“Yes, but,” Reine agreed with the kind of rueful laugh only another parent could share. She had thought perhaps these illustrious guests might be too high in the instep for River’s Edge. Instead, they seemed perfectly at home there.
In fact, the sword masters with their wives and children had every aspect of a large family, each of them intimately familiar with the other and concerned with their problems and joys of the moment. She had seen real families that were less comfortable together. And every one of them greeted Christien like a brother or dear uncle, kissing him on both cheeks in friendly salute or slapping him on the back, hugging his knees or clamoring to be picked up, asking after his injury and listening to his response as if they truly cared whether he lived or died.
He was a part of that great, warm circle. Reine, on the other hand, was outside it.
It didn’t matter, of course; she could not expect to be accepted as one of them on so short an acquaintance. Why she should wish to be was hard to tell. She had her own family, after all.
Regardless, there was something about that close group, some shared experience or circumstance, that turned them into a powerful, almost invulnerable force. They existed beyond the ordinary rank of New Orleans society, were somehow above it.
Reine’s father, on hand to welcome all to River’s Edge as nominal host, was able to make himself heard above the noise after a time. With superb aplomb and Christien’s gracious permission, he drew the gentlemen to a shaded gallery where they would partake of planter’s punch liberally spiked with rum and cooled by some of the precious wedding ice. Reine was able to ascend the stairs with the ladies to make certain they were comfortable in their bedchambers.
River’s Edge boasted six such accommodations, five of which were already in use. For the advent of these guests, then, some rearrangements had been made. Reine had vacated her room, for she would dress for her wedding in her mother’s bedchamber as was the tradition. Later, she would share Christien’s bedchamber, of course, a prospect which made her tremble inside every time she thought of it. Paul had been ousted from his bed, as well, and would sleep on the back gallery for the duration. Marguerite had been moved to a trundle in her grandparents’ bedchamber, though Reine was by no means certain she would remain there. The arriving couples would each have a bedchamber for their use, then, while the great upstairs hallway would become a dormitory lined with cots and pallets to accommodate the various offspring who would not be sleeping in a trundle or cot in their parents’ bedchamber. Those boys who wished it could join Paul on cots under mosquito baires on the back gallery. Reine suspected that Nathaniel, being no great number of years older than Paul, might avail himself of the opportunity, and perhaps one or two of the others, as well. Dressing rooms and the servant quarters in the attic would naturally expand to hold the extra attendants.
Poor Chalmette would be relegated to the front portico once more. That was, if he didn’t sneak back in as some child went in or out.
In truth, where people or animals would sleep was not a matter of great moment, Reine thought. The festivities would last far into the night, possibly even until dawn. People could, and no doubt would, snatch a few winks wherever exhaustion overcame them and a quiet corner could be found.
The wives of the sword masters talked and laughed among themselves with the greatest of ease. They teased one another, questioned without restraint, spoke of problems with husbands and children with unusual freedom and little self-consciousness. They were interested in everything, particularly how Reine and Christien had met and how he had proposed, how the two of them would go on after the wedding and what she meant to wear for the ceremony. Somehow, without Reine quite knowing how it happened, they all crowded into the bedchamber where she would dress to have a look at her wedding gown.
The ensemble was pronounced lovely, just the thing, particularly the heirloom lace veil. Much was made of Christien as a bridegroom, with great attention to his physical attributes and smiles over his manners and birthright as a descendent of the Great Sun; he could not have been more honored for that connection if his heritage had stemmed from some glittering title of the ancien régime. There were a number of roguish and sidelong glances as they spoke of his great height and impressive physique. Reine was forced to smile and laugh but could not be quite as easy with such frankness.
“You must insist that he give up the Brotherhood,” Caid O’Neill’s Lisette said. “He will cling to it as an oath of honor, but you will have no peace otherwise. To watch and worry while he goes out at night to fight duels in the dark—no, no, it’s not to be borne.”
“Have I the right to ask that of him?” Reine inquired with a small frown between her brows. “It’s his life, after all.”
“But not his alone any longer. The life the two of you will make together is more important. A husband’s allegiance must change when he takes a wife. His responsibility to her and to their children should take precedence over the Brotherhood and its purposes. Christien would be the first to agree that nothing matters quite so much.”
Would he indeed? Reine was not so sure. “Is it usual for these sword masters to give up the Brotherhood when they marry?”
“But of course. Others will carry it forward, you may be sure, those who have no families or responsibilities. They must become the vanguard.”
“I wish I knew exactly where Christien goes and what he does,” she said, almost to herself.
“We have all felt that urge, I think,” Lisette said.
“Indeed,” soft-spoken Juliette agreed. “And I expect he will tell you in time if you truly care, truly want to know.”
“You seem so sure, while I’m not sure at all.”
“Oh, chère. When Nicholas and I first met and agreed to marry, we were strangers as surely as you and Christien,” Juliette said with a smile. “I thought the Holy Mother had sent him in answer to my prayer to save my family, and who is to say she did not? But there were secrets between us. He thought me the most innocent of novices since I had been promised to the church. I was certain he was Casanova personified for that was his reputation. Once, at Tivoli Garden, I almost gave myself to him while in disguise, thinking he did not know who I was. But he knew all along, as he confessed afterward, a misunderstanding that gave me many unhappy hours. I thought he was attracted to some loose woman, you see, when he was never in doubt about who he held in his arms. The point I would make is that you must trust each other and speak what is in your heart. Don’t let secrets come between you.”
It seemed good advice. The trouble was finding the courage to implement it.
Yes, and the time, as well.
The day that had seemed so long suddenly picked up speed, rushing toward evening. Before Reine knew it, her mother appeared at her side, saying it was time for her to bathe and dress.
The wedding was finally at hand.
20
A zinc tub shaped like a lidless coffin, one brought by steamboat downriver from Pennsylvania, was a prized possession of Reine’s mother. It had already been filled with tepid water when Reine entered the bedchamber used by her parents. That coolness was an excellent thing in the furnace heat of the waning afternoon. The bedchamber was stuffy and over warm, though not so hot as the rooms on the opposite side of the central hall, including that used by Christien, which lay on the southwest corner of the house.
That room would become their bridal chamber, where the two of them would spend the next three days in seclusion. It would surely be too hot for nightclothes. Well, or for much in the way of clothing during the day. A few more hours, and she and Christien would be expected to go inside and shut the door, closing out everyone and everything. They would lie together in the wide bed and what happened behind the filmy gauze of the mosquito baire would be no one’s business except their own.
A flush suffused her, one that had nothing to do with the heat of the afternoon, nor of undressing before her mother and her maid and stepping into the cooling water in the tub. At leas
t she was left alone while she bathed.
She had washed her hair in soft rainwater the day before and brushed it dry while sitting on the gallery in the morning sun. Now she soaped herself with fine-milled soap scented with lavender and roses, squeezing water over her arms and shoulders and down her back as she rinsed it away. Lying back in the tub, enjoying the coolness, she closed her eyes. It was the most peaceful moment she had known in days, possibly since that first morning when she saw Christien riding toward the house.
By degrees, she grew aware of the rumble of male voices. Christien and his friends must have gathered on the side gallery just outside the bedchamber, she realized. It wasn’t too surprising since that portion of the upper gallery was shaded. She was happy that he had such company, for the past few days had not been easy for him. Her mother had steadfastly refused to remain in the same room with him, her father had been less than his cordial self, and Paul had gone so far as to avoid his company. Her bridegroom appeared to disregard these slights, but she was sure he felt them. It was good that he could relax with those who accepted him without reserve.
Idly squeezing water over her drawn-up knee, she wondered if the gentlemen, particularly Christien, had any idea that she was just on the other side of the French doors, also what she was doing, what she was wearing. Or rather, not wearing.
Their voices turned serious after a few minutes. She caught a few words here and there that made her think they were discussing the war in Mexico. She hardly listened, being unable to grasp why it was necessary to invade that country. Her only concern was that the fighting might continue until Paul was old enough to go. Already, a number of his friends had slipped away to sign up at the big rallies in New Orleans. Some few had come back from the Rio Grande campaign bearing their war wounds like badges of manhood. Some would never return.
A lull came in the rumble of conversation. Into it, then, the Irish gentleman, Caid O’Neill, spoke in lazy, almost random comment. “I thought Vinot would be here. He is still to stand with you as best man?”
“I expect him at any time,” Christien answered without elaboration.
“I look forward to seeing him. It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the pleasure as he gets out so seldom.”
“This is a special occasion.”
Vinot was to be best man? A rash of goose bumps ran down Reine’s arms as she absorbed the news, heard the portent in Christien’s voice. She had nothing against the older sword master, but she could not be easy in her mind. Why him, when there were others who would excite far less speculation?
It was the custom for the bride’s nearest female relative to have the best man’s escort. Usually that was a sister or cousin, but Reine had promised that place to Marguerite. If Vinot was to act as Christien’s attendant, then he would walk into the chapel with her daughter. What a mismatch it would be.
Slow anger gathered inside Reine as she considered further implications. Christien had deliberately kept this from her. He had known she would not care for his choice of best man, must have guessed her parents would object to having as a member of the wedding party the father of the young woman Theodore had wronged. It was like a slap in the face, an additional mark against any chance for happiness together.
Her thoughts scattered as she realized the men were speaking again.
“If he doesn’t appear, you know you may count on any one of us,” the conde said in his intriguing Spanish accent.
“For which you have my gratitude, though I don’t doubt he will be here.” Christien’s voice turned grim. “Too much has gone into arranging this experiment and it means too much for him to fail.”
Experiment? What experiment was this? Could Christien be speaking of their wedding? The very idea chilled Reine to the bone in spite of the evening heat.
“You’re sure you want to go through with it?”
That was Nicholas Pasquale speaking, she thought; she caught the hint of Italian in his voice. It appeared the other sword masters knew exactly what Christien intended. Was that proof his presence at River’s Edge was an affair of the Brotherhood as she had once imagined? Was she truly about to be married in an act of vengeance?
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Christien said, his voice flat.
Reine surged to her feet in a sluicing cascade of water. Reaching for the towel laid ready, she whipped it around her. As the lap of water subsided in the tub, she realized the voices on the gallery had stopped abruptly. Absolute quiet reigned now from that quarter.
They knew someone had heard, or at least suspected it. What they could not know was who was in the bedchamber, who had been in the tub. She stood unmoving, waiting to see what they would do.
“Reine, ma chère,” her mother called out as she swept into the bedchamber without bothering to knock, “have you fallen asleep in the bath? I thought you would ring ages ago. If you are not to go naked to your groom, we must get you dressed at once.”
Outside on the gallery, there came a scraping of chairs. Booted footsteps retreated with varying degrees of haste. “Christien, Christien,” Gavin Blackford said, his voice lilting with risible humor as it faded toward the back of the house, “where is old Diogenes with his lamp when it’s required? Sacrifice is one thing, but no man claiming such a notion should be enthralled to the point of anguish by a bridal bath. What, oh, what, have you neglected to tell to us?”
What indeed, Reine thought with her lips set in a tight line. What indeed?
An hour later, Reine stood in front of the cheval mirror in her mother and father’s bedchamber. The skirt of her gown, with its graduated flounces, had been lifted and arranged around her until it stood out like a soft blue-and-pink cloud. Her veil of fine Valenciennes draped her shoulders in perfect folds while framing her face with its dainty scallops. Her bouquet of small pink rosebuds tucked into a silver holder and backed with a fine lace handkerchief, both items presented by her groom in his corbeille de noce along with the gold hairpins in her hair and the lovely cameo necklace she wore, had been placed in her hands. She was ready, or as ready as she was likely to be this evening.
“You are so pale, chère,” her mother said in a fretful tone.
“All brides are pale,” dark-haired Ariadne Blackford, pale of complexion herself, said bracingly. “It’s the anticipation—though we will not say of what!”
“There, that has brought the roses,” Juliette Pasquale declared warmly as she peered over Reine’s shoulder. “Lina, have you any Spanish papers? She could use a little more color in her lips.”
“Are you suggesting I use such aids to nature?” Lina, the Condessa de Lérida, inquired with a sparkling look.
“I know you do,” Lisette O’Neill chimed in with great frankness. “We all do, naturellement. I believe I have a packet in my bag.” Tugging at the strings that held the top of the reticule on her arm, she drew out a small red sheet and presented it with a flourish.
Reine murmured her thanks and took the paper, moistening her lips before putting it between them. The results were an improvement, she thought, but then anything would have been. Her lips had been so bloodless they were almost blue. It was not the wedding night that concerned her, however. It was the reasons behind this empty excuse for a marriage.
She should call a halt here and now. No reason existed for her to go through with it. She need only speak the words and keep on saying them until everyone heeded her. She should shut herself up in her room until all the guests and relatives went away and left her alone. If Christien tried to persuade her, she need only refuse to speak to him. If he put them all out into the road, so what? It had happened to others before them. They would survive.
Oh, but could her mother survive the clattering tongues and pitying glances? Could she ever respect a daughter so lost to propriety that she fell into bed with a stranger before the wedding, and then refused to speak her marriage vows afterward?
What of the public pillory of whispers and sneers, the avid relishing of yet another scanda
l? Reine might have faced it for herself, but how could she inflict it on her parents or Marguerite?
Her father was past starting over, she knew, no matter how valiantly he might face the change. As for her mother, Reine could not support seeing her decline into greater frailty, was unable to bear it on her conscience. She must marry Christien.
With that final decision made, Reine lifted her chin, summoned a smile and pronounced herself ready. Moving from the bedchamber with her mother, Marguerite and the escort of swordsmen’s wives who had crowded around for the finishing touches of her toilette, she walked to the head of the stairs.
The others left her there while they trooped down to form the obligatory procession to the chapel. The last to go was Marguerite, who caught her hand and pulled her down a little to whisper in her ear.
“You look beautiful, Maman,” she said. “Monsieur Christien will think so, too.”
“Thank you, ma petite.” Reine spoke against the lump in her throat as she hugged her daughter. Then she watched her go carefully down the stairs in her ankle-length gown and long, bright hair, watched until Marguerite blurred into what appeared to be the form of a small angel.
It was her turn to descend. She lifted her bouquet to her face, breathing the scent of roses, praying silently for composure, for courage, for faith. Holding them at her waist then, she squared her shoulders. She put out her right foot and began the long descent.
Christien moved from the salon, coming to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in a gray frock coat of impeccable cut, worn with a black waistcoat embroidered in silver, darker gray trousers and black boots with a glassy polish, he took her breath away. His linen shirt, fresh from her needle, was snowy white and fit to perfection, and his cravat was of white silk shot with silver thread.
Triumph in Arms Page 21