Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Lorna’s face stiffened, but she did not draw back. “Yes, and not then, if it doesn’t suit you, but for now—”

  “Yes, I do. Papa said I have to sleep with you, at least until I make a baby in you. Then I can go back to Lizzie.”

  Lizzie was without doubt the housemaid with whom she had seen him. “Will you lower your voice?” she whispered sharply.

  “Don’t tell me what to do! I’m your husband. I can do what I like to you, even if I’m not the first, like Papa said.”

  The passing of a waiter with a tray filled with goblets of champagne was a relief. Sweeping a glass up as the man paused before them, she snatched the cake plate Franklin held from his hand and pushed the glass into it. Setting the plate on the manservant’s tray, she sent him away again.

  “I am not trying to tell you what to do,” she said hastily as he drank. “I only want you to explain to me about Beau Repose. How did it come about that your father gained possession of land here in the heart of the French Creole section? And why should there be hard feelings between him and … and the previous owners?”

  “You mean the Cazenaves?” An echo of his father’s sneer, with the underside of his thick lips showing, crossed Franklin’s porcine features. “I know what you did with Ramon. Lizzie told me, and she knows, ‘cause her brother was there. You should be punished for what you did. I asked Papa, and he said it would be all right, because you would be my wife, and I could do anything I like to you.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said hastily, paying little heed to his ramblings, mentally castigating herself for embarking on this interrogation, especially as a pair of turbaned dowagers seated in chairs in a corner turned to stare at them as they passed, then looked at each other with raised brows. A militant look came into her gray eyes, despite the flush on her cheeks, as she went doggedly on, searching for the simplest way to phrase what she wanted to know. “But, why is it that Ramon dislikes your papa?”

  “He thinks Papa did him out of Beau Repose. It was a gambling debt, see. Old man Cazenave lost the house and land in a game of poker.” He giggled. “A while after that, he turned up his toes and died.”

  It was not an uncommon story. Great fortunes had been won and lost in the gambling dens of New Orleans and aboard the steamboats that had plied up and down the Mississippi River for more than a half a century. Men played their last card, shrugged, and walked away. Easy come, easy go, in the rich delta land where a gentleman was dishonored if he did not settle such affairs in the least possible amount of time, where a man with a small amount of capital and the spirit of daring had been able, in the early years, to recoup his losses by clearing and cultivating another plantation property. Some men had gained and lost several fortunes. Some plantations had been won and lost several times over. In each case, it was the women who cried and packed their belongings for the move.

  “If that’s the way it happened,” she said, frowning, “it was unfortunate, but I don’t see how your father can be blamed.”

  “That’s right, he can’t.”

  “But, wasn’t he surprised when Ramon did blame him?”

  The blast of a steam whistle ripped the air, slicing across any reply Franklin might have made. His face lit up, and he swung around with a jerky, shuffling run, heading for the front door. Following more slowly, along with the majority of the other guests, Lorna saw the great white boat whose whistle had sounded. It rounded the bend in the wide river before the house, riding the current with its snub-nosed bow angling toward the landing of Beau Repose, where a Negro man stood waving a large white signal flag as a sign that there were passengers to be taken on board.

  Stacked three stories high, it was iced with lace-like wooden filigree, like a wedding cake. Its great smokestacks, fluted on top in the shape of crowns, threw back plumes of dark smoke that mingled with the mist rising off the river. Because of the way the levee was constructed, an earthen dam winding with the river, rising twelve feet and more above the flat surface of the surrounding land, the boat riding the flood was on a level with the great house on its man-made elevation.

  As the steam packet glided into the landing, it set the plantation skiff, a long, narrow boat with a stepped mast of the sort kept ready by most places along the river for quick visits up and down, to rocking on its rope tied to the pilings. The Negro roustabout aboard the packet jumped to the landing to loop the bigger boat’s hawser over the same piling stump to which the skiff was tied, before running out the gangplank.

  It had stopped raining for the time being. The pale and watery light of early evening touched the white railings of the General Jackson with tints of reflected gray-pink and green, glimmered on the gilded eagle strung on a cable between her smokestacks, and searched out the stirring depiction of the Battle of New Orleans painted in vivid colors on her paddle box.

  Her aunt and uncle were not the only ones to take advantage of the late-running steamboat. A number of the other guests were embarking also, the men still waving julep glasses and the women clutching fluttering handkerchiefs, while young girls hugged pieces of wedding cake to be placed underneath their pillows, so they might dream of their future husbands. Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Madelyn waved once from the upper deck, their smiles taut, before turning aside to enter their stateroom.

  The steamboat’s bell rang three times, a melodious clanging that rang over the water and echoed from the tree line of the distant shore. The whistle blew a long blast, and then a second and a third. Gay cries of farewell filled the air. The boat began to back up, its great side wheels churning the yellow-brown waters of the Mississippi into a mud bath.

  “Too thick to navigate and too thin to cultivate,” Nate Bacon said from where he had moved to stand at Lorna’s side. It was an old saying, but she smiled politely. Her gray gaze lingered on the boat as it pulled out into the current.

  “Shall we return to the house?” he asked.

  She sent him a quick glance to find him offering his arm in ironic gallantry. Around them, the others who had come to see departing acquaintances off were straggling back across the sloping green lawn that led up to the white-pillared mansion. It would be ungracious to refuse his support over the wet grass. Signifying her agreement by placing her fingers on his sleeve, she said, “I trust my aunt and uncle’s journey downriver will not be delayed unduly by the weather.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, his tone absent as he glanced around at the leaden skies. His footsteps were dawdling, and his light blue regard swung back to her averted face. “I haven’t told you how lovely you look. It’s a pity you must leave the party. You are aware that you are to dine with Franklin, alone?”

  “I had not been told,” she answered in stifled tones.

  “An oversight, I’m sure. I understood your aunt was to mention it to you, as well as the suite of rooms that have been furnished for your use as man and wife — where you will now find your belongings. At any rate, that is the arrangement. I expect you will wish to retire soon to prepare for the arrival of your groom.”

  “Yes.” There was something about the way he watched her, the way he had fallen behind the others, that sent a wave of unease over her. It was as if, without speaking of it, he meant for her to remember the situation in which he had found her at near the same time the day before.

  “I fear,” he said deliberately, “that you may be disappointed in what transpires tonight.”

  She sent him a cool look, though her heartbeat seemed to have stopped. “I beg your pardon, but I can’t have heard you correctly.”

  He laughed. “Charming. It should prove amusing to have you around for the next few weeks. I was speaking of Franklin’s capacity in bed. He particularly enjoys virgins, you see. Not knowing what to expect, they cannot be disappointed. He is, therefore, free to be as selfish as he pleases. Women of experience, as I discovered on the one occasion when I took him to a brothel, unman him — except for the Negro maids, of course, whose opinion of his prowess he need not consider.”

  “I would r
ather not speak of it!”

  “Don’t turn prudish; it doesn’t become you,” Nate grunted, his voice sharp with annoyance. “I am trying to warn you of what you may encounter.”

  “If you expect me to be grateful,” she said in a flash of anger, “then, I’m afraid you are the one who must be disappointed.”

  “I thought you might make use of the information. It could help matters if you were to pretend to a maidenly modesty at the least, to show a little reluctance, even some sign of fear. I’m sure it would do wonders.”

  A shudder ran over her, and she looked away, setting her teeth in her bottom lip to prevent herself from saying something she might regret. She would have liked to snatch her hand from his arm and run, but there was no one to run to, no place to go. Finally, since he seemed to expect some reply, she answered, “You need not concern yourself. I am certain it will be all right.”

  Nate stopped at the foot of the steps. He looked around him and, there being no one near enough to overhear, said quietly, “If it isn’t, you can always come to me.”

  “Come to you?” she repeated, swinging her head to stare at him. Was it possible she had misjudged him? The thought drew her brows together over her eyes.

  “I think I can guarantee to make up for Franklin’s deficiencies as a husband. If there are any children as a result, it can always be arranged that Franklin be recognized as the father.”

  “Children?” She snatched her hand away from him, retreating a step.

  “You needn’t look so surprised at the idea. I am not more than middle-aged, you know, barely forty-six. Older men than that have sired new families. It’s by no means impossible.”

  She clenched her hands on her skirts, lifting them to take a step. “You are mistaken,” she said in a voice that shook with the disgust that gripped her. “It is impossible because you — because I will never accept your offer. The relationship we share at this moment is all there will ever be between us!”

  He gave her a slow smile, his light blue gaze bright and his formless mouth twisted with derision. “We’ll see. A woman like you who has had experience will expect more in bed than you are likely to get with Franklin. Pretty soon, a week, a month, you’ll be bored senseless. Then, we’ll see!”

  3

  Her new husband’s ankle-length dressing gown was of blue satin strewn with life-size appliqués of Scots terrier dogs in black velvet. As they sat at the small table placed before the fireplace, Lorna tried not to look at the man across from her. She gazed instead at the fire roaring beneath the mantel, overheating the room on this night that was cool and humid from the rain, but not cold; at the pattern of the Spode china banded in pink that graced the table, at the sputtering brass gaslight overhead with its ornate scrolled arms and leaded crystal globes. She carefully avoided even glancing in the direction of the great four-poster bed, however.

  It was not merely Franklin’s taste in dressing gowns that offended her. His table manners were crude beyond belief. She had not noticed them particularly before, perhaps because on the one occasion when she had taken a meal in his company Nate had been there to correct him, to admonish with a stern glance. Released from that restraint, Franklin tore the roast chicken apart with his bare hands, sucked his fingers, spilled wine down his black velvet lapels, and chewed with his mouth open, dribbling at the corners.

  Lorna felt unwell. The heat of the fire, the smell of the food, the sounds Franklin made as he masticated the chicken, the closeness of the room, plus the virulence of her own fears, combined to give her an almost uncontrollable urge to escape. She tried to combat it by sipping at her glass of wine and thinking, deliberately, of nothing.

  Franklin’s jaws slowed. He stared at her with a slab of apple pie halfway to his mouth. “Aeneid, you hungry?”

  “I suppose I ate too much cake,” she answered with a shake of her head.

  “I didn’t see you eat any.” He took a bite of the pie and a swallow of wine. As he spoke, his words were muffled, slurred.

  She had the feeling he could be extremely stubborn, inclined to cling to an idea, once he got it. Evading the issue, she said, “It was delicious.”

  “It sure was. But, I ate all the chicken they brought for our supper. You didn’t eat any of it.”

  “No, I … I’m not fond of chicken.” It was an untruth, but perhaps it would serve.

  “You didn’t eat any of the ham.”

  “No.”

  “None of the boiled potatoes.”

  “No.”

  “Nor the bread and butter.”

  She shook her head.

  “Nor the pickled cabbage relish.”

  There were several items to go before he got to the dessert. In an effort to deflect him, she said, “But, I am drinking my wine.”

  “I’ve drunk more than you have.”

  There could be little doubt of that. If she was any judge of the matter, he had been drinking without stopping since the wedding, even while he changed. He had been assisted into his attire for a supper à deux by his valet, using the dressing room of their suite, which included also the bedchamber and a small sitting room. Lorna herself had changed earlier, removing her wedding gown and, reluctantly, dressing in the expected dishabille in the most frantic haste in the bedchamber. There had been a maid waiting to aid her. The woman had said she was sent by the master of the house, but Lorna recognized her as Franklin’s Lizzie. The most disturbing thing about having the maid there had been the woman’s attitude. She had shown no sign of jealousy or resentment, only a quiet, unspoken sympathy.

  “I did, didn’t I?” Franklin demanded.

  “What?” She stared at him, at a loss for a moment. “Oh, yes, you did drink more wine.”

  “I’m going to have some brandy, too.” He watched her, his lips pushed out in a belligerent pout, his hands clutching his wineglass and the remains of his pie.

  “As you like,” she murmured.

  “You can’t stop me. You’re just my wife, not my papa.”

  The glance he gave her, probing the layers of muslin that covered her breasts, made her aware of how inadequate a covering was her wrapper and nightgown. She said in simple truth, “I have no wish to stop you.”

  “You better not. You don’t tell me what to do, I tell you. Ring the bell.”

  The expression in his eyes was cunning, as if he were testing her. She felt instinctively that it would be unwise for him to have more to drink, but she had been given no instructions about what he was allowed to do and what he was not. Without them, it did not seem her place to interfere in his pleasures, and if he drank himself senseless this night, so much the better.

  “Now!” he bellowed, raising his fists and slamming them down so hard that the stem of the wineglass shattered. He threw the pieces on the floor, along with the crumbs of his piecrust, and snatched his hand to his lips where he began to suck at the small place where he had been cut.

  It wasn’t his fault he was like this, she reminded herself; she must not allow him to provoke her. Giving him a cool stare, she rose and moved to pull the bell-knob on the end of the mantel. As she returned to her seat, she picked up her napkin and reached to press one corner to the tiny slash on his hand.

  It was Lizzie who answered the summons. When she heard his order, she cocked her head to one side. “You know, Masts’ Franklin, that they Aeneid goin’ to bring you no brandy, even if I was to tell them what you want.”

  “You can get it for me,” he wheedled.

  “Who, me? I Aeneid got no key to the wine closet.”

  “It’s not locked up. I saw a bottle in the library.”

  “I can’t go down there! You trying to get me whipped?” The girl’s tone was indignant.

  “Nobody’ll see you. They’re all in the dining room. It wouldn’t take more than a minute to shag your ass down there and back again. Damn it, I want some brandy!”

  “Don’t get all lathered up, Masts’ Franklin. I don’t like to see you that way.” There was a wary
look on the maid’s face as she edged toward the door, but no surprise at his vulgar language.

  “Then do what I say!”

  “All right, all right, I’m going. I just hope nobody sees me, ‘cause your papa’s goin’ to be mad if he finds out what you’re up to up here.”

  “He won’t find out if you stop talking and start moving.”

  The maid bobbed a nod and slid out the door. When she had gone, Franklin flung a smirk of satisfaction in Lorna’s direction. “I’m goin’ to have brandy.”

  “So it would seem,” she said dryly.

  “I bet Cazenave’s not having any.”

  Her head came up and she studied his vacuous face, searching for meaning. “Won’t he?”

  “No wine either. No supper.”

  “I see. He’ll go hungry to bed then,” she said after a moment.

  “Last night, too.” The idea seemed to give him immense satisfaction.

  “He wasn’t given food last night, either?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head in answer to her question. “Nor this morning, nor at noon.”

  “That’s barbaric! You must be mistaken.”

  “Not mistaken. Went to see him before the wedding. He asked me for water. Didn’t give it to him.”

  Lizzie, returning with a cut-glass decanter of brandy and a glass on a tray, drew his attention. He watched as she poured out two inches of the golden brown liquor. Before the maid had left the room, taking the supper dishes with her, he had swallowed half of it. “No brandy, no wine, no water,” he muttered.

  “Why?” Simple questions seemed best for Franklin.

  His answer was a grunt as he finished the brandy and reached out at the same time for her to pour him more.

  “Is it because someone gave the order he was not to be fed?” she persisted. “Or is it just that no one has been told to provide his meals?”

  Nothing to eat or drink, no attention for his injuries, no fire to dry his clothing, and no covering against the cool dankness of the night, just a damp dirt floor in a cell that no one came near. Ramon must have heard the faint sounds during the day of music and people coming and going. What must he have felt, knowing that if he called out it would be thought he was just a recalcitrant slave shut away for punishment, knowing that a feast was being enjoyed close at hand, being able, possibly, to smell it, while he was brought nothing.