by Linda Ladd
Bethany frowned. "I don't understand why that made everyone here hate him. Things like that happen all the time, don't they?"
Andrew looked uncomfortable. "The Creoles take a breach of promise like that a bit more seriously. Here, it's an affront to the whole family. And the Dagoberts were influential in the Vieux Carré." He hesitated. "The whole family moved back to France not long afterward, but the Creoles are a clannish lot, and they don't forget things like that very easily."
Bethany stared at him, beginning to understand the situation a little better. "Thank you for telling me, Andy," she said at length. "I think I need to know all this. Poor Luke."
Andrew watched her leave the room, thinking that Peeto was a lucky boy to have her. Although he didn't know it yet, so was Luke.
Chapter 10
Bethany barely recognized her own reflection as she gazed into the full-length mirror. The birdlike Creole hairdresser gave the finishing flourishes to Bethany's carefully arranged blond ringlets, which were swept up at the crown with ropes of pearls and left to cascade down her back. The small woman's name was Francine, and she chattered constantly in her own heavily accented French patois, which Bethany was actually growing to understand.
Smiling at all the flowery compliments the lady was giving her, Bethany turned to Peeto and Raffy for an honest opinion. They sat together on the blue velvet bench at the end of the testers, watching with fascinated gazes the spectacle of Bethany preparing for her debut at the opera.
"Do I look all right?" she asked as she nervously smoothed the azure-blue chiffon that draped gracefully from the wide satin ribbon beneath her bust in the elegant style inspired by Bonaparte's court. The rounded neckline dipped low, revealing a goodly amount of her white breasts, and Bethany frowned at the display, wondering if it was acceptable among the Creoles to be so immodest.
"Oui, madame, zou look 'like a glowin' angel comin' down from de heavens," Raffy told her, his jet eyes rolling in wonder.
Bethany laughed, thinking that was surely one comparison Luke would never make. He certainly did not consider her anything closely akin to an angel. She waited for Peeto's reaction as she pulled on elbow-length white gloves. He frowned darkly at her, clearly not the least bit happy about her plans for the evening.
"I don't see why you have to go just because Luke says so. He ain't your boss."
"Isn't," Bethany corrected him, then had to correct herself. "Well, he is in a way, I guess, now that I'm his wife."
Peeto's scowl deepened. "I don't like it when you and him go off alone. He might hurt you like he hurt my mother."
Concerned by his unexpected words, Bethany sat down beside him, oblivious to the way Francine sucked in her breath in dismay as Bethany paid no heed to crumpling the back of her magnificent gown.
"What do you mean, Petie? How did Luke hurt her?"
Peeto was silent as he always was whenever his mother was mentioned, and Bethany sighed, wishing he and Luke could become closer.
"Luke won't hurt me," Bethany said finally, wanting to reassure him. "And, I've never been to the opera house before, and I think it will be wonderful fun. I wish you could come with us, but you probably wouldn't like it even if you could, because Michelle says it's just a bunch of people singing in words nobody can understand. You'd much rather stay here and play with Raffy, wouldn't you? Or, should I ask Luke if you can put on that new suit Madame Josephine made for you-the black velvet one with the ruffles on the necktie?"
Peeto shook his head quickly, but his handsome face remained glum. "I don't want to go. I want you to stay here with Raffy and me. We could all play with the tin soldiers up in the schoolroom like we did last night."
"We can do that tomorrow, or perhaps we'll go fishing. Or," Bethany added, resorting to a suggestion that she knew would appeal to him, "maybe Luke will let us visit Michelle again like we did on Tuesday. You liked Monsieur Benoist, and you can feed apples to Osiris."
Peeto's eyes lost their unhappy light, and he gave Bethany the bright, dimpled smile that she loved so much. "Can Raffy come with us, too? And can I ride Osiris?"
"Of course, Raffy can come, but you're not old enough to ride yet, especially a horse like Osiris. Luke said he would teach you to ride someday soon."
"He won't. He never does anything he says. He doesn't even see us much except for our lessons, and he's been gone for two whole days."
"He's got business to attend to in town, you know that. Maybe he'll stay at Cantigny when he brings me home tonight," Bethany said, her spirits still high from Luke's message, instructing her to ready herself for their first public appearance as man and wife, which had come early that morning along with Francine, the hairdresser, and the filmy blue gown. Despite the brief formality of the note, Bethany had been thrilled by the fact that she could actually read it herself. Every word. Whatever else Luke had done, he had made that possible for her, and she wouldn't forget it.
"He's teaching us to read, isn't he?" she added in Luke's defense when Peeto's scowl remained in place.
"But, that's dumb old book stuff. I want to ride Osiris like you do. Your hair blows out behind you in the wind, and I bet it feels real good."
"Yes, it does feel wonderful," Bethany had to admit, "but someday when you are master of Cantigny, you can have a horse like Osiris, if you want, and one for Raffy, too."
The little boys looked at each other, slow smiles brightening their expressions at that notion. Bethany hugged both of them.
"Now, go find Tante Chloe and see if she'll give you some of that praline candy she's been making all day."
As the children ran off, the hairdresser knelt to artfully rearrange the folds of Bethany's azure skirt, then fussed with the pearl-encrusted short sleeves.
"La magnifique," she murmured. "Monsieur will be pleased."
Bethany hoped she was right, because more than anything she wanted to please Luke on this night that was so important to him. In the last few days, she had often considered what Andrew had told her about her husband, each time with a greater sense of compassion and understanding. Over and over, she had tried to imagine what it must have been like for a five-year-old boy to be stolen from his home. How terrified he must have been!
Shivering, she remembered once long ago in Ohio when she had been very small and two Shawnee warriors had appeared suddenly from the surrounding forests with their feather headdresses and garishly painted bodies. Her father had made her hide in the stable while he spoke to them, eventually trading food and blankets for their beaver pelts. After they had gone, she had envisioned them sneaking back in the dark of night to steal her. She had lain awake in terror for hours, her eyes on the door of her tiny room behind the fireplace.
"Monsieur bez waitin', madame," Elise said from the doorway.
Bethany lifted the dainty white lace fan from the table, then draped an azure-blue satin cape that exactly matched her gown over her arm. More afraid than she had been since the night she married Luke, she lifted the hem of her long skirt the way Francine had showed her and made her way to the main staircase.
He was waiting below in the foyer, and Bethany stopped on the mezzanine to gaze down at him. He looked absolutely wonderful, so handsome and elegant in his black evening jacket and neatly folded white cravat. It was hard to imagine him now in the fringed buckskins, moccasins, and short black beard, though she well recalled how overpoweringly virile he had seemed then as well. With Luke, the garb didn't really matter.
He looked up suddenly as if sensing her presence, his eyes sweeping over her with a swift appraisal that made her stiffen self-consciously, until he flashed a smile so very much like Peeto's, his teeth white and even against his deep tan that her breath caught in the most delicious way. Luke didn't smile often, not at her, and not as he was now. She was inordinately pleased, so much so that she grew slightly alarmed. But, the first words he uttered only added to her burgeoning happiness.
"You will do me proud this night," he murmured, still smiling up at her as he
moved to the bottom of the stairs to await her.
Three steps from the floor, she could look directly at him, giving rise to an uncanny sensation since she normally had to tilt back her head to gaze up into his face. His great height had always intimidated her, as it probably did anyone who met him.
Luke stared at her a long moment with an inscrutable expression, but when his gaze dropped to her low décolletage, a warm blush moved up her neck to tint her smooth, creamy skin a rosy hue.
"I was thinking how very different you look now than you did in Natchez," he said, and Bethany smiled.
"I was thinking the same about you," she admitted as he took her satin cape and drew it around her shoulders, his strong fingers fastening the silken frog at the throat.
Bethany glanced at the empty foyer. "Is Andrew not going with us?"
"He plans to join us at the opera house. Come along, the carriage is waiting."
Something in his tone suggested that her question might have annoyed him, and Bethany immediately regretted having asked it. She wanted so much for the night to be pleasant for both of them.
He stood back without touching her, allowing her to precede him outside into the cool night air, and Bethany could not help being affected by the feel of his hand on her bare arm as he assisted her into the coach. He settled on the gold squabs beside her, the small confines of the carriage playing havoc with his long legs. As the conveyance lurched forward, Bethany gave him a shy, sidelong glance.
"I have never attended the opera," she began hesitantly. "Is there anything special I should do or say? I wouldn't want to embarrass you…"
Her words faded weakly as he focused his vivid green eyes on her once more; they were glowing like emeralds in the lambent light of the carriage lantern. "You won't, not the way you look tonight. Any man would be proud to call you his own." He flashed his disarming smile again, one that cut deep grooves in either side of his mouth. He had dimples, just like his son!
"Don't worry so much," he advised her. "I'll be there to help you, and so will Andrew. No one can rival you, not in that dress."
Bethany looked down, but her heart fluttered like a trapped sparrow.
"We will be under the scrutiny of everyone in the house, however," he continued a moment later, "so we'll have to put on a pretty good act of caring about each other. I hope you're up to playing the part of a loving wife."
Acting, Bethany thought, both her heart and her high spirits dropping several degrees. It made her angry that he felt obliged to put on an act of affection for her. Her silvery eyes flashed.
"I will do my part as we agreed, so that you can return to your mountains on schedule."
Something flickered in his eyes for a mere fraction of a second, something she couldn't read, as usual.
"Good girl" was his only comment, a nonchalant scrap of approval fit more for an obedient child than a grown woman. He probably thought of her that way, she realized, feeling insulted as she turned her gaze into the darkness.
The Theatre of Rue St. Philippe was a bees' nest of activity in the early evening hours, and Bethany was caught up in the excitement that permeated the crowded banquette as Luke assisted her from the coach. Great iron oil lamps, resplendent in their ornate holders, heralded the entrance to the theater, while the sounds of clopping hooves and rattling carriage wheels filled the night air.
A multitude of opera patrons vied for the seven hundred available seats in the new, splendidly appointed opera house. Bethany tried not to stare openly at the elegant Creole women with their carefully kept pale complexions and fine silk gowns.
"Surely every Creole family in town is here tonight, Luke!" Bethany said as he took her elbow to lead her toward the elegant front doors.
"They probably are, since this is the debut performance of The Marriage of Figaro," Luke told her. "After you've been in New Orleans a while, you'll find that the opera is the Creole's favorite pastime, except perhaps for horse racing. That's why I chose tonight for our first appearance together."
As he led her across the gold-flecked marble floor of the lobby, Bethany was so caught up in the gaiety of the bright lights and chattering groups of people in the magnificent theater that she was hardly aware of heads turning to follow her every movement. But, Luke saw the haughty Creole matriarchs eyeing Bethany with supercilious airs and whispering among themselves. No doubt they were thanking the Virgin Mother that it was not a Creole daughter who had been so foolhardy as to marry le sauvage, he thought bitterly.
The young Creole gentlemen were regarding her with quite different expressions, however, and as a sudden mood of protective possession swept Luke, he put his hand on Bethany's slim waist, guiding her toward the grand staircase. When she smiled up at him, her gray eyes filled with wonder, clearly overwhelmed in her naiveté by the gala atmosphere, Luke felt a wave of pleasure to have been the one who had escorted her there. He realized he wasn't the least bit immune to her soft, innocent beauty, or to the way her breasts swelled above her bodice.
Bethany was startled when he suddenly lifted her hand to his mouth, his lips touching the back with a gentle caress. A streak of pure, fiery reaction shot from where his mouth met her skin all the way to her heart, and she fought her overpowering response to him, painfully aware that his tender display was not for her, but for the Creoles watching them. He was only playing his role, she told herself firmly.
Determined to do the same, she smiled up at him, filling her eyes with as much warmth as she could, then lifted her fingertips to stroke his lean, clean-shaven cheek, her caress not as contrived as Luke's had been. She had often wanted to touch the crease etched there by his rare smiles.
To her surprise, Luke jerked his head back from her touch as if it had burned him. In startled dismay, she wondered if she had inadvertently breached some unwritten social etiquette. Michelle had told her young Creole girls could not walk alone on the streets or converse with a man without a family member's presence, but surely a wife was permitted to touch her own husband in public, even in the strict, caste-conscious Creole society. Luckily for her, Andrew chose that moment to step between the crimson velvet drapes framing the doorway of his private box.
"Luke! There you are! Come on in, the lights will be going out soon," Andrew said, flashing a quick smile at Bethany. As Luke took the cape from her shoulders, Andrew stared openly at his brother's wife. "Good God, you look gorgeous tonight!"
Bethany blushed, Luke frowned, and Andrew grinned unrepentantly as he ushered them inside the box, which, he told Bethany, he had made sure closely overlooked the stage. He stood back, and Bethany sat down on the black velvet cushions of a graceful settee, looking around her with keen interest. Luke took his place beside her, smiling as she leaned forward, her gaze feasting on the sumptuous interior of the opera house. He followed her regard to the floor below, which was filled to capacity, conversation rising in a buzz as hundreds of people spoke at once. Above them, on the third floor, a second row of boxes stretched in a horseshoe shape around the curtained stage and just below the great, vaulted ceiling. He wondered briefly how many people were discussing the child bride of the Américain savage behind their plumed fans.
"You are not escorting anyone tonight?" he asked as Andrew sat down in a chair beside the settee.
Andrew grinned as he poured three goblets of golden French champagne from the magnum chilling in a silver bucket beside him. "Not until after the performance, when Miss Cynthia Ludlow will be free."
"The soprano?"
"Yes, and she's a beauty of the rarest kind."
"I didn't know you knew her," Luke remarked, sipping his wine. "Where did you meet?"
"I prosecuted a case against her brother the last time she played here. He's her manager, you know, and he took a bit more of the performance purse each night then he was entitled to. The theater owner turned him over to the authorities, but I got them to go easy on him. He had to stay in the calaboose for only ten days."
Luke turned to Bethany, who was samp
ling champagne for the first time in her life and finding the bubbly brew very much to her liking, though it tickled her nose.
"Didn't it upset Miss Ludlow when you got her brother thrown in jail?" Luke asked on a wry note.
"A little at first, I guess, but that was six months ago. They've been in Natchez since then-they have a home there-so she's had plenty of time to get over my part in her brother's trial. If not, maybe these will make her forget all about that little misunderstanding," Andrew said, his blue eyes alight with supreme confidence as he held up a gigantic bouquet of roses.
Luke shook his head, not at all sure Miss Ludlow would have forgotten or that she would think flowers adequate restitution for her brother's jail sentence. Bethany smiled when Andrew gave her a wink just as the lamps began to dim.
Bethany watched the people on the stage with great fascination, wishing she could understand the words they were singing. She took special interest in the object of Andrew's infatuation, in total agreement that Cynthia Ludlow was strikingly lovely with her black hair and flashing black eyes which made Bethany think of a Spaniard she had once met at Valerie Goodrich's house in Natchez. Cynthia's sweet, resonant voice made Bethany shiver.
By the time the intermission lamps flared, Bethany was enjoying herself immensely. All thoughts of the opera vanished instantly, however, when Luke draped his arm across the back of the settee and casually drew her closer to him.
"It's time for a performance of our own," he whispered, his warm lips moving against her ear. "Try to look as if you're enjoying this."
His mouth moved lower, along the sensitive cord of her throat, and Bethany's eyes drifted shut of their own accord, a small moan of pleasure escaping her parted lips.
