Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  Hesitating only a moment, Philippe peeled the soft linen shirt from his back and handed it to Gerard who immediately tore it into long strips. Grunting in satisfaction at the pile of linen before him, Gerard grimly set to work to save Gabby’s life. Gingerly he raised her skirts above her waist, ignoring Philippe’s horrified gasp when he saw the tiny, bloody form that had once been a living thing. Try as he might, Philippe could not turn his eyes from his dead child.

  “Monsieur Philippe,” Gerard said gently, “I know what must be done. And when I am finished we must have a litter to carry her back to the house. Ride like the wind, Monsieur, and alert my wife. She will know what to do.”

  Reluctantly, Philippe left after one last agonizing look at Gabby’s still, white face. He barely remembered his ride back to the plantation or his return with the litter.

  Working swiftly after Philippe’s departure, Gerard cut the umbilical cord and, pushing the fetus aside, began to stem the flow of blood still issuing forth with the linen strips, packing them tightly. When the bleeding had slowed to a slow ooze, he pulled off his own shirt, ripped it down the middle and used part of it to wrap the bloody fetus and the rest to wipe the excess blood from Gabby’s legs. He pulled her skins down to her ankles just as Philippe returned with four men bearing a litter.

  Seeing the stricken look in Philippe’s eyes, Gerard quickly assured him, “She lives, but we must hurry.”

  Philippe would allow no one but himself to place Gabby on the litter. In his anxiety over Gabby he failed to notice the tiny, swaddled bundle in Gerard’s arms as they started down the path toward Bellefontaine.

  Tante Louise met them at the edge of the groves, uttering a cry of dismay when she glimpsed Gabby’s white face and still form. She delayed but a moment to speak with Gerard and peek at the tiny bundle he held before hurrying after Philippe and the litter bearing Gabby.

  With Philippe hovering nearby, Tante Louise worked feverishly to save Gabby’s life. Patiently she spooned infusions of herbs and medicines meant to clot blood down Gabby’s throat. She used clean linen pads to staunch the bright flow that slowly drained her of life until nothing more than a trickle remained. All through the night Tante Louise sat beside the motionless form, and when morning came, so did the fever. Philppe was dismayed by the violence of the shudders that racked Gabby’s tiny body. He helped bathe her burning flesh while Tante Louise fought to keep a steady flow of life-giving liquids down her throat.

  It was four long, nerve-wracking days before Gabby’s fever broke and they knew she would live. Only then did Philippe, a shadow of his former self, allow himself to dwell on the accident that had cost him dearly. But when he did, his anger at Gabby exploded into harsh reality. Once again Marcel Duvall had unwittingly intruded upon his life in a way that had left him devastated. Gabby’s thoughtless, reckless ride to be with Marcel had cost him the life of his child and heir!

  Gerard had informed Philippe that the child had been a boy, and he had grown bitter, completely ignoring his own treachery that precipitated Gabby’s foolhardy action. He thought only of the many times he had warned her of the danger lurking in the jungle. In his sorrow over the loss of his child he convinced himself that Gabby had deliberately set out to murder his child. Forgotten was his passionate tryst with Amalie, his betrayal of his marriage vows, his lust for his former mistress. Not even the knowledge that Gabby would have other children eased his tortured thoughts. And eating away into his vitals was the terrible conviction that Gabby had risked her life and that of her child’s to be with Marcel!

  During Gabby’s illness Philippe had moved to a spare bedroom so as not to disturb her rest. On the day her fever broke he made his way to his room so exhausted he could barely move one foot in front of the other. Bone weary from his long vigil at Gabby’s bedside, he sank gratefully into bed, falling almost immediately asleep. Suddenly he was jolted awake by small, impatient hands tugging at his clothes.

  “Amalie!” Philippe cried in dismay, catching both busy hands in one strong fist. “What the devil…?” He tried to rise up but her lithe body pinned him to the mattress.

  “You need me. Monsieur Philippe,” Amalie purred. Philippe was mesmerized by the small tongue that darted between pearly teeth to moisten full, red lips, immediately struck by her resemblance to a small, predatory animal. “It is I who has remained faithful to you,” Amalie continued, relentlessly pursuing her objective. “I do not flee to the arms of another man. If I had your child in my belly I would not kill it.”

  Philippe blanched, but in his tortured state recognized the truth of Amalie’s words, or what he considered the truth. Gabby had deliberately killed his son! He sighed, and loosened his hold on her hands, allowing her to resume her tiny flutterings and caresses.

  “Let me love you. Monsieur Philippe,” Amalie murmured soothingly. “Let me heal your pain.” Her body was silken upon his.

  His passion flared, and suddenly Philippe was desperate for Amalie. His arms clung to her as if he were drowning. “Your love never changes, ma amour,” he said brokenly, his mind unconsciously thinking back to Gabby’s infidelity with Rob. “You will never betray me.” His lips found hers and his body came alive, her hands found him more than ready for her. Soon Philippe was lost in her golden flesh, her small cries of pleasure drowning out the voice of his conscience.

  Gabby found it difficult to accept the loss of her child. She was left with a deep feeling of emptiness. She knew that during her fever Philippe was constantly with her, but since she had come to full awareness she had seen little of him. And when he did appear at her bedside, he seemed remote and distracted. Finally, unable to bear his brooding silence any longer. Gabby deliberately brought up the subject that they had both avoided.

  “Was the child a girl or boy?” she asked, her voice low and sad.

  “A son,” replied Philippe stonily. “He was buried in the family plot should you be interested.” His voice was implacable, without kindness. Gabby began to sob softly but Philippe remained unmoved. “Why, Gabby?” he asked bleakly. “Why did it happen?”

  “You dare ask me that, Philippe?” she asked, dismayed by his audacity. “Surely you share the blame.” He was totally unreasonable in his anger.

  “It wasn’t I who rode recklessly through the jungle while large with child!” Philippe exploded, his anger awesome. “I hold you fully responsible for the murder of my son!”

  “You honestly hold yourself blameless, don’t you, Philippe,” retaliated Gabby, her violet eyes shadowed with hurt and shock. Murder her own child?

  Seeing her stricken face Philippe wavered but accusation never left his icy eyes. Weakness caused Gabby to tremble. It seemed that Philippe harbored no guilt feelings for what happened that afternoon when she interrupted his passionate love scene with Amalie. For all she knew Philippe and Amalie had carried on behind her back since the day she arrived at Bellefontaine. From what little she witnessed Philippe’s lust for Amalie was enormous.

  Resignation prompted her to speak. “It matters little who was to blame, Philippe,” she said tiredly. “We both must live with our own guilt.

  “You were going to Marcel,” accused Philippe.

  “I… I had nowhere else to go,” she whispered sadly.

  Philippe’s face hardened and a small muscle on his chin twitched, but he said nothing, aware of the violence ready to burst to the surface. Knowing what he was capable of doing when angered beyond endurance, he realized that separation at this time seemed the best remedy for their fragile relationship, He needed space, time to think, time to recuperate from his anger and heartache. Retreat would give them both time to heal. There were things they both needed to forget… and forgive. Perhaps later they could take up their lives where they had left off. Time had a way of dimming old memories and hurts. And the sooner he told her of his decision the easier it would be for both of them, he reasoned.

  Philippe cleared his throat. “I came to say goodbye.”

  Gabby paled, her eyes hug
e in her pinched face. “Goodbye?”

  “The way I feel now I am doing neither to us any good by remaining here. Tante Louise and Gerard are quite capable of caring for you in my absence.”

  “Where… where will you go?”

  “In two days the Windward begins a voyage to New Orleans and ports in North America. I intend to be on board when she sails.”

  Gabby wanted to ask if Amalie would accompany him but pride forbade it. Instead, she nodded mutely, too weary and sick at heart to reply.

  “You should be restored to full health when I return and we will both be better prepared to discuss our differences. A short separation seems best at this time.”

  Gabby was dismayed by Philippe’s cool manner, but realized she had neither the will not Strength to argue. “Goodbye, Philippe,” was all she said in a voice devoid of all emotion. He was gone before he heard her heartrending sobs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Though Gabby’s body healed her heart remained heavy. She feared to ask the question that burned on the tip of her tongue. Was Amalie aboard the Windward with Philippe? She had seen nothing of Amalie since that fateful day that lingered in her memory like a bad dream.

  Not the least of her worries were the eerie drums reverberating throughout the long nights in her lonely bed. Not one night had gone by since Philippe’s departure that the drums didn’t add to her wakefulness. Gabby found them vaguely threatening even though Tance Louise assured her they were just a means for the slaves to work off their frustrations. But to Gabby they sounded sinister. She remembered how they had frightened her the night before she discovered Philippe’s unfaithfulness and lost her child. Even visits from Honore and Linette failed to raise her spirits.

  One day, nearly a month after Philippe’s departure, Marcel was ushered into her room by a scowling Gerard. It was clear that the slave held little esteem for the man Philippe hated with a vengeance. Gerard left them alone only after a warning frown directed at Gabby. It was obvious that he intended to remain close by.

  “I’m truly sorry, Gabby,” Marcel said gently when he had seated himself next to the bed. “I know how much the child meant to you.”

  “And to Philippe,” added Gabby, her voice tinged with regret.

  “ Oui, and to your husband,” allowed Marcel grudgingly.

  “Is it true you were riding to Le Chateau when the accident occurred?” he asked, taking her slim hand into his.

  “ Oui, Marcel,” admitted Gabby, eyes lowered.

  “Do you wish to tell me about it? I fail to understand why your husband chose to leave for an extended journey at a time when you most need him. I am your friend, cherie,” Marcel emphasized, “you can tell me anything and I shall understand and help you if I am able.”

  Tears welled in Gabby’s eyes and fell like rain drops down her pale cheeks. Whatever Marcel was to anyone else, he was a friend to her. Marcel whipped out his handkerchief and tenderly dabbed at Gabby’s tears, then sat back until she was able to speak.

  “I was on my way to Le Chateau, to you, Marcel, the only friend I have other than your sisters, when the horse I was riding reared and threw me.”

  Marcel was aghast. “But what happened after you left my plantation to cause you to mount a horse in your condition and ride headlong into the jungle?” Somehow he knew Philippe was behind her reckless deed.

  “Amalie!” ground out Gabby, choking back a sob. Marcel’s green eyes grew brittle with speculation but he said nothing. “Upon my return to Bellefontaine I found Philippe and Amalie in… in my bed, make… making love!” Bitterness was heavy upon her tongue. “I was blinded by all but the sight of her naked body clutching at Philippe’s flesh and the sound of their cries and groans of bliss. I thought only to flee from the sight and sounds of Philippe’s lust for his mistress. I… I had nowhere else to go but Le Chateau, and the quickest way to get there was on horseback. What Philippe said was true, I totally disregarded the danger to my unborn child. My rashness lost not only my child but my husband as well.”

  “Ah, cherie,” consoled Marcel, “what a terrible shock to one of your delicate sensibilities. You are much too hard on yourself.”

  “It’s true that Philippe must share the blame for allowing his lust for Amalie to come between us, but I am the one who mounted that horse.”

  “What does Philippe think?” Marcel asked gently.

  “He holds me responsible for the death of our child!” With tremendous effort she fought to control the hysteria rising in her breast. “To Philippe’s thinking it was my reckless deed that killed our child, not his liaison with Amalie. Right now there is no room in his heart for forgiveness, but then, there is none in mine, either.”

  “ Cherie,” Marcel consoled, “you have suffered greatly for Philippe’s misdeeds. And now he has left you?” Did Gabby detect a note of hopefulness in his voice?

  “Oh I am sure he intends to return when I am fully recovered and better able to withstand his anger and recriminations,” said Gabby scornfully. “But for now I am certain he is enjoying his freedom, just as I am certain that Amalie is with him.”

  “You mean he has taken her aboard the Windward?” Marcel frowned. “That does not sound like him.”

  “Of course I can’t be certain that Amalie is with him but I know my husband and long nights at sea alone in his bed hold little appeal for him. But of one thing you can be certain, he will return one day. As his wife I am the only woman who can give him an heir. Oh, oui, he will return, if only to plant his seed.” Her voice trembled with suppressed anger.

  “How may I help you, cherie?” Marcel asked with grave concern.

  “You have already helped me just being here and listening to me,” smiled Gabby through a veil of tears.

  “I shall always be here for you, Gabby,” replied Marcel.

  Her trust in him moved him more than he cared to admit.

  At that moment the imposing figure of Tante Louise darkened the doorway. “Madame Gabby must rest now,” she asserted authoritatively. “You go!”

  If Marcel thought to ignore the towering women’s dictum, he had only to glance past her to see Gerard ready to evict him bodily if he failed to heed her words. He rose, raised Gabby’s slim hand to his lips and said meaningfully, “I shall not be far away. If I am not at Le Chateau then you can find me in St. Pierre. Rest and get well for you must be sufficiently recovered to attend Linette’s wedding. She is counting on seeing you there.” With regret, Gabby watched him leave.

  Time passed slowly for Gabby with no word forthcoming from Philippe. Nor did she expect any. Gabby had regained her full strength and was allowed to come and go at will, albeit under Gerard’s watchful eyes. Thus far, she had no desire to leave the plantation and was undecided whether to attend Linette’s wedding. She hated the thought of attending without Philippe beside her, yet she knew Honore and Linette would be disappointed by her absence. She knew she must make her mind up soon.

  Almost nightly the drums persisted with their eerie serenades. Gabby could not help but recall Philippe’s description of Obeah or snake wordhip as it was practiced on Martinique. No matter how hard she tried she could not rid herself of the feeling that something sinister was about to take place. Something involving her. Each morning she awoke with a sense of impending doom.

  One night Gabby lay wide awake in bed, listening to the pagan beat wafting through the open windows. Suddenly she stiffened in fright, the wild, frenzied sound becoming painful to her ears. Though she wanted desperately to get up and shut the windows against the incessant tattoo of the drums, she found herself lethargic, nearly paralyzed. A whisper of sound caused the hair at the nape of her neck to rise. Dark shadows loomed before the open windows. Fear constricted her throat as the shadows materialized into menacing figures entering the room on stealthy feet. By the time Gabby collected her wits about her it was too late to scream or attempt to alter the course of events.

  Gabby gagged and sputtered when a cloth was pushed rudely into her mouth. T
wo dark figures bent over her and she felt herself being lifted from the bed by strong arms; a musky odor assailed her nostrils and then she saw nothing more as a rough sack was pulled over her head. No amount of struggling helped as she was carried through the windows and into the flower scented night. They moved unerringly in the direction of the drums.

  While she was borne toward some unknown evil all sorts of wild imaginations crowded her brain. She had heard of slave uprisings where whites were slaughtered but she had thought Bellefontaine slaves to be content. Instinctively Gabby knew that whatever was about to happen was meant for her alone.

  They had reached their destination. Against the echo of hundreds of chanting voices the drums were strangely silent. Gabby sensed rather than saw the multitude of sweaty bodies pressing in upon her. A pungent odor assaulted her senses. She stiffened when she felt herself being lowered, and then her back came in contact with a hard, cold surface. Full realization came upon her the moment the covering was removed from her head. She was meant to be sacrificed to Damballa! She lay on a stone altar on a raised dais, hundred of glazed eyes staring at her. The scene was so bizarre, so unreal, that Gabby expected to wake up at any moment for this frightening nightmare.

  Gabby gaped in horror as Amalie’s lithe form stepped to the front of the congregation, a deadly fer-de-lance coiled around her outstretched arms. Screaming silently, Gabby shrank within herself. She could look to no one for help. It was obvious to her that the throng of slaves were under some kind of spell fired by Amalie’s lust for blood… hers. Mesmerized, Gabby eyes were riveted on the snake as the drums began to beat with renewed frenzy whipping the slaves into orgasmic like movements, twisting and gyrating around the sacrificial altar, their bodies glistening with perspiration, their faces saving with lust, chanting, “Damballa! Damballa!”

  At a nod from Amalie two brawny men positioned themselves at Gabby’s feet and head, each grasping an arm and leg, securing them with leather strips to rings in the stone slab, rendering her incapable of movement. Still gagged, Gabby watched with wide-eyed horror as Amalie drew near and with one slim hand curled at the neck of her nightgown, ripped it from her body. At the sight of Gabby’s exposed, white flesh, a cry rose up from the frenzied crowd. Soon, couple after couple dropped to the ground joining with lust crazed abandon wherever they fell, the drum beat keeping time to their undulating bodies.