“This party,” Catherine asked as they started back toward the house, “will it be a large one?”
“I have not fully decided, but I expect it will end that way. In a community so far from civilization as ours, it seems a crass incivility to leave anyone out who might conceivably wish to come. I am constantly surprised at the distances that people here are willing to travel for the sake of amusement. Giles tells me the river track, both above and below us, is passable. I expect the Trepagnier family, some fifteen miles below us, will get out their new landau and give us the treat of seeing them arrive in it. I hear it has blue upholstery and silver fittings, very fine.”
“Did you and Giles drive over today?”
“Yes, indeed. Giles has a phaeton that is his special pride. You will be suitably impressed, I’m sure, when I tell you he allowed me to take the reins for a short distance through the swamp, though that may have been so he could keep a firmer grip on his horse pistol against a sight of our runaways.”
“Runaways?”
“Rafe did not tell you? Several more of our hands took to the swamp during our stay in town, along with a number of yours. We discovered it the day of our arrival. Giles sent for Rafe, but it was decided that their trail was too old to make pursuit practical. The men have set a reward for their return and are watching. If they try to form a band something must be done. So far things have been quiet and we can only suppose they have dispersed.”
“That must be why Rafael warned us away from riding along the swamp road.”
“An order without explanation?” Fanny grimaced. “It sounds like him.”
Oddly reluctant to discuss her husband, Catherine merely agreed and went on, “I didn’t know you could drive.”
Fanny nodded vigorously. “It is one of the few compensations I have found for being a spinster. It quite makes me resigned to — how do you say here —’throwing my corset on top of the armoire?’ People no longer expect a woman out of the marriage race to be quite so circumspect. Now if they would only give up expecting us to wear those incredibly dowdy spinster’s caps—”
“Nonsense. You can’t be old enough for any such thing.”
“I assure you I am, and I am quite content with keeping house for my brother,” Fanny said brightly. “The only thing that could change it would be Giles’s decision to wed, but I see no prospect of that. He and I have not been fortunate in our choice of loves.”
As they crossed the courtyard and climbed the winding stair, Catherine was tempted to question the other girl about that last statement, but she desisted. The voluble Fanny might be moved to answer more truthfully than would be comfortable for either of them. It was a wise decision, she found. There was no mistaking the relief that crossed Fanny’s features before they entered the house and she broke into effusive praise of the changes Catherine had made inside and her progress toward spring cleaning. She was interrupted only by the approach of Madame Thibeaut.
“Pardon, Madame Navarro. Cook wishes to know if Mademoiselle and Monsieur Barton will be with us for luncheon.”
“You will, won’t you?” Catherine asked, then without waiting for an answer, turned back. “Tell Cook of course they will, and instruct Oliver to lay two more places at the table.”
When Madame Thibeaut had moved away, footsteps silent in the carpet slippers she liked to wear in the house, Fanny turned to Catherine.
“And how do you get on with the enigmatic Madame Thibeaut?”
“She is good with Solange,” Catherine said.
“I confess it would give me chills to have her creeping about my house. She looks the kind to listen at doorways to me.”
“There is something in what you say.” Catherine’s smile was rueful. “I have clashed with her a number of times, and I haven’t always come out ahead. Tell me — have you ever heard that she — dabbles in voodoo?”
“I have often wondered, to be honest,” Fanny replied, a frown between her gray eyes. “I have heard my servants say there is an Obadiah woman here at Alhambra, a woman who makes love philters and charms — and other less harmless potions. I could conceive of no one else it could be. Surely that is a strange occupation for a woman of her class? I don’t like to frighten you, Catherine, but it hints of an unbalanced nature that could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous, in what way?”
“Who can say? But I’m told poison figures largely in the miraculous feats of the voodoo cult. If I were you I would make certain I ate only what Solange or Rafael eats.”
Her face thoughtful, Catherine said, “She has never threatened me personally.”
“No. That would be unwise, would it not? I have made a study of this business of magic and spells in connection with missionary work back east. I think that this woman, if she sees you as a danger, will not try primitive magic with you, but will try to strike at you through someone else, someone you care for.”
Catherine stared at her. “There was the incident of Ali and India. I never could quite see why the girl was attacked.”
When the circumstances had been retold, Fanny mused, “India. There was something—” After a moment, she shook her head. “I can’t remember. Something about her parents.”
“She claims the blood of the Natchez Indians, I believe.”
“That could be it. But what is more important is Madame Thibeaut. I strongly advise you to speak to Rafe about her.”
“He will not listen.”
“Will he not?” Fanny asked. “I can scarcely credit that a man would not prefer to listen to you, Catherine, than to a sister, however well loved.”
A smile flickered over Catherine’s face. “You do not understand.”
“That may well be. Is he still jealous of Marcus Fitzgerald’s presence in the vicinity?”
“Still?” Catherine asked faintly.
“He was livid at the prospect of our original trip upriver together. Didn’t you know?”
Mutely, Catherine shook her head.
“Giles said he had never seen him in quite such a murderous mood. I noticed it myself after Solange spoke of it — and took it for granted he would give you the opportunity to allay his suspicions. How perverse of him, especially with Fitzgerald visiting up and down the river, making himself quite at home in the neighborhood.” Fanny’s voice sharpened. “You realize he is the houseguest of the Trepagniers. If they are invited to my party he must come also. Have you considered what that will mean?”
For a moment Catherine was tempted to tell Fanny of her meeting with Marcus and his pursuit of Solange, then the impulse died. “It will mean nothing to me,” she said firmly.
“But to Rafe?”
“You are well aware, Fanny, that ours was a marriage of necessity. Let’s not pretend. I fail to see why Rafael should be concerned — unless, of course, you consider that jealousy can stem from pride of possession?”
“I cannot, somehow, feature Rafe marrying for anything less than an intense, personal desire,” Fanny said slowly.
“Not even for honor?” Catherine’s smile was almost painfully ironic.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry, or to embarrass you. It is only that you and Rafe — you look so perfect together, so suitable. It would be tragic if you were not happy.”
The subject was allowed to die, and, as good manners indicated, they went on to speak of other things. At the back of Catherine’s mind a relentless fear hammered. She had discovered in her husband an uncanny ability for knowing what was happening around him. It seemed he had known all along of Marcus’s presence on this section of the river. And if he knew that much, how much more did he know?
It was late afternoon before Giles and Fanny took their leave. Catherine stood on the gallery, waving until they were out of sight. Then, long after Rafael had returned to his study, she sat on the steps of one arm of the double front staircase. She watched the flittings of blue jays, cardinals, and mockingbirds, and the swooping, quarreling flight of mating sparrows among the trees, but her thoughts wa
ndered without control. A restless feeling crept along her nerves. She was conscious of a sense of strain, of a tight-stretched anticipation of she knew not what.
When a scuffling footstep sounded behind her, she swung around with a start.
“I crave pardon, Madame. I did not mean to come upon you unaware.”
That voice of grave politeness was unlike Madame Thibeaut. Catherine stared at the woman, trying to see the expression that was hidden by the shadow of the gallery.
“Yes, was there something you needed?”
The woman caught her bottom lip between her teeth, moving a step closer. “It is Mam’zelle Solange. If I might speak to you about her?”
“Certainly,” Catherine said, though she was unable to infuse any warmth into her voice.
“You went riding with her this morning?”
Catherine agreed.
“Did you — did she meet anyone? A man?”
The woman’s voice was tentative, as if she doubted the wisdom of what she was doing. Catherine’s eyes narrowed, then she gave an abrupt nod of her head.
The pockmarked face hardened, the bony shoulders were drawn back. “Very well then. So long as you know.” Turning on the heel of her slipper, she marched away.
What had prompted such a piece of tattling? Duty? Hardly. Fear? Jealousy? Much more likely. The same kind of jealous self-interest which had made her fill Solange’s head with tales calculated to give her a disgust of marriage. What did the woman expect her to do? Run to Rafael with the tale, thereby earning Solange’s fury for herself — rather than have it fall on Madame Thibeaut’s own head? Solange had already blocked that possibility. What was she to do? Would Rafael believe her, or his sister?
Theirs had been far from a trusting relationship. Her knowledge of the whippings carried out under his orders had placed it under a greater strain. Not that there was any overt sign between them, and yet, her feelings for him had undergone a change. Her feelings? What feelings? She cared nothing for him, nor he for her. They had made that plain in the beginning. Still, it was impossible to live with a man, to share his bed, without coming to some accommodation. She was disappointed in him, he had lost stature, respect, in her eyes, that was it. He had shown himself as less human than she had believed.
Catherine sat on, lost in thought, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. The sun sank behind the trees, leaving a golden-tinged purple twilight that moved swiftly to a gray dusk. Frogs croaked in the gathering evening, and from far away came the mournful, desperation-haunted call of a whippoorwill. The smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, mixed with the pervasive scent of yellow honeysuckle from the woods, and the dank odor of mud from the river. The air turned cool and damp on her face. Reluctant to go in, she made no move until the sting of a mosquito broke her mood and forced a retreat into the house.
She found India waiting for her on the back gallery. The girl said nothing, only curtsying with an awkward grace and opening the door of the bedchamber so that Catherine could enter. As she stepped across the threshold, Catherine glanced at her in surprise, wondering why she was hovering outside rather than waiting within the room where she could sit down. Then she had her answer: Rafael lay stretched full length upon the bed with one hand behind his head.
He flung Catherine a look of mocking amusement as she entered with India trailing behind her. He made no move to take his leave, and after a moment’s hesitation Catherine signaled to India to begin to dress her for dinner.
The maid obeyed, but her fingers trembled and she made slow work of the row of tiny buttons down the back of the gown.
It was odd to have Rafael there in the room. It was seldom he was in from the fields until she was done. For a second it reminded her of the night he had watched while Dédé dressed her for the theatre. Wincing away from the thought, she asked, “Aren’t you going to change?”
“I wanted to speak to you first,” he answered.
“Now?”
“If it’s convenient,” he said dryly.
Stepping out of her gown, Catherine nodded at the maid. India picked up the garment, and went slowly from the room with it over her arm.
“That girl doesn’t like me, does she?” Rafael said, his eyes on Catherine’s face.
“India? Why shouldn’t she?”
“I was asking you.”
“I — expect she is just shy of you, and a little nervous.”
“Is that how she strikes you?” he asked in obvious disbelief.
Catherine had recognized the hidden hostility behind the girl’s demeanor, but her first impulse was to protect her. “I can’t think what else it could be,” she answered, meeting his gaze squarely.
He looked away up into the canopy above him. “I suppose if you are satisfied, I must be.” After a moment he spoke again. “I begin to see why Ali was so anxious to have this girl as your maid.”
Busy trying to unknot the tapes of her chemise, Catherine did not look up. “Do you?”
“It appears he is to be congratulated.”
“Oh, yes. It is becoming — obvious. I daresay she could use a few larger dresses. The style now is good for concealing a delicate condition, but after a time other measures become necessary.”
“Did you know she was quite so far advanced when you accepted her?”
“Ali warned me, yes.”
“Did he?”
His tone was so odd that she glanced up from the stubborn knot.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but you blush and stammer so delightfully when speaking to me of it. I find it hard to imagine this conversation with Ali. This girl, you took her anyway, knowing her usefulness would be limited to two or three months at best. Why?”
Catherine stared at him, a defiant light flashing in her eyes. “I told you why.”
“Oh, yes. You see yourself as her protector against Solange and Madame Thibeaut.”
He was in a peculiar mood; Catherine chose to ignore it. “If I am to clothe her decently,” she said, enlarging on her previous remarks, “I will need cloth, and while I am about it, the other servants, the field hands and outside workers, appear to be dressed in rags, tatters, and animal hides. They tell me they have not been issued new clothing since before the Fitzgeralds left two years ago.”
“Not so. I gave instructions for outfitting them myself last year.”
“They do not appear to have received it. Do you think I could have materials sent upriver?”
“On the next trip,” he said, his face hard. “Let me know what, and how much, and I will see to it. But are you sure you will have the time to do this sewing? I don’t like to see you overtired. Fanny was right, you are thinner.”
Was there a rebuke in his voice or had she imagined it? Had he noticed she was deliberately finding tasks to occupy her hands, problems for her mind? Fatigue dulled the senses. It did not spare her, but it helped her to resist the subtle beguilement of his hands upon her, and her own sensual response to him, a response which seemed, under the circumstances, degrading.
Catherine tugged futilely at the tapes, allowing a sharp edge to creep into her voice. “Of course I will have the time. I don’t intend to do them myself, you know. There are several women in the quarters who have some skill with a needle.”
With a fluid movement, Rafael left the bed and moved toward her. “You needn’t show me your claws, La Lionne. I have no quarrel with you. At least,” he amended, “none that I am aware of.”
Catherine looked up, her golden brown eyes wide. “What did you call me?”
“The lioness. It is what our people call you behind your back, for the yellow mane of your hair, and your courage. You have also captured Ali’s admiration, a thing not easily done by a woman, considering his Arabic heart. Did you not know?”
Placing his hands on hers, he stilled her frantic efforts at the knot. With a single jerk, he tore the tapes loose, freeing her from the clinging silk of her chemise. There was no mistaking the purposefulness of his touch as his hands slipped beneath
the silk, pressing her naked form against him.
“You — you wanted to talk to me,” Catherine reminded him as a distraction.
The muscles in his arms tensed, then relaxed once more. “Odd. I no longer feel like — talking.”
“India will be waiting,” she gasped.
“Let her wait,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair.
14
If Rafael had asked her about Marcus, as she had half expected, she could have told him everything. As it was, she let the days go by without speaking out, unwilling to disturb the uneasy peace between them, or to provoke the kind of acrimonious scene she expected from Solange. No further mention was made to Catherine of a need for her chaperonage. Whether Solange and Marcus were still meeting, she did not know, nor did she wish to. She knew a guilty hope that the girl would tire of her flirtation — or that Marcus would. Failing either of these, she was certain Madame Thibeaut would find a way to put a stop to the meetings. Such optimism might have been unfounded, but it helped her to keep her balance on her life of knife-edged uncertainty.
Within the walls of the house, the silent battle over authority raged on. India, growing daily larger, and more majestic with it, ranged herself solidly with Catherine. Instead of avoiding Solange and Madame Thibeaut, as Catherine had expected, she seemed to go out of her way to flout them. She would not accept orders from either without first referring them to Catherine. She terrorized the other maids with her black, inimical stare, so that between the former housekeeper and the Indian woman, they were in a constant quake, afraid to perform the tasks assigned them, afraid not to, glancing over their shoulders a thousand times a day as they went about their work.
Her presence made a difference to Catherine. She grew to rely on the girl to transmit her commands and lend support. A bond of admiration, of shared respect, developed between them — but no more than that. India, encased in her hard shell of pride, was immune to friendliness. She never smiled. Her eyes had no depth, only the look of flat, polished steel mirrors, reflecting nothing of herself.
It was with genuine thankfulness that Catherine saw the arrival of the materials for the servants’ clothing. Surely here was something all could cooperate upon? No. That, too, became a subject of discord as she saw Rafael actively encouraging Madame Thibeaut to take over supervising the cutting and sewing of the garments and their distribution.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 67