She rearranged his arm in hers and began walking. “You forget that I was brought up in French court life. Mistresses of powerful men came and went like summer rains. Though I'm not shocked, I will tell you that I don't really approve. And if I marry again, my husband shall have no need to seek female companionship elsewhere.”
He smiled down at her, color returning to his face. “If a man had you for a wife,
chérie,
he'd have to be blind to want another woman.” They walked the remaining distance home, arm in arm like two lovers, and Philippe departed reluctantly.
Maria was thrilled with her news about the opera, but less than pleased with the picture of Philippe placing a lingering kiss on Lianne's lips before his departure. “You are too friendly with that one,” she warned Lianne as Lianne took off her gloves.
Lianne threw the gloves on the chair and poured a cup of hot tea. “You sound exactly like Dera.”
“SÃ.
Señora Dera knows him better than you. This Philippe Marchand is not right for you. He'll cause much misery.”
“Perhaps, but he is pleasant. I can't refuse to see him, Maria. He did arrange for me to meet the director of the opera company. I'm in his debt.”
“Ha! Before long you'll be in his bed, my poor little goose. I don't want you hurt again.”
Maria's concern touched her, but life looked bright at the moment. “Nothing will hurt me any longer, especially not a man. I must think of my daughter and my career before I give love to another man.”
Maria sniffed. “Don't end up like poor Honorine.”
“Honorine? Who is she?”
Maria sat on the sofa, her large, dark eyes glowing. “I talked to the housekeeper next door. She told me that a woman named Honorine who sang for the opera lived in this house a few years ago. She loved a man, not wisely I'm told, and the poor wretched thing took poison when the man grew tired of her. She died in this room. The housekeeper says the house is haunted.”
“What a terrible story. How unfortunate for Honorine.” Lianne shivered. “But you don't believe in ghosts, Maria, do you?”
“No, only the living need be feared,” Maria said philosophically. “I tell you this, so you won't become like this Honorine.”
Maria then left her in the quiet of the room. The hazy afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains on the window, but Lianne felt cold. A woman died in this room, a woman who sang for the opera. Why hadn't Philippe told her this? He must have known about the girl. After all, he owned the place. She finished her tea, then hurried from the parlor as Désirée's cries drove Honorine from her head.
Damn it to hell! Philippe swore to himself as his carriage stopped along the rue des Ramparts. Why did Chloe have to leave the little white house he provided for her and Jean Marc? Why did she have to pass just as he walked arm in arm with Lianne? What would have been Lianne's reaction if Jean Marc had called him “Papa”? Thank the Lord that Chloe had some control over their son, otherwise, his romance with the auburn-haired temptress would have ended before it had even begun.
Bounding up the small steps of the house, he took out his key and opened the door to find Chloe sitting on a chair and stitching a shirt of Jean Marc's. The orange turban had been removed, and her dark brown hair cascaded softly around her shoulders, the fading afternoon sun highlighting the delicate bone structure of her face. When she lifted her head to smile sadly at him, her lashes uncovered the loveliest pair of brown eyes Philippe had ever seen, and he felt lucky she loved him.
“I didn't expect you, chérie,” she said in her soft way.
Guilt tore through him. She had seen him with Lianne and he knew she was hurt, but he knew her well enough to know she'd never reproach him, never say anything about the incident. In her accepting way she'd do whatever he wished. It seemed he had always loved Chloe. From the moment his father bought the house for him and encouraged him to attend the quadroon ball where his young eyes lighted upon Chloe, easily the most beautiful girl there, he had lost his heart to her forever.
The memory of her in a flowing white gown which any white woman would envy passed across his mind. He remembered asking his father if Chloe was really a quadroon, her skin was so white, and being told that she was the child of a white man and a mulatto woman.
Most of the young creole men were secretly encouraged by their fathers and male friends to form a relationship with the quadroons. After all, why not have the best of both worldsâa white bride who will give legitimate heirs and a dark mistress who will see to a man's every need. To be the mistress of a white man was the aim of every young quadroon. But the men never considered marriage to these women. It just wasn't done though some of them, like Chloe, had fairer complexions than their white counterparts. For Philippe, this was always a secret yearningâto marry Chloe. No other woman had ever come close to her beauty, her gentleness. Except Lianne. And he knew the time had come for him to marry. Chloe knew it, too.
She laid aside her sewing and standing up, she held out her hands to his and kissed him tenderly. He couldn't help but notice the tears shimmering in her eyes. His heart nearly broke. He pulled her close, catching the scent of gardenia in her hair. “This is the only place I wish to be, my love.”
“Our son is visiting a few houses away and will stay for supper. We have a little time to ourselves before he bombards you with questions.”
She turned to lead him to the bedroom, but he stopped her. “Have you no questions?”
She shook her head. A stray tear coursed down her cheek. “No,
chérie.
I knew the time would come when you'd take a true wife. I'm grateful I've had you to myself for so long. Most of my friends haven't been as fortunate.”
“How do you know I'll marry her?”
Chloe sighed. “Because I saw the way you looked at her, and I've seen that look on your face for me many times. Besides, she is most beautiful, but she'll never love you like I do.”
Philippe realized she might be right but he kept that to himself. For some reason he had to marry Lianne. She was a fire in his blood, or perhaps he enjoyed the challenge she presented. Chloe was so predictable. Though Chloe had presented him with a son, he needed a legitimate heir for Belle Riviere.
“Nothing changes for us,” he said, hoping to mollify her. “I'll still provide for you and Jean Marc. And I'll still need you, chérie, for other things.” He stroked her cheek.
She said nothing but led him into the bedroom where her hands, lips and heart expressed her love for him.
God, life was frustrating! Daniel couldn't help but think this as he leaned over the ship's railing. The landscape of Spain blended into the misty morning sky, and soon the dazzling brilliance of the court life, the women, would fade into memory. Just as all the other places he had been the last few years. Everywhere but the summerhouse in Ireland, that is. He remembered that night with clarityâthe beautiful auburn-haired woman who had given herself so passionately to him. Lianne. His mind said her name over and over until he withdrew his gaze from the speck on the horizon which was Spain.
He moved from the railing and took out his small sketch book from the top pocket of his jacket. On the first page was a line drawing of Kathleen and Douglas. Also one of the dachshund named Mitzie. He smiled, suddenly missing the two scamps. How lucky was Paul to have such beautiful children. All his life it seemed that Paul had been favored. First by his parents though not as much by his mother as his father. He remembered the way his father had doted on his eldest son because he resembled him so much in looks and temperament. Of course Daniel knew he was loved as well, but not with the same ferocity. Probably because he had been ill as a child and was more or less tied to the house a great deal. He also resembled his mother which may have branded him as more hers in his father's mind.
If it hadn't been for Claude, his childhood and young adulthood would have passed without a ripple. He wondered how Claude coped with Amelie. Probably the fellow was insane by now. Amelie could be so demanding, and Claude was such an easygoing person. But thoughts of Claude depressed him because he had to remember his wife. Soon he'd be home again. He wondered if she'd be pleased to see him. He doubted if time had healed the wounds. For him, it hadn't. Seeing her again would bring back all the agony of knowing he'd never have the children he so desperately wanted.
Flipping through the notebook, he caught sight of the sketch he had done of Lianne. Of course it had been drawn from memory, a rather hazy recollection at best, but he felt it was exact. His finger traced the lines of her face, the tilted eyes, the perfect mouth. For a second he remembered a scene from his childhood. He saw himself as about seven or eight on the back lawn of Belle Riviere before the Marchands bought the plantation. He remembered playing ball with a small child of about two or three. Her long auburn hair curled like vines to her shoulders, and she laughed in glee every time she threw the ball back to him.
He started because the child reminded him of Lianne, in fact she'd resemble his drawing when grown. But it was impossible. The tiny girl and the grown woman were oceans apart. Hope faltered in him suddenly. He'd never find her. Like a stupid fool, he'd fallen in love with a phantom, a woman who entered his life for a moment and then vanished like a morning mist. If it hadn't been for Dubois and the singers at the opera in Madrid, he would have doubted her existence.
“Lovesick fool,” he muttered under his breath and put his sketch pad away.
At home his wife waited, a woman crippled because of him. For all of Amelie's faults, he wondered if she still loved him. She had loved him once, and he realized he needed someone to care for him, needed a safe harbor from the stormy seas of life, the turbulence of his own soul. He vowed to make things up to Amelie, to become the husband she wanted.
The time had come to start life anew.
Tingles like pinpricks ran up and down Amelie's legs. She'd felt these same prickles for the last few weeks but they always subsided. Now the sensations had started earlier that morning, before dawn, and it was nearly noon, and still they persisted. She rubbed her hands along the softly rounded calves, stopping at her upper thighs and down to her feet. She could feel them, could actually move her toes! Tears streamed down her cheeks. God, please let me walk again, let me ride! she prayed silently.
She remained in her nightgown, a pale pink creation with soft lace at the neckline and loose sleeves, cuffed at the wrists. Lallie had inquired more than twice as to why she didn't dress today and watch the horses. Even Dera had looked in on her after Lallie told her that she was still abed and for a moment she had been touched by her mother-in-law's concern. But she remembered Dera had never cared for her and only checked on her because she was Daniel's wife. Amelie knew if Dera had her way she'd have been returned to Belle Riviere long ago. So, she said she felt fine but was rather tired and thanked her for caring.
“I do care about you,” were Dera's parting words, given with a smile.
Amelie felt momentarily sorry for herself because Philippe, her own brother, hadn't visited her in weeks. Not since riding off to New Orleans with the French strumpet. But as the life flowed back into her legs, she forgot her dislike of Lianne and what she felt were Dera's and Philippe's disregard.
Suddenly her legs felt light. The tingles seemed to lessen, and she didn't know whether to be frightened. She knew she had to try to move her legs, but it took her some time to gain her courage. Bracing herself, she willed the limbs to move, and they did. Little by little she inched to the side of the bed until her legs hung over the side. Joyful tears flowed fast, but she wiped them away and held onto the bed post. Then she pressed her feet to the floor and eased herself up, expecting her legs to buckle. They didn't.
Her heart hammered in her ears. She did it! For the first time since her accident, she had gotten out of bed on her own power. She waited a moment before taking the final test. Could she walk the distance to the balcony doors?
She swallowed hard. Her legs moved in that direction a little at a time as her fingers slowly slid from the bed post. She felt wobbly but she steadied herself on a nearby table, then the back of a chair. Before too long, her hand was on the balcony doorknob. She opened it, holding onto the door, happy tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked toward the river, a barely perceptible streak of silver in the afternoon sun. Double rows of oaks reached toward the brilliant blue sky.
She was so consumed with joy she didn't hear the creaking of the door leading into Claude's room. Not until she felt a hand on her shoulder did she realize Claude's presence. She gazed into Claude's equally surprised and baffled face.
“Amelieâ¦?” he began uncertainly.
She nodded her head as the tears glimmered in her eyes. “I walked, Claude. I walked!”
She faltered against him, suddenly weak and tired. He gathered her in his arms, holding her gently at first. “I'm so happy. The Lord has made you well.” Her eyes met his, and she was so beautiful that all his pent-up emotions, hidden for so long, spilled forth like an exploding volcano. Holding her tightly against him, he said, “I love you, Amelie. I love you so much.” His mouth devoured hers, drinking in the honeyed sweetness of her lips. Beyond thinking, beyond caring that he was a slave and she was his mistress, he wanted her with a burning ache which only her love could quench.