Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) Read online

  “Helene!”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t say that, Berthe, really I do,” her sister-in-law told her without removing her gaze from the carriage window.

  “Well, my Gerard was always the soul of—”

  “Nor prattle of Gerard, always your Gerard, either,” she requested in a strained voice.

  Claire paid little attention to their wrangling. What could she say? How could she tell them why it was impossible for her to be pregnant? She could not. And so she remained silent. Let them think what they pleased, she thought, they would find out soon enough.

  Sensing, perhaps, a portion of her embarrassment, Octavia intervened with a change of subject, and the other ladies talked of various things, their voices raised slightly above the sound of the wheels.

  They rode through a short stretch of forest, then open country began; meadows green with oats where cattle and horses grazed, fields of young corn trembling in the breeze and then rows of sugar cane, mile upon mile, of different heights, some new, just pushing above the black earth, some knee high, and some higher already than a man’s head. The sun beat down, building up the heat inside the carriage, and dust filtered in, a fine grit, settling in the folds of their dresses and on the fine film of perspiration that appeared on their faces.

  The road they were traveling appeared to make a wide circle around the perimeter of the plantation. As they began the last loop back toward Sans Songe, the country once again grew thickly wooded and they were grateful for the coolness Several times they crossed small rumbling bridges over the tributaries of the bayou. Trees towered above them that had never felt the bite of an ax, and grape-vines as thick as a man’s wrist reached toward the sun at their tops. Saw briars pushed also toward the light that glimmered high above, light that was denied entrance to the forest floor by the close-knitted tree tops. But beneath that leafy canopy, the ground covered with a thick, sound-deadening coverlet of leaves was fairly clear, the small under-growth shaded out by the intertwined branches above. Here the road was a mere track, wide enough for only one vehicle, with grass and weeds and small saplings trying to grow in the middle between the ruts, sweeping the underside of the carriage as they passed over them.

  A thick silence closed around them. In the suffocating stillness, they became aware of the miasma of the swamp, the smell of dankness and stagnant mud.

  Suddenly, the carriage was invaded by a swarm of mosquitoes and they slapped at them, crushing them, fanning them out the windows of the fast rolling coach.

  “Why in heaven’s name did anyone ever build a road through here?” Claire asked, slapping at a mosquito that had been totally unimpressed by their attempts to evict him.

  “It was cut originally so that the laborers could bring the cypress wood for the big house from the swamp. Every board, every joist, was grown right here on our own land and cut, stacked, seasoned, shaped and pegged into place by our own people.”

  “Really?” Claire asked with interest, staring at the trees that soared skyward, trees that were, or so it seemed, as old as time, crowded about with the curiously human-looking natural stumps known as cypress knees. Once again the bayou came into view, a deep but narrow stream here, a cut into the flat earth of the forest floor.

  “How did they get such huge trees out of the swamp?”

  “With oxen teams, often as many as eight in a span. The lumber for the houses in the quarters, the outbuildings, the hospital, jail, copperage, stables, barns, nursery, the church for our people, for everything, right down to the corncribs, was grown here on our land. It gives one a great sense of accomplishment only to look at it all. You will see it on the final part of our drive. We will return through the quarters.”

  They rattled on a few minutes more and then Berthe spoke. “Is this where they think the panther roams?”

  “So I would imagine.” It was Helene who answered her.

  “So close to the house?”

  Helene frowned at her as if wondering what in the world had made her bring up such a subject.

  “It stands to reason that it must be if we can hear him from the house in the night,” Octavia said shortly.

  Claire found herself searching the shadows for the beast, a feeling of fascinated dread gripping her, then she was jerked out of that pastime as the carriage ground to a halt.

  “What in the name of Satan?” Helene exclaimed, clutching at the window frame to save herself from an ignominious fall. Berthe squealed and caught Octavia’s arm, then as the other woman shook her off impatiently so that she could thrust her head out the window, she subsided into a corner of the coach with an injured expression on her pale face.

  “Oh,” Octavia said, going very still.

  “Well?” Helene demanded.

  Still Octavia did not speak. There was a sudden flurry of shouts and curses from the driver, the coach bucked, lurching to the side of the narrow road, then the wheels of their carriage scraped those of another. A pair of cream horses pulling a yellow curricle crowded by them.

  On the seat was one of the most flamboyant figures Claire had ever seen. She knew instantly who it was. Belle-Marie, Justin’s quadroon mistress. After that one encompassing glance she turned her head, staring hard in front of her, thinking that the woman would pass them by. But the curricle pulled up when its driver was even with the windows of the carriage.

  She was the color known as café au lait, coffee with milk, a warm cream brown with a luminous quality to her skin. Her cheekbones were high, with a hint of Indian blood, and across them was a flush of color like the blush on a ripe peach. Her brows were winged arches of dark silk and beneath them were sloe-shaped pools of brown. Black hair was pulled back and covered by an orange silk turban boasting a gilt brooch of intricate, far-eastern design, a holder for a white ostrich plume that arched gracefully to fall to eye level, floating as she moved her head. In her ears dangled gold hoops, and her dress of soft peach muslin left her shoulders bare. She was so beautiful, even with her tawdry jewels and barbaric colors, that Claire felt her throat tighten with some difficult emotion that had nothing to do with admiration.

  An insolent smile on her lush mouth, Belle-Marie

  inclined her head. “I hope I see you well.”

  “Yes, of course,” Claire answered, though she was by no means sure that she should dignify this meeting with a reply. Would Justin be angry that she had stopped to bandy words with his mistress? Would it make any difference that it was Belle-Marie who had forced them to stop? Would he be inclined to side with his wife or his mistress in this situation? Claire thought she knew he would support her only if she acted as society expected.

  “And how do you fare at Sans Songe, a city girl

  from belle Nouvelle Orléans?”

  “As well, I’m sure, as you.” Claire was unable to

  bear that knowing smile.

  “Oh, but I am not of New Orleans. You could not know, of course, but I was born on Sans Songe.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Certainement. My parents were freed some years

  ago.”

  Claire saw the implication, that Justin had given

  her parents’ freedom to Belle-Marie as a gift.

  When she was sure that Claire was not going to comment, the quadroon continued. “I am one with Sans Songe; the swamp was my playground until the age of fifteen. I never worked, for here the children do not labor, though, of course, when I grew older I was given a—position—”

  Still Claire did not answer. She could not find a word to say in the face of such effrontery.

  “Why does the coachman not drive on?” Helene demanded, suddenly finding her voice. There was an echo of the question in Claire’s own mind.

  “You must not blame the man,” Belle-Marie informed them with a careless laugh, “I fear our wheels are locked.”

  “Insolent chit! Back your curricle at once so that we may proceed!”

  “Oh, I shall, in good time. First there is a thing that is in my heart to say to
Madame Leroux—the younger. You see, madame, I have this great fear, me, that Sans Songe is an unhealthy place for you.”

  “Why you!” Octavia exclaimed with the ferocity of one who had held her tongue as long as humanly possible.

  “Claire, you are within your rights to have this—this vulgar person whipped, and so I would, if I were you. She grows entirely too sure of herself.”

  “By all means,” Belle-Marie flashed, “though I think it would be wise to ask Monsieur Justin first.”

  Claire heard Berthe gasp yet again. Helene sat forward. “I will have it done then. I am not afraid of my son’s anger!”

  “Perhaps not, madame, but I have knowledge of another thing, a family—affair.”

  Helene made a low sound in her throat, but Belle-Marie did not wait to see how the older woman would react to her jeer. She turned back to Claire.

  “Sans Songe is not a safe place, madame, as I think you have discovered. It is possible that it will become even less safe if you should stay.”

  “I quite understand your feelings,” Claire said, meeting those dark, liquid eyes with her own level gaze, “but I was brought up to believe that a woman’s place was at her husband’s side, that a man and wife are two parts of a whole. And so I would not dream of leaving Sans Songe—or my husband!”

  6

  CLAIRE LAY BACK in the tub of warm, scented water and thought of the meeting on the road that afternoon. She could not dismiss it from her mind. What had. made her declare herself unable to leave Justin’s side? Was it simply pique, anger at the unbelievable insolence of Belle-Marie and a contrary determination not to be influenced by her barbaric attempts to frighten her? Or was there something deeper involved, something other than duty? It was not a question she cared to face. Fretfully, she squeezed the sponge of loofah-fiber dry and began to scrub with it. The sound of a door closing came to her, and she twisted her head toward the sound beyond the tall, wooden screen covered with painted muslin that surrounded her, closing in the warmth from the small fire in the fireplace and protecting her from drafts.

  “Rachel?” she called. She had dismissed the girl, weary of her constant attendance.

  “No.” The voice was deep and rough. Justin, and not in the best of moods from the sound. She opened her mouth to ask him to leave the room, then shut it.

  “You are back early,” she said instead.

  “Too early, it seems.” There was no humor in his voice.

  “I—I won’t be long. We went for a drive this afternoon and the roads were so dusty—”

  “I have been hearing about this drive.”

  A wave of depression swept over Claire. He was angry, and, as she had expected, at her. Still she managed to suffuse her voice with a careless coolness as she answered.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Tell me, how does it come about that you are enceinte?”

  How she wished that she could laugh gaily and pass it off as an amusing tale, but no, she could not. Hot color burned her face. There was a constriction in her throat and she barely managed to speak at all.

  “I’m not,” she murmured, staring at the soap-clouded water of her bath.

  “No? It is odd then that Berthe has the distinct impression that you are.”

  “It was Rachel. She told your aunt’s maid that I was often ill of a morning. You know how servants gossip. And I simply could not explain that—that it could not be.”

  Embarrassment made it impossible for her to sit still a moment longer, and she felt so vulnerable in her undressed state. Rising abruptly, she swung a towel hanging on the rim of the tub about her and stepped out. “Would you please hand me my dressing gown,” she requested. “It is on the foot of the—”

  She halted as Justin, one hand on the standing screen, wordlessly held out her wrapper. She took it, then shut her mouth in a thin line, while with the other hand she clutched the towel about her. They stared at each other in mutual suspicion and distrust.

  “So,” he said at last, “you have been ill in the morning. You have managed to hide it from me.”

  “Only because you leave so early for the fields. In any case, it was only a feeling of nausea, not so great a thing.”

  “For how long?”

  “Since—since that revolting voodoo symbol was placed under my bed. I have tried—truly I have—to tell myself it is all silly superstition, but this sick-ness persists.”

  “Are you quite sure? If I remember you did not protest so very much for someone marrying a stranger. I fully expected it to be necessary for you to be put on bread and water and locked in your room for a month before you consented. It would not be the first time a man had been duped. Are you certain there was nothing more than cousinly affection between you and the man you were all set to marry, what was his name? Jean-Claude?”

  The flush of anger slowly died out of her face leaving it as pale as carved ivory.

  “I would give you my word, but I doubt that you would believe me.”

  “Clever of you,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to—” she began with angry dignity.

  “Yes, I think I would,” he agreed, and moving with deceptive grace, he pulled her into his arms.

  She did not resist. At the back of her mind she knew it would be fatal to try. His kiss was neither gentle nor cruel, and though it had a quality of exploration, it seemed more designed to impress upon her his calm and deliberate passion.

  She wanted to remain as cool and unmoved as a vestal virgin, but she found the strength leaving her, so that she yielded, swaying against him, her lips molded to his. She scarcely heard the faint tap on the door and then the voice of Rachel asking if she was required to help her mistress to dress.

  Justin thrust her from him, and as Rachel appeared around the side of the screen, it was a moment before Claire could attend to her, so lost was she in receding emotions. Then a secret amusement sprang into her eyes. The wetness of her arms had imprinted themselves on the front of Justin’s shirt.

  “Later,” he promised her with a hard glance before he turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Dropping the towel and moving slowly to slip her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, Claire noticed Rachel’s too-stolid expression. How much had the girl gathered from what she had seen, she wondered, sighing, aware of the slight ache in her chest from the strength of Justin’s arms. How much would Rachel tell of it, and to whom?

  The maid brushed the dust of the road from her hair and braided it in a cool coronet. Then she passed the underdress of rose muslin over Claire’s head and tied the tapes at the back. The overdress of transparent pink gauze came next, and with it Claire decided on impulse to wear, on a black velvet ribbon, the cameo Justin had given her in her wedding basket.

  As she was being dressed Claire felt the nervousness in Rachel’s manner, and the girl’s attitude kept the scene with Justin before her mind. What was it she had said so impulsively; that her feeling of nausea had begun after the appearance of the gris-gris? Slowly a suspicion grew, a suspicion based on whispered stories heard over the years in the town where she had lived. In the old days, with the intrigues of the French court, poison had always been a possibility, the first thought at the onset of an unexplained illness. The habit of considering it had come naturally to New Orleans with the first French immigrants. Poison and intrigue had found a receptive climate in that warm city where labor was left to the slaves, leaving ample time for the quarrels and devious affairs that led to revenge in its quietest, surest form. Claire shivered a little, and touched the cameo at her throat, that of Louis XVII, the child king who was said to have been poisoned. Who would want to poison her? Would anyone have a reason? There was the quadroon, but surely she would not dare to go so far. No, she was frightening herself unnecessarily. She must be. But the thought would not leave her, and she was aware of a deep agitation when, a short while later, she walked out onto the back loggia.

 
She thought for a moment Justin was sitting with his father, then she sighed in unconscious relief as she recognized Edouard with his back to her.

  He rose at once when he saw her, and offered her the chair in which he had been sitting beside her father-in-law.

  She thanked him and, as she sat down and set, tied back, greeted Marcel as if she had no idea he could not answer. She thought she saw his eyelids flicker and a warmth come into his dark eyes at the sight of her. He was such undemanding company that she had grown fond of sitting with him, talking or not talking, as she pleased, in the past weeks. As she straightened her skirts, she smiled and nodded to Anatole, his patient shadow.

  She could feel her nerves relax. With Marcel and Edouard, at least, she knew there would be no awkward questions about her supposed pregnancy. Marcel could not ask them, and convention forbade Edouard to speak of it. Even if she had been as large as a cow he could have done no more than ask after her health. It was strange to think of Justin speaking so frankly. He was her husband, of course, and in addition, not so bound by the code of the gentlemen. Or was that strictly true? He had treated her with altogether more consideration than she had expected, until this afternoon. But she must not think of it or she would be blushing and Edouard would not be human if he did not wonder why.

  Edouard was not a very communicative person. Not since the first day she had met him had she really talked to him. She wondered if he regretted his confiding in her, or if he supposed that she held some grudge against him for being the cause of Justin’s childhood scarring. She hoped her manner had not given him any such idea.

  He was, it seemed, not much involved with the running of Sans Songe itself. He kept an eye on things while Justin was away, but his special interest was several hundred arpents of land given over to the cultivation of Sea Island cotton, a departure from the sugarcane that was the staple crop of the plantation. He was friendly enough, but rather self-effacing, spending the long evening hours in his room on the front side of the house. There did not seem to be much affection between himself and anyone else in the family, not even Berthe, his mother. They treated each other with a kind of distant civility, though at times Claire had seen Berthe stare after him, a curious expression of sadness on her face. But then Berthe enjoyed the role of tragedienne, Claire reminded herself; she liked to dramatize her life. And it seemed natural to suppose that she was only doing so when she looked at her fatherless son. Also, Edouard seemed to be a man with some strength of character and it was difficult to see why he chose to remain at Sans, Songe, in a subordinate position. Why didn’t he break away on his own, start his own plantation? Or failing that, at least live his own life, be his own man.