Page 4 of Frankly, My Dear

She gasped with pleasure as she walked into the magnificent Orleans Ballroom, once the site of the famous Quadroon Balls. It was decorated for the occasion with period candelabra and chandeliers. Hundreds of tapers cast a natural, antique lighting for Phillipe’s creations. In fact, some of the magazine displays would be done in the old sepia tintype tones.

Dozens of photographers, fashion consultants, and set assistants worked feverishly on last-minute touches while a small orchestra tuned up in the corner, its members dressed appropriately in antebellum attire. Some of the shots called for a romantic waltz scene.

Selene inhaled deeply. The heady scent and vivid colors of thousands of flowers almost overpowered her—gardenias, bougainvillea, azaleas, magnolias. She caressed a luxuriant velvet drapery with a sigh. This was the Old South she’d always dreamed about, a land where all the senses seemed heightened. A perfect setting for Phillipe’s whimsical gowns.

Smiling, she headed toward Georgia. Her agent was talking to the world-famous designer near the French doors that opened onto a courtyard.

“Chérie!” Phillipe exclaimed, kissing Selene briefly on each cheek in the European fashion. “What do you think?” He waved his hand with a flourish to indicate the vast ballroom.

“It’s magnificent. You’ll sell hundreds of gowns from this collection. I just know it.”

“Certainement!” he agreed unabashedly.

“Honey, you look gorgeous,” Georgia said, surveying her gown from all angles.

“Thanks. It’s awfully low-cut, though, don’t you think?” Selene put both palms on her abdomen, under her breasts, and tried to edge the dress up higher, to no avail. The built-in boning of the bodice pushed her breasts up, and the spidery lace of the décolletage barely covered the tips. “I feel kind of exposed.”

“You’re the one who said breasts were in,” Georgia said with a smile. “You look great, sweetie—for an over-the-hill model, that is.”

Selene gave her a playful shove and tried again to shimmy the dress higher.

“Non, non, non!” Phillipe cautioned, pulling her hands away from the dress. “The gown is magnifique. Perfect.” He kissed his fingertips and threw out his hands dramatically. “The white color and delicate lace hint at a virginal quality, while the breasts…Voila!…the breasts tell another story.”

“I just wish I didn’t have to be such an open book,” Selene muttered, moving closer to the photographers. “Cleavage is one thing. Nudity is quite another.”

Phillipe looked pointedly at the Rolex watch on his wrist, then back to her. “Go! Put your face on so we can start.” His eyes narrowed suddenly as he scrutinized Selene. “Have you gained weight?”

“No!” Selene and Georgia both burst out together, then laughed at the shared affront.

A short time later, Selene watched as cameras clicked and lights flashed for a set in which Lilith and a number of models, male and female, waltzed around the room in period suits and pastel confections reminiscent of the Old South. The candlelight enhanced the mocha hue of Lilith’s skin. Her coal-black hair was pulled off to one side with a cascade of sweet-scented white roses.

There was nothing sweet about the look of pure hatred she flashed at Selene, though, as she and her partner danced by. “Soon,” Lilith mouthed silently in warning as she held Selene’s gaze. “Soon.”

With a shudder, Selene set her case at the edge of the dance floor, ready for any last minute touch-ups that the makeup consultant might require. Determined to put aside her fears, she turned to Georgia. “You can almost feel the history in this place, can’t you?”

“Yeah, and not a very pleasant history, either,” Georgia commented in a grim tone. “You know, one of my ancestors went to a Quadroon Ball once—maybe in this very room.”

“Really?” Selene raised her eyes questioningly at the curious bit of information Georgia threw out so lightly.

“Fleur was her name. A real beauty, supposedly, and so light-skinned she could have passed for white.”

“Georgia, I’m really surprised at you. Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of,” she said with a shrug. “You do know why they held the Quadroon Balls, don’t you?”

“I’ve heard a little.”

“The young—very young—quadroons went to the balls with their mothers, looking for protectors among the wealthy, white, Creole men. Plaçage, that’s what they called it. The men set the women up as mistresses in cottages over on Rampart Street and had children with them. In return, the women did everything at the men’s beck and call—like wives, but more so, with none of the privileges.”

Appalled, Selene stared at Georgia.

“And the system was considered honorable for the placées. Honorable! Hell, the mothers sold their daughters—pure and simple.”

Selene laid a hand on Georgia’s in compassion. “How awful for your ancestor. For all those helpless young girls.”

Georgia shook her head as if to clear it. “I usually don’t get so maudlin, but sometimes I think I have this genetic memory kind of thing. I feel the pain of my downtrodden ancestors. You can see why I don’t like to come South.”

“What happened to Fleur?”