Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  She was still comparatively malleable, her body softer under him than he’d ever known it. Gently, he slid into her, kissing her, caressing her. She accepted him, accepted his weight and his slow thrusts. And then his restraint broke. He plunged into her hard and fast until he pushed himself over the edge, into that painful ecstasy of emptying and pulsing.

  He rolled off her and pulled her to rest against his chest. When he’d caught his breath, he stroked her hair.

  “Did it work that time?” she whispered.

  He breathed out a laugh. “I have no idea, Abigail. We’ll have to wait —”

  Abigail scrambled to her knees. “What do you mean you have no idea?” Her voice tightened into a high-pitched demand. “You’re supposed to know! You stuck that thing in me again. Did it work?”

  He reached for her. “There are other reasons to do what we just did,” he said, making an effort to hide his growing impatience. “Do you realize that?”

  She slapped him, scraping her nails across his cheek. She scurried off the bed and stood their trembling in the candlelight. “You get out,” she breathed, her voice a low hiss. “Get out!”

  He stared at her. His pretty bride, her mouth now twisted in an ugly bitter grimace, her vividly blue eyes crazed. A hint of fear tightened his throat. Perhaps she was mad.

  Her breath a sibilant wheeze, she stretched out her finger in a trembling, straining point. Humiliation rolled over him. He closed his robe and walked stiff-legged into the deep darkness of the dressing room. He closed the door and leaned against it as waves of nausea rose from his stomach. What if Abigail was indeed a madwoman? And, God help him, he’d have to bed her again if he were to have an heir.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tansy sat on the edge of Alain’s bed and stroked his forehead. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.” The thick lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes. Any other morning, he would crawl into her lap while he yawned and snuggled. This morning, he merely looked at her, his gray eyes dark as slate.

  Tansy took his hand and kissed it. “You’re still sad.”

  And angry with her, she guessed. How could his maman let this happen? Is that what he was thinking?

  “You know, I think Christophe is waking up just now and he’s thinking about Alain. What is Alain going to do today?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “He’s probably yawning and stretching.” She yawned and stretched. “He’s probably going to climb out of bed,” she tousled his hair, “and scratch his head. Then he’s going to say, ‘I bet Alain is getting ready for breakfast right now.’”

  Tentatively, his lips curved into a small smile.

  “Come on. I’ll let you slice a banana all by yourself.”

  When she had him at the table, she placed a banana and a paring knife in front of him. Don’t hover, she told herself. He’s four years old. Still, she watched every finger as he sliced through the peel. She hadn’t told him he should peel it first, after all.

  He had not spoken since early yesterday. When he put the knife down and said, “I did it,” she let out a long sigh. He was going to hurt for a long time. But at least he would talk to her, would try to … not forget, but adapt. He surely could not grieve so very long. He was only four.

  At eleven o’clock, Martine came in through the courtyard door. She nodded at Alain playing on the floor. “Has he spoken?”

  “Three words.” Tansy told her about the banana.

  “That’s good. It’s a start. Why don’t I keep him instead of your taking him to Mrs. O’Hare?”

  “Thank you. I think he needs the quiet time.”

  Tansy arrived at the school early to show Rosa that she could depend on her. However constrained her life was, she had this. She had this room full of boys waiting for her, eager to know what she would do with them, eager to learn. And she chose to be here.

  She shoved awareness of her emotional bruises to a safe corner of her mind. They had no place here. She cheered herself up by beginning the lesson with a song and even managed to coax David into singing part of the chorus with the other children.

  She prepared to leave as the boys filed out for their two o’clock recess. Denis Fournier called to her in the hallway, a book in his hand. “Tansy.”

  She waited for him. He was a sweet, kind man, his skin nearly as light as hers though his tightly curled gray hair, his full lips and broad nose gave strong indications of his ancestry. Of part of his ancestry. She wondered, as she waited for him to catch up to her, why no one ever considered that people like Denis, like her, ever thought of themselves as white with this much or that much African blood? Instead, they were colored, with a tad of white blood to ease the taint of their black skin.

  “I hope I do not cause pain. I know you and Christophe, well, I know you are fond of reading, and so am I. It would please me if we could read the same books and then talk about them.”

  The dear man. He knew then, as well as Rosa, that she needed a friendly word. He handed her a volume bound in worn brown canvas.

  She turned it over in her hands and opened it to the title page. “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.” She pulled up a smile for him. “Thank you, Denis. Thank you very much.”

  She let herself into her house still feeling light and hollow, like a dried-up corn husk. Like she was recovering from a high fever. The shutters were closed and she did not immediately see the figure sitting in her parlor. She jumped and pressed her hand to her chest. “Valere. You gave me a fright.”

  “Where have you been?”

  She couldn’t see his face, but his tone told her he was not in good humor. She set the book down on the table next to his chair. “I was borrowing a book.”

  “You’re never here anymore.”

  She went very still.

  “Where do you go in the middle of the day?”

  “I have a friend who teaches school. I went to the school to borrow this book from him.”

  “Him?”

  The hair on her neck pricked. He’d never used that tone with her before. She answered him lightly. “Yes. Monsieur Fournier. An elderly gentleman, a creole like me.”

  She unwound her tignon and tossed it on the sofa. “Have you waited long? Shall I make you some coffee?”

  He turned his head toward the book. Then he looked at her. “You read too much.”

  She tried a soft laugh. “How can one read too much?”

  Though she could not see his face clearly, his hands fisted. She’d made a mistake. She had no experience with Valere like this, sullen and angry. What was he angry about? He’d never minded before when he called and she was not at home.

  Without warning, he picked up the book and hurled it across the room. “No more books! You hear me? No more books.”

  She swallowed hard but stood very still. “Valere?” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  “You will do as I say.” He rose from his chair slowly. “You will please me. That is what you’re here for.”

  She’d never been afraid of Valere, never. But with his height and bulk looming over her, she stepped back from him.

  “Of course I want to please you, Valere. You know I do.”

  He grabbed her upper arms and yanked her to him. He pressed a ferocious kiss against her lips, demanding entrance into her mouth. Holding on to his sleeves to keep from falling, she jerked her head back, gasping for air, frightened.

  Valere, her sweet, mild Valere, grabbed her hair and pulled her to the bedroom. He tossed her onto the bed and ripped at her skirts, tore her drawers, and opened his trousers. He took her.

  Tansy lay numb beneath him, stunned. She could not respond. He didn’t want her to respond. He wanted only to punish and take.

  He came in a violent paroxysm, shuddering and gasping. He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the thickness of her hair. Any other time, Tansy would have stroked his back and kissed his neck. She lay there, shaken, dazed.

  He rolled over and covered his face with his
hands. “Oh, God.” He turned away from her. She could barely hear him. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Yes.” She hoped he could hear how cold she felt. How abused and degraded.

  His shoulders heaved, shaking the bed. Tears flowed from between his fingers and great gasping sobs erupted from his chest. “I’m sorry, Tansy. I’m so sorry.”

  Grief welled up, for herself, for Christophe, and now for this wounded man. What had that woman done to him? Something truly awful to have turned him into the brute he’d been a moment before. This was not the Valere she knew.

  She took him in her arms, made him rest his head on her breast. “Shh,” she said. She ran her fingers through his hair and caressed his shoulders. “Shh.” Whether it was contentment or sorrow, disappointment or pain, whatever Valere brought into this house, he was her life, and he needed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Weeks passed. Even though the soreness over her heart ached, regret sometimes coming over her in overwhelming waves, Tansy squared her shoulders determined to make the best of the day to come. She tied on an apron and attacked the dust and clutter she’d allowed to build up in her parlor. Among the books leaning untidily on her shelf she found Christophe’s tome about the French Revolution. She’d never had the chance to talk to him about égalité and whether that ideal were practiced anywhere on the earth. She held the book to her chest and closed her eyes. This one thing she had of him.

  In her mind, she composed long letters to Christophe. She imagined long letters from him, full of forgiveness, of love, of hope. But of course there were no letters, no forgiveness, and no hope.

  She’d done everything right, hadn’t she? She’d listened to her tutors, obeyed her mother, and honored her protector. How could life be like ashes in her mouth? What had she done that was so wrong? Yes, she’d used the façade of friendship to deny Christophe’s feelings and hide her own, even from herself. But what else could she have done? Even if she’d allowed herself to think of Christophe as more than a friend, she could not take Alain from his father. She’d had no choice.

  She placed the book back on the shelf, Rosa’s remark flitting into her mind. Who was the last person in your family to be a slave?

  Tansy’s mouth tightened. That was simply unfair. Of course Valere didn’t own her, but they had made a life together. They had a child together. She slapped at a spider web as if she fought a viper. Christophe asked too much. Couldn’t he see she owed Valere everything — he had given her the house, he paid for clothes, food, everything.

  As quickly as the anger had welled up, it abandoned her to aching, terrifying need. She covered her face with her hands. How could she live with this void in her chest? How could she ever be content again? She should hate Christophe for tearing away all comfort, all peace. How could she go on now that he had turned her world black and purple with bruising, crushing grief?

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. She straightened her back and smoothed her apron. She drew one breath, then another, and another. That’s how one went on, one breath at a time.

  She took Alain to Mrs. O’Hare’s and readied herself for the evening. By the time she met Valere in the ballroom, she wore a determined smile. Was not life lived moment by moment? She would make this moment happy. She had a new gown. Valere looked very fine. Why should she not have a wonderful evening? Since that brutal night, Valere had treated her as if she were a fragile bloom. She should enjoy his attention, not chafe at it as if he were smothering her.

  As Valere danced her around the room, the music seeped into her pores like a healing balm. She need not look at the orchestra where another man sat in Christophe’s chair. She need only feel the music and glide among the other ladies in their bright gowns, waltzing and twirling as though they were a garden of primroses stirred in a scented breeze.

  Martine and Frederick danced by, gazing into each other’s eyes. Instead of Martine’s hand held lightly in his, their fingers were intertwined. Tansy swallowed at that glimpse of intimacy. Their connection encompassed the carnal, yes, but so much more. A sympathy of mind and an understanding of the other’s heart bound them, too.

  Valere squeezed her hand as they danced. “You’re distracted tonight.”

  “I was only listening to the music.”

  Valere had sworn he would never hurt her again, that he would try always to please her. She would try, too. She smiled at him, vowing to put away heartache and live her life pleasing him. In spite of good intentions, however, her smile faltered into a bitter quirk. Candide’s author was right to satirize fools like her who convinced themselves they lived in the best of all possible worlds. One could live blindly, stupidly, like Candide, as long as one’s eyes had never seen truth behind the gauzy screen of complacency. Once that gauze was torn, no more peace.

  DuMaine asked Tansy to dance. She smiled at him, too, but he seemed to see only the strain behind it for he did not smile back. She knew the sleepless nights had robbed the luster from her complexion and her eyes, and Martine would surely have told Frederick about Christophe. She trained her gaze over Frederick’s shoulder and concentrated on the music.

  When Tansy and Martine took lemonade with Tansy’s mother, Maman did not seem to notice Tansy was not in looks. Her attention was all for Monsieur Girard. She listened raptly when he spoke. She tapped his arm with her fan when he laughed at something he himself had said. So Maman wants another protector, Tansy thought. She had not expected her mother to ever ally herself with a man again. She had invested the inheritances from her former patrons and was comfortable. Perhaps she was simply tired of being alone. Perhaps even hardened characters like Estelle Bouvier could be lonely.

  Monsieur Girard had a merry way about him, full of pleasure and fun. And somehow he found Estelle attractive. She watched her mother smile and flirt, her charm a masterful performance. Estelle’s eyes sparkled, her complexion glowed, and she smiled and smiled and smiled. Maman made her own best world.

  Martine leaned over to Tansy and whispered. “I believe your maman is in like with Monsieur Girard.”

  Valere interrupted. “I must go.” He took Tansy’s hand in both of his and kissed her cheek. “I shan’t come tonight,” he said as if it were an apology, “but perhaps tomorrow night.” Tansy hoped her bright smile hid her relief to be free of him for the night.

  ~ ~ ~

  In her determination to continue on as if life were worth living, Tansy and Alain met Denis Fournier at an outdoor café bordering the square. The sun shone, the breeze cooled, and the smell of jasmine, gardenia, and fresh growth scented the air. Denis greeted them formally, bowed, and pulled out a chair for Tansy. He shook Alain’s hand and said, “I’m very glad to see you on a Sunday afternoon. Will you have a beignet with me?”

  Tansy nudged him gently. “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  Fournier beckoned a waiter to bring them two coffees, lemonade, and beignets.

  “You brought me another book?” Tansy said.

  “If I’m not rushing you, yes, I did.”

  “You are not.” She dug in her shopping bag and pulled out another volume. “I’ve finished this one.”

  “I believe it took me two months to read Tristram Shandy and you’ve managed it in one! What did you think of it?”

  As Tansy and Denis talked over their favorite passages, especially those about poor Tristram’s nose, Tansy relaxed. Alain happily swung his legs, powdered sugar all over his face and hands. She didn’t fuss at him for licking his fingers. Instead, she sipped at her coffee, glad they sat outside on such a lovely day.

  Tansy became aware of a shadow across the table. She looked up and there stood Valere, ashen, anger and hurt at war in his face. She moved as if to rise from her chair, but Valere stepped back, his eyes boring into hers.

  Two ladies arrived at his side, one tall, thin, sour. The other dainty as a fairy cake, blonde and pretty. The wife. Both women stared at her openly, the pinch-faced one’s expression an odd mixture of avid curiosity and loathing, Abigail’s ey
es wide, comprehension dawning slowly.

  Tansy searched the baby-doll face for signs of cruelty. Behind the prettiness must be a vicious character to have hurt Valere so. How else to explain the turmoil he had been in these last weeks? Needy, demanding. Not like himself at all. At this moment, Tansy saw only shock and alarm on Abigail’s face, drained so that she looked white and ill. She grasped for the other woman’s arm.

  Tansy’s gaze shifted. The sister? Her eyes had lost their glint of disgust. It was a self-satisfied gleam of triumph now. With sudden insight, Tansy knew this woman was the source of much of Valere’s unhappiness. She poisoned her sister, poisoned their marriage.

  The sister boldly swept her gaze over Tansy, head to toes and back, lingering on the tignon with a sneer on her lips. Tansy felt nothing at such pointless malice. She returned her attention to Valere who seemed unable to move or even to look away. He’d waited too long, far too long, to be able to simply nod as if their gazes had locked by chance and walk on.

  The tableau was shattered when Alain said, “Hello, Papa.”

  Abigail’s hand flew to her mouth. She gagged and staggered. Her sister took her arm and hurried her away, murmuring in her ear.

  “Valere?” Tansy said softly. In his hurt and confusion, she was sure he’d misunderstood what she did here with Denis. “Should you like to meet my friend, Monsieur Fournier?”

  Fournier rose to his feet and bowed stiffly. Valere’s cheeks colored, his fingers curled. Tansy had to forestall the eruption she sensed building under his flushed skin. She rose from her chair. Leaving the books on the table, hoping formality would indicate to Valere that there was no intimacy between her and Denis, she curtsied. “Good bye, Monsieur Fournier. Thank you for the coffee.”