by Toombs, Jane
Madelaine fought against her captor, turning her head to stare into the face of Philippe Roulleaux.
Philippe half carried Madelaine through the throng of naked, dancing blacks. No one interfered, the Negroes seemed scarcely aware of them. Still dazed by the dancing, by his sudden appearance, she clung to him as he strode beyond the firelight and down the path.
"Philippe," she murmured. He set her onto her feet, his hands on her shoulders. "Madelaine, what were you thinking of to come here?" He shook her as he spoke, his voice throbbing with anger. "Mon Dieu, what might have happened to you if Tomas hadn't told me!"
She blinked at him, saw his pale face in the light of the half moon. "Tomas?"
"Yes. Tomas, our coachman. He said a La Belle slave was bringing you to the voodoo. Tomas knows about us because of the carriage. I could hardly believe you'd do such a foolish thing but I came here anyway. Luckily."
Madelaine's lower lip quivered. He sounded almost like Guy scolding her. She flung her arms around him, tears in her eyes. "Philippe," she cried, "don't be angry. I love you so."
He groaned and his hands slid from her shoulders to crush her against him. His lips came down on hers demandingly. Her body throbbed with the drums, a fiery pulsation. His lips moved down her throat to the top of her breasts.
"Madelaine, cherie," he murmured.
He lifted her and, carrying her in his arms, pushed through the bushes along the path to a tiny clearing. As he put her down, her loosened petticoats slipped off and left her clad only in her chemise. She pressed against him, molding her body to his. He held her tightly, staring into her eyes, his face only inches away.
"This is madness," he said. "I'm mad for you, to have you, mon cherie, but . . ."
Her kiss stopped his words.
Philippe's hands caressed the curve of her hips, cupped her buttocks to hold her firmly to him. A tingling desire grew within her, a need crying to be satisfied. When he put his lips to her breasts through the thin batiste of her chemise, she pulled away and, with a quick sinuous motion, pulled the chemise over her head. She stood naked in the moonlight.
He caught his breath. Keeping his eyes on her, he hurried to remove his clothes. She stared in fascination at his revealed maleness, put out her hand and touched it, marveling at how different he was from herself.
How wonderfully different.
When he caught her to him, she moaned at the feel of his flesh on hers, his throbbing hardness pressing against her. The drums pounded, pounded, both without and within her, urging her, driving her.
Somehow they were on the ground, his hands on her breasts, then his lips.
"Philippe," she breathed, "please . . ." She didn't know what she wanted him to do, only that he must, he must, or she would die with desire.
"My beautiful, my love," he whispered.
His hands stroked her thighs, then moved between her legs, gently pushing them apart. His body slid over hers, his hardness probing, entering, thrusting against something that yielded with one knifelike stab of pain, gone so quickly she had no time to cry out before she was overcome with pleasure.
Madelaine arched to him, wanting more and more of the wonderful, terrible sensation. Her fingers dug into his back as, unable to speak, she murmured incoherently.
She was in a glittering night of pulsating darkness where fiery serpents writhed inside her in a dance of ecstasy. Flames skyrocketed into the blackness, a fireworks of release, and she felt herself fragment into delicious wonder.
Philippe cried out, moaned, they held one another tightly, their hold gradually relaxing. He moved, turned onto his side, next to her. "I love you very much," he said. "We shouldn't
have--”
"Hush. I won't listen. It's a part of our love so it must be right. So wonderful, Philippe. I never dreamed anything could be like this."
"You're mine forever, sweet Madelaine. No other man shall have you, I swear, no matter what may happen."
"Yes," she said, "I'm yours, always." He sat up.
"Mon Dieu, how am I to get you home? You in your petticoat. Ah, my love, you're a wanton."
"For you," she said fiercely, shoving away the memory of the moment she'd danced with the giant slave, when she felt the heat of his body . . .
"A wanton only for you, Philippe."
Chapter 11
When they came onto the path, Madelaine saw, with disbelief, her black gown hanging from a branch of a shrub. Philippe swore and stared back toward the voodoo fire.
"Josefina," Madelaine said, putting on her dress. "She remembered me and brought the gown." But she felt a chill, for whoever had hung the gown on the bush might well have seen her with Philippe, seen them making love.
Not Josefina. The slave was with her own lover, Tomas, and would have forgotten Madelaine.
The tattooed African? No, he wouldn't care about her clothes.
Vedette? Madelaine shivered, suddenly certain the voodoo queen had been the one, but she said nothing to Philippe.
"Why haven't you come to our meeting place?" she asked him. "It's been four months."
"I came many times. You didn't. I thought you no longer cared."
'I couldn't get away much. Senalda . . ." Her words trailed off. It was better not to speak of poor Senalda. "I'll meet you there again. Philippe. Tomorrow?"
He put his arm about her, guiding her along the path. "No, not tomorrow. The next day, in the afternoon."
She stiffened. "Why not tomorrow? Is it because you must see Annette Louise?"
He laughed. "Annette Louise was your idea, not mine. She's a pretty little girl, but I'm hopelessly in love with a far more lovely woman. I've given my heart away to her and have nothing left for poor Annette Louise." He paused and kissed her, his lips warm on hers.
"I came tonight because I thought you didn't love me," she said when they were walking once again. "I hoped the voodoo queen would help me." She couldn't bring herself to say Vedette's name.
Again he laughed. "Dieu, I've little need for you to give me love potions. I think of you constantly as it is." His voice changed, grew serious. "You must promise me you won't go out at night again on foolish errands. It's not safe."
"I'm not afraid of the night animals, the wildcats and such. And the slaves wouldn't harm me."
"I'm not thinking about the animals. The slaves—well, who can really trust them? But there are also the Americains—those Kaintocks off the boats—wild and more dangerous than any animal."
"Not all the Americains are like them." Why was she baiting Philippe this way? Some mischievous devil guided her tongue for she agreed entirely that it was foolish to be abroad at night without an escort.
He stopped abruptly, grasping her shoulders and glaring into her face. "Have you been seeing that red haired soldier? That Amercain. Answer me!"
"No," she said. "Oh, no, Philippe."
But she had, though it was months ago. Philippe's question made the memory spring vividly to her mind. Not only had she seen John Kellogg, but she had enjoyed his kiss—try as she might to forget the feeling.
She clung to Philippe's arm. He was the one she loved. After what happened tonight she'd never love another.
* * *
Seagulls swooped over the blue water, their cries shrill and plaintive. Madelaine, drowsy from the heat and the wine she'd drunk, watched the birds glide on the wind. Although it was cooler along Lake Pontchartrain than at La Belle, the July day was sultry. Although it was cooler
along Lake Pontchartrain, the day was sultry.
“You dream, perhaps, of another," Gabriel Davion said from his place beside her on the gallery of the old summer house.
The gallery was netted against the mosquitoes, but a few had gotten past, as usual. One hummed in her ear and she picked up her ivory fan to wave it away. "It's so warm," she murmured, ignoring his comment.
Guy had left them alone purposely, she knew. He'd arranged the picnic in the summer house on La Branche land near the lake and invited the guests,
all the while hoping she would say "yes" to Gabriel. So far she'd managed to forestall a marriage proposal.
Gabriel leaned toward her. "You've changed these past months, Madelaine," he said. "I see you're no longer a child." Although his glance didn't miss the curve of her body under the light blue muslin gown, she realized he meant more than that.
"I've had to grow up.' she said.
"Yes. Such misfortune must have been difficult for you. But the change seems deeper. You even look at me differently."
Madelaine blushed. She hadn't known he was aware of the long, considering gaze she'd turned on him earlier. She'd been wondering what it would be like to marry Gabriel, to be bedded by him.
Not that she wanted such a thing! Each meeting with Philippe, each time they lay together, made her love him all the more passionately. She eyed Gabriel, fluttering the fan between them. Since she'd experienced what a man and a woman could share, she no longer regarded Gabriel as a brother—even if she had no desire to marry him.
“I could never marry you," she said abruptly.
His eyes widened.
"I know you haven't asked me, but surely you realize that Guy has been pushing us together with marriage in mind. He wants it, I don't."
"Madelaine, I--"
"Let me finish, for I may not gather the courage to speak so bluntly again. I've always been fond of you, Gabriel, but I don't love you. Please don't tell me that I could learn to. It may or may not be true, but I don't wish to try to love you. We aren't meant for each other, Gabriel, and I want you to be free to find a wife who can love you as you deserve, because I can't. Annette Louise Courchaine, perhaps. She's sighed over you from the time we were children."
Gabriel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can't deny I was about to propose to you. I have long admired you, and I've watched as you've grown into a beautiful woman—a woman of character and charm."
"Be honest, Gabriel. You aren't heartbroken by what I've said, are you?"
He smiled a bit sadly. "I'd be honored to have you for my wife. But, no, though my heart pains a trifle, it's intact."
Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I've always liked you, Gabriel. Can we not remain friends?"
He nodded. "Do you love another, Madelaine?"
She lowered her eyes. It wouldn't be wise to reveal too much to Gabriel, for he was Guy's best friend. "You embarrass me," she murmured.
When she looked at him through her lashes she saw his skeptical glance. Gabriel knew very well she wasn't easily abashed. But he didn't press her. She brushed away a mosquito from her arm. The shadows were lengthening, encouraging the pests to swarm, and more were getting past the netting. Her head had begun to ache from the glare of the sun on the water. The picnic was over, and it was time to go home.
* * *
In August, Annette Louise visited Madelaine at La Belle. Flushed and excited, she clutched at Madeline's hands.
"Just think," she said, "Gabriel has spoken to papa and we're to be married in three weeks. I never dreamed he noticed me. All the time I thought. . ." She stopped, eyeing Madelaine.
"I'm happy for you," Madelaine said honestly. "Gabriel is a wonderful man, and I know he'll make you very happy. I suspected you still nourished a tendresse for him, even though you have flirted constantly with Philippe." What pleasure it gave her to say her lover's name.
"Oh, Philippe." Annette Louise waved her hand as if to dismiss the possibility that she could ever seriously consider him as a suitor. "He's amusing, but I could never marry him. I could never feel for him as I do about Gabriel." She sank into a chair, and removed her fan from the pocket of her dress. "Mon Dieu but it's hot." Peering at Madelaine from behind the waving fan, she added, "You really are glad to hear the news. And to think that I once thought Gabriel was in love with you!"
"He has always loved me as a sister. He helped Guy raise me. We could never take one another seriously because of that. I'm very fond of Gabriel, as I am of you, and I know you'll have a good marriage—a loving marriage. It makes me very happy."
Ah, Philippe, she thought, if only you could approach Guy so we could be married. If only this foolish feud didn't stand between us.
Annette Louise brushed a mosquito from her hand. "I sweat these pesky bugs grow worse every summer," she said. She lowered her voice, leaning forward. "Have you heard about the sickness in the city?" she asked.
"Summer fevers."
"No, no, it's worse. Maman whispers and doesn't think I hear." Her voice dropped so low Madelaine could barely hear her. "Bronze John. Many are ill. Some have died."
Yellow fever. Governor Claiborne had lost his wife and little daughter to the disease two summers ago. Annette Louise herself had been sick with yellow fever five years ago.
"You're safe from Bronze John," Madelaine reminded her. "He doesn't visit twice,"
"But Gabriel—what about him?" Annette Louise cried.
"You truly do love him," Madelaine said. "Don't worry, he's as healthy as Guy. Bronze John will pass him by this summer, too, as he has every other year."
She wasn't speaking merely to soothe Annette Louise's fears. It did seem that newcomers to New Orleans, like the governor's wife, were the ones most likely to come down with yellow fever.
It struck Americains and visitors from Europe far more often than those born and raised in Louisiana. And it killed them more often, too. Annette Louise hadn't been so very sick—she'd been out of bed a week later. Her skin had barely turned yellow at all.
Bronze John seemed to avoid the slaves almost entirely.
"Marie Thibodeaux has died," Annette Louise went on in her hushed, frightened voice. "Maman was told she vomited black for days before she went. Remember how fair she was, such pale skin? It turned the color of cantalope flesh—a hideous orange yellow."
"Don't dwell on such things. Think of your trousseau, your wedding gown. Surely your parents will give you the grandest marriage ever seen inside St. Louis since it was built. I can't wait to be there."
Annette Louise smiled tentatively. "Maman says I'm to have pearls sewn into the lace of my gown," she said. "And the neckline—" she touched her finger between her breasts—"down to here, just think! It's the very latest from Paris."
"You'll look enchanting."
The first week in September, Madelaine recalled her words as she sat in a pew watching her friend standing with Gabriel before the altar of St. Louis. Annette Louise was enchanting, a vision in white lace and silk, the luster of the pearls on her gown no fairer than the glow of her skin.
Ah, I'm so envious, Madelaine thought. Why couldn't it be me standing before Father Antoine, with Philippe beside me? All because of some ancient disagreement that no one even remembers correctly anymore.
The church wasn't crowded because of the epidemic in the city. People hesitated to gather in groups lest Bronze John join them as an invisible guest. Still, a scattering of friends and relatives braved the scourge. Later, they drank to the newlyweds' health in the Courchaine townhouse.
Whether from the champagne or the enervating heat that hung over the city, heavy with the stench of the rotting garbage by the levee, Madelaine began to feel queasy. She asked Guy to take her back to La Belle before the reception was over.
"Are you ill?" Guy asked, peering at her closely as he helped her into the manor house.
"No, it's merely a headache."
"Your eyes look strange," he said. "Glassy."
Madelaine tried to laugh but only mustered a faint smile. "Even a headache is suspect these days," she said.
"The city's using the dead carts again," Guy said. "So many have been dying each day that St. Louis Cemetery can't keep up with the burials. The Americans have their army doctors working night and day with our own doctors."
He hesitated, then went on, "I understand that Dr. Kellogg is foremost among them. Governor Claiborne praises him highly."
Madelaine hadn't thought of John Kellogg in weeks. As she let Odalie help her
to bed, she saw in her mind's eye the strong planes of his face, his auburn hair. It was strange for her to think of him as a doctor, tending to the ill and dying, for he was so vibrantly alive.
She was sick, though. It was more than a headache, her neck and back hurt and her legs cramped until tears came to her eyes.
She began to shake, shivering so that her teeth chattered. Odalie piled more quilts onto the bed, then ran down to the kitchen fire to warm bricks, for there were no others fires lit in this hot month.
But Madelaine was cold, chilled to the bone. She ached all over. By the time Odalie had placed the heated bricks around her, she had to fly across the room for a basin because Madelaine began to retch, vomiting until nothing came but bile, green and bitter.
Time ceased to have meaning. Shapes hovered over her in a fog, Odalie, Guy, Once she thought she recognized Dr. Goodreau but when she looked again, he wasn't there.
Visions flitted through her mind. The tattooed black man with snakes writhing about him, his eyes glinting hard as onyx. Vedette, slipping through the house, up the stairs with a gris gris in her hand.
"No, don't let her," Madelaine tried to say, for she'd die as Senalda had died if the gris gris were hung on her door, but she was too weak to say the words.
Philippe held out his arms, but she couldn't move to embrace him. He faded into nothingness.
She retched and vomited everything Odalie gave her, hearing the dread word muttered as Odalie emptied the basin. "Noir." Black. She was vomiting black as did those who died from Bronze John's visit.
The tattooed slave loomed above her, gigantic. Black. Darkness was all around. His arms were snakes as black as he, reaching for her, to coil about her and crush out her life.
Frantically she tried to call out but no words came. A light, she must have light to save herself. The glow of a candle, the red of a fire. Red …
John Kellogg brushed a strand of hair from his forehead as he stood looking down at his patient. He’d never gotten used to this moment, the instant the spirit fled from the body, leaving nothing behind but a cast off shell.