The Seamstress of New Orleans by Diane C. McPhail

Author:Diane C. McPhail [McPhail, Diane C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2022-02-23T00:00:00+00:00

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!

And give me a hand o’ thine!

And we’ll take a right good-will draught,

for auld lang syne.

So unexpectedly, Constance stood at the refreshment table, fascinated at how this man held the silver ladle just so. It registered that he poured a small stream rather than dumping the punch all at once into a cup and overfilling it, so that the punch spilled down the sides, the way men often did. In this he was like her fastidious father. Within a few months of quite proper courtship, perhaps seven or so, he spoke to her father for her hand. As if it belonged to her father and not to her. Then afterward Benton asked her to marry him, a mere formality, it seemed. So, lacking other suitors on the horizon, at some level believing still in her marriage fantasy, she accepted.

Now, as she lay here on this chaise, Constance’s fingers roved the textured surface of the upholstery. At the edge, where the braid touched the carved wood, the sharp tip of a splinter brought her back into the dark room. She was cold. She rose and slipped under the bedcovers. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rolled onto her side, adjusted her pillow to support her neck, and fell into a fitful sleep.

She fought for balance on the moving train, shadowing Benton, who tossed cards into the passing void at each open-air juncture between cars. On and on they walked. On and on the cards flew out into the sky. She could see the leering faces: kings, queens, jacks, more kings, more queens, nothing but royalty sailing on the high wind of the train’s progress. She feared he would turn and see her, yet she wanted him to. Nothing changed. She followed on. At the next open vestibule between cars, Benton glanced at the last queen before he flung it into the void and turned. He grabbed her hand and pulled, forced his mouth on hers. As they stared into each other’s eyes, her back to the open, she lifted her feet and rose into the air, away from the train into silence, flying, holding him aloft as she rose. But he struggled, fought his way loose. He plunged into the black water below. She rose, weightless, with nothing to hold her to the earth, the speeding train and the black water far beneath her.

Somewhere between panic and the freedom of weightlessness, Constance woke, her eyes blinking fiercely against the morning light, hands grasping at the sheets and the mattress, fighting to hold herself steady against a continued sense of motion from the train. I killed him, she thought. No, he killed himself. She scooted over the edge of the bed, slid her buttocks down to the floor. I touched him. He’s dead. The thought became a silent cry inside her head. He’s dead.

Constance heard the competing giggles of her girls and their vying feet pattering on the hall floor. She turned to pull herself up

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