Tarnished Gold l-5

by V. C. Andrews

  I shook my head, "I may look like a swamp rat, but I'm not that dumb."

  "You don't look like a swamp rat. I'd match you against the most elegantly dressed debutante in New Orleans," he declared. "And you shouldn't dismiss your simple life out here. To me it looks like an idyllic world when I think of the turmoil, the phoniness, and the deceit I contend with day after day in the supposedly sophisticated city."

  "Some idyllic world," I said, flopping on a chair. "My mother spends all her life helping people fight diseases and pains, bites and poisons, and then comes home to do battle with my drunken father."

  "Why so sad, cherie?" Pierre asked, moving quickly to my side so he could take my hand. "This is not like you, especially when you talk about the bayou."

  "It's Daddy again," I said, and described what he had done to our home and what had happened between him and Mama. "Money has made him worse, not better."

  "I'm sorry. I wish there was a way to take you away and build you a castle someplace where you will always be safe and happy," he told me. He thought a moment. "Maybe I will."

  "Don't be a dreamer, too, Pierre," I warned him. Thanks to Daddy, I knew too well what misery false promises could bring.

  Pierre smiled. "My little old wise woman." He kissed me. "Come. Let's refuse to be sad. Remember our pledge? When we are here, we shut the rest of the world away and live only for ourselves." He put the music on again and held out his arms. "Come to me, Gabrielle. Let these arms comfort and protect you forever and ever."

  I softened. "Am I really as pretty as a rich and elegant New Orleans debutante?"

  "They can't touch you. You are fresh and beautiful in ways they couldn't even begin to understand," he said. My heart felt full again. He was right, I thought, we must live up to our pledge and think only of ourselves and our own happiness. I rushed into his arms and we danced, had wine and coffee, and then made love as passionately as ever. It seemed we would never grow accustomed to each other, never stop discovering something new and exciting about each other.

  I felt so complete, so full and satisfied, when I went home that night. Mama was already asleep, or at least in bed, and Daddy was nowhere in sight. I moved through the shack as quietly as I could, but the stairs creaked and the floor groaned. When I lay back on my pillow, I thought I heard the sound of Mama weeping. I listened hard and didn't hear it again, but even the thought of such a thing put a sword of ice through me. I felt terribly guilty for being so happy at a time when Mama was so terribly sad.

  In the days that followed, Daddy returned to eking out a small living harvesting oysters and Spanish moss, which was used by furniture manufacturers for stuffing chairs and sofas. He trapped muskrats and did some fishing. He seemed angry all the time, and Mama and he said very little to each other. Pierre offered to give me some money for him, but I thought that would only make Mama angrier, and Daddy would only spend it on jugs of whiskey. There was nothing to do but plod on and hope for the best. Mama must have felt the same way. She seemed busier than ever with her traiteur missions.

  One afternoon Pierre arrived earlier than usual and had a basket of food. He thought it would be nice to try a picnic. He asked me if I knew any place in the swamp that was interesting, quiet, secluded. Of course, I thought of my special place, my pond, but that was where Octavious Tate had raped me, and I hadn't been able to go there and swim or sun myself since.

  "There is one place," I said, "but I don't think I can show it to you."

  "Why not?" Pierre asked, and I explained. He listened, his face turning grim and dark.

  "It makes it even worse if you permit what he did to destroy what you had," he said after I finished describing what had happened. "It wasn't Nature's fault, was it?"

  "No."

  "Then what we must do is win back your special place, win back its magic for you."

  "I can't go back there, Pierre."

  "With me, you can do anything," he said defiantly and firmly. "Take me as close as you can and I will do the rest," he declared.

  My heart pounding, fearful and nervous, I did as he asked, bringing us right up to the overgrown cypress before stopping the canoe.

  "Well?" Pierre asked, sitting up and gazing around. "Is this it?" He looked very disappointed.

  "No." I smiled. "It's through there," I said, pointing to the cypress.

  "You can go through there?" He stood up. "Let me have that," he said, taking the pole from my hands excitedly. It was my turn to sit and watch him work. He pressed us forward, the canoe penetrating the branches and leaves, which parted like a door, and then we were there.

  The horror of what had happened to me began to rush back through the halls of my memory, charging forward, every image, every sound, as vivid as they would be had it all happened minutes ago. I grimaced, but Pierre didn't notice. He was drinking in the beauty of my pond.

  "It is magnificent here," he said, gazing over the clear water. There was my pair of egrets, strutting over the big rock. I looked up at the top of the gnarled oak on the north side. The heron's nest was still there, but I didn't see her.

  "Is that where you used to go to sun yourself?" Pierre asked, pointing to the rock.

  "Oui, "I said weakly. He pushed forward, tied the pirogue to the branch sticking up from the water, and stepped onto my rock.

  "I, Pierre Dumas, do hereby exorcise any evil thoughts, memories, demons, creatures, and the like from this pond," he said, and waved his hands in the air. "There," he said, smiling down at me. "It's ours now."

  I had to laugh. He did look handsome and strong standing there, waving his fist at my past horror. He pulled off his shirt and spread it over the rock. Then he sat on it and waited for me. Gradually, gazing about as if I half expected Octavious Tate to reappear, I stood and stepped onto the rock. For a while I just sat beside him gazing over the water, watching the bream feed, the nutrias scurry about the business of their daily lives. And then, as if it was meant to be a sign of renewal, my heron swooped in over the treetops, dipped toward the water to greet us, and then rose gracefully toward her nest.

  "Beautiful," Pierre remarked. He turned to me. "Happy now?"

  "Yes," I said cautiously. He smiled, kissed me, and then like an eager teenage boy, hurried to get our picnic spread on the rock. We did have one of our most beautiful days together. Although we kissed and stroked each other, laughed and even teased each other, we did not make love at the pond that day. Pierre was smart enough to go slowly. The look in his eyes promised we would next time, but for now, it was enough to conquer the old demons and reclaim my special place in the bayou.

  I felt as if I had a glow about me when I returned home late that afternoon. I walked up from the dock, my eyes down, a small smile on my lips. As I drew closer to the house, I heard a strange voice and paused. The conversation was followed by some laughter and then the clink of bottles. Daddy was entertaining one of his friends, I thought, but I knew Mama never permitted him to do that at the house, so with great curiosity, I approached the front galerie. When I turned the corner, I saw Daddy sitting in Mama's rocker, and across from him sat Richard Paxton, Nicolas's father. The two looked my way sharply when I appeared.

  "There she is!" Daddy exclaimed. "Lookin' as pretty as ever."

  Monsieur Paxton nodded, his round face beaming as his lips twisted up into a smile. His son had his face, the same round eyes, the same rubber-band lips, always a pale red.

  "Come on up here and say hello to Monsieur Paxton, honey. You know him. You've been in his store plenty of times. He's got the best and biggest store in Houma."

  Monsieur Paxton nodded, his jowls shaking.

  "Bonjour, monsieur," I said, and flashed a smile. I started for the door.

  "Hold, up now, Gabrielle. Monsieur Paxton has come to see me on behalf of his son. You know him well, too, don'tcha?"

  "I know him," I said.

  "You two graduated together, and Monsieur Paxton here tells me you're the only girl in these here parts he's taken a fancy to. Ain't
that right, monsieur?"

  "All he talks about is Gabrielle Landry whenever we discuss marriage."

  "Marriage?" I said, backing a few steps away.

  "Sure. Why not?" Daddy asked. "Nicolas is going to inherit the store, right, Richard?" Daddy said, reaching across to slap Monsieur Paxton on the shoulder.

  He laughed. "Oui, monsieur. He will that."

  "See, honey? You can have a nice life, and Monsieur Paxton here says he will start you and Nicolas off with your own home, too. That's a good offer, ain't it?"

  "No," I said quickly.

  "No?"

  Monsieur Paxton's smile evaporated. He looked nervously at Daddy.

  "I can't marry Nicolas, Daddy. I don't love him."

  "Love him? Hell, girl, you'll learn to love him. Those are the best marriages anyway."

  "No, Daddy, please," I said.

  "Lookie here," he cried as I moved quickly to the door. "I promised Monsieur Paxton you would—"

  "No. Never!" I screamed, and ran inside. I heard Daddy mumble something and then follow. I was terrified. Mama wasn't home.

  "How can you say no?" Daddy demanded. "What'cha wanna do, stay here the rest of yer life and play with the animals?"

  "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with Nicolas Paxton, Daddy."

  "Why not? You listen to me," he said, wagging his long right finger at me, "it's a father's duty to find a suitable husband for his daughter, and I did it. Now, you just march out there and tell Monsieur Paxton you will marry his son, hear?"

  "No, Daddy. I won't," I said, shaking my head.

  His face turned crimson. "Look how old you are already, and you know why you can't be so choosy," he said. "It's just luck no one else knows, too."

  "I won't marry Nicolas, Daddy. I won't."

  "Gabrielle . . ." He took a step toward me.

  "I'd rather die," I declared.

  The screen door opened, but I couldn't see past Daddy. He hovered over me like a hawk.

  "You put one finger on that girl, Jack Landry, and I'll curse you to hell," Mama declared.

  Papa turned quickly and looked at her. "I was just trying to get her a good husband, woman."

  "Tell that man to go home, Jack. And give him back whatever he gave you," she added.

  "What? Why, he didn't . . ."

  "Don't waste your breath on a new lie," Mama said.

  Daddy gazed at her for a moment and then at me. He shook his head. "Two chicks from the same egg," he muttered, and went out.

  Mama stood there looking at me.

  "I'm sorry, Mama. I can't marry Nicolas Paxton." "Then let's not talk any more about it," she declared, and went to put her things away.

  Despite what Daddy had tried to do and how much he complained about my refusal to cooperate, the months that followed were the happiest of my life. Daddy finally stopped trying to get me to change my mind and went on about his business, which, more often than not, resulted in some new problem for Mama to solve.

  But Pierre and I saw each other more than ever, and every time he appeared, he appeared bearing gifts. Our little love nest filled up with nice things, expensive things: pictures, throw rugs, more clothes for me, and silk robes and slippers for both of us. We ate there more often, poled to the pond, picnicked, made love in the sunlight and in the moonlight, played our music and danced, once until dawn.

  Pierre spoke little about his life in New Orleans, occasionally mentioning something he had done with his business, but rarely talking about his wife or his father. I didn't ask questions, although they were always on the tip of my tongue. I knew that they would only bring sadness and pain to him, and we both guarded our pledge to each other religiously. The rule was, anything that would bring sorrow or unhappiness was forbidden from entering these four walls. This was a home for laughter and for love only. Anything else was to wait outside.

  But Nature had taught me early in my life that everything has its season. Our romance grew and bloomed, flourished and ripened, with every passing moment, every kiss, every promise in our breaths. Happiness was a bird at full wing, gliding gracefully toward the warm sun.

  I knew that clouds do come, that rain must fall, that shadows must darken, and that even though our love was good and pure and full, it wasn't strong enough to withstand the hard, cold truth that lay dormant at our doorstep, waiting like some patient snake, so still it was hard to distinguish from the surroundings, but ready and eager to strike at the first opportunity.

  We weren't always careful when we made love. In the beginning our passion was so strong and overwhelming, we could no more hesitate to protect ourselves than we could hold back a hurricane. Afterward, when I had a chance to sit and think, I admitted to myself that it wasn't just carelessness or a devil-may-care attitude. I wanted Pierre's child. I wanted a part of him in me. I wanted to bond us some way forever and ever. Maybe he wanted the same thing.

  Unfortunately, I knew the symptoms of pregnancy all too well. I didn't have to ask Mama what this or that meant. It came upon me one afternoon when I realized I was late, and all the other indications announced themselves with clarity and certainty.

  Despite my feelings, I was frightened. I had no idea how I would tell Mama, but I thought I must tell Pierre first. He didn't return for nearly two weeks after I realized my condition, and when I saw the blue cravat, I felt a pang of trepidation along with a feeling of happiness.

  Early that night when I poled to the Daisy landing and walked to the shack, my body was trembling. Was this the end of our love affair? Would he run from me once he learned what had happened? I couldn't prolong the answer and stop myself from drowning in that all too familiar pool of despair.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for my arrival. A bottle of wine was opened, more than half of it drunk already. He looked up with a smile.

  But before I could blurt out what was happening, he greeted me with his own shocking news.

  "Daphne," he said, "has found out about us."

  "I didn't think she would even care," he said after having me sit at the table before telling me. He poured me a glass of wine and one for himself. He paced as he continued. "All this time I thought she enjoyed the freedom I was giving her, enjoyed her distractions, her charities and causes, her art galerie openings and dinners. She surrounded herself with so many people and lived for the society pages. Whenever I had to travel for business, she was unconcerned and disinterested. She never complained about our being apart.

  "Apparently, her lack of interest in me and my affairs was just a smoke screen for her real intentions and actions."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "She hired a private detective and had me followed and all this traced," he said, indicating our love nest. "Yesterday she came into my office, closed the door behind her, and revealed with glee all she had learned and knew."

  "She knows my name?"

  "The smallest details," he said, nodding. "She enjoyed rattling them off. Of course, she made threats. She would bring down my family name, destroy the Dumas reputation, but I know she would never do any such thing. She's terrified of putting a spot on her own reputation. The worst thing for Daphne is social embarrassment," he said confidently, but I couldn't keep the terror from jumping into my heart and bringing goose bumps over my arms.

  "Maybe she will do something like that this time. You didn't expect her to have you investigated," I pointed out.

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "It's all just a bluff. Right now she's playing the role of an abused wife."

  "Oh, Pierre," I cried, and buried my face in my hands.

  "It's all right." He laughed at what he thought was my reaction to only his news. "I just wanted you to know what was happening, but I don't intend for any of this to interfere in any way with our happiness. As far as Daphne goes—"

  "You don't know the worst of it," I moaned, raising my bloodshot eyes to gaze into his proud, handsome face. "And at this time, too!"

  "Worst? What could possi
bly . . ." He grimaced. "Something with your father again," he said. I shook my head. "Your mother?"

  "No, Pierre. With me. I'm pregnant," I blurted. The words clapped like thunder in my own ears.

  "Pregnant?"

  "And there is no doubt," I added firmly. My tears rolled freely. With Daphne on the warpath, what would happen now?

  "Pregnant," he said again, and sat, looking stunned for a moment. Then he smiled, a light springing into his soft green eyes. "How wonderful."

  "Wonderful? Are you mad? How can this be wonderful?" I asked, my anxieties twisted into a tight knot.

  "You're having my child; how could anything be more wonderful?" he replied. I shook my head in amazement. Sometimes, despite his urban sophistication, his formal education, his years and years in business and society, Pierre seemed more like a foolish little boy to me. Was this the power of love: to hypnotize and turn grown men into children again, children who lived in fantasy worlds?

  "But you are married, Pierre. And you've just finished telling me how you were painfully reminded of that fact, n'est-ce pas?"

  He stopped smiling. "That won't make any difference. Our child will have everything he or she needs," he vowed. "I'll build you your own house. I'll provide everything: clothes, money, private tutors, nannies. You name it and it's yours," he declared zealously.

  "But, Pierre, if Daphne has had you followed and investigated, she will surely learn about all that quickly."

  "What of it?" he snapped. "Daphne would never reveal such a thing. She would die of shame. Don't worry," he assured me with a cool, wry smile. "I know my wife."

  "Mama will be furious with me," I wailed. How could he not realize the hardships and pain I would endure?

  "I'll retire her and your father for life. I'm a wealthy man, Gabrielle. Money will provide the answers to all and any problem. You'll see," he predicted. He thought a moment. "When are you going to tell your mother?"

  "Tonight," I said. "I can't keep it a secret any longer."

  He nodded. "All right. I was going to leave early in the morning, but I'll wait right here until you return to tell me what she has said and what she wants you to do. If you want, I'll go to see her."