Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  “I had drunk deep of cognac and of absinthe, my bête noire, the leaf-green wine of forgetfulness. I thought to spare you the taste of it — and the memory — and to take pity upon your tiredness by not disturbing your slumber. Truly,” he asked, a smile in his voice, “did you feel unwanted? Should such lack of conceit be rewarded, or remedied?”

  Catherine bit her lip. She would not be cajoled so easily, she told herself, though she shivered a little at the warm slide of his lips along her collarbone to the vulnerable curve of her neck. “Would you threaten me one moment and make love to me the next?” she asked.

  “Lamentable,” he murmured, “but that is my inclination.”

  “It isn’t mine,” she said stoutly.

  “No?” He drew back so he could see her face. “Why? For the sake of your pride? Will you set it between us like a stone? Is that what you want?” He shook his head. “I cannot allow it. I will make amends, an apology of caresses, even if I have to force you to accept it.”

  “Would that not defeat the purpose?”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed in the same quietly calm voice, “if I fail.”

  “Rafael—” She turned her head, staring into the depths of his black eyes, but all she saw was her own reflection. Whatever she had expected to find was obviously not there. The question that had hovered ghost-like at the back of her mind died unspoken.

  “Yes, chérie?”

  “It will not be necessary,” she whispered.

  Later, lying in the dark under the mosquito baire, Catherine knew Rafael was right. She did withhold something of herself. Not that she remained cold in his arms, there was little hope of that. Still the reserve remained. It was not a conscious thing; indeed, she had been unaware of that inner core of resistance. Now, made aware of it, she had no idea that she could control it. It was not an active resentment. It was more a withdrawal of some secret part of herself into the fastness of her mind. Why? Some residue of close-held offense for the abduction and the despoiling of her virginity as Rafael suggested? She did not know.

  Nor could she come to terms with Solange’s deliberate attempt to drive a wedge between Rafael and herself. Why did Solange hate her so? She posed no threat to the girl. It was possible she was merely championing Madame Thibeaut. And yet, there was something unbalanced in the virulence of the younger girl’s dislike.

  She would like to confront her about her advice, but she would not give Solange the satisfaction of knowing that her stratagem had been effective, of knowing how near she had come to causing a permanent rift between Rafael and herself. No, she would not confront her, but she would remember, and be on her guard.

  12

  A week of fine weather gave way to a fortnight of rain. Gray clouds blanketed the sky day after day, making an unnatural twilight within the house, so that candles had to be lit even at noon. Storms with continuous thunder, like the sound of le bon Dieu rolling his stones, alternated with periods of monotonous drizzle. Outside, even the light seemed to have a green tint as it was refracted from the wet, glistening surfaces of fresh grass and tender new leaves.

  Rafael, prevented by the inclement weather from riding out, spent much time in his study, going over the account books. Catherine was balked at this pastime. When she had asked for the account books for the house, containing the amounts and prices of food staples, clothing, and other supplies bought and doled out for the use of the household and the people in the quarters, she was calmly told there were no such books. The reason given was simple. There were no such items parceled out at Alhambra.

  Catherine had stared at Madame Thibeaut in amazement. Her own mother, self-centered and careless of others as she undoubtedly was, had given out supplies of beans and pork side meat, meal, flour, lard, eggs, and fruits and fish in season. Once a week. Every servant was given a new suit of clothes in summer and fall, from cloth personally chosen by Madame Mayfield, and made to patterns by two seamstresses brought into the house especially for the occasion. The servants had little time or means of providing these things for themselves. If they had not been available at Alhambra, in what situation must the servants be? Catherine resolved to find out as soon as the weather permitted.

  But she did not remain idle. Discovering, as Solange had predicted, that the maidservants would not work without direct supervision, she harried them constantly, standing over them while they scrubbed every piece of furniture in the house with soap and water and rubbed them down with a polish made of linseed oil and vinegar. Gray swaths of spider webs were swept from the high corners of the rooms. The rugs were rolled and stacked on the front gallery, ready for a sunny day when the dirt would be beaten from their fibers. After that they would be sprinkled with tobacco, sewn in muslin covers, and stored in the attic until winter. Exposed by the removal of the rugs was what appeared to be a twenty-year accumulation of decaying grass matting. During a lull in the rain, these were carried out and set afire. The sifted dirt left behind was swept away and the floor thoroughly mopped before new matting with the fresh scent of newly cut hay was laid.

  The polishes, cleansers and matting were brought up from New Orleans by keelboat. As Fanny had indicated, Rafael owned a boat. It was a commercial venture plying up and down between Natchez and New Orleans, stopping at the scattered plantations along the way. The boat occasionally tied up overnight before the house. The crew was seldom in evidence, either from Rafael’s orders or a preference for their own rough company. She gave her list of needs to Rafael who referred them to the boat’s pilot and they were miraculously delivered at her doorstep.

  Ali proved an able ally in the house, always at her side when there was lifting or carrying to be done. He was especially good at routing the maids out of their rooms below in the raised basement, or the menservants from the blacksmith shop at the edge of the quarters behind the house, where they liked to sit hunkered against the wall, spitting into the fire.

  For all his closeness to Rafael however, Ali seemed reluctant to broach the subject of India, Catherine’s prospective maid, to him. In gratitude for his helpfulness, Catherine, one night at the dinner table, impulsively did it for him.

  “A maid?” Rafael asked, looking up with a frown from the dish of squabs being offered for his selection. “Do you need one?”

  “Ali insists that I do. You will understand better when I tell you he has someone in mind whom he thinks will be suitable.”

  Rafael allowed one of the squabs to be placed upon his plate, then leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I begin to see. Is she attractive?”

  “I have no idea, I haven’t seen her, but I feel sure I can rely on Ali’s taste in the matter,” Catherine answered, trying to ignore Solange’s snort of derision. Madame Thibeaut’s interest in their conversation was better concealed by the droop of her eyelids, but it was there all the same.

  “What attracts Ali might not be pleasing to you,” Rafael commented dryly. “But I did engage to find you another maid, did I not? Since I will not have to exert myself in the search, I am disposed to be magnanimous. Do you know the name of this paragon?”

  “I believe Ali called her India.”

  Catherine thought he did not intend to comment, then without looking up from his plate, he said: “India, an unusual name.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Possibly, like Ali, she has a dash of foreign blood.”

  “You really haven’t seen her?”

  “No,” she said, her fingers tightening on her fork, asperity creeping into her tone at this abrupt turn to censure.

  That drew his attention to her in a narrow-eyed gaze through thick lashes. “Then before accepting the girl I advise you to see her, talk to her. She may be ignorant and unskilled if she has never worked inside the house before. If so, you will have to exercise great patience to turn her into the sort of ladies’ maid you require. You realize you cannot send her back to her old place without excellent reason. It would shame her before the others, leave her open to their merciless ridicule.”

  “
I had not considered,” Catherine said thoughtfully. “Since these are your people, perhaps you would like to pass judgment?”

  Reaching out, Rafael took his wineglass, his eyes on the liquid ruby depths. “No,” he said slowly. “It is little to do with me. I will trust you to know what you would like.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, surprised at his sudden capitulation which left her a trifle breathless. “I’m sure Ali will be pleased.”

  A smile relieved the sternness of Rafael’s mouth. “If you install a maid, I may be able to reclaim the services of my valet.”

  “I had not realized I was taking him from you when you needed him.”

  “No, no,” he disclaimed quickly. “He had my instructions to make himself useful.”

  “Did he? Then I am most grateful,” Catherine said, meeting her husband’s eyes without evasion.

  Solange cleared her throat ostentatiously. “It is my opinion Ali gives himself airs above his station. He is becoming entirely too dictatorial to the other servants, and he interferes with the running of the house. Several times he has had the effrontery to ask Madame Ti for the keys to the silver cupboards in the middle of the day, and he only returns them when he is asked directly to do so.”

  “I am afraid that is my fault,” Catherine said gently. “He and I spent a day or two cleaning the silver. I wished to see if my family recipe of whiting and spirits of wine would bring a better shine than the silver soap used in the house. There were also a few discolorations from egg which we rubbed with salt.”

  At the head of the table Rafael frowned. “Really, Catherine. Was there any need for you to involve yourself directly in the cleaning?”

  “Only one or two pieces, I assure you. Ali did most of the work.”

  “I appreciate your efforts,” he said, his eye flicking over the shining gleam of the brass and the new coat of blacking around the fireplace, “but I did not mean you to take my comments on the condition of the house quite so seriously. A degree of relaxation is necessary to all of us. You ride?”

  “I — yes.”

  “Then it would please me to have you with the while I ride out in the morning — or you might enjoy a canter along the river at your leisure, so long as you do not go into the swamp. I would prefer that you not overtire yourself.”

  Flushing a little, Catherine looked away from the sardonically knowing twist of his lips. Without words she understood that, in a house full of servants, tiredness was unacceptable as an excuse to avoid his advances beneath the mosquito baire of their bed. To change the direction of her thoughts, Catherine gave a curt nod, and turned to Madame Thibeaut.

  “Concerning the keys,” she said. “I wonder if I might trouble you for the one to the linen cupboard. I have a fancy to see to its contents in the morning, and I would not like to disturb you too early.”

  “I will assist you, of course,” Madame Thibeaut began, her small mouth pursed in a dutiful expression.

  “That will not be necessary. I know how you hate being aroused before mid-morning, and Ali can help. Besides, there are my trousseau linens to be put away still, and I would like to do that myself, you understand?”

  Madame Thibeaut made a noise that might be taken for reluctant agreement.

  Catherine, seizing the glimmer of an opportunity, persevered. “It might relieve you of much inconvenience, Madame, if you were to give all the keys into my keeping for the time being. I have a silver chatelaine, a parting gift from my mother, which will hold them in a sunburst effect. Pinned at the waist, the chatelaine is a most practical example of the jeweler’s art. I confess,” she said, including Solange and Rafael in her most charming smile, “that I am longing to wear it.”

  The pockmarks on the companion’s face were dyed an unbecoming red by her chagrined color, while the reflection of candle flames, in the center of the table, seemed to flare in her wide, gold ear-hoops. She took a deep breath, then a hurt look appeared on her plain features. “Why — why certainly, Madame Navarro. I would have been — most happy to surrender the keys to you, if I had known you wished to have them. You had only to ask. Unfortunately I do not have them with me just now. Perhaps in the morning—”

  “I knew I might depend on your cooperation.” Catherine smiled, her tone brisk. “There are the linens waiting upon the morning however. If it will not disturb you, I will send Ali for the keys later this evening.”

  “As you wish.” The tone of the woman’s voice was submissive, but Catherine had never seen anything less servile than the look in her colorless eyes before she bent her head over her plate. Had Rafael been taken in by her pose? Catherine could not tell. His face was impassive, his gaze on the wall before him, as if his mind was busy with other things. She would have liked to have laid her problem before him, but she had no idea how he would react to being embroiled in her difficulties. He had enough of his own. In any case, she had no assurance he would add his weight to her side of this domestic tug-of-war.

  They finished their meal in near silence. When dessert had been served and consumed, Catherine made a small, unobtrusive signal.

  “We will leave you to your nut bowl and cognac,” she began, rising, but when she looked up, she found Rafael already on his feet.

  “I think I would prefer coffee,” he said, rounding the table to draw back her chair. “Shall we have it in our bedchamber?”

  Catherine stiffened as from the corner of her eye she caught the smirk on Solange’s face. Rafael’s request had been worded pleasantly enough; it was only the look in his eyes which made of it an intimate interlude. It could only be embarrassing if she allowed it to be. With as much dignity as she could muster, she answered, “That would be — lovely.”

  Taking her hand, he carried it to his warm lips, and then drew it through his arm. “You will see to it, Madame Thibeaut,” he asked pleasantly, without looking at the companion.

  “Certainly,” the woman replied, managing to make it sound as if she were granting a favor.

  She was clever, Catherine had to allow her that much. Then she forgot her as Rafael drew her out through the hall to the back gallery.

  He released her, to slide his arm about her waist and draw her against him. “You were enchanting there, tonight, in the candlelight. So earnest, so much the mistress of my house with your talk of linens and keys. I find I do not like this business of having you at the foot of my table, so far out of reach. I could not bear it a second longer.”

  Folly to believe him, a part of her mind whispered, folly to care if he spoke from the heart. It could be a mortal sickness should she come to care too much. Yet, his lips against hers sent her senses reeling. Caution seemed a cold thing. Lifting her arms, she slid her hands around his neck.

  A voice of murderous sweetness came from behind them. “Do excuse us,” Solange said.

  Rafael controlled Catherine’s startled recoil by the simple method of tightening his arms. After a long moment he lifted his head. “Your pardon, Solange,” he said to his sister, and without glancing in her direction, turned Catherine in the circle of his arms and walked her to the door of their room.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I should have told you sooner. But—” Ali shrugged, “I could not think how to introduce such a matter into the conversation. I am sorrier still that you had the trouble of speaking to Monsieur Rafe of my India for nothing.”

  “For nothing, Ali?” Catherine asked. “It is dense of me, I expect, but I do not see that India being with child has anything to do with her ability as a maid.”

  “Already her slenderness is gone, Madame. Her body is swelling with fruitfulness. Soon all will know.”

  “That is natural, is it not?”

  “Assuredly, and a glorious thing, but most ladies have little use for a woman clumsy with childbearing about them.”

  Such plain speaking was just a little above the line of what was permissible, but Catherine let it pass. This conversation was becoming awkward enough without adding the strain o
f a reprimand to it

  “I am not one of those ladies,” she answered.

  “I might have guessed you would not be, Madame. But childbirth is a time much fraught with nerves, not the best time to be thrust into new duties.”

  Catherine stared at Ali, noting the sheen of perspiration across his cinnamon-brass face, the stiffness of his stance before her secretary-desk in this corner of the sitting room. Was there a shadow of concern behind his eyes?

  “Tell me plainly, Ali,” she said. “Does your India not wish to work in the house?”

  “It is not that. She feels the disgrace of being a fieldhand very much. In Santo Domingo, where she and her parents came from seven years ago, her mother was a ladies’ maid. She herself was companion to the small daughter of the house.”

  “I see. Could it be that it is you who have changed then? Now that India is carrying a child, she is no longer the — the ‘moon of your delight’?”

  “Ah, Madame, do not say so. The mother of my child must always find favor in my eyes. But — I fear for her.”

  “You fear for her? Why?”

  “I have learned that India knew Madame Thibeaut in Santo Domingo, and though only half-grown, she had no liking for her or her ways. In the years they have been here, India has kept out of the woman’s way, kept her eyes downcast as though she did not remember. Still, in her veins runs the wild blood of the Indian tribe from which she sprang. The lessons of obedience, silence, and self-control learned by her people in slavery are only skin-deep. If she was pressed as you have been in the weeks past, she might not be accountable for her actions.”

  “Indian tribe? American Indian?”

  “Yes. She is descended from a noble of the Natchez Indians who, eighty years ago, arose against the French. They were defeated and enslaved. The chief of the tribe and several of his most fierce warriors were sent to the island of Santo Domingo. India has lived under the yoke of slavery all her life, but she is proud, with the kind of dignity and honor that is her heritage. She has also the notions of freedom nurtured these last few years on that sun and blood-soaked isle.”