Praise for Gretchen Craig's bestselling Plantation Series:
A testament to the people of New Orleans, yesterday and today.
-- Romantic Times (Four Stars)
~ ~ ~
A family saga in the grand old style, told by a master storyteller.
-- Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice)
~ ~ ~
Rich in compelling characters, beautifully described landscapes and enough drama to keep you reading until the end.
-- Romance Reader at Heart (Top Pick)
~ ~ ~
Reminiscent of the great epic novels of early writers such as Mitchell and Steinbeck.
-- Fresh Fiction
~ ~ ~
One of the most exquisite books I have read in a very long time.
-- Romance Junkies (4.5 Stars.)
~ ~ ~
The pacing is brisk, the characters multifaceted, and the plot compelling . . . This saga is another winner.
-- The Historical Novels Review.
~ ~ ~
Doesn’t pull any punches in this ante-bellum romance. I strongly recommend Ever My Love.
-- Books for a Buck
~ ~ ~
A breathtaking novel that is well researched, rich in historical detail, featuring a beautiful passionate and caring heroine. . .
-- Mystic Castle (Five Hearts, Recommended Read.)
~ ~ ~
Also by Gretchen Craig
Novels
Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series, Book I)
Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series, Book II)
Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series, Book III)
Elysium: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series, Book IV)
Tansy
Livy
Crimson Sky
Theena's Landing
The Lion's Teeth
Short Stories
The Color of the Rose
Bayou Stories: Tales of Troubled Souls
Lookin' for Luv: Five Short Stories
Tansy
Gretchen Craig
Published by Pendleton Press
Copyright © 2015 by Gretchen Craig.
All rights reserved.
www.GretchenCraig.com
Gretchen's Amazon Author Page
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Bonus Section
CHAPTER ONE
For weeks, before she slept, Tansy Bouvier imagined herself dancing with an elegant, handsome man whose gaze promised love and forbidden pleasures — only to waken later in a tangle of sweaty sheets, shaken by dreams of laughing men and women whirling around her, herself in an over-lit circle, alone, isolated, and unwanted.
But this was not a dream. The dreaded moment was upon her, the moment she had prepared for all her life, and she must smile. Maman gave her elbow a pinch, a final warning to sparkle. Tansy raised her chin and followed her into the famous Blue Ribbon Ballroom.
Droplets of fear trickled down her spine as she fought both the dread and the foolish romanticizing of what was essentially an evening of business. A beginning, not an end, she whispered to herself. Time to forget girlhood dreams, time to forget Christophe Desmarais. This night, she entered the world of plaçage in which a woman’s raison d’être was to please a man, a very wealthy man. In return, she gained everything — riches, security, status.
In spite of the fluttering in her stomach, she found herself captivated by the glamour of the ballroom. Gas lamps glowed like yellow moons between the French doors, and crystal teardrops in the chandeliers sparkled like ice in sunshine. And the music. Tansy’s chest lifted at the power and fire of a full orchestra, strings and reeds and percussion propelling the dancers around the floor.
Maman chose a prominent, imminently visible position near the upper curve of the ball room to display Tansy and her charms. Tansy’s task tonight was to make a splash, to outshine every other girl who’d entered the game earlier in the season. No, she thought. Not a game. Tonight, Tansy would meet her fate: luxury or destitution, security or whoredom.
What if none of the gentlemen wanted her? What if none of them even noticed her? What then?
“Smile,” Maman hissed from the corner of her mouth.
“I am smiling,” Tansy replied through wooden lips.
“That is not a smile. Look like you’re glad to be here. Watch the dancers.”
White men in stiff collars wove intricate steps and turns through the line of women, every one of whom wore a festive tignon over her hair. Tansy squinted her eyes so as to make the dancers and the chandeliers a blur of lights and swirling colors. Such a grand, beautiful sight, as if the most renowned ballroom in New Orleans were not the scene of business and barter.
She had imagined the men as leering and brash. Instead they seemed aloof and slightly bored. The young women, though, were as she expected. They wore masks with bright smiles and welcoming, deceiving eyes that promised gaiety and delight. She was meant to do the same.
“Loosen your grip on that fan,” Maman whispered. “It is not a sword to be brandished at the enemy.”
Tansy swallowed and opened the fan with cold, stiff fingers. She spied her friend Martine on the dance floor, vibrant in a red velvet gown. How splendid she looked in the red tignon wrapped in intricate folds around her head. She laughed, her eyes sparkling as her partner leaned in to speak into her ear. Martine had already been to several balls and had regaled Tansy with tales of handsome gentlemen who whispered love and promises as they twirled her around the ballroom. She was having a grand time waiting for the right protector to offer for her, but Martine had a boldness, a carelessness, Tansy could not match. And Martine had never been kissed by Christophe Desmarais.
Tansy glanced again at her own yellow silk, the neckline cut so deep she felt indecent. If Martine was a vibrant scarlet tanager, she felt herself to be a mere mockingbird masquerading as a canary. She touched her matching tignon, terrified it might slip on her head. “I’m too conspicuous in this dress,” she whispered to her mother.
“Nonsense. No other girl here can wear yellow like you can.”
A Creole gentleman, dark haired, dark eyed, no doubt very charming, bowed to Maman. “Madame Bouvier.”
Tansy breathed out in relief. She might feel conspicuous, but at least she was not invisible. The gentleman was tall and handsome, his nose straight and long, his brow rather noble. For a moment, she let herself believe this handsome man would fall in love with her, and she with him, and they would dance and laugh and feel drunk with love, together, forever. She wanted to believe it.
Tansy’s foolish moment passed. Maman knew every gentleman in New Orleans and the status of his bank account. If the suitor were wealthy enough, he would be encouraged.
After the merest glance at Tansy, the gentleman murmured something polite to Maman, who nodded her approval.
He bowed to Tansy. “May I have the honor of t
his dance, Mademoiselle?”
With a curious feeling of detachment, she accepted his arm and followed him onto the dance floor. It was only a dance. She liked to dance. She’d let the music carry her.
The gentleman wore an expertly tailored coat of deep maroon paired with gray satin knee breeches. He did look very fine, but more to the point, very prosperous. He smiled at her. “Lovely evening.”
I mean you no harm she interpreted. See how nicely I smile? See how I have not once gazed at your plunging neckline, eyeing the wares?
“Yes,” she managed to say. “Lovely weather.”
The dance led them near the orchestra’s platform. Tansy darted a glance at Christophe, sitting among the violinists. Oh God, he was watching her. Her stomach dropped and heat rushed to her face. For the rest of the dance, she focused a frozen gaze on her partner’s ear, and if he said anything else, she did not note it.
At the end of the set, the gentleman returned her to Maman, tossed a bow at her and went in search of more pleasing company. Maman scowled. “If you don’t stop acting like a dry stick, I will take you home this instant.”
Like the puppet she felt herself to be, she loosened her shoulders, unclenched her teeth, and obeyed. No dry sticks allowed. She would be a willow branch, graceful, pliable. Yes, that was her. Pliant Tansy Marie Bouvier, a willow to be bent to fit her destiny.
Tansy had a moment to collect herself as another Creole gentleman bent over Maman’s hand and made the customary flattering remarks. He seemed pleasant, not inclined to devour young women at their first balls. He smiled. No, no fangs, no sharpened canines.
“Monsieur Valcourt, my daughter, Tansy Marie.”
He was of medium height, medium build, medium dark hair and medium brown eyes. Not handsome, not ugly. Maman raised an eyebrow. Such a wealth of information in that eyebrow: this man is rich, this man is a catch, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll make him fall in love with you.
“Mademoiselle, will you dance?”
Squaring her shoulders, she followed him onto the dance floor.
Tansy’s resolve to ignore Christophe faltered and her eyes found him again. His focus was on the music, his brow creased in concentration. She knew men didn’t set so much store in a kiss as women, but she would never forget it. She gave herself a mental shake. It was because of that kiss that her mother had dragged her here, two weeks before her seventeenth birthday, to ensure they both understood that Christophe, a mere fiddler, could not afford a beautiful canary like Tansy Marie Bouvier.
Monsieur Valcourt’s attention seemed to be on the music, his gaze primarily directed over her shoulder as he moved her through the steps. He danced well. She liked the fact that he didn’t try to charm her, nor did he seem to expect her to dazzle him.
They joined hands as they moved into a turn. Her cold fingers warmed in his palm, and his assumption of connection, of ease in their touch loosened her reserve. A comfortable man, this Monsieur Valcourt.
An older gentleman circled through the line to partner Tansy with a turn through the dance. He leered at her décolletage, yellow teeth on display, and he held his mouth slightly open with the tip of his tongue visible. The thought of his tobacco stained fingers in intimate contact with her skin sent a shiver of revulsion through her.
Or else, she remembered her mother’s threat. Find a protector, or else face a life of penury, a few years in a brothel until your looks fade, and then what, eh?
The dance moved on and Monsieur Valcourt reappeared at her side. When he took her hand with no leer, no meaningful squeeze of her fingers, she breathed in freely for the first time all evening. The music ended. He bestowed on her an open, guileless smile that warmed his brown eyes.
Yes, she could live with this man. She didn’t need to survey, and be surveyed by, a dozen or two other gentlemen. And if Maman was right, that her looks would assure her any man she chose, then she would as soon choose this one and have it done with. He seemed nice. They would likely have a family together. They would be happy enough.
She allowed herself one last glimpse of Christophe among the violinists. He met her gaze over his bow, and for a moment her vision tunneled so that all around him was hazy darkness, Christophe himself bathed in light. She closed her eyes and turned away.
Perhaps no woman could choose her own fate, but she would take control of what she could. She would be the placée of Monsieur Valere Valcourt.
Tansy opened her eyes and bestowed on Monsieur Valcourt her most dazzling smile.
CHAPTER TWO
Five years later
Tansy danced with Annabelle’s Monsieur Duval, he of the yellow teeth and dandruff-dusted shoulders. Her friend had skin two shades darker than her own and her wide nose reflected her African heritage, so of course Annabelle had not been able to attract the most desirable of protectors. Even so, she reported her patron kept her in comfort, never beat her, and came to her bed no more than once a week. He’d given her two wonderful children of whom he seemed fond, and she found her life reasonably happy. For that, Tansy smiled at him as he led her around the dance floor.
The new placées-to-be danced all around her, dewy-eyed, round-chinned, and thrilled to be attended to by handsome, wealthy gentlemen. She spied one, however, who was as tense as Tansy had been at her first ball. And now, Tansy was at ease here in the Blue Ribbon ballroom, a woman more than twenty, a woman with a child.
The orchestra took a break. Monsieur Duval returned to Annabelle, and Tansy joined Christophe where he leaned against a column, the picture of languid ease. He dressed as all the musicians did, but on him the black jacket and white linen looked dangerous, the light in his roving black eyes distinctly carnal. She’d noticed more than one young woman eyeing him from behind their fans. But of course, as a man of color, however light, he was admitted here only as a musician.
Christophe handed her his glass of punch and nodded toward her dance partner. “You’ve made that old coot a happy man tonight.”
“Maurice? He is an old coot, but a nice one.” She finished his punch and handed him the glass, accidentally touching his fingers. Her breath hitched. They never touched, not since the night before her come-out in this very room. Trying to appear unfazed, she slowly fanned away the warmth in her face.
She eyed Christophe’s scraped knuckles. “I see you’ve been brawling again.”
He grinned. “Me? A shining example of virtue for all my students?”
She shook her head. “If they knew you were a brawler, they’d worship your very shadow.”
“Don’t tell, though. Their mamans and papas would not be well pleased. Have you noticed the Russians?”
“Is that what they are? I’d love to hear them speak.”
He gestured for her to precede him. “Then allow me to introduce you.”
“You’ve met them?”
“My legendary fame as a poker player has earned me an invitation to their table after the ball.”
“I suppose you will show them no mercy.”
With a wicked glint in his eye, he gave her a malicious smirk. “I will not.”
They strolled toward the Russian delegation, Christophe’s hands behind his back, a foot or more of space between them. She was well aware he took pains not to touch her. It was right that he do so. She belonged to Valere, after all.
“And where is your beloved paramour tonight?” he said.
Tansy stiffened at the slight curl in Christophe’s lip. It was a game he played, trying to goad her into defending Valere, but she’d recently begun experimenting with goading remarks of her own.
“He’s at the society ball across the alleyway, of course, with his cousins and friends. With the other gentlemen.” She gave him a withering glance from head to toe to indicate how far he was from the status of gentleman.
Christophe chuckled. “Well done. You’ll overcome your regrettable affliction yet.”
She was indeed afflicted with an intransigent case of niceness, as Christophe called
it. What he meant, she supposed, was that she was dull.
They split to walk around a cluster of people drinking punch. When they rejoined, Tansy fanned her face and looked about with an air of disinterest. “Valere courts a Miss Abigail, I believe.”
“Miss Windsor? My fiddle and I played at her birthday ball in January. Pretty girl.”
Tansy tilted her chin and looked down her nose at him.
“Forgive me. I have erred. I meant to report that the girl has buck teeth, a flat chest, and mousy hair.”
“Indeed you should.” Tansy drew her fan briskly through her left hand, in the age-old language of fans an indication that she detested him with all her heart.
Christophe threw his head back in a laugh. He nodded toward the arched doorway. “And here is the gentleman in question.”
The slight ache of tension behind her eyes eased as Valere Valcourt leisurely made his way around the dancers, the hundreds of candles in the overhead chandeliers casting a gentle glow on his wavy brown hair. Descended from a disgraced French nobleman who’d been exiled to the wilds of Louisiana a century ago, Valere represented the quintessential Creole, privileged, entitled, at ease in his world.
Tansy Page 1