by Lara Parker
She struggled to free herself, but he held her against him with such fierceness that she thought he would break her body in the strength of his arms. He searched until he found an opening in the wall and carried her through into the sheltered garden.
Then, as though coming from a trance, she found she was lying on a mossy step with a stream of water beneath her. Barnabas gathered her to him, still kissing her wet face. His back was naked to the pounding rain, her breasts slippery now against his chest, and he reached beneath her in the flowing water where her legs were bare, and she became the stream, rippling and sinuous against him. As he moved into her, she felt as though she had been holding her breath underwater for thousands of years until, finally, with a burst of air into her lungs, she was able to breathe at last.
They walked home in silence, and when they arrived at the house, he said only, “Meet me tomorrow night?” and she answered, “Yes, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.”
“Good night, then, and may all your dreams be sweet ones.” He kissed her softly and clasped her to him for a long moment, then turned and walked off into the night.
Once in her room, she went to the window and looked out. The rain had stopped, and the sky was clear and deep as the sea. Trembling, but defiant still, she waited, then uttered a prayer. “Power of Darkness, you have left me alone for so many years. Are you still there, watching over me? Are you as determined as ever to control my life and my heart?”
There was no answer. Only the brilliant stars in their orbits shone down on her, cold and silent.
The following night she went to Barnabas’s chamber. As she felt her dress drawn off her, she wondered whether she had even existed before now, and her body seemed suspended in rapt expectancy. He kissed the insides of her palms, which floated over his face, and then her aching breasts, which sprang to his mouth. He stroked her soft arms until they moved around his neck, and he trailed his hand down her stomach and around to the bones of her hips, wandering slowly to her inner thighs. His touch sent waves of pleasure through her, so intense that she wanted to weep. Her body amazed her, and all the magic she had learned until now paled before these new secrets, so deep in her core, so vivid and rushing, that she lost all memory of herself and all desire to know or understand any other force but this: the all-consuming power of love.
Twenty-Four
For three enchanted weeks the lovers stole away at every possible moment, snatching private intervals together: a conversation in the marketplace, a walk on the seashore, an assignation in Barnabas’s chamber in the early-morning hours. Often it was dawn when Angelique returned to the du Prés house and crept quietly in the kitchen door. Every rendezvous was sweet with the knowledge that the time they had was flying by, and that his ship would soon sail back to America.
Clandestine meetings were arranged in whispers, and the pain of not being able to reveal their love affair was a cruel impediment. But kisses in shadows were dearer than sunshine, and furtive trysts heady with ardor.
One afternoon when they had secreted themselves away beneath the wreck of a schooner on the beach, Angelique said, “I can’t bear this hiding any longer. We will have to tell everyone someday. Can’t we do it now?”
Barnabas said to her, “I want to tell the world about you. And I will, when I return. You must trust me. When my inheritance is certain, and my father can no longer reject me, then we will be free to love one another openly.”
“Your fortune is not important to me. It’s you I love.”
“My darling, do you want us to be paupers?”
“Will you write to me?”
He thought a moment. “How can I do that? Wouldn’t Madame du Prés discover a letter?”
“Is there no way I can write to you?”
“Where would you send it? My father…” He sighed and drew her into his arms. “The time will go quickly, and I will return. Let’s not worry over trivial things. Will you forget me?”
“Never!”
“Nor I you.”
The morning Barnabas’s schooner sailed, the harbor was shrouded in fog. The schooner floated like a ghost ship on the swirling mist that covered the sea. As Angelique watched from the wharf, she thought the ship was like a painting, the sails white against white, their curved shapes like bleached shells as they drew away into a haze of nothingness.
* * *
Josette and Angelique continued their lives as companions, but with every season, a widening gap edged between them. Josette’s life now included visits to other plantations with the countess, sometimes for weeks at a time, as the easily bored Parisian expatriate pursued stimulation and distraction in what she referred to as “this infernal jungle of an island teeming with unfortunate souls.” Josette was invited to teas and balls in Saint-Pierre and found a group of wealthy young ladies who shared her station in life. Angelique was called upon much more than before to wait on Josette and attend to her needs, and she had increasing difficulty performing her duties as a servant, knowing she was to marry into a fortune. Time passed slowly for her, as all was heartache and longing.
Josette as well seemed far more drawn into herself. She spent hours alone, playing the pianoforte and singing sweet and plaintive love songs, sketching at her tablet, or writing long letters to friends who were traveling abroad. These letters seemed to occupy more and more of her time, and she took to walking into town, or, if they were at Trinité, the long length of the tree-lined colonnade, to meet the post. Angelique longed to send a letter to Barnabas if only there were some way, and how she wished somehow one would come for her.
Often Josette’s letters were the subject of intense conversation with the countess, who had become her confidante, as the developing young woman sought the advice and experience of a woman of the world. At times Angelique overheard snatches of conversation coming from behind the closed door of the countess’s boudoir:
“You must be reserved, Josette, and not appear too fond. Remember the man loves the chase. Don’t respond right away, but wait a week or two, then plead various occupations and family responsibilities which suggest merriment. Speak to him of exciting travel or essential social events, so that he will believe you are far too busy to be thinking of him. It’s best to make him wonder how you feel. But always remind him of how delighted you are to have heard from him—someone you admire so deeply, or he might slip away!”
It was obvious that Josette had a special suitor, but she was secretive, and Angelique could not help but wonder which of the young men who came to call at the du Prés household was the happy gentleman. A planter from Lamartine had a strapping young son who sat in the parlor with his hat in his hands and appeared so besotted with Josette’s beauty that he could scarcely utter a word, but simply sat watching her play the pianoforte with watery pain in his eyes.
A wealthy young landowner appeared to be Monsieur du Prés’s favorite, since the two men conversed for hours when he came to call, and Josette waited patiently in the drawing room. André dearly loved bestowing business advice on the industrious young entrepreneur who seemed destined to make his fortune in sugar.
There were various gentlemen of whom her father did not approve, but he held his tongue and never berated her or pressured her, for he seemed to trust her implicitly. Angelique often wondered how it would have been to have had such an affectionate father, one who doted on her every whim. She envied Josette her parent as she envied her in every other way.
A wickedly handsome young officer met Josette often outside the side door of the house in Saint-Pierre, and Angelique could sometimes hear Josette laughing giddily at the remarks he made to her. Once she caught sight of him leaning in to speak to Josette while he had her trapped under his resting arm, and she felt a sharp pang of envy as she remembered the same scarlet jacket and Barnabas’s hungry kisses.
It was the letters that came from abroad that seemed to make Josette deliriously happy, and she kept them tied with a blue ribbon and hidden in a locked compartment of her desk. Which
suitor could it be? Saint-Pierre was overflowing with traders and merchants from Europe and America, and many came to wait on the young du Prés girl. Her father’s wealth alone made her a magnet for gentlemen and fortune hunters alike. Finally Angelique decided that the devilish young officer must be the favorite, since his attentions had been so well received.
One day Josette met the carriage, and a letter had come for her that rendered her ecstatic. She ran back down the road, her dark hair in tangles and her skirts fluttering around her feet. She rushed up the stair and hid herself away in her room for the rest of the afternoon. That evening the doors to the drawing room were closed on a long, serious conversation between the girl and her father, and Josette emerged from the interview with a beatific smile on her face.
The following morning Josette called Angelique to her room and, embracing her for the first time in months, spoke to Angelique effusively.
“Oh, Angelique, I am so happy! I am betrothed!”
“Oh, Mademoiselle!”
“I have received an offer of marriage that has made me wondrously happy! Last night Father gave his permission, and I wanted to tell you before anyone else did. I am so in love that I think my heart will burst!”
“Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
“I can’t say as yet; it’s all still a secret. Father and his father must exchange agreements, dowry arrangements and the like, for he is a person of wealth and owns a great house in New England. Angelique, I am to be the mistress of a grand estate!”
“America?”
“Yes! I am going to America, for a while, although we will live on both shores, and my fondest hope is that you accompany me there. I don’t know how I should ever do without you.”
Angelique felt the usual pangs that were part of all her conversations with Josette, but she also hugged to herself the deliriously ironic coincidence that they might be neighbors some day. “I am so glad for you, Mademoiselle. You deserve every happiness.”
“Will you come into town with me today to look at fabric?” Josette had an endearing habit of leaning into people when she spoke to them and placing a hand on an arm to ensure their attention. She reached for Angelique and spoke with a serious voice. “The countess is insisting that my dress come from Paris, but the couturiers there are so unreliable now, ever since what Father calls the Reign of Terror. And Martinique has Belgium lace! Wouldn’t that be exquisite? Say you’ll come!”
The next afternoon, André went hunting wild goats in the scrub with a few planters, and Angelique and Josette took the little buggy into Saint-Pierre and stopped in at the seamstress’s shop. Josette was measured for her wedding gown, and the solicitous mulatto woman spread luxurious yards of goods for Josette to see. She took her time, considering each one before choosing a bolt of cream-colored silk that came all the way from the Orient. It had been secreted away for a decade, ever since an exotic trading ship from India had called in St. Thomas, and it cost sixty livres a yard.
The following week, Josette went for her first fitting. The sheen on the gown had the luster of pearls and so enhanced Josette’s ivory complexion that she resembled a porcelain figurine.
Angelique folded away into her mind every detail of Josette’s preparations, thinking the day would soon come when she would partake of these same delights. Before she knew it, it had been over a year, a long, agonizing year, since Barnabas had departed, and every morning she woke wondering when he would return to claim her as his bride. Working at her menial tasks, or walking in the garden, her hopes kept alive by anxious anticipation, she was always lost in delightful reverie, remembering their hours together, imagining her future happiness. She thought often of the seamstress’s shop and fantasized of going there to purchase the fabric for her own wedding gown, a blue watered taffeta, pale as ice, she had seen on the top shelf. But she told herself she would sew real pearls to the bodice.
One afternoon, when she thought she could bear the waiting no longer, she passed the door of the seamstress’s establishment on the way back from the market. She decided to order another dress, a dress she would wear when Barnabas returned.
From that day forward she saved every penny of her small salary and kept the coins safely stashed in a little purse. It would be the gown of a fine lady, fitted to her perfectly, and tailored with elegance and style, the first of many she would see hanging in her own wardrobe one day.
The day she was to choose the fabric, Angelique allowed her imagination full rein as her eyes feasted on the rich colors of silks and taffetas folded on the shelves. As her fingers stroked the lavish stuffs on display, she lost herself in the exquisite hues and remembered the shades of vermilion and lime, the corals of the reef where she used to swim. She chose a tissue satin of the palest gold, which tumbled like liquid metal against her hand when she lifted it.
While the muslin pattern was cut and pinned to her body, the seamstress bustled around her, her mouth filled with pins, patting and tucking the pieces into place, murmuring comments about Angelique’s graceful form, all the time assuring her that the gown would be a lovely addition to her wardrobe. The fitting was an unexpected pleasure, for the seamstress was both skilled and courteous, and Angelique enjoyed standing near the window of the shop where passersby could see her being treated with the respect bestowed on a valued customer.
She was thinking of the years when Thais had dressed her as the goddess and pinned the flowers to her skirt, when she noticed a young Negro man stride by the window and turn into the square. Something in his gait and carriage was familiar, and Angelique moved closer to the glass to see whether he was a person she knew. She was sure she recognized him. She ran to the door of the shop, and called out, “Cesaire!”
The young man turned when he heard his name, and she knew she had not been mistaken. It was her old friend. When he saw her at first a puzzled expression crossed his face, then he broke into a wide grin as he walked back in her direction, his eyes lighting up.
“Angelique, gal, is that really you? An’ all grown-up?”
“Cesaire! Yes! Hello. My goodness! I never thought I would see you again.” She wanted to hug him, but all the pins prevented her, and it was just as well, for a white girl could not embrace a black man on the street in Martinique.
“What you doin’ out here, gal, an’ what’s all this? You all pinned together in sailcloth?”
“I’m having a dress fitted, you silly thing! Oh, Cesaire, you’ve been gone for such a long time!”
“I seen the world, gal, an’ the high seas between.”
“Did you go back to Africa?”
“Africa, yes, and Venezuela, even Philadelphia! I stay in Guadeloupe when I’m not on board ship because the slaves be free there. Not like here, where backra look right through you if your skin be black. The planter fear the guillotine in Guadeloupe!”
Angelique could see Cesaire had grown into a proud young man, with skin like varnished mahogany and fiery eyes. He must have been thinking of how she had changed as well, for he said, “You are a fine young woman now I see, and rich enough to have your clothes sewn for you. No longer a lady’s maid at Trinité?”
She dropped her eyes, wondering why she was ashamed to say she was, but just as quickly she lifted her chin, and said, “I am, Cesaire, still working where you left me, with the family du Prés.”
“Then why this fancy gown?”
“Oh, Cesaire, my fortunes are about to change.”
He smiled at her and cocked his head to look into her eyes. “Yes, I see clearly now. You be in love! Am I right?”
“How did you guess?”
“I know that look from other eyes. What do you think? I have had many a lovely girl to call my own and seen that look before. So who is this lucky man?”
“Oh, you won’t believe me when I tell you. He was on the schooner we sailed on to Hispaniola—the officer whose life we saved—remember?”
“Of course … and he was a gentleman.”
“A fine gentleman who live
s in Maine. Wealthy, and from a powerful family.”
Cesaire’s face clouded. “What you doin’ lovin’ a fine gentleman?”
“He has asked me to marry him! And soon, very soon, he is coming back to Martinique.”
“But that is a dream, Angelique. An’ you be in bad luck if you not give it up. Little island packet never catch the brigantine, even in high winds.”
“It’s not a dream, Cesaire.”
He hesitated a minute, then said, “Just so you be happy, gal. I won’t ever forget the little soldier who jumped into my wagon. I never knew before or since such a brave one as you. I don’t want to see your heart broken.” Then he looked back over his shoulder. “My ship sails on the tide. I only came ashore for these, they make in the foundry here.” He showed her a handful of iron rings.
“Will you come back? Will you come and see me when you do?”
“I’m bound for France, Angelique, to work in a sail yard in Marseilles. It be many years before I see you again. Take care of yourself and remember to be wise!”
“Perhaps I’ll see you in Maine…”
“Maine it is!” And he was gone.
Seeing Cesaire left Angelique feeling lonelier than ever, and now Josette had received the joyful news that her fiancé was sailing from America for a visit. A prolonged residence with her favorite friends at Trois Islets kept her occupied for more than a month, but as the time drew near for her gentleman’s expected arrival, she returned to make preparations to welcome him into her home.
Pastries were baked, linen was ironed, silver polished, and a pig was fattened in the barnyard. The countess insisted on force-feeding a goose for pâté, although she bemoaned the fact that the geese in Martinique were an inferior breed. Crabs were kept in buckets of salt water, okra and sweet herbs were gathered from the garden, and even a turtle was penned for a savory soup. Angelique was caught up in the excitement as well, for she had become quite curious about Josette’s intended, and her own longing was eased by her mistress’s infectious delirium.