by Martha Hix
She eased from bed, went to the window, and hugged her arms. After a long moment she turned to him again. He was sitting on the bed’s edge.
“I can’t accept your terms,” she said. “But I’ll live up to the promise I made. I’ll be your legal wife until Feuille de Chêne is free.” Whirling around, she stared with unseeing eyes out the window. “And then you’ll be free. I’m going to divorce you.”
Immediately she regretted those words. And they haunted her through the rest of their time in Houston, on the trip back to Feuille de Chêne, and for weeks to come. Paul made no attempt to touch her. It was as if two strangers resided under the same roof.
Yet day after day life went on. She gained a modicum of inner peace from watching the house become lively and the fields green with sugar cane. And there were patients to heal, a plantation to be managed, slaves to feed and clothe. If her marital woes were gone, Emma would have been happy. She had grown to love Le Petit Paris, the bastion of expatriate Royalists. Despite its location in the wilds of south Louisiana, St. Martinsville was resplendent with old-world charm. It was home.
“Will that be all, Madame Rousseau?” the burly shopkeeper asked, tallying up the cost of the bolt of calico, the flour, and the salt Emma was purchasing.
“Yes, thank you, Monsieur Broussard. Please have that put in my buggy.”
In spite of her request, she wandered through the cornucopia of treasures in the store. Smells, there were many. Cayenne, cinnamon, and cloves. Fresh coffee was being brewed. A counter held bottles of bay rum and French perfume. She lifted stopper after stopper, inhaling the scents of patchouli, cassia, and heliotrope.
But she put her desire for these extravagances away. Whatever extra money she had in her reticule was needed to replenish her dwindling medical supplies. Though she had a fairly steady line of patients seeking her services, many were poor Cajun fishermen and their families. They bartered for health care. Not that she minded. Fresh crawfish, chickens and vegetables were always welcome.
It was then she caught sight of a curvaceous brunette, turned out in purple silk and finery, fingering a skein of exquisite lace.
“I’ll take ten yards,” the woman said in a voice as smooth and creamy as her complexion. “No. Make that twenty.”
“As you wish, mademoiselle.” The shop girl took up measuring tape and shears.
Sloe eyes turned to Emma. A smile dimpled one cheek as a jeweled finger tipped up the skein. “Did you see this beautiful lace? It’s from Alençon.”
“I’m not in the market today, thank you.”
The brunette murmured something to the shop girl before floating over to Emma. She extended that bejeweled hand. “Allow me to present myself. I’m Aimée Thérèse Goyette.”
This was the female Cleopatra had recently told Emma about. Paul’s mistress in his youth! Gossip from the slave quarters said she had bedded both Paul and his grandfather . . . and she would have inherited Feuille de Chêne if not for Paul’s idealism.
“Pleased to meet you,” Emma lied. “I am Madame Rousseau. Madame Paul Rousseau.”
“Yes. I know.”
“And how is that?”
“I’ve seen you on the street. Little in St. Martinsville escapes me.”
“How nice for you.” Emma stepped back. “I must be leaving. . . .”
“Wait a moment, please.” Aimée Thérèse swept her hand to a deserted corner of the store. “May I have a minute or two of your time?”
Emma’s natural curiosity got the better of her, and she agreed.
“Your husband and I have been friends for a very long time,” Aimée Thérèse announced when they had privacy. “Did you know this?”
“Paul has many friends in this area. I’d be surprised if you weren’t among them.”
“And you aren’t jealous?”
“Of course not,” Emma lied.
“I love your husband.”
“What, Mademoiselle Goyette, is the purpose of this?”
“While you are tending the sick, he tends me. I’m warning you, madame, that he is mine. Always has been, always will be.”
Emma was the sick one. “If that were true, why didn’t he marry you long ago?”
“I refused. Remi Rousseau was my protector, you see, and I had no wish to be come the wife of a poor young man.”
“He’s still poor.”
“Yes, but I no longer need his money. I have Remi’s.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” Emma said facetiously. “But I really don’t care how my husband’s grandfather wasted his money.”
“Do you care about Paul?” Aimée Thérèse asked, her hand going to her bodice. “If you do, you should pay attention to him. If you don’t, let me warn you; he is lonely. I’m content for now to have him in my bed, but I want more. I intend to be the next Madame Rousseau.”
A strange thought penetrated Emma’s shock. What would Marian do in this situation? Fight for her man, that’s what, and make no bones about it.
“It’ll be a cold day in July when you marry my Paul.” Emma stomped away, grabbing a bottle of heliotrope perfume as she went and taking it over to Monsieur Broussard. She was not going to let that hussy have Paul. Not without a fight!
On the way home she made plans. She had vowed long ago to make him love her, and he was going to! She had been a fool to keep him at bay. A lustful man like Paul needed an equally lusty wife to warm his nights—and days. She would find a way to stop a pregnancy, but his bed she intended to share.
However, Paul was gone when she arrived back at Feuille de Chêne. Texas Navy business. As usual.
He had yet to return from New Orleans on the dog-day Saturday when Uncle Rankin’s fine sloop docked at Feuille de Chêne.
Wearing a white linen suit and white-brimmed hat, Rankin walked back and forth across the lawn separating the house from the bayou. “I knew this place had fallen into disrepair, but I hadn’t realized how bad it is.”
Emma had known it was only a matter of time before her financial situation became known to her family, yet she had filed that worry in the back of her mind. Now that it was out, her pride wouldn’t allow her to make an unkind statement about Paul.
“I don’t know about that.” Provided she’d had them, Emma’s feathers would have ruffled. She pridefully eyed her home and the flower gardens. “I think we’ve done wonders with it. We’ve installed new windows; scrubbed and painted the woodwork; repaired the furniture. In case you don’t know, Remi Rousseau was in failing health for years and wasn’t able to supervise the upkeep. And no one’s lived here for almost a year.”
“I didn’t mean to criticize ye, Emmie. Matter of fact, I’m not surprised ye’ve made something out of nothing. It’s our good Oliver blood that flows through yer veins. Yer father and I were born to poverty, but look how much we’ve both accomplished?”
“Born to poverty, huh? That doesn’t say much for the industriousness of our ancestors.”
“Don’t be impertinent, girl.” Rankin went round the corner of the house and waved toward the fields. “That is a disgrace. Sugar cane should be growing high this time of year.”
“Cane takes two years, you know, to mature. Weeds were the only things growing high when we arrived. And I’ll thank you to know there’s nary a weed in the brakes now.”
“Is that so?” He cocked his head. “Word has it a bunch of his slaves escaped. Successful cane-raising takes many men not few.”
“We’re doing all right. Paul’s hired a few freedmen.”
“Be that as it may, Emmie,” he said, baiting her, “why doesn’t your husband visit the block and bid for more slaves?”
“To tell the truth Paul doesn’t care much for the idea of slavery.” That was certainly true. He had told her he planned to free his chattels when he sold the property, and he wouldn’t bring in more unfortunates in the meantime.
“Abolitionist bas—Is that why he took a mortgage on the place? To hire workers?”
She was nonp
lused. How did her uncle know about the note? What Paul did, or didn’t do, with Feuille de Chêne really wasn’t Uncle Rankin’s business!
“Now, don’t look askance. It wasn’t my intention to rile ye.” Rankin took her hand. “Emmie, I’m here for a purpose. We all know—we being yer parents and I—that Rousseau is, for all intents and purposes, broke.”
“That’s not true,” she hedged.
“Don’t be proud. All of us are financially embarrassed, come one time or another.” He waited a moment before saying, “Yer father’s sent a dowry. And I’ve added a bit myself.”
“I can’t take it.”
“Yes ye can. All brides deserve a tocher, but I wasn’t in the best of moods to offer one at yer wedding. Yer father’s a mite upset that ye married without his consent, but he’s willing to forgive and forget. Don’t insult him, or me, by turning yer back on what’s rightfully yers.”
“My husband takes care of our needs,” she replied defensively.
“Then allow him to take care of ‘needs.’ Quentin and I want to offer you luxuries.”
She couldn’t take the money for two reasons. Pride being the first, and the second . . . there was a shadow on Uncle Rankin’s character. Until she knew for sure . . . “There’s something I need to ask.”
“Yes, Emmie?”
She hesitated to speak, yet she squared her shoulders and did so. “Did you conspire with Étienne Rousseau’s second? Did you get him to tamper with the firing pin?”
Rankin’s face slackened. “How can ye ask that? Do ye think so little of me?”
“This has nothing to do with the love I bear you. You’re as precious to me as my own father.” One of his hands still in her grasp, she took the other blue-veined one. “But each day I’m faced with another side to the story. Please, in the name of love, answer truthfully. My marriage’s success hinges on your being straightforward.”
Her uncle, his jaw clenched, studied the sky. Finally leveling his eyes with hers he said, “At St. Anthony’s Garden on a July dawn in 1829, I met Étienne Rousseau’s challenge. He chose the arms—pistols. Yes, his gun misfired. But I took my rights. I felled him. But I did not,” he lied, “conspire to kill him.”
Emma watched for telltale signs. There were none. Shouldn’t she be happy? She wasn’t. Paul was wrong about his father’s death. What could she do to help him see the light?
She now saw no reason to ask Uncle Rankin other damning questions, about a murdered woman in Sisal or about arms sales to the Centralists.
“Are ye satisfied, Emmie?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry for asking. But I had to hear it from your mouth.”
“I can understand that.” He smiled. “Now, back to the purpose of my visit.” He released her hands and stepped back. A look of pride lit his features. “I’ve deposited, in my own name, the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars in the St. Martinsville bank. Ye, and ye alone, are authorized to make withdrawals. Any time, for any purpose. No questions asked, no reports made to me or to Rousseau. ’Tis yers, Emmie, to do with as ye see fit.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a world of money.”
“A fortune, it’s true. But I’ve many hundreds of thousands, and yer father’s no pauper himself. Our gift is but a raindrop in a storm.” His leathered face and hard dyes softened. “Take the dowry, Emmie. Buy frippery or champagne or throw it in the air and run under it, whatever pleases ye. But don’t insult our gift.”
Put that way, she had no choice but to accept.
“Good girl! Now come along, niece of mine. I must introduce ye to the bank manager up in town.”
She had the buggy readied for the trip into St. Martinsville, and they rode there. The banker, Pierre Ravel, was overjoyed to meet her—not many depositors had such a grand account. All the while they were talking she wondered what to tell Paul. Would he demand she turn her funds over to him to use for that blasted Navy? Should she tell him about them?
It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to share her windfall; under other circumstacnes she would have had no compunction about turning over the money to her husband. A dowry, by rights, belonged to the husband. If Uncle Rankin had given her cash, or if the account was in her name, then Paul would have a legal right to it. But her uncle had insured it would remain Oliver money. And her family’s money, she decided, wouldn’t be used to further the Texas Navy.
“I’d be honored if you’ll be my guest at déjeuner,” said Pierre Ravel, rising from behind his desk.
“No thank ye. Another time. Appreciate yer offer, but it’s been months since I’ve seen my fair niece, and I’m looking forward to a quiet lunch—just the two of us.”
“But of course. Another time.”
Emma and Rankin took their leave. They strolled toward the hotel where they planned to partake of the noon meal. As they neared the inn she stopped short.
Paul. He wore close-fitting, biscuit-colored trousers and shirt, the latter scandalously unbuttoned to the middle of his hairy chest, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Paul. Who was supposed to be in New Orleans. The scoundrel had his hand braced on a pillar and was talking to a tall, shapely brunette! Miss Sloe Eyes Goyette.
The beauty gazed up into his eyes and flashed her white teeth. Paul’s lips were very near those of Aimée Thérèse. Emma was green with jealousy and red with fury.
“What have we here?” Rankin said.
Emma slammed her reticule under her arm and marched forward. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
At that moment the brunette caught sight of Emma. In a familiar fashion, she touched Paul’s arm. Slowly he turned, as though he hadn’t been caught in an indiscretion, and said a curt hello to Rankin.
“Well,” he then declared, “now the mystery of my missing wife is solved. She’s been entertaining her favorite uncle, and left her husband to arrive home to an empty house.”
How dare he take the offensive? Emma’s determination to win back her husband, by fair means or foul, was now at full tilt. “Come on, darling,” she said while taking his arm. “Let’s do go to our home.”
Apparently ignoring her demand, Paul said, “What brings you to St. Martinsville, Oliver? Mumbo jumbo?”
“See here, Rousseau—”
“How are you, Rankin?” Aimée Thérèse put in quickly.
Emma shot a glance at her uncle.
He smiled strangely, evidently choosing to ignore Paul’s insult. “Fine, Aimée Thérèse, and you?”
“I’d be much, much better if I could convince Paul”—she grinned at her prey—“and his wife to join the festivities tonight. My birthday fête, you see. And now that you’re in town, Rankin, I hope you’ll attend.”
“I’ll be leaving for Magnolia Hall this afternoon, but happy birthday nonetheless, gal,” the older man said. He turned to Emma. “I’ll meet ye at Feuille de Chêne. Got more business to conduct here in town.”
“Well, Paul,” Aimée Thérèse pressed, “will you help wish me a happy birthday?”
“Which one is it?” Emma unsheathed her claws. “The fortieth?”
“Thank you,” Paul interrupted. “But we have other plans.”
Emma was more than willing to meet the enemy in her camp. “Not true, and I don’t see why we can’t come. Thank you for your gracious invitation.” Mentally, she dared Paul to make a contrary statement. He didn’t.
“Then I’ll see the two of you at Salle de l’Union tonight. Nine o’clock, don’t forget. Au revoir.” Aimée Thérèse waved her gloved fingers and turned away. Swaying her behind, she glided off.
“Bloody hell, Rousseau,” Rankin said, taking his niece’s arm. “Don’t ye have the decency to hide yer ogling from yer wife?” ,
Paul continued to watch Aimée Thérèse’s every move. “What I do, Oliver, is none of your damned business.”
Now that it was done, Emma regretted accepting the invitation. Why play with fire? Paul was a hot-blooded man denied his husbandly rights, and the birthday “girl” was
a woman who granted his desires.
But Emma, wise in the ways of Paul’s passions, felt she could do something about his needs.
Chapter Nineteen
Paul hitched his steed to the rear of Emma’s buggy, and they rode away from town. He was glad she had caught him talking with Aimée Thérèse. Anything that might spark a reaction from his wife had to be good.
And she was reacting. She spoke in the low, tender voice he hadn’t heard since their honeymoon; he forced his replies to be insouciant. On the leather seat beside him, her hips were much closer to his thigh than usual. Fanning herself, fanning him, her tiny hand worked the ivory-handled ornament. The scent of heliotrope assailed him. Emma hadn’t worn perfume in months. The buggy bounced, and her hand shot through the curve of his elbow. Emma, he decided, was fighting Aimée Thérèse’s fire with fire.
As for fire, though the heat of his body might be attributed to the hot August day, actually his wife caused it.
Come hell or high water, he wouldn’t let on that Aimée Thérèse was past history. He had run into her a few times and his former mistress had made it obvious that she was available, but he hadn’t been taking.
Soon Emma would know how much he loved her. Soon. But the message wouldn’t come from his mouth. A surprise would be delivered from New Orleans. Before he’d left the crescent city this last time, an idea had germinated. Now it was in full bloom. As soon as the surprise arrived she’d understand.
“Oh look,” she said, pointing to the side of the roadbed. “Cattails. Cleo loves making mats out of them. Could we stop so I can pick some?”
From the look in her leaf green eyes Paul could tell the last thing on her mind was flora.
“Don’t see why not,” he replied, his nonchalance evaporating. They were on Rousseau property, land he knew well. He pulled back the reins, and guided the gelding to an oyster-shell lane. “Matter of fact, there’s a bayou branch just a couple hundred yards away that’s growing high with, um, cattails.”
Helping her from the buggy, Paul gave himself a mental pat on the back. He was going to get her all worked up, then let her have a taste of rejection.