The impulse to run after him, to call him back, warred with her pride inside her. Pride won, though it was an uneasy victory. Why was she being so difficult about what was in reality a simple thing? It was an exceptional marriage in New Orleans that was contracted for love. Most were arranged affairs, an alliance based sometimes on money, but most often on family prestige and suitability as decided by the parents of the couple. But no, her marriage was not like these calm, rational arrangements. In three days’ time she would marry a stranger, an angry stranger. She stood carrying the thought for several minutes before turning her attention back to the seemingly endless preparations.
It was just dark when Catherine left the house on her way to the cathedral. Her gown, trimmed with the Villère family’s ancient cream lace, glimmered ghost-like in the fading light. The crown of orange blossoms holding the short lace veil upon her hair shone with a waxen perfection that was echoed in her pale, set face.
The Navarro carriage had been put at her disposal. As she entered the vehicle, Dédé, trailing behind her, lifted her skirts clear of the steps. Leaning from inside, her mother caught quickly at her veil, holding it up while she leaned back.
“Don’t fuss,” Catherine said in a sharp tone. “Please—”
She lowered her voice at the hurt expression on Dédé’s face. Madame Mayfield made soothing noises that grated on her heightened sensibilities. She clenched her hands in her lap. With all her being she concentrated on getting through the next few hours.
A light rain had fallen during the afternoon. The sky was still overcast, bringing an early darkness. The atmosphere was damp and oppressive. Catherine shivered a little in her nervous state, wishing for the shawl her mother had banned because it would spoil the lines of her gown.
The area around the Place d’ Armes was lined with carriages of all descriptions, from curricles and phaetons to pony carts. There were even a few sedan chairs with their bearers standing near them, relics of Parisian days, used mostly by the elderly or when the streets were made impassable to carriages by heavy rain.
To Catherine there was an overpowering scent of horseflesh and the dank wetness of the nearby river, but her mother, stepping out as they drew up before the cathedral, exclaimed in delight.
“The entire world smells like a wedding. It’s the wild oranges blooming on the levee, of course, but isn’t it a marvelous effect?”
Smiling foolishly at that inane remark, Catherine felt herself swept forward through the crowd clustered about the doorway. She saw the cathedral’s Swiss guard in their medieval uniforms of red, gold, and blue as they marched to meet her, felt her hand taken in a warm grasp, and knew with a sinking of her heart that Rafael Navarro stood beside her. She could not bring herself to look at him.
Candle flames flickered in her wide eyes as she walked toward the altar at the head of the procession of Villère and Navarro relatives. Stumbling once on an uneven stone in the floor, she felt at once the supporting grasp on her arm. Did she acknowledge Rafael’s assistance? She was not certain. Her faint smile might have been only an echo of the expression on the face of the priest who awaited them. She repeated her vows in a small voice. Rafael’s seemed deep and unnaturally grave. The coldness of the double alliance ring slid over her finger. Rafael helped her push his into place. Sonorously, the blessing rolled over their bowed heads. The quill moved with a loud rasping over the register as she signed her maiden name for the last time. There was the endless wait while the more than thirty near relatives signed the register also. And it was over.
Their carriage waited still before the cathedral steps, its body gleaming wetly in the lantern light with the rain that had begun to fall once more. Thunder rumbled as she and her new husband left the church, but above its roar came the sweet lilt of violins. It was a band of gypsy street musicians standing ankle-deep in the mud before the carriage, hoping to earn a few pennies with their music.
Taking in the situation at a glance, Rafael drew out his purse and tossed it to the coachman. He handed Catherine into the carriage and they sat, smiling without speaking, while the largess was being distributed. Catherine approved of the action but the sudden stillness made her uncomfortable. She flicked a glance at Rafael, then looked away, staring out into the parade ground of the Place d’ Armes.
There was a pale blur out there in the darkness. Then in a flash of lightning she saw a man. He was a petty criminal, sitting in the wrist and ankle stocks with his accusing placard before him. His hands hung blue and lifeless from their holes. His chin was propped on the board that confined him. With the rain running in rivulets down his unprotected face, he stared straight ahead, uncaring of the pageant being enacted in front of him.
The carriage began to move and Catherine faced forward, but she thought the expression of hopeless misery on that pale countenance would remain with her for the rest of her days.
“Un repas de Lucullus.”
The phrase was repeated again and again as the wedding guests gathered about the long table set for their enjoyment in the great room made by throwing open the doors between the dining room, the petit salon, and the grand salon. Upon the tablecloth reposed the Villère dinner service with place settings for a hundred people. In the place of honor, the center, stood the pièce montée, an enormous nougat confection. It faithfully represented the Palace of Alhambra, complete with the Gate of the Pomegranates, the Court of the Myrtles, and the Court of the Lions with its colonnade and tiny fountain supported by twelve desert lions.
Due to the large number of guests and enormous variety of the dishes, the meal was not served in courses, but was spread upon the groaning board in all its abundance, a feast of Lucullus indeed. At one end sat a great roast of beef, at the other a whole suckling pig, the cochon de lait, its outer skin crisp, the inner flesh succulent. Tureens of soups, green turtle, court bouillon, and that Creole bouillabaisse called gumbo, sat at intervals, interspersed with bowls of steaming rice. Platters of boiled shrimp, seasoned oysters on the half-shell, trays of vol-au-vents filled with oyster stew, crawfish, and snipes’ tongues, lined the side. An enormous turtle shell filled with buttered turtle and crabmeat crowded a dish of coq au vin. Filet de boeuf with mushrooms jostled the daube glace and duck liver pate. Sideboards were ranged down the walls. On one side there were desserts of every description, cakes, tortes, pies, puddings, meringues, jellies, crèmes, and candies; while on the other, beverages were being poured, from hot chicory coffee to champagne. Servants stood behind every chair, ready at a moment’s notice to serve whatever took a guest’s fancy.
In a corner a trio of musicians played classical airs upon a violin, a French horn, and a harpsichord. The long table and its burden would be removed and there would be dancing after the bride and groom had taken their leave. Surely, Catherine thought, so much food and entertainment would serve its purpose and she and her new husband would be left alone in peace without the embarrassment of a charivari.
The sight of so much rich food, the smell of it, mixed with heavy perfumes and the smoky fumes of the many candles that lighted the room, sent Catherine’s senses reeling. She pushed at the food without appetite. All she could force down the tightness of her throat was a few swallows of champagne. She played with her wineglass, watching the shining bubbles rising to the surface, intensely aware of the man beside her. His brooding gaze was fixed upon the opposite wall. What was he thinking? Had he noticed that Marcus was one of the company; that he was practicing his gallantries upon Solange Navarro, selecting choice tidbits for her, and whispering such blandishments in her ear that her rather plain face glowed with something near prettiness? Did he see the sidelong glances cast at him by the other women, especially Fanny Barton, who, when she looked at Rafael and herself, had an expression of such resolute bravery in her soft gray eyes that it was like pain?
Giles Barton, seated beside his sister, caught Catherine’s eyes. His arm was draped protectively across the back of Fanny’s chair, but leaning forward he took up his glass and raised it to
her, sending her a smile that was, somehow, totally approving. In acceptance of the toast Catherine smiled, encouraged.
Finally the feasting ended. With moans of repletion the guests left their chairs, turning their backs on the spilled gravy, broken meats, and scattered crumbs. Catherine, intercepting a look from her mother, knew it was time for her to take her leave of the company. With a fatalistic calm, she turned to Rafael, but there was no need to explain. He took her hand and raised it to his lips with a gallant air, watched by half the room. As she turned to leave there was a general stir while all pretended they had not noticed her departure, did not realize that she was going to her room to be undressed by her mother and nurse and left in bed to await her husband.
Holding her head high, Catherine crossed to the door. How much better it would be if the bride and groom could leave together, perhaps even leave the scene of the celebration for another, quieter place. It would serve to relieve this dark-age preoccupation of the guests with the intimacy of the newly wedded pair.
In her blind distress, she did not see Marcus until he stepped into her path at the foot of the stairs.
“Catherine,” he whispered. “I had to speak to you.”
“Let me pass.” Catherine, after one brief glance, looked away from the entreaty in his eyes.
“Tell me you are happy and I will go.”
“Please, someone will see—”
“You cannot tell me, can you? For you are as unhappy as I. I knew it tonight as I watched you go through this farce of a wedding. It isn’t too late. Come away with me now. We will find happiness together, somewhere, somehow.”
Catherine reached out to place her hand on the newel post beside her. “You must be mad,” she whispered.
“Yes. Mad with love for you. Crazed from watching you marry another man. I could not stand it in there another moment. I had to see you, to ask you—”
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she cut across his impassioned plea. “Truly — I am sorry. But you must see I could never do what you are asking. My future was decided when I agreed to marry Rafael. I could not go back on my word now.”
His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “Why, Catherine? Pride, honor? Words. Words to shackle the spirit. Words to bind us as slaves to duty.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed gently, stepping around him, continuing up the stairs. “But, sometimes, it is all we have to cling to.”
“All right,” he called after her in an intense voice of barely controlled rage. “So he has won again. But in the end the victory will be mine. Mine, do you hear? And the savoring of it will be sweet.”
Catherine’s mother caught up with her in the hallway.
“Was that Marcus I heard talking to you?” Catherine nodded without speaking. “I thought I recognized his voice. I hope he did not upset you.”
Catherine, feeling the trembling weakness of reaction in her knees, walked on. What good would it do to explain, she thought wearily. “No,” she said, her voice even. “He did not upset me.”
8
The mosquito baire draped back on either side of the bed was of lace handmade in France. Catherine, lying back against the pillows in her low-necked gown, reached out to finger it, wondering at the industry of the servants. Neither it, nor the bridal ciel-de-lit, or tester, above her had been in place when she had left the house for the cathedral. The tester was also edged with wide, cream-colored dentelle valencienne, while the shirred silk underneath was attached at the center by a gold ring held in the hands of four flying cupids. It was a lovely thing, as fashionable as the bridal veil it resembled, but Catherine rather doubted that Rafael would appreciate it.
Dédé had left one of her candles, made with her own bands, on the dressing table to the left of the bed. It burned with a furious light, a wavering nimbus about the flame. To Catherine, it seemed even more strongly scented with vetiver than usual, but she did not like to complain. The nurse had been tireless in her efforts, brushing her hair, curling it and spreading the burnished tresses out upon the pillow. She had tucked her in, twitching at the coverlet of draw-work, smoothing away every suspicion of a wrinkle. Catherine, unbearably irritated by the fussing, had been very near dismissing her when Madame Mayfield, with infinite tact, had drawn her from the room.
All Catherine had to do now was wait. Wait for the man she had married.
How would she feel, she wondered, staring at the sightless cupids above her, if she did not know what lay in store for her in the hours ahead? Would innocence have been a protection against this fearful anticipation, or would it have worsened it? Should she, perhaps, be grateful to Rafael Navarro? A strange idea.
But if she could not thank him for her position, at least she could not fault him. He was a man, and had done no more than behave as one. He had taken her, but, discovering his mistake, he had assumed the responsibility for it. Whatever his reasons, whatever his methods, he had made the amende honorable.
She could hear the rain falling on the roof above and the patter of it as it was blown against the window. That poor man in the stocks. She hoped they had carried him inside by now.
Her gaze fell to the alliance ring weighting her finger. On impulse she slipped it off and gently worked the two interlocking halves apart. The engraving was there, just as it should be. R. S. N. and C. D. M., March 13, 1810. Rafael Sabastian Navarro and Catherine Denise Mayfield. They had both been baptized with several other Christian names, but these initials were enough.
Catherine closed her eyes, replacing her rings by touch. The initials had a dismaying tendency to run together. All those toasts. Two glasses — or was it three? — of champagne on an empty stomach. The sound of the rain was relaxing. She found her lips moving in a wry smile. It would serve her laggard groom well if he found his bride asleep.
When Catherine awoke Rafael stood over her with his hands on her shoulders. She stared up at him, her amber eyes wide, the pupils dilated, a smile trembling on her lips. His expression did not lighten. The grip on her shoulders grew tighter.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice slow, with a husky timbre.
“Hashish and mandragora,” he answered. “This room reeks of it — the dried herbs that serve to keep the masses of Asia content with their lot.” He looked down at her. “Are you content with yours now, sweet Catherine?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He let her go abruptly. She watched through a drifting haze, as he moved to the dressing table and took up the half-burned candle. Turning to the window, he tore the curtains aside, shoved up the sash, and sent the smoking taper spinning out into the darkness.
The rain-wet wind pushed into the room, billowing the curtains like sails. It ruffled Rafael’s dark hair across his forehead as he swung around and began to advance upon her. Her heart beginning to pound, Catherine levered herself up on one elbow. When he reached out toward her, a swooping shadow in the darkness, she flinched away, but his strong fingers only curled around the bedclothes, flinging them back.
“What is it?” she cried, belatedly reaching after the coverlet, drawing her feet up beneath her long gown.
He did not answer. Instead he leaned forward and scooped her from her lace enshrinement into his arms. Setting her on her feet before the open window, he sighed.
“This is hardly the way I imagined it, my sweet, but then, what does it matter, one way, or another?” Before she could guess his intention, he bent to catch the hem of her gown and strip it up, off over her head.
Catherine gasped as the cool, rain-wet night air struck her warm body, so that her skin prickled with goose-flesh. Angry words crowded into her mind as she stared at her gown, a white patch on the floor. But before she could speak she realized that this incomprehensible stranger had the right to treat her in this manner if he wished.
“Why,” she whispered, dropping her arms to stand gracefully before him. “Why?”
He reached out to touch her arms, smoothing the raised flesh with
his warm palms. “I have no need for a zombie woman in my bed. Whatever there is between us, Catherine, whether desire or repulsion, love or hate, let it at least be real.”
She could not understand the censure in his tone. She knew nothing of the hashish and mandragora of which he spoke. Or did she? Dédé’s candle. As her brain cleared, there ran through it the memory of Rafael picking up the stub of her candle on the night they attended the theatre, and of him sniffing it. The smell of the candles was familiar to her, a smell she associated with childhood illnesses, the sickroom, and times of emotional upheavals. Dédé’s candles against demons. Neither she nor her mother had ever considered them harmful. They were a part of Dédé’s medicine. Whatever they contained, Catherine knew they were intended to help her.
And hadn’t they? Even now her nakedness, here before Rafael in the dim room, brought her no aching embarrassment. She was not afraid of him, she was only aware of him as a warm, breathing presence beside her in the darkness. There was a sensation of pain in her throat as she stared at the white blur of his shirtfront. The pressure of his fingers on her arms slowly tightened. Her breasts brushed the rough material of his coat. And then she was crushed against him.
She gave a small, convulsive shiver as she felt the enveloping heat of his body, and unconsciously, she moved closer. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he dragged her head back and his lips captured hers. Catherine knew a moment of hesitation, then with an ancient feminine wisdom, she yielded to him the right to plunder her body at will.
The folds of his clothing, the buttons and shirt studs, pressed into her. Conscious of them in a dark recess of her mind, she longed, with an intensity that amazed her, for the feel of his bare chest against her.
His lips moved to the tender, moist corner of her mouth. “If you are bewitched,” he whispered, “the results are a lovely magic. You are in my blood, a golden heat, a tender flame.”
The lazy humor of his voice held a beguilement of its own. Catherine laughed, a low, enchanted sound in her throat, as she felt herself lifted high and placed upon the linen sheets of the bed. She watched with bemused interest as he undressed, a shadowy, quick-moving form.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 57