Page 7 of Frankly, My Dear

Selene made a choking sound of indignation. Even in the twentieth century, men didn’t make such indecent comments to a perfect stranger. But the sharp words with which she was about to lash him died in her mouth as she saw he was about to depart.

“Where are you going? You can’t go now,” she asserted shrilly, putting a hand on the sleeve of his jacket to stop him.

He looked pointedly at her hand, and she dropped it immediately with embarrassment.

“Can I not? And who is to stop me?”

“Well…well…” Selene said, licking her lips nervously, unsure why the stranger’s presence was suddenly so important to her. “You can’t because…by the way, what’s your name?”

He tilted his head questioningly, then responded impatiently, “James. James Baptiste.”

Selene nodded. Nice name. “Well, don’t you have to stay for the ball…or something?”

“I was downstairs in the gambling rooms. I’m not in the market for a placée. In truth, I abhor the whole system of plaçage. Not that it’s any of your concern.” His blue eyes darkened into stormy pools of emotion.

“But…but you can’t leave me here.”

“Really, mademoiselle…your impertinence was amusing initially, but now you go too far. You are nothing to me.”

“Selene! There you are, chile. I been lookin’ for you mos’ ever’where. Someone special wants to meet up with you.”

Selene and James turned at the same time to see a heavyset black woman barreling toward them with a short Creole man in tow. She came to a halt and wagged a chubby finger in Selene’s face. “Girl, you gonna be the death of me. Where you been?”

“Who are you?” Selene asked.

“Raffine. Your patroness,” the woman said with exasperation. “What nonsense you spoutin’ now? Lordy! Such a trial you been ever since you became my charge!”

“My…my patroness?”

“Hush yo’self, Selene,” she hissed under her breath. “You gonna make the men folks think you’re daft.” Then her huge brown eyes riveted on Selene’s head. With disbelief, she flicked the tips of Selene’s flowing hair with her fingertips. “Where is your tignon, missie?”

“Huh? What’s a tignon?”

Raffine put a hand to her turban. “You know the law. Femmes de couleur libre mus’ wear the tignon. Women of color cain’t be showin’ their purty hair in public.”

Selene scanned the room, and, sure enough, all the black women wore artfully knotted headdresses or scarves, similar to Raffine’s turban, except much more elaborate, even decorated with expensive jewels. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Clucking with dismay, the black woman went on in an undertone, low enough so the Creole suitor in the background couldn’t overhear, “For weeks, I done my best to find a protector for my dead sister’s chile, but do you ’preciate my efforts? Nosirree! Over and over, you brung me misery. Now, no more foolishness, missie, or we never gonna find you a man.”

“But—”

“Dontcha sass me, girl. Bad enough you’re so old, and skinny, and tall,” she chastised with a clicking sound of distaste, “but your pert tongue puts the men off. Yesirree, it does.”

James snickered behind her in agreement.

“Now, Selene, I wants to interduce you to Henri Gaspar. Y’hear?” With a huge, ingratiating smile, Raffine motioned to the Creole who stood talking to an acquaintance.

Selene looked at the little, preening man, who had to be fifty if he was a day. What right did a man his age have ogling young girls? Humph! Actually, she had to admit, men were the same in her time…always looking for youth, even when they were no longer young themselves.

She glared at Henri from her towering position. He was no more than five-foot-five to her five-foot-ten in bare feet, and she was wearing three-inch heels, besides. His eyes—his very appreciative eyes—came just about level with her breasts. He licked his thin lips, framed by a carefully clipped mustache and a goatee, and Selene knew he was thinking about licking something quite different.

James, who’d been about to leave moments before, planted his feet firmly in place and lit up another blasted cheroot, obviously intending to stay for the duration of her humiliation. She shot him a look of disgust, and he had the nerve to wink at her.

“M’sieur Gaspar, I’d be mighty pleased for you to make the ’quaintance of my niece, Mademoiselle Selene, from New York City.”

“Enchanté,” Henri said with a curt bow to Selene. But then he immediately turned with distress to Raffine. “Sacre bleu, the wench looks a bit…old,” he whispered worriedly to her patroness. “Are you sure she’s still pure—a virgin?”

“Of course!”