Iniquity
A Short Story in New Orleans, 1861
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The rough wood gave way with a soft, low keen, and Charlotte pointed her dainty shoe through the gap, holding the door at bay. It was far too early for anyone to be about, but she waited. Listening.
It was a stylish house, set back off the square, with an imposing iron gate guarding the entrance to its lush gardens. She was still confounded by how wildly everything grew in this tropical heat. Massive vines and great glossy flowers climbing up and over the parapets, as if determined to reach the sun itself.
She glanced back at the courtyard one last time. She would catch a slap or two from Miss Eugenie— or worse, a righteous Papist lecture — if any of the French Quarter busybodies snared so much as a glimpse of her in the vestibule of this … this …
Den of iniquity, Miss Eugenie would say. Charlotte knew right off not to ask about the meaning of that word — iniquity — but it wasn’t that hard to figure. Dusky women with skin like satin, astride the laps of all manner of men, while brazen singers crooned to the music blaring from broken down pianos. Cider and ale gushing from wooden kegs. Spirited soldiers pressing loose-limbed dancers up against the brocade-covered walls. Just pulsing with wickedness.
Heathens.
Charlotte took a tight hold on her gumption and stepped inside.
The door swung open to reveal a genteel foyer, dotted with golden lamps, flickering lazily in the shadows. A mottled green rug, fringed and fresh from a recent beating, covered the boot-scarred floor. A clever cupboard stood half open, revealing curious gifts from far-flung hamlets — trinkets from pirates and slavers and dazzling, worldly men. And the scents! Spice and sweat and sea, all roiled together. A thick, sleepy musk of spilled whiskey, warm bodies, and sandalwood oil.
Iniquity.
Charlotte’s heart pounded in both fear and longing. She’d leave her note on the sideboard, where Miss Annalise would be sure to see it first thing upon rising. She’d leave the note and scurry out before the twin spirits of lust and desire found their way into her duplicitous heart. She’d take just three more steps, now two, and then —
“Good morning, Charlotte.”
The cool, husky voice halted her progress. Charlotte felt the words glide across her skin, like silvery fish swimming underwater.
Is that how she does it? Is that how she embrangles men and women alike?
Annalise Bouvier, a glorious wonder when beheld in moonlight, seemed tender and wan in this early morning glaze. Still dressed from the night before, having only unpinned her lustrous auburn hair and loosed her stays for comfort, leaving her fine lawn chemise peeking out of the neckline, and the soft impression of plump breasts throbbing against the delicate cotton, keeping time with her heart.
Charlotte stared at her in girlish rapture.
“Is that note for me?” Annalise nodded at the square of folded ivory, clutched in Charlotte’s damp palm. “From Father Michael, I imagine?”
She reached for a heavy crystal decanter and poured herself a generous portion of what looked to be fine whiskey — not the pale, bitter concoctions people were cooking down in the bayou. Of course, if anyone in the Quarter had acquired the real thing, hidden in crates from across the sea, and spirited in barges up and down the mighty Mississippi, it would be Annalise.
Charlotte watched helplessly as a sweet, pink tongue darted out for a quick taste.
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, finding her voice, if not her common sense. “Father Michael, he’s hoping you come callin’ today. Ma’am.” Charlotte’s knees resisted the urge to curtsy. “Miss Eugenie and the church mothers is all afire about the soldiers and the sinnin’. And … such.” Such being Annalise and this den of iniquity.
Annalise rose slowly from her chaise, stretching one shapely leg and then the other, her stockings apparently discarded sometime during her evening peccadilloes.
“Give me the note, sweetling,” Annalise tilted her cat eyes, amused. Charlotte was flooded with the sudden vision of herself splayed on that mottled green carpet, pressing her face to those smooth, sure limbs, to that warm, dark place between them.
Annalise plucked the note from her hand and read it, mere breaths away.
“Eugenie has some bit of frippery to sell me,” she murmured.
Charlotte frowned. She ventured into the market yestermorn with Eugenie and they were quickly swallowed up by a river of people, speakin’ a flurry of tongues all a’jumble, and hardly any of the good Lord’s English.
“I’m not recallin’ anything to sell,” she said finally, keeping her eyes on the filigree lamp, willing her wicked heart to stop pounding, praying the stiff tips of her breasts would soften in shame. She made a quick sign of the cross for good measure.
“Oh, I do daresay,” Annalise frowned a bit, and refolded the note, taking care to tuck the ends, her hands deft and sure.
Perhaps even a fallen woman could prove a soft and tender mistress, Charlotte hoped. Perhaps even a soiled dove could show mercy.
Because the only thing Miss Eugenie has worth selling . . . is me.
She felt Annalise’s firm bosom press against her back, those whiskey-stained lips brush against her nape, and for the first time, she let herself feel the joy of it. How can such a feeling be wickedness? How could this yearning be a sin?
For a moment, Charlotte wished nothing more than to remain, caught in Annalise’s exquisite gaze, bound only by desire, and free of all other shackles.
“No one here is free,” she whispered. She sealed their moist lips together.
Charlotte wept.
