Devota said now, “But I spoke not of fear for the dangers of our situation, but of your groom. You are not ignorant of what will be expected of you on this night, nor can you doubt Durant Gambier’s experience. Surely you can’t dread what he may do?”
“No, not the thing itself, or at least only a little, but, oh, Devota, what if he isn’t — isn’t kind?”
“He is a gentleman—”
“That doesn’t mean anything!”
“He will honor you as his wife, the mother of the children you will have together.”
“Yes, but will he be gentle? Will he care whether he gives me pain or pleasure? Will he be patient, or will he force me to do his bidding?”
“In short, will he use you with love? This is what you want to know?”
“I suppose it is,” Elene said, her voice low.
“What if it could be assured beyond doubt? What if Durant could be made so mad with love that he would become a slave to his desire for you only?”
Elene looked up with a wry smile lighting her eyes, bringing out the flecks that swirled like silver dust motes around the pupils. “Somehow it seems unlikely.”
“Wait only a small moment.” The maid, her lips pressed together in a line of determination, swung around and left the room.
Elene stared after the woman with a puzzled frown. What could Devota mean? With her it was not always possible to guess; she could be strange at times. Certainly it was not like her to be so abrupt or to interrupt so important a toilette. There was little time to waste if the bride was to appear at the appointed moment.
Suddenly restless, Elene got to her feet and moved to the window. The back gallery on which it opened was empty. The evening gathering outside was still, with an oppressive, muffled quiet. The insects and night birds that usually filled the air with their muted din were silent. The only sounds to be heard were caused by humans, the crunch of carriage wheels in the seashells that surfaced the drive of the house and voices raised in greeting as arriving guests were welcomed at the front door. On the terrace beneath the gallery, where the ceremony would be held, the trio of Negro musicians hired for the occasion could be heard tuning their instruments, playing snatches of melody. And far off there could also be caught, like a bass rumble of distant thunder, the beat of drums in the hills. Elene shivered.
From the direction of the kitchen drifted the aroma of roasting meat, mingling with the scent of flowers and fruit and the salt tang of the sea that was always present here on Saint-Domingue. Elene breathed deeply, deliberately, trying to calm herself. These were the smells of her childhood, one of the things about the island she had missed most while in France.
It was while she was away that her father had arranged this marriage. Actually, she thought it had been discussed between the groom’s father, M’sieur Gambier, and her own when she was less than a year old and Durant only six. The lands of the two men lay together, and it had seemed a fine thing to join them by the marriage of their offspring. That had been twenty-three years ago. Things had been very different then, before the revolt of the slaves.
Elene had been at boarding school in France when the slaves had risen against their masters on Saint-Domingue. Her father had not been on the island either, but en route to France to take her away from the dangers of the bloody revolution taking place there. It had seemed for a time that everything they had known was being destroyed, that there was no safety anywhere.
Regardless of the numbers of slaves involved in the first rash of attacks on the plantation owners on the island, in spite of the atrocities committed and the tremendous loss of life, no one had expected the slave revolt to last. Elene’s father had removed her from the boarding school near Paris and made arrangements for Elene to stay with distant relatives, solid bourgeois merchants at Le Havre who were carefully neutral in the struggle in France. He had then left for New Orleans to join the community of refugees in the city while waiting for the opportunity to return to the island.
Elene had wanted to join her father when at last he had returned home, but matters had remained too unsettled. It was just as well she had not; those had been years of danger, of shifting loyalties and precarious fortune amid near constant fighting.
In the beginning, the blacks and mulattoes, those of half-white, half-black blood, had joined together against the whites, raping, mutilating, killing, and pillaging. The French government, in the throes of upheaval itself, had been unable to send sufficient troops to put down the uprising, and so it met with a large degree of success. However, the mulattoes despised the pure African blacks as animals, and the blacks hated the mulattoes for holding themselves above them, so that any time one of the two groups appeared to be gaining ascendancy the other turned on them. When republican France was finally able to send an army to reestablish its authority, the mulattoes joined with the troops in opposition to the blacks. The blacks then, in a bizarre volte-face, joined with the royalist French planters, their old masters, against this new threat. Later, as the Spanish and British brought the war in Europe into the Caribbean, the blacks, under their leaders Toussaint L’Ouverture and Jean Jacques Dessalines, allied themselves with these French foes.
The British were weakened by the disease-ridden climate and overextended supply lines. With more important battles looming in Europe, they had withdrawn at last. Toussaint L’Ouverture, declaring himself governor-general for life, had then turned on his former Spanish allies and driven them from the country. He paid lip service to French sovereignty, but was in effect the supreme ruler of the island.
A period of peace had descended with the elevation of Toussaint. The governor-general had tried to revive the sugar and cotton commerce. Toward that end, he had invited the planters in exile to return and had forced the former slaves back into the fields. For the first time in over ten years, conditions on Saint-Domingue had seemed stable at last.
That had been just over a year and a half before, in 1801. Elene’s father had waited a few months, until he felt certain the conflict was over at last, then he had sent for Elene. She had been instructed to bring with her all the frills and furbelows she would need for a wedding.
Elene had complied with her father’s order, though it had meant more delay in returning home. When she had finally reached Saint-Domingue, the army of Napoleon under his brother-in-law, General Leclerc, a force 20,000 strong, had been on her heels, also bound for the island. Napoleon, having consolidated his position as consul, had decided France was in need of the rich produce of this island paradise, and would not tolerate Governor-General Toussaint controlling the shipments. The fighting had commenced once more.
After months of fierce conflict, Toussaint had accepted terms of peace, only to be treacherously arrested and sent to France. The renegade blacks had been forced into the mountains, from which they launched savage and bloody raids against isolated plantation houses. General Leclerc had reestablished the hated slavery that had been abolished under Toussaint, along with many of the restraints upon the mulattoes.
The unrest was palpable, the dull rumble of drums from the renegade bases in the mountains — Voudou drums that carried messages among the scattered bands of the black army — was a near-constant undertone. It was unsafe to travel at night without an armed escort. The ranks of Napoleon’s soldiers, like the British and Spanish before them, were being slowly depleted, not so much by the rebels as by the virulent tropical diseases such as yellow fever and cholera, malaria and typhoid. The latest victim had been General Leclerc himself.
With the perilous conditions on the island, the wedding had been postponed for a time. Both Elene’s father and her prospective groom were in the militia and had been involved in numerous skirmishes. The French army, though larger than any force sent against these former slaves thus far, was still outnumbered by nearly twenty to one. If the blacks under their new leader Dessalines could manage to coordinate their forces, or perhaps find a cause to rally around, they might still win the day. The position of the whit
es would then be dangerous indeed, for Dessalines was known as a brutal and vengeful man, with a virulent hatred for anyone with white skin.
Elene had been glad of the postponement, even if, after all the delays, she could be considered an old maid, past the freshest age for marriage. As much as she wished to please her father, she had been in no hurry to wed. She had wanted time to get to know him again, time to explore the house and lands she had thought gone forever and to adjust to the hazards of living on the island. But most of all, she had needed time to become acquainted with the man she was to marry.
The wait had proved instructive. Her father had changed beyond recognition, becoming bitter and vindictive. So strict was he in his behavior toward his slaves, so fearful of their treachery, that he would not tolerate so much as a straight look from one of them without ordering the whip. Even with Elene, he could not seem to behave as a loving parent; he lashed out immediately with scathing anger if she voiced a difference of opinion or failed to agree at once to his suggestions for household management or her own activities. It was as if he could not accept the slightest encroachment on what he considered his authority.
As for Durant, Elene had to admit he had charm and gallantry, and could be quite likable when he relaxed his guard. Certainly he was handsome enough in a dark and satanic fashion. Regardless, he was as tainted by the same need to prove his manhood and his power as her father was. He had a habit of telling her when he would come to call, rather than asking when it would be convenient for her to receive him; of instructing her in where she could visit and when she could go on her outings. He stated his preferences that amounted to orders about the style of her gowns and bonnets, how she should wear her hair, and even what music she must play in the evening. He had already decided when they would have children and how many, and had chosen their names. He made it plain that he expected a well-run household and an excellent kitchen, both centered around his own likes and dislikes.
He did not like it when Elene appeared uneasy in his presence. She need not fear that he would mistreat her, he said; he would handle her like the most fragile of ornaments.
Such a promise would have offered more comfort to Elene if Durant had not felt it necessary to make it. He was as much aware as she was, however, that his reputation with his horses and his slaves was not the best; it was even whispered that his mistress Serephine sometimes showed a livid bruise or two.
It had been the arrest of Toussaint and his imprisonment in France that had caused the date for the wedding finally to be set. But it was, Elene thought, the arrogance of her father and her groom that required it to be turned into a lavish entertainment for the countryside. They meant to show the world they did not fear calling attention to themselves, that they scorned to modify their traditional arrangements for mere safety’s sake.
Elene, returning to the dressing table, stared at her reflection in the mirror and felt a fleeting scorn for her supine acceptance of the marriage arrangement. There must have been some way she could have made her father understand her reluctance, something she could have done to prevent the plans from going forward. Her cousins in France had scolded her often for her high spirits, her combative energy that caused her to defy curtailment of her movements.
But when she had tried to speak to her father, he had flown into such a rage that she had been afraid he meant to send her to the whipping post like the lowliest of his slaves. She might have run away, certainly, but there were few places to hide on an island, and she had no means, no funds of her own with which to leave it. In any case, for a white woman, or even one of color, to venture out onto the roads alone in these troubled times was like issuing an invitation to grief.
These were not the only reasons, however. The truth was, she wanted to please her father, to bring back the warm and loving man she had known as a girl. She had missed him so dreadfully while in France, had so longed to be with him. Now she could only do as he wished in an effort to gain his love and approval.
Elene’s reverie was interrupted as Devota returned, swinging into the room and closing the door carefully behind her. Elene turned. “Where did you go? We must hurry or I’ll be late, and you know how Papa is.”
“Never mind. This is more important, much more important, chère.”
“What is it?”
“A secret that will protect you.”
The woman reached into her apron pocket and brought out a small jade-green bottle with a cork stopper. She released the cork with a deft twist, and the fragrance of gardenias and roses, jasmine and frangipani and sandalwood wafted on the still, warm air, along with other subtle scents that defied identification.
“Perfume?” Elene inhaled it with appreciation, but shook her head. “It’s lovely, but I doubt Durant will be impressed. I’ve heard his mistress bathes in scented water every day.”
“Not in perfume like this.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“There is no other like it.”
It really was a delicious fragrance. Alluring in its combination of flower and wood fragrances, it was delicate and yet richly exotic, intense but fresh, while floating above the recognizable essences was a grace note of haunting, ineluctable mystery. It lingered on the air and in the mind with rare persistence, a soft, vibrant presence.
Elene held out her hand. “Using it can do no harm.”
“One moment, chère. Open your dressing gown, if you please.”
“What?”
“This is an oil, a very light one, and should be massaged into your shoulders and arms. It will make your skin supple and like satin to the touch, as well as fragrant.”
Devota was only trying to help, Elene knew, with her talk of enslaving Durant and softening her skin. It would be unkind to show open skepticism. Besides, Elene could not deny that she needed any aid she could find to boost her spirits and allow her to walk with confidence to the altar where she and Durant would exchange their vows.
With a faint shrugging motion, Elene slipped her dressing gown from her shoulders, then held out her cupped hand for Devota to pour a small amount of the perfumed oil into it. Following the maid’s instructions, she carefully transferred some of the fragrant liquid to her other hand, then smoothed her palms over her shoulders and the hollow of her throat, then down her arms to the bends of wrists and elbows. This application was not enough for Devota. The woman gave her a few drops more, and insisted that Elene spread them over the white globes of her breasts and down the flat plane of her abdomen to the juncture of her thighs.
As Elene massaged it into her skin, Devota began a low, monotone chant not unlike a prayer or a blessing. The sound of it recalled whispers Elene had heard years ago, whispers about Devota being involved with the Voudou cults, the worship of the old gods brought from Africa, whispers that she served sometimes as priestess for the pagan rites. Such priestesses were said to have strange powers, including the ability to cause death with a curse or a doll stuck with pins, to bring the dead to life, to concoct potions to turn love to hate or hate to love. There were many who believed, black and white alike.
Stories, nothing but stories. Devota looked so normal there in the candlelight, with her neatly starched white apron and tignon and her dark brown eyes warm with affection and concern. The whispered tales could not be true. It was the height of folly to think they might be.
The fragrance of the oil enveloped Elene, mounting to her head in near overpowering strength for an instant before it faded to a rich and lovely aura surrounding her.
“Good, good,” the maid said softly. “Now when your husband holds you to him in the act of love, he will receive the perfume, increased in power a hundredfold by the added essence of your body, upon his own skin. And when that is done, there will be no escape for him. He will be in thrall to you, and will wish only to please you in all ways. His need for you will be insatiable. No other woman can attract him.”
“That’s all very well,” Elene said with the faintest quiver of humor in her voic
e, “but what if he takes a bath? Or I do?”
Devota frowned. “You must not take this lightly, chère. Of course the perfume will be removed by bathing. You have only to apply it again, and the effect will be the same.”
“Suppose I touch some other man. Will he also be enthralled?”
“You must take care that doesn’t happen — unless you are sure it’s what you want.”
The things Devota was saying did not seem real. However, Elene thought, she might as well play the game. She tipped her head. “And what of me? Does it have no effect on me at all?”
“To you it is only a perfume. Yet it is best for a woman who wishes to hold a man not to fall too deeply in love with him.”
“That sounds so calculating.” A frown creased Elene’s brow.
“It is. What I speak of is control, control of your life with your husband, not of perfect happiness. If you must have happiness, then seek love without any aid except a loving heart.”
“I’m not certain a loving heart is what Durant wants,” Elene said. “More likely, it’s a suitable wife and Papa’s land.”
“Trust me, chère. Now we must hurry to dress you, or your papa will be angry.”
The fashion in women’s dress, as dictated by Paris, was patterned after the simple, draped lines of the clothing of ancient Greece and Rome as it had been for more than a decade. Elene’s wedding gown was of the same order, in cream-colored tissue silk with puffed sleeves and a flowing skirt falling from just under the bust, and embroidery in gold thread at the hem and around the deep, square décolletage in a pattern of scrolls and leaves. Her hair was swept up in a shining coronet formed of a single thick braid that had been interwoven with a length of metallic gold ribbon. Her only jewelry was an exquisite cameo necklace that had belonged to her mother and a pair of gold earrings shaped like leaves that, along with a Kashmir shawl and a fan with ivory sticks, had been sent to her in the corbeille de noce, the basket of bridal gifts from the groom.
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