Love’s Betrayal (38 page)

The more jocular her father became, the colder Mr. LaTournay's response. “We shall lodge at my boardinghouse.”

The realization that she was leaving her parents' home, never to return, struck Georgette to the heart. She looked at her mother's tearstained face, studied her father's smug expression, and felt like choking. Was this their final parting? And Juliette—would she ever see her sister again? “What about Caramel?” Her question ended on a sob.

Her father stared as if she had lost her senses. “Her dog,” Mr. LaTournay explained. He took Georgette's clammy hand and squeezed it gently. “You and I shall travel north in a few days by horseback and river. I plan to send my man Noel ahead with our baggage. It will be easier for Caramel to travel with him. Noel is kind; Caramel will like him.”

Georgette felt her jaw quiver. “He will be afraid. He will think I have deserted him.”

“Not for long. Think how pleased he will be when you join him at Haven Farm. It would be best to leave him here overnight. Noel will collect him along with your remaining trunks in the morning.”

“Yes, dear,” her mother added, taking Georgette's other hand. “Biddy will be packing up your remaining belongings tonight. She will pack everything your pet will need, I am certain. You go ahead and leave everything to me.”

“All this bother about a dog. Dump the beast in the river and have done,” her father huffed. “I must drive the parson home now. Oh.” He paused and pulled a folded note from his waistcoat. “Nearly forgot to give you this. It arrived this morning. From the Grenville girl. Good night, daughter. Be a good wife if you know how and make your husband happy. We shall speak our farewells on the morrow, I've no doubt.”

Watching him escort the minister outside, Georgette wondered if her father had ever loved her.

The carriage driver stood in the hall just outside the parlor. “You got a trunk I should carry out?” He ducked his head in a bow and twisted his hat between his hands. His widening eyes took in Georgette's gown.

“The one in the hallway at the head of the stairs,” her mother said.

Mr. LaTournay headed upstairs, and the driver stumped after him. “God's blessings on you and your new missus,” Georgette overheard the burly man say. “'Pears to me like you done married an angel.”

Her mother closed the parlor door and embraced her. “Darling, I shall miss you so! I never wanted it to be this way. Juliette had a lovely wedding with many guests, but this!” Fresh sobs wracked her frame.

“It was not your doing, Mummy. I know you wanted a fancy wedding for me, but the husband matters far more than the ceremony. I do love my husband, and I believe we shall be happy together.”

She broke the seal, unfolded her note, and read quickly.

Georgette folded the note.

“What is wrong, dearest? Is Marianne unwell?”

Georgette handed her the letter. She scanned the page and sighed. “Alas, I had hoped you would not hear of this so soon.”

Georgette gaped. “You knew? You knew and did not tell me?”

Her mother would not meet her gaze. “I feared you would refuse to marry him. You know how essential it is for your father and me to return to England, Georgette. Any further delay would ruin us. You must learn to tolerate men and their weaknesses, my dear. Such things are part of life. But you will find compensation if you seek it.” She dabbed her tears away with a soggy handkerchief. “I always have.”

Regaining control, she wagged a finger in Georgette's face. “Marriage is for babies and security. Love is another thing altogether.”

Georgette wandered to the front window and stared out at the street. Her chest heaved in the effort to maintain control. Waves of heat rose from the cobblestones. Muggy air blanketed the city—it seemed worlds away from a crisp spring night, sparkling stars, and romance. Right there, beneath that streetlamp, the Frog had waited, looking up at her window. His avowal of undying love rang in her memory. She had sent him away forever. Even if by chance her mysterious hero were now to appear, he would be too late to rescue her.

LaTournay stared blankly at passing buildings and trees as the hired carriage rolled along the street. Not until he spoke them aloud had the full meaning of his wedding vows struck home.
Until death do us part.
Would he have the chance to grow old with Georgette? Would ever the day come when she knew him fully and loved him without measure? Or would his entire life be a lie, a charade, lived in craven fear of her ultimate rejection?

Georgette deserved better.

He turned to regard his wife's profile and noted her pallor. “Georgette, are you well?”

She gave him a weak smile, and regret twisted in his gut. Her wedding day, yet she looked frightened and ill. “My head aches, likely due to the heat,” she said. “When did you say we shall travel north?”

“If you are well enough, I had thought to leave Saturday morning. My business in town is complete.” He forced his voice to remain calm and sympathetic. “If you wish, you might rest your head upon my shoulder.”

Eyes closed, she relaxed against his shoulder. Despite his concern for her health, LaTournay felt excitement stir within him. For weeks and months, he had denied himself the pleasure of her embrace—had denied even the thought of her kisses. Duties had kept his mind and body occupied, and determination kept his imagination from straying into forbidden grounds.

Would she welcome his attentions?

His valet, Noel Dimieux, greeted them at the door to LaTournay's apartments. A smile nearly split the man's wrinkled brown face. Georgette acknowledged the introduction and thanked Noel for his congratulations. LaTournay ushered his wife into the sweltering sitting room. The windows stood wide but caught no ocean breezes. Moisture beaded on Georgette's pallid face and dampened the ringlets at her temples. Her hands trembled as she attempted to untie her bonnet strings.

“If you want to remove that gown, the bedchamber is beyond that door,” LaTournay said before realizing how she might misunderstand. He tugged at his tightening collar. “Your trunk is there. If you like, I shall request to have a bath brought up.”

Georgette nodded. “A bath would be nice.”

While Georgette bathed, LaTournay paced the sitting room, flopped into a chair, and rose to pace again.

Noel laid a light supper, then prepared to withdraw. He spoke in French. “A message left for you not yet an hour past, monsieur.” He handed over a twisted paper.

With muttered thanks in the same language, LaTournay frowned as he untwisted the note. Its contents darkened his frown.
“Folie.”
Crushing it in one hand, he tossed it upon the hearth.

He sensed Noel's regard but refused to acknowledge the silent inquiry. “That will be all, Noel.”

“
Oui,
monsieur. God bless you and Madame LaTournay.”

“What do you think of my wife?”

“Who could not approve such a fine woman, monsieur?
Très belle.
I now understand your determination to wed the lady.” Noel failed to conceal a fatherly smile. “Be patient with her, monsieur. I believe she suffers from emotional exhaustion—a common malady of new brides.”

“Ah.” The unsolicited advice startled him, coming from reticent Noel. “
Merci.
”

“I shall prepare your people at home for madam's arrival,” Noel promised with a toothy grin. “And you may assure madam that I will attend her dog as if it were my own. I shall enjoy meeting the animal again. God's richest blessings on your marriage, monsieur.”

For nearly an hour after Noel's departure, LaTournay read the newspaper, stared out the window, or paced. More than once he started to knock upon Georgette's chamber door, then reconsidered. At last he could wait no longer. “Georgette?”

Silence.

He opened the door. Evening shadows dimmed the small chamber, but he could see her clothing heaped upon the floor. Soap filmed the water in the unoccupied tub. Georgette lay prone upon the bed, clad in something white. Her golden hair cloaked her shoulders and most of her face. LaTournay knelt and touched her forehead. Damp and warm, but not feverish. He let his hand slide the length of her hair, down her back to her waist.

She moaned and her eyelids fluttered. “Mr. LaTournay … so sorry. My head …”

“Hush.” He dipped a handkerchief in the tepid water in his basin, wrung it out, and pressed it upon her forehead. Soon she slept again, her expression more relaxed.

LaTournay ate a lonely supper of cheese, bread, and sliced fruit. While prowling about his apartments, he cast occasional glances at the activity in the lamp-lit street below. Though the hour grew late, men headed toward the southern tip of the island, singly and in groups. LaTournay shook his head, refusing to believe, and turned away.

Shouts from below brought him to the window again. What he saw raised the hair at his nape. Making no effort at concealment, dozens of men hauled cannons up Broadway, grunting and groaning as they dragged at the heavy ropes. In defiance of reason, the rebels proceeded with their plot to purloin British cannons from the Grand Battery at Fort George.

LaTournay checked on Georgette. Candlelight revealed her peaceful face, turned her hair to a curtain of gold, and shimmered amid the silken folds of her garment. She would not notice his brief absence. Better to be occupied than to brood upon his wife's temporarily inaccessible charms.

While changing into dark woolen garments, he pondered the repercussions to this provocative move by the Provincial Congress. The British must be aware of the rebels' movements. Until now, they had displayed remarkable forbearance with the Americans, but blatant thievery of sovereign property was another matter.

Leaving his candle behind, he slipped into the dark hallway and down the stairs.

Boom!
The first earthshaking explosion pierced Georgette's fuzzy dreams. Several more salvos in rapid succession brought her eyes wide open. Darkness met her gaze. Shouts of panic reached her ears. “What was that? Where am I?” she asked aloud, struggling to sit upright. “What time is it?”

She sat upon a bed, clad in the scanty satin chemise her mother had insisted would be ideal for her wedding night. Wedding. She was a married woman. Memories of the ceremony flitted through her mind.

At least her head no longer ached.

“Mr. LaTournay?” She dimly recalled him bathing her forehead with cool rags, but that was all. She must have fallen asleep.

A thin line of light showed beneath the door. He must be in the other room. She groped around in the dark but could not find a bedgown. No matter. What had caused the noise outside? Was the city under attack? No further explosions had ensued, but now drums began to pound. Someone inside the boardinghouse screamed, and Georgette's heart thudded.