The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Alain stood on the gallery, overlooking the narrow street and smoked a slender black cigar. Simone had already retired, using the excuse that she wanted to rise early to assist Batiste with the ironing. To listen to her, you would think the big black servant could not lift a flatiron without help from his petite amie.

  Slouched against a post, Alain tried to shed his irritation. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the night and of his own tobacco.

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he peered through the darkness. Fabrice Chauvin lurked across the street, watching the house again.

  Alain swore under his breath. He had known the young Creole was suspicious and it was painfully obvious that Fabrice was in love with Simone but he was letting emotion cloud his reason. In his determination to find out if his cousin had been discovered and taken in hand by her guardian, it had not even occurred to him that he might lead Marcel directly to her.

  Alain considered going down to the street and trying to explain his actions and his motives to Fabrice. But he knew that, given the slightest proof of his suspicions, the young hothead would challenge him to a duel—a complication Alain did not choose to add to his difficulties. In the end, he went inside and closed the door, leaving Fabrice to his vigil.

  “Have patience, chère,” Lisette urged from the bench beside the fountain in the courtyard.

  “I’ve been patient.” The girl paced, her skirt swirling with each turn. “But I’ve been locked away here for three months.”

  “It is not Alain’s fault that Marcel has not returned,” Lisette reminded her.

  “I know,” Simone said crossly. “It’s just that I feel so restless. I want to scream at Alain because he goes out and leaves me. And that happens more and more. When he is here, he is considerate, but it seems lately he goes out of his way not to be with me.”

  Not to be alone with you, Lisette corrected silently. Only yesterday she had listened to Alain complain of a similar restlessness. He was not happy when he was away from Simone, yet he was afraid of what he might do when he was with her.

  That was the reason he had furnished the girl with a practice foil and a fencing mask. He had even returned Jean-Paul’s clothes to her so they could practice fencing in the courtyard these warm evenings. According to Alain, they practiced until both were exhausted and drenched with sweat. Then Simone went up to her room to bathe and to bed, while he prowled, unable to sleep. But the practice seemed to make her happy, he confided, and it helped him keep his hands off her.

  How simple it would be, Lisette mused, if she could tell each how the other felt. Alain was too stubborn to admit his love to Simone, and Simone was too stubborn to admit hers even to herself. One day they would learn. Perhaps even today, she thought with satisfaction, hearing his tread in the passageway.

  “Ladies, bonjour,” Alain greeted them brightly. “Did you come prepared today, Lisette?”

  “I did,” she confirmed. With a mischievous glance at Simone, she set her hat securely on her blond head.

  “Batiste,” Alain shouted toward the kitchen, “is the picnic basket ready?”

  “It is.” The big man appeared with a mammoth hamper. “I was about to bring the carriage around.”

  “Très bien.” Alain took the basket and said carelessly over his shoulder, “Then you ‘re the only one who isn’t ready, Simone. Run and put on your widow’s cloak and veil.”

  “We’re going out?” The girl looked thrilled.

  “If you don’t keep us waiting all day.” He frowned playfully.

  When she had hurried away, Alain turned to Lisette. “You are sure you don’t mind playing chaperon?”

  “Only for you, mon ami. But I tell you, if you can no longer control your baser instinct, you’ve become a weak man indeed.” She shook her head in mock exasperation.

  “I do wish Marcel would return,” he acknowledged, only half in jest. “This arrangement causes me the tortures of the damned.”

  “You may suffer them awhile yet. Marcel’s cousin, Charles Greaux, told me the reason he hasn’t returned is that Madame Baudin is near death. He said Marcel is quite distraught. He’s always been very close to his mother.”

  “True,” Alain muttered, “though he once killed a man who called him a mama’s boy.”

  When Simone returned, Alain’s open landau was waiting, and Lisette was already settled on the seat. “Where are we going?” she asked excitedly as Alain handed her in.

  “To Lake Pontchartrain, where it is cool and private.” He took the seat across from the women.

  With a sharp whistle, Batiste urged the horses forward. The twin bays seemed to catch the spirit of the day and trotted smartly out of the carriage gate.

  As the rig rolled down Esplanade, Simone spied a crowd of men headed along Barracks Street toward The Shades, a popular dueling spot under a stand of massive trees.

  “Someone is dueling?” she asked unnecessarily.

  “Undoubtedly. There have already been several differences of opinion regarding the assaut.” Alain shrugged.

  “The assaut?” Simone gasped. “How could I have forgotten? Why aren’t you there, ‘Lain?”

  “Because I’m going on a picnic at the Lake.” His eyes caught hers through the veil and held them.

  “Don’t you want to be there to encourage Serge?”

  “I’ve helped him practice and prepare, but today he has plenty of encouragement. He’s surrounded by adoring admirers and won’t miss me. I wanted to spend the afternoon with you, and Lisette,” Alain said quietly.

  Jostling off the road, the picnickers found an isolated stand of pines in the midst of a meadow. The lake was out of sight beyond the trees, but the water could be heard lapping softly at the shore.

  Batiste spread a blanket on a lush bed of clover dotted with yellow dandelions and began to unpack the hamper. Taking off her cape and veil, Simone wandered to the water’s edge, enjoying the spring day. Lake Pontchartrain stretched out to the horizon, its blue water glistening in the sunlight. Though she had seen it many times, she was always awed by its vastness.

  On her way back, she gathered wildflowers, using her bonnet as a basket. She joined her friends, placing her bonnet on the blanket as a centerpiece for their makeshift table.

  After lunch, Batiste took a fishing pole and went down to the water. Almost at once, Lisette sat up and announced, “Even the sun filtering through the leaves is too much for me. If I don’t want to burn, I had better remove myself to the carriage. Batiste put up the top so I could nap in comfort. Wake me when you’re ready to leave.”

  Simone watched her go, suddenly self-conscious when she felt Alain’s gaze upon her. He lay on his side near her, braced on one elbow, admiring the way the breeze ruffled her short hair, lifting it gently from the nape of her neck.

  “You look like a flower yourself in your pretty yellow dress, chère,” he said lazily, watching her weave chains of dandelions and clover. “What is that you’re making?”

  “A garland.” She held up the short length for his inspection.

  Alain smiled knowingly. “My sisters used to make these. They would weave them to be as long as their beaux were tall.”

  “I don’t have a beau,” she answered, looping the ends of the chain together so it became a small band of flowers.

  “Come now,” he teased, “isn’t there anyone you love?”

  “Non.” She seemed engrossed in her handiwork.

  “Perhaps you haven’t found him yet,” he murmured, taking the garland from her. “I think you’ll find that man who will love you forever.”

  “Perhaps.” She watched as he draped the flower chain around the crown of his hat, which lay beside him on the blanket.

  “How will you recognize this paragon when you see him?”

  After a moment, Simone answered, “I suppose I’ll know him by his gentleness and his strength.”

  “Well, my romantic little friend, it sounds to me as if you’re looking for a saint,” Alain snorted, rolling
to lie on his back. “Men are flesh and blood, and sinners in the bargain, with very human traits like pride and temper.” With that remark, he threw his arms back to cushion his head and closed his eyes.

  Simone was about to reply that he had done an adequate job of describing himself when she realized that her description fit him, too. She was rocked by an unwelcome revelation. She loved Alain de Vallière. Drawing a shaky breath, she almost groaned aloud.

  There was every reason she should not love him. First among them was that he did not love her. To Alain, she was a ward, the girl he had known from childhood, a burden to be unloaded on a fiancé. He was arrogant and hot-tempered.

  But the reason which suddenly loomed largest in Simone’s mind was Marie LeVeau’s dire warning. She could almost hear her words, “You will bring danger to those you love.” No, she could not, would not, love Alain.

  At the edge of the thicket, the horses blew and stamped. Other than an occasional bird song and a venturesome insect buzzing near Simone’s ear, no other sound marred the stillness of the afternoon. Absorbed in her thoughts, she was silent while Alain napped.

  But Alain was not asleep. Through slitted eyes, he watched Simone as she sat beside him, her feet tucked beneath her. He wondered what had brought the melancholy expression to her face. When her gaze swept him, he closed his eyes and felt the brush of her skirt against his hip as she shifted slightly to face him.

  Alain was so handsome, and he didn’t look nearly so fierce in repose, Simone thought. When he was awake, that rugged visage looked so stern. But now his lips curved slightly, as if he were having a good dream, and his thick dark hair fell to his forehead in tousled curls. He looked approachable and almost as young as the first time she had met him.

  “If you like what you see, chère, why not have a closer look?” he drawled. Opening his eyes, he stared directly into her surprised green ones. Without warning, his arm shot out and crooked around her neck, yanking her down across his chest, wedging his hat between the blanket and her.

  “Alain!” She planted her palms on the ground on either side of him and attempted to push away, but his other arm encircled her, anchoring her against him. “Let me go.”

  “Shh, you’ll wake Lisette.” He nodded toward the carriage. “You don’t want your chaperon to find you in a compromising position.”

  “Then let me up,” she demanded a little less loudly. His lips were very close.

  “When you tell me why you’ve been watching me for the past five minutes,” he insisted.

  He held firm against her sudden flurry of movement until Simone panted, “I thought you were asleep, you conceited--”

  “Ah, and you’d been watching with such tenderness,” he teased, his arm tightening around her squirming figure.

  “You’re crushing your hat,” she whispered, trying to divert his attention.

  “You’re the one lying on it,” he pointed out, whispering himself. The hush of their voices made it seem as if they were in an isolated, private world. “That Panama is one of my favorites, you know. It will cost you most dearly, my love.”

  Though she stiffened against him, he drew her down slowly to meet his lips. Gently he kissed her, feeling her lips warm under his and the tension leave her rigid shoulders.

  He thought fleetingly that he should release her when he had stolen his playful forfeit, but he could not. After a taste, he longed to savor her lips more fully. And when those lips parted, naturally, willingly, to invite his tongue into her mouth, Alain feasted on the sweetness of her kiss.

  Simone was lost in sensation, encompassed in the heat of Alain’s passion. She did not know when her hands stopped bracing her against the ground and moved up his sinewy arms to clutch at his broad shoulders. She felt, only felt, and she reveled in his touch as his big hand skimmed her ribs and lingered to cup her breast.

  When his mouth left hers to trail kisses down her neck, Simone fought for self-control, and sanity began to return, bringing with it all the reasons she could not love him. Determinedly, she pushed away from his questing lips.

  “You must let me go,” she begged raggedly.

  “Simone, what’s wrong? You’re trembling.” He sat up, cradling her in his arms. “I did not mean to frighten you, my own. Don’t you know I would never hurt you?”

  “I... I know.” Pale and shaken, she freed herself from his embrace. She wished she could explain that every kiss, every caress, hurt, because she could never have him as her own. And that if she was frightened, it was not because of Alain, but because of her unwanted response to him.

  Masking his chaotic emotions, he picked up his hat and commented lightly, “I don’t think we did it any great damage after all. If you will fold up the blanket while I find Batiste, it’s time we were going home.”

  He set out for the shore, his face grim below the gay flowers decorating his Panama. He paused just out of Simone’s sight to collect himself. After her response to his kisses, he could not believe she found him repulsive. So what had changed her willingness to withdrawal? Did she suddenly remember the old days, think of him as an older brother? God knew, his thoughts about her were far from brotherly. And God knew, though he would not force himself on her, he wanted her.

  “What a hell of a situation,” he growled to himself and went to look for Batiste.

  Summer arrived in New Orleans with blazing sun, swarms of gnats and mosquitoes, and the threat of yellow fever. As the days lengthened, tempers grew shorter, and the occupants of the house on Esplanade were not immune to the relentless heat.

  Since the picnic, Alain and Simone had been wary of each other, neither mentioning what had occurred between them. Forcing himself to feign indifference, Alain was brusque with Simone, sparking her temper and setting off a series of clashes. At last he had given up in disgust and nearly exiled himself from his own home.

  Late one night as he neared his house, his step slowed and he squinted through the darkness toward his front gate. Had he seen a shadowy form as the moon disappeared behind the clouds? Was it Fabrice Chauvin, perhaps? Or even Baudin’s man?

  Easing into the shadows himself, Alain stole along the banquette, but when he reached a place where he could view the front of his house clearly, there was no one to be seen. Feeling a little silly, he let himself into his gate. Waiting for Marcel was wearing on him. He was beginning to see things, Alain chided himself.

  His steps were sure and silent as he made his way toward the garçonnière. Then a movement in the dark courtyard caught his attention. Perhaps he had not been seeing things after all, he thought grimly. Someone was lurking near the fountain.

  He backtracked soundlessly to approach from behind. As he crept closer, the fragrance of roses wafted to him on the night wind, and he knew, before the moon broke through the clouds, that it was Simone.

  He halted, torn by indecision. For nearly three months, he had gone out of his way to avoid her, but seeing her in the moonlight proved irresistible. Softly he called, “What are you doing out here, Simone?”

  Startled, she turned. “Oh, Alain, I couldn’t sleep. It’s too hot.” She whispered to keep from awakening Batiste.

  “It’s too hot for almost everything,” he growled, noticing the way she clutched her modest robe closed.

  “It’s still a beautiful night.” She eyed him consideringly, trying to judge the reason for his ill humor. When he met her gaze without smiling, she said woodenly, “I should go.”

  “No, stay,” he commanded. “Please,” he amended with a dry smile.

  They were silent, the tinkling of the fountain the only sound. At last, Simone drew a pleasurable breath and murmured, “I like it when the night smells of honeysuckle.”

  “It is lovely.” Alain leaned against the trunk of the fig tree and watched her.

  “It’s nice to see you when you are not angry, ‘Lain,” she said with a tentative smile.

  “It’s nice to see you when you are not aloof,” he countered bluntly.

  She igno
red the invitation to spar, choosing instead to placate him. “I know the past few months have not been easy for you.”

  If he had known what exquisite torture it would be, Nicholas would never have named me guardian, Alain thought bleakly.

  “I still wish you did not feel you must challenge Marcel,” Simone continued earnestly.

  “There’s no other way to protect you, mon amour,” Alain allowed himself the endearment, but he would not touch her. “What Marcel seeks is not justice, but revenge . . . and you.”

  “I know,” she sighed sadly.

  How he longed to hold her, to reassure her, but he could not bear to have her reject his tenderness again. “I realize this hasn’t been easy for you either,” he told her stiffly. “You are lonely here, I know, but it won’t last much longer.”

  “Non.” Simone nearly choked on the word. What was wrong with her? For months she had been miserable, locked away in Alain’s house, but now she found she hated the thought that her captivity would end, separating her from the captor she had come to love.

  “You will be happy again soon,” Alain was saying through clenched teeth, “free to meet new people, make new friends. You’ll be besieged by suitors.” He felt as if the words were being torn from him. “So many you won’t know how to choose.”

  She stared up at him, stricken.

  “What’s wrong now?” he snapped when he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I don’t want suitors, and I don’t want to choose.” She whirled and raced across the courtyard, her naked legs flashing in the moonlight through the opening of her robe. Her bare feet whispered on the treads as she ran up the stairs.

  His face dark with wrath, Alain was a step behind her when she opened the door to her room. Grabbing her wrist, he spun her to face him. “Damn it, Simone, first you want to choose your husband, then you don’t want to choose at all. I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  “What do you want of me?” he snarled.

  Unexpectedly a dam burst within Simone, and words poured out. “I want you to love me or hate me, but stop being indifferent to me. If I cannot have you, I want to be free of you and the confusion you cause me. Just leave me alone.”