Part Four
Treachery and Triumph
If you remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved.
William Shakespeare
As You Like It
Chapter 18
Charles Asher bit back an oath, but mindful where they were, he kept his temper under control. Smiling through gritted teeth, he said, "If you don't mind, sweet sister, I would prefer to discuss this in a less public place."
Betsey shrugged, but she followed his lead and kept a pleasant expression on her face as they mounted the stairs and made for their rooms in the hotel. They had arrived in the city only two days previously, and since New Orleans at this time of year was notoriously bereft of society, all the planters busy on their estates and everyone else avoiding the city to escape the heat and the seasonal fevers, the Ashers had found themselves bored. That, of course, would change once they arrived at Oak Shadows, where Charles had high hopes that Betsey could charm a proposal out of the Michaud heir, Pierre. The Ashers had only recently met the Michauds, mother and son, when they had come to visit an elderly relative in Natchez, in May. It had been apparent immediately that Pierre was greatly smitten with Betsey, and since Pierre so neatly fitted his requirements, Charles had accepted the young man's excited invitation that the Ashers come for an extended visit at his home, Oak Shadows, in the fall.
The door to their connecting rooms had barely shut behind them before Betsey hurled the lovely ivory-and-lace fan onto the floor, and, her beautiful face contorted with rage, she snarled, "Married! I cannot believe it! Especially since the bastard wouldn't marry me."
Well used to Betsey's rages and vanity, Charles made no comment, but let her storm around the room, waiting for the worst of her fury to abate. Only after she had hurled a crystal decanter against the wall, kicked over a dainty inlaid mahogany table and viciously flung all the satin pillows from her bed onto the floor did she gain some semblance of control.
Bosom heaving, she faced her brother and snapped, "I know you never wanted me to marry him, and though he may not suit your needs, he suits me just fine. I want him! Pierre is just a boy—he doesn't even begin to compare to Adam St. Clair."
"That may be, but while Adam may satisfy you in bed," Charles said nastily, "I doubt that he would tamely allow you to plant horns on his head or turn a blind eye while I played ducks and drakes with his fortune."
"Well, it's your own fault! You were the one who gambled away our fortune. I'm just glad Mama and Papa aren't alive to see what straits you have reduced us to."
There was nothing Charles could say to her angry statement—he had done precisely that, gambled away the impressive fortune that had been left to him by his father. No one, not even their sister, Susan, realized just how desperate their situation had been when her invitation had so providentially arrived.
The house, the plantation, Charles's fortune and even Betsey's inheritance, which had been under his control, had gone to pay Charles's enormous gambling debts in Virginia. Susan's invitation had been a godsend; though Betsey had always been courted, once there were whispers about Charles's huge losses, the majority of Betsey's suitors melted away. Of those who were left, few had a fortune large enough to satisfy Charles.
Betsey had been furious when the full extent of the disaster had been borne upon her, but if she loved anyone, other than herself, it was her brother, and eventually he made her see a way out of their dilemma—her marriage to an indulgent, wealthy gentleman. And it had to be Betsey who did the marrying—just as her suitors had disappeared as word had gradually spread through their friends and neighbors, so had Charles's prospects for a suitable match disappeared. A gentleman intent upon marrying Betsey wouldn't want to appear mercenary by inquiring too deeply about her supposed fortune, and while news of the disaster hadn't traveled beyond their home ground, even if Charles was fortunate enough to find an heiress to accept his hand, it was unlikely that the marriage would take place without a close scrutiny of his finances. Which would be fatal.
Adam St. Clair had been the perfect match for Betsey in many ways, but though she had clamored to marry him, Charles had been against it. It hadn't taken him more than one meeting with that young man to make him realize that, while easygoing, St. Clair was not a man who would turn a blind eye to Betsey's philandering, nor would he be willing to saddle himself with an extremely expensive brother-in-law. The two Ashers had fought bitterly over it, and Charles had breathed a sigh of relief when Adam had gone to visit his sister and her family.
That he was now married pleased Charles, especially since a young man who did fit all their requirements had appeared on the scene. The only child of a doting widowed mother, Pierre was a handsome, carefree youth, just twenty-three years old, and more important, he was convinced that Betsey was an angel. Not only was he bedazzled by her, but both he and his mother had found Charles utterly engaging. These past weeks, while Betsey had kept Pierre in a state of abject adoration, Charles had easily disarmed Madame Michaud by his charming manner and was already stepping into his role of helpful advisor. It was perfect!
A scowl marred Charles's too-handsome features. Provided Betsey didn't allow her fascination for Adam St. Clair to ruin everything, he added to himself.
"It doesn't matter," Charles said dismissingly, "how we come to be in this situation—we are in it and the solution is for you to forget Adam St. Clair and concentrate on Pierre Michaud."
"I don't want Pierre! He's a mere boy. I want Adam!"
Charles slapped her. His face dark with rage, he promised savagely, "Whistle Pierre down the wind, Betsey, and I'll make life so miserable for you, you'll wish you'd died."
Nursing her stinging cheek, Betsey threw him a vicious look. "Don't threaten me! There are things I could tell about you, don't forget."
Controlling himself with an effort, Charles said tightly, "I could say the same, my dear. We can ruin each other... or we can, as we have always done, join forces. The choice is up to you."
"Oh, Charles! We're fighting again. Come, let us talk of something more pleasant. Do we have to leave this afternoon for Oak Shadows?" Tugging on his sleeve like a child, she asked sweetly, "Couldn't we stay just one more night here in New Orleans and leave tomorrow afternoon instead?"
Charles stared at her suspiciously, well aware that Betsey was quite capable of pretending one thing when intent upon another, and while he would have preferred to put as many miles as possible between her and Adam St. Clair, he saw no reason to cause more dissension between them. Besides, what harm could she possibly cause in twenty-four hours?
Betsey herself didn't know what she was going to do; she only knew that she wasn't going to let any opportunity pass, and since burying herself at Oak Shadows, for who knew how long, wouldn't allow her to forward her own plans for Adam's future, she was desperate for any chance. One more night might present her with a heaven-sent opportunity to set the St. Clairs at each other's throats. Betsey smiled.
Her smile might have been even wider if she had known that her mere presence was already causing trouble between Adam and his wife. Convinced that Adam had been ashamed of her, hence his quick departure from the vicinity of his friends, Savanna lost whatever pleasure she might have taken from the day. Adam's actions only confirmed her worst fears, but she was determined not to let herself be beaten so easily. Pride kept her walking at his side, her chin lifted regally, her back straight, her shoulders squared. But if she was hurt by his actions, she was also very angry, and there was an edge to her voice when she replied to Adam's suggestion that they stroll to the French Market. Keeping her gaze in front of her as they stepped onto the banquette, she said, "I'm surprised you chose such a public place. Aren't you afraid that you might run into someone else you know and have to introduce me to them?"
That Savanna might feel uncertain about plunging into his world had never crossed Adam's mind and it didn't now—he was still angry at Betsey'
s blatant maneuvers. Even if they weren't just married, and under less than the best circumstances, Betsey Asher was the last woman he'd want to introduce Savanna to. Cursing Betsey's presence and concentrating on ways to avoid crossing her path during the remaining hours she would be in New Orleans, Adam didn't pay as close attention to Savanna's words and tone of voice as he might have done normally. Smiling, he replied, "Oh, I don't think we'll meet anyone I know—no one ventures into the city this time of year. We'll have it all to ourselves."
Unaware that he had inflicted further hurt, Adam hustled her along the banquettes in the direction of the French Market. Usually Savanna would have enjoyed a stroll through the raucous, vivid, bustling market, but not today her thoughts were turned inward and she was only vaguely aware of the multitude of languages that assaulted the air. French, Spanish, Indian, English, American and even German could be heard as shopkeepers and customers haggled amiably over the abundant selections for which the market was already famous. Live poultry, tied in threes by the legs, quail, freshly caught fish, shrimp and crabs lined the front of the stalls in one section of the huge market hall; in another, an appetizing selection of produce lay ready for purchase—peas, beetroots, tomatoes, Indian corn, ginger, dewberries and artichokes. It was a colorful, shifting crowd—quadroons garbed in scarlet-and-yellow gowns; slaves in drab clothing; half-naked, filthy Indians. A few gentlemen in dark blue and their ladies in pastel-hued frocks drifted around, and through it all, moving with a quick grace, black women offered bouquets of roses, violets, Spanish jassamine and carnations for sale. Savanna hardly noticed any of it, and when Adam, frowning at her air of distraction, guided her away from the bustle and urged her steps in the direction of a discreet little shop on Chartres Street, she went without demur.
She puzzled him, instinct telling him that something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. Hadn't last night proved anything to her? She'd been warm and pliant in his arms and he knew that he had brought her pleasure, just as she had brought him untold ecstasy. So what was wrong? Surely she still wasn't angry with his high-handed actions in forcing her to marry him? His frown increasing, Adam realized that if their positions had been reversed and he had been the one compelled to marry her, perhaps he wouldn't be precisely in a cheery mood either. He'd have been furious. And bitter. And resentful.
Uneasily he eyed Savanna's closed expression. She didn't look furious, or bitter, or resentful, but somehow that didn't make him feel any better, and he realized belatedly that last night hadn't proved anything—except that he could make her want him and that he could give her pleasure. By the time they entered the little shop of Chartres Street, Adam was scowling, and considering the way he had dragged her away from first the Ashers and then the French Market, Savanna was convinced that he did not want to be seen with her. He was, she decided miserably, ashamed of her and already regretting that he had married her. When she discovered the purpose of this visit to Chartres Street, it confirmed everything that she was feeling.
A dazzling array of beautiful, luxurious materials and patterns were laid out for her inspection by the owner of the shop, Madame Galland, well known for her excellent needlework and flair for color and style. Small and dark, her black hair caught neatly in a chignon at the back of her head, Madame Galland waved Adam and Savanna to the comfortable settee covered in pale rose silk damask. If Madame noticed that her clients seemed dour and silent, she kept it to herself and began to display the nearly finished garments that Adam had ordered from her when he had first arrived in New Orleans.
Smiling, her liquid brown eyes alert and friendly, Madame Galland draped a charming pelisse of Prussian blue silk across Savanna's lap and murmured, "If Madame would like to try it on, I can make any adjustments that might be necessary, oui? I have several other garments that are almost ready—they only need your approval and perhaps a petite tuck here and there to make them fit perfectly." Running an expert eye over Savanna's voluptuous curves, she added lightly, "Monsieur was quite specific in his measurements, and except for very minor changes, I believe that you will be pleased with these initial garments."
Savanna remembered little of the visit to Madame Galland's. She knew that Madame had led her to a small fitting room and efficiently whisked on and off her what seemed like innumerable gowns and shifts and various other pieces of feminine apparel. Afterward a grim-faced Adam had helped in the selection of more items and patterns and fabrics and trimmings to go with the fabulous wardrobe Savanna was acquiring, but through it all, she was only half aware of what was going on around her. She was dying inside. Every lovely garment, every wisp of lace, every expensive trifle added to the growing heap before her made Savanna cringe and cruelly emphasized the vast gulf that lay between her pleasant little gingham gown and the fashionable, luxurious garments that Adam was buying for her.
The trip to Madame Galland's seemed to sum up the fathomless chasm that lay between them and intensified all of Savanna's fears. That Adam's good humor had disappeared only added to her despair, and it stiffened her resolve to make him understand that while she would bear his child and try to be a dutiful wife, it would be folly for them to even pretend that theirs would be a normal marriage, and that meant no repeats of last night.
After making arrangements for some of the finished garments to be delivered that afternoon, with the air of constraint almost tangible between them, they left Madame Galland's and returned to the hotel. There was little conversation between them, each one busy with their own unpleasant thoughts, but once they had reached their rooms, Savanna said stiffly, "I suppose I should thank you for all the things you are buying for me."
Angry and baffled by the situation in which he found himself—who would have ever thought that he would fall in love with a woman who didn't care a farthing for him?—Adam stared grimly at her. A mocking twist to his mobile mouth, he murmured, "Should? Most women would be over the clouds if their husbands were as generous." His gaze narrowed. "But then you're not like most women, are you?"
"No," Savanna replied, further mortified that he seemed to think he could buy her good graces. "And ours is hardly a marriage that most people embark upon." After the humiliating morning she had spent, determined to make the situation clear, she went on bitterly. "I have no choice but to bear your child and carry your name—you made certain of that—but I will not be used simply to satisfy your lusts... and from now on, I insist upon my own bedchamber and privacy."
Adam's face went white, a muscle jerking in his cheek. For her to dismiss so cavalierly what they had shared last night hurt him more deeply than he had thought anything ever could, and he reacted with Adam-like predictability. Mouth tight, he grasped her arm and gave her an ungentle shake. "Lusts?" he snarled softly. "Is that all it was for you last night? Simply lust?"
Savanna could not meet his furious gaze. Telling herself this was necessary, she turned her head away from those piercing blue eyes and remained stubbornly silent.
Adam stared at her averted profile for a long minute and then anguished rage got the better of him. "Very well, madame," he snapped in an icy voice. "You have made your wishes clear! And since I am to be denied my marriage bed, you will excuse me if I go and find some other, more amiable woman with whom to slake my lusts!" Contemptuously flinging her aside, he slammed out of the room, the door banging shut behind his tall form with a thunderous crash.
Savanna stared in mute misery at the closed door. It was for the best, she reminded herself valiantly. After all, they came from two different worlds, and it had been obvious this morning that he had been ashamed to publicly acknowledge her as his wife and had even found disfavor with the very clothes she wore. Dispiritedly she wandered over to the sofa, telling herself not to let his actions distress her—it would only have been a matter of time before he sought other women anyway. She was really better off that they had gotten things straightened out right at the beginning. Oh, but it hurt, she thought piteously. It hurt unbearably.
Sinking down onto
the sofa, she stared blindly around the room, tears sliding unheeded down her face as she wondered how she was going to survive the terrible, empty years that stretched out before her. How long she sat there, the tears drying on her cheeks, she had no idea, but suddenly it dawned on her that someone was knocking on the door.
Hastily wiping away any telltale signs of her pain, she hurried to the door and opened it. Betsey Asher, a sweetly anxious smile on her face, stood there staring back at her.
Betsey was a vision. Her gleaming blond curls peeped attractively out from the charming chip straw hat she wore, an enormous bow of deep lavender silk tied beneath her chin. She was wearing a lovely high-waisted gown of finest muslin in a shade of pale lavender with little puff sleeves. Pristine white gloves were on her small hands and she carried a most fashionable reticule. Painfully aware of her height and the shabbiness of her gown, Savanna felt like a huge lump of coal.
"Oh, I know this is most forward of me," Betsey cooed, "but since my time in the city will be so limited, I did want to call on you before we left for Oak Shadows and offer my congratulations on your marriage." Beaming up at Savanna's dumbstruck features, she went on gaily. "I saw Adam leave, and knowing you would be here alone, I was wondering if perhaps you might like to join me for a glass of lemonade in that darling little tearoom downstairs."
Stunned by Betsey's presence and invitation, Savanna stared at her for a long second, her thoughts churning wildly through her head. Visiting with Miss Asher was the last thing that Savanna wanted to do—Betsey's elegant garb and genteel air driving home to her the great differences that lay between them. And coming as the invitation did on the heels of the morning she had just spent and the ugly exchange with Adam, Savanna was hard-pressed not to have a case of screaming hysterics. But what had happened wasn't Miss Asher's fault, Savanna reminded herself, and it was nice of the young lady to be so thoughtful. Forcing herself to put away her misery for the time being, a tentative smile on her lips, Savanna finally said with blunt honesty, "I appreciate your invitation, but unfortunately, Adam didn't leave me any money—I could not pay for my lemonade."
Each Time We Love Page 28