Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “They’re probably miles away, luv, holding a big powwow in another area. Indians migrate, you know. They’re always packing up their tepees and moving to a cozier spot.”

  “That’s quite true.”

  “Look at it this way, after what we’ve seen, after the pirates, a band of cannibals would seem downright friendly. We’d better get back to the stockade, luv, don’t want the boys getting edgy. Have you told Corrie we’re leaving tonight?” she asked as we started toward the slope.

  “I told her this morning while she was brushing my hair. She’s very nervous about it, but she’s going to hold up fine.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Em said. “The three of us are going to do marvelously well. We’ll be back in New Orleans before you know it.”

  “Do you really think so, Em?”

  “Of course we will, and we’ll go to the authorities and tell them all we know about the island—its location, the number of men, the position of the cannons, the stockade, where the armory is. With that information they won’t be so leary about invading. They’ll wipe the place right off the map, luv. Red Nick and crew will be sorry they ever tangled with us.”

  “What are your plans, Em?”

  “You mean when we get back? I’ve got plenty of plans, luv. I’m going to sell all that jewelry Michael’s given me and have a whole lot of money and then I’m going to go respectable. I’m going to learn to speak proper and act proper, and then I’m going to charm the breeches off some unsuspecting man who’ll jump at the chance to marry me.”

  “Sounds frightfully dull,” I teased.

  “He may be unsuspecting, luv, but he’ll be big and strong and handsome and anything but dull. A military man, perhaps, I’ve always had a weakness for soldiers. Sailors, too, for that matter.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Em.”

  “I know. It’s a deplorable weakness.”

  She smiled pertly, and we climbed up the steep, rocky path cut in the side of the slope, pausing for a few moments when we reached the top. The woods were before us, green leaves dappled with sunlight, red and purple flowers growing in the shadows. Below, the rocks tumbled to the beach, waves leaving wet tracks and strands of yellow-brown seaweed on the sand.

  “What about you, luv?” Em asked. “What do you plan to do?”

  “I’m going to England,” I said as we started through the trees.

  “Still determined to get even with that man who had your lover killed?”

  I nodded, grim. “Roger Hawke is going to pay for what he did. I wanted to die when Derek was killed, Em. There was no reason to go on living, not until I saw Roger Hawke. I vowed I’d have revenge.”

  “I wish you could forget it, Marietta.”

  “I’ll never be able to forget it. I’ll never be able to rest until I see him in his grave.”

  “I don’t mean to be contrary, but—well, that doesn’t sound like a very noble purpose, luv. Revenge may be sweet, like someone said, but it eats you up inside. I know. I longed to take revenge on my stepfather and his darling sons, longed to go back to Baton Rouge and give ’em what they deserved, and I finally realized I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself. Men like that always get their comeuppance, luv. Your Roger will eventually get his, too, without any help from you.”

  I pushed a tangle of vines out of the way, knowing full well that what she said was true. There was nothing noble about my desire for revenge, but it had given me a reason to go on living, and I wasn’t ready to relinquish it yet. Em plucked one of the lush red flowers and toyed with it as we moved on through the woods, sunlight dappling through the leaves, the air laden with pungent odors of lichen and bark and damp soil.

  “Seems to me you’d be better off building a new life,” Em continued, studying the silky red petals. “You’re still young and beautiful, Marietta, and you could have any man you wanted.”

  “I’ll never want another man, Em. After Derek, I could never love anyone else.”

  “I don’t believe that, luv, not for a minute. You loved him, yes, and that love will always remain in your heart, along with the grief, but there’ll be another man, and you’ll love him just as much as you loved Derek.”

  The hem of my skirt caught on a branch of underbrush and I pulled it free, not bothering to reply to Em’s statement. She couldn’t know, of course. Intelligent though she was, and as experienced in matters of the flesh, she had never known the kind of love I had shared with Derek. That kind of love happened but once in a lifetime, and anything after would be merely a pale imitation. I could never settle for that.

  “What about the charmer you met in the market?” Em asked.

  “Jeremy Bond?”

  “There was something in your voice when you told me about him, luv. Something in your eyes, too.”

  “He—he’s a thorough rogue.”

  “You made that quite clear.”

  “Utterly irresponsible.”

  “Dashing and handsome and dangerously appealing. You told me all that, and your eyes and voice told me a lot more, luv. He touched something inside of you that had never been touched before. You responded to him as you’d never responded to another man.”

  “I admitted that I wanted to sleep with him, Em.”

  “I’m not talking about sex, luv. You said you felt he knew you, felt he understood you—despite the fact that he was clearly a jaunty scoundrel. A man like that—” Em paused.

  “A man like that would wreak havoc on any woman foolish enough to become involved with him,” I said crisply.

  “But any woman would be willing to take that risk.”

  “I wish I’d never told you about him,” I said, cross now. “I met him under unusual circumstances and, yes, he made a very strong impression on me, but I’ll never see him again. Even if I did, I’d turn around and run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.”

  Em smiled a knowing smile I found utterly infuriating. I wanted to slap her, and I immediately felt guilty about it. Em had the best intentions in the world. I had no idea what she had been trying to prove, but she had merely succeeded in irritating me. I adored her and I could never have endured all this without her, but Em the expert on love needed a good shaking. The thought that I could love a man like Jeremy Bond was laughable.

  “You’ll love again,” Em assured me.

  “Think what you like! I really don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Sorry, luv.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

  “We’re both tense,” she said as we stepped into the clearing in front of the stockade. “Tired, too. I’ve never worked so hard in my life—” Em paused, frowning. “What’s that noise? It sounds like they’re having a riot down at the harbor.”

  Though muted by distance, the lusty, excited yells were clearly audible. As we listened, Cleeve came out of the stockade and strolled toward us. There was a dark bruise on his right cheekbone and his lower lip was split and swollen at one corner. Stopping a few feet away from us, he placed his fists on his thighs, the full sleeves of his silky tan shirt ballooning, the tail tucked loosely into the waistband of his dark brown breeches. Blond hair spilling about his head in tattered locks, brown eyes dark and brooding, he looked formidable indeed, the broken nose adding a particularly sinister touch.

  “What’s all the shouting about?” Em inquired.

  Cleve grimaced. “The Sea Lyon’s been spotted through the telescope. It’ll be in the harbor before sun sets. Your man Tremayne’s coming back.”

  “Shit,” Em said. “Pardon my French, luv.”

  “You ain’t eager to see ’im?” Cleeve asked.

  “You’ve no idea how uneager I am.”

  Cleeve looked pleased. “Guess you’ve got kinda used ta our meetin’s in the bushes,” he said.

  “Guess I have, luv.”

  “So what’re we gonna do about it?”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Em told him, but her mind wasn’
t on arranging future trysts. She was extremely distracted, her cheeks pale as she looked at the road that led down through town to the harbor.

  “I ain’t ready to give you up,” Cleeve growled.

  “And I’m not ready to give you up, either, luv, but right now Marietta and I have to go in and clean up. Don’t fret, gorgeous. I’ll get back to you real soon.”

  She smiled and touched his bruised cheekbone and then led the way into the stockade. We paused in the gardens in front of Tremayne’s cottage, Em thinking hard, her brow creased, hazel eyes still distracted. Several pirates were sitting out in front of the barracks, polishing weapons, preparing for the inspection Red Nick was sure to hold. Grimmet was in even worse shape than Cleeve, I noticed. He glared across the lawn at Em with pure venom.

  “Why did they have to come back today,” Em grumbled. “This spoils everything.”

  “We can’t allow it to, Em. We can’t change our plans now.”

  “We’ll have to, luv.”

  I shook my head. “If we put it off we might never go through with it. We’re leaving tonight.”

  “What about Michael? What about Red Nick?”

  “I’ll take care of Red Nick,” I replied, “and I assume you’ll be able to take care of Tremayne.”

  “What do you plan to do, crack a bottle over his head?”

  “If it came to that, I would. I don’t think it’ll be necessary. I intend to don my finest gown and greet him calmly and see that he has a splendid dinner with the choicest wine.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll make love and he’ll go back to his room and go to sleep and I’ll gather up my jewelry and meet Corrie downstairs and we’ll slip out of the house. We’ll meet you at the stockade entrance at—say one-thirty.”

  “Those doors are solid oak, luv. They’re kept firmly locked at night.”

  “I’ve yet to see a lock I couldn’t pick.”

  “It’ll be easy enough for you to slip out once Red Nick’s left the bedroom, but Tremayne sleeps beside me all night long. I suppose I could try to get him drunk, he does love his rum.”

  “If that doesn’t work, crack a bottle over his head.”

  “I may have to.”

  “One-thirty, Em.”

  “I’ll be there,” she promised.

  She went on into the cottage, and I crossed the courtyard and moved up the wide front steps. Burke was standing in the foyer, tall and thin and sinister in his old black suit. He was obviously lurking about to see when I came back, and his black-brown eyes stared at me with suspicion as I entered. I was acutely aware of my stained dress and tumbled hair, and I had the uncanny feeling that he knew exactly what Em and I had been doing. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach as I looked at that thin, pockmarked face, but I managed to speak in a voice that would have suited the most imperious duchess.

  “I assume you’re aware The Sea Lyon will be docking soon,” I said. “Tell Cook I want him to prepare his finest meal and serve the very best wine. We’ll dine at eight.”

  “Guess you won’t be traipsing off for hours every day now,” he said in his raspy voice.

  “That’s no concern of yours, Burke.”

  “You and that other wench—you get mighty sweaty and soiled, just strolling in the woods. What causes you to work up such a sweat, I ask myself. What causes you to get your skirt all streaked with dirt? I’ve been thinking about that a lot.”

  “You have your orders, Burke! See that they’re carried out.”

  I moved past him with superb hauteur, and it was only after I reached the upstairs sitting room that I allowed myself to react to his words. Had Burke been standing in the foyer last night? Had he seen me slip out of the house? Had he followed Em and me this afternoon, staying out of sight and watching us as we hauled the beef and guns and ammunition down to the boat? I had several moments of terrible panic, and then I steeled myself and firmly banished it. I couldn’t permit myself to panic or to entertain disturbing thoughts. It was going to take all the strength I had to get through this evening without giving myself away, and I didn’t intend to let Burke unnerve me.

  I summoned two of the surly young footmen and had them bring water for the ornate brass and porcelain tub in the spacious, sun-filled dressing room adjoining the bedroom. I took a long bath, using the exquisite French soap that felt like satin and made a creamy, luxurious lather. I washed my hair thoroughly and rinsed it with a special rinse Corrie made with lemon juice and vinegar. When I finally got out of the tub, dried off, and toweled my hair dry, it gleamed like burnished copper with rich golden-red highlights. Slipping on a thin white silk robe festooned with rows of lacy ruffles, I tied the sash around my waist as Corrie came in to arrange my hair and help me dress.

  Her delicate features were drawn, the pale coffee-colored skin taut across her cheekbones. In her light blue cotton dress, she looked small and frail and helpless, soft black hair covering her head like a puffy cloud. I knew she was nervous and apprehensive, but she made a decided effort to conceal it, her luminous brown eyes full of determination as she gathered up brush and comb and put the curling irons on to heat.

  “Your hair’s still kinda damp, Miz Marietta. You sit down there in front of the mirror and I’ll just rub it a bit more with a fresh towel. I see you done used that rinse I made up for you. I can always tell. Your hair’s like beautiful copper fire, and it has body, too. Fine to work with.”

  Gently, skillfully, she rubbed my hair until it was completely dry, and then she began to brush it with brisk strokes until it fell about my shoulders in heavy, silken waves that gleamed even more richly. She began to gather up the waves and stack them on top of my head in smooth, glossy swirls, as intent as a master sculptor working with liquid copper, using thin, pale gold hairpins that, once in place, were completely invisible. Her hands were steady, her full pink mouth set in a firm line. Corrie wasn’t going to panic either.

  “They’se—they are coming back tonight,” she said. “I heard them footmen talking about it.”

  “That’s right, Corrie.”

  “Is—is—are we still going to sneak out?”

  “We’re going to meet Em at the front entrance at one-thirty tonight. I expect you to be waiting for me in the foyer shortly after one.”

  “I’ll be there, Miz Marietta, quiet—quiet as a mouse.”

  Her voice trembled, and she frowned, irritated at herself for betraying her apprehension. Fastening the last pin in place, she took up the hot curling irons and began to work with the full waves she had left hanging in back, shaping them into long, perfect ringlets.

  “We’re going to make it, Corrie,” I said quietly. “Everything’s going to work out, fine.”

  “What about Red Nick? He—he’ll come after us.”

  “He’ll think we’ve gone over to the mainland. Em intends to ask Tremayne a lot of questions about the Indians tonight and make inquiries about the settlement the pirates sometimes visit. When he discovers we’ve gone, he’ll immediately assume we’ve headed for the settlement, and he’ll tell Red Nick.”

  “Miz Em is mighty clever. We—we’re really going to get away. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “In a few weeks you’ll be completely free, Corrie. You’ll have money, too. I’m going to sell all my jewelry. You can come to England with me, if you like. You could open a shop there.”

  “What kinda shop would I wanna open, Miz Marietta?”

  “I don’t know. You’re so marvelous with hair. There are hundreds of ladies in London who would pay dearly to have you arrange their hair. They’d also pay to buy your special rinse and that cream you made up to give extra texture to my hair. You could sell the cream and the rinse, and you could hire girls and train them to work with hair like you do.”

  Corrie’s lovely eyes widened. “A shop just for hair?” she said. “I never heard of such a shop, Miz Marietta.”

  “Neither have I,” I admitted, “but there’s no reason why yours couldn’
t be the first. I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

  Corrie put the curling irons aside and toyed with the ringlets for a few moments, making sure they had the proper shape and bounce. Satisfied, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. My hair had never looked more beautiful, a sumptuous crown of perfectly sculpted waves with several long ringlets dangling between my shoulder blades. Corrie was indeed an artist, and although I had come up with the idea for the shop on the spur of the moment, primarily to give her something else to think about and ease her apprehension, I was convinced she could make an enormous success of such a shop.

  “What gown are you going to wear tonight, Miz Marietta?”

  “The bronze satin, I think.”

  “You mean the peacock gown, the one with all them colored ruffles showing through like peacock tails?”

  I nodded. It was the most spectacular gown in the wardrobe, and although Corrie had altered it to fit me perfectly, I had never worn it. She took it out of the wardrobe, along with the petticoat that went with it, carrying them into the bedroom and spreading them carefully over the bed while I opened the elaborate white leather makeup case and began to apply pale pink lip rouge. I rubbed the sides of my cheeks with a light gray-pink salve that, smoothed on properly, looked perfectly natural and emphasized my high cheekbones, and then I applied a pale mauve shadow to my lids. When I had finished, I gazed at myself in the mirror, cool and critical, looking for flaws.

  The face with its gleaming crown of copper-red waves was beautiful and composed, sapphire blue eyes calm and level, cheekbones high and aristocratic, pink mouth generously curved. It was the face of a worldly, sophisticated woman, determined and self-assured, but the woman within was anything but confident. She was a mass of trembling nerves, fighting desperately to hold herself together and draw from inner resources of strength that had been sadly depleted of late. I wondered if I would be able to go through with it. How much longer would I have to be strong and hard and resilient? I felt weary, so weary, and I knew that if it weren’t for Em and Corrie I would already have given up.

  Not really, I told myself, leaving the dressing table and stepping into the bedroom. I was merely low, feeling the tension. I had been born a fighter, and I would go right on fighting. Not for me the life of ease and pampered luxury so many women knew. I had had to battle merely to survive, and by this time it was second nature to me. Removing the robe, I took the frail bronze gauze petticoat from Corrie and slipped it on. The bodice was almost non-existent, cut so low, the cloth so thin, and half-dozen gauzy bronze skirts spread out from the waist like gossamer, lifting and floating as I moved.