Surrender to Love

Text copyright ©
Mary H. Moore, 1996

Originally Published by Zebra Kensington Books
October 1996 as
Surrender to Love
by Heather Moore

Digital copyright © Mary H.
Kelch 2013

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

There have been so many people who supported my work when this first came out so many years ago, but it is to my husband
Danny that I dedicate this book – and all others I create.  Thank you for supporting my return to writing.  I love you.

Prologue

New Orleans

September 1856

“Are you out of your mind?”  Robert Delacroix asked dubiously as he added a brief note to the paper on the desk before him.

Clinton Markham leaned back and rested his elbows comfortably on the chair’s arms.  The sharpness of his green eyes met his attorney’s with unmoving decision.

“I meant every word I said.”

Delacroix set down his pencil
and regarded Clinton with a dissatisfied scowl as he raked an impatient hand through his silver hair.

“In all the years I’ve handled your affairs you’ve never mentioned this, Clinton,” he stated, “and it’s a damnable time to be bringing it up.”  Delacroix arched an eyebrow skeptically, awaiting a reply.

“You don’t need to know
all
my business, Robert,” he said calmly, his gaze piercing Delacroix’s look of concern.  “And there are some things better left unsaid due to embarrassment.”

Delacroix released a sigh of resignation.  “A few thousand dollars and papers of manumission I can understand.  But twenty-five percent of all business profits?  That’s a bit extreme.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Clinton shot out with a ferocity that caused Delacroix to jump in his seat.  “She’s
my
daughter, colored or no. I’m not going to sit back and watch her get sucked into the dredges of society.”

“You realize the scandal it will create – not to mention a few legal battles as well
.  The law won’t allow this woman to own property in any form, regardless as to who her father is.”

“I trust that when I die you’ll carry out my wishes and safeguard my estate.  That
is
what I pay you for, Robert.  If a percentage of the business is a problem, then make it a flat fifteen thousand.  That should keep her rather comfortable for some time.”

“Very well,” Delacroix confirmed and gathered his papers under his arm.  “I’ll draw up another copy of the will and bring it over in the morning. What’s your son going to say about all this,” he asked thoughtfully after a pause.  “He’s expecting to gain total control of all your assets, you know.  There’s no telling what his reaction to that fifteen thousand will be.”

Clinton regarded his attorney with eyes of green fire and replied coldly, “The way he’s acted toward me, the young bastard should feel damned lucky he hasn’t been cut out altogether.”

Delacroix left with a shrug of his shoulders, and Clinton released a pondering sigh.  He was doing the right thing, and no one would convince him otherwise.
Of course, if his cronies ever heard about this – this
public acknowledgement,
in his last will and testament, of a Negro child sired by him – there’d be no end to his disgrace.

But he couldn’t deny the guilt that stabbed at his conscience whenever he thought of what he had done, of the hopelessness he had brought to the life of a young woman he had never met, and, out of shame, never desire to see.

Cursing loudly, Clinton angrily cleared his desktop in one sweeping motion, papers scattering about the floor, the silver inkwell spilling its contents across the wool carpeting.  Damn his indiscretion.  And damn Clara for coming to him so willingly while he wallowed in the loneliness of his wife’s death.  It angered him to no end that he had been so weak as to accept her open invitation, her loving arms and soft body.  Never before had he shared his bed with any of his Negro slaves…but that night she had somehow filled the cold emptiness that encased his heart.

He never even thought about the possible consequences.

And now, for almost seventeen years, he had lived with the guilt of both the child and the birthing that had torn away Clara’s life. Although he could never bring himself to face the daughter he had sired, Clinton found the babe a home in the early days of her life.  Nothing extravagant, but she was well cared for by the aging couple who ran one of his mercantile stores; and he forwarded a small sum of money each month to assure her well-being.

Clinton sighed and wearily bent to retrieve the scattered papers.  He had done all he possibly could without compromising his position; but after his death, he would
redeem himself – do all the things he wished he could have done in his lifetime – and make it right for the mulatto girl-child he had so mistakenly brought into the world.

Chapter One

May 1857

“Sabine, would you please help me put these bolts of clothing away,” Adele called up the stairway.

“Of course, Mama.”

Sabin DuBois grabbed pink satin hair ribbon and tied back her hair.  Wrinkling her nose, she frowned at the mirrored image of the dark, unruly curls that framed her face and flowed down her back in a perpetual cascade.  She let loose a quiet sigh of longing.   Why couldn’t she have gentle waves and ringlets like so many of the “rich girls” who paraded themselves around New Orleans?

She studied herself closely in the mirror and quickly decided she was not what most men would consider pretty.  The girl who stared back had too high cheekbones and too full lips.  Her skin was a creamy shade of honey tan – not at all like the
porcelain skin of the prominent beauties who frequented the more affluent sections of the city.  Comparing herself to them was utterly futile; she had envied their patrician good looks almost every second of her life.  How often had she fervently wished to be blond and elegant instead of a shopkeeper’s plain daughter.

“Sabine!”

Sabine bounded down the stairs hurriedly, as she had done almost every day of her seventeen years, accompanied by the rat-tat-tat of her heeled shoes.  She hesitated briefly at the bottom of the steps and silently vowed,
Today.  Please, God, let him notice me today.
  One of these days, she knew, he would
have
to take notice of her.  He would notice her, and everything would be right in the world.

The supplication was subconscious, almost second nature by now – a ritual she had adhered to over the past two years; and diligently she counted the days as she eagerly awaited the third Thursday of every month.  So silly it seemed, she thought as she paused again in the emptiness of the back room, her heart fluttering with nervous anticipation.  Troy Markham was only a man; but Sabine couldn’t help but dream.  He was handsome…and gallant…and his father owned one of the biggest shipping companies in the South; he had the world by the tail. Why, she managed to learn just about everything there was to know about him – even the fact that he was twenty-two years old and yet to be married.

Yes, she knew all she could possibly know. But, still, he had yet to acknowledge her presence whenever they stood in the same room.

She drew a quelling breath as she stepped into the main room of the store. Sabine smiled shyly, and reminder herself that she must remain modest and never attract attention to herself. 

Oh, but it was frustrating!  How could a girl not help for falling for Troy Markham and wanting to attract his attention?  His blue eyes, his finely chiseled features, his broad shoulders. So many times Sabine had lain awake at night, wondering how it would feel to be held in his arms, to hear him murmur tender words in her ear.  It would be truly wonderful, she had often mused, to have him love her, marry her, care for her for a lifetime.

She knew it would never happen. The laws of the Southern states would never allow it – not in a hundred years, not in a thousand years. But she had a right to dream, didn’t she?  In her world – the perfect little world in her imagination – love was the only thing that mattered; not one’s station in society or the color of one’s skin. In her world, she and Troy could be together forever…and she would wear his wedding ring
and care for his house, and raise their babies.

Sabine sighed inwardly and watched him secretly behind veiled eyes, a tentative smile flickering at the corners of her mouth.  If she reached out a little bit farther, she could brush the sleeve of his jacket with her fingertips.  A fluttering of excitement surged through her, and she quickly hid her hands behind the counter
.  Drat these feelings!  There were days when she had to keep her hands tightly balled within the folds of her skirts for fear they would suddenly develop minds of their own and embarrass her completely.  But a simple touch – no matter how accidental or intentional – would be enough to sustain her for another four weeks.

Troy’s disregard only caused Sabine’
s yearning to increase.  He always had a smile and a compliment for everyone.  Well, everyone but her, it seemed.  Didn’t he see her?  Or was she so undesirable men looked
through
her, not at her?  Far too many times she wished she could become the type of woman Troy Markham would admire.  But, in this, she knew her hopes were futile; no matter how hard she tried, she could never change the fact that she was only seventeen – and mulatto.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Markham,” she heard Adele
DuBois say graciously, and Sabine shook herself from her daydream.  “We’ll see you next month.”

“Of course,” he replied in a husky drawl.

His words incited a reaction that Sabine desperately wanted to stifle.  Butterflies rose from the pit of her stomach, and a strange, warming sensation crept up through the lower areas of her abdomen.  She averted her eyes quickly and fingered a bolt of red-sprigged calico, hoping that he would not detect the shame that filled her.

“Have a good day, Mrs.
DuBois.”

“You, too, Mr. Markham,” Adele returned

He left then with the tinkle of the door’s bell, and without a word to Sabine.

Her heart sank.  Once again, he had neglected to acknowledge her
, and the pain was as acute as it had been four weeks ago.  What was wrong with her?  Was the color of her skin so utterly important that he could not look past it?   She just wanted to be like everyone else – accepted, admired – but no one would give her the chance.  Instead they stared, they whispered, they turned their noses up at the “nigra girl” who worked behind the counter at the LaSalle Street Emporium.

E
ven as much as she tried to hide it, she resented every moment of society’s ostracism because the color of her skin happened to be darker than most.  She hated having to pretend she wasn’t educated when her mother dutifully tutored her each night.  And she hated having to pretend to be subservient to white folks, lest they think her and “uppity nigra.”

So, t
hen, what was she? 
Who
was she?  Every time she turned around, it seemed, she was confronted by her place in society because her mother had been a dark-skinned Negro – and her “place” still confused her, angered her, even after all these years.  She was expected to be humble, eyes downcast, in the face of Southern society; but at the same time, the special, exalted position of the quadroon mistresses was no secret to her either.  Groomed for their position in life since birth, these women, considered colored by the standards of New Orleans society, were educated in France, attended the theaters and fancy Quadroon Balls, dined in some New Orleans’ most elegant restaurants.  An ornament they were considered to be; no gentleman of wealth would be without one until he married – and sometimes for years afterwards.