Steam Me Up, Rawley (Excerpt)

Chapter One

~~In Which The Punch Proves Too Tempting For The Monkey~~

April 8, 1890, Mobile, Alabama
Second Age of Pax Lincolnia

At nineteen years, Miss Adele de la Pointe hadn’t yet figured out everything, but three things she did know. She never wanted to marry, these society parties were an utter bore, and her pet monkey was about as genteel as a roly-poly at a butterfly tea party.

“Put that down.” Adele snatched a doily from Loki’s hairy fist and looked around the sunlit grounds.

Be-ribboned and be-bustled ladies sauntered between tables covered in crisp white linen and half the available lace on the Gulf Coast, but none looked her way.

Whew. No apparent witnesses to Loki’s shenanigans.

She smoothed the doily onto the lawn table, only a tad wrinkled from her monkey’s antics. Antics she must quell were she to survive this affair.

“Loki, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t pull another stunt.”

Her capuchin monkey nuzzled her cheek, and the chinstrap of his oyster-shell helmet chafed her ear.

“Behave,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Every time someone hinted that she should trade in her childhood shoulder pet for the more refined parakeet, her heart lurched, in an if-you-do-I’m-staying-with-Loki warning. Having such a mentally enhanced pet did pose a risk if she didn’t keep him occupied, however.

She wended her way through the ladies, alert for details to immortalize yet another society gathering for the local newspaper. But the subtle snubs and dismissive glances and behind-the-fan whispers followed in her wake.

These same ladies would later scurry over and curry favor, showing off their latest hat or implant or dress. Adele pulled in a deep breath. Chin up.

All right, so society reporter might not be her ideal profession, but it certainly beat the path these ladies valued--landing a wealthy husband. She rubbed the four tattoos vertically aligned on her neck, each denoting her grandparents’ families. These would admit her to such a party without her official role, but the expectation inherent in its ink felt like an itchy reminder. She edged around a table and spotted the hostess simpering at the mayor’s wife. Adele tapped her pen against her lip.

A fresh breeze from the Mobile River skittered through the yard, rustling the oak leaves and Spanish moss. The wind loosed a silk ribbon from Claire Chastang’s monstrous hat and slapped the frippery against the mayor’s wife’s cheek. Adele pressed gloved fingers to her mouth and suppressed a chuckle.

How to cover the gathering without sounding scornful? What Adele wanted to pen for the society column would not do:

Miss Claire Chastang was resplendent (resplendently tacky) in her tailored aerophane silk day dress, sporting lace trim and chiffon flowers reminiscent of an explosion at a ladies emporium.

“Hello, my dear, how’s your aunt?”

Adele started at the familiar elderly voice and signature gardenia perfume. “Mrs. Tuttle. Nice to see you. Great-aunt, actually. Still the same.”

Mrs. Tuttle waved an elegant hand, declaring the familial distinction irrelevant. Faded neck tattoos identified her as a cousin of Adele’s Great-Aunt Linette. The older woman might be the image of proper Southern womanhood cinched into a fashionable shirtwaist with leg o’ mutton sleeves and a Gainsborough hat, but Adele had overheard her say, in tête-à-têtes with Great-Aunt Linette, more than one naughty phrase.