Laurie McBain

by Tears of Gold

  “She’s too pretty to be your wife,” Damaris uttered simply. “Is she your mistress?”

  Jamie drew in her breath abruptly and choked, drawing Paddy’s attention from Damaris’s startling comment. Mara felt a warm blush spreading across her face. The casually spoken words of a child had the power to hurt her. Nicholas’s lips had thinned ominously.

  “Apologize to the lady, Damaris,” Nicholas ordered in a cold voice. For the first time in her life Damaris was fearful of someone.

  As she looked over at the flushed face of the beautiful woman, she mumbled contritely, “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I truly meant no harm.”

  Mara managed a smile as she looked up at the little girl who had only spoken the truth. “I know you didn’t, it’s just that people sometimes don’t care to hear the truth about themselves. Some things are best left unsaid, Damaris,” Mara advised her. Damaris nodded. “I suppose so, but I don’t always understand why, mademoiselle,” she said with a frown before urging her horse on ahead. Galloping to the tree-lined entrance of Beaumarais, she pulled up on the big bay’s head and sat silently waiting for them.

  Nicholas’s stride seemed to quicken as they neared the drive leading up to the house. Paddy and Jamie, their short legs working double-time, hurried to keep up with the fast-moving figure. Mara lengthened her own stride as she began to feel some of Nicholas’s excitement.

  Nicholas came to an abrupt halt at the foot of the long, stately drive. Outstretched oak boughs formed a natural, living arch above the roadway leading up to the house. It was as Nicholas had described it, only there was a strange sadness in its rose-stuccoed walls that could not be described, only felt. Gleaming white shutters framed the long French windows, which were set back in the deep shadows of the wide galleries running across the front and around the sides of the two-story structure. Six massive white pillars marched across the front and supported the high cornice that rose in proud magnificence above the treetops.

  “Beaumarais,” Nicholas murmured softly as he stood staring at his birthplace.

  “You’ve been away a long time,” Damaris’s childish voice interrupted the silence that had fallen over the small group. “I wasn’t even born when you left,” she said in awed tones.

  Nicholas didn’t seem to hear her. He continued to stare at Beaumarais. “Shall we go,” he said at last as he started up the long walk.

  Through the moss-draped trees Mara could catch glimpses of the plantation grounds, of colorful gardens thick with flowers and patches of green lawn spreading down toward the river. In fact, they were far closer to the muddy waters of the river than she had realized, for the road they had traveled to the house had curved gradually through the trees and back again to the river.

  Suddenly Mara heard Paddy giggling as his dark eyes filled up with the wonder of his surroundings. “They’re like old men with long gray beards, Mara!” he laughingly exclaimed as he ran over to the base of one of the gnarled oaks and grabbed a handful of the spidery moss that covered it.

  When they were halfway up the drive, Damaris, having dismounted, gave Sorcier a slight nudge and sent him on ahead. She ran beside him to the entrance. Then her hurrying figure disappeared up the wide, low steps set between two tall columns.

  The white paneled door opened and several people came out to wait for them. The arrival of guests at Beaumarais seemed to be a rare occasion, for a group of black workers had gathered around the bottom of the steps, their chores apparently forgotten as they whispered among themselves and up to the group of house servants in the gallery behind.

  Mara saw Damaris standing slightly apart from two women who stood squarely in the center of the wide steps. They silently watched the arrival of the unexpected guests. One of the women was just a young girl, not more than sixteen, with black hair and magnolia skin. There was a petulant droop to the sulky mouth that hinted at what her true character might be. A pale blue satin slipper was tapping impatiently beneath the hem of her flounced skirt, while the ends of a matching pale blue ribbon tied around her small waist flickered slightly in the breeze.

  The older of the two women was dressed in mourning, but the rich auburn of her hair mocked the somberness of her gown and thoughts, and marked her as the mother of Damaris. She was pale and thin, but at one time she must have been a great beauty. Her face still bore faint traces of it, but ill-health and grief had done their best to erase any sign of happiness from her expressive gray eyes. Her thin hands moved constantly and a fretful look had settled on her brow. She stared down at Nicholas with disbelief and anger, recognition coming with a flash of apparent pain.

  “Nicholas,” she spoke her stepson’s name in a raspy whisper as her gray eyes seemed to swallow up his figure. Then she gave a feeble cry from deep within, as if she’d seen an apparition.

  “Mama!” the dark-haired girl suddenly screamed.

  Nicholas vaulted up the steps in time to catch his stepmother as she slumped forward in a faint, her slender neck arching back across his arm as he swung her up against his chest. Clearing a way through the servants crowding close, he walked boldly through the opened door of Beaumarais.

  “Who are these people? What is happening? Oh, mon Dieu, she is dead! I cannot bear this,” Nicole cried out, her black curls bouncing around her face as she glanced around wildly.

  “Oh, Nicole, she is not,” Damaris said, even as her eyes worriedly followed Nicholas’s figure. “She’s just fainted. But you’d better not because I’m not going to catch you,” she added warningly, well used to Nicole’s dramatics.

  Nicole turned on her young sister, indignant anger mirrored on her flowerlike face. “You horrible little beast. You know nothing about these matters, or anything else,” she berated Damaris. Reaching out quickly, she slapped her sister’s face. “All you know about is that old horse of yours. Mama ought to sell him.”

  Damaris’s lips trembled slightly and the imprint of Nicole’s punishing hand showed red against her pale cheek, but she stood her ground, proudly facing up to Nicole’s wrath as she defended Sorcier. “He isn’t old, and nobody’s ever going to sell him.”

  “What shall I do if Mama becomes indisposed? She must not fall ill again,” Nicole fretted. “We were just beginning to discuss designs for my wedding gown. Oh, it is impossible,” she cried, stamping her foot in angry frustration.

  Mara gazed between the two sisters amazed that they could be related.

  “If we might go inside,” Mara began tentatively yet firmly, with polite rebuke for having been kept standing on the front steps. “We are rather fatigued after our walk from the river, and I believe I did hear somewhere about a certain Beaumarais hospitality? It wasn’t just a rumor, was it?” Mara smilingly asked the dark-eyed young girl who was staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.

  “Since your mama is not feeling up to it, you shall have to act as our hostess,” Mara said, her eyes telling the upset Nicole that she understood perfectly what that young woman must be suffering at this moment. “It will be good practice for when you have a home of your own. I did hear you mention your upcoming marriage?” Mara continued on a practical note, her voice soothing the frayed nerves of the girl as she found herself being charmed out of her bad mood by this strange woman. “I do know something about the latest fashions. And, my dear, I have just come from New Orleans. There I saw some of the most divine gowns. Do let us discuss them over a cup of tea. I can see already what colors would suit you,” Mara spoke dreamily, then pretended to run a thoughtful eye over Nicole’s figure. “Ummm, yes, of course, cerise will most definitely be your color.”

  Nicole brightened under Mara’s expert handling as she basked in the attention. “Oh, mademoiselle, I should be so delighted to talk with you of such things,” she beamed, her good spirits rapidly returning. “And of course Beaumarais welcomes you with open arms. I shall see about rooms for you and your party.” She paused uncertainly. “You are staying here? Bien,” she continued as Mara nodded. “Now, I shall order some
tea immediately. Then we must talk, please, mademoiselle,” she said with a smile she knew was her prettiest.

  Mara caught Damaris’s eye, the girl’s smirk letting her know that at least she had not been deceived, even if Nicole had. “I’ll have a wagon sent for your trunks, mademoiselle, but first I must go and see how Mama is.”

  “Finest bit of actin’ ye’ve done in many a year,” Jamie muttered as she walked beside Mara through the door of Beaumarais.

  Mara stepped inside the mosaic-tiled entrance hall and, pausing briefly, admired the painted landscape that papered the walls and the crystal chandelier that gleamed high overhead. A grand staircase of rich mahogany climbed to the second floor while a pier table with a vase of deep red roses was reflected in the ornate, gold-leaf mirror hanging above it.

  “Please, mademoiselle, in here,” Nicole invited Mara as she led the way into a spacious parlor carpeted with a pale gold Aubusson carpet, gold-brocaded curtains draping the row of long French windows opening out onto the gallery. It was only as Mara stepped onto the carpet that she noticed the worn spots, and the frayed hems of the drapes. Nicole gestured to the pale blue sofa before sitting down gracefully in one of the matching satin-upholstered chairs.

  But Mara’s eye had been captured by the portrait that hung above the molded mantel. Mara walked over to stand just below it as she stared up in fascination. The man with the hawkish face bore the same sensuous lips and boldly staring green eyes as Nicholas. Only the expression was softer than the one his son wore. This was Philippe de Montaigne-Chantale, the proud master of Beaumarais who’d banished his son from his sight.

  Nicole sat silently watching Mara, biting her lip nervously before she asked hesitantly, “Is it true? Is that man really Nicholas? Is he my half-brother?”

  Mara turned and eyed the young girl. “There can be no denying the resemblance, and your mama’s reaction should be proof enough.”

  The butler entered carrying the silver tea service while two maids followed behind carrying trays, one loaded down with enticing confections and the other with a silver chocolate pot, the hot chocolate giving off a rich aroma. The tray was placed near Nicole.

  Paddy’s eyes brightened as he caught sight of the trays, his dark brown eyes feasting on the dainty cakes. Without waiting to be invited closer, he stationed himself at Nicole’s elbow as she prepared the tea.

  “Paddy,” Mara said softly, signaling him to seat himself beside her on the sofa.

  “It is all right, mademoiselle,” Nicole said with a charming smile, “for I have a sweet tooth too, and I understand the little one’s impatience. I always have chocolate in the afternoons,” she confided as she poured out a cup. “You wish to have the chocolate, Paddee,” Nicole teased him, her pronunciation of his name causing him to make a comical face. He eagerly accepted the cup, then placed it with a regretful sigh on the table as he waited in patient silence beside Nicole. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Tea for Jamie, please, ma’am,” he said politely, surprising Mara by his thoughtfulness. Jamie had positioned herself near the corner of the room where she could sit unobserved, her gray eyes missing nothing of what went on even as she worked the embroidery in her lap. Her role as maid, companion, and governess left her in a vague social position and so she preferred to keep quietly in the background.

  She was deeply touched as she watched Paddy balancing a delicate china cup and saucer brimming with tea in one hand and a plate full of carefully selected sweets in the other. His eyes glued to the sloshing contents of the teacup, he slowly placed each foot in front of the other as he made his way to Jamie’s side, then returned for his own treat.

  “Why did he come back? What does he want?” Nicole spoke suddenly, worried apprehension etched across her rounded forehead as she handed Mara her tea. “The scandal of it all! Oooh, he shall ruin everything. My fiancé is a most important person, mademoiselle. Jean-Claude is heir to Belle Saulaie near St. Francisville, and his family also has townhouses in both New Orleans and Natchez. I am very fortunate in becoming a member of their family,” she informed Mara importantly, a smile of satisfaction curving the corners of her mouth slightly upward. “I am to be wed in the spring. It will be the wedding of the year, and such a grand occasion. It will take place in the St. Louis Cathedral, and there will be a detail of Swiss Guards who will precede me up the aisle. Since Papa has died, Uncle Etienne will escort me. Oh dear,” Nicole added worriedly, looking at Mara with huge dark eyes full of anguished horror, “do you suppose he will wish to attend? It will be most uncomfortable if no one will speak with him, and then he will be forced into defending his honor should someone insult him. It is not fair, mademoiselle. He is a horrible man to do this to me,” Nicole cried, forgetting that Mara had arrived with that horrible man.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to cause you any inconvenience, Nicole,” Mara tried to reassure her.

  “It is just as well that we will not be coming here after the wedding but will be starting our married life at Belle Saulaie instead. In fact,” Nicole added, her eyes narrowed in speculation, “none of my new family need ever meet him. We will be going to Belle Saulaie in a couple of weeks and will stay there with Jean-Claude’s family until we wed. So I needn’t worry. Nicholas will have had to leave by then,” she concluded with a triumphant smile. With a sigh of relief she changed the subject before Mara could inquire why Nicholas should have to leave by then.

  “What kind of gowns are they wearing in Europe now, mademoiselle? My dearest friend, Leonore, is just back from Paris, and she says they are all wearing demi-trains now. My best colors are a deep rose and a pale yellow, and when I am wed, I will be able to wear bright colors and much more daring gowns. I grow so tired of this white all the time. Did you know that Brussels lace…”

  Mara tilted her head as if attentively listening to Nicole’s views on fashion, but she let her thoughts drift away as she wondered what was going on upstairs between Nicholas and his stepmother.

  ***

  “Why did you come back?” Celeste demanded weakly as she reclined against the pillows of her canopied bed, her slender hands fluttering nervously over the satin quilt tucked up around her. “My God, but you look like Philippe. It is like seeing a ghost,” she continued without waiting for his answer. “When Damaris called for me to come see who had arrived, why, I never imagined it could be you, of all people. And now, of all times. And then when I recognized you, I thought to myself, no, it cannot be, and yet the eyes and mouth, so much the same,” she spoke haltingly. She shuddered delicately as she rambled on in a faint voice. “I knew Philippe was dead, but there was that moment of horrible doubt as I stared at you. Why?” she demanded beseechingly, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Why come back now? How can you dare to show that wicked face of yours in New Orleans? After all the misery you have caused for this family, I cannot believe that even you would be so cruel to return.”

  “Celeste,” Nicholas spoke his stepmother’s name quietly as he said gently, “I was asked to return by my father.”

  Celeste’s gray eyes widened in disbelief. “What? C’est impossible. He never spoke your name in this house after you left. He forbade mention of your existence. You were dead to him, the same as François. You lie. Now that he is dead and cannot send you away you think you can return and become master here? Well, you have no rights here at Beaumarais. You no longer belong here,” she said hoarsely, the vein in her temple pounding with excess emotion.

  Nicholas reached into his pocket and carefully withdrew the treasured letter he had received in San Francisco. “This does not lie, Celeste. I would not have returned otherwise. I swore never to return the day I was driven from my home,” Nicholas told her coldly. “This is the only reason why I have now broken my vow.”

  Celeste stared at the letter as if it might reach out and strike her, but finally she put out a shaky hand and accepted it. Nicholas watched in silence as she pulled the frail sheet of stationery from the envelope and began to read. The letter be
gan to shake uncontrollably as she neared the end, and she held the back of her hand against her trembling lips.

  “Mon Dieu, what does this mean?”

  “It means, Celeste, that my father knew of my innocence. He knew the truth of François’s death. He had forgiven me and wanted my forgiveness of him,” Nicholas said without hesitation, eyeing her intently as he watched her reaction.

  The letter dropped from Celeste’s stiff fingers. She had instantly recognized the handwriting as Philippe’s, and the straightforward look in Nicholas’s green eyes that were too familiar convinced her that he was not lying.

  “B-but he never spoke of it. Never did he say a word of this to me. Why?”

  “You have been ill?”

  Celeste nodded absently, then looked up at Nicholas with just a touch of bitterness in her expression as the corners of her mouth turned down with discontentment. “Do you know what it has been like for me all these years to be the second wife of Philippe de Montaigne-Chantale? I think I have always been pitied by my friends, for everyone knew how much Philippe loved your mama, the very beautiful Danielle. He was heartbroken when she died. I think he never had a whole heart to give to me. I could never compete against her memory,” Celeste said sadly, “and when I could not give him the sons he needed, well, he was disappointed in me. This I know.”

  “You can’t be blamed for that, Celeste,” Nicholas dismissed her claims.

  “You wait and see how you feel when you have no son to inherit what is yours one day, then you will feel different,” Celeste accused him bitterly. “It is the same with all men. But when I found I was with child after so many barren years, oh, the joy of it all! I knew that this would be the son that Philippe had wished for since…well, for so long. He was so happy when Jean-Louis was born. It was feared that I might lose him, but God was watching over us.”