Her mother reached blindly for the drink, a concoction of Demeter’s made from willow bark shavings, mint leaves, lemon balm and a few other things the old nursemaid refused to name. She sipped from it and sank back on the pillows as if the mere taste was enough to bring relief.
“Thank you, chère,” she said after a moment. “You are a good daughter. Yes, perhaps too good.”
“If you speak of this marriage…”
“Your papa should not have asked it of you.”
“He didn’t. That was Monsieur Lenoir’s solution to our predicament.”
“But you agreed. Why did you agree? Why could you not have refused and kept on refusing until—”
“Until what? Until we were riding down the drive while perched on top of our belongings? No, no, this will be better.”
“I fear—Oh, chère. You can’t know…” She trailed off, sighed and began again. “Your papa and I have been happy. I wanted you to be happy in your next husband. But not now, not like this, no, no. It’s too soon. I can’t think—”
Happy? What did that mean? Could happiness be in a kiss that tasted of shaving soap and honey-sweet man, of mind-drugging ardor and potential surrender? Was it in physical completion? If so, Reine thought she might have some small chance of it. She still felt drugged by Christien’s kiss, bemused by the certainty that she had never had another like it, not in all the time of her courtship and marriage to Theodore.
“Don’t think, then. Let it go, Maman.”
“I must, someone must. Oh, chère, what if he comes back?”
Her mother’s question wrenched Reine’s thoughts away from the man she had just left. Goose bumps ran across her shoulders and down her arms. “Who? You can’t mean Theodore. He’s dead, Maman. You remember. He’s been dead these two years.”
“He wasn’t there. The bed, all that blood. But he wasn’t there.”
This was an aspect her mother returned to again and again. Reine could hardly blame her; it was the point that had never been adequately explained. If she had been there, in the bedchamber she and Theodore had sometimes shared at River’s Edge, all might have been made plain, might have been different. But she had not.
For an instant she was back in that terrible time. Marguerite had been so ill, with high fever, vomiting and flux. Her crying could be heard all over the house at Bonne Espèrance. Everyone had been kept awake by it: Theodore’s mother, the elderly uncle dying in an upper bedchamber of the French Creole–style house, the pair of cousins who looked after the old man. The noise and upset in the household had so exasperated Theodore that he finally rode into town and remained there for several days. Or perhaps he had only wanted to avoid contamination as he could never bear being ill.
Reine, doubtful about the remedies pressed upon her by old Demeter and reluctant to burden a household already dealing with one invalid, had longed to be at River’s Edge. When the old uncle died in the midst of the turmoil, she picked up Marguerite and went home. Not that it had done much good; the sickness had simply run its course. Reine had not slept for days and nights together, had spent every moment rocking Marguerite, bathing her in cool water, spooning minute sips of sweetened lemon water into her mouth, trying to find something she could keep in her stomach. All track of time was lost in the endless round of days and nights.
When the fever finally broke and Marguerite slept, Reine eased away from where she had been holding her, lying in the great tester in her bedchamber. She’d realized then that she had eaten nothing all that day. After a small meal in the outdoor kitchen at the end of the walk, she put her head down on the table for just a moment, savoring the relief that the crisis was past. In a moment, she would return to the house, she thought, would climb the stairs back to her bed.
She woke at dawn to a keening scream. Jumping up, she ran back inside with her heart in her throat. She had found her mother holding Marguerite while blood smeared them both. She shuddered even now to think of it.
It was some time before a coherent story could be made of what had happened. Theodore had returned from New Orleans, stopping at Bonne Espèrance, where he learned Reine and Marguerite had left. He arrived at River’s Edge, they knew, because a sleepy stable boy had taken his horse. He entered the house and made his way to the bedchamber Reine had occupied without doubt, for his discarded clothing lay on the floor where he’d dropped it. The mattress was imprinted with the shape of his narrow form, an indication that he had lain there. Theodore was never seen again, however. At least he was never seen alive.
“You know he’s dead, Maman. He was found in the river, remember?” Reine spoke over her shoulder as she moved to close the shutters over the windows, shutting out the light as well as the steadily increasing heat. Pausing an instant before latching them, she gazed though the crack at the silver flood of the Mississippi, a bright swath in the morning light, just visible over the levee from this second-floor window. The dock for River’s Edge was directly opposite the house, and Theodore had been found no great distance below it. Reine closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again before she went on. “Paul saw him when they pulled him out.”
“Yes, yes, my poor Paul. It troubles him still, I know it does.”
Reine could only agree. It troubled all of them in one way or another.
“Theodore may not have been the best of husbands, not patient and kind like Maurice. But he was not…not a terrible one, was he?”
“What do you mean, terrible?”
“He never struck you?”
Reine shook her head. Theodore had been thoughtless, high tempered and quick to find fault. He had been so catered to all his life that he expected all things to revolve around his wishes, and was outraged when it was otherwise. That didn’t make him a bad husband.
And yet her mother’s comment made it sound as if she knew Reine’s marriage had been lacking. She wasn’t sure how, for it was nothing they ever talked about. Such things were too upsetting for her mother. More than that, they were no one’s business but her own.
It was good to think that her parents’ marriage was more blessed, that her mother had been happy, or as happy as someone of her unstable temperament could be. It had always been a gentle union due to her mother’s fragile condition, but her father obviously adored her, would do anything to keep her calm and content. If passion was not a large part of their union, it was their affair. At least a mild version must have enlivened it when they were younger, Reine felt, or she and Paul would not have made their appearance in the world.
It wasn’t what she wanted for herself, a selfless and tepid union, she realized as she moved back toward the bed. No, not at all, in spite of what she might have thought a day or two ago.
She was not fragile or overly genteel, didn’t shrink from emotions that were wild and hot and free. Perhaps it was her French blood from her father’s side of the family, but she felt such things were regulated by nature. She should be more ladylike about them, perhaps, should keep them inside where they would not embarrass her or her future husband. Still, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t feel them.
Did it?
She wondered how Christien viewed the matter.
“People say the most revolting things,” her mother went on, turning her head back and forth against the tall headboard. “They should not talk about what happened here, about you. I can’t bear it.”
“I suppose it’s natural to speculate when something so odd takes place. I’m sure they mean nothing by it.” Reine seated herself on the edge of the bed, lifting the cup to encourage her mother to drink more of the cooling tisane.
“Are you? I am not. They should understand you could have nothing to do with it, that you aren’t capable of…of what they whisper behind their hands. Poor Theodore must have been injured by a prowler. The blood on his pillow—he must have been beaten about the head and face. He wandered out to seek aid, or perhaps he didn’t know what he was doing, where he was going, and so fell into the river.”
I
t was what they had all said in one form or another since that night. Repeating it seemed to give her mother a measure of peace, as well. Nothing else made sense. Because she had found Marguerite lying in Theodore’s blood, it had naturally preyed on her mind. The peace when it finally faded away, seldom to be mentioned, had been tremendous. Now the impending marriage, and perhaps the sight of Reine with another man in the room where Theodore had been fatally injured, had brought it all back again.
The wedding would be a reminder for everyone—friends, neighbors, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. They would begin the round of questions again. How had Theodore been killed without waking the child in the bed beside him? Had he actually left the house under his own power? If not, who had removed the body? How was it that no one in the house had seen or heard anything? How could his own wife have slept while he was being murdered in their bed?
It was that last question that haunted Reine. She hadn’t known how to answer then, couldn’t tell anyone now. She could say she had been so very tired, had been away from the main house in the outdoor kitchen, that she never dreamed anything so dreadful might take place. She could maintain that she had not known Theodore would return or come on to River’s Edge after learning she had taken the baby there.
It made no difference. No one seemed to understand. She could hardly blame them, for she had never quite understood it herself.
Reine sat holding her mother’s hand, making soothing noises while trying to say nothing that would incite fearful remembrances. After a time, the tisane did its work. When she was certain her mother slept, Reine took the cup from her lax fingers and went quietly from the room.
“Is she all right?”
She inhaled sharply, almost dropping the small tisane tray she carried before she recognized the deep voice. It was Christien, leaning with his back against the wall a few feet down the hall from her mother’s door. He had finished his shave, reclaimed his shirt and donned frock coat and boots, but she could not quite banish the image in her mind of his half-naked splendor. The concern indicated by his waiting in the hall for news surprised her, but was also oddly gratifying. It was a second before she could find words to answer him.
“She is perfectly well, thank you.”
“No demand to have me horsewhipped or thrown out on my ear?”
“She could hardly do that even if she wanted.” Reine gave him a sardonic smile as she moved away from the door to prevent their voices from disturbing her mother. “It’s your house, after all.”
He ignored that as he caught up with her in a single smooth stride, keeping pace as she continued down the hall. “No message sending for the priest, either?”
“For a hasty wedding, you mean? No.”
“Too bad.”
She stopped, turned to face him as he halted in his turn. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“I would prefer it,” he answered, his gaze steady. “What of you?”
What did she really want? On one hand, she felt as if she was being hauled to the altar with her feet dragging. On the other, the whole affair seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. The sword master might be fearless on the dueling field, but could easily change his mind and put them off the property once the gossip mill began to grind out all the old rumors and accusations. Delay could lead to calamity.
She moistened her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, speaking with her gaze on his cravat. “No. It would suit me, as well. Shall we say in a week’s time?”
“The only thing better would be if it took place tomorrow.”
He was an impatient bridegroom. She should be flattered, and would be if not certain he wanted primarily to have the matter settled. As with most men of decision, once resolved on a course of action, his instinct would be to move forward with all speed.
Oh, she did not doubt he wanted her; she was not so foolish as to think that he would have offered marriage otherwise. It was only that she was fairly sure he wanted River’s Edge more. And why would he not? It was a valuable property, and he apparently had nothing except his reputation as one of the deadliest swordsmen in New Orleans.
She knew all that, so it was ridiculous to be so affected by his declaration. Yet she could not deny the intoxicating anticipation that ran in her veins at the thought of their wedding night. If a dread of what he might think of her afterward blended with it, that was her secret.
Drawing a deep, sustaining breath, she tipped her head in agreement. “Excellent. In the chapel here, then, as we said before. You will naturally invite whomever you please.”
“I have a few friends who might like to witness the deed.”
“If you will draw up a list, I’ll see they receive notice.”
“I’ll take care of it. Unless you prefer to be more formal?”
“Not at all. It won’t be a particularly formal affair. To wear an elaborate gown and enter into the usual celebrations would be inappropriate under the circumstances, as I’m sure you must realize.”
He reached to put a knuckle under her chin, tilting it up so she was forced to meet his rich brown-black gaze. “Whatever you wear, you will be beautiful,” he said. “And I will try not to humiliate you with my attire.”
“I don’t…I’m not…If you mean the shirt—” she began as fiery color surged to her hairline. She wished rather frantically that she had never called attention to the state of his linen, no matter how pure her motives.
“Never mind. I will wear with pride whatever you make for me. As for the rest, you’ll have to trust me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes.
He smiled and brushed her lips with his in a kiss with the sweet, tingling taste of promise. Inclining his head, he let her go.
Reine’s throat felt tight and her chest leaden as she continued toward the stairs and the outside kitchen. It was a lie she had spoken and she knew it well. Trusting him was the last thing she could do.
11
The muffled squeal, followed by a despairing protest, came from the stable. Christien drew up so abruptly that his big black danced a few steps along the fenced wagon path before coming to a halt. Though wary of another hysterical scene similar to the one after Madame Cassard’s discovery of Reine in his bedchamber yesterday morning, he could hardly pass by without investigation. He was by no means sure it was the older lady he’d heard, anyway. It might have been Reine or even Marguerite. In fact, it was more likely to be one or the other, since Madame Cassard rarely, if ever, left the house.
The murmur of voices, one female, the other overriding and gruffly male, came from the stable’s great open center, which was wide enough to drive a wagon through. The breathless fear in the lighter one decided Christien. With a silent command, he set the black in motion again, ducking a little as he rode into the twilight dimness of the outbuilding’s interior.
It was a second before his eyes could adjust from the dazzling summer morning outside. He could barely make out the dark shape of a carriage, a line of stalls, the shapes of harness and riding tack on hooks, the cavernous rise of a loft or mound of hay in one corner. A cat sat cleaning its paw in a patch of sunshine while a chicken stalked around it with a wary air. The air was thick with the smells of hay, leather, old manure and dust.
A flurry of movement at the edge of the haystack caught his attention. It became two struggling figures, a white man in the rough garb of a laborer who straddled a young black kitchen maid with her skirts up to her waist and her apron twisted around as she pushed and shoved at him.
“You there!” Christien rapped out in hard command. “Let the girl go. Come out where I can see you.”
The man cursed and rolled off the woman before climbing to his feet. The girl scrambled away, dragging her skirts down, sobbing under her breath. Grabbing up an overturned basket, she hurriedly picked up the clutch of eggs that had spilled from it, leaving the broken ones lying in their cracked shells. With a single wide-eyed glance at Christien, she fled through the rear opening of the sta
ble and disappeared from sight.
“What the hell do you want?”
The question was surly and held an Américain twang. The man who asked it was thick and squat, with a shock of sandy gray hair and pale eyes. His manner showed a marked lack of respect, almost as if he felt he was the aggrieved party. Christien looked him up and down and was unimpressed by what he saw.
“You’ll be the overseer,” he said in grim recognition. “Kingsley, I believe it was.” He swung down from his horse and tethered the black to a support post with a quick twist of the reins.
“What’s it to you?”
“Bend your mind to it. I’m sure it will come to you.”
The man laughed, a jarring sound without humor. “Oh, yeah, the gent that won the place off old man Cassard. The one who’ll be marryin’ Madame Pingre. I guess you think you’re sittin’ purty.”
Christien’s voice, never loud, grew softer still. His friends could have told the overseer it was not a good sign.
“We will leave Madame Pingre out of this. All you need understand is that I am the owner of River’s Edge. Whatever may have been tolerated in the past in the way of conduct toward females on this property no longer applies. You will leave them strictly alone. Is that understood?”
“Aw, don’t pay no mind to that gal. She wanted it, no matter how much she squalled about it.”
“It appeared otherwise.” Christien, noting details about a possible opponent without conscious thought, let his gaze linger a moment on the odd pattern of calluses on the man’s hands. They had the look of hard labor with a hoe or, just possibly, strenuous practice with a sword. Both seemed equally unlikely.
“I tell you—”
“Don’t,” Christien recommended. “Listen well, because this is the last time I will say it. Leave the women alone.”
“Or what? What you goin’ to do, huh? Fire me? You better be talkin’ to that bride of yours, let her tell you how things stand around here.”
Christien moved with deceptive lack of speed, yet one moment the overseer was rocking on his heels, sneering, and the next he was stretched out on the ground. Kingsley stared up at him with shock and rage in his eyes. Pushing to one elbow, he swiped at his nose and came away with blood on his fingers.
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