Tansy lowered herself to the floor. He didn’t acknowledge her, so she picked him up, put him in her lap and wrapped her arms around him. “Are you sad, Alain?”
When he didn’t answer her, she turned him so she could see his face. He wouldn’t look at her. “I’m sad, too. We’ll miss Christophe.” He wriggled free of her and resumed sorting his cards.
“See?” Martine said.
“It’s going to be hard. Christophe was good to him.”
“Christophe was a father to him,” Martine amended. “He was. You couldn’t see that?”
Tansy rubbed her hands over her face.
“Get some sleep,” Martine said. “Alain is fine here with me.”
At the back door, Tansy turned. “Last night, your first night with Monsieur DuMaine?”
“It was good, Tansy. Very good. I’ll tell you another time. Go home.”
Tansy walked across the connecting courtyards as if she waded through molasses. She let herself into her kitchen where the plate of bread and cheese still lay on the table. She sat down, pulled the plate to her and stared at the food a moment before she tore a piece of bread and put it in her mouth.
In the bedroom, she took off the dress she’d worn since yesterday. She kicked off her shoes and stared at them a moment, then picked them up and placed them precisely in their place. Her mind a gray haze, her blood flowing like sludge through her veins, she got under the covers.
~ ~ ~
A knocking cut painfully through the fog in her brain. Her head ached and her mouth tasted like dirty stockings. She opened her eyes to the light and shadows of late afternoon.
She answered the door and Valere stepped in smelling of sunshine and horse. “You were asleep?”
She nodded, pushing the hair off her face.
“It’s five o’clock. Why were you sleeping?” He peered at her. “Are you ill?”
She thought a moment. “Yes. I’m sick.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do. He still held his hat in his hands. She’d make it easy for him. “You should go, Valere. You don’t want to catch anything.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel fine tomorrow. You’re never sick.”
She drew a deep breath. “Yes, Valere. I’ll be fine.”
He brightened at that. “Go back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She closed the door behind him. She smelled bad. She must look worse. She should take a bath before she went for Alain.
She drew water but couldn’t be bothered to heat it. She washed and dressed. Why hadn’t Valere asked where Alain was, who was taking care of him? She brushed her hair and wrapped it in a clean tignon. It didn’t matter. Valere knew she had Mrs. O’Hare and Martine to keep Alain whenever she needed them. He just wasn’t used to thinking about the responsibility of taking care of him. She thought enough about Alain for both of them.
When she went to Martine’s to fetch him, Alain sat at the table eating his supper. Martine insisted she sit down and eat, too. When she’d drunk the lemonade and eaten the meat pie from the corner bakery, the ache between her eyes eased.
“Did you have a nice time with Martine?” she asked Alain.
He tore a grape in half before he ate it.
“Alain?” He swung his legs, as always. His face was clear of grief, but he did not look at her.
“He probably needs to go to bed early,” Martine said. “It’s been a hard day for him, too.”
Tansy took him home, washed his face, and put him to bed. “Would you like a story?”
He rolled away from her and faced the wall. She stroked his hair. “It’ll be all right, Alain. It will be.”
~ ~ ~
When Estelle Bouvier strode into the cottage the next evening, Tansy girded herself to withstand whatever onslaught her mother planned for her. While Tansy poured her a glass of wine, she sat on the sofa and watched Alain’s cavalry swarm over castle walls.
“Your horses are unique, Alain. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any others climbing vertical walls.”
“Maman,” Tansy murmured. She needn’t have worried. Alain paid no attention to her.
Estelle shrugged a shoulder and tasted her wine. “Not bad,” she said. “It has bottom.”
“I bought it at Gallatin’s.”
Estelle set her glass down and made a show of turning her attention, and her scrutiny, on Tansy. “So Christophe has gone.”
Tansy knew that’s why she’d come. To see if she could perhaps pick at the wound. She deliberately shrugged exactly as her mother had.
“You are disturbed?” Estelle said.
“I’ll miss him, I suppose.”
Estelle studied her a moment, her shrewd eyes narrowed. “You suppose? Perhaps I misunderstood the attachment.”
“There was no attachment, Maman. We were friends. I’m happy he has this opportunity. He’s a scholar. He should be at an important academy.”
Estelle picked up her wine. “For once, you have your feelings in line with your obligations. It’s a wonder Valere never knew of your friendship with Christophe. I can’t imagine any protector tolerating that close a friendship with another man.”
“It never came up.”
Estelle surprised her. She reached out and gently placed her hand on Tansy’s arm. “It’s for the best, Tansy. I’m proud of you for thinking things through, with your head, not your heart.”
Tansy gulped back the sob threatening to erupt. Her mother’s sharp tongue she was accustomed to. Her kindness she was not.
“You have Alain to think of, after all. It’s not as if Valcourt were black-hearted. If he mistreated you or the boy, I would take steps to protect you. But your man is generous, he’s gentle, he’s good to you. This is where you belong.” She took her hand from Tansy’s arm and resumed her no-nonsense tone. “I’m pleased I did not have to berate you for foolishness.”
She drained her wine. “I must go. Alain, come and kiss your grandmother.”
For a moment, Alain seemed not to have heard. Then he stood up and kissed Estelle’s cheek. Without waiting for a return kiss or a touch, without so much as a hint of recognition on his face, he settled back with his toys, his back to both mother and grandmother.
Estelle raised her eyebrows at Alain’s uncharacteristic coldness. Tansy chose not to explain. “Bonsoir, Maman.”
Estelle sailed into the evening, her world in order. As always.
Late into the night, Tansy sat in her parlor, rocking, her mind hazy, her feelings benumbed. She knew only that she hurt, somewhere, everywhere. She started when Martine let herself in the back door.
She spoke softly so as not to wake Alain. “I’ve brought a bottle of wine. Let’s drink it down to the dregs.”
Tansy got up to fetch the corkscrew and two glasses. She settled back in the rocker while Martine opened the bottle and poured.
Martine raised her glass. “To absent friends.”
Tansy raised her glass and sipped.
Martine sat on the floor, her back against the sofa. She tapped Tansy’s slipper. “How are you, my friend?”
Tansy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she forced a smile. “I am waiting to hear all the details of your seduction. Or Frederick’s seduction. Which was it?”
Blessedly, Martine did not press her but let out an enormous sigh. “I suppose we seduced each other. Tansy, he is the best lover I ever had. The best lover I ever dreamed of. He’s … ” She winked and sipped her wine. “He’s vigorous.”
Tansy laughed. “Frederick DuMaine, vigorous. What else? Entertain me.”
“He is experienced.”
“Meaning what?”
“You know what I mean,” Martine said with a sly grin. “He knows how to please a woman. All of a woman. Every part of a woman.”
“I believe I take your meaning.”
“And he can be gentle when ... we want to be gentle.”
“I somehow did not imagine gentle is what you w
ere looking for, Martine.”
She grinned. “He is not always gentle. As I said, he’s a vigorous man.”
A pang of misery tore through Tansy at the sudden memory of Christophe, his hands, his mouth on her, his body in hers. Her skin still felt his touch, still felt his heat. She poured herself a second glass of wine.
“He brought roses,” Martine said dreamily. “Three dozen red roses.”
“So he’s vigorous, experienced, gentle, not-so-gentle, and romantic. And this adds up to — a lovely first night together.”
“Yes. A very lovely first night.”
Tansy smiled, a genuine glad one this time. “I believe you’re slipping from very great liking, Martine, to something a little more.”
Martine’s eyes were deep, dark and sober. “It isn’t just the sex, Tansy. I think we really might make each other happy. And it feels wonderful.”
“I’m glad. I like your Frederick.”
They were quiet for a few moments. “Do you want to talk about Christophe?”
Tansy shook her head. “Alain and I are with Valere. Christophe is gone. There is nothing more to talk about.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Valere swung his cane as he walked up his block. With his racetrack winnings in his pocket and a fine blue sky overhead, he decided to surprise Abigail by having mid-day dinner at home.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He blinked. “May a man not come home for dinner?”
Abigail rang the bell with a vicious shake. When the servant arrived, she snapped out her order. “Set a place for Mr. Valcourt.”
Feeling a little dampened, Valere nevertheless dug into his dinner with a hearty appetite. Abigail had little to say to him, but he was happy to focus on his soup, oysters, and beef. Over dessert, he smiled at his wife.
“You may have a new ball gown, Abigail.”
Instead of smiling as she ought to do — what woman would not smile at having a new gown? — her pretty pink lips were whitened into a tight line. “Why?” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Why? Because I thought it would please you.”
“Why now? The season is almost over.”
He gave her a satisfied grin. “Because I’ve made a very tidy sum at the racetrack. My Arabian won!”
“I didn’t know you had an Arabian.”
“Oh, yes. Should you like to meet him? He’s a fine horse.”
“No, I would not like to meet him. How much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much did you win?”
He frowned slightly. What a vulgar question.
“How much, Mr. Valcourt?”
“My finances are my responsibility, Mrs. Valcourt. You need not concern yourself.”
“I thought they were our finances, Mr. Valcourt. I should like to know how large this windfall is so that I may spend accordingly.”
“You may spend according to the cost of one very nice ball gown.”
Abigail’s narrow face took on a spiteful cast. “And what part of your winnings does one ball gown represent? Perhaps I should like more than one ball gown. Perhaps I should like three ball gowns. Or forty-three.”
“That is a ridiculous statement, Mrs. Valcourt. I do not understand you. Your husband offers you a ball gown and you offer him a quarrel. What is the matter with you?”
The angry flush spreading up her neck all the way into her hairline made her eyes very blue, but the tight mouth seemed to sharpen her nose. Her looks were not improved. She flung her napkin across her plate, pushed her chair back, and with chin raised high, left the room in a regal march.
Valere stared at the remainder of his custard. He really had no more appetite. Such a surly young woman. Who would have expected it? All through the weeks of their courtship she had been only sweetness and amiability.
It really was very good custard. He picked up his spoon and finished the bowl.
He had the rest of the afternoon and evening to fill. He could go to Renault’s and play cards, smoke a few cigars. He could see his man of business and discuss the distribution of his winnings among his investments. He could see about that bay of St. Croix’s. Instead, he retired to his room and napped the afternoon away.
As evening fell he dressed and left the house without having seen Abigail again. He played a few rounds at Renault’s and had a light supper. Then his friends persuaded him to go to the ball with them. The room was bright with candles and mirrors, and in the center, one of the new gas chandeliers. He had not arranged to have Tansy meet him here this evening, so he felt a little lost. He cast an eye over the fresh faces of girls hoping to attract a protector. Had Tansy been that young when he spoke for her? He supposed she had been.
He danced with Martine and with Madame Bouvier. He partnered with the placées of his friends. And then he’d had enough. He hired a hack to take him home, out of sorts and discontent. He’d looked forward to bedding Tansy this morning, which would have been a fine start to the day, but she’d looked damned awful. Dark circles under her eyes, no color in her face at all. He’d never seen her look so ill. Probably something she ate. She’d be fine tomorrow.
He undressed for bed, feeling restless and randy. He had a wife, for God’s sake. And no matter how peevish she’d been earlier, she’d made a bargain. All the sex he wanted until she became pregnant. And she had made no announcement to that effect.
Wearing only a dressing robe, he took a candelabra to the connecting door between his dressing room and hers. He twisted the knob, but of course she’d locked it. He’d determined he would never again pound on a door in his own household. He took the key from his top shelf and unlocked it.
Only a patch of moonlight lit Abigail’s room. She must be long asleep. It would be pleasant to wake her with kisses, to unplait her long braid and spread the silvery blonde hair on her pillow. Maybe she’d be more relaxed, more receptive if she were sleepy.
With a gasp, she rose from the bed like some specter rising from the grave. He raised the candelabra to show her it was only him, nothing to fear. She scrambled from the bed and backed half way across the room. She took her stand, feet wide apart, hands fisted at her sides.
“It didn’t work.”
Her tone was not simply her usual irritation. It was a harsh and venomous hiss. He was befuddled, by the venom and by the statement. “What?”
“It didn’t work. You said you’d give me a baby but you did not.” She actually bared her teeth at him. He swallowed, a little afraid of her. Was she mad?
“Look at this!” She raised her nightgown to show a spotted pad between her legs. He recoiled, shocked at such a crude display.
He averted his gaze. “For God’s sake, Abigail. Lower your dress.”
“Oh, it’s all right for you to use me night after night, but not for you to have to see what you’ve done. You know what this means. There is no baby!”
He swallowed hard. Tansy never behaved like this, but he’d heard some women did seem a little distraught when they had their courses. He’d have to be patient.
“Young ladies know little about this, Abigail. You have misunderstood. It often takes months, sometimes many months, before the womb finally accepts the seed and quickens with child. It simply hasn’t been long enough for you yet.”
“You’re saying this is my fault!” She hurled herself at him, her fists punching at his face, his chest, his belly. He tried to keep the candelabra out of her reach, keep it from falling to the floor and burning the house down. Enduring her blows, he grabbed one wrist with his free hand and forced her to the bed. With her knees against the mattress, he shoved her over. Panting, she curled her fingers into claws and launched herself at him. He managed to set the candelabra down and seize her arms. This time when he tossed her to the bed, he covered her body with his.
“Stop! Stop it, Abigail.”
She erupted in terrifying, gulping sobs. Her entire body quaked. Then, suddenly boneless, she erupted in helpless sobs.
He felt her breasts and nipples through her muslin nightdress and silk robe, and to his own dismay he developed a demanding erection.
He released one arm to wipe at her damp cheek. Poor thing. He’d never seen anyone cry like this. Had not imagined anyone ever crying like this. “Shh,” he whispered. “You simply did not understand, sweetheart. Everything will be all right. You’ll have your baby.”
He rolled to his side and brought her with him. Her shoulders shook, her sobs hot and wet against his chest. He rubbed her back, kissed her ear. Slowly she quieted. For once, she didn’t stiffen under his hands. He bent his knees a little to keep her from feeling his erection against her thighs, but the longer she let him stroke her back, the harder he became. He let his hand drift down to her buttocks briefly. She still didn’t stiffen. Taking courage, driven by the need between his own legs, he ventured to caress and nuzzle, taking his time, alert to any sign she might turn flinty under his hands.
He’d made love to Tansy now and then when she was still in her monthly. He had found no objection to it. In fact, he’d thought her unusually responsive those times. Slowly, gently, he raised Abigail’s nightgown in careful increments. He ran his lips across her neck, his kisses hotter and more urgent. He brushed his lips over her pretty pink ones, delicately, insistently thrusting his tongue against her closed mouth. “Open a little, honey,” he said softly. She parted her lips the least bit and he kissed her top lip, gently, carefully drawing it slightly into his mouth.
One hand firm between her shoulder blades, the other palm slowly circling the curves of her bottom, he allowed his erection to touch her. She startled and he withdrew, caressing, stroking, kissing.
“I’ll give you a baby, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear.
He slid his hand between them. Motionless, she allowed him to stroke and explore. When he pushed a finger inside, she jolted, then returned to an inanimate state. He loosened his robe, rolled her to her back and spread her legs. “Put your knees up, Abigail.”
She complied. “Put your arms around me.” She hesitated, then did as he asked. He shifted to kiss her breast through her thin nightgown. He coaxed and teased with his tongue, with little effect, and moved to the other breast. His erection lay between her legs, pressing against her. He clamped his teeth together, trying not to thrust and plunge into her in headlong abandon.
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