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

by Jennifer Blake

  Madame Thibeaut accepted the task in an attempt to make a good impression, but Solange resented being pressed into service as a seamstress for the slaves and temporarily deserted her mentor. Solange was not at outs with her companion, precisely, but there was discernible friction. Catherine thought Madame Thibeaut’s disapproval of Solange’s meetings with Marcus contributed to it, though nothing was said. At any rate, Solange grew slightly more approachable. She would drop into Catherine’s room as she was dressing, fingering her gowns in the armoire, turning over the trinkets and her few pieces of jewelry in her jewel case, and watching critically as India put up her hair. When she admired some bauble, a pair of hair ornaments composed of pink silk roses, or a set of paste shoe buckles, more often than not Catherine insisted she have it. She could not acquit herself entirely of trying to bribe the girl, and yet, Solange took such pleasure from the merest nothings that Catherine enjoyed bestowing them upon her.

  One day Catherine ventured to suggest a change of hairstyle, replacing the severity of the mode Solange used with one of the new styles copied from ancient Roman busts. To her surprise, Solange agreed, allowing Catherine to snip the hair around her face and use a curling iron to make a frame of soft curls. The effect was so charming, the improvement in Solange’s disposition as a result so dramatic, that Catherine dared to suggest the careful application of a little lampblack in oil to her lashes, a whisk of rice powder paper, and a brisk rubbing of the cheeks and lips with crushed petals of wild roses. These attentions, like the hairstyle, were accepted grudgingly at first, but, once begun, soon became a morning ritual. Solange was even, once or twice, seen to smile at the result. Rafael was generous with his praise, but Madame Thibeaut, in a rare error in judgment, called the artistic embellishment painting.

  When Solange did not arrive one morning during her toilette, Catherine accepted it philosophically. She could not expect to win the girl over so quickly. She did not trouble about her until the girl failed to come down for luncheon. This was extraordinary enough to attract notice, and Catherine moved along the gallery to knock on her door.

  “I am sorry,” Madame Thibeaut spoke around the edge of the panel in answer to her inquiry. “Mam’zelle cannot speak to you. She is unwell.”

  “Unwell? In what way?”

  “An affliction of the stomach, you understand, one of those trying bouts which overcome us all at times. She will be well in a day or so.”

  “None of the rest of us are ill—” Catherine began.

  “For which you must thank le bon Dieu. I, myself, feel a tiny bit queasy. I am not at all sure the fish Cook made for Mam’zelle, in her special tomato sauce with oysters, was fresh.”

  “I remember no such dish.”

  “As I said, it was made especially for Mam’zelle. I brought it to her myself. You will remember, she did not care for your menu last night.”

  That was certainly true. Solange had picked at the food on her plate, though she had been amazingly quiet about it, for her.

  “Perhaps she was sickening from something earlier. If I could look at her—”

  “She prefers to be left alone, to lie quietly in her bed in a darkened room. I have given her a sleeping draught, and she is just drifting off. I feel confident she will be much better when she awakes.”

  “I will not disturb her. No doubt you are correct in your diagnosis, Madame, but I have some small experience in disorders of this sort. I’m sure you won’t mind if I step inside and confirm your belief?”

  “Indeed, I do not like to refuse you, Madame,” the older woman said with exquisite politeness and a quite convincing show of uneasiness, “but Mam’zelle will be in a rare taking if I allow anyone to enter and disturb the air so as to bring back her headache. I’m sure I don’t care to be responsible for the consequences—”

  “Then you must leave them to me, mustn’t you?” Catherine said, refusing to be balked. By this time India had come to join her. Placing her hand on the door, Catherine pushed into the room, more in defiance of the tight-lipped companion than from concern for Solange.

  The instant she saw the girl, her sympathies were aroused, She was pale, lying against her pillow with her hair in a long braid falling over her white, high-necked nightgown. Pale, and incredibly young.

  Her eyelids fluttered open as Catherine took her hand. Her lips curved in the beginning of a smile. “I knew you would come,” she said.

  “How do you feel?”

  Solange moved restlessly. “Better now, but weak, so weak.”

  “Can I get you anything? Broth? A cool drink?”

  “I — yes, a drink, but — you go, Madame Ti. Perhaps you could put a little orange flower water in it. You know how I like it.”

  “There is water here on the stand—” the woman began.

  “No, fresh water, fresh from the well. I want no other.”

  “Really, petite. This is not seemly.”

  “I want no other,” Solange repeated, tears of frustration springing to her eyes as her voice rose. “I want — no — other.”

  “Very well. Do not distress yourself. I am going.”

  It was plain the woman left the room with great reluctance. The reason for it became obvious the moment the door closed behind her.

  The grip of Solange’s fingers tightened. “Catherine. You must do something for me.”

  “Certainly, if I can.”

  “Promise?”

  Caution made her hesitate.

  “Promise!”

  “I will do anything within my power.”

  “Good,” she breathed. “Marcus. He is waiting near the edge of the swamp. You must go and tell him why I cannot come.”

  “Solange, I—”

  “You must! Madame Ti will not. She hopes he will give up and go away. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know how I feel, thinking of him, waiting out there.”

  “I cannot go without a groom or someone else with me. Rafael has said—”

  “There is no need. I do not go into the swamp anymore. Marcus will not allow it. I will tell you how you must go. The way is not long, but it is safe.”

  “Perhaps India could go, with a note from you?” Catherine suggested, and the Indian girl nodded from her post near the door.

  A look of indecision crossed Solange’s face, then she turned her head back and forth on the pillow. “Marcus said I must send you if I cannot come. He will not trust any other messenger for fear of a trick, some ruse to make him stay away.”

  Plausible, so plausible. There was even a feeling of inevitability about it. Clever Marcus.

  “Madame, the other one returns,” India said into the stillness.

  “Catherine, please? Please!”

  Those black eyes, beseeching, without a trace of hostility. How could she refuse? “I’ll go, but India goes with me.”

  “India? Oh. Yes. She may as well.” Listless, slightly petulant, as if she envied Catherine her outing or doubted the wisdom of letting her make it, Solange agreed. She dropped Catherine’s hand and turned her face away as Madame Thibeaut entered the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Consider it, Catherine. I ask no more than that.”

  Catherine sighed. “Don’t you, Marcus? It appears to me that you ask a great deal more.”

  “Only that you give up a husband you can’t love and a home which will never be truly yours. I know what you go through, you see. I now, and it tears my heart out. Can you imagine what it does to me, knowing you are persecuted at every turn, knowing you sleep at night in that pirate’s arms?”

  “And do you realize what you are doing to Solange, inducing her to love you while you care nothing for her?” Catherine asked, drawing away from him. Considering that impassioned speech, she was glad she had asked India to wait at a distance in order to keep watch.

  “What does Solange count for, compared to my feelings for you?”

  “She is not like other girls. She has had no other admirers to give her perspective. You must not hurt her,
Marcus.”

  “So much concern for Solange, Catherine. Have you none for me? Don’t you care how I feel about you?”

  “You know I do, but I can do nothing about it.”

  “You can. You can come away with me. Now. This minute. I know you feel little for me beyond — I hope — a mild affection. I have love enough for both of us. You will come to care for me, given time.”

  They had come full circle. Catherine had not wanted the meeting to come to this, still, it was difficult to halt a declaration if the man was determined to make it. In addition, she was haunted by the feeling that she was in some way at fault for Marcus’s feelings. She had not encouraged him, there was nothing she could do to prevent it, still, she felt obligated to try to alleviate the pain he felt.

  “I’m sorry. Rafael is my husband, under the law and before God. I cannot change that.”

  “You are not happy.”

  That was undeniable. She only smiled a little without speaking.

  “I would give my life to make you happy, to see you laugh and dance as you used to do.”

  “Please, you are making me feel quite sorry for myself — and there is no need. You must know that few women in the haut monde are happily married, yet they manage to exist.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said, taking her hand. “If they are discreet — no, don’t turn away. You must know it’s the truth — at least for those who are not overtaken by motherhood every year. There, I won’t speak of it if it disturbs you. I will only say this. I am here, if you should ever need me. The smallest billet, a message of any kind, will bring me to your side, ready to serve you in any way I can.”

  “That is a very generous offer.”

  He bowed slightly, his hazel eyes glinting green with emotion held in check. “Not at all. I pray you will take advantage of it.”

  Her smile was a nice blend of appreciation and dismissal. “I must go now, it grows late.”

  Brushing her hand with his lips, he released it. “Remember what I have said.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you may tell Solange she is not to disturb herself. I will see her at the Bartons’ soiree — and extend my sympathies and commiserations, if you will?”

  Marcus would have escorted her back along the path to where India was waiting. This Catherine would not allow. In truth, he was too close to the house as it was. It might have been necessary to accommodate Solange, but there was no need to risk going closer.

  What did she feel for Marcus? she asked herself as she walked back along the rabbit trail she had followed. That he was not overly scrupulous, she recognized well enough. That did not necessarily keep him from being sincere in his protestations of love. She was fairly certain her own heart was not involved, and yet, she felt a certain sympathy with him. Such devotion was gratifying; it could not help but put her in charity with him. Perhaps that was what it was meant to do?

  A flicker of movement off to her left caught her attention. She turned in time to see a shadowy form slide away among the trees, the form of a barefoot man dressed in hanging rags of gray osnaburg. Fanny’s words rang in her mind. Runaways. Runaways in the swamp. The tales she had heard of the atrocities on Santo Domingo, the children decapitated, women dismembered, half-heard whispers of worse deeds, rose up in her mind. The secret horror of every slave owner since time began shuddered along her veins. Surely it could not happen here? There had never been a major insurrection of the slaves in the lands known as Louisiana. Why should there be one now?

  “Madame! Here, Madame.”

  “India,” Catherine gasped. Not until she felt relief move through her body did she realize how frightened she had been. “India, did you see someone, a man, out toward the swamp?”

  “No, Madame,” the girl said, her face impassive, without curiosity. “I saw only the man who came to tell me the Maître turns toward home. We must hurry if we are to reach the house before him.”

  Could the man have been the same? Even so, Catherine did not like it. How many more were involved in this piece of deceit Solange was practicing? The more who knew of it, the less likely it was to remain — deceiving.

  There were no repercussions. Solange did not quite regain her health. She suffered a persistent mal de tête and lassitude which caused her to neglect her appearance, withdrawing to her room. When she appeared at the table for meals her moods fluctuated wildly from tears to laughter edged with hysteria. Her imperfections obsessed her. Speaking to her became a chore, for she must have constant reassurance. Care had to be taken that some remark uttered in innocence did not become a two-edged sword which the girl could use against either herself or whomever she was speaking to. How much of her nervous state could be laid at Marcus’s door was hard to say; Solange was unsure of herself, and therefore of him. She may also have sensed the basic insincerity behind his pursuit, though Catherine was inclined to suspect Madame Thibeaut of undermining the girl’s confidence.

  Grim-faced, the companion waited upon the girl, hovering at her side like some patient bird of prey, whispering to her, petting her, watching everything and everyone with her round, lashless eyes. The days grew steadily warmer, taking on a summer tempo of early rising, to take advantage of the cool mornings, and midafternoon rest.

  On the day of Fanny’s party, Catherine retired immediately after luncheon. Her ball gown of shaded rust and gold silk muslin with its short, sleeveless spencer of rust velvet, the matching slippers, the jewel box containing her topazes, and her other accessories were packed in a bandbox. Since they would be arriving early she would wait until they reached Cypress Bend to dress. Her coiffure must be done in advance, however. India had asked to be spared the trip in the ancient berlin carriage left by the Fitzgeralds. Catherine could not altogether blame her. She herself would have preferred to ride, but Solange did not feel up to the effort and Madame Thibeaut lacked the skill.

  Catherine did not wish to keep Rafael waiting, nor did she particularly wish to be present while he had his bath and was dressed. She was just about to ring for India to do her hair when a knock came at the door and the maid entered.

  Her face with its high cheekbones carried a look of unusual animation. The basalt eyes flared with rage and the slim fingers were clenched upon her apron.

  Before Catherine could speak, she cried in a low grating voice, “Maîtresse, you must do something about that woman!”

  “Madame Thibeaut?”

  “Yes, that one, that evil she-dog, that devil woman!”

  “Calm yourself, India, and tell me what she has done.”

  “She has robbed the slaves of what miserable little they possess! I have watched for years while she stripped this house bare, and sold the food meant for all. What did I care for the belongings of owners? We had our pigs, our chickens, the little we could scrabble from the good earth and scavenge from the forest. But now this creature gives the clothes made for the people, and then demands the pigs, the chickens, the vegetables in return, as payment. If everything is not given, she threatens the silent death of the voodoo priestess. Already three of the old people who have nothing to give have lain down upon their pallets, waiting for their end.”

  “It is a lie.”

  The denial came from the doorway. Madame Thibeaut moved quietly into the room with Solange behind her. Her expression was grave but without undue concern. Her hands were clasped loosely at her waist.

  “It is not a lie. These things I know,” India said proudly. “Why? Tell me why I should do such things?” Catherine did not care for the companion’s assumption of the right to interrogate the maid, but the question was a valid one. She did not interfere.

  “For the money, money for your lover, that brute of an overseer turned off by Monsieur Rafe. You thought he would take you with him when he went. Instead he left in the night, like the thief he was, with all you had gathered between you.”

  “Ridiculous,” Madame Thibeaut snapped, a flush rising to her face, though Catherine could not have said whether anger or embarra
ssment caused it.

  India went relentlessly on. “And now you feel Mam’zelle Solange slipping away. Soon she will need you no more. With Madame Navarro against you, you have little hope of the settlement you feel is your due. You must have money, money to keep you, to allow you to play the lady.”

  “Enough! I will not let you defame my good name further. There is only your word—”

  “Yes, because the others are too afraid to accuse you.”

  “Slaves. Only slaves. Who would listen, even if it were true — which I do not admit?”

  She was right. No court would accept the testimony of a slave. Not that it had come to that yet. Turning to India, Catherine asked, “Do you have anything to prove what you say, anything at all?”

  “How could I, Madame? This one is clever. Would she touch a pig? Not her. The slaves must deliver their small wealth to a rogue on a keelboat tied up at night down the river. It is delivered in the same way as the valuables from the house, to a merchant of bad reputation who disposes of it and holds the money, less his share. There has been one slave, or possibly more, who has been listed as a runaway, who — was not. Slaves bring much money, more than chickens or silver candlesticks. I do not know this merchant’s name — or that of the boatman. There are many such who care not what they deal in. They are like rats in the kitchen, disappearing at the first sign of light.”

  “This is outrageous. I have long realized, Madame Navarro, that you disliked me. However, that you would seriously listen to a slave making these vile accusations against me passes all belief!”

  “I am not interested in personalities, Madame Thibeaut, only injustice,” Catherine replied.

  Solange, quiet until now, stepped forward. “You seem to know a great deal about these dealings, India. How does that come about?”

  A cold smile passed over the Indian girl’s face. “I know because it was the same in Santo Domingo. This woman likes to pretend she was of the gentry upon that island, and in truth, she was raised in that fashion with a nurse who practiced the ugly magic of the juju and taught it to her charge. Some say Madame’s father drank away his health and fortune, others that the voodoo woman took revenge for some slight. When he died there was nothing. Madame was forced to marry a merchant, a man who, like the man in New Orleans, did not care what he sold.”