now that she’d escaped the danger of arrest. Imagine being lost in the nineteenth century and mistaken for a quadroon! Even worse, a woman whose whole life—in fact, her whole identity—rested on her beauty was suddenly considered unattractive. Georgia would call it an absolute hoot.

James stopped dead in his tracks and shoved her angrily against the wall of a mercantile. With his palm pressed against her shoulder, he demanded in a cold voice, “Do I amuse you?”

“Huh?”

“You were looking at me and smiling.”

“Oh. I was? Actually, I was laughing at myself. Lighten up, James. Get a sense of humor.”