A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [133]
The man January had struck came back at him like a bobcat, but January was a good five inches taller and far heavier and lifted him bodily, slamming him to the pavement like a sack of corn. He kicked him, very hard, then turned to seize the second man, who was wading knee-deep in the heaving stream of the gutter, knife flashing in his hand, above the billow of black petticoats and floating veils beneath him. He stomped his foot down, pinning Madame Trepagier under the water, then cursed in surprise and fell on top of her. January was on them by then, dragging him up by a wad of dripping, verminous hair.
The knife slashed and gleamed. January twisted sideways, losing his grip, and then the man was pelting away along the building fronts of Rue Chartres, as a slender old man with a coachman’s whip came running up unsteadily, gasping for breath, his face ashy.
Madame Trepagier was trying to rise, her dragging skirts and veils a soaked confusion about her, trembling so badly she could barely stand. She shrank from January’s steadying hand with a cry, then looked up at his face. For an instant he thought she would break down, cling to him weeping, but she turned away, hugging herself desperately in her soaked winding-sheets of veils. “I’m all right.” Her voice was tense as harp wire, but low and steady. “I’m all right.”
“Madame Madeleine, Madame Madeleine!” The old coachman looked as if he needed to be propped up himself. “You all right? You hurt?” In the shadows of the alley mouth only his eyes and teeth and silver coat buttons caught the reflection of the lights along the Cabildo’s colonnade. Like a drenched crow in mourning weeds, wet veils plastered over her cheeks, Madame Trepagier was little more than a sooty cloud. “Come on, Madame Madeleine. I’ll take you back to your Aunt Picard’s, get those wet clothes off you—”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not my aunt’s.”
Not, thought January, if she’d left there three hours ago with a manufactured headache.
He put a steadying hand under her elbow. She stiffened, but did not pull away.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll get you to my sister’s.”
“It … was foolish of me. Walking down that alleyway, I mean.” Madeleine Trepagier made a small movement with her hand toward her unraveled torrent of dark hair, and Dominique said, “Sh-sh-sh,” and moved the trembling fingers away. Her own hands worked competently with the soft pig-bristle brush, stroking out the long, damp swatches, less now to untangle them than to let them dry and to calm the woman who sat in the chair before her, laced into a borrowed corset and a borrowed dress and with a cup of herb tisane steaming before her. The honey-gold moire of the gown, with its ribbons of caramel and pink, set off Madeleine’s warm complexion as beautifully as it did Dominique’s. January wondered how long it would be before the woman abandoned her mourning and returned to wearing colors like this again.
“I never thought ruffians would be lurking that close to the police station,” continued Madeleine, folding her hands obediently in her lap. “I was just walking back from my Aunt Picard’s over on Rue Toulouse.”
Dominique’s dress was cut lower than a widow’s high-made collar, and the small gold cross Madeleine wore around her throat was just visible in the pit between her collarbones. January saw again the way her head had fallen back to receive the sword master’s mouth on hers, the desperate strength with which they had held each other in the thin spit of the rain.
Augustus and Madeleine. A glimpse of deerskin, as golden as the dress she wore now, in the doorway as he began the first waltz. Looking for him? And the Prussian in his black-and-green Elizabethan doublet, crossing