Incurable
Title: Incurable
Pairing: Kris/Katy, Kris/Adam
Word count: 5700
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dubcon
Summary: The invitation to an Uptown gala promised an antidote to routine. (Historical AU)
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Absence--that common cure of love.
Lord Byron
Incurable
For the first three weeks of our residence in New Orleans, we’d led a quiet life. We were lucky enough to have an entrée into society--Matt Giraud, Kristopher’s business partner and our devoted friend--but mundane matters consumed our time. Kristopher was occupied with the particulars of launching a commercial venture (“All very dull,” he said invariably at day’s end, with a weariness that discouraged further questions), and I with the myriad details of setting up a household.
The invitation to an Uptown gala promised an antidote to routine. “And an opportunity to form useful connections,” Matt pointed out to Kristopher, who demurred, “I’ll leave that side of things to the man with the gift of gab, thanks.”
“Ah, so you concede my persuasive powers!” Matt proceeded to exert them. “I guarantee you this won’t be some stuffy affair. And you must see the house, it’s one of the jewels of St. Charles.”
I clapped my hands in excitement. St. Charles Avenue was the famed address of the city’s millionaires and power brokers. “There!” Matt said in satisfaction. “How can you deny Katy such a source of inspiration for her decorating schemes?”
Kristopher groaned. “A source of temptation, you mean. I’m trying to convince her to keep her schemes on a modest scale.” But he was smiling in his agreeable way, acquiescing, as I’d known he would.
With the vanity of a new bride, I’d been yearning to show off my trousseau; there was one gown in particular that I’d been saving for our first ball as a married couple. In the carriage, however, I fretted over the tiers of daffodil-yellow silk, daringly modish by Little Rock standards, but perhaps not quite worthy of such a rarefied setting.
Matt, making a third of our party as he so often did, was generous with his compliments. “You’ll outshine them all, my dear. Your husband, on the other hand-- ” His disparaging wave encompassed Kristopher’s unfashionable white waistcoat--he’d resisted a trip to the tailor--and his unpomaded, slightly mussed brown hair.
“I wouldn’t venture to compete with you,” Kristopher said equably. “I don't have the flair it takes to dress up as a riverboat gambler.”
We all laughed, Matt most heartily of all. One couldn’t deny the truth of the jest, even though Matt had foregone his customary rolled-brim hat. “You’re sure to cut a dash tonight,” I told him. “Young ladies can’t resist a whiff of danger.”
Kristopher laughed again. “Don’t bother trying to play matchmaker for him. When he’d visit us back home, Mama was constantly throwing debutantes in his path. He’d charm them, serenade them-- ”
“‘None But The Lonely Heart’ brought them to tears every time,” Matt said reminiscently.
“ --And then throw them right back. Good thing she marked you out for me.” He tweaked one of my curls, and I thrilled to the playful gesture. “Otherwise you might’ve gotten your heart broken. Better than ending up as Mrs. Giraud, I suppose.”
“You would’ve been the making of me,” Matt assured me, clutching his heart with a tragic sigh.
I smiled at his theatrics, and at the unwitting echo of my wedding day. “I think you’ll be the making of him, my dear,” my new mother-in-law had said generously, bestowing a kiss on my cheek, before Kristopher and I departed on our Niagara Falls honeymoon. To my mind, he was already the finest of men: quiet but steadfast in his faith, attuned to the beauty in God’s works, never one to raise his voice or use coarse language. Breathtakingly handsome, with his delicately sculpted jaw and expressive brown eyes.
His gentleness that night had made it impossible to be afraid. Of course he’d been as innocent as I. “We can learn together,” he’d said, touchingly candid. Unclothed, he resembled the Greek statues in history books, lean and smooth-chested. I soon found myself eager to test the truth of my sisters’ whispered speculation on the subject of carnal love; and if the act at first seemed farfetched, it was in the end sweeter than I ever imagined.
The carriage was turning onto St. Charles. Gaslamps cast their sentinel glow over the street, the sky having lately deepened past twilight. Kristopher, habitually curious, peered out the window at the neighborhood’s renowned gardens. “What’re those things with leaves like massive paddles?”
I had no idea. “The ones with bananas hanging off them are banana trees,” was Matt's contribution.
“It’s like a tropical island. But the houses make me think of Rome or Tuscany. Not that I’ve ever seen the real thing.”
“Still hankering after that Grand Tour, aren’t you, Allen?” Matt said indulgently.
“So long as there’s a whole world out there . . . ”
“There’s a whole world right here, if you'd only come sightseeing with us,” I coaxed. Escorted by Matt, my self-appointed tour guide, I’d already filled my sketchbook with the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and the colorful flat-roofed shops of the French Quarter, with spindly-legged herons poised for flight and venerable oaks gray-bearded with moss. I found the city not just exotic but alien, a spice that never failed to awaken the palate, even if the taste wasn’t always pleasing. At the Courtyard of The Vine on Chartres Street, we’d stood marveling under the ancient wisteria, whose extravagance of lavender blooms had formed a parasol fit for a queen; and whose many trunks, growing as if braided by a great hand, had seemed to writhe grotesquely.
“One of these days,” Kristopher said absently. “Are we there? Nice.” Typical understatement on his part. We’d drawn up in front of the largest Italianate villa of them all, and Matt confirmed that this was indeed Les Etoiles. As we emerged from the carriage, the strains of a waltz reached us, tripping and sweet. A siren song for Kristopher, who looked up entranced. Music was his cherished hobby; his talent for the piano exceeded that of most amateurs, and his poignantly lovely singing voice had, in my admittedly biased opinion, no peer in our church back home.
Chuckling, Matt drew my attention to the ornate scrolled grillwork fronting the house’s balconies--galleries, they called them here. The wrought-iron lace bore a superimposed monogram, the initials A and L in Gothic script. “That’s a new bit of gingerbread. But very typical.”
“Of the local architecture?”
“Of my cousin. He likes to put his mark on things.”
“Cousin! You didn’t mention the relationship.”
Matt shrugged. “Oh, we’re all related here, somehow or other. We Creoles are a close-knit bunch. We call each other cousin because it’s easier than trying to figure out where we get our common drop of blood.”
Inside, the opulence was too much to take in at a glance. Parquet floors polished to a dazzling sheen, a rococo-and-gilt dining room that reflected a flair for the dramatic, a tall oxblood vase filled with peacock feathers. “Good heavens,” I said, sotto voce, as we mounted a broad, curving staircase carpeted in midnight blue. “I certainly won’t be asking the lady of the house for decorating advice.”
“Cousin Adam isn’t married.” Why such an unremarkable fact should put that confidential note in Matt’s voice, I had no idea. A broken engagement? There was no time to ask. We were stepping across the threshold--from boldness to romance, from the modern era to the past, from the everyday to enchantment. Candlelight reflected and multiplied in countless mirrored sconces, the sort I’d coveted in the Royal Street antique shops, bathing the assembly in the aura of a masquerade. On the dance floor, the ladies’ swirling skirts seemed barely to touch the ground. A glint from above drew my eye to a firmament of tiny stars, benign twinkles of gilt scattered across the high molded ceiling. Les etoiles.
Brighter sparks fired in the glossy dark hair of the man who’d joined us without my noticing. Had I been less enthralled, I could hardly have overlooked him, for he was possibly the tallest man in the room. He was speaking to Matt in low tones; I caught the word cousin in Matt’s reply and deduced that this was our host.
Matt performed the introductions with his usual verve. “Kristopher Allen, my college roommate and the other half of Giraud and Allen Mercantile, and his other, better half, Katherine Allen, Monsieur Adam Lambert.” He gave the title a mocking emphasis, as though it were the object of a long-running joke. Perhaps he considered it an affectation, for Monsieur Lambert’s greeting carried no trace of an accent, just a suggestion of revelry. “Cousin Matthew tells me you’ve only recently arrived in our city. I’m honored to be among the first to welcome you.” There was a certain foreignness in his demeanor, an elegance that evoked the Old World. His cologne, rich notes of vanilla and amber, briefly overpowered Kristopher’s unassuming bay rum as he bowed over my hand.
A uniformed waiter approached with a tray of glasses. Matt, never one to stand on ceremony, didn’t scruple to help himself. “This must be the ’59 Madeira you’ve been raving about.”
“The very same. One of New Orleans’s most popular imports,” Monsieur Lambert explained to Kristopher and me. To refuse such a hospitable gesture seemed ungracious in the extreme, yet I couldn’t in conscience accept. I murmured a polite negative.
“Would you prefer champagne?”
“Nothing, thank you.” His eyes were the queerest I’d ever seen, neither gray nor green nor blue but an elusive mixture of the three. Startlingly bright, a flare within like a struck match, and disconcerting in their directness.
Matt came to my rescue. “Our Katy is loyal to her teetotal upbringing. An angel among us sinners.”
“And you, Mr. Allen?” Perhaps I mistook Monsieur Lambert’s almost imperceptible stumble over the name. Nothing could be easier to pronounce, after all. “Do you partake?”
“Certainly, in moderation.” Kristopher accepted the glass from his hand. He was smiling, instantly at ease, as though this stranger were his long-lost friend.
Monsieur Lambert’s mouth turned up subtly. At the notion of moderation? “To a taste of your new home, then.” Their glasses met with a melodious ping of crystal.
“Well worth the fuss,” Matt pronounced, draining his last drop with relish. He clapped his cousin on the back. “Now where’s that champagne? Never mind, I’ll hunt it down myself while you tantalize our newcomers with the local attractions. Anything that might lure Allen here beyond the four walls of his office.” Winking at me, he slipped away.
“A lure,” Monsieur Lambert mused, still wearing that enigmatic smile. He could be no more than a few years older than Kristopher and I, yet a mantle of worldliness fit him as closely as his satin brocade waistcoat. I noticed for the first time his unusual adornment, a pendant in the shape of a reclining figure eight, suspended from a long chain of silver links. “You might enjoy the Old Absinthe House. They prepare the spirit in the traditional French style.” The swooping arcs of his fingers mimicked the drizzle of cold water from marble fountains. “It’s worth a visit for the ritual alone, and completely respectable, I assure you.”
“Completely? That’s a bit of a letdown,” my husband said with a crooked grin, and I could only stare. This was a side of Kristopher that rarely emerged in public, and never on such short acquaintance.
Monsieur Lambert’s laughter bubbled over, a joyous sound. “I’ll have to think of some more risqué entertainments for you, then.”
“It’s just that I’m in danger of becoming too respectable for my own good,” Kristopher confided. “I spend my days at a desk, going over columns of figures. I might as well have gone into my father’s investment bank. Soon I’ll develop an interest in ornithology, or start keeping scrapbooks.”
“Respectability, the greatest of tragedies! I’m hereby taking it upon myself to save you from that dreadful fate.”
“Nothing could be a better cure than the music you’re treating us to tonight.” The eagerness Kristopher brought to his pet subject lent him an appealingly boyish air. “The orchestra is first-rate. Little Rock has nothing to compare to it. I’m feeling more myself already.”
“Why, you’re one of us, by inclination if not by birth,” Monsieur Lambert said warmly. “Music is our lifeblood, as you’ll soon discover for yourself. Are you by chance fond of the opera?”
“Very much. I’m looking forward to this new Romeo and Juliet that’s got everyone talking.” Here the discussion became even more animated, and so technical I found it difficult to follow. “You must join me in my box,” Monsieur Lambert urged. “With your charming wife, of course.”
“Kristopher plays the piano,” I volunteered.
“Indeed,” Monsieur Lambert said, for all the world as if this weren’t news to him. With characteristic modesty, Kristopher disclaimed any exceptional skill. “Maybe if I had more time to devote to it. But it’s Matt who has the real gift.”
“Nothing against my cousin, but I doubt that very much. Something tells me you play beautifully. As it happens, I recently purchased the most marvelous Bosendorfer grand-- ”
Kristopher exclaimed in appreciation, and more incomprehensible talk followed, of bass keys, dampers, and harmonic coloration. “I have no knack for it myself, I’m afraid,” Monsieur Lambert said ruefully, in answer to Kristopher’s question. “But few things give me greater pleasure than to sing accompaniment.”
“I thought so. Countertenor?”
This had to be a lucky guess on Kristopher’s part; even I knew that a person’s speaking voice was no reliable indicator of singing voice type. But Monsieur Lambert’s face shone. His eyes were blue, I decided belatedly. “How clever you are! Please say you’ll do the honors at one of my informal musicales. I can give you a tolerable duet, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
By that time I was hard-pressed to hide my impatience to be away. My foot was all but tapping, in a breach of manners my mother would’ve deplored. Monsieur Lambert didn’t fail to notice. “But I’ve monopolized you long enough for now,” he said easily. “The dancing beckons, no doubt. I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.” And with an inclination of his head, he released us from that penetrating gaze.
“He doesn’t match his address,” I remarked to Kristopher, once we were out of earshot.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not at all. I was expecting a pillar of the community with huge side-whiskers. But he’s so . . . ”
“Eccentric?”
He turned to me with surprise, and with a touch of censure that was unlike him. “He . . . stands out, sure, but I was going to say friendly. And he obviously has a genuine feeling for music.”
The last was Kristopher’s highest praise. I persisted, “But his manner of dress, that intensity he has about him. You didn’t find it a bit much?”
“I thought it showed an artistic spirit. Just think how dull the world would be if we all crammed ourselves into the same mold.”
“Your Christian tolerance does you credit.” Better to yield than to disagree over such a trifling matter. Especially when the music was starting up again, yearning and sweet. “A Strauss waltz, if I’m not mistaken. I wonder if a handsome man will ask me to dance.” I fluttered my lashes at him like a romantic heroine.
He looked around straight-faced, making me giggle. “I don’t see any lurking nearby. I guess you’ll have to settle for me.” Dancing was not Kristopher’s forte, as he cheerfully acknowledged. During the months of our engagement, we’d spent hours practicing in my parents’ drawing room, counting steps with much gaiety and stepping-on of toes.
He retained a touch of diffidence, but I wouldn’t have traded his endearing concentration for the most polished mastery. Our matching height brought us delightfully close, as it did in circumstances that I blushed to recall outside our bedroom. Did his thoughts run along the same lines? It had been weeks since . . . On the eve of the wedding, Mother had counseled me on a man’s needs and a wife’s responsibility. For the sake of harmony between the two of you, try not to refuse him. She hadn’t mentioned the possibility that he might not ask.
“Look,” he said suddenly. The pattern of the dance had carried us to another, laid out beneath our feet. A medallion, dark marble contrasting with the white to form the same figure-eight symbol Monsieur Lambert wore around his neck. It must’ve been five feet across. “Isn’t that impressive?”
I couldn’t fathom why he was so taken with the thing when he scarcely noticed our own floors, or walls or furniture for that matter. “Impressive,” I echoed, and shook off an unaccountable chill. Someone walking over my grave, as we used to say back home.
Thanks to a steady stream of introductions from Matt, I didn’t lack for partners. I took a turn with a Mr. Ratliff, a dandy, to judge by his artfully winged hair and exaggerated lapels, but engaging in his manner. Afterward, I chatted with his fiancee, Miss Porter--Alisan, as she promptly insisted I call her--a high-spirited girl of around my own age. Somewhat enviously, I complimented her gown, a confection of rosy-pink ruffles and drapery trimmed with maroon lace.
“Isn’t it luscious?” She twirled in an exuberant circle while Mr. Ratliff beamed. “Not half so luscious as you, mon chaton,” he put in, disarmingly sincere, for all that his pronunciation was even more atrocious than my sister Meg’s. The doting look they exchanged gave me an odd pang. I glanced about for Kristopher, but he was nowhere to be seen in the crush.
Alisan listened sympathetically to my concerns over my own wardrobe. “Leave the yellow to the jeunes filles,” she agreed, with the blunt kindness of a longtime confidante. “Embrace your bold side--but of course you have one, every woman does! You’d look ravishing in jewel colors. Emerald and royal purple, to set off that lovely gold hair.” She was off and running. “You must let me introduce you to my dressmaker. She’s a marvel. Cousin Adam discovered her toiling away in some poky shop and set her up on Canal Street, wasn’t that brilliant of him?”
“You mean Monsieur Lambert?” Matt hadn’t exaggerated; they were all cousins here.
“Yes, my family is distantly connected to his--the American side, of course. He’s by far the most tolerable of my legions of relatives. Where is he, by the by? Oh, I spy that improbable black hair of his.” Alisan waved and blew a kiss that Monsieur Lambert returned, unembarrassed, along with a nod for me. The shorter man standing familiarly close to him, I realized with a start, was my husband. Kristopher’s eyes remained fixed on Monsieur Lambert’s face. He was holding another glass of wine.
“Oh, a Viennese waltz! Tommy, we must, you know I love it all to pieces-- ” Alisan was borne off by Mr. Ratliff amid effusive promises to call on me and accompany me to Madame Olympe’s establishment.
“She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?” It was Matt, reappearing to claim a dance for himself. I started to refuse, but he took advantage of my preoccupation to tow me onto the floor. Across the room, Monsieur Lambert leaned down attentively as Kristopher laid a hand on his arm.
“Tell me about your cousin,” I said abruptly.
“Which one? Ouch.” Matt pretended to quail when I swatted his shoulder with my fan. “As you wish. The family home is a plantation on the River Road. Sugar. You’ll be glad to hear that his grandfather freed their slaves decades before the War. Their neighbors were no more pleased than you’d expect, but when you’ve got almighty quantities of wealth and influence, popularity isn’t a big concern.”
At this, I did warm slightly to the descendant, for I too had been raised in an abolitionist household. “A man should call no one but the Lord his master,” Mother used say. “We are all His children.”
It was Monsieur Lambert’s brother who ran the plantation now, Matt went on, even though he was the younger of the two. “He has little patience for society, while Cousin Adam thrives on life in town and seldom visits Je Retournerai--Retour, as it’s known.”
I shall return, I translated from my meager store of schoolroom French. “What’s the meaning of the name, other than the literal?”
“No one knows. There’s a certain mystique that surrounds the Lamberts. They don’t cultivate it, exactly. They just don’t see a need to explain themselves.”
“And no one thought to simply ask? You New Orleanians,” I chided, a bit breathlessly. Matt led with more vigor than I was accustomed to. “How you cherish your undercurrents and murky depths.”
“The better to appreciate a refreshing drink of clean water. Such as yourself, my dear.” His teasing smile belied the gallant words. Clearly, I was destined never to live down my naïve inquiry about Storyville. Charmed by the name, I’d been mortified to learn that it was the city’s vice district. “A country bumpkin, you mean.” But I was not to be waylaid. “So Monsieur Lambert is a gentleman of leisure?”
“He’s a leading patron of the arts.” Matt’s hesitation implied a great deal withheld. “One of the most generous supporters of the French Opera and the Twelfth Night festivities. Ignore any nonsense you may hear about his habits,” he added robustly, confirming the existence of such gossip.
“What kind of nonsense?”
“Oh . . . rumor has it that he consults Malvina Latour, the Voodoo queen, and attends the St. John’s Eve celebrations.” From his carefully neutral expression, I gathered that the details of these rites were unfit for a lady’s ears. “That he carries a special gris-gris containing garnets, to enhance--ah. I think he actually encourages the talk. It amuses him to see priggish types work themselves into conniption fits over nothing.”
Nothing? I doubted that. Perhaps I'd hear the whispers for myself, perhaps not. I was already learning that New Orleans hugged its secrets close, the better to savor them. Where I came from, one never need suspect dark intrigue behind an alluring facade. Poignant memories stirred: our Little Rock church, with its smell of pine and lilies; my parents’ porch, where Kristopher and I had courted; the sunflowers that grew wild by the roadside in August. Beauty flourished here, undeniably. But it was the beauty of a night garden, overgrown with luminous, poisonous blooms, their perfume a corrupt miasma the natives called glamour.
I had no cause to feel homesick, I reminded myself, not when I had Kristopher. He was all the home I needed. To my relief, I found him alone. “Do you mind if we sit out the quadrille?” he asked without preamble. “I’m feeling a bit all-overish.”
The flush of his skin did little to temper my irritation. “How much did you have to drink?”
He sighed. “Katy, I don’t see the harm in a little indulgence, no matter what your mother says.”
Sometimes I longed for a display of anger or defensiveness on his part. Any strong emotion. His quiet forbearance made me feel like a fool, carrying on a one-sided quarrel. Nonetheless, I burst out, “When have I ever judged you for your moderation? It’s you who think I’m a wet blanket for abstaining.”
“That’s not true,” he said tiredly. He took out his handkerchief and blotted his temples. “I respect your principles, even though I don’t share them.”
This wasn’t the route to marital harmony. To--not to a reconciliation, there was no breach to mend--but to his affection, his embraces. After a calming interval, I said, conciliatory, “I see Matt's dancing with my new friend Alisan Porter. He’ll never find a wife if he keeps wasting his attentions on married and soon-to-be-married ladies.” As a further peace offering, I opened my fan and whipped up a breeze over both of us.
“I doubt he’s in the market. You’ve heard his jokes. ‘Marriage is a admirable institution, but I’d rather not be committed.’ And so forth.”
“But don’t all men want . . . children?”
The question provoked a small smile, one of amusement contained rather than shared. “Certain men are better off as bachelors.”
I followed the direction of his gaze--not to Matt, but to another dancer, whose surpassing height caught even the unwilling eye. Monsieur Lambert held the hand of an auburn-haired girl who laughed up at him in adoration. He didn’t walk through the figures so much as glide, with an almost feminine suppleness of movement; and I couldn’t help but wonder why God had seen fit to endow one man with so many graces. “Kristopher-- ”
“Hmm?” He didn’t turn.
“Matt was telling me-- ” It was on the tip of my tongue to repeat the salacious rumors, the hints of excess and worse. But instinct warned me that the topic would only lead to further friction. I snapped my fan shut. “A cup of lemonade would be nice,” I said, unintentionally sharp.
“All right, I’ll get it.”
The grand round was ending. I soon lost sight of Kristopher in the crush, but Matt took his place at my side straightaway. “Where’s our little stargazer wandered off to this time?”
Taken aback, I wondered if I’d heard correctly--not the words, but the contempt. Matt and Kristopher traded barbs constantly, true, but in the amiable way of bickering brothers. Had they been arguing over the business? I said lightly, “I’ll never understand the way men show fondness for one another, with sarcasm and insults.”
“I’m beginning to think he deserves both. Married to the most beautiful girl in the world, and he’d rather daydream or play the piano. I’m fond of the piano myself, but who could prefer cold, hard ivory to warm and soft?” His fingers brushed my cheek, setting it aflame. Surely he didn’t mean . . . For all his brashness, he’d never crossed the bounds of gentlemanly conduct.
I strove for humor. “That silver tongue is going to get you into trouble one of these days, if you’re not careful.”
His serious, intent expression transformed him into a more imposing figure than the Matt I knew. “It’s not flattery when it’s meant, and warranted. And as for getting into trouble . . . Lately I find myself willing to take that risk.”
His hand was so very large. I stammered, “I--we value your friendship, Kristopher and I. It would be a shame if a . . . misunderstanding came between us.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.” The silence that fell between us refused to settle. The tension didn’t dissipate. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” he finished at last.
I seized on the formality as though it were a heartfelt apology. “Of course. I won’t mention this to Kristopher.” Not even my peaceable Kristopher could forgive his best friend for making advances to his wife. Could he?
My uncertainty must’ve shown on my face. Matt took ruthless advantage. “Because he’ll lose his temper? Take a swing at me, tear up the parnership? Or because he won’t?”
He’d gone too far. The heat in my cheeks was purely my own temper rising. “How dare you imply-- ”
“That he’s not man enough to appreciate what he’s got?” The sneer was unmistakable. “No bride should have that wistful look in her eyes. If you were mine, you’d never have to pine for my company. I’d devote myself to your happiness, day and night. Can he even-- ”
“Stop,” I hissed, before he could utter some unforgivable vulgarity. So this was how men came to blows. Only fear of scandal stayed the hand that rose unbidden to slap him across the face. “I won’t listen to any more of this--this-- ” I blundered into the crowd, nodding and smiling fixedly to excuse my clumsiness, praying he wouldn’t follow me. As his insinuations did. Kristopher. I would tell him, never mind the cost. He had a right to know. I had to know.
The refreshment alcove was an oasis of laden tables and fancifully carved ice sculptures that lowered the temperature by a few blessed degrees. But I’d missed Kristopher. For what seemed the dozenth time that evening, I scanned the throng in vain. If I went after him, I risked crossing paths with Matt. The more sensible course would be to watch for him from this comfortable vantage point.
Too distraght to be sensible, I sought a pretext for action. I remembered the mention of a piano. Perhaps Kristopher had been unable to resist stealing a glimpse. Still dithering, I committed the rudeness of slipping from the ballroom and venturing into the house beyond.
Tiptoeing in my soft-soled slippers, I found the music room, where an ebony grand piano worthy of a concert hall reigned in solitary splendor. A library, a sitting room hung with fantastical canvases, their churning colors and patterns seemingly calculated to overwhelm the senses. Likewise empty. Increasingly convinced of my own folly, I resolved to finish my search of this wing and trespass no farther.
From the end of the hallway came a noise eerily like a groan. Highly strung as I was, I couldn’t repress a shudder. A number of mansions in the Garden District were reputed to be haunted; the owner of this one would likely consider a resident ghost a capital joke. I summoned Mother’s brisk admonishing voice, reminding me that a Christian had no use for Spiritualist rubbish, and crept on.
The last of the rooms proved ordinary enough, a small office. Despite the muted glow of the single lamp, I had no difficulty recognizing Monsieur Lambert. He was kneeling on the Turkey carpet. Arrested on the threshold, I stared at the long line of his back in his tailored coat, at the movement of his dark head. My uncomprehending gaze flew up to Kristopher’s face, and I realized with a shock that those inarticulate sounds were issuing from his mouth. Harsh now, like nothing I’d ever heard, but it wasn’t pain that contorted his features. He gripped the desk behind him with both hands, fingers clenching white as his formless cry shaped itself into the name Adam.
As he sagged against the desk, Monsieur Lambert rose, fluid as in the dance, and bent to him. Kristopher received his kiss with the craving thirst of a drunkard for a bottle, his head lolling in abandon. It went on and on, with the lewdest passion on both sides, until I was obliged to accept the evidence of my own eyes. Though I'd been raised in sheltered ignorance of such things, I knew instinctively that this was what degeneracy meant.
Who knows how long I would’ve stood frozen, a mute witness, had not my fan slipped from my fingers and clattered on the floor. Monsieur Lambert turned. He showed neither surprise nor consternation to see me standing there, and I comprehended that he’d been aware of my presence all along. Very deliberately, he licked glistening lips before offering me a charming smile, the apology of a neglectful host. One of his hands settled on the nape of Kristopher’s neck in an unmistakable statement of ownership.
And Kristopher . . . His soft and sated expression didn’t alter as he looked at me. Through me.
I recoiled as though he’d struck me, my Kristopher who was incapable of anything but kindness. This couldn’t be his doing, any of it. He’d fallen victim to some malign form of mesmerism. It was his seducer I confronted, panic turning my voice high and thin, childlike. “He’s mine. You can’t have him.”
Monsieur Lambert laughed, carefree and radiant. “I can have him here in front of you, if I so choose.”
Didn’t Scripture warn of evil that wore a pleasing guise? “Our Father, who art in Heaven . . . ” The stalwart lines crumbled to dust in my imploring grasp. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want-- ”
“To want is divine.”
“Kristopher,” I cried out. Unheeding, he turned his face into Monsieur Lambert’s shoulder as though finding his accustomed place there; as though he would know the other man in the dark. My faith in him gave way to the most dreadful suspicion. “This isn’t the first time, is it? You’ve been meeting in secret--practicing these perversions-- ”
“We’ve loved before, yes.” Monsieur Lambert’s detachment, the mildly amused regard that had dismissed me as a rival within the first minute of our meeting, was gone. In its place was the zeal of the true believer, whose words rang with awful finality. “Not in this lifetime, but in countless others. We’ll love again, as the universe has ordained.” His unearthly eyes branded me the interloper here. I shrank from them, as superstitious as any servant girl who carried a red flannel pouch to ward off harm.
“Katy!” The hurrying footsteps and concerned voice belonged to Matt. An answer to my prayers. In that moment, I cared only that he was my ally, that I was no longer friendless and alone in enemy territory. I leaned gratefully into his strong support.
“Cousin Matthew,” Monsieur Lambert greeted him, smooth as an actor picking up a cue. “Your arrival is well timed. Would you be so good as to assist Mrs. Allen? She was just complaining of the heat. Something cool to drink--non-intoxicating, of course-- ”
“My poor darling girl.” Matt’s solicitude brought tears to my eyes. I’d misjudged him earlier. Somehow he’d guessed at Kristopher’s weakness--his betrayal--and tried to protect me from it. “I’m sorry you had to see this,” he said quietly. “But maybe it’s for the best.” He addressed Monsieur Lambert, sardonic. “You have things well in hand here?”
“Go,” Monsieur Lambert said shortly, dropping the charade. With a sudden and startling tenderness, he drew Kristopher into the circle of his arms. “How I’ve missed you,” he crooned, sweet as a lullaby, for Kristopher’s ears alone. To hear him, you’d think that the devil could feel awe; that he could weep for joy. Dare I confess the worst? In my heart of hearts, I believed. Cowed by the force of his conviction, I beheld the tableau as an inevitable consummation: not fate’s travesty, but its triumph.
I turned away, not soon enough. Kristopher’s words reached me, faint but clear. “You promised you’d carry a piece of me always.” And the ardent response. “My own heart. Which I now give back to you.”
--End--
Note: Matt's quip about marriage as an institution is based on a quote most commonly attributed to H.L. Mencken (also to Groucho Marx and W.C. Fields).
Sequel, Kris/Adam, 600 words, rated R: The Night Garden
Le beau Monsieur Lambert
Pairing: Kris/Katy, Kris/Adam
Word count: 5700
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dubcon
Summary: The invitation to an Uptown gala promised an antidote to routine. (Historical AU)
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Absence--that common cure of love.
Lord Byron
Incurable
For the first three weeks of our residence in New Orleans, we’d led a quiet life. We were lucky enough to have an entrée into society--Matt Giraud, Kristopher’s business partner and our devoted friend--but mundane matters consumed our time. Kristopher was occupied with the particulars of launching a commercial venture (“All very dull,” he said invariably at day’s end, with a weariness that discouraged further questions), and I with the myriad details of setting up a household.
The invitation to an Uptown gala promised an antidote to routine. “And an opportunity to form useful connections,” Matt pointed out to Kristopher, who demurred, “I’ll leave that side of things to the man with the gift of gab, thanks.”
“Ah, so you concede my persuasive powers!” Matt proceeded to exert them. “I guarantee you this won’t be some stuffy affair. And you must see the house, it’s one of the jewels of St. Charles.”
I clapped my hands in excitement. St. Charles Avenue was the famed address of the city’s millionaires and power brokers. “There!” Matt said in satisfaction. “How can you deny Katy such a source of inspiration for her decorating schemes?”
Kristopher groaned. “A source of temptation, you mean. I’m trying to convince her to keep her schemes on a modest scale.” But he was smiling in his agreeable way, acquiescing, as I’d known he would.
With the vanity of a new bride, I’d been yearning to show off my trousseau; there was one gown in particular that I’d been saving for our first ball as a married couple. In the carriage, however, I fretted over the tiers of daffodil-yellow silk, daringly modish by Little Rock standards, but perhaps not quite worthy of such a rarefied setting.
Matt, making a third of our party as he so often did, was generous with his compliments. “You’ll outshine them all, my dear. Your husband, on the other hand-- ” His disparaging wave encompassed Kristopher’s unfashionable white waistcoat--he’d resisted a trip to the tailor--and his unpomaded, slightly mussed brown hair.
“I wouldn’t venture to compete with you,” Kristopher said equably. “I don't have the flair it takes to dress up as a riverboat gambler.”
We all laughed, Matt most heartily of all. One couldn’t deny the truth of the jest, even though Matt had foregone his customary rolled-brim hat. “You’re sure to cut a dash tonight,” I told him. “Young ladies can’t resist a whiff of danger.”
Kristopher laughed again. “Don’t bother trying to play matchmaker for him. When he’d visit us back home, Mama was constantly throwing debutantes in his path. He’d charm them, serenade them-- ”
“‘None But The Lonely Heart’ brought them to tears every time,” Matt said reminiscently.
“ --And then throw them right back. Good thing she marked you out for me.” He tweaked one of my curls, and I thrilled to the playful gesture. “Otherwise you might’ve gotten your heart broken. Better than ending up as Mrs. Giraud, I suppose.”
“You would’ve been the making of me,” Matt assured me, clutching his heart with a tragic sigh.
I smiled at his theatrics, and at the unwitting echo of my wedding day. “I think you’ll be the making of him, my dear,” my new mother-in-law had said generously, bestowing a kiss on my cheek, before Kristopher and I departed on our Niagara Falls honeymoon. To my mind, he was already the finest of men: quiet but steadfast in his faith, attuned to the beauty in God’s works, never one to raise his voice or use coarse language. Breathtakingly handsome, with his delicately sculpted jaw and expressive brown eyes.
His gentleness that night had made it impossible to be afraid. Of course he’d been as innocent as I. “We can learn together,” he’d said, touchingly candid. Unclothed, he resembled the Greek statues in history books, lean and smooth-chested. I soon found myself eager to test the truth of my sisters’ whispered speculation on the subject of carnal love; and if the act at first seemed farfetched, it was in the end sweeter than I ever imagined.
The carriage was turning onto St. Charles. Gaslamps cast their sentinel glow over the street, the sky having lately deepened past twilight. Kristopher, habitually curious, peered out the window at the neighborhood’s renowned gardens. “What’re those things with leaves like massive paddles?”
I had no idea. “The ones with bananas hanging off them are banana trees,” was Matt's contribution.
“It’s like a tropical island. But the houses make me think of Rome or Tuscany. Not that I’ve ever seen the real thing.”
“Still hankering after that Grand Tour, aren’t you, Allen?” Matt said indulgently.
“So long as there’s a whole world out there . . . ”
“There’s a whole world right here, if you'd only come sightseeing with us,” I coaxed. Escorted by Matt, my self-appointed tour guide, I’d already filled my sketchbook with the spires of St. Louis Cathedral and the colorful flat-roofed shops of the French Quarter, with spindly-legged herons poised for flight and venerable oaks gray-bearded with moss. I found the city not just exotic but alien, a spice that never failed to awaken the palate, even if the taste wasn’t always pleasing. At the Courtyard of The Vine on Chartres Street, we’d stood marveling under the ancient wisteria, whose extravagance of lavender blooms had formed a parasol fit for a queen; and whose many trunks, growing as if braided by a great hand, had seemed to writhe grotesquely.
“One of these days,” Kristopher said absently. “Are we there? Nice.” Typical understatement on his part. We’d drawn up in front of the largest Italianate villa of them all, and Matt confirmed that this was indeed Les Etoiles. As we emerged from the carriage, the strains of a waltz reached us, tripping and sweet. A siren song for Kristopher, who looked up entranced. Music was his cherished hobby; his talent for the piano exceeded that of most amateurs, and his poignantly lovely singing voice had, in my admittedly biased opinion, no peer in our church back home.
Chuckling, Matt drew my attention to the ornate scrolled grillwork fronting the house’s balconies--galleries, they called them here. The wrought-iron lace bore a superimposed monogram, the initials A and L in Gothic script. “That’s a new bit of gingerbread. But very typical.”
“Of the local architecture?”
“Of my cousin. He likes to put his mark on things.”
“Cousin! You didn’t mention the relationship.”
Matt shrugged. “Oh, we’re all related here, somehow or other. We Creoles are a close-knit bunch. We call each other cousin because it’s easier than trying to figure out where we get our common drop of blood.”
Inside, the opulence was too much to take in at a glance. Parquet floors polished to a dazzling sheen, a rococo-and-gilt dining room that reflected a flair for the dramatic, a tall oxblood vase filled with peacock feathers. “Good heavens,” I said, sotto voce, as we mounted a broad, curving staircase carpeted in midnight blue. “I certainly won’t be asking the lady of the house for decorating advice.”
“Cousin Adam isn’t married.” Why such an unremarkable fact should put that confidential note in Matt’s voice, I had no idea. A broken engagement? There was no time to ask. We were stepping across the threshold--from boldness to romance, from the modern era to the past, from the everyday to enchantment. Candlelight reflected and multiplied in countless mirrored sconces, the sort I’d coveted in the Royal Street antique shops, bathing the assembly in the aura of a masquerade. On the dance floor, the ladies’ swirling skirts seemed barely to touch the ground. A glint from above drew my eye to a firmament of tiny stars, benign twinkles of gilt scattered across the high molded ceiling. Les etoiles.
Brighter sparks fired in the glossy dark hair of the man who’d joined us without my noticing. Had I been less enthralled, I could hardly have overlooked him, for he was possibly the tallest man in the room. He was speaking to Matt in low tones; I caught the word cousin in Matt’s reply and deduced that this was our host.
Matt performed the introductions with his usual verve. “Kristopher Allen, my college roommate and the other half of Giraud and Allen Mercantile, and his other, better half, Katherine Allen, Monsieur Adam Lambert.” He gave the title a mocking emphasis, as though it were the object of a long-running joke. Perhaps he considered it an affectation, for Monsieur Lambert’s greeting carried no trace of an accent, just a suggestion of revelry. “Cousin Matthew tells me you’ve only recently arrived in our city. I’m honored to be among the first to welcome you.” There was a certain foreignness in his demeanor, an elegance that evoked the Old World. His cologne, rich notes of vanilla and amber, briefly overpowered Kristopher’s unassuming bay rum as he bowed over my hand.
A uniformed waiter approached with a tray of glasses. Matt, never one to stand on ceremony, didn’t scruple to help himself. “This must be the ’59 Madeira you’ve been raving about.”
“The very same. One of New Orleans’s most popular imports,” Monsieur Lambert explained to Kristopher and me. To refuse such a hospitable gesture seemed ungracious in the extreme, yet I couldn’t in conscience accept. I murmured a polite negative.
“Would you prefer champagne?”
“Nothing, thank you.” His eyes were the queerest I’d ever seen, neither gray nor green nor blue but an elusive mixture of the three. Startlingly bright, a flare within like a struck match, and disconcerting in their directness.
Matt came to my rescue. “Our Katy is loyal to her teetotal upbringing. An angel among us sinners.”
“And you, Mr. Allen?” Perhaps I mistook Monsieur Lambert’s almost imperceptible stumble over the name. Nothing could be easier to pronounce, after all. “Do you partake?”
“Certainly, in moderation.” Kristopher accepted the glass from his hand. He was smiling, instantly at ease, as though this stranger were his long-lost friend.
Monsieur Lambert’s mouth turned up subtly. At the notion of moderation? “To a taste of your new home, then.” Their glasses met with a melodious ping of crystal.
“Well worth the fuss,” Matt pronounced, draining his last drop with relish. He clapped his cousin on the back. “Now where’s that champagne? Never mind, I’ll hunt it down myself while you tantalize our newcomers with the local attractions. Anything that might lure Allen here beyond the four walls of his office.” Winking at me, he slipped away.
“A lure,” Monsieur Lambert mused, still wearing that enigmatic smile. He could be no more than a few years older than Kristopher and I, yet a mantle of worldliness fit him as closely as his satin brocade waistcoat. I noticed for the first time his unusual adornment, a pendant in the shape of a reclining figure eight, suspended from a long chain of silver links. “You might enjoy the Old Absinthe House. They prepare the spirit in the traditional French style.” The swooping arcs of his fingers mimicked the drizzle of cold water from marble fountains. “It’s worth a visit for the ritual alone, and completely respectable, I assure you.”
“Completely? That’s a bit of a letdown,” my husband said with a crooked grin, and I could only stare. This was a side of Kristopher that rarely emerged in public, and never on such short acquaintance.
Monsieur Lambert’s laughter bubbled over, a joyous sound. “I’ll have to think of some more risqué entertainments for you, then.”
“It’s just that I’m in danger of becoming too respectable for my own good,” Kristopher confided. “I spend my days at a desk, going over columns of figures. I might as well have gone into my father’s investment bank. Soon I’ll develop an interest in ornithology, or start keeping scrapbooks.”
“Respectability, the greatest of tragedies! I’m hereby taking it upon myself to save you from that dreadful fate.”
“Nothing could be a better cure than the music you’re treating us to tonight.” The eagerness Kristopher brought to his pet subject lent him an appealingly boyish air. “The orchestra is first-rate. Little Rock has nothing to compare to it. I’m feeling more myself already.”
“Why, you’re one of us, by inclination if not by birth,” Monsieur Lambert said warmly. “Music is our lifeblood, as you’ll soon discover for yourself. Are you by chance fond of the opera?”
“Very much. I’m looking forward to this new Romeo and Juliet that’s got everyone talking.” Here the discussion became even more animated, and so technical I found it difficult to follow. “You must join me in my box,” Monsieur Lambert urged. “With your charming wife, of course.”
“Kristopher plays the piano,” I volunteered.
“Indeed,” Monsieur Lambert said, for all the world as if this weren’t news to him. With characteristic modesty, Kristopher disclaimed any exceptional skill. “Maybe if I had more time to devote to it. But it’s Matt who has the real gift.”
“Nothing against my cousin, but I doubt that very much. Something tells me you play beautifully. As it happens, I recently purchased the most marvelous Bosendorfer grand-- ”
Kristopher exclaimed in appreciation, and more incomprehensible talk followed, of bass keys, dampers, and harmonic coloration. “I have no knack for it myself, I’m afraid,” Monsieur Lambert said ruefully, in answer to Kristopher’s question. “But few things give me greater pleasure than to sing accompaniment.”
“I thought so. Countertenor?”
This had to be a lucky guess on Kristopher’s part; even I knew that a person’s speaking voice was no reliable indicator of singing voice type. But Monsieur Lambert’s face shone. His eyes were blue, I decided belatedly. “How clever you are! Please say you’ll do the honors at one of my informal musicales. I can give you a tolerable duet, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
By that time I was hard-pressed to hide my impatience to be away. My foot was all but tapping, in a breach of manners my mother would’ve deplored. Monsieur Lambert didn’t fail to notice. “But I’ve monopolized you long enough for now,” he said easily. “The dancing beckons, no doubt. I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.” And with an inclination of his head, he released us from that penetrating gaze.
“He doesn’t match his address,” I remarked to Kristopher, once we were out of earshot.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not at all. I was expecting a pillar of the community with huge side-whiskers. But he’s so . . . ”
“Eccentric?”
He turned to me with surprise, and with a touch of censure that was unlike him. “He . . . stands out, sure, but I was going to say friendly. And he obviously has a genuine feeling for music.”
The last was Kristopher’s highest praise. I persisted, “But his manner of dress, that intensity he has about him. You didn’t find it a bit much?”
“I thought it showed an artistic spirit. Just think how dull the world would be if we all crammed ourselves into the same mold.”
“Your Christian tolerance does you credit.” Better to yield than to disagree over such a trifling matter. Especially when the music was starting up again, yearning and sweet. “A Strauss waltz, if I’m not mistaken. I wonder if a handsome man will ask me to dance.” I fluttered my lashes at him like a romantic heroine.
He looked around straight-faced, making me giggle. “I don’t see any lurking nearby. I guess you’ll have to settle for me.” Dancing was not Kristopher’s forte, as he cheerfully acknowledged. During the months of our engagement, we’d spent hours practicing in my parents’ drawing room, counting steps with much gaiety and stepping-on of toes.
He retained a touch of diffidence, but I wouldn’t have traded his endearing concentration for the most polished mastery. Our matching height brought us delightfully close, as it did in circumstances that I blushed to recall outside our bedroom. Did his thoughts run along the same lines? It had been weeks since . . . On the eve of the wedding, Mother had counseled me on a man’s needs and a wife’s responsibility. For the sake of harmony between the two of you, try not to refuse him. She hadn’t mentioned the possibility that he might not ask.
“Look,” he said suddenly. The pattern of the dance had carried us to another, laid out beneath our feet. A medallion, dark marble contrasting with the white to form the same figure-eight symbol Monsieur Lambert wore around his neck. It must’ve been five feet across. “Isn’t that impressive?”
I couldn’t fathom why he was so taken with the thing when he scarcely noticed our own floors, or walls or furniture for that matter. “Impressive,” I echoed, and shook off an unaccountable chill. Someone walking over my grave, as we used to say back home.
Thanks to a steady stream of introductions from Matt, I didn’t lack for partners. I took a turn with a Mr. Ratliff, a dandy, to judge by his artfully winged hair and exaggerated lapels, but engaging in his manner. Afterward, I chatted with his fiancee, Miss Porter--Alisan, as she promptly insisted I call her--a high-spirited girl of around my own age. Somewhat enviously, I complimented her gown, a confection of rosy-pink ruffles and drapery trimmed with maroon lace.
“Isn’t it luscious?” She twirled in an exuberant circle while Mr. Ratliff beamed. “Not half so luscious as you, mon chaton,” he put in, disarmingly sincere, for all that his pronunciation was even more atrocious than my sister Meg’s. The doting look they exchanged gave me an odd pang. I glanced about for Kristopher, but he was nowhere to be seen in the crush.
Alisan listened sympathetically to my concerns over my own wardrobe. “Leave the yellow to the jeunes filles,” she agreed, with the blunt kindness of a longtime confidante. “Embrace your bold side--but of course you have one, every woman does! You’d look ravishing in jewel colors. Emerald and royal purple, to set off that lovely gold hair.” She was off and running. “You must let me introduce you to my dressmaker. She’s a marvel. Cousin Adam discovered her toiling away in some poky shop and set her up on Canal Street, wasn’t that brilliant of him?”
“You mean Monsieur Lambert?” Matt hadn’t exaggerated; they were all cousins here.
“Yes, my family is distantly connected to his--the American side, of course. He’s by far the most tolerable of my legions of relatives. Where is he, by the by? Oh, I spy that improbable black hair of his.” Alisan waved and blew a kiss that Monsieur Lambert returned, unembarrassed, along with a nod for me. The shorter man standing familiarly close to him, I realized with a start, was my husband. Kristopher’s eyes remained fixed on Monsieur Lambert’s face. He was holding another glass of wine.
“Oh, a Viennese waltz! Tommy, we must, you know I love it all to pieces-- ” Alisan was borne off by Mr. Ratliff amid effusive promises to call on me and accompany me to Madame Olympe’s establishment.
“She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?” It was Matt, reappearing to claim a dance for himself. I started to refuse, but he took advantage of my preoccupation to tow me onto the floor. Across the room, Monsieur Lambert leaned down attentively as Kristopher laid a hand on his arm.
“Tell me about your cousin,” I said abruptly.
“Which one? Ouch.” Matt pretended to quail when I swatted his shoulder with my fan. “As you wish. The family home is a plantation on the River Road. Sugar. You’ll be glad to hear that his grandfather freed their slaves decades before the War. Their neighbors were no more pleased than you’d expect, but when you’ve got almighty quantities of wealth and influence, popularity isn’t a big concern.”
At this, I did warm slightly to the descendant, for I too had been raised in an abolitionist household. “A man should call no one but the Lord his master,” Mother used say. “We are all His children.”
It was Monsieur Lambert’s brother who ran the plantation now, Matt went on, even though he was the younger of the two. “He has little patience for society, while Cousin Adam thrives on life in town and seldom visits Je Retournerai--Retour, as it’s known.”
I shall return, I translated from my meager store of schoolroom French. “What’s the meaning of the name, other than the literal?”
“No one knows. There’s a certain mystique that surrounds the Lamberts. They don’t cultivate it, exactly. They just don’t see a need to explain themselves.”
“And no one thought to simply ask? You New Orleanians,” I chided, a bit breathlessly. Matt led with more vigor than I was accustomed to. “How you cherish your undercurrents and murky depths.”
“The better to appreciate a refreshing drink of clean water. Such as yourself, my dear.” His teasing smile belied the gallant words. Clearly, I was destined never to live down my naïve inquiry about Storyville. Charmed by the name, I’d been mortified to learn that it was the city’s vice district. “A country bumpkin, you mean.” But I was not to be waylaid. “So Monsieur Lambert is a gentleman of leisure?”
“He’s a leading patron of the arts.” Matt’s hesitation implied a great deal withheld. “One of the most generous supporters of the French Opera and the Twelfth Night festivities. Ignore any nonsense you may hear about his habits,” he added robustly, confirming the existence of such gossip.
“What kind of nonsense?”
“Oh . . . rumor has it that he consults Malvina Latour, the Voodoo queen, and attends the St. John’s Eve celebrations.” From his carefully neutral expression, I gathered that the details of these rites were unfit for a lady’s ears. “That he carries a special gris-gris containing garnets, to enhance--ah. I think he actually encourages the talk. It amuses him to see priggish types work themselves into conniption fits over nothing.”
Nothing? I doubted that. Perhaps I'd hear the whispers for myself, perhaps not. I was already learning that New Orleans hugged its secrets close, the better to savor them. Where I came from, one never need suspect dark intrigue behind an alluring facade. Poignant memories stirred: our Little Rock church, with its smell of pine and lilies; my parents’ porch, where Kristopher and I had courted; the sunflowers that grew wild by the roadside in August. Beauty flourished here, undeniably. But it was the beauty of a night garden, overgrown with luminous, poisonous blooms, their perfume a corrupt miasma the natives called glamour.
I had no cause to feel homesick, I reminded myself, not when I had Kristopher. He was all the home I needed. To my relief, I found him alone. “Do you mind if we sit out the quadrille?” he asked without preamble. “I’m feeling a bit all-overish.”
The flush of his skin did little to temper my irritation. “How much did you have to drink?”
He sighed. “Katy, I don’t see the harm in a little indulgence, no matter what your mother says.”
Sometimes I longed for a display of anger or defensiveness on his part. Any strong emotion. His quiet forbearance made me feel like a fool, carrying on a one-sided quarrel. Nonetheless, I burst out, “When have I ever judged you for your moderation? It’s you who think I’m a wet blanket for abstaining.”
“That’s not true,” he said tiredly. He took out his handkerchief and blotted his temples. “I respect your principles, even though I don’t share them.”
This wasn’t the route to marital harmony. To--not to a reconciliation, there was no breach to mend--but to his affection, his embraces. After a calming interval, I said, conciliatory, “I see Matt's dancing with my new friend Alisan Porter. He’ll never find a wife if he keeps wasting his attentions on married and soon-to-be-married ladies.” As a further peace offering, I opened my fan and whipped up a breeze over both of us.
“I doubt he’s in the market. You’ve heard his jokes. ‘Marriage is a admirable institution, but I’d rather not be committed.’ And so forth.”
“But don’t all men want . . . children?”
The question provoked a small smile, one of amusement contained rather than shared. “Certain men are better off as bachelors.”
I followed the direction of his gaze--not to Matt, but to another dancer, whose surpassing height caught even the unwilling eye. Monsieur Lambert held the hand of an auburn-haired girl who laughed up at him in adoration. He didn’t walk through the figures so much as glide, with an almost feminine suppleness of movement; and I couldn’t help but wonder why God had seen fit to endow one man with so many graces. “Kristopher-- ”
“Hmm?” He didn’t turn.
“Matt was telling me-- ” It was on the tip of my tongue to repeat the salacious rumors, the hints of excess and worse. But instinct warned me that the topic would only lead to further friction. I snapped my fan shut. “A cup of lemonade would be nice,” I said, unintentionally sharp.
“All right, I’ll get it.”
The grand round was ending. I soon lost sight of Kristopher in the crush, but Matt took his place at my side straightaway. “Where’s our little stargazer wandered off to this time?”
Taken aback, I wondered if I’d heard correctly--not the words, but the contempt. Matt and Kristopher traded barbs constantly, true, but in the amiable way of bickering brothers. Had they been arguing over the business? I said lightly, “I’ll never understand the way men show fondness for one another, with sarcasm and insults.”
“I’m beginning to think he deserves both. Married to the most beautiful girl in the world, and he’d rather daydream or play the piano. I’m fond of the piano myself, but who could prefer cold, hard ivory to warm and soft?” His fingers brushed my cheek, setting it aflame. Surely he didn’t mean . . . For all his brashness, he’d never crossed the bounds of gentlemanly conduct.
I strove for humor. “That silver tongue is going to get you into trouble one of these days, if you’re not careful.”
His serious, intent expression transformed him into a more imposing figure than the Matt I knew. “It’s not flattery when it’s meant, and warranted. And as for getting into trouble . . . Lately I find myself willing to take that risk.”
His hand was so very large. I stammered, “I--we value your friendship, Kristopher and I. It would be a shame if a . . . misunderstanding came between us.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.” The silence that fell between us refused to settle. The tension didn’t dissipate. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” he finished at last.
I seized on the formality as though it were a heartfelt apology. “Of course. I won’t mention this to Kristopher.” Not even my peaceable Kristopher could forgive his best friend for making advances to his wife. Could he?
My uncertainty must’ve shown on my face. Matt took ruthless advantage. “Because he’ll lose his temper? Take a swing at me, tear up the parnership? Or because he won’t?”
He’d gone too far. The heat in my cheeks was purely my own temper rising. “How dare you imply-- ”
“That he’s not man enough to appreciate what he’s got?” The sneer was unmistakable. “No bride should have that wistful look in her eyes. If you were mine, you’d never have to pine for my company. I’d devote myself to your happiness, day and night. Can he even-- ”
“Stop,” I hissed, before he could utter some unforgivable vulgarity. So this was how men came to blows. Only fear of scandal stayed the hand that rose unbidden to slap him across the face. “I won’t listen to any more of this--this-- ” I blundered into the crowd, nodding and smiling fixedly to excuse my clumsiness, praying he wouldn’t follow me. As his insinuations did. Kristopher. I would tell him, never mind the cost. He had a right to know. I had to know.
The refreshment alcove was an oasis of laden tables and fancifully carved ice sculptures that lowered the temperature by a few blessed degrees. But I’d missed Kristopher. For what seemed the dozenth time that evening, I scanned the throng in vain. If I went after him, I risked crossing paths with Matt. The more sensible course would be to watch for him from this comfortable vantage point.
Too distraght to be sensible, I sought a pretext for action. I remembered the mention of a piano. Perhaps Kristopher had been unable to resist stealing a glimpse. Still dithering, I committed the rudeness of slipping from the ballroom and venturing into the house beyond.
Tiptoeing in my soft-soled slippers, I found the music room, where an ebony grand piano worthy of a concert hall reigned in solitary splendor. A library, a sitting room hung with fantastical canvases, their churning colors and patterns seemingly calculated to overwhelm the senses. Likewise empty. Increasingly convinced of my own folly, I resolved to finish my search of this wing and trespass no farther.
From the end of the hallway came a noise eerily like a groan. Highly strung as I was, I couldn’t repress a shudder. A number of mansions in the Garden District were reputed to be haunted; the owner of this one would likely consider a resident ghost a capital joke. I summoned Mother’s brisk admonishing voice, reminding me that a Christian had no use for Spiritualist rubbish, and crept on.
The last of the rooms proved ordinary enough, a small office. Despite the muted glow of the single lamp, I had no difficulty recognizing Monsieur Lambert. He was kneeling on the Turkey carpet. Arrested on the threshold, I stared at the long line of his back in his tailored coat, at the movement of his dark head. My uncomprehending gaze flew up to Kristopher’s face, and I realized with a shock that those inarticulate sounds were issuing from his mouth. Harsh now, like nothing I’d ever heard, but it wasn’t pain that contorted his features. He gripped the desk behind him with both hands, fingers clenching white as his formless cry shaped itself into the name Adam.
As he sagged against the desk, Monsieur Lambert rose, fluid as in the dance, and bent to him. Kristopher received his kiss with the craving thirst of a drunkard for a bottle, his head lolling in abandon. It went on and on, with the lewdest passion on both sides, until I was obliged to accept the evidence of my own eyes. Though I'd been raised in sheltered ignorance of such things, I knew instinctively that this was what degeneracy meant.
Who knows how long I would’ve stood frozen, a mute witness, had not my fan slipped from my fingers and clattered on the floor. Monsieur Lambert turned. He showed neither surprise nor consternation to see me standing there, and I comprehended that he’d been aware of my presence all along. Very deliberately, he licked glistening lips before offering me a charming smile, the apology of a neglectful host. One of his hands settled on the nape of Kristopher’s neck in an unmistakable statement of ownership.
And Kristopher . . . His soft and sated expression didn’t alter as he looked at me. Through me.
I recoiled as though he’d struck me, my Kristopher who was incapable of anything but kindness. This couldn’t be his doing, any of it. He’d fallen victim to some malign form of mesmerism. It was his seducer I confronted, panic turning my voice high and thin, childlike. “He’s mine. You can’t have him.”
Monsieur Lambert laughed, carefree and radiant. “I can have him here in front of you, if I so choose.”
Didn’t Scripture warn of evil that wore a pleasing guise? “Our Father, who art in Heaven . . . ” The stalwart lines crumbled to dust in my imploring grasp. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want-- ”
“To want is divine.”
“Kristopher,” I cried out. Unheeding, he turned his face into Monsieur Lambert’s shoulder as though finding his accustomed place there; as though he would know the other man in the dark. My faith in him gave way to the most dreadful suspicion. “This isn’t the first time, is it? You’ve been meeting in secret--practicing these perversions-- ”
“We’ve loved before, yes.” Monsieur Lambert’s detachment, the mildly amused regard that had dismissed me as a rival within the first minute of our meeting, was gone. In its place was the zeal of the true believer, whose words rang with awful finality. “Not in this lifetime, but in countless others. We’ll love again, as the universe has ordained.” His unearthly eyes branded me the interloper here. I shrank from them, as superstitious as any servant girl who carried a red flannel pouch to ward off harm.
“Katy!” The hurrying footsteps and concerned voice belonged to Matt. An answer to my prayers. In that moment, I cared only that he was my ally, that I was no longer friendless and alone in enemy territory. I leaned gratefully into his strong support.
“Cousin Matthew,” Monsieur Lambert greeted him, smooth as an actor picking up a cue. “Your arrival is well timed. Would you be so good as to assist Mrs. Allen? She was just complaining of the heat. Something cool to drink--non-intoxicating, of course-- ”
“My poor darling girl.” Matt’s solicitude brought tears to my eyes. I’d misjudged him earlier. Somehow he’d guessed at Kristopher’s weakness--his betrayal--and tried to protect me from it. “I’m sorry you had to see this,” he said quietly. “But maybe it’s for the best.” He addressed Monsieur Lambert, sardonic. “You have things well in hand here?”
“Go,” Monsieur Lambert said shortly, dropping the charade. With a sudden and startling tenderness, he drew Kristopher into the circle of his arms. “How I’ve missed you,” he crooned, sweet as a lullaby, for Kristopher’s ears alone. To hear him, you’d think that the devil could feel awe; that he could weep for joy. Dare I confess the worst? In my heart of hearts, I believed. Cowed by the force of his conviction, I beheld the tableau as an inevitable consummation: not fate’s travesty, but its triumph.
I turned away, not soon enough. Kristopher’s words reached me, faint but clear. “You promised you’d carry a piece of me always.” And the ardent response. “My own heart. Which I now give back to you.”
--End--
Note: Matt's quip about marriage as an institution is based on a quote most commonly attributed to H.L. Mencken (also to Groucho Marx and W.C. Fields).
Sequel, Kris/Adam, 600 words, rated R: The Night Garden
Le beau Monsieur Lambert