by Gina Danna
He dried himself, squinting at her through the material as he rubbed his head. “There’s a war, Del. Most folks are scattered, men off fighting. Too few left to gossip, so where did you hear that?”
She laughed. “A Fontaine? Darlin’, you are more than the common folk. News travels fast, maybe more so now.”
He grabbed her wrist hard. “And my father? Does he know?”
“Of course,” she winced.
“Sorry,” he apologized, releasing his hold. “It’s been,” he paused, “difficult.”
Rubbing her wrist, she looked at him narrowly. “So why are you here?”
He didn’t answer. Reaching for a pair of pants, he stepped into them, listening to her tap her foot. “Thought you’d have a companion tonight.”
She didn’t answer. “You be back for Fran’s weddin’?”
He shrugged his shirt on. “My brother’s marrying? Thought he’d be out winnin’ for the cause.”
She laughed as she went to him. He looked at her as he buttoned his cuffs. Delilah was a lithe, sultry, ebony-haired beauty. The parish’s most expensive whore, she knew how to excite and satisfy any man. Her cream-colored skin held barely a hint of her slave heritage from some relative way back many generations. It gave her an exotic lure that made her the money and gave her the independence no other job would. Her slave blood made her unacceptable to white society. His memories of her, his escape valve from his father before the Point, had drawn him there again. She was his refuge before the storm to come.
As she traced his jaw with the tip of her finger, she shook her head. “No, he did but came home injured. A war hero. Now, he runs Bellefountaine because Pierre’s representing Lou’s’ana in the Confeder’cy.” She leaned in to kiss him.
He hadn’t been her only client back then. His father had visited Delilah as well. The repugnant thought made him step away from her to grab the glass of whiskey she’d poured for him. “Hmm,” he gulped the contents. “Francois marrying…”
She tilted her head and her brows furrowed. “Yes, tomorrow. You probabl’ know her, mon cher. ‘Tis the lady who brought your son here. What is her name? Ah, wait, I remember. Emeline, Emma, no, yes, Emma. The widow.”
The news stunned him. His ears buzzed and he didn’t hear another word. Francois was marrying Emma? His blood boiled. Over his dead body!
#
Bellefountaine
Emma rolled her head as the morning breeze blew through the open French window and into her room, the gauzy curtains waving gently. She sighed. Comfort. She finally felt at home. She rolled over, refusing to wake completely when she hit something hard. She gasped and her eyes flew open.
“Good morning, my love,” Francois murmured as he bent to kiss her.
She leapt beyond his reach and out of bed. Her floor-length nightgown flowed, exposing only her ankles and bare feet. By the look in his eyes, the sun’s rays penetrated the sheer fabric. She felt self-conscious and unattractive with her growing stomach and enlarged breasts.
Francois lay across her bed, fully dressed in cream trousers, bronze waistcoat, white ruffled shirt and deep navy jacket. His eyes glowed as he grinned at her. Such a devilish smile, accented by a wayward lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. He was so handsome, she almost forgave him. Almost.
“You, sir, take too many liberties,” she said, trying to control her tone.
“Ah, m’aime, please.” He got up and went to her. “Tomorrow, you’ll be my wife.” He bent to kiss her. She turned.
“Please, Francois,” she tried to twist away from him but he caught her at the waist. She grimaced. “I’m too fat—”
He chuckled. “You are with child.” He nuzzled her neck. “You are beautiful.”
She closed her eyes. The heat from his hands burned through the gown, imprinting on her. His hands wandered up her back and he drew her closer. One hand brushed across her slight bulge, up her rib cage and lightly across her breast, across her hard, sensitive nipple. She shuddered underneath his touch, ashamed that her body responded to him so quickly. He had tried only once to seduce her and but she had refused him. Therefore, she wasn’t surprised when he tried again. They were engaged, after all, the wedding tomorrow. Tears threatened.
This was wrong. Her gut clenched. Jack.
“Oh, m’aime,” he whispered, his fingers wiping the tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry, s’il vous plait. I will wait until we are married.”
She blinked and focused. Francois’ sympathetic eyes reached her soul. He obviously adored and cared about her. He’d never said he loved her, but, then again, she didn’t love him. Not with her heart. She never would and he knew that. She swallowed her tears and reached for his hand at her cheek.
“It’ll be better,” he said softly. “I promise you.” He took her lips gently.
He was so much like Jack and so very different as well. Why did God torture her so?
#
Clean and fed, Jack mounted his rested horse and continued on home, the place he once swore he’d never return to. One thing he knew for certain. Because he couldn’t live without Emma and Nathan, he would use Pierre Fontaine’s money and power to protect them, even if it meant groveling to the old man. But considering Emma’s changed circumstances, his claim to her would not be as straightforward as he’d thought.
He gazed at sprawling Bellefountaine from the hilltop just outside the gates. Gates to Hell. Momentarily, his thoughts turned to Fanny. Was she still alive? Anger flared through him. He shut his eyes tight. It would do no good to ride into home looking for blood. His son was there. And Emma.
Francois planned to marry the woman he loved. Like hell he would! Gritting his teeth, Jack adjusted his hat and kneed Goliath. The stallion snorted as he bunched his withers and took off. He barreled into the stable yard, scattering the slaves hither and yon. Jack pulled the reins back, balancing his weight on Goliath’s flanks, stopping the horse without words. Throwing his leg over, he slid off the horse and dropped the reins. He inhaled the warm scent of horse manure, leather and magnolias. Home. Straightening his hat and his waistcoat and jacket, he marched toward the house. But at the last moment, he turned and walked down slave row. He had to know, had to face his demon before he saw Emma.
The one-room shanty on the right, close to the end, belonged to Fanny. His jaw ticked and a wave of nausea came over him as he drew closer. How much did she hate him?
The door was wide open like the rest of the hovels. The tiny window on the far side held no glass, but, with the door shut, no breeze could cool off the inside, so they left the doors open. The last step took every bit of strength he had.
“Why, Massa Jack, good Lord, son, we’s be tole you be dead!” The large round black woman squealed, taking him into her arms and squeezing him tight.
“Jenny,” he muttered, barely able to talk. The old matron of Bellefountaine’s slave community released him but held onto his arms. Her searching eyes roved up and down.
“Yous sure be lookin’ far from death.” She grinned.
He snorted. Jenny had always made him feel warm and comfortable, except for now, as his tension remained.
The woman tilted her head, her eyes puddles of sadness. “Massa Jack, Fanny’s gone.”
“Gone? Father sold her?” That made no sense. Fanny, delicate as a flower, with skin an appealing copper tone and curves designed for a man’s hands, was a valuable commodity. Those were things Jack had never realized until his last days at home. Her beauty had attracted the attention of his father, which made his selling her seem especially odd.
“She died,” Jenny stated quietly. “Long time ago.”
The news startled Jack. “How long?”
“’nigh on ten, twelve years, I reckon’.”
Jack was crushed. “How?” But he knew the answer or thought he did. How could she continue to live after that night?
Two young girls darted past him, past Jenny, and into the cabin, giggling. He barely noticed them, but Jenny did.
“Lilly, Maggie, you come here now,” she ordered them.
The girls approached the woman, but Jack didn’t notice or care. His mind and his heart were in agony. Fanny was gone. All that time, he hadn’t known. She’d been only sixteen, just like him. He remembered trying to work up the nerve to kiss her, but it felt wrong. They’d grown up together, they’d played together often, as slave children and white children did. He knew it was his right to claim a kiss. As the owner’s son, he could have demanded one but didn’t.
However, Jack’s father had something else in mind for him.
Jack was so lost in thought he only vaguely heard Jenny address him.
“Massa Jack.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“You need to meet them.” She pulled over the first girl. “This is Lilly, and this one,” she pulled over the other girl, “is Maggie. They’re Fanny’s girls.” She waited.
The two looked identical. Their skin was lighter than he remembered Fanny’s being, their hair a coppery hue. But it was their eyes that riveted him. Green. Pale green.
Staring back at him were his own eyes, a physical reminder of the depravity his father had thrust on him.
“They’re your daughters, massa.”
Hell.
#
Emma pulled on the ties of her corset again. She was determined to get into her yellow silk dress that day, come hell or high water. A giggle escaped her at the thought. She shouldn’t think such things. Inhaling deeply, she tugged again and tied them. The corset held, though she could barely breathe. At four months along, she found her clothes barely fit now. Outwardly, she hardly looked in the family way, and Marie and Francois constantly reminded her she was too thin–Marie, perhaps, somewhat worried about that. But she couldn’t ignore her growing middle and neither could her corset. She inhaled again. One last time…
Tilly sighed as she hooked the crinoline. “Yessum, that’s it.”
The slave slipped the silk gown over Emma’s head and started buttoning the bodice. “We needs to get you other dresses soon.” She muttered.
Emma frowned. “Not today. I can still wear this.”
Tilly harrumphed as she hooked the sash.
Emma dismissed her and walked out on the veranda. She looked down at the yard, waiting for a moment before getting Nathan. Most of the slaves were busily at their tasks, but she noticed someone in the slave row emerging from a shanty, dressed in fine clothes. She frowned. The man was only in his shirtsleeves and had to adjust his waistcoat. He smoothed back his dark hair, except for an errant lock that broke free to settle across his forehead.
Francois.
Whatever is he doing in the slave row at this time of day? The field hands and house slaves continued in their work, not even glancing up. She wanted to turn away, pretend she never saw him there but couldn’t take her eyes from him. Within minutes, he had entered the house and reached Emma.
“Good morning, my darlin’,” he drawled. “You look so lovely.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it.
He usually hugged her but not this time. In fact, his forehead glistened, and his shirt clung to his arms with sweat.
“Please excuse me.” He said sweetly. “Had some business to take care of. I’ll go bathe before the guests arrive. Are you taking Nathan to play?”
Business? In slave row? Her skin prickled. Vacantly, she nodded.
He gave her one of his dazzling smiles and kissed her. “Then I’ll be on my way—”
“What were you doing in the slave quarters?” she blurted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I saw you leaving; I think it was Lizzie’s shanty. What were you doing?”
He stared at her. She could see the emotions flickering in his eyes. His jaw tightened. “I had matters to attend.” He turned to leave.
“Did your business involve wearing clothing or not?” Her question surprised even her. It was a humid morning, as always near the bayou, but not enough for a gentleman of leisure to be so wet with perspiration that early.
He stopped but didn’t turn. “Darlin’, I think your condition is making you a touch mad.”
Anger flared in her. How dare he use such an excuse to dismiss her inquiry? “Francois.”
Turning, he sighed with exasperation. “You know I’m right,” he smiled, tilting her chin up. He was so confident, so intense that she was nearly convinced he spoke the truth. At her nod, he kissed her lips gently. “Let me get a bath, sweetling. If you’re still upset, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” With a quick smile, he walked away.
I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer.
—Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, USA, Dispatch, May 11, 1864
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bellefountaine Plantation
St. Francisville, Louisiana
Jack heard his little boy giggling before he saw him. Then came Emma’s sweet laugh, which was like a salve to his injured soul.
After meeting the twin daughters he never knew he had, Jack needed some time to control his emotions. One question remained. Why hadn’t he been told? Why? But a voice in his head made it clear. He’d fled. Left for The Point and never returned. Bellefountaine’s secret had haunted him for years, and now there was no denying it.
Pierre Fontaine had continued a practice begun generations before but under different circumstances. Interracial liaisons had not been a new concept. The French and Spanish practiced it, freely and openly without ridicule. Some even married and had children. But under American laws, with the import of new slaves from Africa, interracial relationships had been banned at the turn of the century. Copulation between the races was allowed only to increase the slave population. Slave children fathered by white men were believed to be superior. And slaves they would be, for any babe born of a slave woman was considered a slave, period.
Such couplings also were ideal for sexually initiating white men without dishonoring the virginal young ladies of Society.
So Pierre simply followed the established tradition. He encouraged, even forced his sons to sow their wild oats on slave women rather than seducing innocents or visiting brothels. Jack had been told that slave women by nature were debased, and, therefore, there was no sin in bedding them. They wanted it. Desired it. The problem was that his father had paired him with Fanny. It was to be her initiation also, so that she could service her master in any way he wanted. She had no idea what that meant.
At fifteen, almost sixteen, Jack’s lust took control of him. The girl he’d fantasized about was naked before him. And although his conscience protested, his body would not be denied. At first, Fanny had screamed, and he lost his nerve as well as his erection, but his father slapped her into submission and she stopped fighting. She obediently placed the head of Jack’s manhood at her slit and locked her legs around his hips.
Afterward, he figured Fanny hated him. Jenny assured him she hadn’t. But how could she not? He had left her carrying his twins and died after delivering them into the hell of Bellefountaine. His remorse knew no bounds.
Only three things kept Jack from fleeing again. There were his twin daughters, who he had to prevent from sharing their mother’s fate. There was his son, who he had to protect from his father. And there was Emma.
She would never be his if he left. She’d marry his brother and would have to tolerate life on the plantation with a husband who would carry on the family tradition. Jack felt as though he’d be ill.
After pulling himself together, he’d gone to the house, where he’d heard his son and Emma. He breathed deeply in an effort to calm himself. How could he convince the woman he had entrusted with his son’s care that he loved her more than life? Their past had been mottled with hate, fear and distrust, and she undoubtedly thought him dead as well.
Past the trees, in the clearing surrounded by flowering bushes and magnolias, Emma sat on a large blanket. His mouth went dry. She looked beautiful. Her brown hair gleamed in the sunlight. The yellow
silk pooled around her, shining like a halo. She’d gained some weight and no longer looked gaunt and tired. On the contrary, she glowed, like an angel. His angel. The one he’d fight for. The one he’d die for.
Her laughter filled the air as Nathan fell to his knees after taking a step. The cherub chirped and giggled as he tried again, stretching for a toy she held just out of his reach, encouraging him. They were his. Just seeing them, hearing them, made him feel whole.
Nathan gave up on the toy but threw himself at Emma and she fell back gracefully, tickling his sides. When Jack stepped closer, a twig snapped under his boot. Nathan looked up and cried out, crawling over Emma toward his father.
She turned, a smile still on her face until she saw him. Her expression froze.
Time stood still. The only noise came from Nathan, who grunted as he chugged closer.
“Emma.”
“Jack?” She blinked rapidly and he watched her face drain of color.
He raced forward, picking up his son and was at Emma’s side, fearing she’d faint. His legs nearly buckled under Nathan’s weight and seeing Emma’s wide-eyed look. Kissing Nathan’s cheek, he put the child down.
“Emma.”
Unnerved and tangled in her clothing, she struggled to stand.
“No!” With one hand holding her skirts and the other over her mouth, she turn to run, but he grabbed her, his arm around her middle. “No!” she gasped again as she began to panic.
“Shush, shush,” he whispered in her ear, hoping he sounded more calm than he felt. “It’s all right. Shhhh.”
“Nothing’s all right.” She turned in his arm. Despite herself, she cradled his face. “They killed you.”
He said nothing.
“Your betrayal made my father so upset, so angry, so confused,” she whispered.
