Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  Waiting for the next course to be served, Sapphire lifted her gaze upward with a sigh of boredom and focused on the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the dining table. Orchid Manor was quite modern in many ways; the rooms were lit by efficient oil lamps, but her father insisted on using only candlelight in the dining room.

  Sapphire heard a quiet whine beneath the table and felt a cold nose push against her hand. She made sure that no one was watching, then tore a piece of bread from her plate and eased it under the table. One of her father’s hounds licked it greedily from her fingers and nuzzled her hand for more.

  Lady Morrow, who was the same age and temperament as the fifty-ish Lady Carlisle, was telling Aunt Lucia about a lady who had to dismiss her maid for pilfering soap from the larder. Sapphire rolled her eyes at the pettiness of the conversation and reached for another piece of bread to feed the dog.

  Baroness Wells, seated beside Sapphire, met her gaze and smiled. Sapphire liked Patricia. Patricia was a newlywed and she could be quite fun, but she was Lady Carlisle’s niece and, therefore, well under the wretched woman’s thumb. Sapphire had tried several times to convince Patricia to go riding or swimming with her, but each time Lady Carlisle had rejected the idea on the grounds that a white woman was unsafe in the jungles of Martinique. The fact that many aristocratic French families lived quite safely in the area did not seem to be a consideration.

  Sapphire offered another piece of bread to the hound, and this time he drew his nose just far enough from beneath the white linen tablecloth for Patricia to see him. Patricia spotted the black nose and lifted her napkin to her mouth to hide her amusement.

  Lady Carlisle cleared her throat and Sapphire suddenly realized that the women at the table were all looking at her. Apparently someone had asked her a question, but she’d been too preoccupied with the dog to listen.

  “Sapphire, dear,” Aunt Lucia said smoothly, “tell Lady Carlisle about the altar cloths you and Angelique recently embroidered for Father Richmond. I was just telling the countesses how well schooled you were by the nuns.”

  “The truth?” Sapphire asked, knowing very well that was not what her aunt was seeking. “Angelique’s cloths were quite lovely, her stitching perfect. Mine were bloodstained from continually pricking my fingers with the damn needle and had to be thrown into the rag bag.”

  Lady Morrow and Lady Carlisle gasped simultaneously. Sapphire smiled sweetly while Aunt Lucia tipped her wineglass, draining it in one gulp. After that, the conversation moved to the difficulties the ladies had had shopping for Patricia’s trousseau in Paris before she was married last fall. Sapphire was left to feed the dog the rest of her bread, and Patricia’s, as well.

  At last, the final porcelain dish was cleared, and Sapphire rose hoping to slip out of the dining room unseen.

  “Dames, would you care to take a turn in my garden?” Armand asked, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling doors left open to the stone patio. “The gentlemen and I thought we would retire to my study for a cigar and then join you for drinks, if it isn’t too cool outside.”

  “Cool?” Sapphire groaned, dabbing at her neckline with her napkin before placing it on her plate. “Heavens, Papa. It’s a warm enough night. I doubt we’ll catch a chill.”

  He rested his hand on her elbow, smiled and leaned forward. “Please, Sapphire,” he said quietly. “I understand your anger with me, but these are my guests. I do a great deal of business with these gentlemen and it will not harm you to be pleasant to their wives.”

  She sighed. “Yes, Papa. I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll send Tarasai for wraps if anyone is chilled.”

  “Merci.” He walked away, leading the men through the dining room toward his study, leaving her with no choice but to escort the women out onto the patio.

  “Please, ladies, join us for a cordial on the patio. We have some rare orchids I think you’ll find quite beautiful.”

  “I’m sorry,” Angelique said sweetly, standing behind her chair. “But I’m not feeling very well. A bit of headache. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Certainly. Yes, of course,” the women murmured at once, full of concern for Angelique.

  Sapphire groaned inwardly and called Tarasai to bring refreshments to the orchid garden.

  By the time Sapphire walked outside, Aunt Lucia was showing Patricia one of Armand’s hybrids, a stunning pale pink orchid with a deep black center, and the two countesses had their heads together, whispering. In no hurry to join either conversation, Sapphire walked toward a small pond stocked with bright orange goldfish. Gathering her skirts, she crouched and stared into the pool to see if she could catch a flash of orange tail illuminated by the light of the torches placed around the perimeter of the garden that separated it from the vast rain forest.

  She didn’t find any fish, but she saw a shiny green frog with orange speckles, and when it hopped off a rock onto the patio, she followed it. As she approached the far side of the garden, she caught part of the countesses’ conversation.

  “Naked?” she heard Lady Morrow whisper harshly. “No!”

  “Yes,” Lady Carlisle insisted. “That’s what Lord Carlisle said. Well, at least practically so.”

  “Shocking,” Lady Morrow said. “And to think poor Monsieur Fabergine has this to deal with while still in mourning.”

  “That and the dark-skinned girl. Can you believe she sits at the dining table as if she’s one of them?”

  “Dark-skinned? Whatever do you mean? I thought she was a French relation or something.…”

  Dismissing the frog, Sapphire raised her chin a notch and strode over to the two women whose heads were bowed as they gossiped. “Excuse me, ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear that last of your exchange,” she said, looking one directly in the eyes and then the other.

  “How rude of you to listen to a conversation you were not invited to be a part of. Have you no manners whatsoever, young lady?” Lady Carlisle demanded. At least Lady Morrow had the decency to avert her gaze in embarrassment.

  Sapphire took a step closer to the countess, her eyes flashing with anger. “You speak of manners? My mother always taught me that if one has nothing nice to say, one should not speak at all.”

  “What did she know?” Lady Carlisle hissed. “She was a common trollop!”

  Stunned by the countess’s comment, Sapphire stared, eyes wide. “My mother was no such thing!”

  Lady Carlisle moved closer to Sapphire. “Your mother was nothing but a New Orleans whore, the same as your precious aunt. That is how your father found her!”

  “How dare you!” Sapphire shouted.

  “Sapphire.” Aunt Lucia appeared at her side, laying her hand gently on her arm. “Please—your father’s guests…”

  Sapphire pulled her arm away. “No! Did you…did you hear what she just said about my mother? What she accused you of being?”

  “Ask Lady Morrow,” Lady Carlisle said as she drew herself up in her gray flowered gown, her hideous headdress with its bird bobbing as if it were pecking a hole in her head. “Her cousin’s brother knew them in New Orleans. He and Armand were business associates.”

  “Edith, that will be quite enough,” Aunt Lucia said sharply.

  “It’s not true! It’s a lie! Aunt Lucia, tell them, tell them my mother was not—” But when Sapphire looked at her aunt, she realized something was amiss. Did these women know something she didn’t? “Non,” she whispered in shock.

  “Sapphire, ma petite…” Aunt Lucia reached for her hand.

  Suddenly the whole garden seemed to spin around Sapphire, the bright torches, the heavy scent of jasmine, the sound of the countess’s sour voices. “It’s not true. None of it is true. It’s all lies!”

  “Sapphire, this is complicated,” Lucia said calmly. “Let us go inside and—”

  “No!” Sapphire cried, pulling away, her heart pounding in her throat. With tears filling her eyes, she rushed off the patio and ran into the jungle.

  2

  Sapphire ran wil
dly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shoved her way through the underbrush, taking the shortcut to the stables in the humid darkness.

  “It’s not true,” she shouted over and over again. “It’s not true! My mother was not a whore!” And yet she knew in her heart of hearts that it was true; the look on Aunt Lucia’s face spoke the truth. Her mother, her beloved Mama, her father’s Sophie, had been a common woman of the streets—a prostitute. And somewhere deep inside, Sapphire realized she had always known her mother kept a terrible secret. There was a sadness Mama could never put aside, not even with the love of her daughter and devoted husband.

  “But how could you do it, Mama?” Sapphire whispered as she slowed to a walk. She was panting so hard that her chest ached and her stomach turned queasy. “How could you have died not telling me the truth?” she demanded of her mother, looking up into the starlit sky, calling to her somewhere above.

  But of course there was no response, neither from the heavens nor from her mother, who had been dead for nearly a year. A year…yet it seemed as though they had just buried her mother in the lovely place she and Papa had chosen. Her illness had been swift—a sudden loss of weight, blurry vision, thirst and light-headedness. A physician had been called, but he was unable to cure the strange disease he had called the sugar sickness, and she died three weeks later.…Her beloved Mama was dead and now these people were saying such awful things about her!

  Sapphire immediately felt a sense of comfort as she approached her father’s vast stables. The stables had always been a place of refuge when she was sad or hurt or angry. Here, alone with the horses, she found she could lose herself in grooming and caring for them, or simply standing in their presence. Riding through the pounding surf, she’d always found a sense of release and freedom that she had seemed to crave more and more in the past year.

  Ahead, she saw the dim glow of a lantern in the tack room and she felt her heart flutter. Had Maurice come, hoping she could slip away from her father’s dinner party for a few minutes? Her steps quickened, her heart beating in anticipation as she slipped in the door. Hearing nothing, she walked quietly down the worn cobblestone center aisle, setting her feet on the paving blocks that had been carried here from the shores of France as ballast on a merchant vessel decades ago, listening to the familiar sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls, the contented chuff and the occasional whinny.

  A sliver of light came from the doorway that had been left open a crack, and her heart swelled with anticipation. Her beloved was here! “Maurice?” Sapphire whispered, walking slowly toward the light.

  Then she heard a sound, a female voice, and she hesitated. “Angelique?” What on earth was her sister doing at the barn? Taking a horse to meet Jacques?

  “Sapphire?” Angelique called from behind the door. “I thought you were in the garden with—”

  “Oh, Angel.” Sapphire rushed for the door and flung it open. “You’re not going to believe—” She clasped the door tightly with her hand and stared.

  Angelique pulled herself from a man’s embrace.

  “Maurice!” Sapphire’s heart fell as her world came crashing down around her.

  “S-Sapphire, mon amour.”

  “No!” She grabbed a pitchfork from where it rested in the corner of the tack room.

  “This is not how it looks, ma chère.” Maurice walked toward her, his arms open.

  “Not how it looks?” Sapphire shouted.

  “Sapphire, please,” Angelique protested.

  Angelique was wearing a simple A-line dress that fell to just past her knees, a dress similar to those worn by the native women. It was what she always wore when she sneaked out of the house to meet men.

  “Do not get in my way!” Sapphire threatened Angelique as she took a step closer to Maurice, jabbing the tines of the pitchfork in the air. “You said you loved me! You said you wanted to marry me!” Her voice caught in her throat as a rage swept over her. “You said we would make beautiful babies together!”

  “I do wish to marry you, mon amour. I do love you. It is only that—”

  “What?” she demanded. “It is only what? You love me, but you kiss my sister?” Her last words came out of her mouth ragged and forlorn.

  “Sapphire—” Angelique interrupted, reaching for her.

  “Not now,” she snapped, thrusting the pitchfork at Maurice again. “I’m going to run my true love through his black heart,” she hissed, lunging toward him.

  Maurice threw himself against the wall and slowly began to inch his way toward the door, his palms pressed to the wall. “Sapphire, s’il vous plait, let me explain. This has nothing to do with you and me. What you and I have is true love—”

  “True love!” Sapphire laughed bitterly. “Get out of here,” she ordered, spitting at him.

  Maurice ran out the door, and by the time Sapphire turned the corner, he was halfway through the barn.

  “Never come back,” she called after him. “Not ever, do you hear me?”

  She stood there for a moment staring into the darkness as the barn door slammed shut, then, leaving the pitchfork outside against the wall, she turned back to the tack room.

  “How could you?” she whispered, her gaze settling on Angelique. She tucked a stray tendril of damp hair behind her ear. “You knew I loved him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Angelique said, looking at the ground.

  “You’re sorry? You have betrayed me and that’s all you have to say to me?”

  Angelique turned to her, lifting her eyes to meet Sapphire’s. “You don’t want to hear anything else I have to say right now.”

  “Yes, I do,” Sapphire challenged, taking a step closer. “I think I have a right to hear what you have to say, considering the circumstances.”

  “I’m sorry I let him kiss me, but he doesn’t love you,” she said softly.

  “What do you mean?” Sapphire stared at her. “Of course Maurice loves me!”

  “No he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have kissed me.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “Sapphire, listen to me. Maurice loves your father’s land, not you. He loves what he thinks you can do to further his situation. He has an older brother, you know. Younger sons do not inherit a father’s plantation, and the family is in debt. If Maurice cannot find a rich wife, he will be forced to find a position in trade.”

  Sapphire tucked her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. “It’s not true. It can’t be.”

  “Sapphire, this isn’t the first time he’s tried. Even the first night we met last autumn at the ball, he tried to get me to meet him in the forest after everyone had gone home.”

  Sapphire shook her head in disbelief, trying to think back. “But we danced every dance together that night. He said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that he had fallen in love with me the moment he laid eyes upon me.”

  Angelique nodded. “You probably are the most beautiful woman he ever met, but he is not a loyal man. You deserve better.”

  “You’re confusing things! You were kissing him. What about Jacques?” Sapphire asked. “I thought you liked him.”

  “Ah, Jacques. I do like him, but he has no intention of marrying me. Not that I would have him.” Angelique ran her finger along the edge of a rough-hewn table scattered with brushes and combs for grooming. “Since I am half native, no respectable man will ever have me, no matter how many beautiful gowns Armand Fabergine buys for me or how many tutors he brings to teach me Latin and literature.”

  “That’s not true,” Sapphire said quietly.

  “It is true and you know it. That’s why Mama left her money to me when she died and not to you. It was so that I would not have to marry. She did it because she knew you would inherit Papa’s land and fortune. She did it so I could take care of myself.” Angelique took a step toward Sapphire. “Do you want to hear Maurice’s plan?”

  “What?” Sapphire whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

  “He knew
Papa would never agree to allow him to marry you. His plan was to seduce you, and when you became pregnant, Papa would be forced to allow you to marry him to save your honor.”

  Sapphire did not want to believe Angel’s words. But Angelique never lied. Not even when they were children and were faced with punishment if they did not confess to some trick they had played on the servants or when they had sneaked away from their governess to swim naked in the ocean with the village children.

  “You shouldn’t have done this, Angel.”

  “I am what I am, and if you expect more, I will only break your heart over and over again.” Her eyes, now filled with tears, searched Sapphire’s. “Can you forgive me, my sister?”

  Sapphire looked away, focusing on the pale light glowing from an oil lamp that hung from a wrought-iron hook protruding from the wall.

  They had been the best of friends—sisters—since the day they met. Sapphire had sneaked out of the house one day, abandoning her music tutor to hike in the jungle. On the beach she had encountered two big, ugly stray dogs that had trapped a small, barefoot native girl against a tree. Sapphire had driven the dogs off with a large branch and taken the little girl home with her to have Sophie bandage the girl’s cut knee. They had discovered that Angelique came from a nearby village and that she was recently orphaned. Her mother had died of a fever and her father—well, she didn’t know who her father was—but one had only to look at the face of the eight-year-old to tell that a Frenchman had fathered her. Perhaps Sophie had suspected it might be her husband who had sired her. That very day, Sophie Fabergine had welcomed the orphan into her home and from that time, raised her as if she were a daughter.

  Sapphire looked up. “I’m still angry with you, Angel,” she whispered.

  Angelique threw her arms around Sapphire and hugged her. “Of course you are. I deserve it and I would expect no less of you.” She walked to the far wall, stood on her tiptoes and turned down the lamp, enclosing them in darkness. “Now come on. Let’s go home.”

  Sapphire was not entirely surprised when she entered her bedchamber to find her father and aunt waiting for her. Angelique took one look at their faces and backed up. “I’ll go to my room.”