Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  The table might have become populated by statues. The silence spread through the room like fog. Surely to God the woman did not refer to sexual things at table, in front of her mother, her father, her brother? He stared at her, the blood rising from his collar to his hairline.

  “Valets and the like,” she finished and took a bite of custard as if she’d had no notion of implying anything otherwise.

  Did Lucille know about Tansy? How could she know? Evan Windsor would not have told her he’d seen Tansy, he was sure of it. What man would speak of such a thing to his sister?

  Valere stole a glance at his wife. She was as pink as he’d ever seen her. She’d clearly taken her sister’s meaning to be salacious. Then she knew? He felt his heart drop low in his chest. He would not have her know for any treasure in the world.

  Abigail was so pretty. Her hair a pale honey, her eyes big and blue. She had a tiny waist and sweet little hands, so white, so soft. But she didn’t like him to touch her. She didn’t even like him to talk to her. He put a hand to the throbbing vein at his temple. It was Lucille’s fault, the poisonous bitch.

  “Lucille, dearest,” Mrs. Windsor said, “if you’re finished, let’s leave the gentlemen to their cigars.”

  The three ladies rose and wafted the scent of rose and lavender as they left the room.

  Valere stared at his goblet, twisting the stem as if he were entranced by the ruby glow of the wine. His father and brother-in-law let the silence fill the room. He would not speak of Tansy. He would never speak of her to these people.

  “It is apparent,” Mr. Windsor spoke at last, “that Lucille’s remark took on added meaning to you, Valcourt. Perhaps you would explain?”

  Valere shifted in his chair so that he presented an upright profile. He looked his father -in-law in the eye. “There is nothing to explain.”

  “Father,” Evan said, “Valcourt is a Creole —”

  “I have been in Louisiana thirty years, young man. Do not presume to lecture me on Creole morality. Or the lack of it.” He stabbed his finger toward Valere. “You did not marry some poor Creole woman who expects a sinner for a husband. You married my daughter.”

  Valere’s jaw tightened. He had never seen the sense of firing guns or slashing sabers at one another, but if he were a dueling man, he would be contemplating which cousin would act as his second. He raised his head and met Mr. Windsor’s glare.

  “I believe Creole men make excellent husbands, sir,” Valere said, his free hand fisted on his thigh.

  Mr. Windsor nodded at the servant to bring the humidor, selected a cigar, and puffed as the man held a match. Once he had a glowing tip and an aromatic cloud of smoke, he pointed his cigar at Valere. “Damned well better.”

  Valere stood stiffly, made a slight bow to each gentleman, and left the room. His knees and ankles stiff, he crossed the hallway like a stick man. He’d not been dressed down since he’d left the nursery. Insufferable, smug, provincial, narrow-minded Américains. He would not forget their snide superiority.

  When he found the ladies, Lucille was whispering in his wife’s ear. His gut churned at the satisfied gleam in the harpy’s eye. Never in his life had he thought to strike a woman, but he envisioned himself grasping Lucille’s pinched face in his big hand and shoving her to the floor.

  “Mrs. Valcourt, it’s time to go.”

  “So soon?” Mrs. Windsor crooned.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He made her a bow and then looked to Abigail.

  He held his breath. What if she refused to come? Her eyes were on her hands held tightly at her waist. Humiliation lapped at his boots, rose to his knees.

  Without looking at him, Abigail crossed to Mrs. Windsor and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mother.”

  Valere’s throat eased. He offered Abigail his arm and led her from the room, from the house, from her horrible, hateful sister.

  They walked the three blocks to the Valcourt townhouse. As soon as they were inside, Abigail lifted her hand from his arm and without a word or a glance, climbed the stairs to her rooms. Valere stayed behind to nurse a bottle of wine. He had a good head. He could drink the whole damn bottle and still climb upstairs with perfect equilibrium.

  He was not given to introspection. He was not given to deep thought of any kind. He had no need of it. He was wealthy. He was established. He was young and healthy. Nevertheless, black thoughts weighed him down.

  His father had kept a placée all the years his mother had been alive. Still did, in fact. Bridgette had a very fine house on Rampart, was a beauty even at her age. Maman had probably had no inkling of her existence. If she did, she certainly never complained. She had been a good wife to his father, and he had given her children, wealth, status, a home in the country and in the city. That was as it should be. Having a placée did not make a man less of a husband. Every Creole man knew that. What was the matter with these rod-up-the-butt Americans?

  Valere grew sentimental as the wine flowed through his veins. Abigail was such a pretty little thing. He’d expected her to be as sweet as she was pretty. She would be sweet to him if it weren’t for that scheming … he searched for a word strong enough for his rancor … that scheming, ugly sister. Why did Abigail listen to her? Had she no loyalty? He was her husband!

  Valere picked the bottle up by the neck and rose to his feet. He walked quite steadily, extremely steadily, to the door and up the stairs, his aggrieved indignation growing the closer he came to Abigail’s bedchamber. By God, she could squirm or lie motionless as a board under him as she chose, but she owed him a houseful of children. In his inebriation, Valere believed he adored children, that he craved a dozen. And they’d every one be sons, goddamn it.

  Her door was locked. It was always locked. He tapped on it with the lip of the bottle. She did not respond. He pounded the door with the heel of his hand.

  Abigail opened the door. She was in a white muslin nightdress with satin roses appliquéd around the neck. Her blond hair curled around her shoulders.

  So pretty. He pushed his way into the room. She had three candelabra lit. Now he could see her face. Swollen red eyes, dark circles.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  She turned away from him. “You’re drunk, Mr. Valcourt.”

  “No. Not drunk. I’m never drunk.” He spoke distinctly. He knew he did.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. He rubbed his thumb over the pretty muslin, feeling the delicate bones underneath. Too pretty to cry.

  She shrugged his hand away. “I know.”

  His wine-soaked brain sensed nothing ominous in her words or tones. “You know what, sweetheart?”

  He reached a hand to touch her cheek, but she slapped it away.

  “I know about her.”

  Like the sun peeking through a cloud cover, an errant ray of understanding lit his mind. He considered denying it, but if she knew, she knew. And what of it?

  “It’s got nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with you and me.”

  “Nothing to do with me?” Abigail’s blue eyes looked black, her voice hissed like an angry cottonmouth. “You spill your seed with her, how am I supposed to have my babies?”

  Oh. Was that all? He smiled indulgently. “My dear, I have sufficient seed for a dozen women.” He laughed softly to himself, it was such a good joke. “I have sufficient seed for two dozen women.”

  Before the pain registered, Valere was aware his head had been violently turned to the side. Then the stinging of his cheek explained that his wife, tiny little Abigail, had slapped him.

  Surprised, though not offended, he said, “Don’t do that.”

  Arms held tightly to her chest, her shoulders heaved. Poor Abigail. He’d comfort her. He’d take her to bed and show her how much he loved her, how much love he had to give. Plenty for everyone.

  “I can make you happy, Abigail.” He held his arms open to embrace her. “You’ve just been too tense. Now you’re used to it, you just need to relax. You’ll see.”

 
She moved away from him. “I want my babies.”

  He smiled at her, a genuine, affectionate smile. He was an affectionate man. She’d see. He would make her very happy. “I’ll give you babies. Come here.”

  She held her hand up, that pretty little hand not much bigger than a child’s. He could see her throat moving, see her blinking away tears.

  “I will allow you in my bed until I am with child. Then you will not touch me again until I am ready for the next child.”

  “Abigail.” His voice carried all the reproach of an injured man.

  She raised her chin. “Or.”

  He tilted his head, waiting for the or.

  “Or you can give up your whore and have free access to my bed.”

  Abigail to this point had not been a willing nor compliant bed partner. It had not been particularly satisfying to bed her. A man likes the woman to at least move under him. Like Tansy. He was always happy in Tansy’s bed. He passed a hand over his eyes. Damn, marriage pulled the guts out of a man. It was hard to think after so much wine. It was dim in the room. He was damned sleepy.

  But Abigail was his wife. He was supposed to have her. Anytime he wanted to.

  “All right.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “All right, you’ll give her up?”

  “Yes. I’ll give her up.”

  She clapped her hands to her face and sobbed violently.

  “Come here, my darling.” He wrapped her in his arms. “Don’t cry.”

  He led her to the four-poster piled high with pillows. He pulled the counterpane back, sat her on the mattress, and gently undressed her. He smoothed her hair off her shoulders so he could see her perfect, small breasts. She crossed an arm over her chest and scurried under the covers.

  Valere was much quicker with his own clothes. He tore off his jacket, vest, cravat, shirt, excited that Abigail watched him with her big blue eyes. When he unbuttoned his pants, she turned her head and pressed a fist to her mouth.

  He climbed into bed beside her and took her into his arms. She allowed him to caress her back, the nape of her neck. When his penis brushed against her thigh, she jerked and pulled away. “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart. I never have, have I? Not since the first time?”

  “It doesn’t hurt much,” she whispered.

  “Relax, Abigail. I’ll make you a baby.”

  But she didn’t relax. After a few minutes of stroking and petting and kissing her, her body was as rigid as it had been on their wedding night. Throbbing with need, he saw no point in waiting. He nudged at her thighs, but she did not open for him. He raised himself and looked into her eyes. “Do you want a baby?”

  She spread her legs, and he plunged into her. So smooth, hot, tight. He rocked in and out, he thrust and lunged, faster and faster until he spurted out all the seed any one baby could need. He collapsed on top of her, heedless for a moment how he smothered her.

  She shoved at him. He rolled off and reached for her to come lie her head on his arm. She turned away and hunched on the far side of the bed. He stretched an arm toward her without quite reaching her. In moments, wine-dark sleep pulled him under.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday morning, Christophe opened his classroom and set about preparing for the day, still in a stew over Tansy’s failure to appear at the picnic. It had been her idea, after all. He had not imposed on her. She had imposed on him. He could have been … he didn’t know where he would have been instead, but he would have done something besides wait for her under some blasted tree like a schoolboy waiting for a pretty girl.

  He emptied the chalk tray and coughed at the cloud of dust he raised. It was his own damned fault. He allowed himself this insane fantasy of Tansy shedding Valere like an old skin and declaring herself his, all his. But Tansy was not like his mother. Not like Musette. He doubted it had ever occurred to her she could be something other than a rich man’s pet. Independence had never been her destiny.

  He’d thought teaching at the school would suggest to her otherwise, but she still danced to Valcourt’s tune. He scraped the boys’ desks across the floor into orderly rows. Well, he was through with her. Let her borrow books from Denis Fournier. Let her take picnics with Valcourt.

  He taught the morning lessons, smiling and attentive to his students. Underneath, he simmered. When he saw her, he’d be polite. That was all. If she spoke to him, he’d have to answer, but he’d show her that though she might be a pawn to her rich man, he had no intention of being her pawn.

  At 11:30, he met Rosa and Denis in the faculty room. He hoped Tansy stayed away until her class started at noon so he could eat in peace, but as soon as he sat down, he heard her footsteps in the hallway. The muscles in his shoulders bunched up.

  She walked in with a smile on her face. That was Tansy, always smiling, always eager to please. To please everyone but him. He accepted the decanter of wine from Denis and poured himself a glass.

  “Bonjour,” she said to all of them.

  Rosa and Denis answered her. Christophe did not.

  “Bonjour, Christophe.”

  He raised his eyes to her, meaning to send her a freezing glare. In spite of himself, he responded with a quickening of the pulse, a certain extra-sensitivity of the skin. He clamped his teeth. She’d sent Martine in her stead as if he were a child to be mollified, as if it didn’t matter whom he picnicked with. He did not return her smile.

  Her gaze skittered away. She took the chair between Rosa and Denis. The three of them chatted about boys and recess and grade cards. Christophe’s stomach closed. He couldn’t swallow. He pushed his lunch away and shoved his chair back.

  “Christophe?” He saw her throat move as she swallowed. Good. She looked guilty. “Christophe, wait a minute.”

  She pulled a book out of her bag and handed it across the table to him. “I came across this book and thought you’d like to have it.”

  He held her gaze, the book in her hand suspended between them. He let the seconds pass. He didn’t want her damned book. Then her eyes teared.

  Goddammit. He took the book. Without so much as looking at the title, he left the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy trudged home. The center of her chest felt bruised, as if Christophe’s cruelty had been a physical blow to the heart. When she’d given him the book, he looked at her as if he despised her, as if he would rather throw the book in her face than take it from her hand.

  Once she was home, she would have curled up on the sofa and wept if she had not had Alain to tend to. She kept seeing the knot along Christophe’s jaw line, the whitened lips. Most of all, the dark, depthless eyes. She tried to swallow the hurt. She had mending to do. She had supper to see about, Alain to occupy.

  Sometime between bathing Alain and tucking him into bed, the complexion of her hurt changed from deep blue to the first pale tinges of red. Christophe had been rude, very rude. Looking at her as if she were a worm, so disdainful that her apology had died in her throat. For what? Because she missed a picnic in the park? She hadn’t forgotten him, hadn’t left him to dawdle waiting for her. He liked Martine, loved being with Alain. So what did he have to complain about?

  She hadn’t been rude to him. She hadn’t glared at him. The tiny muscles at her hairline contracted and her teeth clamped together. How dare he leave her arm outstretched holding that heavy book? How dare he not even look at the title to see what she’d chosen for him? She tossed her mending aside. Damn him. She’d even made strawberry tarts just for him. He was mean, petty, and cruel. She’d never buy him another book. She’d never ask him to another picnic.

  Her breath hitched, she gasped, and sobs shook her. Loneliness washed over her in overwhelming, purple waves. Her lovely parlor, dark in the corners, seemed empty and desolate.

  She startled at the rap on her outer door. For one unreasoning moment, elation licked at her sore heart. Christophe had come to apologize! That momentary taste of relief and joy made the descent into disappointment all the darker. She opened the door to
Valere.

  He shoved his way in, took her in his arms and kissed her hard, pressing her lips against her teeth, covering her nose with his cheek. She drew back, but he grasped her all the tighter.

  She struggled to free her head. “Valere, I can’t breathe.”

  He loosened his grip, stepped back enough to look into her face. “But you’re glad to see me?”

  His eyes were too bright. Had he been drinking? “Of course I am.”

  He jerked her back into his embrace and growled into her neck. He pulled at her bodice, bent his head and consumed her, licking and sucking.

  “Valere. Valere, slow down.”

  He lifted her into his arms, his face nuzzling her ear, and carried her into the bedroom. After the fervor in the parlor, Tansy thought he meant to throw her on the bed and ravish her like a wild animal, but he lay her down gently, kissed her sweetly, and then lay on his side next to her. “You are glad to see me, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  In the darkness she heard the note of loneliness in his voice. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed his eyes, his brow. “I am very glad to see you, Valere.”

  Slowly, she undressed him, petting and caressing as she eased his clothes off. Tenderly, she made love to him, pouring all she had into soothing him, to pleasing him. When he’d climaxed and his body relaxed, she cradled his head against her breast while he slept.

  She’d never seen him like this. Certainly sometimes he came to her with a rabid appetite, but tonight he had not simply craved sex. He’d needed her. She kissed his hair. Something was very wrong between Valere and his wife. Perhaps she forbade him her bed. Whatever she did, she hurt him.

  She tightened her arm around his shoulder. Valere nuzzled her breast and shifted so that he could slowly sweep his hand up her back in a silken stroke. He made love to her, this time, with gentle kisses on her mouth, her neck, her throat. His hand whispered over her body, tracing her contours, caressing her hip. When he entered her, she wrapped her legs around him and scraped her teeth against his shoulder. They came together in a long, shuddering climax.