Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  Mandy shook her head. “He just chucked me under the chin and sashayed out like he wudn’t ever sick a day in his life. I been worried somethin’ awful. Weak as that boy is, he’s likely to pass out on the street.”

  “I hope he does,” I said acidly.

  “You don’t mean that, Miz Marietta,” she protested.

  “If he insists on acting like an imbecile, he deserves anything that happens to him. I don’t care to discuss it any more, Mandy. It’s almost time to start dinner. I’ll help you fry the chicken.”

  “You ain’t doin’ nothin’ in this kitchen in that fancy silk dress,” she informed me. “If you’se goin’ to help me you go change.”

  I obeyed, angrily removing the dress in the bedroom and putting on the sprigged tan cotton Mandy had skillfully mended and laundered. I assured myself that I didn’t give a damn what happened to him. I certainly wasn’t going to waste time worrying about him. He’d love that, the bastard. He’d love to think I was fretting and wringing my hands and imagining all sorts of disasters. He could go straight to hell and stay there. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I was going down to the booking office and buy passage on the very first ship leaving for England, and Jeremy Bond could rot in hell. I had put it off much too long as it was, fretting over him, rubbing his bloody back, waiting on him like a servant. I should have booked passage as soon as the quarantine was lifted.

  My mood hadn’t improved much when I returned to the kitchen. Mandy looked apprehensive as I cut the chicken into pieces, attacking it vigorously with the butcher knife. I dipped the pieces into flour and egg batter and dropped them into the pot of hot grease on the stove, taking great satisfaction as they began to pop and sizzle noisily. I washed broccoli and put it on to cook and then began to mix up batter for popovers. Mandy turned the chicken over with a long fork, watching me knead the dough.

  “He’ll be back, Miz Marietta,” she said quietly.

  “I couldn’t care less,” I retorted.

  “You—Miz Marietta, you ain’t really gonna go off to England and leave him, are you? You ain’t gonna go off and marry that other man?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “But—” She hesitated, frowning. “You loves Mister Jeremy.”

  “I detest him!”

  “That ain’t so. I know it ain’t. I seen the way you nursed him, the way you looked at him, all tender an’ concerned, so worried he wudn’t goin’ to make it. Then, when he started gettin’ better, I seen how pleased you were when he started teasin’ you, how much you enjoyed it.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “This other man—I don’t know nothin’ about him, Miz Marietta, but I know you can’t really love him, not feelin’ the way you do about Mister Jeremy. You might think you do, but—”

  “It’s none of your concern, Mandy!” I snapped.

  I was immediately sorry, of course. Mandy meant well, and I shouldn’t have snapped that way. My anger evaporated. I set the bowl of dough aside to rise and sighed, suddenly weary. Mandy turned the chicken over again and dropped pats of butter into the broccoli. I owed her so much, so very much. Freed by her master just before his death three years ago, she had been rummaging about the city ever since, struggling to survive, absolutely alone. She had no family, no friends. The money Jeremy had given her had enabled her to set up her stall in the flea market, but selling broken pots and discarded lamps and other odds and ends brought in barely enough to live on. That was all going to change. I intended to see to it. Before I left for England I was going to open an account for her in one of the banks in the Quarter that welcomed people of color, and Mandy would never have to worry about money again.

  “I think that’s dough’s ready now,” she said. “I’ll just get them popovers ready for the oven.”

  “I’ll set the table in the dining room. If he’s well enough to gad about the city he’s well enough to eat at the dinner table. I’m sorry I snapped at you, Mandy. I didn’t mean it.”

  “’Course you didn’t. You wuz just upset.”

  Jeremy came sauntering in twenty minutes later, looking infuriatingly chipper. His rich brown hair was windblown, tumbling over his brow. He was wearing dark blue breeches and frock coat, a maroon brocade waistcoat and a neckcloth of sky-blue silk. Although the coat hung rather loosely, he presented an undeniably dapper picture, and his new thinness made him seem even taller. If his mysterious outing had wearied him, he showed no signs of it. He seemed to be bursting with vitality.

  “I’m famished!” he declared.

  I ignored him. He seemed to find that amusing. I maintained a stony silence during dinner, and he chattered merrily with Mandy, complimenting her on the meal. When Mandy set a piece of spice cake in front of him and spread plum preserves over it, I gave an exasperated sigh, threw down my napkin and left the table. Going into the parlor, I lighted a lamp, took a book from the shelf and tried to read. Jeremy came in a short while later. I didn’t bother to look up from my book.

  “Fantastic meal,” he observed. “You should’ve stayed for dessert. Mandy’s spice cake was sheer heaven.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said stiffly.

  “You sound more like you wished I’d choked on it.”

  I made no comment. He grinned. I slammed the book shut and put it down. His grin widened.

  “I’d better go help Mandy clear the table,” I said, getting to my feet.

  “She told me to tell you not to bother, said she’d clear the table and do the dishes and you were to rest your bones. Something the matter? You seem a mite put out.”

  I wasn’t going to lose my temper again. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I sat back down and calmly picked up the book and pretended to resume my reading. Jeremy stepped over to the mantle and propped one elbow on it, his frock coat hanging open.

  “Guess you’re mad ’cause I went out,” he said.

  “What you do doesn’t concern me at all, Jeremy.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not the least bit interested. I’m trying to read.”

  “Dull book. Couldn’t get through it myself. Too much moralizing. Not enough action.”

  I turned a page. Although I paid not the least bit of attention to him, I was acutely aware of his presence. I could feel him watching me. It made me very uncomfortable, but he’d never know that. A full minute passed as I ran my eyes over the print without seeing a single word. He was growing impatient, I could tell. He was dying to reveal where he’d been. Hell would freeze over before I asked.

  “Ship leaves in two weeks,” he remarked casually.

  The bastard had my attention now. I put the book back down and turned to face him.

  “What ship?”

  “The ship that’s taking us to France. I went down to the booking office. You’ve never seen such a mob. Only a few ships leaving, most of ’em booked up months in advance. Had to bribe a few people, naturally, but I finally got us a cabin.”

  “Us!”

  “We’ll sail to France, then cross the Channel to England. I understand the cabin’s quite comfortable. Couldn’t get two separate cabins, had enough trouble getting one. We’ll be sailing as Mr and Mrs. Jeremy Bond, but that little bit of subterfuge shouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  I was on my feet now, cheeks flaming.

  “We! Us! What do you—”

  “Did you really think I was going to let you go to England by yourself? A long voyage like that, you need someone big and strong to take care of you. I’m going with you, Marietta.”

  “Oh no you’re not!”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Wanna bet?” he asked.

  Thirty-Four

  The great white sails swelled in the breeze, carrying Le Bon Coeur over an endless expanse of water that rippled gently like watered gray silk, all blue long since faded. The sky was gray, too, a deepening pearl gray smeared with blurry gold and orange streaks in the wake of the sun that had already disappeared
on the distant horizon where sea met sky. It was cool. I should have brought a cloak with me from the cabin. Resting my hands on the smooth mahogany railing, I stared at the emptiness, barely aware of movement as the huge prow cut smoothly through the water. Passengers leisurely strolled the deck, talking quietly, all of them elegantly clad. It took a great deal of money to sail on Le Bon Coeur and, with the revolution still raging in America, passage was even more expensive now.

  I was in a pensive mood, a mood that had prevailed ever since our departure over two weeks ago. That had been a busy, bustling, frantic morning with hundreds of people crowding the dock, friends and family seeing passengers off with noisy festivity or even noisier sobs, men carrying heavy boxes and trunks up the gangplank, sailors swarming about the ship, bells clanging, incredible confusion on every side. I had been surprised when Lucille came to see me off, her shrewd old eyes full of genuine sadness, her thin face stiff as a mask as she tried to hold back her tears. She had hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack, and when I finally reached our cabin I discovered a case of champagne, an enormous basket of fruit and several brightly wrapped presents she had smuggled there earlier. I would miss the outrageous old fraud.

  I would miss Mandy, too. She hadn’t come to the dock. We had made our farewells at the apartment, which she would continue to occupy during Jeremy’s absence. She had plenty of money now. I had taken her to the bank and opened an account for her, and she had protested that the amount was far, far too much, more than she would ever need. She was planning to start an herb garden in the backyard, in the shadow of the cistern and fig trees, and Camille was eager to help her. The clumsy, disorganized, great lump of a girl who caused Lucille so much distress had been elated when I asked her if she would like to share the apartment with Mandy and watch over her while Jeremy was gone. I wasn’t sure who would be watching over whom, but the two had taken to each other immediately, an instant affection established between the ungainly French orphan and the withered old woman I had grown to love so much.

  The sadness had haunted me ever since the ship set sail, and it continued to haunt me now. I should be filled with a wild elation. I should be charged with excitement. I had finally left America behind me, and I was on my way to join the man I loved. After all these years, I was going back home to England, returning to my roots, but, curiously, it seemed I was leaving my roots in the great, sprawling, tumultuous country now forever lost to me. Loss. That’s what I felt. The past seven years had not been easy. They had been filled with turmoil and tragedy, with conflict and disaster, but I had known great happiness as well and joy that sang in my blood like glorious music, and, somehow, without my being aware of it, I had become a part of that country in which I had spent those years. England, with its stately homes and sleepy villages and misty green fields, could never stir those feelings inside me that the country I was leaving did. I was English, but after all this time I no longer felt a part of the land of my birth.

  As the orange and gold streaks faded against the dark gray sky, as sails billowed and cracked stiffly in the breeze, propelling the enormous ship over the gently rippling water, I thought of Em, longing to have her here beside me, longing to pour my heart out to her. My heart ached as I realized she was lost to me, too that I would never see her again. nor Mandy, nor Lucille, nor any of the others whose lives had become a part of mine during those years in America. I thought of Adam and Cassie, whom I had helped escape from Shadow Oaks and sent north to freedom. Had they found happiness there? I thought of Helmut’s sister, Meg and her beloved James, young people free at last to love openly after Helmut’s death in the blazing Roseclay. So many people. So many memories, not all of them painful.

  I sighed, shivering a little as the cool breeze stroked my bare arms and shoulders. Seven years ago I had left England in chains, falsely accused of a crime I hadn’t committed, terrified of a future of bondage but determined to survive, learning quickly in that squalid prison ship, learning from Angie, the blonde, angelic-looking guttersnipe who had become my closest friend and taught me to pick locks, learning from Jack, the brawny sailor who had made love to me in a secluded spot on deck and had brought me food so I wouldn’t starve or succumb to scurvy like so many of the other prisoners. Auctioned off like a slave in Carolina. I had survived … and I had experienced a shattering love that racked my very soul and was still alive inside of me.

  Derek. I would be with him soon. Derek was in England, and when he finally clasped me into his arms and held me tight, this perplexing melancholy would vanish forever. I belonged to him. My place was at his side. Once there, I would forget everything else and share with him a future that would be filled with a happiness few women were fortunate enough to know. All the anguish, all the conflict would be behind me at last.

  I rubbed my arms to warm them, hesitating to return to the cabin. The sky was an even darker gray now, streaked with amethyst, and there were purple reflections on the water. Turning away from the railing. I saw Madame Janine Etienne strolling down the deck toward me. I stiffened, staring at her with a hostility that startled me. Madame Etienne smiled to herself, sensing the hostility, delighting in it. Thirty years old, undeniably beautiful with her sparkling green eyes flecked with brown, her glossy blue-black hair and cool, aristocratic features, she was returning to Paris to join a wealthy, middle-aged husband who had left New Orleans several months earlier on business, sending for her when he discovered it was going to keep him in France for the next two years.

  Madame Etienne nodded to me as she drew nearer. I didn’t return the nod. I observed that her rouged pink lips were a bit too full, her eyelids too heavy, and her nose was definitely too long. She was gorgeous nevertheless, her rich jet hair pulled back sleekly from her face and worn in an elaborate stack of waves in back, fastened with diamond clips. Her low-cut green velvet gown and the sweeping green velvet cloak edged with soft gray fur were chic indeed, as chic as anything Lucille ever created, and the diamonds that flashed in her hair, at her throat, and on her fingers were quite genuine. Janine Etienne had that special quality only certain French women seemed to attain, a combination of worldly allure and aggressive self-confidence. Her demeanor, her eyes proclaimed her a woman with numerous love affairs to her credit, and that was all very well, but I bitterly resented the fact that her latest was with a man who was traveling as my husband.

  She stopped and smiled a coy, mocking smile. Her perfume was heavy, exotic, suggesting crushed flowers and bedrooms. I longed to grab the hussy by her hair and hurl her overboard.

  “Good evening, Madame Bond,” she said in that purring, heavily accented voice. “Where is that handsome husband of yours?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I retorted. “I assumed he was with you.”

  She lifted one of those perfectly arched eyebrows, pretending a surprise she was far from feeling. “La! Avec moi? Whyever would you think that?”

  It came out fie-evah vould jew zink zat, charming, so French, so quaint. I might not hurl her overboard. I might just scratch her eyes out. The taunting smile continued to curl on her lips. The decked green eyes sparkled with feline amusement.

  “It’s a habit he seems to have acquired of late,” I said.

  “La! Such a thoughtful man, so kind, so attentive to a poor woman traveling all alone. We play the cards. We sip the champagne. It helps to pass the time.”

  “I’ll just bet it does.”

  She pulled the cloak closer about her shoulders, the soft, silvery gray fur framing the lower part of her face. Her chin was too sharp, I noted, her cheekbones a bit broad, much too heavily rouged. The overall effect was devastating, though. I had to admit that. She exuded a brazen sexual magnetism that made every man on board long to bed her. I wondered if Jeremy was the only one who had. Probably not. We had been sailing for over two weeks, and there were twenty-four hours in a day.

  “You are upset?” she inquired.

  “Not at all. Should I be?”

  “Some wives, they would rese
nt it. You, though, you are very wise. You understand men. Is very French of you.”

  I’ll tell you one thing, sweetheart, I said silently, if I really wanted him you wouldn’t have a prayer. You’re doing me a favor. You just don’t know it.

  “Well,” she said, “ta-ta, as you English say. Perhaps we will see each other when we dine. Filet of sole tonight, I believe.”

  Maybe you’ll choke on a fish bone, I thought as she strolled on down the deck, wafting perfume in the air behind her. Several men turned to watch her progress, openly longing to sample her delectable wares. A shy, rather handsome blond man with a book in his hand trailed after her, trying to summon up enough courage to speak. Janine paused, gave him a provocative look over her shoulder and waited for him to catch up. The blond blushed, closed his book and stammered something I couldn’t hear. The two of them moved on together, Janine showering him with admiring looks. Jeremy just might find her cabin a bit crowded tonight.

  It really was quite amusing, I thought, going below, and it was foolish of me to let it bother me this way. Jeremy Bond and I were traveling together as husband and wife, yes, and we were sharing a rather luxurious cabin, but I slept in the bed alone and had, from the first, let him know that it was worth his life if he dared try to climb in with me. There was a chaise longue under one of the portholes, perfectly comfortable with soft, plump pink satin cushions. He had slept on it exactly four times, grumbling and complaining bitterly that it was much too short for him, which it was, and adding that if I had any style at all I’d give him the bed and take the chaise longue myself, unless we could work out some other arrangement. I coldly vetoed that “other arrangement” and refused to give up the bed. Jeremy had not spent another night in the cabin. I couldn’t really blame him.

  The movement of the ship was much more pronounced as I walked down the narrow but richly paneled passageway with doors on either side. I had to admit that we had been fortunate indeed to get passage on this ship with its elegant dining salon, its luxurious trappings and its courteous crew. Le Bon Coeur accommodated only fifty passengers, transporting a cargo of dry goods in its hold, but those fifty passengers were treated like royalty. I opened the door to our cabin and stepped inside. Jeremy wasn’t in. He only came to the cabin to change clothes. It was just as well. The less we saw of each other the better.